Annie closed the folder. She was looking forward to meeting Lucy Jane McKay.
'
As Max hurried up the sidewalk toward the yellow stucco building on Federal Street that housed the law offices of Tarrant & Tarrant (though Whitney was the only Tarrant at present in the firm), he reviewed what he had just read about Whitney Tarrant: Forty-six. Middle son of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant. Good health. Good credit. Income from law firm erratic, not impressive; lives on inherited wealth. A social leader in Chastain. Plays golf at the country club every Wednesday afternoon and on both Saturday and Sunday. Con‑
sistently shoots in the eighties. Likes to play skins. Wins and losses even out. A complainer, nothing ever quite suits. One of the New South's strong Republicans. Hostile to unions. Episcopalian. Opposed to women priests, ordination of homosexuals. Reputed to have an eye for the ladies. Rumored to have had several affairs over the years, usually with women met through his work with the Chamber of Commerce. No suggestion divorce ever contemplated. Apparently on good terms with his wife, Charlotte. No public quarrels, except for their disagreement over their daughter, Harriet. Active in the bar association. Considered a lightweight lawyer, good at bringing in clients who are subsequently handled by his younger partner, Richard Parks. As one older lawyer remarked, "The old Judge would have a seizure if he saw Whitney in action. Whitney's all mouth, no show. No substance there—and lazy to boot." Another said, "You have to be damn careful with Whitney. He'll always cheat just a little bit." A former lover snapped, "The only thing Whitney ever loved was Whitney." His daughter, Harriet: "Pop? Oh, Christ, what can you expect of anybody who'd be fool enough to marry Charlotte? Pop and male black widow spiders have a lot in common. Though he did stand up to her for me—once. Maybe once is enough."
Max passed the ground-floor jewelry store and opened the door leading to the stairs to the second and third floors. Though the walls were painted a modern cream, the wooden stairs, the steps worn in the center, revealed the building's age.
On the second floor, Max entered a law office that looked as though it had been there since the building was built in the 1880s—and it probably had. Old wood paneling, old wooden floor, worn Persian rug, its rich colors muted by age. The door creaked as Max closed it behind him.
The young receptionist damn sure hadn't been there since the 1880s. As Max stepped inside, she smoothed glistening platinum hair and smiled brightly at him, and it was a smile that said a lot. Max was glad Annie wasn't there to see it.
"Good morning. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm Max Darling. I'd like to speak to Mr. Tarrant."
Max took out his card and scrawled: Miss Dora sent me. "If you will give this to him, I would appreciate it."
Miss Dora's name continued to work magic, which came as no surprise to Max. As he followed the receptionist into one of the inner offices, the tight frown on Whitney Tarrant's face came as no surprise either.
As the door closed behind his receptionist, Tarrant eyed Max coldly. "You've obviously taken advantage of an old woman's foolish credulity. I owe my great-aunt every courtesy, but I don't owe you a damn thing—and I want to make it clear that I'm violently opposed to your meddling in our family affairs."
"Murder can cause worse than meddling. I'd imagine you'd rather talk to me than to Chief Wells." Max gestured toward the red leather chair that faced Tarrant's beautifully carved desk. "May I?"
Tarrant stared at him. "Chief Wells?"
"Miss Dora has informed him of last night's revelations." Max looked at him inquiringly. "I'm surprised you didn't call him yourself."
"But—" Whitney's eyes shifted away from Max. Better than anyone else at Miss Dora's, Whitney, as a lawyer, knew there was no statute of limitations in regard to murder. "Yes, yes, I see. Of course, we will have to think back." His glance became wary. "Yes, I see. Go ahead, then, sit down. But I can't give you much time. I have to be in court at ten."
Max thought this was probably invented on the spot. Whitney was definitely an office lawyer, though his walls were decorated with prints of English barristers. It was assuredly an impressive office. An Aubusson rug stretched in front of the massive desk, a pair of matching Chinese Lowestoft gamecocks rested at either end of the bookcase behind the desk. A French Empire clock dominated the mantelpiece above the Georgian fireplace. A small, spider-legged circular table, its antique patina gleaming, sat in front of the fireplace. One wall held a gun collection: a musket, two sets of silver-plated dueling pistols, a Colt Model 1860 revolving pistol, a Spencer rifle, and a Springfield carbine.
Max looked the collection over. A gun lover. A weak-chinned gun lover. But guns couldn't help Whitney now.
Max leaned forward in his chair and spoke briskly. "This is your chance to stand up and be counted, Mr. Tarrant. Do you want to find your father's murderer or not?"
"Of course I do," Whitney snapped. "Though I still have to wonder . . . perhaps Miss Dora was wrong about the time and seeing Ross."
Max didn't bother to respond to that weak ploy.
Tarrant abandoned it, too. He straightened the single stack of papers on his desk top. "I just don't see—I mean, that leaves Milam and Julia and Charlotte. And Lucy Jane, the cook, was around somewhere. And Sam, the butler. And the maid. God, what was her name. Tiny little thing who always moved real fast. Oh, yeah, Enid." His head lifted. "I can't believe it! It couldn't be one of them!"