The Satilla River flowed past the plantation down beyond the cemetery, and although I couldn’t see it, I could smell the wetness in the air. Spanish moss dripped from many of the trees, swaying with the breeze. I had to admit it was an atmospheric setting; if I were a ghost, I’d have hung out here. Five jack-o’-lanterns glowed from the wide Rothmere veranda; with a start, I realized Sunday was Halloween. Why had Spaatz planned the ghost-hunting trip for the night before Halloween? Surely he knew the teens would find it impossible to resist a Halloween prank or two.
“Isn’t this fun?” Rachel skipped up beside me, accompanied by Braden McCullers.
A good-looking blond kid, he smiled at me and said, “Hi, Miss Terhune. Thanks for coming.” They seemed easy in each other’s company as Rachel linked her arm through his and drew him up to the front of the group.
“About as much fun as a root canal,” Coach Peet muttered from my left, having overheard Rachel’s question. A fiftyish man no taller than five-ten, he looked more like a long-distance runner than a football player. He had a tonsure of gray-tinged brown hair growing around a shiny bald spot and a beak of a nose; combined, the hair and nose made him look a bit like a condor.
“You got drafted, too?” I laughed, holding out my hand. “Grace Terhune. I let Rachel Whitley talk me into this.”
“Hunh,” he said, ignoring my hand. Hunching his shoulders, he quickened his pace until he was three or four strides in front of me and I was staring at his back.
I let my hand drop, stunned by his boorishness. Not exactly Mr. Friendly.
“Don’t mind him,” a voice said from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder and Glen Spaatz fell into step beside me, his long stride making me pick up my pace.
“He’s like this every year during the season. Two of his star players got ruled ineligible last year after a DUI and a vandalism charge—separate incidents, both Halloween weekend—and he’s trying to keep it from happening again. He’s a really friendly guy after the playoffs.”
Yeah, sure. I didn’t trust people who were Dr. Jekyll one moment and Mr. Hyde the next.
Flashing another killer smile, he sped up to reach the veranda ahead of the students. He held up a hand to halt their progress just as one of the wide double doors swung open, spilling light into the gathering dusk.
Lucy Mortimer stood in the doorway. Tonight’s dress was blue and topped with an apron. A velvet band with a cameo circled her freckled neck. “I guess you’d better come in,” she said. Clearly, the teenagers didn’t merit her “lady of the manor” routine.
We all fit easily into Rothmere’s foyer. My whole apartment would have fit. With original wood floors, deep baseboards and crown molding, a crystal and porcelain chandelier now wired for electricity, a sprinkling of oil-painted family portraits, and a grand staircase wide enough to let at least two Southern belles in hoop skirts descend side by side, the foyer made a strong first impression. “Wow,” and, “Dig that chandelier,” came from the students seeing the place for the first time.
“I understand from Mr. Spaatz that you’re hoping to encounter Cyril tonight,” Lucy said, motioning to us to gather under the chandelier, “so let me tell you his story.” She spoke in a low, husky voice, and everyone leaned forward to hear her. “Cyril Rothmere came to Georgia from Yorkshire, England, in 1796 when he was twenty-five. Old letters suggest that he was banished by his family for ruinous gambling debts and he came to America to seek his fortune. He had a knack for farming, and once he acquired some land—winning it in a card game, ironically—he built a house and turned his plantation into the most successful one in southeastern Georgia. In 1801, he met a woman named Annabelle Latham and she broke her engagement to a neighboring landowner to marry Cyril.”
“The money-grubbing witch,” someone muttered under his voice.
Lucy backed up toward one of the portraits on the wall. “This is Cyril,” she said.
Everyone crowded around the portrait of a middle-aged man with a ruddy face, thick brown hair with wooly looking sideburns, and an air of consequence. He stood beside a horse with a hound fawning in the foreground. Rothmere graced the background.
“He’s nearly as ugly as you, Lonnie,” someone quipped.
Lonnie Farber gave the speaker the finger.
Lucy ignored the byplay; it was probably no more than she expected. “Cyril had this mansion built when the previous house burnt to the ground. Some say the blaze was arson, set by the neighbor who had also courted Annabelle. However it started, the fire consumed the entire house and everything in it, and Cyril started from scratch when he rebuilt. Follow me.”