Southern Ghost

"Julia!" Miss Dora's cane thumped the rich old carpet. Julia's hands fell away, her head snapped up, and she stared, eyes wide and vacant, at Miss Dora.

"You heard the shot?" Miss Dora's stare demanded an an­swer.

Annie found it hard to believe the words meant anything to Julia, so glazed and blank was her face, but, slowly, unhap­pily, she nodded.

"It's a dead horse—" Milam began angrily.

Miss Dora held up a hand, her eyes glittering with satisfac­tion. "You all agree then, that the shot occurred at shortly past four that afternoon. Whitney? Charlotte? Milam? Julia?"

Each nodded acquiescence, reluctantly. Whitney massaged his temple as though his head ached. Charlotte clasped her hands together so tightly her rings must have bruised herfingers. Milam stood stiffly by the fireplace. Julia stared mo­rosely into her empty glass.

Miss Dora used her cane as a pointer. "How many shots, Whitney?"

"Why, one. Just one." He looked surprised.

"Charlotte?"

"One, of course." Her tone was pettish.

Miss Dora eyed her thoughtfully. "You would have heard had there been more than one?"

"Certainly." Charlotte obviously felt on safe ground here. "I must have been among those nearest to the study—and I think the study window was open. Why, of course. That's why it was so loud. I was so startled, I dropped the vase. And it broke. I was so upset—and that's why it took me a minute or two to come into the house—not, of course, that I had any idea at the time that something dreadful had happened. As I came into the house, Julia ran past me, her face as white as a sheet." She shot a tiny, vindictive glance toward her sister-in-law.

"One shot, Aunt Dora," Milam interposed gruffly. "Sorry, it wasn't the Wild West that day."

"One shot," Julia said with great precision.

Miss Dora nodded regally. "That is my recollection, too. I

did wish to verify it, to make certain of my ground."

There was a note in her voice that commanded attention. Every eye in the room focused on the implacable old lady. She did not disappoint them.

"Yes. I heard the shot. I was at the gate into the Tarrant House garden. But I had stopped for several minutes because I did not want to interrupt what was obviously a very private and personal meeting between Ross and Sybil. And I hesitated yet a while longer after you departed, Sybil. I wished to give Ross time to regain his composure. I had just raised my hand to push through the gate when Ross and I heard the shot—at just after four on the afternoon of May ninth, 1970."

10:40 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Julia squeezed her eyes closed and bunched her hands over her ears, but the Judge's cold, scathing tone filled every crevice of her mind.

"You aren't fit to be a mother. You have forfeited every right."

It was as though her mind was a cavern, a hideous, damp, dark place and his words echoed, louder and louder, ". . . right . . . right . . . right . . . right . . ."

"If I could, I would remove Melissa from you altogether." The Judge paused and when he spoke, his tone was venomous. "Milam has always demonstrated utter lack of judgment. His selection of you as his wife confirms that."

Julia wanted to scream, to cry, to run, but there was no escape, just as there had never been an escape from her father.

"I can see no good solution, but I have decided that you and Melissa will return to your parents. That should direct the course of your behavior and provide Melissa with a stable background"

Somehow, never looking toward the Judge yet so horribly aware of his malevolent gaze, Julia stood and moved jerkily toward the door, her mind a maelstrom of horror and sick fear and frenzied determination.

She had to save Melissa.

Her baby. Oh, Jesus God, her baby . . .Chapter 12.

Miss Dora dominated the elegant room and her shocked guests. "A single shot." Those reptilian eyes flickered to each face in turn.

"But that means . . ." Julia's slurred voice trailed off.

The others said nothing—and that in itself was an admis­sion: they believed Miss Dora. They had to believe her. She might be old, she might be imperious, she might be unpleas­ant, but she was totally competent, capable, and cognizant.

"Christ." The shock in Milam's voice was mirrored on ev­ery face.

Charlotte's plump face was bewildered. "I don't under­stand." She reached out, held to Whitney's arm.

He murmured a meaningless "It's all right, Charlotte." But it wasn't all right, and he knew it. His eyes had the look of a man who'd been jolted, his very foundations shaken, and Annie knew Whitney was recalling that afternoon and trying to incorporate this piece of information that destroyed for all time a family's pained acceptance of tragedy.

"I knew it," Sybil cried. "Miss Dora, I knew it couldn't he Ross." Then her face fell. "But, why would he—oh, God, Miss Dora, Uncle Harmon must have been wrong—" She seemed to hear and understand her own thought for the first time and the enormity of it transformed her into a raging Fury, her splendid eyes flashing, her lovely face twisted into a mask of hatred. "One of you. One of you!" Her fierce gaze probed each in turn, Whitney so clearly shaken by Miss Dora's disclosure, Charlotte seeking reassurance, Milam's face blank with shock, Julia fumbling for comprehension.

"Sybil, listen to me closely." Once again, Miss Dora spoke gently. "My brother, Harmon, was no fool. I realized at the time that he was not telling me everything. Harmon would go to great lengths to protect the Family—but he would not have connived in hiding a double murder. Harmon knew how Au­gustus died. Harmon made the decision to mask that murder. Harmon personally handled all of the funeral planning and oversaw the removal of the bodies that day. We know from what Whitney told us that he and Harmon worked together to dress Augustus. Harmon would only have done so had he felt the murderer was beyond justice. So we can, in the main, accept much of what Harmon related to me that next day: Ross left a note; Ross killed himself."

"But Ross didn't kill his father." Sybil's tone was bewil­dered. "You know that. So why would Ross leave a note con­fessing to a murder he didn't commit? Why would he kill himself when his grandfather came to the lodge?"

"Because he was determined to accept responsibility for his father's murder." Miss Dora said it quietly.

Annie shivered. She could not even imagine what would have propelled Ross Tarrant to make such an awful sacrifice.

Sybil swept a hand through her thick black hair. "That's crazy. Ross was never crazy. Don't you see, Uncle Harmon had everything wrong—"

"Oh, I understand," Charlotte said in a rush, her words tumbling eagerly. "Amanda! It had to be Amanda! She and Augustus had quarreled, I know that. It must have been Amanda!" She looked from her husband to her brother-in-law."Don't you see? That explains everything—Ross came into the house and found his mother in the study with Augustus. Maybe she was still holding the gun. Of course he would take it from her and send her upstairs and then he would run with the gun. Maybe he was going to hide it. And when he got to the lodge, he realized that the police would come and even if he said he did it, his mother would step forward and confess. But if he died—then why would she speak out? His death would protect her."

They all stared at Charlotte.

In Miss Dora's bright, dark eyes, there was grudging re­spect.

Sybil blindly sat down and stared sightlessly at the cold fireplace. "Ross loved his mother. Oh, my God."

Whitney cleared his throat. "I can't believe Mother would —but if Ross didn't shoot the Judge, why else would he kill himself? Oh, Christ."

"Not Amanda," Julia murmured blearily.

"My conclusion"—Miss Dora thumped her cane—"is that Charlotte perceives correctly one aspect of that dreadful day: Ross Tarrant indeed took his own life late on the afternoon of May ninth, 1970, and can be adjudged a gallant and honor­able and loving son. I have no doubt but that some scene such as that envisioned by Charlotte did indeed occur; Ross was convinced of his mother's guilt."

"So this bloody little exercise of yours, dear Aunt Dora, has been for naught." Milam grabbed his half-full tumbler from the table and lifted it. "On behalf of your grateful and admir­ing family," he said furiously, "may I thank you for this scin­tillating evening of civilized entertainment—and for Christ's sake, don't invite us next time." He downed the whisky, slammed the glass onto the table, and turned to his wife. "Come on, Julia."

"Milam, my inquiry is merely beginning." Miss Dora re­sponded imperturbably, indifferent to his sarcasm. "Surely you understand that I would not call you here tonight merely to reopen wounds. Were Amanda the guilty party, there would be no need for an inquiry. But Amanda was not guilty.

Ross was in error, an error which proved mortal for him and which has caused enormous pain and anguish on the part of those who loved him."

Milam glared at Miss Dora. "What the hell do you have up your sleeve now?"

"Mother didn't do it." Whitney's relief was enormous. Then, his shoulders sagged. "But, God, that means we don't know who killed the Judge."

Miss Dora reached out to take Sybil's hand. "I am afraid, my dear, that the road you travel is to be more difficult still. I know that you have courage. Will you join me in a journey filled with travail?"

"Nothing worse could happen to me than has already hap­pened," Sybil said dully, the muscles in her face slack from misery.

Miss Dora gave Sybil's hand a quick squeeze, then loosed her grasp. "You will need all of your strength, my child."

Annie stepped closer to Max. It was comforting, in the midst of this puzzling—no, frightening—exchange, to be close to the most reassuring person she'd ever known. But even Max, his brows drawn in a tight frown, looked uneasy. What next, for God's sake?

"I don't understand." Charlotte's voice rose querulously. "What does Sybil have to do with any of it?"

Miss Dora ignored Charlotte's question, but she gave her full attention to Charlotte. "You are an intelligent woman, Charlotte, intelligent, perceptive, responsible."

Charlotte accepted the accolade with a complacent nod, and some of the strain seeped out of her face.

"So"—it was a hard-edged, jolting demand—"why haven't you called the police to offer them information about Court­ney Kimball?" Miss Dora's obsidian eyes surveyed Charlotte like an alligator eyeing a succulent cottonmouth.

Charlotte's mouth moved, but no words came. Pudgy fin­gers clawed at her necklace.

If the atmosphere of the room had been tense before, now it was surely electric.

An odd wheezing sound emanated from the old lady.

Annie looked at her in concern, then realized Miss Dora was amused.

"Cat have your tongues, all of you? You know who I'm talking about, each and every one of you. The young woman who's opened this all up again—she's the reason we're here tonight. And she's the reason I won't let this drop until we know the truth. Because one of you"—there was no laughter now on that wizened parchment face—"one of you may have taken another life—and this time I won't tolerate it. Do you hear me?"

"Who?" Sybil asked. "What are you talking about, Miss Dora?"

"Pretty girl." Julia wavered unsteadily. "Came out to Wis-' teree on Monday. Told her how nice Amanda was. Her grand‑

mother."

Spots of color burned in Charlotte's cheeks. "Nonsense. She showed me a copy of that letter Monday, too. For all we know, she found a letter from Amanda to her mother and copied the handwriting. I don't care what kind of heiress she may be, that doesn't mean we can let her make up stories about us. There is only one Tarrant grandchild, our daughter, Harriet."

Julia giggled. "And Harriet doesn't give a damn." At Charlotte's enraged glare, Julia tried to stifle her little hiccups of laughter. "Don't care. It's true. Want truth? Bet you don't even know where Harriet is."

"Harriet will come home someday. And no impostor is going to take her place," Charlotte said stiffly.

"I don't understand any of this." Sybil looked from Char‑

lotte to Miss Dora. "Who are we talking about?"

Whitney intervened impatiently. "Christ, Sybil, don't you ever read the newspaper? The girl who's disappeared, the one who claims Ross was her father."

Every muscle in Sybil's body hardened. She stood for an instant as if turned to stone, but her eyes, wild, shocked, stunned eyes, huge and imploring, clung to Whitney. "Her father!" Abruptly, as if launched from a catapult, she was across the room, clutching her cousin's arm. "A girl who says Ross was her father?"

"That's what she said, Sybil." Pulling free of Sybil's grasp, Whitney glanced toward his wife, then continued defiantly. "Attractive young woman. Though I suppose that's neither here nor there. She claimed to have a letter from Mother saying that Ross wasn't guilty, that no matter what anyone should say, Courtney should know that her father was inno­cent. She gave me a photocopy of the letter—" He looked briefly at his wife. "It sure looked like Mother's handwriting, but everyone knows Mother wasn't herself—before she died."

"Courtney." Sybil's voice shook. "When was she born?"

"How in the world should we know?" Charlotte said irrita­bly.

"When was she born?" Sybil cried desperately.

"December twelfth, 1970," Max said quietly.

"December twelfth . . ." Tears spilled down Sybil's cheeks. "December twelfth—oh, Jesus, they lied to me. They lied to me! They said she was born dead. Oh, God, I heard her cry. I told my father I heard her cry, and he said I was wrong. He said it was another baby. Oh, God, they took my baby away from me."

As the front door of Chastain House closed behind Sybil, Max took Annie's hand. They walked in silence down the broad steps and along the moonlight-dappled drive toward the street.

"How could they?" Annie tried hard to keep the tremor from her voice. She didn't succeed.

Max slipped his arm around her shoulders. "It was a differ­ent day, a different age. And this was a conservative family in a small town."

She repeated it. "How could they?"

"Her father dead; her mother seventeen and unmarried." Max took a deep breath. "Annie, they thought they were do­ing the best thing for the baby and for Sybil."

"God." Annie stumbled to a stop and looked back toward the Greek Revival mansion. "Max, will she be all right? Shouldn't we stay?""She didn't give us a choice," he said dryly.

At Miss Dora's brusque command, Annie and Max had walked home with Sybil. Or tried to. Sybil had plunged ahead of them, taking a dark shortcut that she knew, and they had trouble following. But they were close behind when she stormed up her front steps, unlocked the door, and paused only to say, her face grim and stricken, "Tell them—tell them I will find her. I will. And if anything's happened to her, I'll spend the rest of my life finding the one who hurt her. Tell them that," and she'd slammed the door behind her.

Partway down the drive, Annie stopped again and looked back. Lights blazed from almost every room in the Chastain mansion. "Max, I don't think we should leave her alone."

Max gave Annie a quick, hard hug, then turned her once again toward the street. "Sybil will survive this night," he said quietly. "She's a survivor. She has to come to terms with the most shocking revelations she's ever faced. We can't help her do that. No one can. But tomorrow, tomorrow she'll see us. Because she'll want our help in searching for Courtney."

Slowly, reluctantly, Annie walked with him down the drive.

The oyster shells crunched beneath their feet. The faraway, mournful whistle of a freight train mingled with the nearby hoot of an owl.

Annie shivered. The night was cool and damp, the shadows ink dark, the rustles of the shrubbery disquieting.

"Max?" Her voice was thin. "Do you think Courtney's dead?"

Her question hung in the air.

He didn't answer, but his hand tightly gripped hers.

Annie felt better when they walked into their carefully ap­pointed suite at the St. George Inn. The crimson coals from a discreet fire glimmered in the grate. The Tiffany lamp cast a warming glow over the chintz-covered sofa. The spread was invitingly turned down on the four-poster rice bed, and foil‑

wrapped candy in the unmistakable shape of truffles waited on the plump pillows.

As Max put on Colombian decaf to brew, Annie picked up the envelope lying on the coffee table. It was addressed to them in Barb's free-flowing script.

Dear Annie and Max,

What a day! For starters, the PI from Savannah dropped by and we have a date to go bowling tonight. Honestly, Max, do you believe in fate? He's really neat—kind of like Michael J. Fox, that cutie, all grown up—maybe forty-something. And he's really come up with the goods for you and Annie. I put the folders with all his stuff on your table

Annie looked at the stack of folders piled on the replica of a pine plantation desk near the kitchenette.

—and I'll fax you some more stuff tomorrow. You'll find the fax behind the chaise longue in the bedroom. I paid a bonus to get the phone installed and turned on today. Also, I wangled about a half-dozen pictures of Courtney Kimball from friends, schools, etc. Isn't she pretty? Gee, I hope you find her okay. But it's scary, isn't it? More than twenty-four hours now.

Everything's super at Death on Demand. Except I think maybe Agatha needs counseling. I was reading about these cats in New York and they go to a psychiatrist and maybe you could get a long-distance consultation. I'd swear that Agatha actually threatened me! I know that sounds crazy

Annie didn't think so. She'd known Agatha to be in a mood.

—but when I was fixing an anchovy pizza for lunch, Agatha jumped up on the coffee bar and tried to snag an anchovy, so, of course, I gave her a push

Annie could have written the rest of the scenario herself. One did not shove Agatha.

—and I swear she growled and raised her paw at me! And, Annie, she wouldn't get down until I put a couple of anchovies in her bowl. Have you ever had a cat give you an I-don't-give-a-damn look and refuse to budge? Other than that

Annie decided she would have to instruct Barb without delay that what Agatha wanted, Agatha got. Otherwise, many unpleasant and rationally inexplicable events would occur—books randomly knocked down from displays, customer lists shredded, claw marks on collectibles (Annie'd had to knock fourteen dollars off the price of an otherwise of copy of Murder with a Theme Song by Virginia Rath), and once—and Annie had no explanation for this—the utter disappearance of a min­iature replica of the famed Edgar awarded annually at the Mystery Writers of America banquet. Annie was confident Agatha couldn't have removed it by mouth (it was ceramic and so offered no toothholds) or by paw (she was smart but didn't have opposable thumbs). Nonetheless, the miniature was nowhere to be found. Annie consoled herself with the thought that life did hold its little mysteries as well as its big. (Two socks go into a washing machine, one comes out; you are wearing your oldest, sorriest sweat outfit and the first person you see in the grocery is a) your priest, b) the hunk you've hankered to impress, c) the banker you approached for a busi­ness loan in your niftiest little black suit; late for a job inter­view on the fourteenth floor, you find the elevator is broken so you arrive in the office with a cherry-tomato face and a respira­tory rate qualifying you to blow up the balloons at the annual company picnic.)

—everything's going fine. I put Henny's latest postcard on top of the folders. Gosh, if some people don't have all the luck! Anyway, hope you and Max are figuring out what happened. We had two calls today from the Atlanta Consti‑

tution and one from the New York Times and one from AP. I put out a news release that said Max was pursuing late-breaking developments and hoped for an early and success­ful conclusion to his investigation. Was that okay?

Next to her flamboyant signature, Barb had penned a happy face wearing a deerstalker hat.

"Milk?" Max asked, his hand on the small refrigerator. "Milk and sugar both." Why did she still feel so cold inside?

"Coming up."

He brought the coffee on a tray—this was a suite with every refinement—with the cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher, and a plate full of peanut butter cookies.

Annie grabbed her cup and handed Max the message. As he started to read, she said, "I hope Barb had fun bowling."

"Barb always has fun," he answered absently. He settled beside her on the cushioned wicker couch, the note in one hand, his cup in the other.

Annie picked up Henny's postcard.

Dear Annie,

X marks the spot.

Annie turned the card over and spotted a red X inked beside St. Paul's Cathedral.

I actually stood at the very spot where Charlotte and Anne Brontл stayed when they came to London to see their publisher in 1848! They stopped at the Chapter Coffee House which was at the entrance to St. Paul's Alley, just by St. Paul's Churchyard. Can you believe it? In transports of joy, yours, as ever

—Henny.

They were both smiling as they put down the respective missives. Annie drank the clear, fresh coffee, munched on her cookie, and felt the icy core inside beginning to warm.

Max picked up the top folder and opened it. He drew his breath in sharply, then held up, for her to see, a photograph.

Annie put down her coffee cup. She shivered. No, the cold­ness hadn't gone away.

