"Damn shame," Annie said heartily.
Her mother-in-law's silence was a good indicator that Annie's response had—somehow—not been up to par. What was expected?
Annie tried again. "Oh, certainly, I can see that honesty is the best policy." She felt like a walking bromide. Perhaps a
dash of cynicism. "Well, I doubt that Francis spent all of his nights alone."
"Annie, Annie. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and Max." Laurel's husky voice indicated a definite eagerness to put duty before pleasure. "The nuances of conduct, my dear, the subterranean rocks of existence which influence conscious action, these must be your concern. And I am certainly prepared to—"
"Laurel, Max and I know you would be very happy to join us"—she took a gleeful pleasure in Max's obvious discomfiture as he lunged to his feet and began to wave his arms wildly up and down—"but you must hew to your own course. The loss to our culture would be irreparable." At Laurel's sudden silence, Annie worried that she had overdone it. After all, she didn't want to hurt the old spirit-chaser's feelings. "Really, Laurel, we're managing just fine. In fact, we're very close to a solution. The case will probably be over before you could journey here . . . considering your present disabilities."
"Oh, in that event . . . well, I do have so many avenues to explore. I shall continue my vigilant pursuit of truth here and you shall continue your vigilant pursuit there. We shall, of course, keep in close touch. Ta, my dears."
Annie replaced the receiver. Before she could suggest to Max that, after all, this was his mother and next time it was his turn to embark upon spirited quests, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.
Annie had poured fresh coffee for them both when Max returned, bearing a single sheet and looking absolutely mystified. He handed the sheet to Annie.
Annie turned it upside down. No, there were words scrawled on the sheet, so it must go the other way. She righted it and squinted.
A new kind of avant-garde art perhaps?
Made up of varying shaped splotches of black and gray?
She read the inscription. It, at least, she could identify without fail. She was exceedingly familiar with Laurel's surprisingly elegant script:
Isn't this the most remarkable photograph you've ever seen? It shall certainly be regarded with the utmost excitement by the American Psychical Society!!!!
L.
Max peered over her shoulder. "Mushrooms bouncing down dungeon steps?"
But revelation came to Annie in a flash. "Ruth Simmons's coach careening down Tradd Street!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, yeah. How could I have missed it?" Max frowned, glanced toward the room with the now-silent fax. "Yeah, well. I suppose the old dear's safe enough."
"Safe enough?" Annie asked.
"I mean," Max took the fax from her and waggled it, "this looks like she was out hobbling around making a photograph in the middle of the night. And God knows what this is really a picture of. But I don't suppose it matters."
Annie was steering him to the table as he continued to mutter.
As he sank into his chair, she took the fax, handed him a legal pad, and said crisply, "Would you want her to join us here?"
At his horrified look, she nodded and slipped into the chair opposite him.
"God, no," he said simply. "Okay, let's see where we are, Annie. Do you have the bio on Enid Friendley?"
Annie found it fourth in her stack and handed it to Max.
"Okay, okay." Max scanned the sheet. "Enid Friendley. Born February fifth, 1952, in Hardeeville. Mother Eloise an LPN, father, Donald, a short-order cook. Only child. Began working at Tarrant House while still in high school. Worked her way through community college while running a catering service. At Tarrant House for only two years, 1968-70. Her catering service, Low Country Limited, solidly successful, with gross receipts last year in excess of three hundred thousand dollars. Married in 1976 to William Pittman of Beaufort, one child, Edward, 1977, divorced 1979. Kept maiden name professionally. Extremely hard worker, seven days a week, ten
hours a day. Her widowed mother lives with her, takes care of Edward. An innovative, original cook with a flair for catering successful parties from luaus to barbecues. A strict, demanding employer, no shirking allowed. On formal terms with both customers and employees. Rarely smiles. Intense. Always moves at high speed, impatient with those who don't move or think as quickly, but not unpleasant. A former assistant said, 'Enid's all business, but she's fair and she treats people right. You know how this kind of business goes, a lot of people work part-time, no health benefits, no pension, but if you're one of Enid's workers and you've done good for her, she'll help you out. Sam Berry got laid off from the cement company and he was about to lose his house and Enid helped him with the payments until he got regular work again. There's lots of stories like that. All she asks is you pay her back when you can.' Her ex-husband said, 'They ought to put Enid in charge of the world. It'd run a damn sight better. I'll tell you, she'd make everybody toe the mark. That's one tiger woman.' " Max grinned. "Sounds like a tired man."
But Annie wasn't interested in Mr. Pittman. "Hey, she sounds all right. I'll bet she's got some snappy views on the Tarrants." She glanced at the clock. Almost nine. But that wasn't too late. "Max, let's call Enid Friendley. Maybe she'll even see us tonight."
Annie was reaching for the phone when it began to ring.
11:55 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Judge Tarrant was a stickler for punctuality. Lunch at Tarrant House was served at precisely twelve noon daily. Shortly before noon, the Judge left his study. A moment after the door into the hall closed, the French door from the piazza swung in. The intruder moved swiftly across the untenanted room. It took only seconds for gloved hands to pull open the bottom left drawer of the desk and grab the Judge's gun. In a few seconds more, the French door clicked shut.
Chapter 17.
Charlotte Tarrant was a woman in a frenzy. "We're all going to be killed! That's what's going to happen!" Her head whipped from side to side as she stood beside the flowering wisteria—Annie would always remember the sweet violet scent and those wild, terrified eyes—and words spewed from Charlotte's trembling mouth, a red gash against a pasty white face. The yard light beaming down from the corner live oak surrounded the chatelaine of Tarrant House in a circle of radiance as neatly as a spot on center stage. "Who's doing this? I'll tell you who it is—it's that girl! Who says she's missing? Those people?" Her voice rose hysterically as she pointed at Annie and Max. "Why are they here? This is Tarrant property. Tarrant property." Furiously, she turned on Whitney. "Get them out of here. Make them leave. Maybe they broke in! Why are they here?" She clutched her husband's arm.