Southern Ghost Read Online Free Page A

and gorgeous.
    “And I was so
surprised
not to see you there.” A saccharine laugh.
    “A business lunch is a business lunch,” Annie said lightly, all the while envisioning excruciating and extensive torture suitable for the middle-aged owner of the gift shop around thecorner whom Max had rebuffed at the annual merchants’ Christmas party. Cynthia had been snide ever since. “Besides, I’ve been tied to the store since Ingrid’s been sick.”
    “Oh, that awful spring flu …”
    Annie doodled on the telephone pad—Cynthia’s pudgy, beringed hand took shape. With a flourish Annie added an upward swirl of flame from matches jammed beneath the fingertips.
    It was fully dark by the time the Maserati screeched to a stop beside the church. Max grabbed the flashlight from the car pocket, then flung himself out of the car. He thudded toward the massive bronze gates of the cemetery. As he shoved them open, the car lights switched off behind him.
    The golden nimbus of light from the nearest street lamp offered scant illumination, succeeding only in emphasizing the shifting mass of darkness beneath the immense, low-limbed live oaks with their dangling veils of Spanish moss. The narrow cone from the flashlight wasn’t much help. Beyond its focus, the crumbling headstones, many awkwardly tilted by roots or undermined by fall torrents, were dimly seen patches of grayness. Leaves crunched underfoot. A twig snapped sharply. Max stopped and listened.
    “Courtney? Courtney?” he called softly. “Miss Kimball?”
    Palmetto fronds clicked in the freshening breeze.
    A bush rustled, and the thick sweet smell of wisteria enveloped him. The lights of a passing car swept briefly across the graveyard.
    A raccoon scampered atop a marble burial vault.
    An owl in a live oak turned glowing eyes toward him.
    He looked down and took a reluctant step forward. A silky strand of Spanish moss brushed his cheek, as gauzy and insubstantial as a half-forgotten memory.
    The swinging arc from the flashlight illuminated a cloth purse, half open, lying on the leaf-strewn path next to the Tarrant family plot. The beam steadied. It was an unusual purse with pink and beige and blue geometric patterns. Theday he’d first met Courtney Kimball, she’d placed it on the bar when she opened it to reach inside for her checkbook.
    The policeman’s head swiveled around at the muted roar from the television set flickering in the corner of the station house, then swung back to face Max. “Home run.” His stolid voice was surly.
    Max was damned if he was going to apologize for interrupting a man obviously more interested in Braves baseball than a missing woman.
    “Look.” Max didn’t try to keep the urgency out of his voice. God, how much time had passed? He’d called out for Courtney Kimball, searched as well as he could in a dark landscape that swallowed up the fragile beam of his flashlight, then, grabbing up the purse, he’d run to the nearest house and asked the nervous woman shielded behind a chained, partially open door for directions to the police station. It had taken another six minutes to get here. And now, this dolt wanted to watch a damn ball game. “We need to get men out there to—”
    “Cemetery at St. Michael’s, right?”
    Finally, finally. “Right.”
    The policeman—his name tag read SGT. G. T. MATTHEWS —fastened faded blue eyes on Max. “Let’s see your driver’s license, mister.”
    “Oh my God, this is a waste of time. We’ve got to—”
    “License, mister.” Matthews stuck out a broad, stubby hand, palm up.
    Time, time. Everything took time.
    Max clenched his fists in frustration as Matthews laboriously wrote down the information from the license.
    When the sergeant finally looked up, his gaze was still skeptical. “Okay, Mr. Darling. Let’s see if I got you right. You had a date with this woman—this Courtney Kimball—in a graveyard.”
    “Not a date. A business engagement.” Even as he spoke, Max knew how odd