Courtney Kimball's blond hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Barefoot, she wore a floppy shell-pink T-shirt, and faded cutoffs. She leaned forward to balance on the uplifting catamaran, the carefree grin on her face and the luminous shine in her eyes the essence of summer.

"Oh, Max." Annie's voice broke. "We have to find her."

11:15 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 13.

Charlotte gazed complacently at the gilt framed oval mirror that hung in the hallway near the door to the study. Such a lovely mirror, though the glass now was smoky with age. There was a story that a handsome British officer had given it to the mistress, Mary Tarrant. She'd accepted with many pretty protestations of appreciation and accepted from him also a pass through the British lines, which she used to smuggle quinine to her husband in a prisoner-of-war camp. Sometimes Charlotte felt that she glimpsed another face there, brown hair peeping from beneath a dainty lace cap, high cheekbones, and a gener­ous mouth. Charlotte smiled at her fancy and nodded in satis­faction at her own reflection, her hair drawn back in a smooth chignon, just the trace of pale pink lipstick, no other makeup. The Judge admired restraint. Charlotte's glance swept the hallway, the glistening heart pine flooring, the Chinese print wallpaper, the magnificent mahogany stairway, the marble bust of Homer on a black oak pedestal. The bust of Homer had been brought home from Athens when Nathaniel and Rachel honeymooned there. She brushed her finger over the cool stone. Tarrant House. She belonged here. She and the Judge held the same values. Not like Julia. Julia didn't understand the im­portance of family. Julia didn't appreciate continuity, the thrill of pouring tea from a china service brought from London for Christmas in 1762. Julia didn't deserve to be mistress of Tarrant House. With a final approving look—the pale-blue chambray of her dress was perfect—Charlotte turned toward the study.

The wail of the sirens and the ring of the telephone registered at almost the same time in Annie's sleep-numbed conscious­ness. She fought to wake from the bone-deep sleep of mental and emotional exhaustion.

The telephone shrilled again. The siren's cry became a shriek.

Annie came flailing out of bed and banged her knee intc the chaise longue. Max rolled out from his side and knocked over a chair.

Max flicked the light switch just as Annie's pawing hands found the telephone.

She knew before she lifted the receiver that something ter­rible had happened. Good news doesn't come over the tele­phone in the middle of the night.

"Come at once." There was both anger and chagrin in Miss Dora's pronouncement. "A fire at Tarrant House." And the connection was broken.

Annie stumbled over a fire hose.

"Lady, get out of the way!"

"This way, Annie." Max held her elbow. They backtracked, skirting the far side of the two fire engines, then cut across the street to the west side of Tarrant House.

Flames danced against the night sky. Smoke billowed high. "Max!" Annie strained to see. "It doesn't look like it's the house. It's behind the house."

When they reached the garages, the site of the fire was clear. Straight ahead, past an herb garden and a huge rose trellis and a garden shed was yet another structure and it was afire.

Whitney and Charlotte Tarrant stood beside the garages. Whitney gripped his wife's arm tightly. "Charlotte, you can't go in. You can't! God, look at it—"

Flames wreathed the wooden structure. Sparks swirled up­ward, creating whirling plumes of light. Flames leapt and danced as boards crashed. Smoke eddied, darker than the night.

Annie could feel the heat from the flames.

"It's a total loss." Whitney coughed as a wave of smoke swept them.

In the fitful light from the leaping flames and the backwash of light spilling from the house, Charlotte's face was dead-white and stricken. She was too distraught to realize that the tasseled tie of her peach-silk robe dragged on the ground and that her silk gown gaped.

"The papers, the family papers," she cried, her voice hoarse with despair. "The records! Whitney, do something! They must save the papers. The diaries." She struggled to be free. "Let's tell them George might be in there," she said feverishly. "Then they'll have to go in, won't they? We could say those are the servants' quarters. They were once. How will they know any different?"

"Don't be absurd, Charlotte." Whitney shook her. "George?" asked Annie.

"The gardener," Max explained. "His father was the butler—"

Miss Dora joined them, looking more witchlike than ever in the wavering firelight. "And Sam's father before him and his father—they used to live there. Charlotte remodeled the whole shebang, turned it into the Tarrant House Museum." The old lady pointed with her cane. "Slave quarters once. Call 'em dependencies now." A dry wheeze might have been sar­donic laughter. "Pretty words don't make pretty deeds." Miss Dora's silver hair shimmered in the glow from the flames. She stared at the fire-engulfed structure, her wizened face grim and thoughtful.

Whitney turned and glared at the three of them. His gaze fastened on Annie and Max. "This is private property—"

Miss Dora waggled her cane. "Here at my request, Whit­ney."

A wall collapsed. Sparks spewed skyward.

"The papers," Charlotte moaned. She sagged against her husband. "Oh, God." It was a heartbroken wail. "My thimble collection."

"The papers." Miss Dora's voice was speculative. "Inclu­sive, weren't they, Charlotte?"

Charlotte half-turned. "Oh, Aunt Dora, it's a tragedy, a tragedy! Mary's diaries, the letters she received from her hus­band from the English prison, the records of the baptisms and burials, gone, all gone."

"But more than that," Miss Dora mused. "You saved every­thing from this century, too, didn't you, because someday, God forbid, they'll be writing about us. All of Augustus's papers. And I suspect, Amanda's too."

Charlotte's eyes flared. Whitney's head jerked toward the old woman.

In the silence that fell on the small group, the sound of the fire intruded, the crackle, hiss, and roar, the brusque calls of the firemen, the thump of their running feet, the crash of falling timbers.

Miss Dora looked from Charlotte to Whitney, then toward the flickering flames. "A murderer moved in the quiet of this night to search out and destroy. But I shall prevail."

Annie didn't know which was most ominous, the voracious

destructiveness of the fire or the inimical certainty in that whispery voice.

"So, you think it was arson." Annie's eyes ached with fatigue. She watched with approval as Max poured coffee into their cups. She needed every ounce of energy the world's finest brew could provide. Although they'd gone back to bed after the fire was extinguished, she'd smelled smoke for the rest of the night and tossed and turned restlessly. She had a sense of time speeding past and she and Max trying desperately, frantically to capture a dangerous and wily opponent before it was too late.

Too late for what?

Wasn't it almost certainly too late for Courtney Kimball? So why this unremitting sense of urgency?

Was it the fact of the fire, the reminder that death and destruction could strike at any time?

Was it Miss Dora's parting injunction? As they'd turned to go, she called after them, "Quickly, we must progress quickly."

Or was it the fear that murder wasn't yet done?

Max nodded as he speared another piece of papaya (which Annie found about as tasty as chewing on the plastic handle of a toothbrush). "Not only does the inn provide an excellent breakfast with the room, but look at this terrific assortment of fruit. Annie, we must start having this at home."

Annie drank more coffee and reached for another peanut butter cookie.

A little indistinctly, Max continued. "Sure, it's arson. Didn't you smell the gasoline?"

She realized suddenly that she had indeed smelled gasoline. "No wonder the flames spread so fast." She sprinkled brown sugar on her oatmeal. "It's infuriating to think we were that close to finding things out, and the murderer's outwitted us."

Max poked the serving spoon in the bowl of fruit, looking for more papaya wedges, but settled for honeydew. "No, that's not true." He was emphatic and utterly confident. He flashedher an upbeat smile. "In fact, the murderer made a mistake—a big one. Look at it this way: just because we're going to Tarrant House today doesn't mean we would have asked about the recent family papers or learned that they, too, were stored in Charlotte's personal museum, or, even if we'd learned about them, that we would have made them a top priority. So, the murderer did us a big favor. The fire makes it damn clear we have to scratch and scratch to find out more about Augustus."

Annie reached for more brown sugar. "Why Augustus?" She thought it through. "Why not Amanda? She's the one who went over a cliff after writing a letter stating Ross wasn't guilty."

Max looked at her in surprise, then nodded agreement. "Sagaciously put, partner in crime."

Annie tried not to look too pleased. Of course, Agatha Christie's Tuppence Beresford often saw more ramifications than her husband, Tommy, but it made for marital harmony to be tactful.

The phone rang. Annie glanced at the time. Almost eight o'clock.

"Hello." Max tucked the receiver against his shoulder and poured fresh coffee. "Yeah, Barb. Great. Let's hear it."

Annie finished the last scoop of oatmeal and watched as Max scribbled notes.

Hanging up, he said briefly, "Harris Walker. Porter checked, Walker's in the clear. Played golf Wednesday after­noon, two rounds, didn't come in off the course till seven. Had dinner at the grill with one of his foursome. No chance he could have been in Chastain."

Annie pictured that desperate, frantic face. She wasn't sur­prised, but she was glad.

Max took a gulp of coffee and looked up at the mantel clock. "We need to hurry, Annie."

She understood. It was already Friday morning. Courtney had been missing since Wednesday night.

If they were to find her, it had to be soon.

On her way out of town, Annie slowed the Volvo and turned onto Lookout Point. She wasn't sure why. She couldn't have recognized the jaunty MG parked there. But perhaps her heart knew.

Oyster shells crackled beneath the tires. She drew up beside the MG. Jerkily, the man slumped asleep over the wheel raised his head and stared at her blankly. Then Harris Walker's bleary eyes snapped wide. "Courtney? Have you—" But he didn't have to finish his question. The hope on his haggard, unshaven face seeped away.

"No. I'm sorry. But we're doing everything we can." Swiftly, Annie reported all she and Max had learned.

Walker listened, staring out at the river. A boat was under­way now, a heavy net lowered for dragging. The young lawyer rubbed at a bristly jaw. "All right. Thanks." He closed his eyes briefly, then, in futile, violent anger slammed a fist against the steering wheel, over and over again.

Annie winced, but he gave no evidence of the pain he must have felt.

"Tarrant House." That was all he said. But his eyes were bleak and merciless.

Annie checked the road map spread on the car seat beside her and hoped that she wasn't hopelessly lost. She spotted a road marker listed in her directions (four miles to the earthworks of Fort Welles). So far, so

The car phone rang.

Annie involuntarily flinched. She wasn't yet accustomed to carrying Ma Bell with her wherever she went.

"Hello?" Odd not to answer, "Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta." She felt a pang of homesickness. A Friday morning in the spring—there would be beaucoup tourists. The island was at its loveliest now, with mild, temperate, gloriously sunny days. And so many wonder­ful new books to sell, new titles by Susan Dunlap, Randy Russell, and Nancy Pickard, a bookseller's dream come true.

. . so sad! Only four weeks of happiness, and then such trauma."

Annie made a comforting noise and slowed for a school zone.

Laurel sighed. "At least the wedding itself was glorious."

Annie almost inquired whether it had been a three-ring circus, then thought better of it. No need to hurt Laurel's feelings. And certainly, Annie took great pride in the fact that her own wedding, though assisted by Laurel, had been quite tasteful. She contented herself with a murmured "Hmm" as she picked up speed and began looking for her next check­point.

"Edingsville Beach, across from Edisto Island, of course. Before the War." The husky voice flowed like honey. Annie hadn't asked, but it was nice to know.

"The wedding was at St. Stephen's. It united two great island families when Mary Clark wed her cherished sweet­heart, Captain Fickling. Oh, they had a glorious feast—oyster pie, mincemeat, rice cake, ginger pound cake, and syllabub. Four weeks after the wedding, Captain Fickling set sail for the West Indies. Mary awaited his return eagerly. The days passed, and his ship was overdue. The sea swells began to rise, the sky darkened, the wind howled. A huge hurricane struck the island, causing great devastation. Mary was astonished to have survived. The next morning, she went down to the beach and saw the flotsam and jetsam sweeping in. Then Mary saw the body of a drowning victim. She ran out into the water to pull in that sodden form—and it was her husband. She gave a great cry of despair. Even today visitors to the strand of beach that remains have been known to see Mary plunge into the water and hear her heartbroken cry when she recognizes her adored husband."

"How hideous." Annie's hand tightened on the steering wheel. Despite her resolve not to be affected by Laurel's recita­tions, Annie couldn't avoid a shudder.

"Ah, yes. The further I delve into this rich history, the better I understand our ghosts." Laurel spoke with great confi­dence. Dr. Laurel Darling Roethke, Ph.D. in ghostology.

Annie knew she was being led down a garden path (What was there to understand?), but she couldn't resist. "Oh?"

"It's as simple and clear as dear Alice Flagg's grave." The implication, of course, was that any damn fool should under­stand.

"Oh, yes, of course. Certainly. I quite agree." Annie slowed. Yes, there was the country grocery noted in her direc­tions. The name fascinated: The Mata Hari Meat Market. No way she could resist stopping there on her return to ask why.

The line crackled.

Annie grinned. Teach Laurel to one-up past a certain point.

But Laurel was always graceful in defeat. A light trill of laughter. "So lovely to deal with an intellectual equal. And how are you this morning, dear?"

So Laurel wasn't going to share the simple yet evident reason for the existence of ghosts. At least not today.

"Trying to find out more about the murder of Augustus Tarrant." Annie checked her mileage counter. Another mile and a half past the grocery, she would turn right.

"Murder!" Laurel exclaimed.

Annie was too well-bred to gloat openly about knowing more than Laurel. Amiably, she brought her mother-in-law up-to-date on the results of Miss Dora's dinner party, evincing not even a soupзon of superiority.

"Good heavens!" Laurel exclaimed. "Ross dead by his own hand and blamed for his father's murder! My dear, no wonder ghosts walk at Tarrant House." Laurel's husky voice took on sepulchral overtones. "Such trauma. Such despair. Such mis­ery. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and dear Max. A pallet on the floor would be more than ample and I—"

"Dear Laurel." Annie braked sharply to make her turn. She'd almost missed her turn. The Volvo jolted down a rutted dusty gray road beneath an overhang of live oak limbs. "I would never forgive myself for interfering in the creation of the definitive book, Ghosts of South Carolina, from Earliest Times to the Present."

"Oh." A thoughtful pause. "There is my book."

Annie pressed her advantage. "You know how publishing is, Laurel. If an idea strikes one author, why, it will strike another." (There was the year Joan Hess, Marian Babson, an( Carolyn G. Hart all did murder weekends.) "You dare not lose time— or a book just like yours will come out."

"Not just like mine, Annie. You don't understand. M! book is truly original, and . . ."

Annie saw the sign for the Mt. Zion Baptist Church—one mile. She slowed the car, looking for a spot to park.

". . . I know absolutely no one else will have a chapter on— Perhaps I should be discreet." Laurel's husky voice fell to a whisper. "Telephones. Electronics. All that ether out there Someone might overhear." She rebounded ebulliently. "Annie you are such a dear. Such a fount of wisdom. Arrivederci, m' sweet."

Annie was smiling as she replaced the receiver. How nice i was for Laurel to have an enthusiasm . . . at a distance.

There were no turnoffs and she didn't want to park at the church. Pulling over as far as she could on the narrow, dust' road, Annie idled the motor and hoped no traffic would come for a minute or so.

She picked up the top folder on the stack in the passenger' seat. Usually, she and Max studied background information before starting out, but this time, they'd split the list of those to be interviewed and taken the materials along. She knew i was one more evidence of their urge to hurry, hurry, hurry.

Flipping open the folder, she read:

LUCY JANE JEMSON McKAY—Born April 23, 1922, on a Beaufort County farm to Lola Wayne and Henry Jemson. Fifth of nine children. Attended rural schools, completed eighth grade. Worked on her parents' farm, married Edmond McKay June 5, 1939. Moved to Chastain, began working in the kitchen at Tarrant House as an assistant to the cook, Anna Duvall. Four children, Samuel, Elijah, Preston, and Martha. Husband killed in action in the European theater, World War II. She became chief cook at Tarrant House in 1944 on the retirement of

Mrs. Duvall and remained at Tarrant House until 1985 when she joined her widowed son, the Rev. Samuel Mc­Kay, as his housekeeper. A member of the choir of the Chastain Emmanuel Baptist Church for forty-six years. Matilda Weems, who sang with Lucy Jane for most of those years, describes her as "Busy! Land sakes, you don't find any flies on Lucy Jane. Cooking, canning, cleaning, sewing, gardening, Lucy Jane does it all and she hasn't slowed down a particle since she was a girl. She's one no-nonsense woman. Raised those children by herself after her man was killed in the war—they were just babies then—and she wouldn't hear of anything but good from every one of them. Samuel, he's a preacher, Elijah is a cook like his mamma, Preston's a teacher at the high school, and Martha's a nurse. They all married and had families. Course, Samuel lost his wife and that's why Lucy Jane lives way out there in the country now, helping him. I miss her in the choir. Can't nobody else sing `Amazing Grace' like Lucy Jane. She's mighty proud of her children, though she won't let on. Says it'd give them the big head. She doesn't believe in complaining and won't put up with complainers. She has a deep laugh and she loves to let it ring out, says the world was meant for laughter, not tears."

Annie closed the folder. She was looking forward to meet­ing Lucy Jane McKay.

'

As Max hurried up the sidewalk toward the yellow stucco building on Federal Street that housed the law offices of Tar­rant & Tarrant (though Whitney was the only Tarrant at pres­ent in the firm), he reviewed what he had just read about Whitney Tarrant: Forty-six. Middle son of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant. Good health. Good credit. Income from law firm erratic, not impressive; lives on inherited wealth. A social leader in Chastain. Plays golf at the country club every Wednesday afternoon and on both Saturday and Sunday. Con‑

sistently shoots in the eighties. Likes to play skins. Wins and losses even out. A complainer, nothing ever quite suits. One of the New South's strong Republicans. Hostile to unions. Epis­copalian. Opposed to women priests, ordination of homosexu­als. Reputed to have an eye for the ladies. Rumored to have had several affairs over the years, usually with women met through his work with the Chamber of Commerce. No sug­gestion divorce ever contemplated. Apparently on good terms with his wife, Charlotte. No public quarrels, except for their disagreement over their daughter, Harriet. Active in the bar association. Considered a lightweight lawyer, good at bring­ing in clients who are subsequently handled by his younger partner, Richard Parks. As one older lawyer remarked, "The old Judge would have a seizure if he saw Whitney in action. Whitney's all mouth, no show. No substance there—and lazy to boot." Another said, "You have to be damn careful with Whitney. He'll always cheat just a little bit." A former lover snapped, "The only thing Whitney ever loved was Whitney." His daughter, Harriet: "Pop? Oh, Christ, what can you expect of anybody who'd be fool enough to marry Charlotte? Pop and male black widow spiders have a lot in common. Though he did stand up to her for me—once. Maybe once is enough."

Max passed the ground-floor jewelry store and opened the door leading to the stairs to the second and third floors. Though the walls were painted a modern cream, the wooden stairs, the steps worn in the center, revealed the building's age.

On the second floor, Max entered a law office that looked as though it had been there since the building was built in the 1880s—and it probably had. Old wood paneling, old wooden floor, worn Persian rug, its rich colors muted by age. The door creaked as Max closed it behind him.

