Southern Ghost

Charlotte looked at him resentfully, but answered before Miss Dora could intervene. 'It must have been just before

nine. Yes.' She spoke with more assurance, looking toward Whitney. 'It was just before nine, wasn't it?'

Her husband nodded, but he was staring at the piazza, with its scattering of broken glass. 'Hell of a thing, to have some­one break in. Never happened before. Never.'

Wells wrote briefly in his notebook. 'So, the brick could have been thrown through the French door anytime between ten this morning and nine tonight.' He sounded profoundly unhappy.

Annie didn't blame him. That was a hell of a time span. The chief glanced back inside the library. 'Was the drawer locked?'

No one spoke.

Now Wells became impatient. 'Mr. Tarrant, was that drawer—the one where the gun was kept—was it generally kept locked?'

'No.' Whitney sounded puzzled. 'It's just an ordinary desk, Chief. I keep my important papers at the office.'

'So you had this gun in a drawer where anyone could get at it?' His disgust with careless householders was apparent. An­nie didn't blame him.

Whitney's head jerked up. 'I beg your pardon. It isn't as though our library is a public thoroughfare. That weapon has been kept there for years and —'

'How many years?' Wells demanded.

The silence this time was distinctly strained.

Whitney and Charlotte glanced at each other.

Charlotte gasped. 'Whitney, I never thought—was that the gun—' She whimpered and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

Whitney blinked nervously. 'It was the Judge's gun from the War. It was always kept there until—oh, God, I don't know what happened that day! But that's the gun'—he swal­lowed convulsively—'my brother used. Granddad brought it to me months later and asked if I wanted it back. I said yes because somehow that made it seem as if it had truly ended.'

'Loaded?' Wells asked.

Whitney's eyes fell away from the chiefs cold stare. That was answer enough.

'World War Two issue, that would be a forty-five-caliber Colt M- nineteen-eleven-A-one.' Wells absently moved the wad of tobacco in his cheek. 'All right. So somebody took it sometime today.' He scrawled in his notebook.

Max stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, his face thoughtful. 'Miss Dora, you called Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant to­night and arranged for tomorrow's gathering here. And you must also have called the others.'

Annie expected another outburst from Charlotte Tarrant. But the harried woman satisfied herself with a silent, vengeful look at Miss Dora.

'I did indeed. And that meeting shall occur as I have decreed.' Miss Dora ignored Charlotte. 'Why do you ask?'

'It would be very interesting to know,' Max said slowly, 'if that gun was taken after your phone calls.'

Chief Wells's heavy head turned toward Max. 'What do you have in mind, Darling?'

Max looked toward the piazza. 'I'm not certain, Chief. It's just that the murderer may be getting scared—and that wor­ries me.'

Wells's jaw moved rhythmically. His huge hand dropped to the butt of the pistol holstered on his hip. His message was unmistakable. 'You don't need to worry, Darling. I'll be here.'

The St. George Inn was lovely, but it wasn't home. There was no pistachio ice cream in the freezer. The pantry lacked brownies laced with raspberry, and the supply of peanut but­ter cookies was dangerously low. Coffee, of course, they had in abundance, and the thermos had kept the Colombian decaf hot. But there was something terribly unsatisfactory about coffee unaccompanied by edibles.

'Want a cookie?' Annie asked. She hoped her guardian angel was dutifully posting a gold star because there were only

four peanut butter cookies left, and if Max took one now and so did she, that would leave only one for bedtime and one for breakfast and, as all peanut butter cookie lovers know, that would make a bummer out of breakfast.

'No thanks, sweetie. More coffee, though.' Max held up his cup, but he never lifted his eyes from his papers.

Annie reached for a cookie. She was too cool, too disci­plined to grab. Crunch. Pure pleasure. She looked up at the clock. Almost eleven. God, what a night. And she was still worried about pale, driven Harris Walker. At least he hadn't been arrested. Annie suspected Walker was free because he'd given the police permission to search his car