Southern Ghost

questions about Amanda and Julia, that refusal spoke volumes.

ENID FRIENDLEY—Tart-tongued, tough, tenacious. Tough

enough to blackmail? What if the Judge decided to brave the consequences and bring charges?

SYBIL CHASTAIN Giacomo—Tempestuous, wildly in love. Did she already know she was pregnant? She was ready to

run away with Ross. What if she decided that Ross wouldn't have to run—if the Judge died.

Miss DORA BREvARD--Amanda was her beloved niece, as close to her own child as she would ever have. Did Amanda tell her aunt that her husband was forcing her to leave? After all, no one knew whether Miss Dora was standing in the garden with Ross when the shot sounded. She could have been in the Judge's study.

A montage of unguarded moments whirled in Annie's mind: Charlotte's eyes suddenly shifting, Julia's tight grip on the chair arms, Whitney looking out the first window in the garage toward the back piazza, Milam standing behind his wife's chair, the click as Lucy Jane replaced the receiver, Enid's angry eyes, Sybil standing like a Valkyrie at the Chastain gates, Miss Dora gazing down toward the river and saying, oh so conversationally, 'That's when they see Amanda, dressed all in white to please Augustus,' Enid's tart comment about Courtney Kimball, 'She's got a lot to learn.'

'It looks bad for Julia.' Max's voice was heavy. He pointed at the drawings spread out on the table. Annie was really rather proud of her depictions of Tarrant House and its sur­roundings.

Annie studied the map. Max had circled the numeral mark­ing Whitney's location.

'It seems obvious.' His voice wasn't happy. Max, too, liked Julia. 'If Whitney saw the murderer from that first window in the garage—well, it has to be Julia, Lucy Jane—or Miss Dora.' He stared morosely at the map. 'And Julia's the only likely one.'

'What about Sybil?'

Max leaned closer. She smelled the nice scent of fresh soap. She reached up and touched his cheek and liked the prickly feel of stubble.

'Oh, yes,' he agreed. 'Yes, we can't forget Sybil. But why would she burn down the Tarrant Museum?'

'She didn't. That was Julia.' But Annie's answer was auto?

matic, unthinking. She was concentrating on the map—and suddenly she knew.

Oh, God, of course. Whitney looking out—and seeing no one.

All the pieces shifted in Annie's mind, clicking irrevocably into place. Tarrant House. The Judge dead. Milam and Julia and Missy at Wisteree. Missy's birthday party. The teddy bear. Amanda hearing Miss Dora's chatter and discovering her youngest son was not guilty of patricide. In her happiness at clearing Ross's name, had Amanda followed that truth through to its lethal conclusion? Or was she so elated at Ross's innocence that she'd talked too much and to the wrong per­son? Years passed, and Courtney Kimball demanded to know what happened on May 9, 1970. The history of the Tarrant Family. So much good and so much bad, but Charlotte in­cluded only the good.

'Max—'

The phone shrilled.

Annie was nearest. As she reached for it, another burst of thunder was followed hard by a sheet of lightning. It was a dark and stormy night—The familiar refrain flashed in her mind. It almost brought a smile because it was such a perfect time for Laurel to call with macabre descriptions of ghostly peregrinations. Annie wondered, did ghosts get wet? That was an absorbing metaphysical puzzle.

But the voice on the other end of the line, hoarse and strained with worry, was not Laurel's.

'. . . I tell you, she's gone! I tried Aunt Dora's. She's not there. We've got to find her. She's out in the storm. She hates storms!' There was panic in Milam's voice. 'She left a note.'

A note. Annie tensed. 'What did she say?'

Static crackled on the line.

' '. . . sorry for everything. We never had a chance, did we? But you were always kind. You hated Tarrant House, too. And you loved Missy. Don't follow me.' '

Annie's hand tightened on the receiver. 'Did she say where she was going?'

'No. No. Oh, God. And my gun's gone.'

Annie felt a chill. 'You had a gun, out there at the planta­tion? Are you sure Julia took it?'

'Yes. Because . . .' Static crackled again. '. . . this morning and now it's gone. Listen, you've got to find her. You've got to. Do you hear me? It's all your fault, coming to Chastain, meddling, scaring her. You've got to—'

Lightning exploded.

The line went dead.

'Max,' she cried, 'Julia's gone. She has a gun.' Julia with a gun—but that was all wrong. Wasn't it? Annie had worked it out—but the face she had pictured wasn't Julia's.

The Maserati crawled, Max straining to see through a wind­shield awash with rain. A half-block from Tarrant House, the low-slung car floundered, rolled to a stop, its engine flooded by the water running hubcap-deep in the old, poorly drained street.

They battled through a nightmare world, the rain a blind­ing deluge, the wind a brutal, tearing force. Branches twisted and cracked. Old trees toppled. Thunder and lightning inter­mingled in an explosive, blinding cacophony.