The young receptionist damn sure hadn't been there since the 1880s. As Max stepped inside, she smoothed glistening platinum hair and smiled brightly at him, and it was a smile that said a lot. Max was glad Annie wasn't there to see it.

"Good morning. May I help you?"

"Yes. I'm Max Darling. I'd like to speak to Mr. Tarrant."

Max took out his card and scrawled: Miss Dora sent me. "If you will give this to him, I would appreciate it."

Miss Dora's name continued to work magic, which came as no surprise to Max. As he followed the receptionist into one of the inner offices, the tight frown on Whitney Tarrant's face came as no surprise either.

As the door closed behind his receptionist, Tarrant eyed Max coldly. "You've obviously taken advantage of an old woman's foolish credulity. I owe my great-aunt every courtesy, but I don't owe you a damn thing—and I want to make it clear that I'm violently opposed to your meddling in our fam­ily affairs."

"Murder can cause worse than meddling. I'd imagine you'd rather talk to me than to Chief Wells." Max gestured toward the red leather chair that faced Tarrant's beautifully carved desk. "May I?"

Tarrant stared at him. "Chief Wells?"

"Miss Dora has informed him of last night's revelations." Max looked at him inquiringly. "I'm surprised you didn't call him yourself."

"But—" Whitney's eyes shifted away from Max. Better than anyone else at Miss Dora's, Whitney, as a lawyer, knew there was no statute of limitations in regard to murder. "Yes, yes, I see. Of course, we will have to think back." His glance became wary. "Yes, I see. Go ahead, then, sit down. But I can't give you much time. I have to be in court at ten."

Max thought this was probably invented on the spot. Whitney was definitely an office lawyer, though his walls were decorated with prints of English barristers. It was assuredly an impressive office. An Aubusson rug stretched in front of the massive desk, a pair of matching Chinese Lowestoft gamecocks rested at either end of the bookcase behind the desk. A French Empire clock dominated the mantelpiece above the Georgian fireplace. A small, spider-legged circular table, its antique pa­tina gleaming, sat in front of the fireplace. One wall held a gun collection: a musket, two sets of silver-plated dueling pistols, a Colt Model 1860 revolving pistol, a Spencer rifle, and a Springfield carbine.

Max looked the collection over. A gun lover. A weak-chinned gun lover. But guns couldn't help Whitney now.

Max leaned forward in his chair and spoke briskly. "This is your chance to stand up and be counted, Mr. Tarrant. Do you want to find your father's murderer or not?"

"Of course I do," Whitney snapped. "Though I still have to wonder . . . perhaps Miss Dora was wrong about the time and seeing Ross."

Max didn't bother to respond to that weak ploy.

Tarrant abandoned it, too. He straightened the single stack of papers on his desk top. "I just don't see—I mean, that leaves Milam and Julia and Charlotte. And Lucy Jane, the cook, was around somewhere. And Sam, the butler. And the maid. God, what was her name. Tiny little thing who always moved real fast. Oh, yeah, Enid." His head lifted. "I can't believe it! It couldn't be one of them!"

Max pulled out his notebook and flipped over several pages. "Is there anyone who you know for a fact could not have done it?"

"How would I know that?" the lawyer asked, puzzled.

Max glanced at the notebook. "Last night you said you were in the garage when you heard the shot. That's some distance from the house. Maybe you saw someone just before or just after the shot and that would place them too far from the study to have committed the murder."

"No." That was all he said. Even an office lawyer knows that simple answers are best.

Max looked at Whitney until the lawyer's gaze slid away.

"All right, then. Let's go back to the garage. You were working on your car?" Max put a minuscule note of doubt in his voice. "You often worked on your car?"

"Uh, no." Whitney moved restively in his leather seat, and it squeaked.

"But that's what you were doing that afternoon?" Max pressed.

"Yes." Whitney clipped the word off and glared at Max. Unabashed, Max asked, "What kind of car was it?"

"Oh, God, let me think. Damn long time ago. Oh, yeah, yeah, we had a 1968 Pontiac."

Max let the answer hang. It wasn't the kind of car to excite devotion. Finally, he said, "All right. You were in the garage with your car. What were you doing to it?"

Whitney shrugged. "Cleaning it out. We'd been out to the country on a picnic the night before and it had a lot of stuff in

it."

"What time did you go out to the garage?" Max held his pen over the notebook.

Whitney folded his arms across his chest. "How should I know? Oh, hell, I don't know. I don't remember. What the hell difference does it make?"

"It's necessary to pinpoint exactly where everyone was at four o'clock. When we know that, we may be able to show that one or more of you couldn't have been in the study and murdered the Judge." Max had no idea whether this concept was true, but he felt damn certain there was something Whit­ney didn't want to reveal. Whether it concerned the garage, his own actions, or his father's murder was impossible to tell. "So"—Max tried a persuasive smile—"could you see anyone else from your vantage point in the garage?"

Whitney drummed his fingers irritably on the desk top. "Look, Darling, it's twenty damn years ago! And I was clean­ing the damn car. I wasn't rubbernecking out the window."

"The garage has a window?" Max wished that he had scouted out the garage before coming to the Tarrant offices. He could have been much more precise and demanding in his questions.

"Oh, yeah. Several. And—" Whitney stopped. A startled look crossed his face. He frowned, then shook his head.

"You saw someone?" Max demanded quickly. "Who? Where?"

But Whitney was absorbed in his memories. He was obvi­ously turning an idea—and a worrisome one—over and over in his mind.

Max asked again. "Who did you see?" He felt an urgency, asense of excitement. Maybe, finally, something was going to break.

"Who did I . . ." Then Whitney focused on Max. The lawyer's face hardened. It was as if a shutter came down in his eyes, and they were as bright and hard and unreadable as agates. "I didn't see a damn thing." He repeated it emphati­cally. "I didn't see a damn thing." There was a ring of truth in his voice. "Because there wasn't anything to see." He shoved back his chair and stood. "It's too long ago. Either Ross did it —or we'll never know who did it. And I'm out of time. Let's make it quick. I was in the garage. I didn't see a damn soul until my brother came slamming in and that was ten minutes after the sound of the shot. At least ten minutes. I didn't leave the garage during that time or shortly before that time. I sure as hell didn't sprint into the house and shoot my father."

Max slowly stood, too, and tried to look benign. "Mr. Tarrant, please be assured that our objective is to unearth the truth, not trouble innocent parties. But until we learn what really happened that afternoon, we have to ask questions, questions that I hope you will answer frankly. For example, will you tell me what kind of terms your father was on with the other members of the family?"

A mirthless smile pulled down the corners of the lawyer's mouth. "Terms? His own terms, Mr. Darling. My father—" He took a deep breath. " 'Judge' was what we called him, Mr. Darling. All of us. Even my mother. The Judge ruled. It was that simple."

"Had you talked with him that day?" Max kept his eyes on Tarrant's face.

"Just a good morning at breakfast," Whitney said care­fully.

Whitney wasn't a talented lawyer. His suddenly smoothed-out expression was patently contrived. He wouldn't have fooled a jury for a minute. He sure didn't fool Max.

"Breakfast? Oh, I see. Were you and your wife living there on a permanent basis?" It wasn't quite an idle question, but the response surprised Max.

Anger and, even after all these years, embarrassment

flashed in the attorney's eyes. "I was a young lawyer. I was just starting out." His tone was clearly defensive. "I didn't have the income to afford a home. Besides, Charlotte loved living at Tarrant House."

"Did you?" Max asked quickly.

A dull flush stained Whitney's cheeks. He didn't answer.

Max tapped his notebook. "I have some figures here—your family is quite well-to-do. Couldn't your parents have helped you and Charlotte with a home—or made one of the planta­tions available?"

"That's an offensive question, Darling." Whitney walked to the door and flung it open. "And I've got better things to do than be insulted by you."

Max stood his ground. "Did the Judge refuse to help you? Did he insist you earn enough money to support yourself outside of family income? I understand he never accepted money from his parents."

Whitney's bony face twisted in a furious scowl. "Get the hell out, Darling. Now."

11:12 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Enid Friendley tapped politely on the door to the Judge's bed­room though she knew he was in his study. At the expected lack of response, she turned the heavy bronze doorknob and entered. As she moved swiftly around the room—Enid always moved quickly, though she begrudged every step in the service of this house—she dusted efficiently and thoroughly and savored the pleasure she felt when she saw that the carved mahogany box was no longer in place atop the Judge's dresser.

Chapter 14.

The Mt. Zion Baptist Church glistened in the early-morning sunlight. A cemetery adjoined the church, the plots beauti­fully cared for. The frame church had recently been repainted and was a dazzling white. The frame house on the far side of the church also sparkled with fresh paint. White and red im­patiens grew in profusion in the front bed. Crimson azaleas flamed along the side of the tiny house.

Annie pulled into the shell drive. The slam of her car door sounded shockingly loud in the placid morning quiet.

As Annie approached, the front door opened. An imposing woman stepped out onto the porch. Her dark face held neither welcome nor hostility. Tall and slender, she waited, her hands folded across the midriff of her starched cotton housedress.

"Mrs. McKay?"

"Yes'm. You must be Miz Darling. Miss Dora called, said you were coming." She didn't smile. Her face was grave and thoughtful.

Annie recognized strength of character. Lucy Jane McKaywould do what she thought was right—and the devil take the hindmost.

Annie was straightforward. "There's a girl missing—and it's tied up with what happened a long time ago—to Judge Tarrant and to Ross."

Lucy Jane looked at her searchingly. "Miss Dora says this girl is the daughter of Mr. Ross and Miss Sybil." A slow shake of her head. "Miss Sybil—even then she was too pretty for any man to resist, but I thought it would all come right. Mr. Ross, he could handle her—nobody else ever could." A faint, slightly possessive smile touched her lips. "Mr. Ross—he was a fine young man, a strong, fine young man." She nodded. Her decision was made. "You're welcome to come in, Miz Dar­ling."

The living room was small but cheerful, and it shone from loving care. The gingham curtains were freshly laundered, the wooden floor glistened with wax, the red-and-white braided throw rugs were bright and clean. The smell of baking hung in the air.

Annie sat in a comfortable easy chair and accepted a cup of coffee and a fresh cinnamon roll.

Lucy Jane poured Annie's coffee, then sat on the sofa, her posture erect, her dark eyes somber.

"Did Miss Dora tell you what we learned last night?" A bite of cinnamon roll melted in Annie's mouth.

"Yes'm." Lucy Jane clasped her dark, strong hands to­gether. Her face was troubled. "I always knew something was wrong—bad wrong—that day. I'd been in my quarters. It was afternoon and I was reading my Bible until time to go in the kitchen and set to work on dinner. I'd just looked up at the clock, to make sure time wasn't getting away from me, when I heard the shot. It was two minutes after four. I didn't know what to do. I know the sound guns make and there was no call for a gun to be shot off. Not that close. I went to my window and looked out and I saw Mr. Ross running across the garden toward the house. That relieved my mind. I knew Mr. Ross would take care of it, so I went back to my rocker. But pretty soon doors slammed and cars came and went. I went to see

what was happening and Mr. Harmon met me at the kitchen door and told me to be fixin' food for all the family to come, that Judge Tarrant's heart had given out and he was dead." She pursed her lips, then burst out, "I knew there was more to it because Enid—she was the maid—she came to me the next week and showed me this charred bundle of clothes. She said they'd belonged to the Judge, and she'd found them out in the incinerator. I told her to hush her mouth and I would see to it. I gave the clothes to Mr. Harmon, and he told me he'd take care of everything. By then the funerals were over, and it had been in the papers how the Judge died from a heart attack when he heard the news about Mr. Ross's accident with his gun." She looked across the room at a table filled with framed photographs. "Mr. Ross never had an accident with a gun. Mr. Ross, he was always careful. He did things right." She smoothed her starched cotton skirt. "I knew it was wrong, all these years, and now the past has come due—and Mr. Ross's daughter is lost and gone. I tell you, Miz Darling, I feel low in my mind."

"You can help," Annie said quietly.

"Now? What can I do?" She was not so much reluctant as uncertain.

"Talk to me about the Tarrants." Annie held her gaze. "You knew them, really knew them. Tell me who was angry, who was afraid, who was threatened."

"The Tarrants." A smile transformed Lucy Jane's face. "Young Mr. Ross, he had a sense of humor, he did. Did you ever hear tell how he made a family shield? I suppose you know how prideful Miz Charlotte is, always talking about past glories and all the fine things the Tarrants have done and seen —and rightly so. Lawyers and doctors and preachers and good women keeping families going. Oh, there are many stories to tell. I used to hear the Judge calk to the boys when they were little, telling them about mighty battles and such. But Miz Charlotte, she riled Mr. Ross, and one day when he was home for the weekend from school, he and Miss Sybil were in the library giggling fit to kill. When they came out, they put this big poster up on the landing of the stairs, where nobody couldmiss it, and it was like those shields that knights of old car­ried. Above the shield, Mr. Ross had written THE TERRIFYING, TERRIBLE TARRANTS, and in each part of the shield, he'd drawn a huge hairy tarantula, and down below, he'd printed, THE FAM­ILY CREST-TARANTULAS RAMPANT. Зourse, it made Miz Charlotte

mad as everything. She said he was making fun of the family, and Mr. Ross kept insisting he thought it was a lovely shield, very appropriate, probably the very name Tarrant came from tarantula, and that made her madder still." She chuckled, then slowly the laughter died away. "And not two weeks later, he was lying dead in his grave in St. Michael's. Just a boy."

Annie felt a prickle of horror: Ross Tarrant, having fun with his heritage and so soon to sacrifice himself for his fam­ily's honor.

"The Family." Annie shivered though the swath of sun­light spilling from the east window touched her with warmth. She drank more of the strong, hot, chicory-flavored coffee. "Tell me about the Judge."

"Mr. Augustus." If there was no great warmth in Lucy Jane's voice, there was ungrudging respect. The Judge appar­ently had earned great respect. Had anyone ever loved him? "He came to dinner every Sunday with his parents when I first came to Tarrant House. After his folks died, that's when Mr. Augustus and Mrs. Amanda moved in with their two little boys. Mr. Ross was born there. He was such a beautiful baby, blond curls and blue eyes, and always happy. Mr. Augustus was real strict with the boys. He expected them to do just so. I know it's a fact—I raised three boys and a girl—you have to expect a lot from children if they're to grow up right. But somehow, the Judge expected—" Her eyes were troubled. "—my heart told me he expected more than mortal boys could give. Even Mr. Ross. I don't know if I can rightly explain. I always thought the Judge never saw them—Milam and Whitney and Ross—as flesh-and-blood people. He saw them as . . . Tarrants."

"What else would you expect?" Annie asked.

The older woman nodded impatiently. "Yes. But they were Milam and Whitney and Ross, too. They had to pick their

own way. That's it," she said firmly, "that's where it all went wrong. He never could see any way to be but the way the Judge believed a Tarrant should be—someone important and proper, the kind of men Chastain would look up to. That was real important to the Judge, to be looked up to."

Annie thought of the photograph of the Judge on the bench. The photographer, of course, had stood in the well of the courtroom, shooting up.

A stern judge. A demanding father.

"You see," Lucy Jane reflected, "Mr. Whitney, he couldn't quite do the things the Judge wanted and so he got in the habit of getting his friends to do his schoolwork for him. And his mamma, she protected him when the school found out and called. Miz Amanda never told the Judge. And once, when Mr. Whitney was in law school, there was trouble about a paper. I know his mamma went and talked to the dean and it all worked out. I think it was the next year that Mr. Harmon —that was Miz Amanda's daddy—he gave a big scholarship to the school." Lucy Jane's smile was dry. "You know how folks can work things around in their minds sometimes to where what happened didn't happen quite the way it was thought and so everything turns out all right."

Annie knew. It wasn't only beauty that depended upon the eye of the beholder. Funny how money could magically alter circumstances.

"Then when Mr. Whitney married, he picked a girl he thought the Judge would like, 'cause she cared so much about the old times and families and who married who. Miz Char­lotte"—the cool, thoughtful eyes betrayed no emotion—"she cares more for dead-and-gone people than she does people here today. That's why Miss Harriet ran away. Miz Charlotte never would pay the child any mind. And Mr. Whitney, he was too busy with horses and golf and cards to notice. And when Miss Harriet acted up worse and worse, they just packed her off to school, and one day, when the school wrote and said she'd run away from there, Miz Charlotte was so busy with one of her history groups, she hardly took it in. Mr. Whitney sent Miss Harriet money when she took up living out in California eventhough Miz Charlotte said they shouldn't have anything to do with her until she started acting like a Tarrant should."

Would the Judge have been pleased with his daughter-in-law's total acceptance of Tarrant mores? Had he been pleased long years ago?

"How did Mrs. Charlotte and the Judge get along?" Annie pictured two faces, the lean, harsh, ascetic face of the man on the bench, the earnest, self-satisfied face of Charlotte.

Lucy Jane gave a mirthless chuckle. "Thing about the Judge, he was no fool. Ever. He saw through Miz Charlotte easy as pie, the way she simpered up to him, always wanting to talk about the Family and how much it meant to her and Mr. Whitney. The Judge, he knew Mr. Whitney didn't care a fig about the family. All Mr. Whitney ever wanted was to get along."

"And Milam?" Annie asked.

"Mr. Milam. He's a case, he is." But there was no admiring tone in her voice as there had been for Ross. "Lucky thing for him the Judge didn't live to see how he's turned out." She rose gracefully and brought the coffeepot to refill Annie's cup. "Course, it's plain as the nose on your face what Mr. Milam's up to. He wants to make people mad. Every time somebody here in town gets huffy over the way Mr. Milam acts or dresses, Mr. Milam's pleased as punch. One more time he's thumbing his nose at his daddy. If all he wanted was to be an artist and live like some artists do, he could pack up and go where folks like that is a dime a dozen. But that isn't what Mr. Milam wants." She sipped her coffee. "Even after all these years, Mr. Milam's angry with the Judge." She looked at the mantel and another set of photographs. "Sometimes young people get jealous when they see people in big houses having everything, but I always told my children that living in a big house can be a hard row to hoe."

Annie was struck not only by her wisdom but by the un­dercurrent of sympathy in Lucy Jane's voice. Annie was will­ing to bet few persons exhibited such charity toward Milam Tarrant, who seemed to have a genius for raising hackles.

"What about Julia?" Annie asked.

"Poor, little Miz Julia." Her voice was almost a croon. "So sad a lady." There was steel in her voice when she spoke next. "I do fault Mr. Milam there. He shouldn't have married, just to marry. But the Judge, as far as he was concerned, a man wasn't grown unless he married."

It was elliptical to be sure, but Annie thought she under­stood and she felt even sorrier for poor, damaged Julia than she had before.

"So Milam didn't really care for her." Annie didn't phrase it as a question.

