Southern Ghost

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie picked up two peanut butter cookies and stared moodily at the welter of papers on the golden oak breakfast room table. “Dammit, Max, we ought to know. We ought to know!”

  The fruits of two hours’ intensive labor lay before them. She took two bites, finishing off the first cookie, and picked up Max’s motive sheet.

  MOTIVES TO KILL JUDGE TARRANT

  WHITNEY TARRANT—If the Judge lived, Whitney was out of luck and out of his cushy job in the family law firm.

  CHARLOTTE TARRANT—Tarrant House and the Tarrant family were her life. And the Judge’s death?

  MILAM—All he’d ever asked for was his father’s love. How angry was he when his father orchestrated a public embarrassment? And what was he willing to do to make certain Julia and Missy weren’t sent home to Julia’s parents?

  JULIA—She was determined not to take Missy home to her father. Determined enough to kill?

  LUCY JANE—She was the soul of rectitude. Everyone admired her. When she didn’t answer the 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 automatic, 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.

  In a sizzling, eye-shocking instant of light, they saw Julia’s shabby car parked in front of Tarrant House.

  Annie broke into a run, but Max was faster.

  He pulled open the driver’s door.

  Annie peered past him. The car was empty.

  Max slammed the door. They darted across the sidewalk and through the open gate. They began to run up the drive. The house was a blur of darkness with the faint gleam of light almost obscured by the pelting rain. Above them branches creaked and swayed.

  Then, between blasts of thunder, they heard the sharp, unmistakable bark of gunfire.

  The front door was locked. Max knocked and pounded and rattled the handle; then, feet skidding on the slick wetness of the drenched piazza, he and Annie flung themselves out into the night and ran around the side of Tarrant House.

  And found that Death had been there first.

  It was the only time Annie ever felt sympathy for Charlotte Tarrant. Her chenille robe plastered against her, her hair lank against her head, Charlotte cradled Whitney’s bloody head against her breast and moaned, a low, wild, desolate cry.

  It was a tableau Annie would always remember. Then movement broke the nearby darkness, and Miss Dora darted into the pale circle of light from the fixture above the back steps.

  Suddenly Chief Wells was there, too, and Sergeant Matthews.

  Miss Dora had come first. Alone. That seemed important. Annie clung to that piece of knowledge.

  Chief Wells and Miss Dora knelt by Charlotte and made her loosen her grasp. Matthews swept the surrounding area with a huge flash that was puny against the rain and night.

  The chief eased Whitney gently to the ground. Charlotte whimpered and reached for his limp hand.

  Miss Dora caught her arm, and Annie remembered the strength in those wiry old fingers. “Come now, Charlotte. We must take shelter.”

&n
bsp; Chief Wells nodded. “Take her to your house, Miss Dora. I’ll come when I can.” He shouted at Matthews. “Stay with them.”

  It was a nightmare walk through that storm-battered garden to the open gate in the wall and up the rain-lashed path to the house next door. Max and Annie supported Charlotte between them. Every few steps she halted and tried to twist free and turn back.

  But, somehow, they reached the house, wet, numb, shaken.

  Miss Dora led the way to the drawing room. Water dripped from their clothes, splashing on the gleaming heart pine floor. Annie could take no comfort now in the bois-de-rose silk hangings or the costly Georgian furniture. Rain spotted the rose Aubusson rug.

  Charlotte stumbled to the nearest sofa. She looked up, dazed. “It’s cold out there.” She shivered. “Whitney …”

  Annie could imagine her feelings. Whitney was still in their garden, the cold rain washing away his blood.

  Miss Dora busied about, bringing blankets and whisky. Annie helped.

  A door slammed at the back. Matthews put a hand on the butt of his gun.

  Sybil stormed into the drawing room.

  Harris Walker was close behind. “Jesus Christ,” he demanded, “what’s going on?” He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at Charlotte.

  “Who shot Whitney?” Sybil carried a crimson umbrella, now closed, but her silk raincoat was dark with rain. She strode to Miss Dora. “Have you found Julia? Milam called me.”

