Southern Ghost

mind, it would be a little foolhardy merely to assume that the gun was in working condition. How could he count on it being loaded?'

'That could have been determined earlier,' Miss Dora re­plied dispassionately. 'Besides, loaded guns are no rarity in Chastain.'

Max walked toward the French doors and looked out into the garden. 'Would these doors have been locked that after­noon?'

'No. In Chastain, locked doors, of any kind, are a rarity.' The old lady too looked out at the garden. 'So, of course, the murderer could easily have entered from the piazza.'

Loaded guns and unlocked doors. And someone with mur­der in his heart. Or hers.

On the way out of the study, Annie glanced back at the tranquil room. Murder had occurred there, at that desk. Noth­ing today remained of that moment—except the time cap­tured by the silent clock on the beautiful old Queen Anne table. Annie shivered.

Her sense of horror grew as they climbed the magnificent staircase. This was a house teeming with violent memories. The bloodstain just before the landing was evident, a dark discoloration of the wood. It was obvious that the step had been scrubbed and scrubbed, but no amount of effort had washed away the last vestige of Robert Tarrant's blood. Annie skirted that uneven splotch and hurried after Miss Dora. Max gave her elbow a squeeze.

'Plenty of room up here.' Miss Dora stood at the top of the stairs like a tour guide. 'That door leads out to the second-story front piazza.' She turned, pointed her stick the opposite way. 'That door at the end of the hall goes out onto the second-story back piazza.

'There are six bedrooms upstairs.' Her silvered brows drew down in thought. 'It's been a good many years since I've been upstairs, but I believe the master bedroom is in the southeast corner.'

She stalked down the wide hall. Annie hoped her cane wouldn't snag the carpet runner. Miss Dora rapped the knobof her cane against the door, then opened it. 'Hmm, yes. As I thought. This is the master bedroom.'

Annie and Max peered over her shoulder. Annie definitely felt like a trespasser as she scanned the room, home now to Whitney and Charlotte. A pair of trousers in a pants press. An ornate silver jewel case on the dressing table, the lid open to reveal a handful of antique rings with stones of opal or carne­lian or jade. A book of poetry— Longfellow—facedown on the pale gold of the bedspread, which matched the linen window hangings and the delicate background color of the Chinese wallpaper. Acanthus leaves decorated the posts of the four-poster bed. Past the half-open closet door, Annie glimpsed a row of Whitney's suits and shirts.

Miss Dora thumped her cane to the floor and gripped the silver head. 'Now you've seen it. Much as it was twenty-two years ago. Let's go to the garden.'

When they came out on the first-floor piazza at the back of the house, Annie felt sweat trickling down her back and thighs. What had happened to their usual crisp, clear, dry days of spring? She took a deep breath and felt as though she'd gulped mist from a sauna. The storm couldn't come too soon to satisfy her. As if in answer, lightning crackled to the south, followed almost immediately by a low growl of thunder.

'Charlotte has a green thumb, no doubt about that. Amanda would be pleased. She loved this garden.' Miss Dora waggled her cane. 'She spent a good deal of time working the borders toward the back wall.'

In the murky light, the garden had the greenish, watery glow of an aquarium, the bright reds and pinks of the azaleas and camellias softened into smudged impressionist tints. Be­neath the scent of coming rain and freshly turned earth was the darker, angrier odor of fire. The charred remains of the museum dominated the garden, drawing the eye away from the superbly tended plantings. The garden's design—separate components scattered around the structures—was still evi­dent. Rosebushes in formal beds circled the fountain and its brick patio. Scarlet tulips formed a brilliant necklace around the obelisk. Bunches of flowering azaleas curved and flowed

around nooks and crannies with benches. Honeysuckle and bougainvillea cascaded over the garden walls. Willows ringed the pond near the bluff. An herb garden thrived near the kitchen. An arbor thickly covered with climbing roses kept the potting shed out of sight. It would be quite possible—it was planned for that effect—for several persons to enjoy soli­tude in the garden without intruding upon each other.

But the effects of the fire—the charred structure tumbled inward to create uneven heaps of debris, the trampled-down iris beds where the firemen had labored, the muddy spots where water had collected on the ground—gave the garden an aura of desolation, made even bleaker by the gray and cloudy day.

Faintly, a bell rang within the house.

Miss Dora' s pale lips tightened. 'It is time,' she said grimly, 'for the curtain to rise.'

Quickly, as if impelled by urgency, Miss Dora orchestrated the cast of survivors. In scarcely a quarter of an hour, each person was standing—if truthful—where he or she had been at ap­proximately four o'clock on Saturday, May 9, twenty-two years before.

In the central hallway of Tarrant House, Miss Dora shrugged as the last unwilling participant straggled out the back door. 'Can't prove who was where, after all this time. But only one person has reason to lie. Now, before we start'—wizened fingers scrabbled in the black reticule hanging from her left wrist—'I've some notes here.' She pulled out a tiny notebook, opened it to a page of crabbed writing, and said briskly, 'Amanda was in her room. Missy was asleep in the northwest bedroom—that belonged to Milam and Julia. Sam —he died about six years ago.' She paused, looking pleased. 'Ninety-seven and he walked two miles to church the day before he passed away. Sam was in his room in the servants' quarters. Just like Lucy Jane. Ross was in the garden. And the Judge was in the study. Clear?' she demanded.

Annie and Max both nodded and the old woman started up the mahogany steps.

Milam lounged in a wooden-slatted white chair on the second-story back piazza, a sketch pad in his lap. He didn't rise as they walked out on the piazza. He didn't look quite so much sullen as sardonic and bored. 'Nice to see you keeping interested in the world, Miss Dora.'

She eyed him coldly, her disapproval evident, but she made no response.

Milam tried again. 'I can see it now, the parlor game to end all parlor games. Re-create the day dear old Pater died—' 'Milam.'

The single snapped word silenced him and brought an unaccustomed tinge of pink to his plump cheeks.

Max tried conciliation. 'Milam, don't fight us. We're not the problem. The problem is what happened to your father twenty-two years ago. We need your help.'