“What else would you expect?” Annie asked.
The older woman nodded impatiently. “Yes. But they were Milam and Whitney and Ross, too. They had to pick their own way. That’s it,” she said firmly, “that’s where it all went wrong. He never could see any way to be but the way the Judge believed a Tarrant should be—someone important and proper, the kind of men Chastain would look up to. That was real important to the Judge, to be looked up to.”
Annie thought of the photograph of the Judge on the bench. The photographer, of course, had stood in the well of the courtroom, shooting up.
A stern judge. A demanding father.
“You see,” Lucy Jane reflected, “Mr. Whitney, he couldn’t quite do the things the Judge wanted and so he got in the habit of getting his friends to do his schoolwork for him. And his mamma, she protected him when the school found out and called. Miz Amanda never told the Judge. And once, when Mr. Whitney was in law school, there was trouble about a paper. I know his mamma went and talked to the dean and it all worked out. I think it was the next year that Mr. Harmon—that was Miz Amanda’s daddy—he gave a big scholarship to the school.” Lucy Jane’s smile was dry. “You know how folks can work things around in their minds sometimes to where what happened didn’t happen quite the way it was thought and so everything turns out all right.”
Annie knew. It wasn’t only beauty that depended upon the eye of the beholder. Funny how money could magically alter circumstances.
“Then when Mr. Whitney married, he picked a girl he thought the Judge would like, ’cause she cared so much about the old times and families and who married who. Miz Charlotte”—the cool, thoughtful eyes betrayed no emotion—“she cares more for dead-and-gone people than she does people here today. That’s why Miss Harriet ran away. Miz Charlotte never would pay the child any mind. And Mr. Whitney, he was too busy with horses and golf and cards to notice. And when Miss Harriet acted up worse and worse, they just packed her off to school, and one day, when the school wrote and said she’d run away from there, Miz Charlotte was so busy with one of her history groups, she hardly took it in. Mr. Whitney sent Miss Harriet money when she took up living out in California even though Miz Charlotte said they shouldn’t have anything to do with her until she started acting like a Tarrant should.”
Would the Judge have been pleased with his daughter-in-law’s total acceptance of Tarrant mores? Had he been pleased long years ago?
“How did Mrs. Charlotte and the Judge get along?” Annie pictured two faces, the lean, harsh, ascetic face of the man on the bench, the earnest, self-satisfied face of Charlotte.
Lucy Jane gave a mirthless chuckle. “Thing about the Judge, he was no fool. Ever. He saw through Miz Charlotte easy as pie, the way she simpered up to him, always wanting to talk about the Family and how much it meant to her and Mr. Whitney. The Judge, he knew Mr. Whitney didn’t care a fig about the family. All Mr. Whitney ever wanted was to get along.”
“And Milam?” Annie asked.
“Mr. Milam. He’s a case, he is.” But there was no admiring tone in her voice as there had been for Ross. “Lucky thing for him the Judge didn’t live to see how he’s turned out.” She rose gracefully and brought the coffeepot to refill Annie’s cup. “Course, it’s plain as the nose on your face what Mr. Milam’s up to. He wants to make people mad. Every time somebody here in town gets huffy over the way Mr. Milam acts or dresses, Mr. Milam’s pleased as punch. One more time he’s thumbing his nose at his daddy. If all he wanted was to be an artist and live like some artists do, he could pack up and go where folks like that is a dime a dozen. But that isn’t what Mr. Milam wants.” She sipped her coffee. “Even after all these years, Mr. Milam’s angry with the Judge.” She looked at the mantel and another set of photographs. “Sometimes young people get jealous when they see people in big houses having everything, but I always told my children that living in a big house can be a hard row to hoe.”
Annie was struck not only by her wisdom but by the undercurrent of sympathy in Lucy Jane’s voice. Annie was willing to bet few persons exhibited such charity toward Milam Tarrant, who seemed to have a genius for raising hackles.
“What about Julia?” Annie asked.
“Poor, little Miz Julia.” Her voice was almost a croon. “So sad a lady.” There was steel in her voice when she spoke next. “I do fault Mr. Milam there. He shouldn’t have married, just to marry. But the Judge, as far as he was concerned, a man wasn’t grown unless he married.”