  “Julia?” Milam’s voice carried from the hall, rising with excitement and hope. “Julia?” He rushed into the drawing room. His clothes were sodden. He wore no raincoat, no hat. His eyes swept the room, seeking, seeking, then his shoulders slumped. He appealed to Miss Dora. “Tell them to look for Julia. They’ll listen to you.”

  “They are looking.” Her voice was toneless. “Sit down, Milam.” Her skin was waxy, and the hands tightly clasping the silver knob of her cane trembled. Her old black bombazine dress glistened like wet raven feathers. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now. It was hell driving into town. A bridge was out and I had to come the long way round. They’ve got a barricade up at the end of the street.” His eyes blinked. “I couldn’t get through the police line at Whitney’s. But I saw him. Is he …”

  “Yes.”

  Milam threw back his head. “Julia didn’t do it. I tell you, Julia didn’t do it. She’s out in that storm—” Tears glistened in his eyes.

  Charlotte blazed out of her stupor. “She killed Whitney! It must have been Julia. There was a banging at the back door. I begged him not to go downstairs, but he did—and then I heard the shot and I ran—but there was no one there but Whitney.” She shuddered, her mouth quivering. “His blood. Oh, God, his blood, everywhere.” Charlotte pulled herself to her feet. “Julia! You’ve got to catch her. She’s killed Whitney—and she killed Amanda and the Judge and—” Charlotte broke off. She took a step back, but the sofa blocked her way. One hand clutched at her throat.

  “And?” Julia’s voice was harsh. She stood in the doorway from the hall. Her green poncho glistened, but it didn’t drip. She stood with her arms folded, her hands tucked into the floppy sleeves of the raincoat.

  Annie wondered how long Julia had been there, how she had avoided capture by the men at Tarrant House where Whitney lay dead.

  “Who else, Charlotte?” Julia demanded. “You almost said someone else, didn’t you?”

  Charlotte’s lips twitched. “That girl, the one who came, the one who disappeared—what did you do with her?”

  Harris bolted across the room. He grabbed Julia’s arm. “Where is Courtney?” It was a hoarse and maddened shout. “You’re going to—”

  Julia came alive, twisting free of his grasp, slipping around him, crossing the room to the fireplace. And she now held a gun in her hands and faced them all.

  She looked at Harris first. “Leave me alone. I didn’t hurt Courtney. I would never have hurt Amanda’s granddaughter.”

  Harris’s hands dropped to his sides. He stood very still.

  Julia’s hand moved, and now the gun was aimed at Charlotte. “I want to talk to you, Charlotte. It’s time now.”

  “Policeman!” Charlotte squealed, cutting her eyes toward Matthews, who stood in shock, his hand fumbling with the holster snap. “Do something! She’s going to kill me, just like she killed Whitney!”

  The poncho was too big for Julia. She looked like a lost child. Except for the gun in her hand. “It’s no good, Charlotte. I was almost sure before I came tonight. Now I know. Because only you needed to kill Whitney. He didn’t look through the window toward the back of the house. If he had, he would have seen me. And Whitney had no reason to protect me—certainly not if he thought I’d killed his father. But he didn’t look through that window—”

  Annie was nodding. Yes, oh, yes. That was what she had decided. Not the first window. Whitney had looked through the second window, the window with no view of the house because of the rose arbor, but a clear, unobstructed view of the potting shed.

  “—he looked through the other window at the garden shed—and you weren’t there, were you? I thought about it and thought about it tonight and I was almost sure. You see, I started toward the house—I was going to make one last effort to talk to the Judge. I was going to tell him about my father. Not even the Judge would have sent me there—if he knew. He wouldn’t have wanted my father to touch Missy. I was going to tell him—but I was afraid. I kept standing there, trying to make up my mind, then I heard a shot. I didn’t know what had happened, but I was frightened. I turned and went back to the bench where I’d been. But you see, I was midway up the garden, so I would have seen Miss Dora or Lucy Jane. They had a much longer way to go. Only you and Whitney were so close to the back piazza. It was only a few feet from the arbor or the garage to the back steps. So it had to be you—or Whitney. And now there’s only you.”

