Southern Ghost (15 page)

Annie, still holding tight to Max’s hand, looked from face to face.

Miss Dora, her dark, hooded eyes glittering, pursed her mouth in concentration.

Charlotte’s plump face was pasty, like uncooked dough left to rise too long.

Milam banged his half-empty tumbler of whisky onto the Queen Anne table and pulled Julia into the circle of his protecting arm. The bloody scratches on his cheeks were in shocking contrast to the flippant pink of his dinner jacket. Julia slumped against her husband. Milam took the handkerchief from his pocket and brushed at the tears on her red-splotched cheeks, then pressed it against the wet front of her dress. Bright drops of blood welled from his scratches.

Sybil’s glossy black hair rippled as she shook her head from side to side. “No. You don’t understand, Whitney, Ross and
I …” She pressed her fingers against her temples for an instant, then, her lovely face hard and resolute, demanded, “When was the Judge shot?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sybil, let it go.” Milam glared at her. “It was a fucking mess. We did the best we could.”

Annie tensed, wondering if Sybil would fly at him next.

Miss Dora, too, obviously feared another explosion. She spoke quickly, her raspy voice commanding. “Sybil, come stand by me. I promise you that we shall pursue this.”

Sybil resisted for a long, tense moment. Then, with the contained ferocity of a caged tigress, she moved to Miss Dora’s side. But her angry gaze probed each Tarrant in turn.

Charlotte rose and stepped forward. “Miss Dora, I
beg
you—”

Miss Dora lifted her voice to override Charlotte. “I assure all of you that I have good reason, which I shall reveal in due time. Now, we shall proceed in an orderly fashion.” She fastened her icy, uncompromising gaze on Whitney. “I wish a clear, concise outline of that day’s events.”

Whitney once again darted an uncertain glance at his older brother. Then he said sullenly, “I agree with Milam. I don’t see any point in—”

“Whitney.”

Grudgingly, he began. “We didn’t know what had happened for a while. At least, I didn’t. I was in the garage. It was about four o’clock. I heard a bang. But it didn’t seem all that close. And I was on the far side from Dad’s study. I heard it, but I didn’t think much about it. I suppose, if I gave it any thought at all, that it was probably kids down on the river. Anyway, it must have been about ten, fifteen minutes later that Ross ran into the garage. He looked—wild. And he was carrying Dad’s gun, the one Dad brought back from the war. It was crazy. He was supposed to be at school, and, all of a sudden, here he was in the garage, carrying Dad’s gun. I asked him what the hell he was doing. He just stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. I can’t describe that look. God, it was awful.” Whitney swallowed and licked his lips. “Ross ran to his car. He was out of breath, like he’d run for miles. There
was sweat on his face. Then he kind of mumbled, ‘Tell them I’ve gone to the lodge,’ and he jumped into the car and roared out of there like a bat out of hell.”

Milam took over impatiently. “Jesus, Whitney, you never could get to the point. Who gives a damn what he looked like? Look, Aunt Dora, it’s simple and stupid.” There was no remembered horror in Milam’s voice; he was disdainful. “Ross and Dad had a hell of a fight about three-thirty. You could hear Ross shouting and Dad had that cold, clear voice he used on the bench. You know what I mean. Like God making a judgment from on high, and sweet Jesus, you better listen. Ross should have known better. What a goddam do-gooder. So they mowed down some students at Kent State! Why should Ross put his ass in a sling? Hell, he could’ve graduated and gotten his commission and applied for transportation or the quartermaster corps or someplace where he wouldn’t have been shipped off to Nam. If he couldn’t stick that, he could’ve ‘accidentally’ shot himself in the foot! Whitney and I did Air National Guard, sweeter than honey. Funny thing is, Dad wasn’t fooled, but we had legally met our obligations, so he let it lie. But Dad was always so goddam proud of Ross. A cadet colonel, another in the long line of Tarrant gentlemen-soldiers. So, I thought it was pretty funny when Ross finally bucked the system. He yelled at Dad that he wouldn’t serve, he wouldn’t graduate from The Citadel, and if he was drafted, he’d go to Canada. So the old man about had a stroke and he told Ross he was disowned, to get out of the house and never come back. Dad said Ross had no right to the name, that Tarrants were men of honor and principle—”

