window and the darkness outside—"is dangerous as hell. But we have to try and reconstruct that afternoon. We may be able to prove that someone absolutely couldn't have done it—just the way Ross was cleared. You see, Miss Dora didn't know the significance of the shot she heard until more than twenty years later. The fact that Ross was actually in her view at the moment she heard the shot—that changed everything. That's what I'm hoping for tomorrow—a breakthrough, something new that no one realized was important at the time. I know it's a volatile mix, but there's safety in numbers. And the chief will come. How can he refuse? So"—he clapped his hands together—"now we need to get to work. I'm going to—"
The phone rang.
Max picked it up. "Hello." A smile transformed his face, a smile Annie knew well, indulgent, amused, approving. "Oh, hi, Ma. Sure. We're fine. The fax? Oh, did Barb tell you about it? Yeah, that's right. They're terrific machines. Really link you up. Well, sure. Send it along, we'd love to see it." He had that hearty tone he employed when his words absolutely did not mirror his feelings. "Yes. That's great news. Annie? Oh, sure."
Annie was semaphoring negative, no, not-me, but to no avail.
Max handed her the phone with a bland smile, but she noted that his eyes avoided hers entirely and he damn near sprinted to the breakfast room table. He owed her one, that was for sure.
"Annie, my sweet, I do wish you were here . . . or I were there." The vibrant, husky voice held such a note of genuine fondness that Annie couldn't help smiling. She wasn't, however, beguiled enough to respond in kind. Instead, she murmured, "That's dear of you, Laurel."
Her mother-in-law burbled on. "That's not to say that you lack a sense of humor, dear Annie. Why, anyone who enjoys Pamela Branch books must have a sense of humor. That is what I've always told myself in moments of doubt . . ."
Annie glared at the receiver.
Max redoubled his flurry with papers and pens at the table. ". . but we all do know that you can be quite, quite
literal. And that seems to be a hallmark of many of the ghostly incidences I am studying. Now, I do feel that among those with a Southern heritage there is a similar devotion to what is explicit in a code of manners rather than to what surely any reasonable person would consider implicit and these commonly accepted tenets of conduct may be central to the issues you and Max are presently exploring. Take, for example . . ."
Annie's mind was whirling. Laurel on a metaphysical romp? Surely this was beyond the pale in any sense. Oh, God, was it catching?
". . . the celebrated case of Ruth Lowndes and her unwilling husband, Francis Simmons. It surprised all of Charleston when their engagement was announced and even one of the bride's own sisters never expected him to show up for the wedding. Everyone knew Francis had recently begun to pay attention to lovely Sabina Smith. Ruth Lowndes, who was determined to marry Francis, had noticed too, of course. Sabina was, presumably, Ruth's closest friend. One day Ruth told Francis that Sabina had promised to wed another young man. Francis was crushed. To change the subject, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, embroidered for him with love from his favorite sister, Ann. Poor, unwary Francis said, `Wouldn't you love to have beautiful initials such as these?' The next day, word came from Ruth's father that he understood Francis had proposed marriage to his daughter, Ruth, and he was pleased to approve on her behalf.
"What was Francis to do? Tell the old gentleman his daughter was a liar? A man must never sully a woman's name, must never speak of a woman without respect. Francis was trapped. He went to see Ruth's father and the marriage was agreed upon. And now, he had given his word. But his heart was shattered because Sabina was lost to him, promised, as Ruth had told him, to wed another.
"Imagine his despair, his fury, his anguish, when he paid a visit to Sabina to offer congratulations upon her engagement, to wish her every happiness, though his heart was breaking, and to learn from her own lips that no, she was not promised to another, that she never—now—intended to marry. Theunhappy couple stared at each other, stricken, and the truth came out. Francis embraced his true love this one time only, then, bound by his word, he departed, betrothed to the scheming, meretricious Ruth Lowndes.
"Is it any wonder that he came to his own wedding looking like a man who had come for his execution? Francis participated in the vows, but never once looked at the bride. He remained aloof and grim through the reception. When it finally ended, he helped his bride into a yellow gilt coach that carried them to the home her father had given to them at one-thirty-one Tradd Street. Francis saw his bride to the door of her new house, formally bid her good-night, then departed in the coach to his own home on St. John's Island. He would return to the house on Tradd Street to preside at dinners and at parties, but he never once spent the night under that roof. Five years later, he built his own grand house in Charleston, perhaps to underscore his separation from Ruth. So it continued throughout their lives. Ruth never publicly gave notice to his anger; she was always cheerful and bright and smiling. So who in this bitter battle triumphed? No one, I'm afraid. One summer Sabina died of a fever, and then Francis was left with only memories until his own demise a few years later.
"Ruth Simmons's house on Tradd Street no longer stands, Annie dear, but sometimes late at night there is a clatter of coach wheels and old-time Charlestonians lift their heads, listen for a moment, then say, ‘Oh, that must be Ruth Simmons's yellow gilt coach, driving her to her empty marriage bed.' " A sigh. "My dear, what a tragedy!"
Annie had this immediate (she knew it was unworthy) notion that Laurel, of all people, would surely be appalled by an empty marriage bed. Having, in fact, been married five times . . . Annie forced her mind into other channels.