  Charlotte’s eyes were wide with panic. “You’re insane,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t kill Whitney. Never.”

  Julia took a step forward. “I have to know.” She raised the gun, aiming it at Charlotte’s heart.

  Chief Wells stood in the archway, his hands loose at his sides. “Miz Tarrant, put down that gun. You can’t get away.”

  But, Annie realized with a thrill of horror, Julia didn’t care.

  It was as if Julia hadn’t even heard him. She took one step closer to Charlotte. “All because you are obsessed with the Tarrants. That’s almost funny, isn’t it? To kill and kill and kill for a house. An old, hate-filled, heartless house. That’s why you killed my baby, isn’t it? To be sure that someday your daughter would be the Tarrant of Tarrant House. Harriet was born the next year. Did you know you were pregnant? You did, didn’t you? So my baby had to go. Did Amanda figure that out, too? Did she know that Missy’s teddy bear was left at Tarrant House, after the birthday party? Did she wonder aloud how it could have been found in the pond—where you led my little daughter? You told her Bear-Bear was waiting, didn’t you? That he was swimming out in the pond and she could swim with him. Did you pick her up and throw her?” Julia’s unearthly voice broke and then she screamed, a shriek of pain and anguish and bitter, unrelenting fury. “Did you throw my baby in the water?”

  “Miz Tarrant—” the chief bellowed.

  Julia held the gun out straight. Charlotte screamed. Then, sobs racking her wasted body, Julia turned away. The gun clattered to the floor. She walked blindly across the room, into Milam’s arms.

  Charlotte Tarrant struggled to regain her composure. “She’s sick, don’t you see? Sick. I didn’t do any—”

  The lights flickered, dimmed, went out.

  A flurry of movement sounded in the hall. Then, all at once, there was a dim and smoky shaft of light from the hall and a flickering image moved toward them. The scent of lily of the valley was almost overpowering.

  Annie struggled to breathe.

  Amanda Tarrant.

  It was vague and pale and insubstantial but the fe
atures were those of her portrait, and high and ghostly came the cry: “Charlotte, Charlotte, I’m coming for you.”

  Charlotte began to back away, her hands stretched out in front of her. And then she screamed, “Amanda, no, no. Amanda, I had to kill him, I had to!”

  Chapter 22.

  Chief Wells tried, but Charlotte’s demonic plunge through the archway caught him off guard. And then she was out of the house. They all ran after her. Even Miss Dora thumped her way out into the wild night.

  Everyone except Julia and Milam.

  The storm still raged. One patrolman almost cornered Charlotte near the ruins of the museum, but she ducked away into a deeper shadow.

  But everyone heard her final, despairing cry as she jumped from the bluff, down, down, down into the flood-raging water below.

  Harris Walker stood by the obelisk. Rain beat against him, his face full of despair.

  Miss Dora came up to him. “We’ll go back to my house now.”

  He stared down at her, his eyes empty. “We’ll never know. Oh, God, we’ll never …”

  “Come along now.” She jerked her head, the silver hair plastered against the small skull, at Sybil. “Bring him. And you, too. We must close the chapter.” Her eyes summoned Annie and Max.

  As they entered the quiet house, they could hear the sounds of searchers near the river bluff, faint shouts, and the wail of a siren.

  Once again, a wet, bedraggled, numbed group gathered in Miss Dora’s drawing room. It was empty. Milam and Julia had gone. Revenge would not bring Missy back. But did they drive through the dark night home to Wisteree with some kind of peace in their hearts?

  Annie kept hearing Amanda’s voice. “Charlotte, Charlotte …” But how had she known it was Amanda’s? Oh, yes, Miss Dora had once lifted her own voice in imitation of the dead woman’s and it had had the ring of truth.

  But Amanda?

  What caused that shimmering light in the hallway and that insubstantial but unmistakable apparition?