Southern Ghost

and loving son. I have no doubt but that some scene such as that envisioned by Charlotte did indeed occur; Ross was convinced of his mother's guilt.'

'So this bloody little exercise of yours, dear Aunt Dora, has been for naught.' Milam grabbed his half-full tumbler from the table and lifted it. 'On behalf of your grateful and admir­ing family,' he said furiously, 'may I thank you for this scin­tillating evening of civilized entertainment—and for Christ's sake, don't invite us next time.' He downed the whisky, slammed the glass onto the table, and turned to his wife. 'Come on, Julia.'

'Milam, my inquiry is merely beginning.' Miss Dora re­sponded imperturbably, indifferent to his sarcasm. 'Surely you understand that I would not call you here tonight merely to reopen wounds. Were Amanda the guilty party, there would be no need for an inquiry. But Amanda was not guilty.

Ross was in error, an error which proved mortal for him and which has caused enormous pain and anguish on the part of those who loved him.'

Milam glared at Miss Dora. 'What the hell do you have up your sleeve now?'

'Mother didn't do it.' Whitney's relief was enormous. Then, his shoulders sagged. 'But, God, that means we don't know who killed the Judge.'

Miss Dora reached out to take Sybil's hand. 'I am afraid, my dear, that the road you travel is to be more difficult still. I know that you have courage. Will you join me in a journey filled with travail?'

'Nothing worse could happen to me than has already hap­pened,' Sybil said dully, the muscles in her face slack from misery.

Miss Dora gave Sybil's hand a quick squeeze, then loosed her grasp. 'You will need all of your strength, my child.'

Annie stepped closer to Max. It was comforting, in the midst of this puzzling—no, frightening—exchange, to be close to the most reassuring person she'd ever known. But even Max, his brows drawn in a tight frown, looked uneasy. What next, for God's sake?

'I don't understand.' Charlotte's voice rose querulously. 'What does Sybil have to do with any of it?'

Miss Dora ignored Charlotte's question, but she gave her full attention to Charlotte. 'You are an intelligent woman, Charlotte, intelligent, perceptive, responsible.'

Charlotte accepted the accolade with a complacent nod, and some of the strain seeped out of her face.

'So'—it was a hard-edged, jolting demand—'why haven't you called the police to offer them information about Court­ney Kimball?' Miss Dora's obsidian eyes surveyed Charlotte like an alligator eyeing a succulent cottonmouth.

Charlotte's mouth moved, but no words came. Pudgy fin­gers clawed at her necklace.

If the atmosphere of the room had been tense before, now it was surely electric.

An odd wheezing sound emanated from the old lady.

Annie looked at her in concern, then realized Miss Dora was amused.

'Cat have your tongues, all of you? You know who I'm talking about, each and every one of you. The young woman who's opened this all up again—she's the reason we're here tonight. And she's the reason I won't let this drop until we know the truth. Because one of you'—there was no laughter now on that wizened parchment face —'one of you may have taken another life—and this time I won't tolerate it. Do you hear me?'

'Who?' Sybil asked. 'What are you talking about, Miss Dora?'

'Pretty girl.' Julia wavered unsteadily. 'Came out to Wis-' teree on Monday. Told her how nice Amanda was. Her grand?

mother.'

Spots of color burned in Charlotte's cheeks. 'Nonsense. She showed me a copy of that letter Monday, too. For all we know, she found a letter from Amanda to her mother and copied the handwriting. I don't care what kind of heiress she may be, that doesn't mean we can let her make up stories about us. There is only one Tarrant grandchild, our daughter, Harriet.'

Julia giggled. 'And Harriet doesn't give a damn.' At Charlotte's enraged glare, Julia tried to stifle her little hiccups of laughter. 'Don't care. It's true. Want truth? Bet you don't even know where Harriet is.'

'Harriet will come home someday. And no impostor is going to take her place,' Charlotte said stiffly.

'I don't understand any of this.' Sybil looked from Char?

lotte to Miss Dora. 'Who are we talking about?'

Whitney intervened impatiently. 'Christ, Sybil, don't you ever read the newspaper? The girl who's disappeared, the one who claims Ross was her father.'

Every muscle in Sybil's body hardened. She stood for an instant as if turned to stone, but her eyes, wild, shocked, stunned eyes, huge and imploring, clung to Whitney. 'Her father!' Abruptly, as if launched from a catapult, she was across the room, clutching her cousin's arm. 'A girl who says Ross was her father?'

'That's what she said, Sybil.' Pulling free of Sybil's grasp, Whitney glanced toward his wife, then continued defiantly. 'Attractive young woman. Though I suppose that's neither here nor there. She claimed to have a letter from Mother saying that Ross wasn't guilty, that no matter what anyone should say, Courtney should know that her father was inno­ cent. She gave me a photocopy of the letter—' He looked briefly at his wife. 'It sure looked like Mother's handwriting, but everyone knows Mother wasn't herself—before she died.'

'Courtney.' Sybil's voice shook. 'When was she born?'

'How in the world should we know?' Charlotte said irrita­bly.

'When was she born?' Sybil cried desperately.