"Poor Miz Julia. Like a little shadow when she came to live at Tarrant House, and then—for a time—she was happy as could be. She loved her baby to pieces. Miss Melissa. Pretty little Missy. That child brought sunshine to Tarrant House. She made everybody smile. The Judge, too. Even Mr. Milam loved Missy. That was before Mr. Ross died. But when he and the Judge died, that was when Miz Julia's face was all pinched and white again." Lucy Jane reached out and touched the worn Bible that lay on the table beside her chair. "It didn't take more than a few days after the funerals for her and Mr. Milam to move out to the plantation. I know Miz Julia was never happy with Mr. Milam, but then I don't think she expected to be happy. And she still had Miss Melissa. It was when the baby was lost—almost the same time as Miz Amanda—that Miz Julia almost grieved herself into the grave—it might have been happier for her if she had."

"So Milam and Julia had a little girl." Annie frowned, picturing the family trees and remembering Charlotte's sharp insistence that her daughter Harriet was the only Tarrant grandchild. "What happened to Missy?"

"She fell in the pond." Lucy Jane didn't elaborate.

So the beloved baby died. That certainly made Julia's pres­ent-day misery easier for Annie to understand.

Julia Tarrant. She had been in Tarrant House the day the Judge was murdered. But why would she murder her father-in-law? "Did the Judge like Julia?"

Lucy Jane carefully set down her coffee cup. She looked out the window at the neat graveyard plots, many garlanded withflowers. She didn't look at Annie. "I don't think"—was she picking her words carefully? —"that the Judge ever under­stood Miz Julia."

"Why was that?"

Lucy Jane met her inquiring gaze with grave dignity. "I'm sure I couldn't say."

There was something here. Annie felt certain of it, certain and surprised and more than a little confused. Lucy Jane had, to this point, seemed so straightforward. Straightforward, clear-sighted, sympathetic. Her face was still pleasant, but now her lips were stubbornly closed.

Was the Judge involved with Julia? With his son's wife? That moral, upright, judgmental man? Perish the thought. But there was something. . . .

Lucy Jane gazed soberly out the window.

Annie looked, too, and saw the worn granite markers, the tendrils of Spanish moss dangling down from the live oak trees. Thick mats of grass covered all but one new, dirt-topped grave. Many of the graves had sunk with time until almost level with the spongy ground.

"They say trouble comes in threes," Lucy Jane murmured, "though it was a long year later that Miz Amanda went to her rest. But her heart died that day with young Mr. Ross. Oh, she grieved for him, her baby."

There was a good deal left unsaid. Annie raised an eyebrow. "And for the Judge?"

Lucy Jane again smoothed her unwrinkled skirt. "A woman couldn't help but feel sorry for a man struck down without warning, but Miz Amanda and the Judge, it wasn't a love match." Her gaze moved from the tombstones toward Annie. "Sometimes families bind together for different reasons. I know her poppa thought the world of Mr. Augustus. Miz Amanda, she was one you never knew what she was thinking, but she had a sweet way and she was kind to everyone around her. Never much to say."

A description of a gentle, even-tempered woman. But there must have been moments when Amanda Brevard Tarrant was angry or afraid or unhappy. Surely Lucy Jane saw other sides of

this woman in all the years she spent in that troubled house­hold. "I understand Amanda and the Judge quarreled on the day he died."

That was what Charlotte claimed at Miss Dora's dinner party. And there had to be some reason why Ross would have believed his mother guilty of murder, something more damn­ing than finding her with the gun in hand.

But Lucy Jane's ebony face was shuttered and closed. "I couldn't speak to that," she said firmly.

"It would be unusual for them to quarrel?" Annie pressed. "Yes'm." And not another word.

Annie felt certain there had indeed been a quarrel. But why? About what? And why on that day? And darn it, why was she pursuing this? If there was one certain fact, Amanda Brevard Tarrant had been dead, too, these many years, and, despite Laurel's belief in ghosts, Amanda assuredly could not have been involved in Courtney Kimball's disappearance or in last night's arson at the Tarrant Museum.

Annie decided to change tactics. "Lucy Jane"—she used her most beguiling voice—"I want you to think back to the day the Judge died and remember that afternoon before Mr. Ross died."

Lucy Jane's posture was still upright and formal, but her tense shoulders relaxed. "The Judge," she said ruminatively, "I saw him in the hall going to his study, oh, it must have been right on two o'clock. His face was white as a sheet. He looked like a man with a passel of thoughts. It was later—I was on my way out to my quarters—when I saw Miz Char­lotte, and she looked worried, like she had a big burden to carry and didn't know what to do. Funny. Most usually, she was sure what to do. I didn't see Mr. Whitney or Mr. Milam until later that day, after they came and told me Mr. Ross was dead. Mr. Whitney, he looked upset as could be. Mr. Milam didn't show much concern. He was already talking about moving out to the plantation. I heard him tell Miz Julia they'd move pretty quick. He said, 'I can always get around Mother. We won't have to stay in this house much longer.' "

Lucy Jane paused."Mrs. Julia?" Annie prodded.

"She ran out to the garden, just before lunch."

"Ran out?"

"She was sobbing." Lucy Jane's voice was so soft, it was hard to hear.

"Do you know why?"

Lucy Jane clasped her hands together tightly. A breeze ruffled the curtains at the open window and brought in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. "I don't rightly know."

"Mrs. Amanda?"

Lucy Jane gazed at Annie almost in anguish. Annie thought she understood. Lucy Jane was a truthful woman. She didn't want to lie.

What could matter that much, after all these years?

Finally, reluctantly, Lucy Jane answered, because, like An­nie, she knew the truth must be told. "Miz Amanda, she was coming down the stairs—it was just after Miz Julia went out to the garden—Miz Amanda was coming down the stairs and she looked like she was facing the end of the world."

Were answering machines a boon or a curse? The message light flickered like a pinball machine. Annie punched the button, then settled on the love seat with a mug of coffee and two peanut butter cookies.

Perhaps one's attitude toward an answering machine de­pended upon the messages being left.

And the messengers. Were there many people in this world who enjoyed one-on-one conversations with an answering ma­chine? Annie hoped not. Surely Laurel's total relaxation and intimate tone were unusual, if not, perhaps, unique.

. . quite depressing, actually, to realize the depths of depravity to which human beings are subject. Surely there can be no more sobering an example than that of the credulous slave girl at Belvidere Mansion, led astray by the immigrant English gardener, Timothy Wale. Wale had his own sorrows, of course, having lost his family and his dear sweetheart Cla­rissa to tuberculosis. But when he immigrated to South Caro‑

lina and obtained work on the plantation, he was bitterly envious of the wealth he saw there and hungry, too, for a woman. He persuaded the slave girl, also known as Clarissa, to meet him after dark. She begged him to take her away from the plantation, but he said there was no way to escape. And then she offered to steal the mistress's jewels, if Wale would carry her away. Wale agreed. One Saturday as Mrs. Shubrick, the mistress, took her coach to Charleston to shop, Clarissa slipped into the mistress's bedroom, unlocked the jewel case and took the brooches and rings and necklaces. That night, she crept out of her cabin and hurried down the moonlit path to meet Wale. He took the jewels but refused to take her too, and ran off into the darkness. The next day the girl feigned illness, then, in desperation, ran to the house and set it afire while the master and mistress were away at church. The Shubricks returned to find their lovely home in flames. Cla­rissa's odd behavior had been noticed and, when questioned, the slave girl confessed to the theft and the fire." Laurel sighed. "And so poor foolish Clarissa was hanged. And even now they say the lane that leads to the ruins of Belvidere is haunted at night by Clarissa's ghost, waiting for the English gardener to come and take her away. Do you know, Annie, I hope Timothy Wale never enjoyed his ill-gotten gains! Isn't it perhaps the greatest crime of all to take advantage of a trust­ing nature?"

The tape whirred. Laurel affording the listener time to contemplate the moral, no doubt.

The husky, unforgettable voice resumed just as Annie reached out to punch the fast-forward button.

"Have you considered a gathering together at Tarrant House of those involved that day? Just a thought, my dear. So interesting that Amanda's presence—ghostly, of course—is as­sociated with the garden. I do find that frightfully significant. Do call me at your earliest convenience so that we may pursue this topic. Ta, ta."

Annie knew she should phone Laurel, but the likelihood of yet more recitations of ghostly South Carolinians was a power­ful deterrent. Later. (Sometimes the fruits of procrastinationwere sweet, indeed.) Annie felt confident a lack of response would prove no discouragement to her unquashable mother-in-law. There would be other opportunities to ponder the variety of spirits who apparently throng the highways and byways (not to speak of the homes and hearths) of the great state of South Carolina. She wondered if the earthbound shades remained always in situ, so to speak. There was a ques­tion for Laurel to ponder. It might even keep her occupied beyond the boundaries of Broward's Rock for a good long while. Annie filed the query away for later consideration. Not, of course, that she was averse to Laurel's presence nearby. But a happily occupied Laurel at a distance . . . oh, there was a delectable prospect.

The mental picture of Laurel, once again ambulatory but at a far remove, distracted her. Annie lost the first part of the next message and was forced to rewind, which brought up the last of Laurel's: ". . . pursue this topic. Ta, ta."

Beep.

"Annie, Max, this is Barb."

Annie looked at the machine in surprise as she munched on the second cookie.

Barb's normally down-to-earth voice was a good octave higher than normal and softly dreamy.

"Certainly never knew bowling could be so much fun. Though, it wasn't actually the bowling. If "—the tone now was arch—"you understand what I mean. And I'm sure you do. You two of all people."

The tape whirred.

Annie grinned. How flattering to know that Barb saw them as romantic figures. The lock clicked and the room door swung in.

"Annie!" Her very own most romantic companion stood in the doorway, and she loved the unmistakable flicker in his eyes.

Annie held a finger to her lips, then pointed toward the machine.

Max nodded and shut the door softly behind him. "Anyway"—there was clearly an effort here to return to

everyday practicality—"everything's great here. Except Aga­tha got my sandwich at lunch. I'd fixed an anchovy sandwich —so I like salt—and anyway, there was a crash at the front of the store and I went racing up there and somehow"—her voice was loaded with suspicion—"the display on academic myster­ies had been knocked over. I'd just finished putting it all together, and I was really pleased. Not the most famous ones, but some very good ones, The Better to Eat You by Charlotte Armstrong, The Corpse with the Purple Thighs by George Bagby, Death at Half-Term by Josephine Bell, The Horizontal Man by Helen Eustis, and Was It Murder? by James Hilton. Isn't that marvelous? All knocked to kingdom come. So I put the dis­play up again. It didn't take all that long, but by the time I got back to the coffee bar, there wasn't a single anchovy left in my sandwich. When I scolded Agatha, she looked at me with the most patronizing, amused expression! Annie, that cat's scary! Anyway, had another lovely note from Henny. She went to Fortnum & Mason and bought and bought, and said she kept looking for Nina Crowther" (in Margaret Yorke's Find Me a Villain) "and Richard Hannay" (in John Buchan's The Three Hostages). "Gosh, just think, all that food and people you've read about for years! Anyway, you've got phone calls to the max." A quickly suppressed giggle. "Miss Dora wants you at her place pronto. Ditto Sybil Giacomo. I'd go to Sybil's house first; she's on a tear. And"—a pause, the sound of move­ment, the opening of a door, low murmurs of voices, and, finally, a hurried, almost breathless finale—"Louis just came. I'll fax you some stuff. Bye for now!"

"Barb sounds funny," Max observed, squeezing in beside Annie on the love seat. "Has she got a cold?"

Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell but sometimes an innocent abroad.

Annie flashed a wicked grin and murmured, "Later," as the machine beeped again.

"Where are you people?" Sybil's deep contralto was sharp-edged and impatient. "I want to talk to you. Come here as soon as possible."

In the bedroom, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.

But Max made no move—toward the fax.

Instead, he slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders and pulled her close. "Hey, we can't work all—"

A hard, impatient rapping reverberated against their door.

11:30 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 15.

The two women stood locked in a tight embrace, the auburn head pressed down against soft dark curls.

Julia trembled. "I can't go home. I can't. Oh, God, Amanda, I'll die if he touches Missy."

Miss Dora surged into the living room of their suite, her dark-gray cloak swirling around her, her silver-headed cane thump­ing against the heart pine floor. She stopped in the center of the artfully decorated room, planted her stick firmly in front of her, and raked them with those bright, malevolent eyes.

"Noon," she rasped. "Where have you been? What have you accomplished?"

Miss Dora deigned to accept a hard straight chair, her back erect, her head high. Annie sat primly on the love seat. Alone. Her posture was excellent. Max stood respectfully near Miss Dora.

As they made their reports, the old lady interspersed an occasional comment.

"Lucy Jane's no fool." The wizened face puckered in thought. "So she's skittish about Amanda. That's interesting. Don't quite see why, after all these years. Hmm."

She smiled sardonically as Max concluded. "So Whitney tossed you out, eh? He's blustering. I'll fix his wagon. But,

first things first. My own investigations, made this morning, indicate the fire was set either by Julia or by Milam." It was almost a modest announcement. And even Miss Dora was will­ing to accept appropriate praise. At their exclamations of in­terest, the sallow skin was touched by a faint pink glow. "It is quite clear that the blaze was fueled by gasoline. I confirmed that today when I spoke to our fire chief. Early this morning, I checked the garage at Tarrant House. The gasoline container used for the lawn mower was full. So, it was either replenished or not used. If replenished, I reasoned it must have been done this morning. I stopped at every gas station within the radius of several miles and inquired, presenting photographs of Char­lotte and Whitney. All responses were negative. This done, I drove—"

Annie gasped. "Miss Dora, you drive?"

Miss Dora swept Annie with a furious reptilian gaze. There was a long moment of outraged silence, then the old lady snarled, "Are you questioning my competence, young miss?"

"Oh, no, no, no. I just thought . . . I assumed you had a driver."

Miss Dora permitted herself to be mollified. "Perhaps you might be excused for that presumption. But I don't believe in unnecessary frills. I've driven myself for almost seventy years, and I shall continue to do so. In any event, I drove to Wisteree Plantation. I went directly to the garage. What a rubbish heap! Milam should be ashamed—discarded boxes, tools in no order, messy, half-full cans of turpentine and paint. I finally discovered the gas container, flung carelessly in a corner. Not, I think, its customary location, for there was a distinct circular ring of sediment from gas and oil and dirt beneath some shelves along one wall. The container was empty. Milam and Julia's garage, however, is such an untidy, ill-run mess that an empty gas can would come as no surprise. More to the point" —she leaned forward, the bony hands tight on the knob of her cane—"I examined both Milam's truck and Julia's car. The truck"—her aristocratic nose wrinkled in disdain—"was rusted out and filthy. Milam could have transported the con­tainer without leaving discernible traces. But, in Julia's

Honda"—the old lady's eyes slitted—"the floor carpet in the back behind the driver's seat was stained with a ring of oil, and there was a distinct odor, when the carpet was sniffed, of gasoline." She thumped her cane.

Annie wasn't trying to disagree, but the suggestion didn't make much sense to her. "Julia was just a young daughter-in-law when the Judge was shot. What could there possibly be either in the papers of the Judge or in Amanda's papers that could threaten her?"

Miss Dora glared. "Obviously, young miss, that is what we must discover. The question is, how do we proceed?"

"Turn right on Chestnut," Annie instructed.

Max flipped on the signal. "I was tempted to tell her to take the investigation and do it all herself." His voice didn't quite have the take-this-job-and-shove-it tone. But, it was close. "If it weren't for Courtney Kimball, I would."

"But Miss Dora is an asset." Annie kept her tone bland, the better to assuage the grumpy male beast. "I mean, she knows everything there is to know about Chastain. And everybody." Annie clung to the door strap as the Maserati screeched around the corner.

"Humph."

Annie tried to hide her grin. Max prided himself on his ability to charm any woman from eight to eighty. She contem­plated pointing out that, of course, Miss Dora was only the exception that proved the rule, but decided that wouldn't improve matters.

The Maserati jolted to a stop on the dry dirt street, kicking up a cloud of gray dust.

Annie checked the address Miss Dora had given them. This was it.

The white frame, one-story house was beautifully tended. The thin soil didn't support a stand of grass but azaleas, wiste­ria, and amaryllis flowered in profusion, accented by a fragrant spill of daylilies, hyacinth, and jessamine. The sidewalk had

recently been swept, the front steps were immaculate, the window panes gleamed.

And the shades were drawn and the front door closed, despite the lovely spring afternoon. And mail poked out of the letter box next to the door.

"Nobody's home," Annie cried in disappointment.

But Max jumped out of the car, and, after a moment, Annie followed him. They knocked. And rang. And walked around the house—to discover that the garden was as lovely in back as in front—and Annie's verdict held. Which, of course, had the contrary effect of making Max determined to find Enid Friendley, just as Miss Dora had charged them to do.

Max tried the neighbors on each side and returned to the front steps, where Annie had plopped down to enjoy the gar­den scents. "I found Enid's mother having coffee next door. She said Enid's at the church getting the parlor ready for a wedding reception. She didn't think it would do us any good to go over there because Enid wouldn't have time to talk." He pulled his notebook from his pocket. "We'll leave her a note."

Annie looked over his shoulder as he wrote:

Dear Mrs. Friendley,

Miss Dora Brevard has asked us to visit with you about the Tarrant Family. She believes you can be very helpful to an inquiry she has asked us to undertake. My wife, Annie, and I will return to see you at nine A.M. tomorrow. If this isn't convenient, please call me at the St. George Inn where we are staying.

Very truly yours, Max Darling

At Annie's suggestion, Max added the phone number in a P.S. and tucked the note on top of the waiting mail. "There. She can't miss that." He slipped the notebook back in his pocket. As they returned to the car, he pulled out a fax, the latest they had received from Barb. "Here's one name Miss Dora didn't come up with. As soon as Louis tracked this one down, I knew we could really be onto something." He wasonce again in his customary good humor. "Who knows every­thing in an office?"

It didn't take a marriage counselor to know the right re­sponse to this one.

Annie answered obediently, "The secretary, of course."

Odors of disinfectant and boiled cabbage mingled unpleas­antly with those of honeysuckle and banana shrub. A nursing aide in a blue pinafore pointed down the wide corridor. "Go all the way to the end and you'll see the door to the screened-in porch. Miss Nelda spends most of the afternoon out there, reading. She's a great reader."

Warehoused human beings.

Annie made an effort not to look as they walked down the hall, passing open doors, but some glimpses could not be avoided.

An ancient woman in a bedraggled pink chenille bathrobe was bent almost double over her walker as she progressed with aching slowness down the hall.

A sharp-featured, grizzled old man slumped against the restraints that held him in his wheelchair.

A middle-aged woman leaned close to a bed. "Mother, it's Emily. How are you today?"

A wheelchair scooted past them, and its pink-faced occu­pant, her white hair in fresh, rigid curls, gave them a cheery hello.

Annie pushed through the door to the porch with immense relief. To be outside, to breathe sweet-scented air, to feel the easy grace of muscle and bone moving as bidden was, for an instant, a glorious reassurance.

