Southern Ghost

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Wells rocked back on his feet. “Let’s have some answers, Walker. What are you doing here?”

  “I was driving by. Any law against that? I just keep driving, driving, driving. I think maybe I’ll see her. …” He rubbed the back of his fist against his unshaven face. “I keep looking for her. …”

  “Where’s your car?” Wells demanded.

  “Out in front.”

  The back door slammed.

  Everyone looked up on the piazza at the patrolman.

  Walker took a step forward.

  Matthews reported to Wells. “The house is empty, sir. No sign of entry or exit elsewhere. Nothing else appears to be disturbed.” He took the flashlight back from the chief. Wells didn’t bother with a thank-you.

  Nice man to work for, Annie thought.

  Miss Dora thumped her cane. “Time is wasting.” She pointed the cane at Charlotte. “When was the last time you were in the library?”

  The chief gave Walker a swift glance. “I’ll deal with you later. Just stay right where you are.” Wells shoved the light back at the patrolman and pulled out a notebook and a pen.

  Walker glanced from the chief to the Tarrants, his eyes hard and suspicious. Annie knew nothing could have driven him out of that shadowy garden.

  Charlotte gave Walker another hostile glance, then hurried to answer when Miss Dora waggled the cane at her impatiently. “Why, I suppose not since this morning. I returned several books from the drawing room—you see, we read in the evenings and there are always books about but we leave them until morning. That’s when I straighten up. It must have been about ten this morning. I put the books up and closed the door. I didn’t go back in until tonight.”

  “What time?” Max asked.

  Charlotte looked at him resentfully, but answered before Miss Dora could intervene. “It must have been just before nine. Yes.” She spoke with more assurance, looking toward Whitney. “It was just before nine, wasn’t it?”

  Her husband nodded, but he was staring at the piazza, with its scattering of broken glass. “Hell of a thing, to have someone break in. Never happened before. Never.”

  Wells wrote briefly in his notebook. “So, the brick could have been thrown through the French door anytime between ten this morning and nine tonight.” He sounded profoundly unhappy.

  Annie didn’t blame him. That was a hell of a time span.

  The chief glanced back inside the library. “Was the drawer locked?”

  No one spoke.

  Now Wells became impatient. “Mr. Tarrant, was that drawer—the one where the gun was kept—was it generally kept locked?”

  “No.” Whitney sounded puzzled. “It’s just an ordinary desk, Chief. I keep my important papers at the office.”

  “So you had this gun in a drawer where anyone could get at it?” His disgust with careless householders was apparent. Annie didn’t blame him.

  Whitney’s head jerked up. “I beg your pardon. It isn’t as though our library is a public thoroughfare. That weapon has been kept there for years and—”

  “How many years?” Wells demanded.

  The silence this time was distinctly strained.

  Whitney and Charlotte glanced at each other.

  Charlotte gasped. “Whitney, I never thought—was that the gun—” She whimpered and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

  Whitney blinked nervously. “It was the Judge’s gun from the War. It was always kept there until—oh, God, I don’t know what happened that day! But that’s the gun”—he swallowed convulsively—“my brother used. Granddad brought it to me months later and asked if I wanted it back. I said yes because somehow that made it seem as if it had truly ended.”

  “Loaded?” Wells asked.

  Whitney’s eyes fell away from the chief’s cold stare.

  That was answer enough.

  “World War Two issue, that would be a forty-five-caliber Colt M-nineteen-eleven-A-one.” Wells absently moved the wad of tobacco in his cheek. “All right. So somebody took it sometime today.” He scrawled in his notebook.

  Max stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, his face thoughtful. “Miss Dora, you called Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant tonight and arranged for tomorrow’s gathering here. And you must also have called the others.”

  Annie expected another outburst from Charlotte Tarrant. But the harried woman satisfied herself with a silent, vengeful look at Miss Dora.

  “I did indeed. And that meeting shall occur as I have decreed.” Miss Dora ignored Charlotte. “Why do you ask?”

  “It would be very interesting to know,” Max said slowly, “if that gun was taken after your phone calls.”

  Chief Wells’s heavy head turned toward Max. “What do you have in mind, Darling?”

  Max looked toward the piazza. “I’m not certain, Chief. It’s just that the murderer may be getting scared—and that worries me.”

  Wells’s jaw moved rhythmically. His huge hand dropped to the butt of the pistol holstered on his hip. His message was unmistakable. “You don’t need to worry, Darling. I’ll be here.”

