Southern Ghost

Max gave Annie a meaningful glance as he pulled open the door to follow Milam.

Annie understood. Max wanted her to take advantage of Milam's irritation. She'd find out a lot more if she talked to Julia alone.

As the door closed behind Milam and Max, Annie hurried down the steps and followed the oyster-shell path around the house. The unkempt appearance of the house didn't extend to the grounds, once beyond the uncontrolled grove of live oaks. She stepped out of the murky light beneath the moss-spangled oaks into a gardener's paradise. The perfumed scents of well-tended banana shrubs and mock orange mingled with the headier smells of honeysuckle and wisteria. There were no weeds among the golden-rimmed iris or carnelian tulips. Be­hind the house, glossy ivy cascaded down a brick wall. Annie pushed open a gate and stopped, dazzled by beauty. Azaleas, camellias and roses, hibiscus, lilies and Cherokee rose, lilac bignonia, Lady Banksia rose and purple wisteria rimmed or climbed the garden walls in a riotous explosion of colors that shimmered in the hazy morning sunlight. The central pool was dominated by a bronze cornucopia that had aged to the soft green of emerald grass in an Irish rain. Water spilled out to splash down softly in a gentle, cheerful murmur. Behind the fountain, a weathered gazebo offered a shady retreat. The loveliness of the scene was almost beyond bearing; the sense of peace, healing.

Julia Tarrant, a tomato-colored kerchief capping her dark hair, knelt beside a prepared bed, setting out pink and white impatiens from the waiting flats. Absorbed in her task, shelooked young and almost happy, her lips parted in a half-smile.

Annie wished she could slip away and leave Julia adrift in private dreams.

But Courtney Kimball was missing. The Judge had been murdered. Ross was tricked out of life. Amanda fell to her death.

Annie steeled herself and stepped forward. Her shoes crunched on the oyster shells.

Julia's head whipped around. Any illusion of youth or hap­piness fled. Her face was fine-drawn and pale, the eyes dark pools of pain. Slowly, as if weary to the bone, she pushed up from the ground, leaving her trowel jammed upright in the fresh-turned dirt. Stripping off the encrusted gardening gloves, she stood waiting, looking vulnerable and defenseless in her too-large, faded work shirt, loose-fitting jeans, and earth-stained sneakers.

'Mrs. Tarrant. We met at Miss Dora's—'

'I remember.' What might have been a flash of humor glinted in her sad eyes. 'It hasn't been all that long ago.' There was an element of graciousness; she would ignore the boorish assumption that she had been too drunk to recall, if Annie would.

There was graciousness, too, in her shy smile. 'Shall we sit in the gazebo, Mrs. Darling? It's very cheerful.'

As they settled opposite each other in recently painted, white slatted wooden chairs, the kind Annie always associated with a boardwalk along a beach, Julia ineffectually rubbed her hands against her pants. 'It's hard to garden without getting muddy even when you wear gloves,' she confided. Then she looked at Annie, her gentle gaze as direct and open as a child's. 'You want to talk about the Judge, don't you?'

'Yes, please.' Annie wished with all her heart that the Judge was all she had come to talk about.

Julia pulled off her kerchief and fluffed her hair. 'I never liked him.' She looked quickly back at Annie. 'Does that shock you?'

'No.' Annie's answer was truthful. 'He must have been a difficult man to live with.'

Julia stared down at her dirty hands. 'I never felt that 1 ever really knew him. He was . . . so distant. Among us, with us, but never one of us. It was as if some kind of invisible wall stood between him and the rest of us.' She looked out at her lovely garden, but her vision was focused in the past. 'He was perfect, you know.' She spoke softly, sadly. 'So we all had to be perfect—and we weren't. Whitney's afraid. He's always been afraid. He can't do so many things. Charlotte hides be­hind the Family. I don't know why. But there are so many things I don't know. Charlotte feels bigger, better because her last name is Tarrant. I wish—I wish I could take comfort there. But it doesn't matter.' She gave a tiny, revealing, mel­ancholy sigh. 'Nothing matters very much to me.' She shaded her eyes and looked out at the shimmering colors of the flow­ers and shrubs. 'It's better,' she said simply, 'when I'm out­side, when I can smell the fresh earth and feel the sun on my face. I feel a part of everything then.'

'Did loving Amanda make you feel a part of everything?' It was the hardest question Annie had ever asked.

Slowly, Julia's worn face turned toward Annie. Once again that bruised look darkened her eyes. She sat so still in the big white wooden chair, she might have been a part of it. She said, 'Everyone loved Amanda.'

Annie, hating every minute of it, said gruffly, 'Someone saw you and Amanda.'

Julia was silent for so long that Annie thought she wouldn't answer. But, finally, her eyes evading Annie's, she spoke softly, like the wind sighing through a weeping willow. 'False witness. That's what you say when people lie, isn't it?'

Annie shifted uncomfortably, steeling herself. 'Was it a lie?'

Julia's lips trembled.

The coos of the doves sounded a mournful requiem, and the sharp thumps of a red-cockaded woodpecker were as loud as drums beating a dirge.

'What do you want me to say?' Julia asked. 'You've madeup your mind, haven't you? Just like Judge Tarrant made up his—and it didn't matter what Amanda or I said to him.' Tears glistened in her eyes. She swallowed, then said jerkily, 'Have you ever—'

Annie leaned forward to hear that thin, tormented voice. '—walked into a room and looked into someone's eyes and thought, 'I love you. I love you!' '

That poignant cry touched Annie's heart. And she under­stood. Yes. Oh, yes, she understood. A few years ago, she had walked into a room and a young man—blond with tousled hair and the darkest blue eyes she'd ever seen— had looked at her and smiled and she had been swept by a passion that would shape her life forever.

Julia's hands gripped the little kerchief, clutched it as if it were a lifeline. 'That's how I felt about Amanda.' The kerchief twisted in her hands. 'But it wasn't wrong.' She stared at Annie piteously. 'It wasn't wrong, I swear it.'