Southern Ghost (16 page)

“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 her
fingers. 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.”

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 be 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 Wisteree on Monday. Told her how nice Amanda was. Her grandmother.”

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 Charlotte 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?”