  The St. George Inn was lovely, but it wasn’t home. There was no pistachio ice cream in the freezer. The pantry lacked brownies laced with raspberry, and the supply of peanut butter cookies was dangerously low. Coffee, of course, they had in abundance, and the thermos had kept the Colombian decaf hot. But there was something terribly unsatisfactory about coffee unaccompanied by edibles.

  “Want a cookie?” Annie asked. She hoped her guardian angel was dutifully posting a gold star because there were only four peanut butter cookies left, and if Max took one now and so did she, that would leave only one for bedtime and one for breakfast and, as all peanut butter cookie lovers know, that would make a bummer out of breakfast.

  “No thanks, sweetie. More coffee, though.” Max held up his cup, but he never lifted his eyes from his papers.

  Annie reached for a cookie. She was too cool, too disciplined to grab. Crunch. Pure pleasure. She looked up at the clock. Almost eleven. God, what a night. And she was still worried about pale, driven Harris Walker. At least he hadn’t been arrested. Annie suspected Walker was free because he’d given the police permission to search his car and him. No gun turned up. So Wells told him to stay away from Tarrant House and left it at that. But, as Walker drove off, Annie knew he was looking back at the house.

  There hadn’t been, of course, any resolution to the break-in. The only certain fact was that the loaded gun was gone.

  Not a cheerful prospect.

  And she didn’t share Wells’s conviction that all would be well so long as he was present.

  She finished her cookie, then poured the coffee and bent over to kiss the tip of Max’s ear. Surely it was time to quit work for the night.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said positively. But it was rather more of an automatic response than she had hoped for, and he kept right on writing on his legal pad.

  Annie refreshed his mug and her own, then dropped onto the chaise longue. She yawned. “Maybe Wells is the murderer. You know, maybe the Judge caught him out in something and the chief slipped into Tarrant House that Saturday afternoon and shot the Judge and slipped right back out. Then Ross came in and maybe his mother had got there just before him and he walked in and she was holding the gun and—”

  Max finished writing with a flourish, ripped off the top sheet, and leaned over the coffee table to hand it to her. “Here’s what we need to find out.”

  She looked at Max’s list.

  MAY 9, 1970

  What was Whitney doing in the garage? He claims he didn’t see anyone from the garage window, so why did he look puzzled when we talked about it this morning?

  Why was Amanda upset? Who might know? Why was the Judge buying her a condo in Florida?

  Did Charlotte know about Whitney’s involvement with the woman a client was suing for divorce? Did she know about the Judge’s decision to force Whitney out of the family firm? Did Charlotte and the Judge have a disagreement?
/>   Why was Julia crying in the garden?

  How upset was Milam about his father’s assumptions in regard to the nature of his relationship with Joan Crandall?

  Where was each person in the house at the critical time (approximately four o’clock)?

  How could the Judge’s study be approached?

  What did Ross see?

  The authorities described Amanda Tarrant’s death as an accident, while believing it was suicide. Who was the last person to see her? What happened the day she died?

  Miss Dora alibied herself when she said she saw Ross in the garden at the time of the shot. Was she telling the truth—about herself? Could she have been in the study? Ross wasn’t here to say where he was.

  No one could prove where Sybil was. Could she have decided she wanted not only Ross but their rightful place in Chastain? Did Sybil even then give a damn?

  Annie took a bite from her peanut butter cookie. Either the sugar or the list produced a spurt of energy. With a flourish, she gave Max an admiring salute. “Right on, Sherlock.” He had certainly winnowed through what they’d learned and come up with a succinct, to-the-point list of all the questions raised by their new knowledge.

  Max accepted her tribute with an almost modest smile. “A good detective has to discard the irrelevant.”

  Was there a hint, just a hint, of complacency there? A suggestion that others (and we all knew who that would be) were bogged in minutiae, unable to ascertain what was meaningful?

  Although Annie would never admit to competitive feelings with her live-in sleuth, she was just a tad irritated. Her eyes slitted. Grace Latham might expect to be treated like a dimwit by Colonel Primrose; Annie wasn’t having any.

  Grabbing her notebook, she wrote furiously. In a moment, she ripped out the sheet and thrust it toward him.

  Max studied her conclusions, which were, she would have admitted had she been pressed, not organized well in terms of time and space, but they got to the damn point. After all, what really counted in murder? Motives, of course.