Two elderly men hunched over a checkerboard at the far end of the porch. One of them looked up eagerly as the door squeaked, then quickly away. The sudden droop of his mouth revealed his disappointment. His companion never moved his glance from the red markers in front of him.

A small, birdlike woman with a beaked nose and thick glasses sat with her back to the game players, her wheelchair

facing out toward the garden. She was immersed in a book, her face somber. The set of her mouth, Annie decided, was forbidding indeed. And she had to be Nelda Cartwright, who had served Augustus Tarrant as a secretary when he was in private practice and followed him to the courthouse when he became a judge.

"Miss Cartwright?" Max inquired.

Faded blue eyes, magnified by the lenses, peered up at him. "I don't know you." Her voice was reedy but decisive.

"No, ma'am," Max said quickly. "I'm Max Darling, and this is my wife, Annie. We are investigating the death of Judge Augustus Tarrant in May of 1970 on behalf of Miss Dora Brevard, who was—"

"Young man, I know who Miss Dora Brevard is." Heavily veined hands clapped her book shut—Annie was surprised somehow to identify it as Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay—and the expression on the old woman's face turned fierce. "What is there to investigate? The Judge died from heart failure."

"No," Max said gently. "If you will permit me to ex­plain . . ."

As Max described the revelations by Julia Tarrant and the other family members during that remarkable gathering at Miss Dora's, Nelda Cartwright's unwinking gaze never left his face.

She spoke only once. "Augustus murdered! The devils."

When Max had concluded, Nelda Cartwright hunched in her wheelchair, the book in her lap ignored, her wrinkled face rigid with anger, her eyes blazing, her blue-veined hands grip­ping the wheelchair arms.

"Will you help us?" Annie asked.

"Augustus murdered. I should have known. I should have known! They all pulled at him constantly, wanting money, time, special attention, always making excuses." Her voice was cold and disdainful. "Whitney fancied himself as quite the man-about-town, too busy playing golf to get his proper work done. That's where he met Jessica Horton, of course. Whitney knew the firm was representing Alex Horton in thedivorce proceedings, but did that stop Whitney? And you can't tell me it wasn't deliberate on Jessica's part. Who knows what she got out of Whitney? I saw them together, going into that motel. So I told the Judge. It was my duty." Her faded eyes burned with righteous fervor. "I said, 'Judge, did you know your son was meeting Alex Horton's wife in a room at the Hansford Inn? And I've heard Alex is being represented by Tarrant & Tarrant in his divorce action.' Oh, the Judge's face looked like thunder at that piece of news. He said, 'If that is true, Whitney will withdraw from the firm.' The Judge was a man who always did the right thing. And he was always so proud of the firm. His cousin Darrell was the senior partner at that time."

Annie didn't bother to ask how the Judge could have forced his son out of a firm in which the Judge no longer practiced. But she knew the answer to that. The Judge had only to speak to Whitney. His son would never have dared defy him. And, if he had, the Judge had only to pick up the telephone and call his cousin. The matter would have been attended to.

The secretary pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Later that afternoon—I know he talked to Whitney because he came out of the Judge's chambers and he looked like he'd had his come­uppance—the Judge told me that his son would be clearing out his office at the firm over the weekend." Her mouth twisted. "Augustus died the next day." Her cold eyes glit­tered. "I should have known!"

Annie was puzzled. "But Whitney didn't leave the firm."

"No. The week after the funerals, I asked Whitney if he needed any help clearing out his office. He looked shocked. Then he said of course not. I asked if there were any conflicts of interest that should be dealt with. I made myself extremely clear. He wouldn't even look at me, cutting his eyes like a bad dog. He said that particular matter had been attended to, that I needn't be concerned. I didn't like it, but what could I do, with the Judge gone? The week after that, he called and asked if I'd like to come back to the firm. The new judge would bring in his own secretary, of course. I accepted. I thought it

was the least I could do for the Judge." A humorless smile touched her narrow lips. "For what it's worth, I don't think Whitney ever made that particular mistake again."

Max said dryly, "I doubt that Whitney would, with you on the spot."

Satisfaction glittered in her eyes. "Whitney's no match for me, I can tell you, Mr. Darling."

"Do you happen to know the provisions of the Judge's will?" Annie asked.

Nelda Cartwright did, and, after a moment's thought, elu­cidated them, crisply and succinctly. The balance of the estate had gone to Amanda, except for Tarrant House itself, which, in line with family tradition, always went in trust to the eldest surviving child.

"But that's Milam, isn't it?" Max inquired.

"Oh, yes, but Milam didn't want to live in Tarrant House." Nelda scowled. "He and Julia moved out to Wisteree almost immediately. Then, when Amanda died, Milam invited Whit­ney to stay on. Eventually, of course, Whitney and Charlotte's daughter will inherit the house, if Milam follows the family tradition. Who knows what Milam might do? But there are no other living descendants. In any event, that's far in the future."

Max redirected the old woman's thoughts. "So the Judge's death made a big difference for Whitney."

Nelda said bitterly, "It saved Whitney's skin, all right. He didn't have to leave the firm—and heaven knows who else would have wanted to hire him. Everyone would have wanted to know why he was leaving the family firm. He would have had a hard time explaining that. But with the Judge gone, Whitney had it all. And he never worked hard. He played golf every Wednesday and Friday. They tell me he still does. And, as soon as the Judge was out of the way, Amanda gave him and Milam whatever they wanted. If I'd had any idea—" Color flared briefly on her waxen cheeks. "I'll swear to this. I'll be glad to."

"So you think it may have been Whitney Tarrant who shot the Judge?" Max asked.

Nelda riveted him with a piercing, irritated glare. "Obvi­ously, Mr. Darling."

"You said they all pulled at him." The scent of a mock orange shrub added a softness to what Annie would always remember as a bleak scene—the crippled old woman, her face alight with vengeance, and the quiet checker players, still alive but so divorced from life. "What did the others do that upset the Judge?"

Nelda's thin lips pursed. "What didn't they do? That wife of his was always complaining because he worked so hard. I ask you," she asked scathingly, "what else is a man to do?"

Annie carefully didn't look at Max.

"A man's work is his life, and no one ever did better than the Judge. When he was on the bench, he did what was right and just. That's the way he lived too. A man of honor. A man of character." Her chin quivered with outrage. "What did Amanda want? A namby-pamby stay-at-home, like her two older sons? The Judge never said a word against his family—why, he wouldn't have done that—but it was as clear as clear that they were all a disappointment to him—all except Ross. Now that was a fine young man, a leader in his class. The Judge was so proud that he was going to be a military officer."

Annie wondered how Miss Cartwright would react if they told her that Ross had decided to refuse his commission and go to Canada if necessary, to avoid serving in a war in which he did not believe. Would she see a man of honor in that, a true Tarrant, or would she be enraged, as the Judge had been so long ago?

"What about Milam?" Max asked.

Nelda's eyes narrowed. "Milam." Her fingers tapped the cover of her book. "He was in trouble with the Judge that week. I remember now—I took a letter." Those faded eyes glittered. "Don't think I couldn't read between the lines." Her lips curled in distaste. "None of it surprised me. It was utterly transparent, both to the Judge and to me. Milam took advan­tage of the family name to secure a historical restoration com­mission for this pretty young woman who'd come to town and opened up a decorating firm. No antecedents. Nothing to

recommend her. To think Milam thought the Judge wouldn't realize what was going on! The Judge understood, all right. His voice was like a winter day when he dictated the letter asking that woman to resign the commission since it had been obtained under false pretenses—Milam told the board she had the confidence of the Tarrant Family and, of course, everyone thought that meant the Judge had recommended her. Why, this is too small a town to get away with something like that! Felicity Moore was president of the historical society. When Milam told the board that pack of lies, Felicity telephoned the Judge at once, asked why he wasn't in favor of continuing with Sheila Bauman. Sheila Bauman knew more about restora­tion than anyone else in Beaufort County! It was a scandal to think of throwing her over, after all the years she'd worked with the society, for this peroxided woman who'd moved here from Atlanta."

"A friend of Milam's," Max said carefully.

"You could call it that." Nelda's stare was icy.

Annie wanted to get it straight. "Milam recommended this woman for a restoration job, inferring that's what the Judge wanted?"

A sharp affirmative nod. Then a malicious smile. "Milam didn't win that one, even though the Judge died. I'd already sent the letter to the historical society. The Judge made it perfectly clear he wanted Sheila Bauman to be reappointed. Not that Crandall woman." The smile slid into a frown. "Of course, as soon as the Judge was dead and buried, Milam showed his true colors. He quit his job at the bank—I'll bet they were glad to see the last of him with his smart tongue—moved out to the plantation, and called himself a painter." Her tone oozed contempt. Nelda Cartwright apparently put artistic endeavors on the same level with panhandling and garbage collecting.

So how much of this diatribe should be attributed to mal­ice?

Frowning darkly, the old lady gazed out at the lovely spring day. Delicate, wispy clouds laced the soft blue sky.

Lovely, yes, but Annie still hungered sometimes for the clear, harsh brilliance of a Texas sky.

Max softly jingled some coins in his pocket. "Miss Cart­wright, please, think very carefully for us, do you know of anyone—anyone at all—with a motive for murdering the Judge? Someone he had sentenced? Another lawyer whom he had bested? A client who was dissatisfied? Someone jealous of his prominence, his success?"

"Oh, there were many who were jealous of the Judge, I can tell you that." Her gray head bobbed in emphasis. "Sometimes I think a man's goodness can be measured by the number of his enemies."

That was a new proposition to Annie.

Nelda looked up at her and snapped, "Just you wait until you've lived longer, young lady, then you'll understand what I mean. Why, anyone would think good men would be revered, but they put others to shame, you see, show them up for what they are, and most people can't stand the light of day on what they really are."

Annie felt a pang of embarrassment. The old lady was right, of course. How well could anyone bear the spotlight if it focused on their shabby motives, their shameful desires, their petty jealousies, usually well hidden behind false social smiles?

How well, Annie wondered, could Judge Tarrant have borne such scrutiny?

"But the Judge—" Nelda's voice was soft. "He always told the truth. He never made himself look big and important. And"—she poked a finger at them fiercely—"he did many a good deed that nobody ever knew about. Even I wouldn't have known, but I kept his files in order."

She didn't say it, but obviously she'd read letters the Judge had composed and sent himself. Read for her own happiness, read because she loved him.

"He paid for many a poor young man to go to school. White and black. He made anonymous donations to the Bap­tist soup kitchen, though he was a good Episcopalian. He . . ." Her voice trailed off, her thin shoulders slumped.

Tears edged from beneath the thick glasses. "Struck down by a wretch in his own family. Who else could have gone into Tarrant House and not been seen by someone? They all lived there, you know, because he was generous, giving food and board to grown men with wives who should have worked hard enough to earn the money for their own residences. But not Whitney or Milam." She made no effort to wipe away the tears. Annie's heart contracted.

"Couldn't the Judge have helped his sons, made money available so they could have had their own homes?" Max in­quired.

"What would that have taught them about standing on their own two feet?" she retorted angrily. "That would have been the worst possible thing to do."

Max was looking both bemused and appalled. Since he had never understood Annie's staunch devotion to the Puritan work ethic, it was unlikely the Judge's approach would im­press him. As far as Max was concerned, money, which his family had and shared in abundance, was marvelous because it afforded freedom. The idea that a person's worth should be equated to how much money that person possessed or could earn was utterly foreign to him.

Annie offered up a silent prayer of gratitude for Laurel. Dear, flaky, unpredictable, impossible Laurel, who had suc­cessfully inculcated her economic beliefs in her offspring. They were rich, yes. They enjoyed being rich, yes. But they never thought possessing money made them special or better or worthy of deference. They thought it made them lucky.

"Oh, no, you look at those lazy Tarrant boys," Nelda or­dered. "Just one problem after another, the Judge had. Whit­ney and that graspy wife of his. Milam and that sad little woman he married. And the Judge's wife." An odd look crossed her face. She started to speak, paused, then said, "Funny, how things come back. I was thinking about the Judge on that last day, a Friday. Of course, I don't see how it could matter now, nothing came of it, and she's been dead so many years, too. But that afternoon, he put me to callingcondominiums in Florida, to see about buying one for his wife, Amanda."

Sybil answered the door. "Where have you been all day?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Turning on her heel, she marched into the dining room. One full wall, including the Federal fireplace, and the wainscoting on the other three walls were paneled with rich red cypress. But little of it could be seen and little of the magnificent, equally richly red Chippen­dale table and matching chairs. Photographs, large and small, were propped on every level space and against the walls.

Annie felt her breath catch in her chest.

Photographs of Courtney Kimball, at all ages, from baby­hood to the present. They captured the girl's beauty and the unusual, almost gaunt, configuration of her facial bones. She was elegant, elusive, fascinating.

As Annie looked from the photographs to Sybil, she real­ized that Courtney was very much her mother's daughter. The resemblance could be missed at first because Courtney was so fair. Her ash-blond hair, porcelain-white skin, and Nordic blue eyes were all a heritage from her father, Ross. But the reckless gleam in those sapphire-blue eyes was a spark of the unquenchable fire that burned in Sybil's and that remarkable, unforgettable bone structure was the legacy of her dark and dangerous mother.

Sybil stood, her arms folded across her chest, looking from one photograph to another: Courtney on horseback, playing tennis, as a baby, as a debutante, at Christmas, on Valentine's Day, her birthday, wielding a hockey stick, at slumber parties, as a cheerleader. "God. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she wonder­ful?"

Despite her beauty, Sybil looked haggard. Tight lines etched the corners of that sensual mouth. Her cheekbones jutted too sharply, her velvet-dark eyes were red-rimmed. She was, as always, dramatically and exquisitely dressed. But her crimson blouse was partially untucked, and her white linen

slacks wrinkled. Even her vivid makeup had the look of an afterthought.

She reached out tenderly and picked up a photograph. In it, Courtney must have been about twelve. She wore faded jeans, a pink T-shirt, and a mischievous grin. She leaned precariously out from a rickety, wood-slat tree house, high in an old live oak.

"I had a tree house once." Sybil swallowed and said gruffly, "They were good to Courtney, those people who took her." She looked at them piteously. "I would have taken good care of her."

"Of course you would have," Annie said warmly. She darted a helpless look at Max. She was out of her depth here. Nothing in her experience had prepared her to deal with this kind of anguish.

"They're looking for her, looking everywhere now." Sybil crooked the photograph in her arm and began to pace. "I put the fear of God into Wells. They're really looking now." She stopped and gripped Max's arm with her free hand. "They can still find her, can't they? Maybe she was hurt and wandered away. That happens, you know. Sometimes."

Max put his hand over hers. "Sometimes," he said gently.

Haunted eyes clung to his face. "You think she's dead. I can tell. So does he. He said there's no trace of her, none. Her credit cards haven't been used, not since that day. No one's seen her. She hasn't cashed money out of her account. They think she would have—if she were out there somewhere. If she could."

Sybil jerked free, walked blindly to the mantel, and rested her raven-dark head against its rich rosy-red wood, the framed picture held tight in her arms.

"We're trying, Sybil," Annie offered, and knew it was for­lorn.

"The fastest way to find out . . ." Max paused, then pressed on, ". . . what happened to Courtney is to find the person who killed the Judge."

For a long, long moment that dark bowed head didn't move. Then slowly it lifted, and Sybil turned to face them.

The sight of her face brought a chill to Annie's heart. There was no mercy in it. And no avenging angel ever spoke with greater resolution. "I will know. No matter what it takes, no matter how long, no matter what 1 have to do, I will know. Old sins have long shadows, that's what my grandmother always said to me. I never knew what it meant—until now. There were so many sins at Tarrant House, weren't there? Whitney was lazy and weak. Charlotte—oh, I don't know that we can call her sinful. She's too insignificant, isn't she? Char­lotte is one of those obstinate, boring, irritating people who don't have any core to them, so they have to fasten onto something other than themselves. With some people, it's reli­gion. Or money. Or sex. But poor old boring Charlotte, it's the Tarrant Family. Oh, Christ, the almighty Tarrant Family!" The words were torn from her. "And then there's Milam. A lot more room for speculation there, you know. Milam's deeper than you think. He always seemed to acquiesce when the Judge was alive, whatever was demanded, but all the while, underneath, he kept worming and squirming for what he wanted. Julia—" Her voice was puzzled. "I never understood why Julia stayed. Why didn't she take Missy and leave? What could possibly have held her there? Milam's affair had started, even then, even when Missy was just a baby." She held out the picture in her arms, stared at it, her lips trembling. "Missy's dead. And Courtney—" She walked woodenly toward the ta­ble and put the picture down. "No. No." She whirled, her face ashen, and moved blindly past them. "No. Goddammit,

no..."

"I know they're home," Annie insisted. The front of the man­sion was immaculate, as always, which made the heavy scent of charred wood all the more disturbing.

Max knocked again. Rang the bell, kept his finger on the button.

They could hear the peal.

And see the lights blazing on both floors.

"Unfortunately," Max said grimly, "we aren't cops. We don't have a search warrant. Nobody has to talk to us."

Annie jerked to look to her left. Had the drapes moved at that second window on the ground floor?

But what if they had?

Charlotte and Whitney Tarrant were under no compulsion to permit Annie and Max Darling to enter Tarrant House.

But lights were also shining next door, at Miss Evangeline Copley's house.

Annie nodded her head decisively. "Let's see what Miss Copley has to say. She's the one who heard Ross and the Judge quarrel that afternoon."

Max resisted at first. "We know all about that, Annie. And isn't she the ghost-lady Laurel talked to? Listen, Annie, I'm sure ghosts are fine, but they're no help to us. No ghost spir­ited Courtney away or set fire to the Tarrant Museum."

"Maybe Miss Copley saw something last night." Annie pushed away the memory of that flash of white, deep in the Tarrant garden. That was long before a hand splashed gasoline on the museum. "She's an old lady. Maybe she doesn't sleep much."

Annie led the way.

Max had just raised the knocker when the door popped open and milky blue eyes peered out at them.

"Miss Copley, we're here because Miss Dora Brevard—"

"I know all about you young people, and yes, I want to help. Come right in." White curls quivered as Evangeline Copley nodded energetically and held open the screen door. "To think that dear young man has lain a-mouldering in his grave all these long years, blamed for a heinous crime! Why, it sets my heart afire with anger." The soft voice rose indig­nantly. She was as tiny as Miss Dora but as different as a Dresden shepherdess from a witch's peaked hat. A fleecy white angora shawl draped her shoulders. Her blue linen dress matched her eyes. She clapped together plump pink hands. "Now, I know things that aren't generally known." She trot­ted ahead of them into a parlor that would have been a perfect setting for Jenny Lind. Two Regency sofas faced each other oneither side of the fireplace. A magnificent French gilt mirror hung above the Adam mantel. The ceiling medallion that supported the glorious chandelier was also gilt. Golden bro­cade hangings decorated elaborate recessed windows.

