He looked-as indeed he was-like a substantial and respectable and wealthy member of the community. There was a resemblance to his dead sister, brown eyes, white hair, a firm chin. But where Constance’s face was memorable for its calm pity and gentle concern, there was an intolerant and arrogant quality to his stolid burgher’s face.
As the last of Miss Constance’s friends trod away across the spongy ground of the graveyard, Annie left the oyster-shell path. Skirting behind a stand of pines, she moved into the oldest part of the cemetery, stopping in the shadow of a crumbling mausoleum some twenty-five yards distant from the new grave site.
Bolton waved away the undertaker with the umbrella.
Had any of the mourners looked back, they would have glimpsed his figure, head again bowed, lingering for a last moment with his sister.
But Annie could see his face. It was for a singular, heart-stopping instant transformed. His lips curved up in satisfaction.
Annie knew, as clearly as if he’d shouted, that James Bolton was exulting. A murderer twice over, safe, secure, successful. A rich and powerful man.
“James.”
His face re-formed into sad repose as he turned toward Miss Dora.
The old lady took her time, each step obviously a painful task.
Annie slipped free of her raincoat, unfurled a navy umbrella-Sammie Calhoun had quite willingly given her mistress’s umbrella to Miss Dora-and undid the scarf covering the curly white wig.
Miss Dora, her wizened face contorted in a worried frown, peered up at James Bolton.
“James, I’ve had the oddest”-the raspy voice wavered-“communication. The ouija board. Last night. Never been a believer in that sort-”
“James…” Annie held a high, light, musical tone than let her voice waver and drop like the sigh of a winter wind. In her own ears, it didn’t sound enough like the recorded interview the local radio station had found of Constance Bolton speaking out in a League of Women Voters forum on abortion. She tried again, a little louder, “James…”
It must have been better than she’d thought.
James Bolton’s head whipped around, seeking out the sound. His face was suddenly gray, too, the color of old putty.
Annie glided from behind the cover of the mausoleum, one hand outstretched. “James…” Then she backed away, just as a dimly seen figure might drift forth, then disappear. Once out of Bolton’s sight, she darted in a crouch from stone to stone until she gained the street. Quickly pulling on the scarf and raincoat, she hurried to Miss Dora’s.
“Heh. Heh. Heh.” Miss Dora’s satisfied cackle would chill the devil. She poured a cup of steaming tea.
Annie sneezed. The heat against her fingers helped a little, but she didn’t feel that her bones would ever warm from the graveyard cold.
Miss Dora glowered. “No time to flag. Young people today too puny.”
“I’m fine,” Annie retorted crisply and knew she was catching a cold. But she couldn’t afford to sneeze tonight. She and Miss Dora weren’t finished with James Bolton.
“Scared him to death,” Miss Dora gloated, “He looked like bleached bones.” Her raisin-dark eyes glittered, “Mouth open, whites of his eyes big as a platter. And when I pretended I hadn’t seen or heard a thing, thought he was going to faint. That’s when I told him about the ouija message: Pillow. Find pillow.” She cackled again.
Annie took a big gulp of tea and voiced her concern. “Miss Dora, how can we be sure he didn’t destroy the pillow?”
Miss Dora’s disdainful look infuriated Annie.
“Classical education taught people how to think!” the old lady muttered. “Crystal clear, young miss. He dared not leave it behind. He had to take it with him. Then what? He couldn’t keep it in his house. Old Beulah Willen’s his housekeeper. Not a single spot safe from her eyes. So, not hidden in his house. No incinerators permitted in the city. Besides it’s too bulky to burn well. Joe Bill Tompkins drives James. So, not in his car. I talked here and there. He’s not been out to any of the plantations since Constance died. So where is it? Somewhere not too far, young miss.” Another malicious cackle. “James thinks he’s so smart. We’ll see, won’t we?”
The rain had eased to a drizzle. Annie was warm enough. A black wool cap, thermal underwear, a rainproof jacket over a wool sweater, rainproof pants, sturdy black Reeboks. The nylon hose over her face made it hard to breathe, but it sure kept her toasty. From her vantage point she could see both the front and rear doors to James Bolton’s house. She had taken up her station at nine thirty. Miss Dora was to make her phone call at nine thirty-five and play the recording Annie had made and remade until Annie’s whispered, “James… I’m… coming… for… the… pillow,” sounded sufficiently like Constance Bolton to satisfy Miss Dora.
The back door opened at nine forty. James Bolton, too, was dressed for night in dark clothing. He paused on the top step and looked fearfully around, then hurried to the garage.
Annie smiled grimly.
He reappeared in only a moment, carrying a spade.
Annie followed him across the Bolton property and through a dank and dripping wood. She stepped softly along the path, keeping his shaded flashlight in view, stopping when he stopped, moving when he moved.
Whoo-oo-ooo-ooo.
Annie’s heart somersaulted and she gasped for breath.
Bolton cowered by a live oak.
Annie wasn’t sure which one of them the owl had frightened the most.
Iron hinges squealed, and Bolton stepped through the opened gate to the old graveyard, leaving the gate ajar. He moved more cautiously now, and the beam from his flashlight poked jerkily into shadowy pockets.
Did he fear that his dead sister awaited him?
Annie tiptoed, scarcely daring to breathe. One hand slipped into her jacket pocket and closed around the sausage-thick canister of mace, a relic of the days when she lived in New York. The other hand touched the Leica that hung from a strap around her neck.
Bolton stopped twice to listen.
Annie crouched behind gravestones and waited.
When he reached the oldest section of the cemetery, he moved more boldly, confident now that he was unobserved. He walked directly to a winged angel atop a marble pedestal, stepped five paces to his right, and used the shovel to sweep away a mound of leaves.
Annie was willing to bet the earth beneath those leaves had been recently loosened.
He shoveled quickly, but placing the heaps of moist sandy dirt in a neat pile to one side.
Annie crept closer and closer, the Leica in hand.
She was not more than ten feet away and ready when he reached down and lifted up a soggy newspaper-wrapped oblong.
The flash illuminated the graveyard with its brief brilliant light, capturing forever and always the stricken face of James Bolton.
He made a noise deep in his throat. Wielding the shovel, he lunged blindly toward the source of light. Annie danced sideways to evade him. Now the canister of mace came out and as he flailed the shovel and it crashed against a gravestone, Annie pressed the trigger and mace spewed in a noisome mist.
Annie held her breath, darted close enough to grab up the sodden oblong where he had dropped it, paused just long enough-she couldn’t resist it-to moan, “Jaaammees…” Then she ran faster than she’d ever managed in a 10 K, leaping graves like a fox over water hazards.
The headline in next morning’s Clarion told it alclass="underline"
JAMES BOLTON CHARGED
IN MURDER OF SISTER
Miss Dora rattled the newspaper with satisfaction, then poured Annie another cup of coffee. The old lady’s raisin-dark eyes glittered. “We showed him, didn’t we? Saved Constance’s good name.”
For once-and it was such an odd feeling-Annie felt total rapport with the ill-tempered, opinionated, impossible creature awaiting her answer.