"I'm very much afraid of what may happen." Cloudy blue eyes beseeched them. "You will try hard, won't you? Both nights that I've seen her, I've felt the mist against my face like tears. Amanda needs our help."
11:45 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
The Judge's dark eyebrows drew down into a tight frown. "I'm busy, Milam." His glance was scathing, dismissive.
Milam had the old familiar feelings. He was too fat, too clumsy, hopelessly stupid. For how many years had he been humiliated, emasculated, diminished by his father? Always he had succumbed to the Judge, the imperious, superior, all-powerful Judge. Milam felt like he was choking. His hands shook. But he didn't mumble an apology and back out of the study. Not this time.
Milam closed the door behind him, stepped forward—and saw the surprise on his father's disdainful face.
No, he wouldn't turn back this time. This time the Judge was going to listen to him.
Chapter 16.
Miss Copley's front door closed behind them. They started down the steps, then Annie paused. The sound of the hounds baying raised a prickle on her neck. She gripped Max's arm. But she didn't have to speak. He took her hand, and they ran down the steps. They hurried to the side of the house and turned, heading for the river.
Dancing clouds of no-see-urns whirled around them, the closer they came to the river. Annie flapped her hands futilely and knew she'd soon be a mass of bites, but now they could hear thrashing in the thick undergrowth, and the throaty aw-woo of the hounds was closer.
"This way, by God, this way," came a shout.
They reached the path next to the bluff and not far ahead was Harris Walker, his face excited and eager, and a heavy-set dog handler with two bloodhounds straining at their leashes.
"Jesus, look at them go," Harris shouted. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his trousers dusty and snagged. "She came this way. Courtney came this way!"
"Max! Do you suppose Courtney's here?" Annie was poised to race ahead, but Max grabbed her arm.
He stared at the quivering bushes as the handler and dogs and Harris disappeared into the thicket at the back of Tarrant House. "Of course she came this way," Max said wearily. "Those dogs will find her scent here and at Miss Dora's. She came to both these houses—before she disappeared." His eyes were full of pity. "The poor bastard," he said softly.
It was almost closing time. The sun was sinking in the west, the loblolly pines threw monstrous shadows across the roadway, as they pulled into the parking lot of South Carolina Artifacts: Old and New. The small brick house was built in the West Indian style, with piazzas on the front and sides supported by heavy untapered white columns. The scored stucco exterior was a soft lemon-yellow. As she and Max walked up the front steps, Annie almost expected to hear the crash of waves from a turquoise sea and hear the breeze rattle tall coconut palms.
A bell rang softly deep inside as Max opened the door and held it for her. Annie always experienced the same sensation upon entering antique shops, a compound of delight at the artistry of all the lovely pieces and sadness that these were all that survived from lives long since ended.
That Chinese Canton ware in the Federal cabinet, what hearty sea captain carried those dishes across turbulent seas to Charleston? What pink-cheeked mistress, perhaps of a Georgian house on Church Street, welcomed guests to afternoon tea, using her new set of china? Who had commissioned that dark painting, a Victorian portrait of an oval-faced young woman with soft lips and warm eyes, and how had it come to rest half a world away from its origin? That glorious French Empire clock, topped with a gold flying griffin, who was the owner who looked up, perhaps from reading the latest novel by Dickens, to check the time? A merchant? A lawyer? A privateer who made a fortune in smuggling during The War
Between the States? How many hours and days and lives had ticked away for its owners?
If Laurel wanted ghosts, ghosts were easy to find. "Hello!" Max called out.
Steps sounded from the back of the crowded room.
The woman who walked out of the gloom to stand beneath the radiance of a red Bohemian glass chandelier was petite, with sleek blond hair and fine patrician features. Her face was saved from severity by merry blue eyes and a mobile mouth that curved easily into a friendly smile.
"May I help you?" Her musical voice was eager. "Miss Crandall? Miss Joan Crandall?" Max asked. "Yes."
"I'm Max Darling. And this is my wife, Annie. We'd like to visit with you about a friend of yours, Milam Tarrant."
Joan Crandall's expressive face was suddenly quite still. She flicked a cool glance between them. "Why?"
This wasn't going to be easy, Annie realized. This charming—or perhaps potentially charming—woman had her defenses up.
Max, of course, was undaunted. He said smoothly, as if there could be no question of the antique dealer's cooperation, "This goes back a number of years, Miss Crandall. Back to 1970. I understand Milam tried to help you win appointment as a restoration expert with the Chastain Historical—"
"Mr. Darling, forgive me, but I'm a little puzzled." She stepped past him, deftly flipped the OPEN-CLOSED sign with long, stained, graceful fingers. "I'm an antique dealer, an expert in the restoration of artifacts and in the reproduction of antiques. I am not an information bureau nor, on a baser level, a gossip. If you and Mrs. Darling are interested in South Carolina antiques, perhaps a rice bed or a plantation desk, I will be delighted to be of service, though it is now after-hours and I am officially closed. If you are not, then I will bid you good evening."
"Why don't you want to talk about Milam Tarrant?" Annie demanded.
Max waggled a warning hand.
Annie ignored that. Max was always urging her to think before she spoke, to remain cool, calm, and collected, but Annie was confident of her instinct here. No point in beating around the bush. They would have to break through Joan Crandall's carefully constructed reserve if they hoped to accomplish anything.