Southern Ghost (28 page)

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 left 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 almost
never 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 waste-basket. “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 and
soul 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!”

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.