know more about that day because the principals are all be yond this earthly vale of tears.'
'I will know more.' The old woman spoke with utter confidence.
Again, taut silence stretched.
'You see,' the whispery voice continued, 'no one has ever questioned the official version, Ross dead of an accidental gunshot wound; Augustus dead from a heart attack upon hearing the shocking news.' She smiled grimly, her ancient face an icy mask of contempt. 'All of you—except dear Sybil, of course— were in Tarrant House that day. Whitney, how did you learn of Ross's `accident'?' Her voice lingered deliberately on the final word.
Whitney stood with his hands clasped behind him, rockingback and forth. He had the wary look of a man suddenly confronted with a minefield and ordered to cross it. He cleared his throat. 'Grandfather told me.'
Annie's mind went back to her painstakingly inked family trees. That would be Harmon Brevard, Amanda's father. 'What time was that?' Miss Dora's question was rapier?
quick.
Whitney looked confused.
'It's disrespectful to the dead.' Nervously, Charlotte pleated her white chiffon skirt. 'Miss Dora, this is dreadful, like pulling and picking at bones.'
But Miss Dora ignored Charlotte's shrill protest. The old
lady's imperious gaze never left her great-nephew's face. Whitney moved restively. 'God, it's been twenty—' 'Whitney,' Miss Dora said sharply.
Whitney moved restively, then glanced uncertainly toward his brother.
Annie squeezed Max's hand. How revealing! Whitney, the member of the bar, the substantial brother, still deferred to his older brother, whom Annie had supposed to be the weaker personality of the two. Or was that just society's prejudice taking over, the assumption that a lawyer of substance in a community would, of course, dominate an older, unconven tional sibling.
Milam sniggered, breaking the silence. 'May as well give up, brother dear.' He fluffed the thick blond hair over his collar. 'Aunt Dora always did have your number. Oh, well, I don't suppose it matters after all these years. Why not let the truth come out—'
'Milam, no!' Charlotte importuned. Panic shrilled her voice.
'Truth!' Sybil said harshly. 'What truth?' In the light from the glittering chandelier, her eyes glowed a hot, deep black.
'Your sweetie pie shot himself all right.' Milam's light, high voice held a sickening note of satisfaction. 'Suicide in the first degree, my dear Sybil. That's why dear Papa dropped
dead—he and Ross had enjoyed a hell of a nasty little scene and —'
Hands raised, Sybil launched herself with a deep cry. Her fingernails raked Milam's face, scoring crimson slashes on both cheeks.
Milam stumbled backwards, swearing and awkwardly struggling to push away Sybil's slender, green-gowned body.
But it was Julia's drunken voice that cut through the sound and fury and brought a terrible quiet to the drawing room.
Julia stood at the sideboard, pouring brandy sloppily into a cut-glass tumbler. She plunked down the decanter and picked up the glass in her trembling hand. ' 's true, Sybil. Because it was the same gun, you know. Ross took the gun that killed the Judge and used it on himself.'
Sybil tore free of Milam's grip and whirled to face her distant cousin's wife. 'The gun that killed the Judge? Jesus Christ, Julia, what are you saying?'
10:15 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Whitney lifted his hand to knock at the door of the study, then let it fall. He felt, at the same time, hot and uncomfortable and cold and sick. He hadn't hurt the firm. Not really. To he thrown out, to have nowhere to go— once again he could hear his father's icy, contemptuous voice, 'A lawyer's conduct must always be above reproach.' Christ, hadn't he ever wanted a woman like Jessica? Whitney pictured his father's thin, merciless, ascetic face. His shoulders slumped. He turned. Blindly, he walked away from the study door.
Chapter 11.
'Julia!' Milam's voice was still high, but shorn of mockery, his tone sharp, urgent, imperative.
Julia clutched the tumbler of whisky in trembling hands and looked at her husband uncertainly. 'Truth, Milam.' Her voice was slurred; her mouth quivered. There was a smear of crimson lipstick on one cheek. 'You said we'd tell the truth.'
'Let her speak, Milam.' Miss Dora stalked between them.