Max gave Annie an I-told-you-so look and, when they took their seats in matching curved-back chairs, he was poised for a quick escape. So he was brisk. "We know all about the quarrel Ross had with his father the day they died. But we wanted to ask if you knew anything about the fire last night, the one that destroyed the Tarrant Museum."

"Evil in this world, sadness in the other." She looked at them brightly, a link from one world to the next.

Max didn't roll his eyes, but he stiffened.

Miss Copley had no trouble divining his thoughts. With a sweet smile, she said matter-of-factly, "I'm almost there, you know. Ninety-nine my last birthday. The angel wings can't be long in coming. Perhaps that's why I was the one to see Amanda."

Max folded his arms across his chest and didn't say a word.

Annie would have pinched him if she could have managed it unseen. She and Max were going to have to have a chat about body language. But, for now, she knew it was up to her. "Uh . . . Amanda," she ventured. "You've seen her?"

Miss Copley eyed Max thoughtfully. "Now, now, young man, there are more things in heaven and earth than you know." But her tone was gentle. "Why, I've seen angels, too. Once when I was a young girl walking by the river on a summer afternoon, a group of angels went right by me, lovely girls in long white gowns with golden iridescent wings, talk­ing, talking and there was such a sense of peace and happiness. . . . But that's not why you're here. Now, I do want you to understand''—she leaned forward, her china-doll face puck­ered earnestly—"ghosts are not angels."

Max looked helplessly at Annie.

Annie said heartily, "Of course not."

Miss Copley folded her plump hands and smiled approv­ingly at Annie. "Why not?"

"Uh." Annie took a deep breath. "Well, angels, of course, are"—she took a plunge—"happy?"

Miss Copley considered this seriously. "Well, my dear, of course they can't always be happy. But you see the difference. Angels are messengers of God, they come to do His bidding. Whereas, ghosts"—a faint sigh—"are tied to this plane. They can't be freed as long as they continue to suffer. But I hadn't seen Amanda in many years—not until this week. So I am quite concerned. Why is she walking again? What has hap­pened to recall her to the scenes of her misery? Walking there at the back of the garden, just by the obelisk. I saw her again last night when I came home from dinner at my nephew's. Of course, I went out to see if she might be there, since I'd seen her the night before. And then for that awful fire to start. It brought me right up out of bed. But, of course, you know that Amanda had nothing to do with the fire."

The cloudy blue eyes clung to his face until Max gave an affirmative nod.

"A car drove up perhaps five minutes before the fire broke out. Someone set it, of course." Miss Copley nodded to herself. "But I know Amanda was nearby. For I've seen her twice now." Her sweet voice fell into a mournful singsong. "Each time, she was all in white. Just as Augustus liked for her to dress. Walking, walking. The swirl of white, the glint of moonlight, the sound of faraway footsteps."

It was one thing to deal with Laurel, who recounted ghostly tales somewhat in the same manner as a social climber toting up celebrity sightings. It was quite another, Annie realized, to discuss a ghost with an old woman as attuned to the next world as to this one.

"I'm very much afraid of what may happen." Cloudy blue eyes beseeched them. "You will try hard, won't you? Both nights that I've seen her, I've felt the mist against my face like tears. Amanda needs our help."

11:45 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

The Judge's dark eyebrows drew down into a tight frown. "I'm busy, Milam." His glance was scathing, dismissive.

Milam had the old familiar feelings. He was too fat, too clumsy, hopelessly stupid. For how many years had he been humiliated, emasculated, diminished by his father? Always he had succumbed to the Judge, the imperious, superior, all-power­ful Judge. Milam felt like he was choking. His hands shook. But he didn't mumble an apology and back out of the study. Not this time.

Milam closed the door behind him, stepped forward—and saw the surprise on his father's disdainful face.

No, he wouldn't turn back this time. This time the Judge was going to listen to him.

Chapter 16.

Miss Copley's front door closed behind them. They started down the steps, then Annie paused. The sound of the hounds baying raised a prickle on her neck. She gripped Max's arm. But she didn't have to speak. He took her hand, and they ran down the steps. They hurried to the side of the house and turned, heading for the river.

Dancing clouds of no-see-urns whirled around them, the closer they came to the river. Annie flapped her hands futilely and knew she'd soon be a mass of bites, but now they could hear thrashing in the thick undergrowth, and the throaty aw-woo of the hounds was closer.

"This way, by God, this way," came a shout.

They reached the path next to the bluff and not far ahead was Harris Walker, his face excited and eager, and a heavy-set dog handler with two bloodhounds straining at their leashes.

"Jesus, look at them go," Harris shouted. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his trousers dusty and snagged. "She came this way. Courtney came this way!"

"Max! Do you suppose Courtney's here?" Annie was poised to race ahead, but Max grabbed her arm.

He stared at the quivering bushes as the handler and dogs and Harris disappeared into the thicket at the back of Tarrant House. "Of course she came this way," Max said wearily. "Those dogs will find her scent here and at Miss Dora's. She came to both these houses—before she disappeared." His eyes were full of pity. "The poor bastard," he said softly.

It was almost closing time. The sun was sinking in the west, the loblolly pines threw monstrous shadows across the road­way, as they pulled into the parking lot of South Carolina Artifacts: Old and New. The small brick house was built in the West Indian style, with piazzas on the front and sides supported by heavy untapered white columns. The scored stucco exterior was a soft lemon-yellow. As she and Max walked up the front steps, Annie almost expected to hear the crash of waves from a turquoise sea and hear the breeze rattle tall coconut palms.

A bell rang softly deep inside as Max opened the door and held it for her. Annie always experienced the same sensation upon entering antique shops, a compound of delight at the artistry of all the lovely pieces and sadness that these were all that survived from lives long since ended.

That Chinese Canton ware in the Federal cabinet, what hearty sea captain carried those dishes across turbulent seas to Charleston? What pink-cheeked mistress, perhaps of a Geor­gian house on Church Street, welcomed guests to afternoon tea, using her new set of china? Who had commissioned that dark painting, a Victorian portrait of an oval-faced young woman with soft lips and warm eyes, and how had it come to rest half a world away from its origin? That glorious French Empire clock, topped with a gold flying griffin, who was the owner who looked up, perhaps from reading the latest novel by Dickens, to check the time? A merchant? A lawyer? A privateer who made a fortune in smuggling during The War

Between the States? How many hours and days and lives had ticked away for its owners?

If Laurel wanted ghosts, ghosts were easy to find. "Hello!" Max called out.

Steps sounded from the back of the crowded room.

The woman who walked out of the gloom to stand beneath the radiance of a red Bohemian glass chandelier was petite, with sleek blond hair and fine patrician features. Her face was saved from severity by merry blue eyes and a mobile mouth that curved easily into a friendly smile.

"May I help you?" Her musical voice was eager. "Miss Crandall? Miss Joan Crandall?" Max asked. "Yes."

"I'm Max Darling. And this is my wife, Annie. We'd like to visit with you about a friend of yours, Milam Tarrant."

Joan Crandall's expressive face was suddenly quite still. She flicked a cool glance between them. "Why?"

This wasn't going to be easy, Annie realized. This charm­ing—or perhaps potentially charming—woman had her de­fenses up.

Max, of course, was undaunted. He said smoothly, as if there could be no question of the antique dealer's cooperation, "This goes back a number of years, Miss Crandall. Back to 1970. I understand Milam tried to help you win appointment as a restoration expert with the Chastain Historical—"

"Mr. Darling, forgive me, but I'm a little puzzled." She stepped past him, deftly flipped the OPEN-CLOSED sign with long, stained, graceful fingers. "I'm an antique dealer, an ex­pert in the restoration of artifacts and in the reproduction of antiques. I am not an information bureau nor, on a baser level, a gossip. If you and Mrs. Darling are interested in South Carolina antiques, perhaps a rice bed or a plantation desk, I will be delighted to be of service, though it is now after-hours and I am officially closed. If you are not, then I will bid you good evening."

"Why don't you want to talk about Milam Tarrant?" Annie demanded.

Max waggled a warning hand.

Annie ignored that. Max was always urging her to think before she spoke, to remain cool, calm, and collected, but Annie was confident of her instinct here. No point in beating around the bush. They would have to break through Joan Crandall's carefully constructed reserve if they hoped to ac­complish anything.

Miss Crandall reached for the knob and opened the door. "Good night."

"You could perhaps be helpful to Milam," Max said quickly.

"Would you want him to be accused of murder?" Annie asked.

"Milam? Murder?" Joan Crandall's voice was harsh. She looked from one to the other. "Murder? That's absurd. For God's sake, who are you people? What are you talking about?"

"We'll be glad to tell you, Miss Crandall. Let us have five minutes." Max unobtrusively gave Annie's wrist a warning squeeze.

It hung in the balance for a long moment. Finally, the dealer gave a short nod. Pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock, she gestured for them to follow. She led the way through the crowded room to an office that looked out on a silent lagoon.

As they settled in wingback chairs that faced her desk, an American Chippendale card table, she said crisply, "All right, five minutes."

She listened without comment, her face unreadable, her hands folded together on the desk top. In the light from a Tiffany lamp, the large square-cut emerald in an ornate silver setting on her right hand glittered like green fire. The evening sun spilling in from a west window gave her hair the shine of gold.

When Max concluded, she relaxed back in her chair. Her lips moved in a faint, derisive smile. "Do you often put cre­dence in twenty-year-old gossip, Mr. Darling?"

"This is especially important twenty-year-old gossip," Max replied temperately. "Someone shot the Judge. It may well have been Milam."

"Because his father humiliated him? Oh, come now, Mr. Darling. It takes more than that to engender murder." Her mouth thinned and ugly lines were etched at the corners of her lips. "Though I wouldn't have blamed him—and I was angry myself." She smiled wryly. "I assure you I didn't shoot the Judge." She lifted one hand to touch her temple. "God, it seems like yesterday. I was new in Chastain. I'd just finished a master's in art history, and I was so eager to get to work. Milam—I'd met him at some art shows—tried to help me get an appointment for some conservation work, work which I was eminently more qualified to do and oversee than the amateur plodder who'd been in charge for years. But the amateur plod­der was from one of the old families, one of the right families, and I was an outsider. Everyone assumed Milam did it because we were lovers." For an instant, there was a genuine flash of amusement. "I was so shocked at that. Then. Now, of course, I've lived here for twenty years and I know that it's always assumed men do things because they love women—not be­cause a woman might be smart or qualified or capable. But I was new to Chastain." The smile slipped away. "Do you want to know the truth?" There was quiet honesty and a hint of regret in her tone. "Milam and I are friends. We were friends then. And that's all, my dear young people, despite what others assume. A very precious friendship to both of us, but perhaps most precious to Milam. We talk about art and life and beauty. How many people"—she tilted her elegant head to look at them—"do you suppose Milam can talk with about art and life and beauty in this town?"

Milam Tarrant was a part of a family with long roots in Chastain. No one could question his standing or his lineage. But what good was that, Annie realized, if he didn't belong, if he was a stranger on his own hearth?

"Are you saying Milam had no reason to be angry with his father?" Annie asked.

"Reason to be angry?" Her eyes flashed. "Oh, I think Mi-lam had reason enough to be angry. It was another in a series of embarrassments at the hands of his father. You see, the Judge couldn't tolerate the idea that anyone would defer toany opinion other than his. Oh, I remember that episode very well indeed. The Judge didn't even bother to talk to Milam, to ask why he'd recommended me. That didn't matter, you understand. The Judge sent Milam a letter—don't you like that?—a letter informing him that it was beneath the standing of a Tarrant to attempt to advance the career of a person—meaning me—of questionable character, especially if there were suspicion of a personal relationship involved. So, yes, Milam was angry and humiliated. If the Judge had lived, I don't know if the breach would ever have closed. Milam said the letter was the final insult after a lifetime of degradation. That was how he put it, degradation. Always, the Judge turned away from him because he was different. All Milam ever wanted was for the Judge to see Milam as he was, to love him as he was. But with the Judge, love was provisional—and only awarded when his sons performed as he demanded they should, as 'Tarrants.' "

"As soon as the Judge died," Annie said carefully, "Milam started acting very differently, didn't he?"

She gave an elegant shrug. "Different? No. That's not fair. But I think he finally felt free to be himself."

"And yet"—Max leaned forward—"you seemed astounded when Annie suggested Milam might be suspected of murder. It looks to me as though Milam had an enormously strong motive for murder."

For the first time, the dealer laughed out loud. "Milam as a skulking, conniving murderer? Oh, no. No. Milam is--oh, I know he has a waspish tongue. That's anger, of course, his way of trying to get back at those who have hurt him so badly all through the years. Milam has a great deal of anger. But he is —when you truly know Milam—such a gentle man. You never saw him with his little girl, did you? He adored Missy." Joan Crandall looked out at the lagoon turning purple in the fading light. "I almost thought he would succeed as an artist, that he would find himself, know what he should do . . . until Missy died. Missy's death destroyed his soul. After that, everything was derivative. Skilled, yes, but lacking heart. Poor Milam. That's all he ever wanted, to be loved. And that's all

he ever wanted," she drawled bitterly, "from His Holiness, the Honorable Augustus Tarrant."

They stood at the edge of the bluff and looked down at the swift-flowing river rushing headlong toward the sea. In the glow of sunset, the darkening water glittered coldly, obsidian streaked with copper.

Max bent down, picked up a fused clump of shells, and lofted them high and far, out into the darkness.

Where they fell, it was impossible to tell.

The water would be cold. The river was deep, and the current ran fast and dangerous. If Courtney went into the river (was she injured? was she conscious?), would she have had the strength to reach shore? If she didn't go into the river, where was she? What had happened to her? This was Friday night. Courtney Kimball had disappeared, leaving behind a blood-smeared car, on Wednesday night.

Annie shivered.

Max slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders, held her tightly.

She looked around the point. Theirs was the only car parked here. Where was Harris Walker? Had the hounds cir­cled and circled? What would he do now?

Annie reached up to grip Max's hand, his warm and com­forting hand. "If Courtney went over the edge, if she went into the water, they may never find her."

"We are going to find her," Max said stubbornly. "One way or another."

It was unlike Max to agree to eat fast food, very unlike him to be the proposer of fast food, and exceedingly unlike him to speed through dinner (though, of course, he opted for the healthy salad while Annie thoroughly enjoyed a Big Mac). That he had done all three was nothing short of astonishing. But Annie understood. Time, time. Every hour that passed

made it less likely Courtney Kimball would be found alive. Max wanted every minute to count.

Their headquarters at the St. George Inn was beginning to seem homelike. She poured freshly brewed (Colombian decaf­feinated) coffee into the thermos, arranged pens beside fresh legal pads, and eavesdropped on Max's side of a conversation with Miss Dora.

He was firm. "I consider it absolutely essential." He glanced at the clock. "It's just after eight P.M. You can call all of them now."

Annie settled comfortably in a chair at the breakfast room table, picked up a pen, and began to doodle. It wouldn't have won a blue at an art show, but it was recognizable as a South­ern mansion. Beneath it, she wrote "Tarrant House."

"That's right. Tomorrow afternoon at Tarrant House." Al­though he was barefoot and wore a pale-blue polo shirt and white shorts, Max didn't look relaxed. He hunched over the telephone with the intensity of Craig Rice's John J. Malone studying a dopesheet. "I'll handle everything else." Max looked up and gave Annie a big grin and a thumbs-up signal.

She scrawled "Here we come!" in bold letters.

It had a confident, aggressive ring. But Annie wondered just how eerie tomorrow afternoon's gathering at Tarrant House would be. How would you feel, she wondered sud­denly, if you were a murderer, invited for a little exercise in reconstruction? But wouldn't a murderer have learned to school his face (her face?) through years of deception? Still, wouldn't it be a heart-pounding exercise?

As Max continued his brisk outline, Annie poured herself a cup of coffee and thumbed through the day's mail, which Barb had brought over in the afternoon:

The latest Publishers Weekly: An exploration of the market in Spain, the latest in computerware for booksellers, gossip about who really wrote a movie actor's bestseller, a nice assort­ment of mysteries reviewed.

MOSTLY MURDER: Fascinating and up-to-date reviews on all kinds of mysteries, from the most hard-boiled to the most genteel. A wonderful quarterly.

A brightly colored postcard brought a smile. Where was Henny now? Annie studied the sunlit picture of Charing Cross and the sandstone railway station named for it. "Felt myself in quite good company today," the unmistakable backward-looping script reported. "Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton caught their train here in A Scandal in Bohemia. And here's where Tuppence Cowley took a train in search of Tommy in The Secret Adversary. Dear Annie, wish you were here. But I'll be home soon—and eager to jump into the thick of things."

Annie felt a pang of homesickness. Not, of course, to be in London, where she had never been, but to be back at Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta, to unpack books and check stock, to sell mysteries and pet Aga­tha, to respond good-naturedly to Henny's whodunnit one-upmanship and Laurel's unpredictable interests, to talk new books with Ingrid and look forward to after-hours and Max.

Dear Max.

He was sprawled back on the love seat now, the telephone balanced on his stomach, obviously pleased with the progress of his campaign. ". . . and one final point, Miss Dora. Ask Sybil and Chief Wells to come. That will put more pressure on the murderer."

A prickle moved down Annie's back.

She hadn't read mysteries since beginning with The Secret of the Old Clock without gaining a keen appreciation of some of the verities of the detecting life. Only the first murder is hard.

"Yes, we'll be prepared, Miss Dora." Max had never sounded more confident. "You can count on that." As he hung up, Annie popped to her feet.

"Max, what if the murderer gets too scared?" She managed to sound brisk. Inside, she still had that it's-midnight-and­I'm-alone-in-the-cemetery feeling. Like reading Mary McMul­len or Celia Fremlin.

Max set the phone on the end table. He pushed up from the love seat, then stood and stared down at her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts.

Annie saw a worry as deep as her own reflected in his eyes. "I know. Someone out there"—he gestured toward the

window and the darkness outside—"is dangerous as hell. But we have to try and reconstruct that afternoon. We may be able to prove that someone absolutely couldn't have done it—just the way Ross was cleared. You see, Miss Dora didn't know the significance of the shot she heard until more than twenty years later. The fact that Ross was actually in her view at the mo­ment she heard the shot—that changed everything. That's what I'm hoping for tomorrow—a breakthrough, something new that no one realized was important at the time. I know it's a volatile mix, but there's safety in numbers. And the chief will come. How can he refuse? So"—he clapped his hands together—"now we need to get to work. I'm going to—"

The phone rang.

Max picked it up. "Hello." A smile transformed his face, a smile Annie knew well, indulgent, amused, approving. "Oh, hi, Ma. Sure. We're fine. The fax? Oh, did Barb tell you about it? Yeah, that's right. They're terrific machines. Really link you up. Well, sure. Send it along, we'd love to see it." He had that hearty tone he employed when his words absolutely did not mirror his feelings. "Yes. That's great news. Annie? Oh, sure."

Annie was semaphoring negative, no, not-me, but to no avail.

