"Barb sounds funny," Max observed, squeezing in beside Annie on the love seat. "Has she got a cold?"
Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell but sometimes an innocent abroad.
Annie flashed a wicked grin and murmured, "Later," as the machine beeped again.
"Where are you people?" Sybil's deep contralto was sharp-edged and impatient. "I want to talk to you. Come here as soon as possible."
In the bedroom, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.
But Max made no move—toward the fax.
Instead, he slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders and pulled her close. "Hey, we can't work all—"
A hard, impatient rapping reverberated against their door.
11:30 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Chapter 15.
The two women stood locked in a tight embrace, the auburn head pressed down against soft dark curls.
Julia trembled. "I can't go home. I can't. Oh, God, Amanda, I'll die if he touches Missy."
Miss Dora surged into the living room of their suite, her dark-gray cloak swirling around her, her silver-headed cane thumping against the heart pine floor. She stopped in the center of the artfully decorated room, planted her stick firmly in front of her, and raked them with those bright, malevolent eyes.
"Noon," she rasped. "Where have you been? What have you accomplished?"
Miss Dora deigned to accept a hard straight chair, her back erect, her head high. Annie sat primly on the love seat. Alone. Her posture was excellent. Max stood respectfully near Miss Dora.
As they made their reports, the old lady interspersed an occasional comment.
"Lucy Jane's no fool." The wizened face puckered in thought. "So she's skittish about Amanda. That's interesting. Don't quite see why, after all these years. Hmm."
She smiled sardonically as Max concluded. "So Whitney tossed you out, eh? He's blustering. I'll fix his wagon. But,
first things first. My own investigations, made this morning, indicate the fire was set either by Julia or by Milam." It was almost a modest announcement. And even Miss Dora was willing to accept appropriate praise. At their exclamations of interest, the sallow skin was touched by a faint pink glow. "It is quite clear that the blaze was fueled by gasoline. I confirmed that today when I spoke to our fire chief. Early this morning, I checked the garage at Tarrant House. The gasoline container used for the lawn mower was full. So, it was either replenished or not used. If replenished, I reasoned it must have been done this morning. I stopped at every gas station within the radius of several miles and inquired, presenting photographs of Charlotte and Whitney. All responses were negative. This done, I drove—"
Annie gasped. "Miss Dora, you drive?"
Miss Dora swept Annie with a furious reptilian gaze. There was a long moment of outraged silence, then the old lady snarled, "Are you questioning my competence, young miss?"
"Oh, no, no, no. I just thought . . . I assumed you had a driver."
Miss Dora permitted herself to be mollified. "Perhaps you might be excused for that presumption. But I don't believe in unnecessary frills. I've driven myself for almost seventy years, and I shall continue to do so. In any event, I drove to Wisteree Plantation. I went directly to the garage. What a rubbish heap! Milam should be ashamed—discarded boxes, tools in no order, messy, half-full cans of turpentine and paint. I finally discovered the gas container, flung carelessly in a corner. Not, I think, its customary location, for there was a distinct circular ring of sediment from gas and oil and dirt beneath some shelves along one wall. The container was empty. Milam and Julia's garage, however, is such an untidy, ill-run mess that an empty gas can would come as no surprise. More to the point" —she leaned forward, the bony hands tight on the knob of her cane—"I examined both Milam's truck and Julia's car. The truck"—her aristocratic nose wrinkled in disdain—"was rusted out and filthy. Milam could have transported the container without leaving discernible traces. But, in Julia's
Honda"—the old lady's eyes slitted—"the floor carpet in the back behind the driver's seat was stained with a ring of oil, and there was a distinct odor, when the carpet was sniffed, of gasoline." She thumped her cane.
Annie wasn't trying to disagree, but the suggestion didn't make much sense to her. "Julia was just a young daughter-in-law when the Judge was shot. What could there possibly be either in the papers of the Judge or in Amanda's papers that could threaten her?"