  MOTIVES IN THE MURDER OF JUDGE TARRANT

  Whitney—To prevent expulsion from the law firm. Does Whitney have the guts? Was it the cornered-animal syndrome? In re the torching of Charlotte’s museum, was there some written evidence that could have convicted Whitney? What kind of threat would Courtney Kimball be? (Was the attack on her, no matter by whom, a desperate effort to maintain the facade of suicide-heart attack that had survived through the years?)

  Charlotte—To protect Whitney. (If she knew about the Judge’s plan to have the firm expel Whitney?) Actually, did she give that much of a damn about Whitney? Their marriage certainly didn’t seem like a passionate one. What was it like twenty years ago? Beyond concern about Whitney, she apparently had no personal motive. And it was beyond belief that she would have torched her museum. Tarrant House and its occupants, past and present, were her only passion in life.

  Milam—Anger over his father’s conclusions about his sponsorship of Joan Crandall. Was that the final blow in a long line of emotional hurts? As for the museum, no doubt Milam would have enjoyed setting it on fire.

  Julia—

  Here, Annie’s pen had faltered. So Julia was a drunk in a bad marriage; what did that have to do with the price of apples? There didn’t seem to be any reason at all for her to shoot the Judge. Hell, Julia should have shot Milam and saved everybody a lot of trouble.

  “It has to be one of them,” Annie concluded. “Unless Miss Dora’s conned everybody and she shot the Judge and for some reason wants to raise a lot of hell with the surviving Tarrants.”

  Max opened his mouth, but Annie barreled ahead.

  “It couldn’t be Sybil.” Annie circled Sybil’s name on Max’s list. “That I wouldn’t believe even if I saw it. She didn’t care any more about social position then than she does now. She was going to elope with Ross. She was getting everything she wanted. And if she’d had any idea Courtney Kimball was her daughter, she would have moved heaven and earth to be with her. She certainly would never harm her.”

  “A little disconcerting,” Max objected mildly as he rooted around in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table (Annie had assumed it was decorative), “this jumping back and forth between now and then.” He picked up a pear and took a huge bite.

  Annie liked pears poached in champagne. She studied the third cookie. Did she want it now or would it be better to save it for breakfast? Two for breakfast would be infinitely better than just one.

  Max paused in his chewing. “But you’ve made some excellent points.”

  Annie was mollified by the admiring tone in his voice.

  He grabbed the legal pad with his left hand and took another bite of the fruit. “The problem is, we still don’t know enough about these people. Annie, where’re the bios on Julia and Charlotte?”

  Suddenly she found computer sheets in her hand, instead of a cookie. Was that an omen? Perhaps so.

  “Here we are,” she said briskly. “‘Julia Martin Tarrant. Age forty-eight. Born in Columbia, South Carolina. Father, Olin, a high-school chemistry teacher. Mother, Georgia, a primary-school teacher. Two brothers, Edwin and Arthur, and one sister, Frances. Julia made very little impression on those around her throughout her school career. Her brothers were both excellent students and held various class offices. They were also successful athletes.”’ Annie paused.

  Max prodded. “And?”

  “What’s the deal?” Annie said slowly.

  Her husband looked puzzled.

  She felt a rush of affection. Max of the three sisters and wacky mom had never encountered—and certainly never indulged in—the kind of sexism she sensed here. Annie waggled the printout. “Is this part of the old fifties syndrome? A woman’s place is out of sight and out of mind? Or is this just Julia?” She resumed reading. “‘Frances was two years older than Julia. She died in 1960 (a drowning victim).’ ” Annie frowned. “Isn’t that what happened to Julia and Milam’s little girl?”

  Max nodded.

  “Isn’t that—odd?” Annie asked.

  “Yes. But surely—” Max looked appalled.

  Annie had read enough Edgar Allan Poe to have an inkling of the dark depths in the human mind. But, as Max said, surely not. Julia was a drunk, but not a neurotic monster. Annie liked her. And felt sorry for her. The deaths of Julia’s sister and daughter, both by drowning, had to be a hideous coincidence.

  Annie cleared her throat. “‘Julia had a C average. Her brothers both attended the university full-time and were outstanding students. Julia worked part-time, lived at home (her brothers lived in student housing), and was a part-time student, paying her own tuition. She met Milam Tarrant in a photography course in the art department when he was a junior. They married after he was graduated.

  “ ‘The high school counselor, Mrs. Humphreys, said: “Julia Martin? Oh, yes, of course. Olin’s daughter. So funny, I almost never think about him having a daughter. The boys were so outstanding. Julia was a mousy little thing, always looked like she was scared of her shadow. I tried to encourage her to take part in class activities, but she always stood there tongue-tied and—why, I hate to say it—almost as if she were addlebrained. But her mother was kind of a washout, too. No personality at all. Not like Olin. He is such a charming man. And a very good teacher.”’” Annie rattled the sheet. “I’d say Mrs. Humphreys likes to back winners. I’ll bet she’s a great counselor.”