Max handed her the phone with a bland smile, but she noted that his eyes avoided hers entirely and he damn near sprinted to the breakfast room table. He owed her one, that was for sure.

"Annie, my sweet, I do wish you were here . . . or I were there." The vibrant, husky voice held such a note of genuine fondness that Annie couldn't help smiling. She wasn't, how­ever, beguiled enough to respond in kind. Instead, she mur­mured, "That's dear of you, Laurel."

Her mother-in-law burbled on. "That's not to say that you lack a sense of humor, dear Annie. Why, anyone who enjoys Pamela Branch books must have a sense of humor. That is what I've always told myself in moments of doubt . . ."

Annie glared at the receiver.

Max redoubled his flurry with papers and pens at the table. ". . but we all do know that you can be quite, quite

literal. And that seems to be a hallmark of many of the ghostly incidences I am studying. Now, I do feel that among those with a Southern heritage there is a similar devotion to what is explicit in a code of manners rather than to what surely any reasonable person would consider implicit and these com­monly accepted tenets of conduct may be central to the issues you and Max are presently exploring. Take, for example . . ."

Annie's mind was whirling. Laurel on a metaphysical romp? Surely this was beyond the pale in any sense. Oh, God, was it catching?

". . . the celebrated case of Ruth Lowndes and her unwill­ing husband, Francis Simmons. It surprised all of Charleston when their engagement was announced and even one of the bride's own sisters never expected him to show up for the wedding. Everyone knew Francis had recently begun to pay attention to lovely Sabina Smith. Ruth Lowndes, who was determined to marry Francis, had noticed too, of course. Sabina was, presumably, Ruth's closest friend. One day Ruth told Francis that Sabina had promised to wed another young man. Francis was crushed. To change the subject, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, embroidered for him with love from his favorite sister, Ann. Poor, unwary Francis said, `Wouldn't you love to have beautiful initials such as these?' The next day, word came from Ruth's father that he under­stood Francis had proposed marriage to his daughter, Ruth, and he was pleased to approve on her behalf.

"What was Francis to do? Tell the old gentleman his daughter was a liar? A man must never sully a woman's name, must never speak of a woman without respect. Francis was trapped. He went to see Ruth's father and the marriage was agreed upon. And now, he had given his word. But his heart was shattered because Sabina was lost to him, promised, as Ruth had told him, to wed another.

"Imagine his despair, his fury, his anguish, when he paid a visit to Sabina to offer congratulations upon her engagement, to wish her every happiness, though his heart was breaking, and to learn from her own lips that no, she was not promised to another, that she never—now—intended to marry. Theunhappy couple stared at each other, stricken, and the truth came out. Francis embraced his true love this one time only, then, bound by his word, he departed, betrothed to the schem­ing, meretricious Ruth Lowndes.

"Is it any wonder that he came to his own wedding looking like a man who had come for his execution? Francis partici­pated in the vows, but never once looked at the bride. He remained aloof and grim through the reception. When it fi­nally ended, he helped his bride into a yellow gilt coach that carried them to the home her father had given to them at one-thirty-one Tradd Street. Francis saw his bride to the door of her new house, formally bid her good-night, then departed in the coach to his own home on St. John's Island. He would return to the house on Tradd Street to preside at dinners and at parties, but he never once spent the night under that roof. Five years later, he built his own grand house in Charleston, perhaps to underscore his separation from Ruth. So it contin­ued throughout their lives. Ruth never publicly gave notice to his anger; she was always cheerful and bright and smiling. So who in this bitter battle triumphed? No one, I'm afraid. One summer Sabina died of a fever, and then Francis was left with only memories until his own demise a few years later.

"Ruth Simmons's house on Tradd Street no longer stands, Annie dear, but sometimes late at night there is a clatter of coach wheels and old-time Charlestonians lift their heads, lis­ten for a moment, then say, ‘Oh, that must be Ruth Sim­mons's yellow gilt coach, driving her to her empty marriage bed.' " A sigh. "My dear, what a tragedy!"

Annie had this immediate (she knew it was unworthy) notion that Laurel, of all people, would surely be appalled by an empty marriage bed. Having, in fact, been married five times . . . Annie forced her mind into other channels.

"Damn shame," Annie said heartily.

Her mother-in-law's silence was a good indicator that An­nie's response had—somehow—not been up to par. What was expected?

Annie tried again. "Oh, certainly, I can see that honesty is the best policy." She felt like a walking bromide. Perhaps a

dash of cynicism. "Well, I doubt that Francis spent all of his nights alone."

"Annie, Annie. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and Max." Laurel's husky voice indicated a defi­nite eagerness to put duty before pleasure. "The nuances of conduct, my dear, the subterranean rocks of existence which influence conscious action, these must be your concern. And I am certainly prepared to—"

"Laurel, Max and I know you would be very happy to join us"—she took a gleeful pleasure in Max's obvious discomfiture as he lunged to his feet and began to wave his arms wildly up and down—"but you must hew to your own course. The loss to our culture would be irreparable." At Laurel's sudden si­lence, Annie worried that she had overdone it. After all, she didn't want to hurt the old spirit-chaser's feelings. "Really, Laurel, we're managing just fine. In fact, we're very close to a solution. The case will probably be over before you could journey here . . . considering your present disabilities."

"Oh, in that event . . . well, I do have so many avenues to explore. I shall continue my vigilant pursuit of truth here and you shall continue your vigilant pursuit there. We shall, of course, keep in close touch. Ta, my dears."

Annie replaced the receiver. Before she could suggest to Max that, after all, this was his mother and next time it was his turn to embark upon spirited quests, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.

Annie had poured fresh coffee for them both when Max returned, bearing a single sheet and looking absolutely mysti­fied. He handed the sheet to Annie.

Annie turned it upside down. No, there were words scrawled on the sheet, so it must go the other way. She righted it and squinted.

A new kind of avant-garde art perhaps?

Made up of varying shaped splotches of black and gray?

She read the inscription. It, at least, she could identify without fail. She was exceedingly familiar with Laurel's sur­prisingly elegant script:

Isn't this the most remarkable photograph you've ever seen? It shall certainly be regarded with the utmost excite­ment by the American Psychical Society!!!!

L.

Max peered over her shoulder. "Mushrooms bouncing down dungeon steps?"

But revelation came to Annie in a flash. "Ruth Simmons's coach careening down Tradd Street!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah. How could I have missed it?" Max frowned, glanced toward the room with the now-silent fax. "Yeah, well. I suppose the old dear's safe enough."

"Safe enough?" Annie asked.

"I mean," Max took the fax from her and waggled it, "this looks like she was out hobbling around making a photograph in the middle of the night. And God knows what this is really a picture of. But I don't suppose it matters."

Annie was steering him to the table as he continued to mutter.

As he sank into his chair, she took the fax, handed him a legal pad, and said crisply, "Would you want her to join us here?"

At his horrified look, she nodded and slipped into the chair opposite him.

"God, no," he said simply. "Okay, let's see where we are, Annie. Do you have the bio on Enid Friendley?"

Annie found it fourth in her stack and handed it to Max.

"Okay, okay." Max scanned the sheet. "Enid Friendley. Born February fifth, 1952, in Hardeeville. Mother Eloise an LPN, father, Donald, a short-order cook. Only child. Began working at Tarrant House while still in high school. Worked her way through community college while running a catering service. At Tarrant House for only two years, 1968-70. Her catering service, Low Country Limited, solidly successful, with gross receipts last year in excess of three hundred thousand dollars. Married in 1976 to William Pittman of Beaufort, one child, Edward, 1977, divorced 1979. Kept maiden name pro­fessionally. Extremely hard worker, seven days a week, ten

hours a day. Her widowed mother lives with her, takes care of Edward. An innovative, original cook with a flair for catering successful parties from luaus to barbecues. A strict, demand­ing employer, no shirking allowed. On formal terms with both customers and employees. Rarely smiles. Intense. Always moves at high speed, impatient with those who don't move or think as quickly, but not unpleasant. A former assistant said, 'Enid's all business, but she's fair and she treats people right. You know how this kind of business goes, a lot of people work part-time, no health benefits, no pension, but if you're one of Enid's workers and you've done good for her, she'll help you out. Sam Berry got laid off from the cement company and he was about to lose his house and Enid helped him with the payments until he got regular work again. There's lots of stories like that. All she asks is you pay her back when you can.' Her ex-husband said, 'They ought to put Enid in charge of the world. It'd run a damn sight better. I'll tell you, she'd make everybody toe the mark. That's one tiger woman.' " Max grinned. "Sounds like a tired man."

But Annie wasn't interested in Mr. Pittman. "Hey, she sounds all right. I'll bet she's got some snappy views on the Tarrants." She glanced at the clock. Almost nine. But that wasn't too late. "Max, let's call Enid Friendley. Maybe she'll even see us tonight."

Annie was reaching for the phone when it began to ring.

11:55 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Judge Tarrant was a stickler for punctuality. Lunch at Tar­rant House was served at precisely twelve noon daily. Shortly before noon, the Judge left his study. A moment after the door into the hall closed, the French door from the piazza swung in. The intruder moved swiftly across the untenanted room. It took only seconds for gloved hands to pull open the bottom left drawer of the desk and grab the Judge's gun. In a few seconds more, the French door clicked shut.

Cha_pter 17.

Charlotte Tarrant was a woman in a frenzy. "We're all going to be killed! That's what's going to happen!" Her head whipped from side to side as she stood beside the flowering wisteria—Annie would always remember the sweet violet scent and those wild, terrified eyes—and words spewed from Charlotte's trembling mouth, a red gash against a pasty white face. The yard light beaming down from the corner live oak surrounded the chatelaine of Tarrant House in a circle of radi­ance as neatly as a spot on center stage. "Who's doing this? I'll tell you who it is—it's that girl! Who says she's missing? Those people?" Her voice rose hysterically as she pointed at Annie and Max. "Why are they here? This is Tarrant property. Tarrant property." Furiously, she turned on Whitney. "Get them out of here. Make them leave. Maybe they broke in! Why are they here?" She clutched her husband's arm.

"Take Charlotte inside, Whitney." Miss Dora lifted her cane and pointed toward the steps. "She's distraught." The old lady peered up at the piazza and the squatting form of thepolice chief. A patrolman stood slightly behind Wells, hold­ing a huge flashlight.

Shattered glass sparkled in the pool of light. The broken pane in the French door was beside the handle. The door was ajar. The cone of light illuminated a patch of Persian rug, pale gray touched with silver and rose, the russet gleam of mahog­any, and, lying on the piazza, the chunk of brick that had been used to break the glass.

"Let's go back inside, Charlotte," Whitney urged. "The chief will take care of everything—"

Charlotte hung back. "We don't know who's in there. What if someone's in there—with the gun?" She dropped Whitney's arm and ran to the piazza steps. "Chief, hurry! They may be upstairs, waiting for us."

Wells remained hunkered down on the gray painted boards of the porch. He looked over his shoulder. "Miz Tarrant, was the gun the only thing taken from the room?"

"I think so. I saw it all at once," she said feverishly, "the broken window, the French door ajar, and the bottom drawer to the desk open. I ran and looked down into the drawer. When I saw the gun was gone, I screamed for Whitney."

"Didn't know what the hell!" Whitney came up beside her. "I found Charlotte scared to death. All she could do was point, first at the smashed glass, then at the drawer, then at the glass. Damn gun has disappeared. That's all I can tell you."

Charlotte peered into the darkness that pressed around them. The sliver of moon gave scarcely any light at all. The shadows in the garden were deep and dark. "Someone may be out there with the gun right now. Or waiting upstairs! They may be waiting upstairs to kill us both!"

Wells reached behind him for the flashlight. "Secure the premises, Matthews." He stood, the flashlight pointed down at the porch. "Miss Dora, perhaps you could offer refuge to your kinfolk until we complete our investigation."

Miss Dora's head snapped up. Annie wasn't certain—the light was poor where the old lady stood—but, just for an instant, Annie thought she saw an odd expression. Uncer­tainty? Concern? Fear? But, in the next instant, Miss Dora was

stepping forward. "My old Daisy would have a seizure, people tramping in my house at this hour of the night."

It wasn't long after nine o'clock, but Annie supposed that to Miss Dora and her no doubt aged retainer, the hour might be quite unseemly.

Miss Dora marched up to Charlotte. The wizened old woman was fully dressed in her familiar black bombazine, ankle-length dress, and sturdy black shoes. So Miss Dora had not yet retired for the night when a siren sounded next door, announcing the arrival of the police.

Charlotte was in black, too, but hers was a stylish linen dress with a striped shawl collar. Pink pearl earrings and a two-strand pink pearl necklace added the only touch of color.

The contrast between the two women was startling, but Miss Dora didn't look absurd. Other-century and witchlike, yes, but not absurd.

Tossing her white head impatiently, Miss Dora snapped, "Try to show some control, Charlotte. Obviously, no house­breaker would remain on the premises after he was discovered. Moreover, it would take a demented burglar to await the arrival of the authorities. Had someone broken in to take the gun with the objective of attacking you, that attack would have occurred when you came into the study and found the window broken. No such attack occurred. And how would an intruder have reached the upper rooms? You and Whitney were both downstairs. Did anyone run past you and go up the stairs?"

Sullenly, Charlotte shook her head. Shaking fingers tugged at her necklace of pink pearls. "But someone could be up there," she persisted.

An expression of distaste crossed Miss Dora's aristocratic face. "The patrolman is now checking each room. As soon as that search is complete, you may feel quite safe to go inside." She sniffed. "Why in heaven's name would anyone want to shoot you, Charlotte?"

Chief Wells moved ponderously to the edge of the porch to listen to Charlotte's answer. One cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco.

Charlotte wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Her voice shook with anger. "Why did someone shoot the Judge? Answer me that! Why did someone set fire to my museum? Answer me that! I'll tell you why! Someone hates the Tar-rants!" Her eyes flicked venomously toward Annie and Max. "And why are they always here when there's trouble? He was the last one who saw that girl, too! That's what it said in the paper. Why are they—"

"Because I called for them." Miss Dora's bony jaw jutted obstinately. "Whatever happens here concerns all of the Fam­ily—and Mr. and Mrs. Darling are assisting the Family at my behest. Once you are somewhat in control of yourself, Char­lotte, perhaps you can tell us what happened here tonight." The old lady's hands tightened on the silver knob of her cane.

Charlotte clasped her hands together, but they still trem­bled. "We were in the drawing room after dinner. Whitney was working with his stamps, and I was reading—a mono­graph on silver thimbles made in Charleston between 1840 and 1860. I wanted to check another source—a paper written by another authority—and I went into the library—"

A shout and a piercing whistle sounded out on the street.

Wells barked, "Stay here, all of you!" He thudded down the stairs and loped around the end of the house. For a big man, he moved fast.

"Hey, you . . ." a man called hoarsely.

"Hold up there. Stop or we'll shoot!" Annie recognized Wells's deep voice. "All right, buddy. Hands up. Walk this way. Right. Keep right along."

Harris Walker, his arms lifted, his face stubbled with beard, stumbled around the side of the house. He blinked against the light hanging in the live oak. Then he saw Annie and Max. "What's happening here?" he demanded.

Charlotte Tarrant gave a little scream. "Who is he? Is he the one? Dear God, I knew it. We'll all be killed in our beds—"

"Hush." Miss Dora's tone was deadly and not to be ignored.

Charlotte subsided, but her wide, staring eyes never left Walker's haggard face.

Annie spoke first. "That's Courtney's boyfriend—and he's hunting her."

Charlotte took a step back. "Here. Here?"

Walker turned on Wells. "Listen, I got bloodhounds out here today and—"

Wells held up a meaty hand. "I know. There isn't much that goes on in this town that I don't know, Walker. But so what? I understand the young woman came to this house and to Miss Dora's earlier in the week. The hounds don't show us anything."

Walker's arms sagged. He swallowed jerkily. "They stopped dragging the river. Late this afternoon."

Wells didn't tell the young man to lift his arms again. Instead, he simply nodded, his craggy face somber.

"Does that mean . . ." Walker clenched his fists. "Where are you looking for her? Where are you looking now, dam-mit?"

The look on his face made Annie want to cry.

Wells tipped back his cowboy hat. "We have an APB out and—"

"That's nothing," Walker shouted. "There should be peo­ple out everywhere. When I got to town, all you talked about was him." He jerked a shoulder at Max. "But you know that's stupid. Something happened to Courtney because of the Tar-rants, because somebody killed her dad. It's all tied up with them. Have you looked in this house? Have you?" He stood there, his young body tense, and he had the air of a soldier on attack despite his unshaven cheeks and dusty, torn clothes.

"There's an officer searching this house right now."

A tiny flicker of hope moved in Walker's sunken eyes.

"That's absurd." Whitney glared at Walker. "What's he saying? That we've done something with the girl?"

Charlotte swept forward, a shaking hand pointing at Walker. "Arrest him! You must arrest him—obviously, he's the one."

Wells rocked back on his feet. "Let's have some answers, Walker. What are you doing here?"

"I was driving by. Any law against that? I just keep driv­ing, driving, driving. I think maybe I'll see her. . . ." He rubbed the back of his fist against his unshaven face. "I keep looking for her. . . ."

"Where's your car?" Wells demanded.

"Out in front."

The back door slammed.

Everyone looked up on the piazza at the patrolman. Walker took a step forward.

Matthews reported to Wells. "The house is empty, sir. No sign of entry or exit elsewhere. Nothing else appears to be disturbed." He took the flashlight back from the chief. Wells didn't bother with a thank-you.

Nice man to work for, Annie thought.

Miss Dora thumped her cane. "Time is wasting." She pointed the cane at Charlotte. "When was the last time you were in the library?"

The chief gave Walker a swift glance. "I'll deal with you later. Just stay right where you are." Wells shoved the light back at the patrolman and pulled out a notebook and a pen.

Walker glanced from the chief to the Tarrants, his eyes hard and suspicious. Annie knew nothing could have driven him out of that shadowy garden.

Charlotte gave Walker another hostile glance, then hurried to answer when Miss Dora waggled the cane at her impa­tiently. "Why, I suppose not since this morning. I returned several books from the drawing room—you see, we read in the evenings and there are always books about but we leave them until morning. That's when I straighten up. It must have been about ten this morning. I put the books up and closed the door. I didn't go back in until tonight."

"What time?" Max asked.

Charlotte looked at him resentfully, but answered before Miss Dora could intervene. "It must have been just before

nine. Yes." She spoke with more assurance, looking toward Whitney. "It was just before nine, wasn't it?"

Her husband nodded, but he was staring at the piazza, with its scattering of broken glass. "Hell of a thing, to have some­one break in. Never happened before. Never."

Wells wrote briefly in his notebook. "So, the brick could have been thrown through the French door anytime between ten this morning and nine tonight." He sounded profoundly unhappy.

Annie didn't blame him. That was a hell of a time span. The chief glanced back inside the library. "Was the drawer locked?"

No one spoke.

Now Wells became impatient. "Mr. Tarrant, was that drawer—the one where the gun was kept—was it generally kept locked?"

