Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  For an instant, the years fell away and Sybil looked like a girl again, young and in love and breathtakingly beautiful. "One last kiss—it was so light, just the barest touch. We thought there would be time for all the kisses in the world." The brief illusion of youth fled, replaced by the sorrow-rav­aged yet still gorgeous face. Sybil's bitter eyes raked the room. "Why couldn't it have been one of you? Why couldn't it have been Milam? Or Whitney? They aren't a quarter the man Ross was. Ross was—" She swallowed convulsively. "Oh, God, he was wonderful. Young and strong. And a man. He knew how to live—and none of you has ever lived, not the way Ross did. He could laugh and make love and ride a horse and be brave and gentle and kind and rough. Oh, dear God, what irony, what sick and puking irony that he should die and any one of you live." Years of anger corroded her husky voice.

  Annie reached out and took Max's hand and held it hard. Max watched Sybil, his dark-blue eyes somber.

  "How dare you talk like that!" Charlotte, her voice high with anger, her plain face livid, turned to Miss Dora. "You make her hush up right this minute. We don't have to sit here and be insulted. Why, Whitney and I—"

  "You and Whitney will do as I say," Miss Dora snapped.

  Charlotte looked as though she'd been slapped. Her head jerked up, her mouth opened, but no words came. Then, her shoulders slumped and her eyes fell before Miss Dora's un­ bending gaze.

  "Of course we will, Miss Dora." Whitney's voice was pla­ cating. "But the past is past. Dad and Ross—that's been over and done with for more than twenty years. There's nothing to be gained by discussing it."

  Charlotte lifted her chin. "A tragic day," she said loudly. But there was no sympathy in her voice. Annie heard instead the oily complacency of a chorus in a Greek tragedy. "A double loss for poor Amanda."

  Julia buried her face in her hands for a long moment, then struggled up from her chair and moved heavily toward the sideboard, one hand outstretched for the cut-glass decanter.

  Milam bowed toward his great-aunt. "What an exquisite sense of drama you possess," he drawled. His green eyes glit­ tered with malice; his plump face was once again amused. "But the difficulty is, you face a dead end. No one will ever know more about that day because the principals are all be­ yond this earthly vale of tears."

  "I will know more." The old woman spoke with utter confidence.

  Again, taut silence stretched.

  "You see," the whispery voice continued, "no one has ever questioned the official version, Ross dead of an accidental gun­ shot wound; Augustus dead from a heart attack upon hearing the shocking news." She smiled grimly, her ancient face an icy mask of contempt. "All of you—except dear Sybil, of course— were in Tarrant House that day. Whitney, how did you learn of Ross's `accident'?" Her voice lingered deliberately on the final word.

  Whitney stood with his hands clasped behind him, rockingback and forth. He had the wary look of a man suddenly confronted with a minefield and ordered to cross it. He cleared his throat. "Grandfather told me."

  Annie's mind went back to her painstakingly inked family trees. That would be Harmon Brevard, Amanda's father. "What time was that?" Miss Dora's question was rapier‑

  quick.

  Whitney looked confused.

  "It's disrespectful to the dead." Nervously, Charlotte pleated her white chiffon skirt. "Miss Dora, this is dreadful, like pulling and picking at bones."

  But Miss Dora ignored Charlotte's shrill protest. The old

  lady's imperious gaze never left her great-nephew's face. Whitney moved restively. "God, it's been twenty—" "Whitney," Miss Dora said sharply.

  Whitney moved restively, then glanced uncertainly toward his brother.

  Annie squeezed Max's hand. How revealing! Whitney, the member of the bar, the substantial brother, still deferred to his older brother, whom Annie had supposed to be the weaker personality of the two. Or was that just society's prejudice taking over, the assumption that a lawyer of substance in a community would, of course, dominate an older, unconven­ tional sibling.

  Milam sniggered, breaking the silence. "May as well give up, brother dear." He fluffed the thick blond hair over his collar. "Aunt Dora always did have your number. Oh, well, I don't suppose it matters after all these years. Why not let the truth come out—"

  "Milam, no!" Charlotte importuned. Panic shrilled her voice.

  "Truth!" Sybil said harshly. "What truth?" In the light from the glittering chandelier, her eyes glowed a hot, deep black.

