Oh, of course. No ghost cats. A ghost dog. And a hotbed of ghosts in Chastain. Since most references to ghosts with which
Annie was familiar stressed the icy coldness that enveloped those in close proximity to otherworld visitants, Annie thought the term "hotbed" a curious word choice, but she had no intention of delving for the reason, ostensible or unstated.
"Annie, are you there?"
"Oh, yes, of course, Laurel. I was merely considering the question of no ghost cats."
"My dear child"—a throaty sigh—"how like you to focus upon a philosophical aside. Your concentration here should surely be on the ghosts associated with Tarrant House."
It was difficult not to be offended. After all, it was Laurel who had brought up ghost felines or their lack, not Annie.
Annie counterattacked. "Oh, sure," she said offhandedly, "those ghosts. We know all about them. The ghostly gallop heard when the moon is full is Robert Tarrant rushing home to see his sick sister. And no amount of scrubbing has ever been able to remove his bloodstains from the step next to the landing. And everyone knows about Amanda Tarrant walking along the side of the cliff by the river."
"Oh." The simple syllable sagged with deflation.
Annie felt an immediate pang of shame. How could she have been so selfish? Poor Laurel. Confined to bed, no doubt her ankles throbbing, reduced to phone calls (although Annie did remember that Laurel had elevated this means of communication to an art form), how could Annie have been so callous? "But I'm sure you have a much better sense of what these appearances mean," Annie said quickly.
Laurel was never quashed for long. "Certainly there is that." The husky voice was emphatic. "And I know—because I've developed such rapport--that these spirits are tied to Earth because of the trauma involved in their leave-taking. Such heartbreak for a family. The War, of course."
Annie raised a sardonic eyebrow. Was Laurel aspiring to true southernhood by referring to the Civil War simply as the War?
"Three sons lost fighting for hearth and home, the fourth lost through a father's uncontrolled rage—and you know the
guilt and misery that must have stemmed from such an act." Her tone was funereal. "One can only guess at the kind of passions aroused that day when Robert came home—only to shed his heart's blood on the very steps he'd lightly sped up and down as a beloved child."
For just an instant, Annie experienced a wave of sadness that left her shaken. She could see the father's distraught face, feel Robert's determination, hear the sharp crack of a pistol shot.
"Laurel," she cried. "That's dreadful."
"Oh, dear Annie, you feel it, too!"
Annie looked down at the sketch pad beneath her hand. Most of the sheet was taken up by notes she'd made concerning the Tarrant and Chastain families. It unnerved her to see that she'd also drawn a cat with a quizzical expression, a dog with his lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl, and a stairway with a dark splotch near the landing. Dammit, she wasn't a Ouija board!
". . . so disturbing to all the family that Ross and his father had that hideous quarrel on the day both died."
"Quarrel!" The pen in Annie's hand scooted along the page as if possessed, leaving a trail of question marks. "What quarrel? How do you know?"
"Obviously, my dear." The husky tone was just this side of patronizing. "As a competent researcher, I do seek information from those still inhabiting this earthly vale. It should be apparent to the meanest intelligence that I can't communicate in person with figures involved in events where the primary participants are now on the Other Side. Although one has heard of astounding success with channeling. But rather a different objective, don't you think? It was sйances in the nineteen-twenties and -thirties. But so many did turn out to be contrived. So disillusioning for true believers. I know that Mary Roberts Rinehart—such an adventurous woman, especially for those days, nurses' training in the most arduous early days of nursing, camel journeys, rugged camping, even going to war—cast a jaundiced eye upon the results. I for one—"
"Laurel." It was not permissible to snarl at one's mother-in-law. Annie knew her tone was just short of offensive. "Who told you Ross and his father quarreled that day?" Annie's pen was poised to write.
"Why, Evangeline Copley, of course. And it does seem to indicate almost a Direction from Beyond that in inquiring about Tarrant House ghosts, I should obtain this snippet of information, which obviously is of utmost interest to you."
Evangeline Copley.
Frantically, Annie scrabbled through her sheets of notes. Who the hell was Evangeline Copley?
Annie's silence revealed her ignorance.
"A next-door neighbor to the Tarrant family. Miss Dora directed me to her." Laurel's tone was as smug as Agatha's bewhiskered expression upon consuming salmon soufflй. "Dear Miss Copley was ninety-nine last Sunday. An avid gardener. She was spraying her marigolds with nicotine—those dreadful red spiders—on that Saturday, the Saturday in question, of course, May ninth, 1970. Miss Copley heard Ross and the Judge shouting at each other! The bed of marigolds was just on the other side of the wall separating the properties. The quarrel occurred in midafternoon. Ross slammed out of his father's study and ran down the back steps into the garden. What happened after that is unclear, but I shall continue to seek out the truth from my sickbed. Not about that quarrel, intriguing as it may be to you and dear Max as you pursue earthly goals, but about the renewed activity on the supra-normal plane. Ghosts are walking once again at Tarrant House. Just last night, Miss Copley saw a figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House. A view, you know, from her back piazza. I hereby designate you, dear Annie, to serve as my agent on the scene. Do not let a single opportunity escape you. Seek out the events of that tragic Saturday as I shall continue to pursue the visitations that have resulted. We have here a great opportunity to demonstrate the reason that ghosts exist, and perhaps, if we learn enough—if we ascertain the truth of that day's occurrences—we shall discover whether public un‑
derstanding of a trauma rids a site of the unhappy spirit. I depend upon you. Tally ho, my dear."
Annie replaced the receiver, then stared at the mute instrument thoughtfully.
A figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House? Miss Dora, too, had spoken of that dimly seen specter. Swirling fog, the old lady had harrumphed.
Annie knew that's all it was, of course.
It couldn't be anything else.
She rose and walked to the door. Opening it, she saw that twilight was falling.
She and Max weren't due at Miss Dora's until eight o'clock. Max, of course, would be back from the courthouse soon, but it wasn't far to Miss Dora's. Only a few blocks. Turning quickly, she found a clean sheet of paper, scrawled a note, and propped it up where Max couldn't miss it.
The cat's pleasure in toying with a mouse is enhanced when the mouse lunges and twists and tries to escape. Max maintained his casual air of relaxation as he leafed through the three-month-old Sports Illustrated, and he evidenced no impatience or irritation when Chief Wells's office door finally opened, more than two hours after Max had arrived for their scheduled appointment.