Absently, Annie defended her adopted state. 'I've seen some pretty lousy driving on the back roads of Connecticut.' But she was puzzling over Max's information. 'A lawyer? Why a lawyer? I mean, usually the cops direct you to a parent or a husband or brother or somebody in a family. Why a lawyer?'
The Beaufort law offices of Smithson, Albright & Caston occupied a—what else?—antebellum buff brick home. (The tasteful bronze plaque noted that the Franklin Beaumont House was built in 1753.) Six Corinthian pillars supported three piazzas.
A chestnut-haired receptionist smiled a sunny welcome as they stepped into the enormous hallway that divided the house.
'I called earlier.' There was no mistaking the intensity in Max's voice. 'Please tell Mr. Smithson that Max Darling and his wife are here to talk to him about Courtney Kimball.' Under one arm, Max carried the file that Annie had studied at the motel.
At the mention of Courtney's name, the young woman's smile fled. 'Oh, yes,' she murmured. She kept her voice even, but curiosity flared in her eyes. She led them swiftly up the paneled staircase to the second floor and paused to knock on white double doors. She opened the right-hand door. 'Mr. Smithson, Mr. Darling is here.' As she stood aside for them to enter, she stared at them openly. Annie could feel that avid glance as the door closed behind them.
A slender man in his early sixties with a silver Vandyke beard rose from behind an enormous mahogany desk and hurried toward them. His patrician face was somber, his eyes fearful. 'Courtney—is there any word?'
'Not to my knowledge, sir,' an equally somber Max replied.
'I had hoped . . .' The lawyer paused, pressed his lips together, then held out his hand to Max. 'Roger Smithson.' 'Max Darling. My wife, Annie.'
'Please.' Smithson gestured toward a pair of wing chairs that faced his desk.
When they were seated, the lawyer returned to his desk; then, still standing, he stared down at them, his face intent, suspicious. 'On the telephone, you claimed that Courtney hired you.'
Max met the penetrating gaze with equanimity. 'Courtney hired me on Monday.' He opened the folder and drew out a slip of paper. He rose and handed it to Smithson.
'That's Courtney's signature,' the lawyer acknowledged gruffly after a moment. Handing the paper back, he pressed a hand to his temple, as though it throbbed. He looked old and weary. 'I talked to the authorities in Chastain this morning.
They found Courtney's car late last night at Lookout Point on Ephraim Street.'
Annie knew that area well. The graveled lot on the point afforded a glorious view of the swift-running, silver river beneath. Across the street from Lookout Point was the squat, buff-colored Chastain Historical Preservation Society, which Annie had good cause to recall with clarity. She'd had her first encounter with Miss Dora there when she'd come to Chastain to plan a mystery program for the annual house-and-garden tour, a mystery program marred by murder. Rising along the river were some of the stateliest old homes in Chastain, including Tarrant House and Miss Dora's home.
'And Courtney?' Max asked eagerly.
Smithson gripped the back of his desk chair. 'The car door was open.' The lawyer swallowed once, then said starkly, 'There are bloodstains in the car. On the front seat, the driver's side.' His voice was impassive, but the hand on the chair whitened at the knuckles. It took a moment before he was able to continue. 'But not a great amount'—he faltered —'of blood.'
'Bloodstains . . .' Max's face tightened. It was bad enough to find an abandoned purse. Worse to investigate a ransacked apartment. But blood . . . Max took a deep breath. 'No trace of Courtney?'
'None.' Smithson's face was gray. He pulled out the chair, slumped into it. 'I warned Courtney not to go to Chastain.'
Annie looked at him sharply. 'Why? Did you think something would happen to her there?'
His head jerked toward Annie. 'God, of course not. I would have stopped her somehow, if I'd had any idea. It never occurred to me she would be in danger. But I know—I think lawyers know better than most—that stirring up the past is a mistake. People don't expect it. They don't want it. But to have Courtney disappear—I never expected that.'
'What did you expect?' Max watched him closely. 'Perhaps some unpleasant surprises. That's what I told Courtney. To expect unpleasant surprises. I told her she was a
stubborn little idiot if she went to Chastain. And now . . .' He rubbed his eyes roughly.
'Why did she go?' Annie asked gently. 'What was so important, so urgent, so critical that she felt she had to go there?'
He stared at the two of them with reddened eyes. Finally, abruptly, he nodded. 'I tried to tell the police this morning, but they wouldn't listen. They said they had a suspect.' The lawyer's eyes fastened on Max. 'They said Courtney was running around with a married man.' For an instant, his gaze narrowed. 'They're talking about you, aren't they?'
Max nodded impatiently. 'Sure. For the same reason they wouldn't listen when you tried to tell them why Courtney came to Chastain. They don't want to hear anything connected with the Tarrant family.'
'The Tarrant family.' Smithson said it without warmth, indeed with anger. 'Old sins cast long shadows. I don't know, you see, what the truth is, I don't know what happened or why —but I know part of it and I can guess part of it.'
He leaned forward, looked at them searchingly.
It was very quiet in the elegant office, an office, Annie thought, that had rarely contained so much raw emotion, an office more suited to low-voiced, gentlemanly conferences, to the planning of wills and the ordering of estates. A pair of dark blue Meissen urns decorated the Adam mantel with its delicate stuccoed nymphs and garlands. The central panel of the mantel showed a fox hunt. A law book was open atop an Empire card table that sat between huge windows with jade-green damask drapes. A handsome mahogany secretary was open. A fine quill pen rested beside a filled cut-glass inkstand, as if waiting for a country squire to take his place to write in his
