“What was the Judge going to do?” Annie gripped the arms of the garden chair so tightly her fingers ached.
Those bereft eyes slid away from Annie’s. “The Judge?” Julia’s voice was as empty as an abandoned house. “I don’t know. I’m sure we could have persuaded him.”
“Persuaded him to do what?” Annie pressed.
“I don’t know.” It was the cry of a cornered animal. “I don’t know. And what difference does it make now, after all these years?” She stared down at the crumpled kerchief in her fingers, then slowly smoothed it into a wrinkled square. “No one ever loved me except Amanda and Missy.” It was a simple statement of fact. Not forlorn. Not angry. The anguish and rage had long since been spent.
Annie blinked back sudden tears. But it was too late to cry for Julia and Amanda. And much too late to cry for the Judge.
Softly, urgently, she asked again, “What was the Judge going to do?” Because that was the nub of it.
Julia lifted her chin defiantly. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
• • •
Milam slouched on the worn couch, his legs thrust out in front of him, his paint-spattered arms spread wide on the upright cushions. This was not a living room that would be included in books describing the fine homes of the South. Old newspapers and magazines littered every tabletop, rested in stacks on the chairs and floor. The furniture was undistinguished, bland: rounded easy chairs and divans that could be found in countless department stores from Savannah to Pascagoula. The drapes must have been there for years, they were so faded, the green fronds of the weeping willows barely visible against the dulled lime background. The grime of many seasons dulled the windowpanes; handprints smudged the once-white panels of the doorways. Milam looked neither better nor worse than his frowsy, down-at-heels surroundings.
So far, Max hadn’t succeeded in ruffling the painter’s nonchalant attitude. He tried again, his words sharper. “You admit you were angry, so how can you say you didn’t have any reason to kill your father?”
“Look, Darling, I didn’t want him dead. I wanted—” For the first time, Milam’s voice wavered. “—I wanted him to love me. When he died, I felt empty, like somebody broke me open and all the stuffing spilled out. There wasn’t anything out there, no direction to take. All those years I tried to get his attention. God, the things I did to get his attention. And it was always the same, those cool gray eyes would look me up and down and I always felt dirty. That’s because he thought I was dirty. I can see that now. Whoever killed him, killed something inside of me. I don’t know what exactly. But I was getting over it. Because of Missy. My life started to come together, because of her. I might have been a good artist, a really good artist. Missy was like a perfect spring morning. Have you ever had a little girl—a beautiful little girl—look up at you like you’re God? She was so sweet and funny and kind. She loved everyone. Me. Her mother. Old people. Kids. Black. White. Everybody. And she woke up early one morning and went downstairs and outside and she walked into the pond—I found her floating there. And nothing’s ever worked, since then.” He balled the stained rag and flung it across the room, his face as empty as a broken heart.
“He was going to make Amanda leave,” Annie insisted.
Julia shook her head in slow, stubborn negation.
Annie would have sworn to it. She felt, at this point, that she knew Judge Tarrant only too well—implacable in resolve, immovable in judgment, untouched by human appeal. Oh, yes, she could see it all. Amanda would have to go, sent away from the only home she’d ever had as an adult, away from her children and her infant grandchild. What kind of panic had seized Amanda?
And how had the Judge threatened his daughter-in-law Julia? “What did he say to you?”
Julia huddled in the big white wooden chair. She wouldn’t look at Annie. She simply said over and over, “Nothing. Nothing.”
“Then why were you crying that day?”
“I don’t know,” Julia said dully. “I cried a lot of days.”
That was as much as Annie could bear. She couldn’t stay here and badger this wretched woman. She had learned enough to know that murder may have moved in Julia’s heart. Wasn’t that enough for now?
But there was one more question she had to ask.
“Mrs. Tarrant, the fire at the museum …”
She didn’t have to finish.
Julia looked up, her face so defenseless, so revealing. “All those letters,” she said simply. “The ones I wrote to Amanda. Just notes, really.” Her mouth quivered. “I even wrote her a sonnet once.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “I wanted her to know …” Her voice fell away until it was little more than a whisper. “… how much I loved her. Was that wrong? To say ‘I love you’? But people would make it ugly. I thought, maybe if it all burned up … I watched it burn.” Her eyes were puzzled. “I wanted to destroy it—all those years and years and years of Tarrants. But it didn’t help. You can’t burn memories.”