It was elliptical to be sure, but Annie thought she understood and she felt even sorrier for poor, damaged Julia than she had before.
“So Milam didn’t really care for her.” Annie didn’t phrase it as a question.
“Poor Miz Julia. Like a little shadow when she came to live at Tarrant House, and then—for a time—she was happy as could be. She loved her baby to pieces. Miss Melissa. Pretty little Missy. That child brought sunshine to Tarrant House. She made everybody smile. The Judge, too. Even Mr. Milam loved Missy. That was before Mr. Ross died. But when he and the Judge died, that was when Miz Julia’s face was all pinched and white again.” Lucy Jane reached out and touched the worn Bible that lay on the table beside her chair. “It didn’t take more than a few days after the funerals for her and Mr. Milam to move out to the plantation. I know Miz Julia was never happy with Mr. Milam, but then I don’t think she expected to be happy. And she still had Miss Melissa. It was when the baby was lost—almost the same time as Miz Amanda—that Miz Julia almost grieved herself into the grave—it might have been happier for her if she had.”
“So Milam and Julia had a little girl.” Annie frowned, picturing the family trees and remembering Charlotte’s sharp insistence that her daughter Harriet was the only Tarrant grandchild. “What happened to Missy?”
“She fell in the pond.” Lucy Jane didn’t elaborate.
So the beloved baby died. That certainly made Julia’s present-day misery easier for Annie to understand.
Julia Tarrant. She had been in Tarrant House the day the Judge was murdered. But why would she murder her father-in-law? “Did the Judge like Julia?”
Lucy Jane carefully set down her coffee cup. She looked out the window at the neat graveyard plots, many garlanded with flowers. She didn’t look at Annie. “I don’t think”—was she picking her words carefully?—“that the Judge ever understood Miz Julia.”
“Why was that?”
Lucy Jane met her inquiring gaze with grave dignity. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
There was something here. Annie felt certain of it, certain and surprised and more than a little confused. Lucy Jane had, to this point, seemed so straightforward. Straightforward, clear-sighted, sympathetic. Her face was still pleasant, but now her lips were stubbornly closed.
Was the Judge involved with Julia? With his son’s wife? That moral, upright, judgmental man? Perish the thought. But there was something. …
Lucy Jane gazed soberly out the window.
Annie looked, too, and saw the worn granite markers, the tendrils of Spanish moss dangling down from the live oak trees. Thick mats of grass covered all but one new, dirt-topped grave. Many of the graves had sunk with time until almost level with the spongy ground.
“They say trouble comes in threes,” Lucy Jane murmured, “though it was a long year later that Miz Amanda went to her rest. But her heart died that day with young Mr. Ross. Oh, she grieved for him, her baby.”
There was a good deal left unsaid. Annie raised an eyebrow. “And for the Judge?”
Lucy Jane again smoothed her unwrinkled skirt. “A woman couldn’t help but feel sorry for a man struck down without warning, but Miz Amanda and the Judge, it wasn’t a love match.” Her gaze moved from the tombstones toward Annie. “Sometimes families bind together for different reasons. I know her poppa thought the world of Mr. Augustus. Miz Amanda, she was one you never knew what she was thinking, but she had a sweet way and she was kind to everyone around her. Never much to say.”
A des
cription of a gentle, even-tempered woman. But there must have been moments when Amanda Brevard Tarrant was angry or afraid or unhappy. Surely Lucy Jane saw other sides of this woman in ail the years she spent in that troubled household. “I understand Amanda and the Judge quarreled on the day he died.”
That was what Charlotte claimed at Miss Dora’s dinner party. And there had to be some reason why Ross would have believed his mother guilty of murder, something more damning than finding her with the gun in hand.
But Lucy Jane’s ebony face was shuttered and closed. “I couldn’t speak to that,” she said firmly.
“It would be unusual for them to quarrel?” Annie pressed.
“Yes’m.” And not another word.