  "Your sweetie pie shot himself all right." Milam's light, high voice held a sickening note of satisfaction. "Suicide in the first degree, my dear Sybil. That's why dear Papa dropped

  dead—he and Ross had enjoyed a hell of a nasty little scene and—"

  Hands raised, Sybil launched herself with a deep cry. Her fingernails raked Milam's face, scoring crimson slashes on both cheeks.

  Milam stumbled backwards, swearing and awkwardly struggling to push away Sybil's slender, green-gowned body.

  But it was Julia's drunken voice that cut through the sound and fury and brought a terrible quiet to the drawing room.

  Julia stood at the sideboard, pouring brandy sloppily into a cut-glass tumbler. She plunked down the decanter and picked up the glass in her trembling hand. " 's true, Sybil. Because it was the same gun, you know. Ross took the gun that killed the Judge and used it on himself."

  Sybil tore free of Milam's grip and whirled to face her distant cousin's wife. "The gun that killed the Judge? Jesus Christ, Julia, what are you saying?"

  10:15 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

  Whitney lifted his hand to knock at the door of the study, then let it fall. He felt, at the same time, hot and uncomfortable and cold and sick. He hadn't hurt the firm. Not really. To he thrown out, to have nowhere to go—once again he could hear his father's icy, contemptuous voice, "A lawyer's conduct must always be above reproach." Christ, hadn't he ever wanted a woman like Jessica? Whitney pictured his father's thin, merciless, ascetic face. His shoulders slumped. He turned. Blindly, he walked away from the study door.

  Chapter 11.

  "Julia!" Milam's voice was still high, but shorn of mockery, his tone sharp, urgent, imperative.

  Julia clutched the tumbler of whisky in trembling hands and looked at her husband uncertainly. "Truth, Milam." Her voice was slurred; her mouth quivered. There was a smear of crimson lipstick on one cheek. "You said we'd tell the truth."

  "Let her speak, Milam." Miss Dora stalked between them.

  But he refused to look at his great-aunt. "She's upset. We're going home," and he took a step toward Julia.

  Miss Dora's cane slashed upward, barring him from touch­ ing his wife. "No, Milam. Not yet. Not until we know pre­ cisely what occurred that day. Julia, I want you—"

  Sybil flew past them both. Her strong, beautifully mani­ cured hands clutched Julia's thin shoulders. Bourbon spilled down the front of Julia's dress, and the tumbler crashed to the floor. "Who shot the Judge? When was he shot?"

  Julia stood helplessly in Sybil's grip. She blinked. "I tol' you. You asked me. I tol' you. Ross shot him. That's what happened, he left a note and—"

  Sybil let go of Julia and in a swift explosion of rage struck the drunken woman across the face.

  Julia wavered unsteadily on her feet and began to whimper. Her arms hung straight and limp. She didn't touch her cheek.

  Miss Dora swung toward Sybil. "Enough. Get back, Sybil. Now."

  But Sybil, of them all, was not cowed by Miss Dora. Ignor­ ing the old woman, she spat at Julia, "Never! Ross never shot his father; Ross never killed himself. Never." Her voice was as deep as a lion's roar and as full of danger. "Lies, all of it, lies."

  "You weren't there, Sybil." Whitney nervously smoothed his thinning hair. "What were we going to do? Nothing would bring Dad or Ross back. They were both dead; we had Ross's note. Did we want to be entertainment for the tabloids? What would that have done to Mother? Dr. Rutledge agreed. It wasn't even that hard to do. The bullet"—his voice
shook— "left only a small slit in Dad's coat and most of the bleeding was internal. The bullet lodged in his chest. There was no indication at all, other than the entry wound, that he'd been shot. I helped Dr. Rutledge put a fresh shirt and coat on him, and when he was taken to the funeral home, the director was instructed to cremate him immediately."

  Annie, still holding tight to Max's hand, looked from face to face.

  Miss Dora, her dark, hooded eyes glittering, pursed her mouth in concentration.

  Charlotte's plump face was pasty, like uncooked dough left to rise too long.

  Milam banged his half-empty tumbler of whisky onto the Queen Anne table and pulled Julia into the circle of his pro­ tecting arm. The bloody scratches on his cheeks were in shock­ ing contrast to the flippant pink of his dinner jacket. Julia slumped against her husband. Milam took the handkerchief from his pocket and brushed at the tears on her red-splotched cheeks, then pressed it against the wet front of her dress. Bright drops of blood welled from his scratches.