Annie stood. She hesitated, then bent and gently patted Julia’s frail shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tarrant. About everything.”
As Annie started down the gazebo steps, Julia called out thinly, “Are you going to tell Milam?”
It was the last question Annie would have expected.
Why should Julia care?
Their marriage—Milam and Julia’s—was so patently a failure. Why would she care at all?
Before Annie could answer, Julia struggled to her feet. “If you don’t have to tell him,” she said breathlessly, “then please don’t. You see … Milam loved his mother so much. It’s the one good memory in his life. Don’t”—her glance slid away from Annie’s—“ruin it for him.”
Their suite at the St. George Inn wasn’t home, but it was the next best thing. And it was a refuge. As the door closed behind them, Annie stepped into Max’s arms. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a huge hug. She didn’t—and perhaps that was most important, most wonderful of all—have to explain.
“I know,” he said softly into her hair. “Poor damn devils. God, we’re lucky.” And he held her.
The phone rang.
Annie had never mastered the precept (illustrated with such charm in Suzy Becker’s enchanting book, All I Need to Know I Learned from My Cat) that it isn’t essential to answer the telephone just because you’re home. (As is often the case at mystery bookstores, Annie stocked a great many cat titles at Death on Demand. After all, reading mysteries and loving cats seem to go hand in paw.)
So, of course, she bolted from his arms with the same alacrity she would have shown had a boa constrictor poked a head from the jardiniere next to the telephone stand.
It was hard not to answer “Death on Demand,” but Annie managed a simple “hello.”
“My sweet.” Her mother-in-law’s greeting burbled like bubbles in champagne. “I felt sure I would be conversing with your answering machine. A mixed blessing, don’t you think?”
Annie was unsure whether Laurel was indicating a preference for her or for the answering machine, but it was better not to think along those lines. It could lead to a sense of anomie, which she had quite successfully avoided ever since forswearing the kind of literary fiction written primarily by English professors for other English professors.
“But I feel as if it were meant.”
Annie had a sudden vision of a graceful hand with pink-tipped nails pressed against a bosom that was always shown to great advantage in low-cut ball gowns. Not, of course, that she begrudged Max’s mother the opportunity to display her undoubted beauty, blond hair that glistened like spun gold, eyes as brilliantly sapphire as a northern sea, finely chiseled features, and a figure almost unseemly for a woman old enough to have four grown children.
“I am most concerned that you and dear Max be quite cautious in your pursuit of justice. There is so much evil in the world, my dear.”
Annie managed a single intervening sentence. “Miss Marple never worried about her skin when she hunted
for a murderer.”
Max, thumbing through a batch of mail left by Barb, looked across the room, a question in his blue eyes. Annie covered the mouthpiece. “Your mom,” she mouthed.
Max smiled fondly and walked a few paces to settle in an easy chair with the mail. The chair was rather handily out of reach of the phone cord.
Annie realized the pause on Laurel’s end was still in force. One hell of a pause, actually. It indicated, without a single word, that dear Annie was regrettably callow to refer in such graceless prose to the greatest elderly female detective of all time.
Annie attempted damage control. “Not that Miss Marple would ever have thought about it in those terms. But, Laurel, you see what I mean.”
“Of course, my dear.” That resonant, husky, unforgettable voice radiated patience.
Annie’s gaze fastened wistfully on a pair of crossed swords above the Adam mantel. It was a good thing Laurel had not progressed on the psychic plane to mind reading.
Mercifully unaware of the images—honestly, did it make her bloodthirsty to own a mystery bookstore?—cavorting in Annie’s mind, Laurel swept on. “I quite take pride in your and Max’s dedication to duty. I feel impelled to point out, however, that it has been brought home to me in a most shocking manner how ugliness begets heartbreak which not even the passage of a great many years can ease. Take the grisly episode at Fenwick Castle on St. John’s Island. That imposing mansion is said to have resembled the castles in the family’s English holdings.”