Annie felt certain there had indeed been a quarrel. But why? About what? And why on that day? And darn it, why was she pursuing this? If there was one certain fact, Amanda Brevard Tarrant had been dead, too, these many years, and, despite Laurel’s belief in ghosts, Amanda assuredly could not have been involved in Courtney Kimball’s disappearance or in last night’s arson at the Tarrant Museum.
Annie decided to change tactics. “Lucy Jane”—she used her most beguiling voice—“I want you to think back to the day the Judge died and remember that afternoon before Mr. Ross died.”
Lucy Jane’s posture was still upright and formal, but her tense shoulders relaxed. “The Judge,” she said ruminatively, “I saw him in the hall going to his study, oh, it must have been right on two o’clock. His face was white as a sheet. He looked like a man with a passel of thoughts. It was later—I was on my way out to my quarters—when I saw Miz Charlotte, and she looked worried, like she had a big burden to carry and didn’t know what to do. Funny. Most usually, she was sure what to do. I didn’t see Mr. Whitney or Mr. Milam until later that day, after they came and told me Mr. Ross was dead. Mr. Whitney, he looked upset as could be. Mr. Milam didn’t show much concern. He was already talking about moving out to the plantation. I heard him tell Miz Julia they’d move pretty quick. He said, ‘I can always get around Mother. We won’t have to stay in this house much longer.’ ”
Lucy Jane paused.
“Mrs. Julia?” Annie prodded.
“She ran out to the garden, just before lunch.”
“Ran out?”
“She was sobbing.” Lucy Jane’s voice was so soft, it was hard to hear.
“Do you know why?”
Lucy Jane clasped her hands together tightly. A breeze ruffled the curtains at the open window and brought in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. “I don’t rightly know.”
“Mrs. Amanda?”
Lucy Jane gazed at Annie almost in anguish. Annie thought she understood. Lucy Jane was a truthful woman. She didn’t want to lie.
What could matter that much, after all these years?
Finally, reluctantly, Lucy Jane answered, because, like Annie, she knew the truth must be told. “Miz Amanda, she was coming down the stairs—it was just after Miz Julia went out to the garden—Miz Amanda was coming down the stairs and she looked like she was facing the end of the world.”
Were answering machines a boon or a curse? The message light flickered like a pinball machine. Annie punched the button, then settled on the love seat with a mug of coffee and two peanut butter cookies.
Perhaps one’s attitude toward an answering machine depended upon the messages being left.
And the messengers. Were there many people in this world who enjoyed one-on-one conversations with an answering machine? Annie hoped not. Surely Laurel’s total relaxation and intimate tone were unusual, if not, perhaps, unique.
“… quite depressing, actually, to realize the depths of depravity to which human beings are subject. Surely there can be no more sobering an example than that of the credulous slave girl at Belvidere Mansion, led astray by the immigrant English gardener, Timothy Wale. Wale had his own sorrows, of course, having lost his family and his dear sweetheart Clarissa to tuberculosis. But when he immigrated to South Carolina and obtained work on the plantation, he was bitterly envious of the wealth he saw there and hungry, too, for a woman. He persuaded the slave girl, also known as Clarissa, to meet him after dark. She begged him to take her away from the plantation, but he said there was no way to escape. And then she offered to steal the mistress’s jewels, if Wale would carry her away. Wale agreed. One Saturday as Mrs. Shubrick, the mistress, took her coach to Charleston to shop, Clarissa slipped into the mistress’s bedroom, unlocked the jewel case and took the brooches and rings and necklaces. That night, she crept out of her cabin and hurried down the moonlit path to meet Wale. He took the jewels but refused to take her too, and ran off into the darkness. The next day the girl feigned illness, then, in desperation, ran to the house and set it afire while the master and mistress were away at church. The Shubricks returned to find their lovely home in flames. Clarissa’s odd behavior had been noticed and, when questioned, the slave girl confessed to the theft and the fire.” Laurel sighed. “And so poor foolish Clarissa was hanged. And even now they say the lane that leads to the ruins of Belvidere is haunted at night by Clarissa’s ghost, waiting for the English gardener to come and take her away. Do you know, Annie, I hope Timothy Wale never enjoyed his ill-gotten gains! Isn’t it perhaps the greatest crime of all to take advantage of a trusting nature?”
