And now it was Charlotte's turn. She flounced a little in her chair, torn between exercising her anger at Milam and responding to Miss Dora. But it was no contest. "It was such an important week, Miss Dora." She smoothed her faded blond hair, and the carnelian ring on one finger glowed a rich rose. "We've raised enough money to start reconstruction of Fort Chastain. Why, you know how important it was in the
Battle of Chastain. That's where William first joined his company. And at one time Henry was in command there. When it's rebuilt, we can climb to the ramparts and look out over the river—just like Henry and William."
As the maid brought dessert, Julia held up her wineglass to be refilled. When the glass was full, she downed the contents in one swift, practiced motion.
"Hot damn, Charlotte," Sybil drawled. "Won't that be the day! Climb that rampart, honey, wave that—"
Annie glanced down the table at Max. He was looking bland, but laughter danced in his eyes.
"Sybil." There was impatience more than anger in Miss Dora's voice.
Sybil shrugged.
Annie also noted that Max didn't miss the languid movement of that shapely figure.
Thinking of shapely figures, Annie was tempted to refuse the dessert. But as a guest . . . The Key-lime pie was so good Annie enjoyed every bite despite the charged atmosphere of the dinner party.
"All right, Aunt Dora. I'll be good." Sybil's carmine-red lips curved in an unrepentant grin. "But, just between us, don't you think it's stupid when someone whose people don't amount to a hill of beans gets so almighty excited when they connect up with an old family?" The question was addressed to Miss Dora, but its impact was calculated. Sybil's derisive glance raked Charlotte.
This time Charlotte ignored Sybil, but the flush didn't fade from her heavy face.
Miss Dora was already turning to Julia. "And your week, my dear?" For the first time, her voice was gentle.
Julia licked her lips and squeezed her eyes in concentration. "Week?" She blinked owlishly.
Abruptly, Annie realized that Julia was drunk as a lord, which made Annie wonder how much Julia'd had to drink before she and her husband ever arrived at Tarrant House.
"Oh, Julia had her usual week," Milam intervened. "She Iikes to—"
"Let Julia tell me, Milam." Miss Dora reached out a claw-like hand to pat Julia's arm.
Annie wondered if the thin woman beside her even noticed, or if she was so anesthetized the touch went unremarked.
Julia gave Milam a suddenly sweet smile. "S'funny. Came in for bulbs." She stared intently at Charlotte. "You always said okay. You weren't home. I went down to the beds near the 'b'lisk."
Charlotte understood. "Certainly, Julia. The iris beds near the obelisk." Annie didn't perceive kindness in Charlotte's response, merely the clearing up of a tidy mind.
"Last night." Suddenly Julia's eyes filled with tears. "I saw Amanda."
Someone drew a breath in sharply.
Annie looked quickly around the table.
Miss Dora's wizened face was alert.
Milam reached up and tugged at the gold stud in his left ear.
Whitney's black brows drew down in a tight frown. Charlotte's hand clung to her necklace as if it were a lifeline.
Sybil's amusement slipped away, and her face held no hint of her usual spark of deviltry. "Don't cry, Julia. It's all right." She spoke gently, as if to a child.
The tears slipped down Julia's thin face, unheeded. "I tried to run after her. I called for her—but she wouldn't stay." Julia stared hopelessly at the old lady. "Why did Amanda have to die? Amanda and—"
"Come on, Julia." Milam pushed back his chair and was at his wife's side. "Let's go upstairs for a few minutes. Come on, now."
As they walked away from the table, Milam holding her elbow, Miss Dora called out, "When you come downstairs, join us in the drawing room, Milam." And to the other guests she nodded. "We shall have coffee there." She inclined her head and rose.
Miss Dora led the way, her cane a swift staccato accompaniment to her steps. They all followed, of course, Sybil carrying along her half-full tumbler of bourbon.
The three-tiered crystal chandelier illuminated every corner of the spacious drawing room. Annie admired the lovely Meissen china and the elegant silver coffee service. At Miss Dora's nod, Charlotte took her place behind the coffee table to serve. For the first time that evening, Charlotte looked happy, her green eyes glowing. She served very prettily, her plump, be-ringed hands adept. Her pleasure in her role was evident.
Annie, unaccustomedly, took both sugar and cream.
Max shot her a quizzical glance.
Annie ignored him. She suddenly felt she needed every bit of extra energy possible.
Miss Dora waited until Milam and Julia slowly came down the mahogany stairs and joined them. Milam shepherded Julia to a secluded seat in a corner beside a jardiniere with a leafy fern and brought her a cup of coffee. He put it on the Queen Anne table next to her chair.
The old lady took her place in front of the fireplace, hands clasped on the silver knob of her cane, and faced her seated guests scattered about the drawing room. Annie was glad Max sat next to her on the Georgian settee.
Despite the muted richness of her rose gown, Miss Dora had a funereal air. Her ancient, sharp-featured face settled in implacable lines, eyes hooded, lips pursed, arrogant chin thrust forward.
Slowly, one by one, voices fell silent.
Miss Dora looked at each of her invited guests in turn. In a doomsday voice, she pronounced their names, clearly a roll call. "Milam. Julia. Whitney. Charlotte. Sybil."
Sybil's intelligent eyes appraised her. "You're on the warpath, aren't you? Who's in trouble? Is it Milam for attacking icons? Or maybe it's poor dear Julia who starts the day with a glass of vodka neat. Or is it Whitney for grabbing a little ass when poor Charlotte's not looking? Or Charlotte for that god-awful pretentious piece of crap she wrote about the Tarrants? She oh-so-conveniently left out all the drunks and the black sheep and especially the Tarrant who was playing both sides against the middle during the Revolution, а la the revered and very clever Ben Franklin. Or am I the one on the spot?" She flashed a wicked grin. "But you know what I like, Miss Dora. I could have brought him tonight, but this crowd's a little old for Bobby. He's a sweet young man."
"How can you be so disgusting," Charlotte hissed. "To consort with mere boys." Her pale-green eyes glistened with dislike.
"The usual term is 'have sex,' Charlotte. Although I don't suppose it's an activity you enjoy. Not high-class enough. And Bobby's nineteen." Sybil's smile would have embarrassed a satyr. "That's old enough. Believe me."
Miss Dora's eyes, dark as pitch, turned to Sybil. They were for an instant filled with pity.
Sybil saw that, too. She sat very still in the gilt Louis Quinze armchair, every trace of mocking amusement erased. Slowly she lifted the glass to her lips and drank, focusing on that physical act.
Miss Dora's eyes lingered on Sybil yet an instant longer; then the old woman spoke in measured tones. "I have called all of you here because I intend to institute a court of inquiry, prosecuted by me, into the events of May ninth, 1970."
It should have been ludicrous, the old, hunched figure, the thin, age-roughened voice, the grandiloquent pronouncement. It was, to the contrary, majestic. Tiny and indomitable, the moment belonged to Miss Dora.
The silence was absolute.
Anger.
Shock.
And fear.
Annie could feel raw emotion in that elegant room. But from whom?
Milam's heavy face twisted into a scowl, every trace of sardonic lightness gone.
The fragile coffee cup in Julia's hand began to shake. Clumsily, she put it down on the Queen Anne table.
Whitney's thin face had the look of a fox hearing the hounds.
Charlotte's social smile congealed into a blank, empty mask.
Sybil's face crumpled. She turned away and came up blindly against the mantelpiece. Both hands gripped it. She stood with her back to them, her smooth, ivory shoulders hunched, then whirled to face Miss Dora.