Southern Ghost

said care­fully.

Whitney wasn't a talented lawyer. His suddenly smoothed-out expression was patently contrived. He wouldn't have fooled a jury for a minute. He sure didn't fool Max.

'Breakfast? Oh, I see. Were you and your wife living there on a permanent basis?' It wasn't quite an idle question, but the response surprised Max.

Anger and, even after all these years, embarrassment

flashed in the attorney's eyes. 'I was a young lawyer. I was just starting out.' His tone was clearly defensive. 'I didn't have the income to afford a home. Besides, Charlotte loved living at Tarrant House.'

'Did you?' Max asked quickly.

A dull flush stained Whitney's cheeks. He didn't answer.

Max tapped his notebook. 'I have some figures here—your family is quite well-to-do. Couldn't your parents have helped you and Charlotte with a home—or made one of the planta­tions available?'

'That's an offensive question, Darling.' Whitney walked to the door and flung it open. 'And I've got better things to do than be insulted by you.'

Max stood his ground. 'Did the Judge refuse to help you? Did he insist you earn enough money to support yourself outside of family income? I understand he never accepted money from his parents.'

Whitney's bony face twisted in a furious scowl. 'Get the hell out, Darling. Now.'

11:12 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Enid Friendley tapped politely on the door to the Judge's bed­room though she knew he was in his study. At the expected lack of response, she turned the heavy bronze doorknob and entered. As she moved swiftly around the room—Enid always moved quickly, though she begrudged every step in the service of this house—she dusted efficiently and thoroughly and savored the pleasure she felt when she saw that the carved mahogany box was no longer in place atop the Judge's dresser.

Chapter 14.

The Mt. Zion Baptist Church glistened in the early-morning sunlight. A cemetery adjoined the church, the plots beauti­fully cared for. The frame church had recently been repainted and was a dazzling white. The frame house on the far side of the church also sparkled with fresh paint. White and red im­ patiens grew in profusion in the front bed. Crimson azaleas flamed along the side of the tiny house.

Annie pulled into the shell drive. The slam of her car door sounded shockingly loud in the placid morning quiet.

As Annie approached, the front door opened. An imposing woman stepped out onto the porch. Her dark face held neither welcome nor hostility. Tall and slender, she waited, her hands folded across the midriff of her starched cotton housedress.

'Mrs. McKay?'

'Yes'm. You must be Miz Darling. Miss Dora called, said you were coming.' She didn't smile. Her face was grave and thoughtful.

Annie recognized strength of character. Lucy Jane McKaywould do what she thought was right—and the devil take the hindmost.

Annie was straightforward. 'There's a girl missing—and it's tied up with what happened a long time ago—to Judge Tarrant and to Ross.'

Lucy Jane looked at her searchingly. 'Miss Dora says this girl is the daughter of Mr. Ross and Miss Sybil.' A slow shake of her head. 'Miss Sybil—even then she was too pretty for any man to resist, but I thought it would all come right. Mr. Ross, he could handle her—nobody else ever could.' A faint, slightly possessive smile touched her lips. 'Mr. Ross—he was a fine young man, a strong, fine young man.' She nodded. Her decision was made. 'You're welcome to come in, Miz Dar­ling.'

The living room was small but cheerful, and it shone from loving care. The gingham curtains were freshly laundered, the wooden floor glistened with wax, the red-and-white braided throw rugs were bright and clean. The smell of baking hung in the air.

Annie sat in a comfortable easy chair and accepted a cup of coffee and a fresh cinnamon roll.

Lucy Jane poured Annie's coffee, then sat on the sofa, her posture erect, her dark eyes somber.

'Did Miss Dora tell you what we learned last night?' A bite of cinnamon roll melted in Annie's mouth.

'Yes'm.' Lucy Jane clasped her dark, strong hands to­gether. Her face was troubled. 'I always knew something was wrong—bad wrong—that day. I'd been in my quarters. It was afternoon and I was reading my Bible until time to go in the kitchen and set to work on dinner. I'd just looked up at the clock, to make sure time wasn't getting away from me, when I heard the shot. It was two minutes after four. I didn't know what to do. I know the sound guns make and there was no call