  Max took a last bite of the pear. “Doesn’t anybody like Julia?”

  “Apparently not.” Annie skimmed the rest of it. “’Julia didn’t have a circle of friends in high school … a loner … “She walked around like a little ghost,” her English teacher said. “I tried several times to strike a response. There was certainly trauma there. I was never sure why. Perhaps it was the death of her sister. Whatever it was, I was never able to break through, make a connection. I tried to talk to Olin about it once, but he refused to listen. He’s one of these smile-all-the-time, you-can-do-it-if-you-try peopl
e. I’d say he was heavy into denial as far as Julia was concerned. But that’s the way it is sometimes. He’s a wonderful teacher. Loves kids.”’”

  Annie paused, skimmed some more, then stopped, her eyebrows lifted. “Oh ho, here’s the word from Olin. ‘“Julia? I’m sorry, we haven’t seen much of my daughter and her husband in recent years. We’ve tried to keep in touch. We don’t know what’s wrong, but we’re afraid Julia’s drinking too much. We’ve urged her to go into treatment, but a person has to want to get better, and I’m afraid Julia doesn’t care. We survived the loss of our lovely girl. Why can’t Julia face life?” Julia’s mother, “I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s been such a long time. Julia won’t talk to us when we call.” ’ ”

  Annie made a face at the printout. No sympathy for Julia. Anywhere.

  Max grinned and tossed his pear core neatly into the waste-basket. “Found yourself an underdog?”

  “Don’t you think Julia’s likable?” Annie appealed.

  “Yes, I do,” Max said soberly. “But we have to look at her closely. Remember the ring from the gasoline can on the carpet of her car.”

  “Even if she set fire to the museum, that doesn’t mean she’s a murderer,” Annie defended.

  Max grinned again.

  “I am not a sap for underdogs,” Annie said irritably.

  “Of course not. Now, let’s see. What do we have on Charlotte Tarrant?” Max poised his pen over his pad.

  Annie thumbed through the pile of printouts.

  “Here we go. ‘Charlotte Walker Tarrant. Age forty-seven. Born in Greenville, South Carolina. Father, James, a bailiff. Mother, Lois, a secretary. Two sisters, Katie and Barbara. Lois Walker was from a fifth-generation family in Greenville, the Bakers. The family was wealthy but lost all of its properties in the Civil War. Lois was a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Charlotte, an outstanding student, received a scholarship to the university. A history major, she specialized in the American South. Always fascinated by family history. Pam Jergens, president of the high school pep club, said, “Charlotte was born old. She always had on white gloves, figuratively speaking. And she was so ladylike. God, that was a long time ago. What’s Charlotte done, seceded from the Union again? Of course, you have to remember, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out and see how the real world lived. I left twenty years ago and I’ve never regretted it for a minute.” Zenia Phillips, a college sorority sister, said, “Boring. That sums up dear Charlotte, boring as hell.” Betty Blake, who cochaired the Chastain house-and-garden tours with Charlotte several years ago, described Charlotte as “… absolutely marvelous to work with. Organized, responsible, enthusiastic. I’ll tell you, we had the best spring tours our year that anyone’s ever done. Charlotte was certainly the best president the Chastain Historical Society has ever had, and she is as knowledgeable about family history as anyone in the state. It’s a terrific asset for a community when someone like Charlotte will devote herself heart and soul to preserving its heritage. I don’t know what we would have done without Charlotte when they tried to get an exception to the preservation code and raze the old MacDougal House to make way for a parking lot for some apartments. Can you believe it? They wanted to destroy a lovely Greek Revival home built in 1848! Charlotte fought like a tigress. She wouldn’t give up. Why, I’d say she almost single-handedly won that battle. We owe her so much.” Cordelia Prince, president of the PTA when Charlotte and Whitney’s daughter was in grade school, snapped, “That woman’s a poisonous reptile. I’ll bet the average snake of my acquaintance is a better mother. Cold-blooded? She was too busy to be a homeroom mother, too busy to drive on field trips, too busy to chaperon a dance. And on what? Dead and gone people who didn’t need a minute of her time while her daughter turned angry and hostile. I don’t blame that child for running away. Who would stay home with a mother like that?” ’