Southern Ghost by Carolyn G. Hart Read Free Book Online Page B

inn?” She folded her arms across her solid midriff.
    “Because I don’t intend to leave Chastain until I’ve found her.” Max’s eyes never wavered. “I don’t care how long it takes. And here’s where she was staying. Maybe I can learn something from that, from you.”
    “I don’t know anything about her. I’d never seen her before in my life until she came here Monday.” Her deep voice was angry.
    “Did she tell you anything—”
    “I showed her the apartment. That’s the only time I ever talked to her. If I’d had any idea she was going to get in trouble, I’d never have let her in. This kind of publicity can ruin an inn. I’ve already had three cancellations since the paper came out this morning. A wedding party.”
    “Mrs. Gentry, the sooner we find Ms. Kimball, the better off you’ll be. Give me one of those cancellations.”
    It hung in the balance, but finally, grudgingly, she nodded.
    Max had one more question as he filled out the registration. “Do you know why Ms. Kimball came here? Why she picked this place to stay?”
    Her dark eyes were unreadable, but the moment stretched until Max knew there was an answer. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.
    She picked up the registration slip, then said abruptly, “She said Miss Dora told her to come here. Miss Dora’s—”
    Max nodded, completed the sentence. “Miss Dora Brevard.”
    He and Annie first met Dora Brevard when Annie put together the mystery program for Chastain’s annual house-and-garden tours one spring.
    Miss Dora, who knew everything there was to know about Chastain. Max felt a stirring of hope.
    By the time Annie finished reading the monograph (also authored by Charlotte Tarrant) on the history of Tarrant House, she had a good understanding of how to make tabby for foundations (a combination of oyster shells, sand, and a lime obtained through the burning of oyster shells), the popularity of Corinthian capitals, and the reason for the ever-present pineapple motif (pineapples indicated prosperity and hospitality). As far as she could tell, the important point about Tarrant House was that it had stood in all its Greek Revival glory on that lot since 1840, and was one of the few homes in Chastain still in the hands of the original family.
    But, shades of Laurel, if she could be permitted that phrase,Tarrant House did have a very interesting background in ghosts.
    Background in ghosts? Of ghosts?
    Annie was unsure how to say it.
    Laurel would know.
    The telephone rang.
    Startled, Annie knocked over her almost—but not quite empty—Styrofoam cup.
    The phone continued to ring as she bolted to the bath and grabbed up a face towel to mop up the coffee, saving
The Tarrant Family History
from desecration.
    Another peal of the phone. Was Max once again being permitted a single call?
    “Hello.” She tried to sound in command, ready for anything.
    “Dear Annie.”
    God, it was Laurel. Which was almost spooky. Except surely there was an obvious and rational explanation. Laurel must have called Barb, Max’s secretary, to track them down. However, Annie would have remarked upon the coincidence of Laurel calling at the precise moment Annie was thinking of her, but Laurel’s words riveted her attention.
    “You are feeling beleaguered! That is evident from the strain in your voice. My dearest, I have called to offer my services and I
shall
come. Even though it will require an ambulance. I cannot—”
    “Ambulance! Laurel, where are you? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Annie moved the file away from the damp spot on the desk.
    “A
minor
contretemps.” For once, the throaty voice lacked its usual élan, verging indeed upon embarrassment. “I am in Charleston, surely one of the loveliest cities of the world and filled with the
most
hospitable, charming people, most of whom are quite sophisticated about the specters in their midst, such as dear young Dr. Ladd at the house in Church Street and the rattling wheels of Ruth