Annie wondered how Miss Cartwright would react if they told her that Ross had decided to refuse his commission and go to Canada if necessary, to avoid serving in a war in which he did not believe. Would she see a man of honor in that, a true Tarrant, or would she be enraged, as the Judge had been so long ago?
"What about Milam?" Max asked.
Nelda's eyes narrowed. "Milam." Her fingers tapped the cover of her book. "He was in trouble with the Judge that week. I remember now—I took a letter." Those faded eyes glittered. "Don't think I couldn't read between the lines." Her lips curled in distaste. "None of it surprised me. It was utterly transparent, both to the Judge and to me. Milam took advantage of the family name to secure a historical restoration commission for this pretty young woman who'd come to town and opened up a decorating firm. No antecedents. Nothing to
recommend her. To think Milam thought the Judge wouldn't realize what was going on! The Judge understood, all right. His voice was like a winter day when he dictated the letter asking that woman to resign the commission since it had been obtained under false pretenses—Milam told the board she had the confidence of the Tarrant Family and, of course, everyone thought that meant the Judge had recommended her. Why, this is too small a town to get away with something like that! Felicity Moore was president of the historical society. When Milam told the board that pack of lies, Felicity telephoned the Judge at once, asked why he wasn't in favor of continuing with Sheila Bauman. Sheila Bauman knew more about restoration than anyone else in Beaufort County! It was a scandal to think of throwing her over, after all the years she'd worked with the society, for this peroxided woman who'd moved here from Atlanta."
"A friend of Milam's," Max said carefully.
"You could call it that." Nelda's stare was icy.
Annie wanted to get it straight. "Milam recommended this woman for a restoration job, inferring that's what the Judge wanted?"
A sharp affirmative nod. Then a malicious smile. "Milam didn't win that one, even though the Judge died. I'd already sent the letter to the historical society. The Judge made it perfectly clear he wanted Sheila Bauman to be reappointed. Not that Crandall woman." The smile slid into a frown. "Of course, as soon as the Judge was dead and buried, Milam showed his true colors. He quit his job at the bank—I'll bet they were glad to see the last of him with his smart tongue—moved out to the plantation, and called himself a painter." Her tone oozed contempt. Nelda Cartwright apparently put artistic endeavors on the same level with panhandling and garbage collecting.
So how much of this diatribe should be attributed to malice?
Frowning darkly, the old lady gazed out at the lovely spring day. Delicate, wispy clouds laced the soft blue sky.
Lovely, yes, but Annie still hungered sometimes for the clear, harsh brilliance of a Texas sky.
Max softly jingled some coins in his pocket. "Miss Cartwright, please, think very carefully for us, do you know of anyone—anyone at all—with a motive for murdering the Judge? Someone he had sentenced? Another lawyer whom he had bested? A client who was dissatisfied? Someone jealous of his prominence, his success?"
"Oh, there were many who were jealous of the Judge, I can tell you that." Her gray head bobbed in emphasis. "Sometimes I think a man's goodness can be measured by the number of his enemies."
That was a new proposition to Annie.
Nelda looked up at her and snapped, "Just you wait until you've lived longer, young lady, then you'll understand what I mean. Why, anyone would think good men would be revered, but they put others to shame, you see, show them up for what they are, and most people can't stand the light of day on what they really are."
Annie felt a pang of embarrassment. The old lady was right, of course. How well could anyone bear the spotlight if it focused on their shabby motives, their shameful desires, their petty jealousies, usually well hidden behind false social smiles?
How well, Annie wondered, could Judge Tarrant have borne such scrutiny?
"But the Judge—" Nelda's voice was soft. "He always told the truth. He never made himself look big and important. And"—she poked a finger at them fiercely—"he did many a good deed that nobody ever knew about. Even I wouldn't have known, but I kept his files in order."
She didn't say it, but obviously she'd read letters the Judge had composed and sent himself. Read for her own happiness, read because she loved him.
"He paid for many a poor young man to go to school. White and black. He made anonymous donations to the Baptist soup kitchen, though he was a good Episcopalian. He . . ." Her voice trailed off, her thin shoulders slumped.
Tears edged from beneath the thick glasses. "Struck down by a wretch in his own family. Who else could have gone into Tarrant House and not been seen by someone? They all lived there, you know, because he was generous, giving food and board to grown men with wives who should have worked hard enough to earn the money for their own residences. But not Whitney or Milam." She made no effort to wipe away the tears. Annie's heart contracted.
"Couldn't the Judge have helped his sons, made money available so they could have had their own homes?" Max inquired.
"What would that have taught them about standing on their own two feet?" she retorted angrily. "That would have been the worst possible thing to do."
Max was looking both bemused and appalled. Since he had never understood Annie's staunch devotion to the Puritan work ethic, it was unlikely the Judge's approach would impress him. As far as Max was concerned, money, which his family had and shared in abundance, was marvelous because it afforded freedom. The idea that a person's worth should be equated to how much money that person possessed or could earn was utterly foreign to him.