“That’s what Ross was,” Sybil cried passionately. “Not like you and Whitney. Ross never ran from anything. He never hid. He did what he thought was right—and everyone knew that war was hideous. The day the National Guard killed those students—oh, God, they were walking to class!” A generation’s lament rang in her voice. “Ross brooded about what had happened all week. Campuses closed all over the country. People marched. Ross came home Saturday morning; he’d made up his mind. He was quitting. He wouldn’t take his
commission. He told his father. They quarreled, but Ross was determined. That’s when he met me in the garden and we planned—” Tears edged down her cheeks, streaking her perfect makeup. “Whenever spring comes, I remember that day. We stood in the sunshine and it was warm against us and he held me and I smelled the honeysuckle and the roses. He kissed me and I ran home to gather up my things. We were leaving.” She glared at them defiantly. “The car was his. He worked summers and earned the money for it and he had some money saved and so did I and we were going to run away and be married. I waited for him—and he didn’t come. He didn’t come.” The agony of empty years and lost dreams and a crippled heart echoed in the simple declaration.

Charlotte stood with her arms tightly folded across her ample bosom. “Ross was always a hothead. None of it surprised me.” She looked disdainfully at Sybil. “You know what he was like—he always had to have his own way. Spoiled rotten, that’s what Ross was.” Her voice rose suddenly, turned strident. “And Amanda was always on his side, against Whitney and Milam. As if Ross were better or—”

“That’s enough, Charlotte.” Whitney cleared his throat. “Point is, Sybil, Ross shot Father—”

“No. He wouldn’t have.” Sybil stood firm, chin lifted, and there was total certainty in her eyes and her voice. “Ross was upset, yes, but we were leaving. It was all decided. Why would he shoot the Judge? There was no reason.”

“You were in the garden,” Miss Dora said crisply. “You said good-bye and were to meet again—”

“In only a few minutes,” Sybil cried. “Just long enough to gather up some clothes and meet him at the gate.”

Charlotte smoothed her hair, her composure regained. “Ross probably went back into the house to get some of his things and the Judge saw him and told him to leave and Ross lost his temper. Ross always acted like Tarrant House belonged to him and not the rest of us. He was crazy about the house. Maybe he decided the Judge had no right to throw him out.” She shrugged. “What difference does it make? We all know what happened, Sybil.”

“I don’t care what you—or anyone—says or will ever say.” Sybil spoke jerkily. “But I knew Ross. I
knew
him. He would never have shot his father—and he would never have killed himself. That was a coward’s way out—and Ross was never a coward.”

Miss Dora said quietly, “You are quite correct, my dear child. Ross was a brave young man. A very brave and gallant young man—but he did indeed take his own life. My brother—Ross’s grandfather—went to the hunting lodge that day. The next day Harmon related to me what had happened. Harmon told me that when he arrived—it was late afternoon by then and the shadows were thick and it was cool and quiet on the front steps—he called out to Ross and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He rattled the knob—and there was a gunshot. He ran to the back of the lodge but that door, too, was locked. Harmon took a log from the woodpile and used it as a battering ram and broke down the back door. Ross was there, sitting in the old morris chair. And he was dead. The front door was still locked.”

Sybil reached out, clinging to a chair for support. Annie had never seen a woman so pale, as if all the blood and life had drained away. And, no matter what Sybil had become, Annie’s heart ached for her.

“So we know—we have the word of a witness—what happened to Ross.” Miss Dora’s face was grim. “But that does not end our quest tonight. We still must determine when—and how—the Judge’s death occurred.”

“No.” Sybil clasped her arms tight across her body. “That’s wrong, wrong, wrong. I’ll never believe it. Ross was brave, I tell you, brave and—”

Miss Dora nodded. When she spoke it was directly to Sybil and her voice had a gentleness Annie had never heard. “Yes, Sybil, Ross was brave and gallant. You will understand that even better when we are done. For now, Sybil, I want you to listen. No matter what is said or done, we cannot change the past. But my hope is that we can lay to rest the misery that past has visited upon us and”—she paused and looked at each of the Tarrants and her voice hardened—“that we can prevent
evil from again warping and destroying the life of this family.”

A sense of inexorable judgment emanated from the old woman, much like Miss Rosa Coldfield’s unbending, almost demented determination to vanquish Thomas Sutpen.