Annie felt sufficiently embroiled in present-day heartbreak without adding dead-and-gone misery to her bag of emotions, but she knew that Laurel, once launched, was quite as impervious to deflection as Miss Climpson when in pursuit of information for Lord Peter Wimsey.
“… and so Ann Fenwick fell in love not only with the spirited racehorse her father ordered from England, but also with the groom who arrived with the horse. Ann was a favorite of her stern father, Edward Fenwick, who had always treated her gently and lovingly. But Fenwick lived up to his reputation for anger and harshness when his daughter informed him that she wished to marry the young groom, Tony. Her father, a titled lord in England, was enraged. He swore that this would never happen, his daughter would not wed a groom. Ann protested that Tony was the younger son of a clergyman and her father could aid him in entering a profession. But Edward Fenwick, Lord Ripon, vowed he would rather see his daughter dead.”
A delicate sigh wafted over the wire from Charleston. “My dear, I have loved as Ann loved.”
Annie bit her tongue. It wouldn’t be at all the thing to ask Laurel if Ann Fenwick had also married five times. That would not be a proper filial response. Besides, Max was within earshot.
“It is,” Laurel enthused, “as if dear Ann were here with me.”
Annie also forbore to ask in which century Ann’s problems occurred and whether the presence so near Laurel was moldy. And chilly. Graves did have a tendency to be both damp and moist. Especially in the Low Country.
“I feel her so near. Her tears have been mine as I contemplate the horrible fate which awaited her. Suffice it to say—”
Did Laurel fear Annie’s attention might be wandering?
“—Ann and Tony continued to rendezvous, albeit secretly, of course, because of her father’s furious prohibitions. Ann tried one more time to persuade her father and was rebuffed, with equal anger. So she and Tony eloped. They found a minister who wed them and they set out for Charles Town.” (Annie got the clue; a long damn time ago when that city on the Ashley River still bore a double name.) “It was evening and too late to hail a boat to cross. They stayed their bridal night—I hope a glorious night—but when dawn came so did a search party headed by her father. It callously rousted out the newlyweds and placed them in a coach, with Tony bound in ropes, and set out for Fenwick Castle. When the coach arrived and jolted to a stop in the stable yard, Lord Ripon shouted for a horse to be brought. Then he ordered his men to place Tony on the steed and to take a rope, tie it to Tony’s neck, then fasten it to the limb of the huge oak which Ann had climbed as a child.
“Ann, screaming and weeping, struggled with her father, pleading for the life of her new husband. Silent and grim, Lord Ripon placed a whip in her hand. Then, holding her tight, he lifted her arm and flailed down viciously on the horse’s flank. As it bolted and her beloved swung by his neck in the air above her, twisting and turning, Ann gave a dreadful cry and collapsed.”
“Laurel,” Annie said faintly.
Max looked at her in alarm. Weakly, Annie waggled her hand that it was all right. But it wasn’t all right. This dreadful story would haunt her sleep for many nights to come. Whatever possessed Laurel to—
“My dear, I know. Such nightmares I have had. But we must face the fact that evil acts create heartbreak that lingers through time. Poor little Ann never recovered. Oh, she regained consciousness, of course. But ever after, she wandered the halls of Fenwick Castle, crying out for Tony, searching for Tony. After she died, her spirit stayed. Even today, though Fenwick Castle lies in ruins, you can hear her footsteps as she paces halls that no longer exist and her mournful cry of ‘Tony, Tony!”’
Annie shivered. On winter nights when rain hissed against the windows, did Sybil hear Ross’s name? Or was the cry simply in her heart?
“I must say I now look forward to the day when I shall have completed my chronicle of South Carolina ghosts. As you know, dear Annie, I have never felt it my duty to wallow in tragedy. However, I—”
Actually, if Annie envisioned Laurel wallowing, it certainly wasn’t in tragedy. In fact … Annie sternly corrected the drift of her thoughts.
“—must hew to the course as I find it, and I’m confident my insights shall be of inestimable value to you and dear Max. Ta.”
