Southern Ghost (19 page)

Flipping open the folder, she read:

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. Consistently
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, a
sense 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.”