"Take Charlotte inside, Whitney." Miss Dora lifted her cane and pointed toward the steps. "She's distraught." The old lady peered up at the piazza and the squatting form of thepolice chief. A patrolman stood slightly behind Wells, holding a huge flashlight.
Shattered glass sparkled in the pool of light. The broken pane in the French door was beside the handle. The door was ajar. The cone of light illuminated a patch of Persian rug, pale gray touched with silver and rose, the russet gleam of mahogany, and, lying on the piazza, the chunk of brick that had been used to break the glass.
"Let's go back inside, Charlotte," Whitney urged. "The chief will take care of everything—"
Charlotte hung back. "We don't know who's in there. What if someone's in there—with the gun?" She dropped Whitney's arm and ran to the piazza steps. "Chief, hurry! They may be upstairs, waiting for us."
Wells remained hunkered down on the gray painted boards of the porch. He looked over his shoulder. "Miz Tarrant, was the gun the only thing taken from the room?"
"I think so. I saw it all at once," she said feverishly, "the broken window, the French door ajar, and the bottom drawer to the desk open. I ran and looked down into the drawer. When I saw the gun was gone, I screamed for Whitney."
"Didn't know what the hell!" Whitney came up beside her. "I found Charlotte scared to death. All she could do was point, first at the smashed glass, then at the drawer, then at the glass. Damn gun has disappeared. That's all I can tell you."
Charlotte peered into the darkness that pressed around them. The sliver of moon gave scarcely any light at all. The shadows in the garden were deep and dark. "Someone may be out there with the gun right now. Or waiting upstairs! They may be waiting upstairs to kill us both!"
Wells reached behind him for the flashlight. "Secure the premises, Matthews." He stood, the flashlight pointed down at the porch. "Miss Dora, perhaps you could offer refuge to your kinfolk until we complete our investigation."
Miss Dora's head snapped up. Annie wasn't certain—the light was poor where the old lady stood—but, just for an instant, Annie thought she saw an odd expression. Uncertainty? Concern? Fear? But, in the next instant, Miss Dora was
stepping forward. "My old Daisy would have a seizure, people tramping in my house at this hour of the night."
It wasn't long after nine o'clock, but Annie supposed that to Miss Dora and her no doubt aged retainer, the hour might be quite unseemly.
Miss Dora marched up to Charlotte. The wizened old woman was fully dressed in her familiar black bombazine, ankle-length dress, and sturdy black shoes. So Miss Dora had not yet retired for the night when a siren sounded next door, announcing the arrival of the police.
Charlotte was in black, too, but hers was a stylish linen dress with a striped shawl collar. Pink pearl earrings and a two-strand pink pearl necklace added the only touch of color.
The contrast between the two women was startling, but Miss Dora didn't look absurd. Other-century and witchlike, yes, but not absurd.
Tossing her white head impatiently, Miss Dora snapped, "Try to show some control, Charlotte. Obviously, no housebreaker would remain on the premises after he was discovered. Moreover, it would take a demented burglar to await the arrival of the authorities. Had someone broken in to take the gun with the objective of attacking you, that attack would have occurred when you came into the study and found the window broken. No such attack occurred. And how would an intruder have reached the upper rooms? You and Whitney were both downstairs. Did anyone run past you and go up the stairs?"
Sullenly, Charlotte shook her head. Shaking fingers tugged at her necklace of pink pearls. "But someone could be up there," she persisted.
An expression of distaste crossed Miss Dora's aristocratic face. "The patrolman is now checking each room. As soon as that search is complete, you may feel quite safe to go inside." She sniffed. "Why in heaven's name would anyone want to shoot you, Charlotte?"
Chief Wells moved ponderously to the edge of the porch to listen to Charlotte's answer. One cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco.
Charlotte wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Her voice shook with anger. "Why did someone shoot the Judge? Answer me that! Why did someone set fire to my museum? Answer me that! I'll tell you why! Someone hates the Tar-rants!" Her eyes flicked venomously toward Annie and Max. "And why are they always here when there's trouble? He was the last one who saw that girl, too! That's what it said in the paper. Why are they—"
"Because I called for them." Miss Dora's bony jaw jutted obstinately. "Whatever happens here concerns all of the Family—and Mr. and Mrs. Darling are assisting the Family at my behest. Once you are somewhat in control of yourself, Charlotte, perhaps you can tell us what happened here tonight." The old lady's hands tightened on the silver knob of her cane.
Charlotte clasped her hands together, but they still trembled. "We were in the drawing room after dinner. Whitney was working with his stamps, and I was reading—a monograph on silver thimbles made in Charleston between 1840 and 1860. I wanted to check another source—a paper written by another authority—and I went into the library—"