"There are six bedrooms upstairs." Her silvered brows drew down in thought. "It's been a good many years since I've been upstairs, but I believe the master bedroom is in the southeast corner."
She stalked down the wide hall. Annie hoped her cane wouldn't snag the carpet runner. Miss Dora rapped the knobof her cane against the door, then opened it. "Hmm, yes. As I thought. This is the master bedroom."
Annie and Max peered over her shoulder. Annie definitely felt like a trespasser as she scanned the room, home now to Whitney and Charlotte. A pair of trousers in a pants press. An ornate silver jewel case on the dressing table, the lid open to reveal a handful of antique rings with stones of opal or carnelian or jade. A book of poetry—Longfellow—facedown on the pale gold of the bedspread, which matched the linen window hangings and the delicate background color of the Chinese wallpaper. Acanthus leaves decorated the posts of the four-poster bed. Past the half-open closet door, Annie glimpsed a row of Whitney's suits and shirts.
Miss Dora thumped her cane to the floor and gripped the silver head. "Now you've seen it. Much as it was twenty-two years ago. Let's go to the garden."
When they came out on the first-floor piazza at the back of the house, Annie felt sweat trickling down her back and thighs. What had happened to their usual crisp, clear, dry days of spring? She took a deep breath and felt as though she'd gulped mist from a sauna. The storm couldn't come too soon to satisfy her. As if in answer, lightning crackled to the south, followed almost immediately by a low growl of thunder.
"Charlotte has a green thumb, no doubt about that. Amanda would be pleased. She loved this garden." Miss Dora waggled her cane. "She spent a good deal of time working the borders toward the back wall."
In the murky light, the garden had the greenish, watery glow of an aquarium, the bright reds and pinks of the azaleas and camellias softened into smudged impressionist tints. Beneath the scent of coming rain and freshly turned earth was the darker, angrier odor of fire. The charred remains of the museum dominated the garden, drawing the eye away from the superbly tended plantings. The garden's design—separate components scattered around the structures—was still evident. Rosebushes in formal beds circled the fountain and its brick patio. Scarlet tulips formed a brilliant necklace around the obelisk. Bunches of flowering azaleas curved and flowed
around nooks and crannies with benches. Honeysuckle and bougainvillea cascaded over the garden walls. Willows ringed the pond near the bluff. An herb garden thrived near the kitchen. An arbor thickly covered with climbing roses kept the potting shed out of sight. It would be quite possible—it was planned for that effect—for several persons to enjoy solitude in the garden without intruding upon each other.
But the effects of the fire—the charred structure tumbled inward to create uneven heaps of debris, the trampled-down iris beds where the firemen had labored, the muddy spots where water had collected on the ground—gave the garden an aura of desolation, made even bleaker by the gray and cloudy day.
Faintly, a bell rang within the house.
Miss Dora' s pale lips tightened. "It is time," she said grimly, "for the curtain to rise."
Quickly, as if impelled by urgency, Miss Dora orchestrated the cast of survivors. In scarcely a quarter of an hour, each person was standing—if truthful—where he or she had been at approximately four o'clock on Saturday, May 9, twenty-two years before.
In the central hallway of Tarrant House, Miss Dora shrugged as the last unwilling participant straggled out the back door. "Can't prove who was where, after all this time. But only one person has reason to lie. Now, before we start"—wizened fingers scrabbled in the black reticule hanging from her left wrist—"I've some notes here." She pulled out a tiny notebook, opened it to a page of crabbed writing, and said briskly, "Amanda was in her room. Missy was asleep in the northwest bedroom—that belonged to Milam and Julia. Sam —he died about six years ago." She paused, looking pleased. "Ninety-seven and he walked two miles to church the day before he passed away. Sam was in his room in the servants' quarters. Just like Lucy Jane. Ross was in the garden. And the Judge was in the study. Clear?" she demanded.
Annie and Max both nodded and the old woman started up the mahogany steps.
Milam lounged in a wooden-slatted white chair on the second-story back piazza, a sketch pad in his lap. He didn't rise as they walked out on the piazza. He didn't look quite so much sullen as sardonic and bored. "Nice to see you keeping interested in the world, Miss Dora."
She eyed him coldly, her disapproval evident, but she made no response.
Milam tried again. "I can see it now, the parlor game to end all parlor games. Re-create the day dear old Pater died—" "Milam."
The single snapped word silenced him and brought an unaccustomed tinge of pink to his plump cheeks.
Max tried conciliation. "Milam, don't fight us. We're not the problem. The problem is what happened to your father twenty-two years ago. We need your help."
"Look, Darling, if I knew what really happened, I'd tell you. But I don't have any f—" He paused, looked at Miss Dora, then continued, "I don't know. And I don't think this afternoon will tell you anything."
"Maybe not," Max said agreeably. "Let's talk about your father."
Milam's face was still and guarded.
"And your mother." Max's blue eyes were intent. "Did you know they were going to separate?"
"I think you've been misled," Milam drawled. "That would be out of character. For both of them."
His eyes dropped. He stared at his tightly clenched hands. Annie felt a rush of excitement. Milam did know. The question was, did he know why?
"What kind of marriage did they have?" Annie asked.
Those graceful hands, artist's hands, slowly relaxed. He flicked her a derisive glance. "I was their oldest son. Not their confidant. I don't have any damned idea. They were polite to each other. Very polite. They never quarreled. What they did —or didn't do—behind closed doors, I don't know. But what difference does it make? Mother's not here to take the rap."
"If," Max said slowly, and Annie knew he wanted to be careful in what he said, "your father intended to force your mother to leave Tarrant House, would you have any idea why?"
"No."
There was no way to know whether he spoke the truth. "About your mother's fall from the bluff—"
For the first time, anger laced Milam's voice. "Wait a minute, Darling. Are you suggesting I gave my mother a shove off the path?"
"Somebody did." Miss Dora's gravelly tone was certain.
Milam's head jerked up. This, obviously, was an altogether new thought—and an unpleasant one—to Milam. Or was he simulating shock?
"Why?" he demanded harshly, his voice raw with disbelief. Max rocked back on his heels. "Somehow she discovered that Ross wasn't guilty—"
A sharply indrawn breath brought silence. They all looked at Miss Dora.
"If only Amanda had told me, shared—" Miss Dora gazed somberly at Milam. "I came to see her. One year to the day of your father's death. You must remember that I had not been told what happened. I knew only the story that had been made public: Ross dead of an accident, the Judge collapsing with a heart attack. Amanda and I sat in the drawing room, with tea. It was a rainy afternoon. We talked about the Judge. And about Ross. It must have been fate—or the hand of God—or of the Devil. I don't know. I said that I would never forget Ross, moving so quickly at the sound of a shot that afternoon and he himself to be dead so soon in an accident with a gun. She looked at me strangely, but I thought it was grief, the pain of remembering. She said, 'You and Ross heard a shot?' And I replied—I had no reason not to do so—I said so carelessly, never dreaming how much harm I was doing with those words, 'Oh, yes, about four o'clock. I was at the gate. I could see Ross standing in the garden." Amanda looked quite faint. So I poured her more tea and then she thanked me for comingbut said she must go upstairs, to rest. Don't you see? That's when she realized—and then she began to think."