Miss Crandall reached for the knob and opened the door. "Good night."
"You could perhaps be helpful to Milam," Max said quickly.
"Would you want him to be accused of murder?" Annie asked.
"Milam? Murder?" Joan Crandall's voice was harsh. She looked from one to the other. "Murder? That's absurd. For God's sake, who are you people? What are you talking about?"
"We'll be glad to tell you, Miss Crandall. Let us have five minutes." Max unobtrusively gave Annie's wrist a warning squeeze.
It hung in the balance for a long moment. Finally, the dealer gave a short nod. Pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock, she gestured for them to follow. She led the way through the crowded room to an office that looked out on a silent lagoon.
As they settled in wingback chairs that faced her desk, an American Chippendale card table, she said crisply, "All right, five minutes."
She listened without comment, her face unreadable, her hands folded together on the desk top. In the light from a Tiffany lamp, the large square-cut emerald in an ornate silver setting on her right hand glittered like green fire. The evening sun spilling in from a west window gave her hair the shine of gold.
When Max concluded, she relaxed back in her chair. Her lips moved in a faint, derisive smile. "Do you often put credence in twenty-year-old gossip, Mr. Darling?"
"This is especially important twenty-year-old gossip," Max replied temperately. "Someone shot the Judge. It may well have been Milam."
"Because his father humiliated him? Oh, come now, Mr. Darling. It takes more than that to engender murder." Her mouth thinned and ugly lines were etched at the corners of her lips. "Though I wouldn't have blamed him—and I was angry myself." She smiled wryly. "I assure you I didn't shoot the Judge." She lifted one hand to touch her temple. "God, it seems like yesterday. I was new in Chastain. I'd just finished a master's in art history, and I was so eager to get to work. Milam—I'd met him at some art shows—tried to help me get an appointment for some conservation work, work which I was eminently more qualified to do and oversee than the amateur plodder who'd been in charge for years. But the amateur plodder was from one of the old families, one of the right families, and I was an outsider. Everyone assumed Milam did it because we were lovers." For an instant, there was a genuine flash of amusement. "I was so shocked at that. Then. Now, of course, I've lived here for twenty years and I know that it's always assumed men do things because they love women—not because a woman might be smart or qualified or capable. But I was new to Chastain." The smile slipped away. "Do you want to know the truth?" There was quiet honesty and a hint of regret in her tone. "Milam and I are friends. We were friends then. And that's all, my dear young people, despite what others assume. A very precious friendship to both of us, but perhaps most precious to Milam. We talk about art and life and beauty. How many people"—she tilted her elegant head to look at them—"do you suppose Milam can talk with about art and life and beauty in this town?"
Milam Tarrant was a part of a family with long roots in Chastain. No one could question his standing or his lineage. But what good was that, Annie realized, if he didn't belong, if he was a stranger on his own hearth?
"Are you saying Milam had no reason to be angry with his father?" Annie asked.
"Reason to be angry?" Her eyes flashed. "Oh, I think Mi-lam had reason enough to be angry. It was another in a series of embarrassments at the hands of his father. You see, the Judge couldn't tolerate the idea that anyone would defer toany opinion other than his. Oh, I remember that episode very well indeed. The Judge didn't even bother to talk to Milam, to ask why he'd recommended me. That didn't matter, you understand. The Judge sent Milam a letter—don't you like that?—a letter informing him that it was beneath the standing of a Tarrant to attempt to advance the career of a person—meaning me—of questionable character, especially if there were suspicion of a personal relationship involved. So, yes, Milam was angry and humiliated. If the Judge had lived, I don't know if the breach would ever have closed. Milam said the letter was the final insult after a lifetime of degradation. That was how he put it, degradation. Always, the Judge turned away from him because he was different. All Milam ever wanted was for the Judge to see Milam as he was, to love him as he was. But with the Judge, love was provisional—and only awarded when his sons performed as he demanded they should, as 'Tarrants.' "
"As soon as the Judge died," Annie said carefully, "Milam started acting very differently, didn't he?"
She gave an elegant shrug. "Different? No. That's not fair. But I think he finally felt free to be himself."
"And yet"—Max leaned forward—"you seemed astounded when Annie suggested Milam might be suspected of murder. It looks to me as though Milam had an enormously strong motive for murder."
For the first time, the dealer laughed out loud. "Milam as a skulking, conniving murderer? Oh, no. No. Milam is--oh, I know he has a waspish tongue. That's anger, of course, his way of trying to get back at those who have hurt him so badly all through the years. Milam has a great deal of anger. But he is —when you truly know Milam—such a gentle man. You never saw him with his little girl, did you? He adored Missy." Joan Crandall looked out at the lagoon turning purple in the fading light. "I almost thought he would succeed as an artist, that he would find himself, know what he should do . . . until Missy died. Missy's death destroyed his soul. After that, everything was derivative. Skilled, yes, but lacking heart. Poor Milam. That's all he ever wanted, to be loved. And that's all