like far-distant cries.
Annie felt the skin of her skull tighten.
Suddenly, with no warning, Annie smelled freshly turned earth—the unmistakable odor of a new grave, deep and pungent. But it wouldn’t be the smell of a grave, not really. It was just a trick of the wind, sweeping the scent from Miss Copley’s garden. That’s all it was.
She didn’t believe in ghosts. She did not. She wouldn’t run away. In fact, she would go down into the garden. She walked stiffly down the steps, heading for the gate in the wall that led to the Tarrant grounds.
Annie followed the path. Shrubs rustled. Palm leaves rattled. She approached the gate, treading cautiously. But, of course, there was no one to hear her. Still, she slipped up to the gate and peered through the bars. The shadows were so deep now and so dark that it was hard to separate trees from shrubs. Then, she held her breath for a long moment. There was a flash of white near the obelisk. Just that, a quick flash, and nothing more. Now it was dark, all dark.
But there had been something there.
Something.
She heard a lilting call: “Amanda, are you there? Amanda?”
And another faint, high, pleading call. “Amanda? Amanda?”
Annie wanted to run, yet she had the terrified instinct that she would never be able to run fast enough. But she burst on down the path, stumbling over uneven flagstones, pushing away trailing vines. When she reached the path along the bluff, she saw the bobbing lights out on the river, and drew courage—there were people out there. They would hear if she shouted. Then, with a shiver, she realized that the lights marked the continuing search for the body of Courtney Kimball.
“Annie, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing.” She closed the door to their suite behind her and avoided looking at Max. She didn’t believe in ghosts—past, present, or future. She glanced in the girandole-topped, gilt-framed wall mirror opposite the chintz-covered couch where Max was awash in a sea of papers. She did look a little pale, and she’d snagged some hibiscus in her hair during her pell-mell dash through the Copley garden. “I took a wrong turn coming back from Miss Copley’s.” It took a moment to explain Miss Copley. (Annie left out the part about ghosts; what mattered was the quarrel overheard between the Judge and Ross.) “We’ll have to talk to her.”
Unspoken was her firm decision to make that visit during daylight hours.
Although, of course, she did not believe in ghosts.
“A quarrel between the Judge and Ross! Annie, good going.” But Max was still concerned about her. “You look kind of ragged.”
The phone rang.
Annie rushed to answer it, glad for the diversion.
Barb chirped in her ear. “Honestly, Annie, you do lead the most interesting life.” Max’s secretary sounded genuinely impressed. “Sara Paretsky’s publisher just called to ask if you would like to have her for a signing in July, and I told her we’d love to. Then Henny’s postcard came. She visited the Wood Street Police Station where Inspector Ghote arrived early for the international conference on drugs in
Inspector Ghote Hunts the Peacock
by H.R.F. Keating. Henny wrote that she’s using the
Mystery Reader’s Guide to London
by Alzina Stone Dale and Barbara Sloan Hendershott, and she says it’s wonderful. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I’d love to always work here—but I do have to tell you that Agatha’s been in a
nasty
humor. I mean, I don’t suppose she actually
objects
to being petted—”
Annie could see trouble coming. Agatha had fierce opinions indeed about human hands and when they were welcome. But Annie didn’t want to hurt Barb’s feelings.
“—and I was just smoothing her coat when she
flew
to the top of Romantic Suspense and leveled the display—”
Annie pictured the books,
The Woman in White
by Wilkie Collins,
The Simple Way of Poison
by Leslie Ford,
The Chinese Chop
by Juanita Sheridan, and
The House of a Thousand
Annie felt the skin of her skull tighten.
Suddenly, with no warning, Annie smelled freshly turned earth—the unmistakable odor of a new grave, deep and pungent. But it wouldn’t be the smell of a grave, not really. It was just a trick of the wind, sweeping the scent from Miss Copley’s garden. That’s all it was.
She didn’t believe in ghosts. She did not. She wouldn’t run away. In fact, she would go down into the garden. She walked stiffly down the steps, heading for the gate in the wall that led to the Tarrant grounds.
Annie followed the path. Shrubs rustled. Palm leaves rattled. She approached the gate, treading cautiously. But, of course, there was no one to hear her. Still, she slipped up to the gate and peered through the bars. The shadows were so deep now and so dark that it was hard to separate trees from shrubs. Then, she held her breath for a long moment. There was a flash of white near the obelisk. Just that, a quick flash, and nothing more. Now it was dark, all dark.
But there had been something there.
Something.
She heard a lilting call: “Amanda, are you there? Amanda?”
And another faint, high, pleading call. “Amanda? Amanda?”
Annie wanted to run, yet she had the terrified instinct that she would never be able to run fast enough. But she burst on down the path, stumbling over uneven flagstones, pushing away trailing vines. When she reached the path along the bluff, she saw the bobbing lights out on the river, and drew courage—there were people out there. They would hear if she shouted. Then, with a shiver, she realized that the lights marked the continuing search for the body of Courtney Kimball.
“Annie, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing.” She closed the door to their suite behind her and avoided looking at Max. She didn’t believe in ghosts—past, present, or future. She glanced in the girandole-topped, gilt-framed wall mirror opposite the chintz-covered couch where Max was awash in a sea of papers. She did look a little pale, and she’d snagged some hibiscus in her hair during her pell-mell dash through the Copley garden. “I took a wrong turn coming back from Miss Copley’s.” It took a moment to explain Miss Copley. (Annie left out the part about ghosts; what mattered was the quarrel overheard between the Judge and Ross.) “We’ll have to talk to her.”
Unspoken was her firm decision to make that visit during daylight hours.
Although, of course, she did not believe in ghosts.
“A quarrel between the Judge and Ross! Annie, good going.” But Max was still concerned about her. “You look kind of ragged.”
The phone rang.
Annie rushed to answer it, glad for the diversion.
Barb chirped in her ear. “Honestly, Annie, you do lead the most interesting life.” Max’s secretary sounded genuinely impressed. “Sara Paretsky’s publisher just called to ask if you would like to have her for a signing in July, and I told her we’d love to. Then Henny’s postcard came. She visited the Wood Street Police Station where Inspector Ghote arrived early for the international conference on drugs in
Inspector Ghote Hunts the Peacock
by H.R.F. Keating. Henny wrote that she’s using the
Mystery Reader’s Guide to London
by Alzina Stone Dale and Barbara Sloan Hendershott, and she says it’s wonderful. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I’d love to always work here—but I do have to tell you that Agatha’s been in a
nasty
humor. I mean, I don’t suppose she actually
objects
to being petted—”
Annie could see trouble coming. Agatha had fierce opinions indeed about human hands and when they were welcome. But Annie didn’t want to hurt Barb’s feelings.
“—and I was just smoothing her coat when she
flew
to the top of Romantic Suspense and leveled the display—”
Annie pictured the books,
The Woman in White
by Wilkie Collins,
The Simple Way of Poison
by Leslie Ford,
The Chinese Chop
by Juanita Sheridan, and
The House of a Thousand
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