'Oh, yeah. How could I have missed it?' Max frowned, glanced toward the room with the now-silent fax. 'Yeah, well. I suppose the old dear's safe enough.'
'Safe enough?' Annie asked.
'I mean,' Max took the fax from her and waggled it, 'this looks like she was out hobbling around making a photograph in the middle of the night. And God knows what this is really a picture of. But I don't suppose it matters.'
Annie was steering him to the table as he continued to mutter.
As he sank into his chair, she took the fax, handed him a legal pad, and said crisply, 'Would you want her to join us here?'
At his horrified look, she nodded and slipped into the chair opposite him.
'God, no,' he said simply. 'Okay, let's see where we are, Annie. Do you have the bio on Enid Friendley?'
Annie found it fourth in her stack and handed it to Max.
'Okay, okay.' Max scanned the sheet. 'Enid Friendley. Born February fifth, 1952, in Hardeeville. Mother Eloise an LPN, father, Donald, a short-order cook. Only child. Began working at Tarrant House while still in high school. Worked her way through community college while running a catering service. At Tarrant House for only two years, 1968-70. Her catering service, Low Country Limited, solidly successful, with gross receipts last year in excess of three hundred thousand dollars. Married in 1976 to William Pittman of Beaufort, one child, Edward, 1977, divorced 1979. Kept maiden name professionally. Extremely hard worker, seven days a week, ten
hours a day. Her widowed mother lives with her, takes care of Edward. An innovative, original cook with a flair for catering successful parties from luaus to barbecues. A strict, demand ing employer, no shirking allowed. On formal terms with both customers and employees. Rarely smiles. Intense. Always moves at high speed, impatient with those who don't move or think as quickly, but not unpleasant. A former assistant said, 'Enid's all business, but she's fair and she treats people right. You know how this kind of business goes, a lot of people work part-time, no health benefits, no pension, but if you're one of Enid's workers and you've done good for her, she'll help you out. Sam Berry got laid off from the cement company and he was about to lose his house and Enid helped him with the payments until he got regular work again. There's lots of stories like that. All she asks is you pay her back when you can.' Her ex-husband said, 'They ought to put Enid in charge of the world. It'd run a damn sight better. I'll tell you, she'd make everybody toe the mark. That's one tiger woman.' ' Max grinned. 'Sounds like a tired man.'
But Annie wasn't interested in Mr. Pittman. 'Hey, she sounds all right. I'll bet she's got some snappy views on the Tarrants.' She glanced at the clock. Almost nine. But that wasn't too late. 'Max, let's call Enid Friendley. Maybe she'll even see us tonight.'
Annie was reaching for the phone when it began to ring.
11:55 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Judge Tarrant was a stickler for punctuality. Lunch at Tarrant House was served at precisely twelve noon daily. Shortly before noon, the Judge left his study. A moment after the door into the hall closed, the French door from the piazza swung in. The intruder moved swiftly across the untenanted room. It took only seconds for gloved hands to pull open the bottom left drawer of the desk and grab the Judge's gun. In a few seconds more, the French door clicked shut.
Chapter 17.
Charlotte Tarrant was a woman in a frenzy. 'We're all going to be killed! That's what's going to happen!' Her head whipped from side to side as she stood beside the flowering wisteria—Annie would always remember the sweet violet scent and those wild, terrified eyes—and words spewed from Charlotte's trembling mouth, a red gash against a pasty white face. The yard light beaming down from the corner live oak surrounded the chatelaine of Tarrant House in a circle of radi ance as neatly as a spot on center stage. 'Who's doing this? I'll tell you who it is—it's that girl! Who says she's missing? Those people?' Her voice rose hysterically as she pointed at Annie and Max. 'Why are they here? This is Tarrant property. Tarrant property.' Furiously, she turned on Whitney. 'Get them out of here. Make them leave. Maybe they broke in! Why are they here?' She clutched her husband's arm.
'Take Charlotte inside, Whitney.' Miss Dora lifted her cane and pointed toward the steps. 'She's distraught.' The old lady peered up at the piazza and the squatting form of thepolice chief. A patrolman stood slightly behind Wells, hold ing a huge flashlight.
Shattered glass sparkled in the pool of light. The broken pane in the French door was beside the handle. The door was ajar. The cone of light illuminated a patch of Persian rug, pale gray touched with silver and rose, the russet gleam of mahog any, and, lying on the piazza, the chunk of brick that had been used to break the glass.
'Let's go back inside, Charlotte,' Whitney urged. 'The chief will take care of everything—'
Charlotte hung back. 'We don't know who's in there. What if someone's