Annie replaced the receiver and looked at her husband. As pleasantly as possible. “Wallowing in tragedy, but brave as hell.”
“Now, Annie, you know the old dear means well.” He got to his feet. “Lunchtime. Strategy time.”
Annie wasn’t altogether diverted, though she was ravenous. Was this the moment to point out to Max that he had a blind spot the size of Texas in his understanding of his mother, her motives and her actions? But, in this instance, maybe he had a point. Besides, how could Annie complain? After all, the old dear was in Charleston, not Chastain.
“So, trauma lingers,” Max summed up as Annie concluded her report of the conversation. He put two plates on the golden oak table in their suite’s breakfast room and began to unload the box lunches they’d bought en route to the inn. “Did you see the card from Henny?”
Annie rustled through the stack of mail and pulled out the postcard. She studied the Corinthian portico and baroque tower of an elegant church. Flipping to Henny’s message, she read: I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—this is St. George’s, Hanover Square, where Harriet and Lord Peter were wed in Busman’s Holiday! Annie, I do wish you and Max were here. But I shall be home soon. Duty calls. Love—H.
As they raced through lunch—they had to hurry if they were going to be on time to meet Miss Dora for a guided tour of Tarrant House and its grounds—discussing whether they were prepared for the afternoon, Annie struggled to discipline her thoughts. Images whirled: Ann Fenwick’s desolate cry for love and life destroyed, Julia’s strangely passionate desire to protect Milam’s memory of his mother, acid-tongued Enid’s advice to Courtney Kimball that Miss Dora alone among the Tarrants could be trusted, a little girl waking early and hurrying outside to death, Lucy Jane pleating her apron and picking her words so carefully. …
Annie put down the last half of her sandwich. She checked her watch. Almost two. They mustn’t be late to meet Miss Dora. She pushed back her chair.
Max looked across the table. “What’s up?”
Annie hurried to the desk and grabbed the phone. “I need to make a couple of calls before we go.” It was the first time in her life she’d ever left a smoked salmon/cream cheese sandwich unfinished. And she was hu
ngry enough to devour a twelve-ounce T-bone. (As a native Texan, she fully subscribed to the ideal of real food for real people.) But the uneasiness that had plucked at her mind, conjuring up images of restless spirits and tragic losses, was too powerful to ignore. She had a dark vision that she desperately wanted to dispel.
Lucy Jane McKay answered on the first ring.
“Mrs. McKay, this is Annie Darling. We’re still working for Miss Dora”—it wouldn’t hurt to underscore their friend in high places—“and I wondered if you could give us some background information on Missy Tarrant’s accident.”
“Missy.” The older woman’s voice was soft. “One of God’s angels, Mrs. Darling. That’s why she went home to be with the Lord so young.”
Annie could see the comfort behind this rationale, but theologically speaking it didn’t appeal to her. “I know that she drowned in a pond, but do you know the circumstances?”
“Oh, Mrs. Darling, it was just so sad and it goes to show the evils of alcohol that every young parent should take to heart.” Lucy Jane was firm, but her voice was thick with tears. “Now, there wasn’t anybody who loved that baby better than her mamma and her daddy, but they liked to stay up nights drinking too much and then they didn’t get up in the mornings like they should. A friend of one of my girls was helping out at Wisteree is how I know what happened. Missy lost one of her favorite toys, a big brown bear she called ‘Bear-Bear.’ How she cried and cried for him. Anyway, that last morning—it was a Sunday—Missy woke up early, but her folks didn’t get up and Cathy, my daughter’s friend, had a flat tire on her way out to Wisteree so she wasn’t there to take care of the little girl—oh, still just a baby—like she would have usually. Missy got up and went downstairs and nobody locks doors—or did then—out in the country or in town either. So Missy let herself out of the kitchen door and she wandered down to the pond. When her daddy found her, she was floating facedown in the water and there was Bear-Bear floating beside her. Nobody knows how he got there. You’d think if she’d thrown him in the water when he was lost, she would have said so. And why didn’t someone notice him floating out there? Anyway, they think Missy saw him in the water and went in after him. That’s how it was when they found them, Bear-Bear and Missy.”
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