"No." Whitney sounded puzzled. "It's just an ordinary desk, Chief. I keep my important papers at the office."

"So you had this gun in a drawer where anyone could get at it?" His disgust with careless householders was apparent. An­nie didn't blame him.

Whitney's head jerked up. "I beg your pardon. It isn't as though our library is a public thoroughfare. That weapon has been kept there for years and—"

"How many years?" Wells demanded.

The silence this time was distinctly strained.

Whitney and Charlotte glanced at each other.

Charlotte gasped. "Whitney, I never thought—was that the gun—" She whimpered and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

Whitney blinked nervously. "It was the Judge's gun from the War. It was always kept there until—oh, God, I don't know what happened that day! But that's the gun"—he swal­lowed convulsively—"my brother used. Granddad brought it to me months later and asked if I wanted it back. I said yes because somehow that made it seem as if it had truly ended."

"Loaded?" Wells asked.

Whitney's eyes fell away from the chiefs cold stare. That was answer enough.

"World War Two issue, that would be a forty-five-caliber Colt M-nineteen-eleven-A-one." Wells absently moved the wad of tobacco in his cheek. "All right. So somebody took it sometime today." He scrawled in his notebook.

Max stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, his face thoughtful. "Miss Dora, you called Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant to­night and arranged for tomorrow's gathering here. And you must also have called the others."

Annie expected another outburst from Charlotte Tarrant. But the harried woman satisfied herself with a silent, vengeful look at Miss Dora.

"I did indeed. And that meeting shall occur as I have decreed." Miss Dora ignored Charlotte. "Why do you ask?"

"It would be very interesting to know," Max said slowly, "if that gun was taken after your phone calls."

Chief Wells's heavy head turned toward Max. "What do you have in mind, Darling?"

Max looked toward the piazza. "I'm not certain, Chief. It's just that the murderer may be getting scared—and that wor­ries me."

Wells's jaw moved rhythmically. His huge hand dropped to the butt of the pistol holstered on his hip. His message was unmistakable. "You don't need to worry, Darling. I'll be here."

The St. George Inn was lovely, but it wasn't home. There was no pistachio ice cream in the freezer. The pantry lacked brownies laced with raspberry, and the supply of peanut but­ter cookies was dangerously low. Coffee, of course, they had in abundance, and the thermos had kept the Colombian decaf hot. But there was something terribly unsatisfactory about coffee unaccompanied by edibles.

"Want a cookie?" Annie asked. She hoped her guardian angel was dutifully posting a gold star because there were only

four peanut butter cookies left, and if Max took one now and so did she, that would leave only one for bedtime and one for breakfast and, as all peanut butter cookie lovers know, that would make a bummer out of breakfast.

"No thanks, sweetie. More coffee, though." Max held up his cup, but he never lifted his eyes from his papers.

Annie reached for a cookie. She was too cool, too disci­plined to grab. Crunch. Pure pleasure. She looked up at the clock. Almost eleven. God, what a night. And she was still worried about pale, driven Harris Walker. At least he hadn't been arrested. Annie suspected Walker was free because he'd given the police permission to search his car and him. No gun turned up. So Wells told him to stay away from Tarrant House and left it at that. But, as Walker drove off, Annie knew he was looking back at the house.

There hadn't been, of course, any resolution to the break-in. The only certain fact was that the loaded gun was gone. Not a cheerful prospect.

And she didn't share Wells's conviction that all would be well so long as he was present.

She finished her cookie, then poured the coffee and bent over to kiss the tip of Max's ear. Surely it was time to quit work for the night.

"Oh, yeah," he said positively. But it was rather more of an automatic response than she had hoped for, and he kept right on writing on his legal pad.

Annie refreshed his mug and her own, then dropped onto the chaise longue. She yawned. "Maybe Wells is the murderer. You know, maybe the Judge caught him out in something and the chief slipped into Tarrant House that Saturday afternoon and shot the Judge and slipped right back out. Then Ross came in and maybe his mother had got there just before him and he walked in and she was holding the gun and—"

Max finished writing with a flourish, ripped off the top sheet, and leaned over the coffee table to hand it to her. "Here's what we need to find out."

She looked at Max's list.MAY 9, 1970

What was Whitney doing in the garage? He claims he didn't see anyone from the garage window, so why did he look puzzled when we talked about it this morning?

Why was Amanda upset? Who might know? Why was the Judge buying her a condo in Florida?

Did Charlotte know about Whitney's involvement with the woman a client was suing for divorce? Did she know about the Judge's decision to force Whitney out of the family firm? Did Charlotte and the Judge have a dis­agreement?

Why was Julia crying in the garden?

How upset was Milam about his father's assumptions in regard to the nature of his relationship with Joan Cran­dall?

Where was each person in the house at the critical time (approximately four o'clock)?

How could the Judge's study be approached?

What did Ross see?

The authorities described Amanda Tarrant's death as an accident, while believing it was suicide. Who was the last person to see her? What happened the day she died?

Miss Dora alibied herself when she said she saw Ross in the garden at the time of the shot. Was she telling the truth—about herself? Could she have been in the study? Ross wasn't here to say where he was.

No one could prove where Sybil was. Could she have decided she wanted not only Ross but their rightful place in Chastain? Did Sybil even then give a damn?

Annie took a bite from her peanut butter cookie. Either the sugar or the list produced a spurt of energy. With a flourish, she gave Max an admiring salute. "Right on, Sherlock." He had certainly winnowed through what they'd learned and come up with a succinct, to-the-point list of all the questions raised by their new knowledge.

Max accepted her tribute with an almost modest smile. "A good detective has to discard the irrelevant."

Was there a hint, just a hint, of complacency there? A suggestion that others (and we all knew who that would be) were bogged in minutiae, unable to ascertain what was mean­ingful?

Although Annie would never admit to competitive feelings with her live-in sleuth, she was just a tad irritated. Her eyes slitted. Grace Latham might expect to be treated like a dim­wit by Colonel Primrose; Annie wasn't having any.

Grabbing her notebook, she wrote furiously. In a moment, she ripped out the sheet and thrust it toward him.

Max studied her conclusions, which were, she would have admitted had she been pressed, not organized well in terms of time and space, but they got to the damn point. After all, what really counted in murder? Motives, of course.

MOTIVES IN THE MURDER OF JUDGE TARRANT

Whitney—To prevent expulsion from the law firm. Does Whitney have the guts? Was it the cornered-animal syn­drome? In re the torching of Charlotte's museum, was there some written evidence that could have convicted Whitney? What kind of threat would Courtney Kimball be? (Was the attack on her, no matter by whom, a desper­ate effort to maintain the facade of suicide—heart attack that had survived through the years?)

Charlotte—To protect Whitney. (If she knew about the Judge's plan to have the firm expel Whitney?) Actually, did she give that much of a damn about Whitney? Their marriage certainly didn't seem like a passionate one. What was it like twenty years ago? Beyond concern about Whit­ney, she apparently had no personal motive. And it was beyond belief that she would have torched her museum. Tarrant House and its occupants, past and present, were her only passion in life.

Milam—Anger over his father's conclusions about his spon­sorship of Joan Crandall. Was that the final blow in a longline of emotional hurts? As for the museum, no doubt Milam would have enjoyed setting it on fire.

Julia‑

Here, Annie's pen had faltered. So Julia was a drunk in a bad marriage; what did that have to do with the price of apples? There didn't seem to be any reason at all for her to shoot the Judge. Hell, Julia should have shot Milam and saved everybody a lot of trouble.

"It has to be one of them," Annie concluded. "Unless Miss Dora's conned everybody and she shot the Judge and for some reason wants to raise a lot of hell with the surviving Tarrants."

Max opened his mouth, but Annie barreled ahead.

"It couldn't be Sybil." Annie circled Sybil's name on Max's list. "That I wouldn't believe even if I saw it. She didn't care any more about social position then than she does now. She was going to elope with Ross. She was getting everything she wanted. And if she'd had any idea Courtney Kimball was her daughter, she would have moved heaven and earth to be with her. She certainly would never harm her."

"A little disconcerting," Max objected mildly as he rooted around in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table (Annie had assumed it was decorative), "this jumping back and forth be­tween now and then." He picked up a pear and took a huge bite.

Annie liked pears poached in champagne. She studied the third cookie. Did she want it now or would it be better to save it for breakfast? Two for breakfast would be infinitely better than just one.

Max paused in his chewing. "But you've made some excel­lent points."

Annie was mollified by the admiring tone in his voice.

He grabbed the legal pad with his lefr hand and took another bite of the fruit. "The problem is, we still don't know enough about these people. Annie, where're the bios on Julia and Charlotte?"

Suddenly she found computer sheets in her hand, instead of a cookie. Was that an omen? Perhaps so.

"Here we are," she said briskly. " 'Julia Martin Tarrant. Age forty-eight. Born in Columbia, South Carolina. Father, Olin, a high-school chemistry teacher. Mother, Georgia, a pri­mary-school teacher. Two brothers, Edwin and Arthur, and one sister, Frances. Julia made very little impression on those around her throughout her school career. Her brothers were both excellent students and held various class offices. They were also successful athletes." " Annie paused.

Max prodded. "And?"

"What's the deal?" Annie said slowly.

Her husband looked puzzled.

She felt a rush of affection. Max of the three sisters and wacky mom had never encountered—and certainly never in­dulged in—the kind of sexism she sensed here. Annie waggled the printout. "Is this part of the old fifties syndrome? A woman's place is out of sight and out of mind? Or is this just Julia?" She resumed reading. " 'Frances was two years older than Julia. She died in 1960 (a drowning victim)." " Annie frowned. "Isn't that what happened to Julia and Milam's little girl?"

Max nodded.

"Isn't that—odd?" Annie asked.

"Yes. But surely—" Max looked appalled.

Annie had read enough Edgar Allan Poe to have an inkling of the dark depths in the human mind. But, as Max said, surely not. Julia was a drunk, but not a neurotic monster. Annie liked her. And felt sorry for her. The deaths of Julia's sister and daughter, both by drowning, had to be a hideous coincidence.

Annie cleared her throat. " 'Julia had a C average. Her brothers both attended the university full-time and were out­standing students. Julia worked part-time, lived at home (her brothers lived in student housing), and was a part-time stu­dent, paying her own tuition. She met Milam Tarrant in a photography course in the art department when he was a ju­nior. They married after he was graduated.

" 'The high school counselor, Mrs. Humphreys, said: "Julia Martin? Oh, yes, of course. Olin's daughter. So funny, I almostnever think about him having a daughter. The boys were so outstanding. Julia was a mousy little thing, always looked like she was scared of her shadow. I tried to encourage her to take part in class activities, but she always stood there tongue-tied and—why, I hate to say it—almost as if she were ad­dlebrained. But her mother was kind of a washout, too. No personality at all. Not like Olin. He is such a charming man. And a very good teacher." ' " Annie rattled the sheet. "I'd say Mrs. Humphreys likes to back winners. I'll bet she's a great counselor."

Max took a last bite of the pear. "Doesn't anybody like Julia?"

"Apparently not." Annie skimmed the rest of it. " 'Julia didn't have a circle of friends in high school . . . a loner . . . "She walked around like a little ghost," her En­glish teacher said. "I tried several times to strike a response. There was certainly trauma there. I was never sure why. Per­haps it was the death of her sister. Whatever it was, I was never able to break through, make a connection. I tried to talk to Olin about it once, but he refused to listen. He's one of these smile-all-the-time, you-can-do-it-if-you-try people. I'd say he was heavy into denial as far as Julia was concerned. But that's the way it is sometimes. He's a wonderful teacher. Loves kids." ' "

Annie paused, skimmed some more, then stopped, her eye­brows lifted. "Oh ho, here's the word from Olin. ' "Julia? I'm sorry, we haven't seen much of my daughter and her husband in recent years. We've tried to keep in touch. We don't know what's wrong, but we're afraid Julia's drinking too much. We've urged her to go into treatment, but a person has to want to get better, and I'm afraid Julia doesn't care. We sur­vived the loss of our lovely girl. Why can't Julia face life?" Julia's mother, "I don't know, I'm sure. It's been such a long time. Julia won't talk to us when we call." ' "

Annie made a face at the printout. No sympathy for Julia. Anywhere.

Max grinned and tossed his pear core neatly into the waste­basket. "Found yourself an underdog?"

"Don't you think Julia's likable?" Annie appealed.

"Yes, I do," Max said soberly. "But we have to look at her closely. Remember the ring from the gasoline can on the car­pet of her car."

"Even if she set fire to the museum, that doesn't mean she's a murderer," Annie defended.

Max grinned again.

"I am not a sap for underdogs," Annie said irritably.

"Of course not. Now, let's see. What do we have on Char­lotte Tarrant?" Max poised his pen over his pad.

Annie thumbed through the pile of printouts.

"Here we go. 'Charlotte Walker Tarrant. Age forty-seven. Born in Greenville, South Carolina. Father, James, a bailiff. Mother, Lois, a secretary. Two sisters, Katie and Barbara. Lois Walker was from a fifth-generation family in Greenville, the Bakers. The family was wealthy but lost all of its properties in the Civil War. Lois was a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Charlotte, an outstanding student, received a scholarship to the university. A history major, she specialized in the Ameri­can South. Always fascinated by family history. Pam Jergens, president of the high school pep club, said, "Charlotte was born old. She always had on white gloves, figuratively speak­ing. And she was so ladylike. God, that was a long time ago. What's Charlotte done, seceded from the Union again? Of course, you have to remember, I couldn't wait to get the hell out and see how the real world lived. I left twenty years ago and I've never regretted it for a minute." Zenia Phillips, a college sorority sister, said, "Boring. That sums up dear Char­lotte, boring as hell." Betty Blake, who cochaired the Chastain house-and-garden tours with Charlotte several years ago, de­scribed Charlotte as ". . . absolutely marvelous to work with. Organized, responsible, enthusiastic. I'll tell you, we had the best spring tours our year that anyone's ever done. Charlotte was certainly the best president the Chastain Historical Soci­ety has ever had, and she is as knowledgeable about family history as anyone in the state. It's a terrific asset for a commu­nity when someone like Charlotte will devote herself heart andsoul to preserving its heritage. I don't know what we would have done without Charlotte when they tried to get an excep­tion to the preservation code and raze the old MacDougal House to make way for a parking lot for some apartments. Can you believe it? They wanted to destroy a lovely Greek Revival home built in 1848! Charlotte fought like a tigress. She wouldn't give up. Why, I'd say she almost single-handedly won that battle. We owe her so much." Cordelia Prince, presi­dent of the PTA when Charlotte and Whitney's daughter was in grade school, snapped, "That woman's a poisonous reptile. I'll bet the average snake of my acquaintance is a better mother. Cold-blooded? She was too busy to be a homeroom mother, too busy to drive on field trips, too busy to chaperon a dance. And on what? Dead and gone people who didn't need a minute of her time while her daughter turned angry and hos­tile. I don't blame that child for running away. Who would stay home with a mother like that?" '

"I knew I didn't like Charlotte," Annie said decisively. "Being a lousy parent doesn't equate to committing mur­der," Max cautioned.

"I know," Annie said regretfully. "Besides, the woman's obviously scared to death."

When Max didn't immediately comment, Annie raised an eyebrow.

He looked at her with a gravity so foreign to his usual confident demeanor that she felt suddenly uneasy.

"Annie, the hell of it is, I think Charlotte's damned smart to be scared. I'm scared, too, about that roundup at Tarrant House tomorrow afternoon. It's almost twenty-two years to the day when murder occurred, and, you can bet on it, the murderer will be there." He jammed a hand through his thick, unruly blond hair. "I wish to God we knew where that gun was!"

2:30 P.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 18.

Ross listened tensely to the news through the crackle of static on the car radio. The station faded in and out, but he heard enough. Campuses were closing across the country, in Califor­nia, in Illinois. in Massachusetts. Witnesses were saying no one had fired at the National Guard. Witnesses were saying the students, walking to class, were gunned down for no reason. The Guard was claiming an attack. Students were march­ing. . . . The station faded out. Ross turned the dial and Hank Thompson's mournful voice filled the car. Ross turned off the radio. He was almost home.

He'd made the right decision. He squared his shoulders, gripped the wheel tighter.

He could see his father's face, proud and arrogant. Always the Judge's somber eyes lighted for him.

What would his father say?

Annie gripped the door as the Maserati bumped down the deep-rutted, overgrowth-choked, dusty gray road. Cones from the slash pines crunched beneath the tires. Giant ferns glis­tened with dew beneath spreading live oaks. Holly and sharp-edged yucca, saw palmetto, and running oak flourished. Annie, for an instant, envisioned the land as it appeared to long-ago travelers: wild, untamed, inimical, with an almost overpowering fecundity.

The road curved left.

Max jammed on the brake at a flurry of movement in the foliage. Annie hung on tight. A blue-gray hawk zoomed across the road, swooping to pounce on a pinkish copperhead stretched in a sunny spot on a rotting log.

It was the only time Annie had ever felt sorry for a snake.

She wondered how much she would have loved the Low

Country two hundred years ago. She wasn't altogether crazy

about this present-day, off-the-beaten-path forest. She loved

sassafras, sweet gum, and red bay trees, but nicely pruned and

cut back, thank you. It was exciting to glimpse white-tailed deer, but the sudden thrashing in the undergrowth and the sight of bristly black hair and an ugly snout with razor-sharp tusks made her long for the confines of a well-kept clay tennis court.

Annie hunched tensely in her seat. Any kind of horror could occur in the midst of these longleaf-pine flatwoods.

"Do you think it's much farther?" She tried to sound ca­sual.

Max, as always, wasn't deceived. "Don't worry, honey. As long as you don't step on a diamondback, you'll be okay."

She did not consider his answer especially reassuring.

"Oh, hell," Max swore, and the Maserati jolted to a stop.

One of last winter's nor'easters had toppled a dead pine. Breaking as it fell, a portion of the trunk blocked the road. A huge limb had splintered the wooden bridge over the sluggish stream.

Max glanced at the mileage counter he had punched when they left the blacktop. "It's about a half-mile farther. Look, Annie, you can stay here and—"

She was already opening her door. "In for a penny," she announced stalwartly, wishing she had put on hiking boots and jeans and a long-sleeved cotton top instead of white flats, a pleated pink-rose cotton skirt, and a delicate white cotton blouse with a lacy embroidered collar. She had considered it a fetching outfit (and perfectly appropriate) this morning at the St. George Inn. It was little comfort that she would be as out of place slapping away resurrection ferns and skidding on pine hay as that briefly spotted bristly black-haired wild boar would be reclining on the chintz-covered chaise longue at the inn.

Max retrieved a flashlight from the car pocket. They stepped out of the car into insect hell. The air was alive with whirring patches of no-see-urns. Mosquitos and biting flies attacked. Wasps buzzed angrily.

Annie waved her arms and broke into a trot, then almost slid into water scummed with green duckweed when her shoe soles skimmed over the pine hay.