tell
you
that the truth had to come out.”
Wells reached for his tin of chewing tobacco, pulled out a thumb-size plug, and stuffed it in his right cheek. “Twenty-two years ago.” His voice sounded like stone grating against steel. “I’d been chief for six years.” His jaw moved rhythmically, the scar stretching; his dark eyes were cold and appraising. “I grew up here in Chastain. My people have been here for two hundred years. I know the Tarrants. The Judge was a fine man.”
A grating voice giving that accolade now; earlier an old lady’s whispery voice.
“A hanging judge.” There was no mistaking the approbation and respect. “Judge Tarrant expected men to do their duty, wouldn’t accept excuses when they didn’t.”
A fine man.
A hanging judge.
Max scrutinized that heavy, slablike face. “What really happened to Judge Tarrant?”
A flicker of what might have been a smile touched Wells’s somber mouth. “That was a damn long time ago, Darling,” he drawled. He was very relaxed now, his big arms resting loosely on the armrests, his jaw moving the tobacco between phrases. “Only reason I recollect anything at all is because I thought a lot of Judge Tarrant. Since it was natural causes, there was no reason for my office to be involved. You see, in South Carolina when a doctor is present at the time of death and can certify the cause of death, no autopsy is required. That was the case with the Judge. Seems that when he was told about young Ross’s accident”—was there just a hint of stress on “accident”?—“the Judge took bad real fast, and they called for his doctor—he only lived a couple of doors away—and he got there just before the Judge died. Damn sad situation. Since it was natural causes, I had no call to go to the house, and I had my hands full, dealing with young Ross’s body. But you’re all fired up to know everything about that day—a tragic day for a fine family—so I thought maybe it’d cool you down if you saw how the investigation into Ross’s death was conducted. I went down to the dead files in the basement and got the folder onRoss. You’re welcome to take a look at it. There’s an empty office across the hall. When you finish with this”—he lifted up the manila folder—“you can return it to the desk sergeant.” He pushed the file across the desk and stood, his craggy face expressionless, his dark eyes amused.
It was the longest speech Max had ever heard from him.
The lying son of a bitch.
The evening breeze rattled the palmetto palms and the waxy magnolia leaves, but it wasn’t strong enough to disperse the sweet smell of the magnolia. The huge tree, full of fist-size blossoms, crowded the end of Evangeline Copley’s back porch.
It was fully dusk now, the shrubs indistinct against the darkening horizon.
Annie knew she was trespassing. But no one had answered her knock at Evangeline Copley’s house—and what could it hurt if she just slipped toward the back and took a quick look around?
Although every twig underfoot—she was carefully walking to one side of the oyster shell path—cracked as loud as a circus cannon, Annie reached the back of the house without challenge.
No lights shone in the back of the house either. Annie began to breathe a little more easily, though her hands were damp with sweat.
The garden stretched before her, a jumbled mass of scented shadows. An ivied wall stretched between the Copley garden and the Tarrant grounds.
Evangeline Copley, Annie thought, is a liar.
Miss Copley certainly couldn’t have seen into the Tarrant gardens from her own garden.
Stealthily, Annie crept up the back steps to the piazza. All right, that explained it—now the Tarrant grounds were visible. Annie strained to see through the thickening darkness. She looked toward the river. Toward the back of the gardenrose a marble obelisk, spotted with moonlight. The wind stirred the leaves of nearby trees, making the branches creak, sounding almost
you
that the truth had to come out.”
Wells reached for his tin of chewing tobacco, pulled out a thumb-size plug, and stuffed it in his right cheek. “Twenty-two years ago.” His voice sounded like stone grating against steel. “I’d been chief for six years.” His jaw moved rhythmically, the scar stretching; his dark eyes were cold and appraising. “I grew up here in Chastain. My people have been here for two hundred years. I know the Tarrants. The Judge was a fine man.”
A grating voice giving that accolade now; earlier an old lady’s whispery voice.
“A hanging judge.” There was no mistaking the approbation and respect. “Judge Tarrant expected men to do their duty, wouldn’t accept excuses when they didn’t.”
A fine man.
A hanging judge.
Max scrutinized that heavy, slablike face. “What really happened to Judge Tarrant?”
A flicker of what might have been a smile touched Wells’s somber mouth. “That was a damn long time ago, Darling,” he drawled. He was very relaxed now, his big arms resting loosely on the armrests, his jaw moving the tobacco between phrases. “Only reason I recollect anything at all is because I thought a lot of Judge Tarrant. Since it was natural causes, there was no reason for my office to be involved. You see, in South Carolina when a doctor is present at the time of death and can certify the cause of death, no autopsy is required. That was the case with the Judge. Seems that when he was told about young Ross’s accident”—was there just a hint of stress on “accident”?—“the Judge took bad real fast, and they called for his doctor—he only lived a couple of doors away—and he got there just before the Judge died. Damn sad situation. Since it was natural causes, I had no call to go to the house, and I had my hands full, dealing with young Ross’s body. But you’re all fired up to know everything about that day—a tragic day for a fine family—so I thought maybe it’d cool you down if you saw how the investigation into Ross’s death was conducted. I went down to the dead files in the basement and got the folder onRoss. You’re welcome to take a look at it. There’s an empty office across the hall. When you finish with this”—he lifted up the manila folder—“you can return it to the desk sergeant.” He pushed the file across the desk and stood, his craggy face expressionless, his dark eyes amused.
It was the longest speech Max had ever heard from him.
The lying son of a bitch.
The evening breeze rattled the palmetto palms and the waxy magnolia leaves, but it wasn’t strong enough to disperse the sweet smell of the magnolia. The huge tree, full of fist-size blossoms, crowded the end of Evangeline Copley’s back porch.
It was fully dusk now, the shrubs indistinct against the darkening horizon.
Annie knew she was trespassing. But no one had answered her knock at Evangeline Copley’s house—and what could it hurt if she just slipped toward the back and took a quick look around?
Although every twig underfoot—she was carefully walking to one side of the oyster shell path—cracked as loud as a circus cannon, Annie reached the back of the house without challenge.
No lights shone in the back of the house either. Annie began to breathe a little more easily, though her hands were damp with sweat.
The garden stretched before her, a jumbled mass of scented shadows. An ivied wall stretched between the Copley garden and the Tarrant grounds.
Evangeline Copley, Annie thought, is a liar.
Miss Copley certainly couldn’t have seen into the Tarrant gardens from her own garden.
Stealthily, Annie crept up the back steps to the piazza. All right, that explained it—now the Tarrant grounds were visible. Annie strained to see through the thickening darkness. She looked toward the river. Toward the back of the gardenrose a marble obelisk, spotted with moonlight. The wind stirred the leaves of nearby trees, making the branches creak, sounding almost
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