  Sybil's glossy black hair rippled as she shook her head from side to side. "No. You don't understand, Whitney, Ross and

  I . . ." She pressed her fingers against her temples for ar instant, then, her lovely face hard and resolute, demanded, "When was the Judge shot?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Sybil, let it go." Milam glared at her. "It was a fucking mess. We did the best we could."

  Annie tensed, wondering if Sybil would fly at him next.

  Miss Dora, too, obviously feared another explosion. She spoke quickly, her raspy voice commanding. "Sybil, come stand by me. I promise you that we shall pursue this."

  Sybil resisted for a long, tense moment. Then, with the contained ferocity of a caged tigress, she moved to Miss Dora's side. But her angry gaze probed each Tarrant in turn.

  Charlotte rose and stepped forward. "Miss Dora, I beg you—"

  Miss Dora lifted her voice to override Charlotte. "I assure all of you that I have good reason, which I shall reveal in due time. Now, we shall proceed in an orderly fashion." She fas­ tened her icy, uncompromising gaze on Whitney. "I wish a clear, concise outline of that day's events."

  Whitney once again darted an uncertain glance at his older brother. Then he said sullenly, "I agree with Milam. I don't see any point in—"

  "Whitney."

  Grudgingly, he began. "We didn't know what had hap­ pened for a while. At least, I didn't. I was in the garage. It was about four o'clock. I heard a bang. But it didn't seem all that close. And I was on the far side from Dad's study. I heard it, but I didn't think much about it. I suppose, if I gave it any thought at all, that it was probably kids down on the river. Anyway, it must have been about ten, fifteen minutes later that Ross ran into the garage. He looked—wild. And he was carrying Dad's gun, the one Dad brought back from the war. It was crazy. He was supposed to be at school, and, all of a sudden, here he was in the garage, carrying Dad's gun. I asked him what the hell he was doing. He just stared at me as if he'd never seen me before. I can't describe that look. God, it was awful." Whitney swallowed and licked his lips. "Ross ran to his car. He was out of breath, like he'd run for miles. There was sweat on his face. Then he kind of mumbled, 'Tell them I've gone to the lodge,' and he jumped into the car and roared out of there like a bat out of hell."

  Milam took over impatiently. "Jesus, Whitney, you never could get to the point. Who gives a damn what he looked like? Look, Aunt Dora, it's simple and stupid." There was no remembered horror in Milam's voice; he was disdainful. "Ross and Dad had a hell of a fight about three-thirty. You could hear Ross shouting and Dad had that cold, clear voice he used on the bench. You know what I mean. Like God making a judgment from on high, and sweet Jesus, you better listen. Ross should have known better. What a goddam do-gooder. So they mowed down some students at Kent State! Why should Ross put his ass in a sling? Hell, he could've graduated and gotten his commission and applied for transportation or the quartermaster corps or someplace where he wouldn't have been shipped off to Nam. If he couldn't stick that, he could've `accidentally' shot himself in the foot! Whitney and I did Air National Guard, sweeter than honey. Funny thing is, Dad wasn't fooled, but we had legally met our obligations, so he let it lie. But Dad was always so goddam proud of Ross. A cadet colonel, another in the long line of Tarrant gentlemen-soldiers. So, I thought it was pretty funny when Ross finally bucked the system. He yelled at Dad that he wouldn't serve, he wouldn't graduate from The Citadel, and if he was drafted, he'd go to Canada. So the old man about had a stroke and he told Ross he was disowned, to get out of the house and never come back. Dad said Ross had no right to the name, that Tarrants were men of honor and principle—"

  "That's what Ross was," Sybil cried passionately. "Not like you and Whitney. Ross never ran from anything. He never hid. He did what he thought was right—and everyone knew that war was hideous. The day the National Guard killed those students— oh, God, they were walking to class!" A gen­eration's lament rang in her voice. "Ross brooded about what had happened all week. Campuses closed all over the country. People marched. Ross came home Saturday morning; he'd made up his mind. He was quitting. He wouldn't take his

  commission. He told his father. They quarreled, but Ross was determined. That's when he met me in the garden and we planned—" Tears edged down her cheeks, streaking her per­fect makeup. "Whenever spring comes, I remember that day. We stood in the sunshine and it was warm against us and he held me and I smelled the honeysuckle and the roses. He kissed me and I ran home to gather up my things. We were leaving." She glared at them defiantly. "The car was his. He worked summers and earned the money for it and he had some money saved and so did I and we were going to run away and be married. I waited for him—and he didn't come. He didn't come." The agony of empty years and lost dreams and a crip­pled heart echoed in the simple declaration.

