Southern Ghost Read Online Free

instant—“perhaps that should be my title,
Coming Forth.
Oh, I like that.” She was out of sight now, but the throaty tone, a combination of Marlene Dietrich, Lauren Bacall, and wood nymph, carried well. “Do have a delightful dinner, my darlings.” The back door opened and closed.
    It seemed awfully quiet after Laurel was gone.
    Annie, of course, had had plenty of time to call out and say Max wasn’t coming home for dinner tonight and she and Laurel could drop by the Club.
    It wasn’t, of course, that she didn’t want to tell anybody (and especially not Laurel?) not only that Max wasn’t coming home, but Annie didn’t have any idea where he was.
    Or with whom.
    The South Carolina Low Country has many charms—a seductive subtropical climate with a glorious profusion of plant life including flower-laden shrubs, lush carpets of wildflowers, and seventy-five-foot loblolly pines, abundant wildlife ranging from deer to alligators, and an easy-paced life-style characterized by graciousness and the loveliest accent in all of America—but the coastal road system, once off the interstates, is not one of them. The narrow two-lane blacktops curve treacherously through pine groves and skirt swamps, affording few chances to pass.
    Max leaned out the window of his Maserati, straining in vain to peer around the empty horse trailer bouncing behind an old Ford pickup. Every so often he glanced at the clock in the dash. Events had conspired against him. The ferry was late leaving Broward’s Rock. He’d chafed at the delay; then, once on the mainland, he’d realized he’d better stop for gas. Laurel was in the habit of borrowing his car and this time she’d returned it with the gas gauge damn near a dead soldier. The little country gas station, perhaps not a good choice, had been jammed. He wondered if the attendants were selling drugs on the side or maybe the crowd had something to do with the cerise cabin festooned with streamers advertising “Tanning Booths.” So much for bucolic innocence.
    Every minute lost made Max more frantic, even though he was sure the deaths Courtney Kimball had asked him to investigate were exactly what they appeared to be, just as he’d told her in the report he made yesterday. When he’d concluded, she’d asked sharply, “You didn’t find anything out of order? Anything at all?” He’d spent several hours in dusty records atthe county courthouse, studying files from the coroner’s office. They confirmed the information he’d found in old news stories. That’s what he told Courtney. She looked at him, her eyes dark with unhappiness. “There has to be a way—” She broke off, seemed to acquiesce, paid his fee. He’d thought that was the end of it.
    Until the call this evening, the shocking, incomplete call. Words tumbled over each other, frantic and incomplete: “Help … got to have help … the cemetery … Ross’s grave … oh, hurr—” And the line went dead.
    He’d dialed her number.
    No answer.
    Ring after ring.
    And now, this damn truck—impatiently, he swung out the nose of the sports car, then yanked hard right on the wheel.
    A Mercedes blazed past in the facing lane, horn blaring.
    Fuming and chafing, his eyes watering from the pickup’s bilious exhaust, Max finally found clearance to pass. The speedometer needle raced to the right. That broken cry, “… oh, hurr—” Help? What kind of help? The fear in her voice spelled danger. The Maserati plunged forward, born to race.
    Annie’s hands gripped the telephone like a vise, but she had her voice under control. Just barely. “No, Cynthia, none of Max’s sisters are in town.”
    Cynthia waited for amplification.
    Annie smiled grimly and uttered not another word.
    “Oh, well.” A sniff. “I just thought it had to be one of Max’s sisters when I saw him at that wonderful little restaurant in Chastain Monday. You know, the new one with the Paris chef. Especially since the girl was blond and
gorgeous.
”
    Blond