Southern Ghost

businesswoman, she's also small-spirited and she has a mean mouth. Maybe we ought to look at how she went to college. Did the Judge send her because he wanted to help her—or did she take his money to keep quiet about that locked trunk?'

Max reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. 'Okay, be Julia's champion. But remember, Annie, someone did shoot Judge Tarrant and that someone caused Ross's death, as surely as if they pulled the trigger that day at the hunting lodge. And the murderer's face is going to be someone you know­Milam, Julia, Whitney, Charlotte, one of the servants, Lucy Jane or Enid. Maybe Miss Dora. Maybe even Sybil. And that person knows what happened to Courtney Kimball.'

The Maserati crunched to a stop in front of an old Low Country house that showed signs of neglect. A shutter hung askew on the second story, and paint flaked from the slender Doric columns supporting the sagging portico. The stuccoed walls were a faded, dusty rose, the shutters a dingy white. It was not a house that looked happily lived in. An arm was broken off one of the slatted wooden porch chairs. Weeds sprouted in the shell drive. Unpruned live oaks pressed too near, turning the air a murky green.

'Not Sybil,' Annie exclaimed as they climbed out of the car.

They started up the broad, shallow steps. Max said gravely, 'It could be. What if Sybil already knew she was pregnant that day? What if the Judge found out about Sybil and Ross's planned elopement and threatened to tell her parents?'

What might Sybil have done? Annie had seen Sybil fiercely angry, so she knew the answer to that one— anything was possible.

'But Sybil didn't know about Courtney, Max. I'd swear to that! And there's no way she would have hurt her own daugh­ter.'

'If she had,' Max said it so low Annie almost couldn't hear him, 'she would act just as she has—the distraught, vengefulmother. She hasn't been a mother, you know. How much does she really care?'

The porch was gritty underfoot. Twisted wires poking out of a small dark hole marked where there was once a doorbell. A tarnished metal knocker was in the center panel of a truly majestic entrance door. Above curved an elegant multipaned Palladian window, the panes streaked with dust.

Max rapped the knocker against its base.

Annie pictured faces now so familiar: Sybil, gorgeous and self-absorbed, a woman careless of her reputation, a beautiful creature accustomed to satisfying the desires of the moment; Whitney, a blurred reproduction of generations of Tarrants, his aristocratic face weak-chinned and unimposing; unremark­able, respectable clubwoman Charlotte, more interested in dead Tarrants than live ones; Milam with his earring and ponytail, showing an almost childish eagerness to flout soci­ety's conventions, but that could be a clever way to hide much darker, more sinister impulses; alcohol-sodden Julia clinging to dignity, but no matter how much she drank she couldn't hide the aching emptiness in her eyes; Lucy Jane, who so clearly knew something she didn't want to tell; waspish Enid, proud of her hard work, resentful of the Tarrants, and eager to drag them down; tiny, wizened Miss Dora—after all, they had only her word that she'd been in the garden with Ross when the shot that killed Augustus Tarrant rang out.

The front door to Wisteree Plantation slowly opened.

4:01 P.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 19.

The Judge looked up eagerly as the French door opened. But— disappointment caught at his heart—it wasn't Ross, coming to say he was wrong. But Ross couldn't have meant what he said! Not Ross. As for the other, the matter was closed. 'Yes,' Augustus said brusquely, 'what is it?'

His visitor spoke very quietly. 'You've always been so rea­sonable and I hope—'

'Reasonable! 0f course I am. But the right decision, once made, is final.' It was as impersonal and abrupt as a ruling from the bench.

Those were the last words of the Honorable Augustus Tar­ rant.

The Judge's soundless oh of shock was lost in the roar of the gun.

Annie's nose wrinkled at the waft of acrylic from the paint-streaked rag in Milam's hand. He stood squarely in the door­way, blocking their entrance. In his stained, ragged sweatshirt and faded Levis, a calico bandanna bunching his scraggly hair out of the way, he looked like a working painter—and, at this moment, he looked damned irritated.

'Fuck. You two again.'

Annie didn't have to look to know anger glinted in Max's eyes.

'Is painting this morning more important than Courtney Kimball's life? Or your father's murder?' Max demanded sharply.

Milam heaved an exaggerated sigh. 'All right, all right. If I blow you off, you'll snivel back to Aunt Dora—and I don't want the old devil to leave her money to a home for abandoned cats. Be just like her. So, what the hell do you want now?'

'The truth.' Max looked beyond Milam into the shadowy hall. 'Is your wife here?'

'Julia's not in the house,' Milam said indifferently. 'She's out in the garden somewhere.' He gestured vaguely toward the back.

'I'll go find her,' Annie offered.

'Suit yourself.' Milam started to close the door. Max said quickly, 'I want to talk to you, Milam.' Another exaggerated sigh. Milam shrugged. 'Let's get it

over with.' He turned and started down the hall.