  Charlotte stood with her arms tightly folded across her ample bosom. "Ross was always a hothead. None of it sur­ prised me." She looked disdainfully at Sybil. "You know what he was like—he always had to have his own way. Spoiled rotten, that's what Ross was." Her voice rose suddenly, turned strident. "And Amanda was always on his side, against Whit­ ney and Milam. As if Ross were better or—"

  "That's enough, Charlotte." Whitney cleared his throat. "Point is, Sybil, Ross shot Father—"

  "No. He wouldn't have." Sybil stood firm, chin lifted, and there was total certainty in her eyes and her voice. "Ross was upset, yes, but we were leaving. It was all decided. Why would he shoot the Judge? There was no reason."

  "You were in the garden," Miss Dora said crisply. "You said good-bye and were to meet again—"

  "In only a few minutes," Sybil cried. "Just long enough to gather up some clothes and meet him at the gate."

  Charlotte smoothed her hair, her composure regained. "Ross probably went back into the house to get some of his things and the Judge saw him and told him to leave and Ross lost his temper. Ross always acted like Tarrant House be­longed to him and not the rest of us. He was crazy about the house. Maybe he decided the Judge had no right to throw him out." She shrugged. "What difference does it make? We all know what happened, Sybil."

  "I don't care what you—or anyone—says or will ever say. " Sybil spoke jerkily. "But I knew Ross. I knew him. He would never have shot his father—and he would never have killed himself. That was a coward's way out—and Ross was never a coward."

  Miss Dora said quietly, "You are quite correct, my dear child. Ross was a brave young man. A very brave and gallant young man—but he did indeed take his own life. My brother —Ross's grandfather—went to the hunting lodge that day. The next day Harmon related to me what had happened. Har­ mon told me that when he arrived—it was late afternoon by then and the shadows were thick and it was cool and quiet on the front steps—he called out to Ross and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He rattled the knob—and there was a gunshot. He ran to the back of the lodge but that door, too, was locked. Harmon took a log from the woodpile and used it as a b
attering ram and broke down the back door. Ross was there, sitting in the old morris chair. And he was dead. The front door was still locked."

  Sybil reached out, clinging to a chair for support. Annie had never seen a woman so pale, as if all the blood and life had drained away. And, no matter what Sybil had become, Annie's heart ached for her.

  "So we know—we have the word of a witness—what hap­ pened to Ross." Miss Dora's face was grim. "But that does not end our quest tonight. We still must determine when—and how—the Judge's death occurred."

  "No." Sybil clasped her arms tight across her body. "That's wrong, wrong, wrong. I'll never believe it. Ross was brave, I tell you, brave and—"

  Miss Dora nodded. When she spoke it was directly to Sybil and her voice had a gentleness Annie had never heard. "Yes, Sybil, Ross was brave and gallant. You will understand that even better when we are done. For now, Sybil, I want you to listen. No matter what is said or done, we cannot change the past. But my hope is that we can lay to rest the misery that past has visited upon us and"—she paused and looked at each of the Tarrants and her voice hardened—"that we can prevent

  evil from again warping and destroying the life of this fam­ ily."

  A sense of inexorable judgment emanated from the old woman, much like Miss Rosa Coldfield's unbending, almost demented determination to vanquish Thom as Sutpen.

  Annie's eyes were focused on that narrow, intelligent, de­ termined old face. Later, she would regret that she had not been quicker to look about the room. Would there have been a flicker of fear—or fury—on one face?

  For when she did look, masks were in place: Whitney wary, Charlotte tense, Milam sardonic, Julia withdrawn.

  Abruptly, Miss Dora pointed her cane at Max. "Proceed."

  The silence was abrupt. All of the family members stared at Max and Annie. She realized that in the heat of their quarrels, they'd almost forgotten their presence. And now, not only did they remember there were strangers within the gate, they were shocked and enraged to have Miss Dora invite Max to take part. The Tarrants looked at Max with varying degrees of hostility and outrage.