Annie’s eyes were focused on that narrow, intelligent, determined old face. Later, she would regret that she had not been quicker to look about the room. Would there have been a flicker of fear—or fury—on one face?

For when she did look, masks were in place: Whitney wary, Charlotte tense, Milam sardonic, Julia withdrawn.

Abruptly, Miss Dora pointed her cane at Max. “Proceed.”

The silence was abrupt. All of the family members stared at Max and Annie. She realized that in the heat of their quarrels, they’d almost forgotten their presence. And now, not only did they remember there were strangers within the gate, they were shocked and enraged to have Miss Dora invite Max to take part. The Tarrants looked at Max with varying degrees of hostility and outrage.

Milam glared at Max, then turned to his great-aunt. “What business is it of
his
?”

“
My
business, dear Milam,” Miss Dora said briskly. “I have commissioned Mr. Darling to assist me in my inquiry.”

Annie kept her face blank, but she was irritated at not being mentioned. The sexist old hag.

Max didn’t waste time. “Mr. Whitney Tarrant, when did you hear the shot?”

Whitney threw back his head like an irritated horse. “Enough is—”

“Whitney, you will cooperate with Mr. Darling. And”—a grudging addition—“Mrs. Darling.” Miss Dora lifted her cane, pointing it at each Tarrant in turn. Her black eyes snapped angrily.

Milam said brusquely, “Oh, Christ, Whitney, go along. Or we’ll be here all night.” He walked to the sideboard, poured himself a tumbler of whisky, and picked up a fresh glass for Julia and filled it. She took it greedily and withdrew to the brocade-covered chair by the fern.

“I was in the garage. I told you that,” Whitney said sullenly. “It was just a minute or two after four when I heard the shot.”

Max turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Tarrant?”

Charlotte glanced at Miss Dora. “I was … I think I was arranging flowers. Roses, white roses. The ones planted by Great-great-grandmother Tarrant. We were to have a dinner party that night. I remember I’d bought a new frock for it, and, later, I never could bear to wear that frock. I was in the garden shed.”

“The time?” Max prodded.

“It was just after four.” She spoke precisely, carefully.

“You’re sure?”

“Why, yes. I looked at my watch.” There was growing assurance in her well-bred voice.

“Why?” Annie asked.

Charlotte’s chin jerked up. Annie could see outrage in her eyes. Obviously, the chatelaine of Tarrant House wasn’t pleased at having to submit to Max’s questions, but just who the hell did Annie think she was?

“Why?” Miss Dora repeated sharply.

Charlotte lost her composure. “This is simply unendurable. I will not continue this idiotic charade—”

Miss Dora fastened her steely, implacable gaze on Charlotte.

It was a battle of wills.

The outcome surprised no one.

Charlotte licked her lips. “I don’t know why I looked at my watch. But I did. And I can swear it was just after four o’clock.”

“Actually, Charlotte’s right, for what it’s worth.” Milam sounded bored. “I heard it, too. A couple of minutes after four.”

“Where were you?” Max inquired.

“Upstairs.” Milam once again reached out for Julia’s empty glass. He returned to the sideboard, generously refilled it, and took it back to his wife. Julia grabbed it and tipped it to her mouth. Her husband’s eyes watched her sadly.

“And you, Mrs. Tarrant?” Max asked gently.

Julia Tarrant blinked, then looked toward Max. “That day—” She drank again and there was only a little left in the glass. “I’d been upstairs.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them away. She sat there and wept, silently.

Max looked helplessly at Annie.

“Julia,” Annie said tentatively.

Slowly, the older woman turned her head. “You have a soft voice. Like Amanda.”

Annie hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Did Amanda hear the shot?”

A cunning smile lifted Julia’s lips, yet the tears still slipped down her cheeks. She emptied the glass, looked at it regretfully, and put it on the Queen Anne table. “Trying to trick me!” She waved a finger waggishly. “Can’t trick me. I’d just heard the grandfather clock. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. So it was just after four o’clock. So loud. I put my hands over my ears.” Waveringly, she lifted her hands and clapped them to her ears. Then she slid them over her face and hid her ravaged eyes. A shudder shook her frail frame. “Awful. Awful. Awful.”

“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.