The tape whirred. Laurel affording the listener time to contemplate the moral, no doubt.
The husky, unforgettable voice resumed just as Annie reached out to punch the fast-forward button.
“Have you considered a gathering together at Tarrant House of those involved that day? Just a thought, my dear. So interesting that Amanda’s presence—ghostly, of course—is associated with the garden. I do find that frightfully significant. Do call me at your earliest convenience so that we may pursue this topic. Ta, ta.”
Annie knew she should phone Laurel, but the likelihood of yet more recitations of ghostly South Carolinians was a powerful deterrent. Later. (Sometimes the fruits of procrastination were sweet, indeed.) Annie felt confident a lack of response would prove no discouragement to her unquashable mother-in-law. There would be other opportunities to ponder the variety of spirits who apparently throng the highways and byways (not to speak of the homes and hearths) of the great state of South Carolina. She wondered if the earthbound shades remained always in situ, so to speak. There was a question for Laurel to ponder. It might even keep her occupied beyond the boundaries of Broward’s Rock for a good long while. Annie filed the query away for later consideration. Not, of course, that she was averse to Laurel’s presence nearby. But a happily occupied Laurel at a distance … oh, there was a delectable prospect.
The mental picture of Laurel, once again ambulatory but at a far remove, distracted her. Annie lost the first part of the next message and was forced to rewind, which brought up the last of Laurel’s: “… pursue this topic. Ta, ta.”
Beep.
“Annie, Max, this is Barb.”
Annie looked at the machine in surprise as she munched on the second cookie.
Barb’s normally down-to-earth voice was a good octave higher than normal and softly dreamy.
“Certainly never knew bowling could be so much fun. Though, it wasn’t actually the bowling. If”—the tone now was arch—“you understand what I mean. And I’m sure you do. You two of all people.”
The tape whirred.
Annie grinned. How flattering to know that Barb saw them as romantic figures. The lock clicked and the room door swung in.
“Annie!” Her very own most romantic companion stood in the doorway, and she loved the unmistakable flicker in his eyes.
Annie held a finger to her lips, then pointed toward the machine.
Max nodded and shut the door softly behind him.
“Anyway”—there was clearly an effort here to return to everyday practicality—“everything’s great here. Except Agatha got my sandwich at lunch. I’d fixed an anchovy sandwich—so I like salt—and anyway, there was a crash at the front of the
store and I went racing up there and somehow”—her voice was loaded with suspicion—“the display on academic mysteries had been knocked over. I’d just finished putting it all together, and I was really pleased. Not the most famous ones, but some very good ones, The Better to Eat You by Charlotte Armstrong, The Corpse with the Purple Thighs by George Bagby, Death at Half-Term by Josephine Bell, The Horizontal Man by Helen Eustis, and Was It Murder? by James Hilton. Isn’t that marvelous? All knocked to kingdom come. So I put the display up again. It didn’t take all that long, but by the time I got back to the coffee bar, there wasn’t a single anchovy left in my sandwich. When I scolded Agatha, she looked at me with the most patronizing, amused expression! Annie, that cat’s scary! Anyway, had another lovely note from Henny. She went to Fortnum & Mason and bought and bought, and said she kept looking for Nina Crowther” (in Margaret Yorke’s Find Me a Villain) “and Richard Hannay” (in John Buchan’s The Three Hostages). “Gosh, just think, all that food and people you’ve read about for years! Anyway, you’ve got phone calls to the max.” A quickly suppressed giggle. “Miss Dora wants you at her place pronto. Ditto Sybil Giacomo. I’d go to Sybil’s house first; she’s on a tear. And”—a pause, the sound of movement, the opening of a door, low murmurs of voices, and, finally, a hurried, almost breathless finale—“Louis just came. I’ll fax you some stuff. Bye for now!”
“Barb sounds funny,” Max observed, squeezing in beside Annie on the love seat. “Has she got a cold?”
Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell but sometimes an innocent abroad.
Annie flashed a wicked grin and murmured, “Later,” as the machine beeped again.
“Where are you people?” Sybil’s deep contralto was sharp-edged and impatient. “I want to talk to you. Come here as soon as possible.”
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