Southern Ghost

'Look, Darling, if I knew what really happened, I'd tell you. But I don't have any f—' He paused, looked at Miss Dora, then continued, 'I don't know. And I don't think this afternoon will tell you anything.'

'Maybe not,' Max said agreeably. 'Let's talk about your father.'

Milam's face was still and guarded.

'And your mother.' Max's blue eyes were intent. 'Did you know they were going to separate?'

'I think you've been misled,' Milam drawled. 'That would be out of character. For both of them.'

His eyes dropped. He stared at his tightly clenched hands. Annie felt a rush of excitement. Milam did know. The question was, did he know why?

'What kind of marriage did they have?' Annie asked.

Those graceful hands, artist's hands, slowly relaxed. He flicked her a derisive glance. 'I was their oldest son. Not their confidant. I don't have any damned idea. They were polite to each other. Very polite. They never quarreled. What they did —or didn't do—behind closed doors, I don't know. But what difference does it make? Mother's not here to take the rap.'

'If,' Max said slowly, and Annie knew he wanted to be careful in what he said, 'your father intended to force your mother to leave Tarrant House, would you have any idea why?'

'No.'

There was no way to know whether he spoke the truth. 'About your mother's fall from the bluff—'

For the first time, anger laced Milam's voice. 'Wait a min­ute, Darling. Are you suggesting I gave my mother a shove off the path?'

'Somebody did.' Miss Dora's gravelly tone was certain.

Milam's head jerked up. This, obviously, was an altogether new thought—and an unpleasant one—to Milam. Or was he simulating shock?

'Why?' he demanded harshly, his voice raw with disbelief. Max rocked back on his heels. 'Somehow she discovered that Ross wasn't guilty—'

A sharply indrawn breath brought silence. They all looked at Miss Dora.

'If only Amanda had told me, shared—' Miss Dora gazed somberly at Milam. 'I came to see her. One year to the day of your father's death. You must remember that I had not been told what happened. I knew only the story that had been made public: Ross dead of an accident, the Judge collapsing with a heart attack. Amanda and I sat in the drawing room, with tea. It was a rainy afternoon. We talked about the Judge. And about Ross. It must have been fate—or the hand of God—or of the Devil. I don't know. I said that I would never forget Ross, moving so quickly at the sound of a shot that afternoon and he himself to be dead so soon in an accident with a gun. She looked at me strangely, but I thought it was grief, the pain of remembering. She said, 'You and Ross heard a shot?' And I replied—I had no reason not to do so—I said so care­lessly, never dreaming how much harm I was doing with those words, 'Oh, yes, about four o'clock. I was at the gate. I could see Ross standing in the garden.' Amanda looked quite faint. So I poured her more tea and then she thanked me for comingbut said she must go upstairs, to rest. Don't you see? That's when she realized—and then she began to think.'

It could, Annie realized, have happened exactly like that. Or it could have been some other memory entirely that re­formed Amanda's picture of that day. Perhaps on the anniver­sary of the Judge's death, she remembered the click of a cane in the hall or perhaps she remembered the glimpse of a long, old-fashioned dress. . .

'You think Mother went from that to accusing someone of the Judge's murder?' Milam frowned fiercely. 'That wouldn't be like her. She would have come to me or to Whitney.'

'Or perhaps to Julia?' Annie asked quietly.

'Maybe.' The suggestion apparently didn't bother Milam. 'Or even to Charlotte, though I never thought Mother liked her overmuch.'

Miss Dora was nodding, her shaggy white hair flying. 'Of course. Don't you see? She did tell someone. But it was the wrong person.'

'Murder piled upon murder?' Milam's lips curved down in ugly amusement. 'You've been reading too much family his­tory, Aunt Dora.'

Max lost patience. 'You seem to think all of this is amus­ing. But you weren't laughing the day your father died. You were upset.'

Milam let the pad slip into his lap and folded his hands behind his head. He looked insolently up at Max. 'Sorry if I let the Family down, showing emotion and all that. But it's quite a shock, to have your little brother blow away your old man. At least, that's what I thought at the time. Believe me, it was a hell of an afternoon. I suppose I —'

'You were upset before your father died,' Annie interrupted irritably. 'We have it on good authority.' Was it stretching the truth to consider Enid Friendley a good authority?

Milam's arms dropped. His expression smoothed out as if all thought and emotion had been wiped away with a sponge. 'Do you now?' he asked silkily. 'And who would that be?'

No one answered.

A sour smile stretched his lips. 'Enid, probably. Well,

that's fine. Maybe so. It was a long time ago. If Enid told you that, ask her what else she knows.'

'We will,' Max replied. 'Look, Milam, you were upset

that morning. Long before someone shot the Judge. Why?' Milam looked down at the sketch pad in his lap. So did Annie.

It was just the merest hint of a sketch. A child's face. A wispy ponytail. That's all it was.