Southern Ghost

with that box. She burned it up.' Enid gave them a challenging glance. 'Makes you wonder about the Judge. Doesn't it?'

'Pornographic photographs that he kept locked up?' Max asked innocently. 'How did you happen to know about them?'

Just for an instant, Enid's face was utterly unreadable. Then she shrugged her slim shoulders. 'One day I found the key on the floor near the closet.' She lifted her chin defiantly. 'I was curious. I'd noticed that locked box sitting up on his dresser when I dusted. It didn't hurt anything for me to look inside. I'll tell you, it was a shock. I was an unmarried woman. I'd never seen anything like that. I shut that box up quick as I could and put it and the key on his bedside table.' Now she laughed. 'I'd like to have seen his face when he found them there. I'll bet that gave him an almighty shock.' The amuse­ment slipped away, replaced with derision. 'The big folks in the big house weren't quite so wonderful, you see.'

'Folks,' Annie repeated. 'Were there others—besides the Judge—who weren't wonderful?'

Enid didn't hesitate. 'He was a stern taskmaster; she spoiled them.'

It was clear to Annie who Enid meant: the Judge and his wife, Amanda.

A brooding, faraway look settled on Enid's thin face. 'Is it any wonder they grew up all twisted? They tried to stand tall for their father, but Amanda was sly and cunning and they learned that, too. Whitney always looked to her to fix things when they went wrong for him. And Whitney's wife—she sucked up to the Judge from the day she first set foot in that house. Going on and on about the Tarrants and how wonderful they were.' A deep and abiding hatred burned in her eyes. 'She didn't talk about Godfrey Tarrant, who beat a slave with his whip until he died—and do you know what for?' More than a century and a half's worth of anger sharpened her voice. 'Because the slave—he was only seventeen and his name was Amos—lost one of Godfrey's precious hunting dogs.'

'That's dreadful,' Annie cried.

'That's dreadful!' Enid mimicked. 'It is, isn't it?' Her eyes blazed. She took a deep breath, then spoke more quietly. 'And that Milam's a queer one. He liked to hurt things, did

you know that? On Sunday afternoons, I could take some time for myself. There's a pond not far from the bluff. Twice I watched him throw those heavy round balls—stones that they used for ballast in the sailing ships, you can find them every­where—at the geese. He threw real well. Each time he hit two or three of the geese, hurt them. He didn't kill them. He watched them suffer. His face . . . it was all smooth and empty. He just watched.' A tiny shudder rippled her shoul­ders. 'The geese hurt, you know. They hurt real bad. I was behind a willow where he didn't see me. After he left, I killed them. If I hadn't—' She pressed a hand against her lips for a moment, then said very low, 'My grandmother died of cancer. She hurt so bad. Nobody—not a bird, not an animal—nobody should have to hurt like that.'

'What did you do about it?' Max demanded.

'Do about it?' She stared at Max in disbelief. 'What could I do about? Enid Friendley's word against a Tarrant?' She gave a mirthless chuckle. 'You didn't grow up black in Chastain, did you? But you want to know something?' Her voice rose. 'I grew up better than any one of them. I sure did. I know how to work and make my way and not a single one of them can do that. They're hangers-on, clinging to a family name and to money someone else made. And more than that'—she struck a small fist against an open palm—'I may not have succeeded with my marriage, but I'm a woman and I know how a woman's meant to love. If you could see your faces! You don't know what I mean, do you? And you think you know so much about the Tarrants. So high and mighty, the Tarrants. Well, you just ask Julia Tarrant about the woman she loved.'

When neither spoke, Enid continued angrily, 'I saw them, whether you want to believe it or not! It's an old house—a house that's probably seen more living than you'll ever even know about—and when you walk down the hall on the second floor, there's a board that gives and when it does, sometimes the door to the southeast bedroom swings open, nice and easy. The Judge was home unexpected. I think it was that Thurs­day. He came up the stairs, walking fast. I was in the hall with a load of sheets in my arms and that door came open and I sawthem, Julia and Amanda, and they were in each other's arms. I saw them, and so did the Judge.'

Milam's wife and his mother?

'Well, don't you suppose—' Annie began.

'I don't suppose nothing,' Enid snapped. 'I know what I saw. And the Judge, he was right behind me.' She jumped up. 'Cover it all up if you want to. It's no skin off my nose. But if you really want to know the truth—if you really want to find out what happened that day—you'd better talk to Julia.' Enid's eyes glinted maliciously. 'If you can ever find her so­ber.'

They argued all the way to Wisteree.

'Max, I don't believe it!' Annie recalled Julia on the night of Miss Dora's dinner party, frail, heart-shaped face, smudged violet eyes, the eyes of a child who knows no one cares.

Max gave her such a kind and gentle look that she blinked back tears. 'I am not naive. I know all about that kind of thing.'

His kindly nod undid her.

She exploded. 'Dammit, Max, stop treating me like I'm twelve. I'm not dumb. I just think it, would be weird—' She paused.

Max was nodding.

'Weird?' she asked.

The Maserati coasted to a stop at a ramshackle gate. A

weathered sign dimly read WISTEREE PLANTATION.

'I'll get the gate,' Annie muttered, hopping out. As she swung the gate wide—despite its unkempt appearance, the gate had recently been oiled and it swung open fast and with­out a sound—she continued the debate as the Maserati rolled forward between ivy-twined stone pillars. A stone pineapple sat atop one, a partial stump on the other. 'Everybody dumps on Julia. It's damned easy to accuse her of just about anything. She's white meat.' Annie pushed the gate shut. She hurried to the car and climbed in. She hardly took time to admire the enormous live oaks that marched along either side of the shell

road. 'Take a look at her accuser. Enid Friendley may be a model of independence and an accomplished