Southern Ghost

But he refused to look at his great-aunt. 'She's upset. We're going home,' and he took a step toward Julia.

Miss Dora's cane slashed upward, barring him from touch­ing his wife. 'No, Milam. Not yet. Not until we know pre­cisely what occurred that day. Julia, I want you—'

Sybil flew past them both. Her strong, beautifully mani­cured hands clutched Julia's thin shoulders. Bourbon spilled down the front of Julia's dress, and the tumbler crashed to the floor. 'Who shot the Judge? When was he shot?'

Julia stood helplessly in Sybil's grip. She blinked. 'I tol' you. You asked me. I tol' you. Ross shot him. That's what happened, he left a note and—'

Sybil let go of Julia and in a swift explosion of rage struck the drunken woman across the face.

Julia wavered unsteadily on her feet and began to whimper. Her arms hung straight and limp. She didn't touch her cheek.

Miss Dora swung toward Sybil. 'Enough. Get back, Sybil. Now.'

But Sybil, of them all, was not cowed by Miss Dora. Ignor­ing the old woman, she spat at Julia, 'Never! Ross never shot his father; Ross never killed himself. Never.' Her voice was as deep as a lion's roar and as full of danger. 'Lies, all of it, lies.'

'You weren't there, Sybil.' Whitney nervously smoothed his thinning hair. 'What were we going to do? Nothing would bring Dad or Ross back. They were both dead; we had Ross's note. Did we want to be entertainment for the tabloids? What would that have done to Mother? Dr. Rutledge agreed. It wasn't even that hard to do. The bullet'—his voice shook—'left only a small slit in Dad's coat and most of the bleeding was internal. The bullet lodged in his chest. There was no indication at all, other than the entry wound, that he'd been shot. I helped Dr. Rutledge put a fresh shirt and coat on him, and when he was taken to the funeral home, the director was instructed to cremate him immediately.'

Annie, still holding tight to Max's hand, looked from face to face.

Miss Dora, her dark, hooded eyes glittering, pursed her mouth in concentration.

Charlotte's plump face was pasty, like uncooked dough left to rise too long.

Milam banged his half-empty tumbler of whisky onto the Queen Anne table and pulled Julia into the circle of his pro­tecting arm. The bloody scratches on his cheeks were in shock­ing contrast to the flippant pink of his dinner jacket. Julia slumped against her husband. Milam took the handkerchief from his pocket and brushed at the tears on her red-splotched cheeks, then pressed it against the wet front of her dress. Bright drops of blood welled from his scratches.

Sybil's glossy black hair rippled as she shook her head from side to side. 'No. You don't understand, Whitney, Ross and

I . . .' She pressed her fingers against her temples for ar instant, then, her lovely face hard and resolute, demanded, 'When was the Judge shot?'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Sybil, let it go.' Milam glared at her. 'It was a fucking mess. We did the best we could.'

Annie tensed, wondering if Sybil would fly at him next.

Miss Dora, too, obviously feared another explosion. She spoke quickly, her raspy voice commanding. 'Sybil, come stand by me. I promise you that we shall pursue this.'

Sybil resisted for a long, tense moment. Then, with the contained ferocity of a caged tigress, she moved to Miss Dora's side. But her angry gaze probed each Tarrant in turn.

Charlotte rose and stepped forward. 'Miss Dora, I beg you —'

Miss Dora lifted her voice to override Charlotte. 'I assure all of you that I have good reason, which I shall reveal in due time. Now, we shall proceed in an orderly fashion.' She fas­tened her icy, uncompromising gaze on Whitney. 'I wish a clear, concise outline of that day's events.'

Whitney once again darted an uncertain glance at his older brother. Then he said sullenly, 'I agree with Milam. I don't see any point in—'

'Whitney.'

Grudgingly, he began. 'We didn't know what had hap­pened for a while. At least, I didn't. I was in the garage. It was about four o'clock. I heard a bang. But it didn't seem all that close. And I was on the far side from Dad's study. I heard it, but I didn't think much about it. I suppose, if I gave it any thought at all, that it was probably kids down on the river. Anyway, it must have been about ten, fifteen minutes later that Ross ran into the garage. He looked—wild. And he was carrying Dad's gun, the one Dad brought back from the war. It was crazy. He was supposed to be at school, and, all of a sudden, here he was in the garage, carrying Dad's gun. I asked him what the hell he was doing. He just stared at me as if he'd never seen me before. I can't describe that look.