Lucy Jane paused."Mrs. Julia?" Annie prodded.
"She ran out to the garden, just before lunch."
"Ran out?"
"She was sobbing." Lucy Jane's voice was so soft, it was hard to hear.
"Do you know why?"
Lucy Jane clasped her hands together tightly. A breeze ruffled the curtains at the open window and brought in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. "I don't rightly know."
"Mrs. Amanda?"
Lucy Jane gazed at Annie almost in anguish. Annie thought she understood. Lucy Jane was a truthful woman. She didn't want to lie.
What could matter that much, after all these years?
Finally, reluctantly, Lucy Jane answered, because, like Annie, she knew the truth must be told. "Miz Amanda, she was coming down the stairs—it was just after Miz Julia went out to the garden—Miz Amanda was coming down the stairs and she looked like she was facing the end of the world."
Were answering machines a boon or a curse? The message light flickered like a pinball machine. Annie punched the button, then settled on the love seat with a mug of coffee and two peanut butter cookies.
Perhaps one's attitude toward an answering machine depended upon the messages being left.
And the messengers. Were there many people in this world who enjoyed one-on-one conversations with an answering machine? Annie hoped not. Surely Laurel's total relaxation and intimate tone were unusual, if not, perhaps, unique.
. . quite depressing, actually, to realize the depths of depravity to which human beings are subject. Surely there can be no more sobering an example than that of the credulous slave girl at Belvidere Mansion, led astray by the immigrant English gardener, Timothy Wale. Wale had his own sorrows, of course, having lost his family and his dear sweetheart Clarissa to tuberculosis. But when he immigrated to South Caro‑
lina and obtained work on the plantation, he was bitterly envious of the wealth he saw there and hungry, too, for a woman. He persuaded the slave girl, also known as Clarissa, to meet him after dark. She begged him to take her away from the plantation, but he said there was no way to escape. And then she offered to steal the mistress's jewels, if Wale would carry her away. Wale agreed. One Saturday as Mrs. Shubrick, the mistress, took her coach to Charleston to shop, Clarissa slipped into the mistress's bedroom, unlocked the jewel case and took the brooches and rings and necklaces. That night, she crept out of her cabin and hurried down the moonlit path to meet Wale. He took the jewels but refused to take her too, and ran off into the darkness. The next day the girl feigned illness, then, in desperation, ran to the house and set it afire while the master and mistress were away at church. The Shubricks returned to find their lovely home in flames. Clarissa's odd behavior had been noticed and, when questioned, the slave girl confessed to the theft and the fire." Laurel sighed. "And so poor foolish Clarissa was hanged. And even now they say the lane that leads to the ruins of Belvidere is haunted at night by Clarissa's ghost, waiting for the English gardener to come and take her away. Do you know, Annie, I hope Timothy Wale never enjoyed his ill-gotten gains! Isn't it perhaps the greatest crime of all to take advantage of a trusting nature?"
The tape whirred. Laurel affording the listener time to contemplate the moral, no doubt.
The husky, unforgettable voice resumed just as Annie reached out to punch the fast-forward button.
"Have you considered a gathering together at Tarrant House of those involved that day? Just a thought, my dear. So interesting that Amanda's presence—ghostly, of course—is associated with the garden. I do find that frightfully significant. Do call me at your earliest convenience so that we may pursue this topic. Ta, ta."
Annie knew she should phone Laurel, but the likelihood of yet more recitations of ghostly South Carolinians was a powerful deterrent. Later. (Sometimes the fruits of procrastinationwere sweet, indeed.) Annie felt confident a lack of response would prove no discouragement to her unquashable mother-in-law. There would be other opportunities to ponder the variety of spirits who apparently throng the highways and byways (not to speak of the homes and hearths) of the great state of South Carolina. She wondered if the earthbound shades remained always in situ, so to speak. There was a question for Laurel to ponder. It might even keep her occupied beyond the boundaries of Broward's Rock for a good long while. Annie filed the query away for later consideration. Not, of course, that she was averse to Laurel's presence nearby. But a happily occupied Laurel at a distance . . . oh, there was a delectable prospect.
The mental picture of Laurel, once again ambulatory but at a far remove, distracted her. Annie lost the first part of the next message and was forced to rewind, which brought up the last of Laurel's: ". . . pursue this topic. Ta, ta."
Beep.
"Annie, Max, this is Barb."
Annie looked at the machine in surprise as she munched on the second cookie.
Barb's normally down-to-earth voice was a good octave higher than normal and softly dreamy.
"Certainly never knew bowling could be so much fun. Though, it wasn't actually the bowling. If "—the tone now was arch—"you understand what I mean. And I'm sure you do. You two of all people."
The tape whirred.
Annie grinned. How flattering to know that Barb saw them as romantic figures. The lock clicked and the room door swung in.
"Annie!" Her very own most romantic companion stood in the doorway, and she loved the unmistakable flicker in his eyes.
Annie held a finger to her lips, then pointed toward the machine.
Max nodded and shut the door softly behind him. "Anyway"—there was clearly an effort here to return to
everyday practicality—"everything's great here. Except Agatha got my sandwich at lunch. I'd fixed an anchovy sandwich —so I like salt—and anyway, there was a crash at the front of the store and I went racing up there and somehow"—her voice was loaded with suspicion—"the display on academic mysteries had been knocked over. I'd just finished putting it all together, and I was really pleased. Not the most famous ones, but some very good ones, The Better to Eat You by Charlotte Armstrong, The Corpse with the Purple Thighs by George Bagby, Death at Half-Term by Josephine Bell, The Horizontal Man by Helen Eustis, and Was It Murder? by James Hilton. Isn't that marvelous? All knocked to kingdom come. So I put the display up again. It didn't take all that long, but by the time I got back to the coffee bar, there wasn't a single anchovy left in my sandwich. When I scolded Agatha, she looked at me with the most patronizing, amused expression! Annie, that cat's scary! Anyway, had another lovely note from Henny. She went to Fortnum & Mason and bought and bought, and said she kept looking for Nina Crowther" (in Margaret Yorke's Find Me a Villain) "and Richard Hannay" (in John Buchan's The Three Hostages). "Gosh, just think, all that food and people you've read about for years! Anyway, you've got phone calls to the max." A quickly suppressed giggle. "Miss Dora wants you at her place pronto. Ditto Sybil Giacomo. I'd go to Sybil's house first; she's on a tear. And"—a pause, the sound of movement, the opening of a door, low murmurs of voices, and, finally, a hurried, almost breathless finale—"Louis just came. I'll fax you some stuff. Bye for now!"