his ear and shoulder while he signed online.
A few hours later, he leaned back in the chair and watched a boat pass on the river. It hadn’t taken long in this computer-centric age to learn pretty much all there was to know about Anamaria Duquesne. She was twenty-eight years old. Lived on Queen Street in Savannah. Had been raised by her grandmother, Odette Duquesne, after her mother’s death. Worked part-time at her aunt Lueena Duquesne’s restaurant a few blocks from her home. Also worked part-time telling fortunes.
She had two credit cards, paid in full every month, and had earned enough points to buy herself a round-trip flight to anywhere in the world. She was down to the last four payments on her car. She’d taken a few classes at the local community college—nothing toward a degree, just Spanish, art, cooking. She’d been arrested a few times for her phony-seer act, but the charges had been dropped. She’d never been sued, gotten a traffic ticket or applied for a passport. She had never been married, had no children, and her father was listed on her birth certificate as Unknown.
He knew a lot, but he’d learned nothing, really. The important questions—why she’d come to Copper Lake, what she wanted with Liddy Kennedy—could be answered only by her.
He had her phone number, but he didn’t bother calling. He also had her local address. The only property she owned besides her car was a sixty-five-year-old house at the end of Easy Street.
He said goodbye to Ursula, then took the stairs to the garage below. He’d bought the building in part for its location on River Road—Copper Lake’s main drag—and in part for its view of the Gullah River, but mostly for the private garage on the ground level. He’d put too damn many hours and too damn much money into restoring his ’57 Vette to mint condition to park it just anywhere. The engine gave a finely tuned roar as he backed out of the space, then turned onto River Road.
Just north of downtown was a neighborhood of pricey old homes, each sitting on an acre or two of stately trees and manicured lawn. Holigan Creek, curving west to empty into the river, formed the boundary between that neighborhood, where Russ’s wife, Jamie, had once lived, and the poor white neighborhood where Rick’s wife, Amanda, had grown up. The lots were smaller there, the houses more cramped, the yards shaggier. A marshy patch separated that area from the poor black neighborhood, which had only one way in or out. Tillman Avenue led off to a half-dozen other streets, each with its own collection of sorry, run-down houses.
The Duquesne house was the last one in the neighborhood. Easy Street dead-ended at its driveway, and fifty yards separated it from the homes on either side. There was no paint on the weathered siding, and the roof showed spots where shingles had blown away, but other than that, there was a sturdiness about the house.
He parked behind Anamaria Duquesne’s two-door sedan and got out to the accompaniment of dogs barking. There was no sign of anyone around, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, both from the houses behind him and from the one ahead.
He was proven right about the latter when he opened the screen door at the top of the steps. Anamaria sat in an old wooden rocker, one leg propped over the chair arm, the other foot planted on the floor. She wore a sleeveless dark orange blouse and a long full skirt in eye-popping orange, red and yellow print. The extra fabric was tucked between her legs, giving some semblance of modesty, and it rustled as she kept the chair in motion with the foot on the floor.
Her hair was up that afternoon, baring that long, lovely neck, and her lids were heavy, as if the heat of the day and the peace of the porch had lulled her someplace else. But that, Robbie thought, was an act. She was as aware of him as he was of her.
After a moment, the rocking stopped and she let her leg slide down. Both feet were bare except for a coat of deep red polish on the toenails. No toe ring. No bracelet circling her delicate ankle.
“Robbie Calloway,” she said at last.
“How did you know? Oh, my God, you must be psychic,” he said drily. Crossing the porch, he sat in another rocker that creaked with each backstroke.
She smiled at his response. “It’s been a long time since you’ve gone anywhere in Copper Lake without being recognized. After all, you’re not just a Calloway. You’re one of the Calloways. You, your brothers, your mother—you’re considered the best of the best.”
“And you know this…?”
“I’m psychic, remember? And I read the paper. I talk to people.” She leaned forward and extended her right hand. “I’m—”
“Anamaria Duquesne. You scam people for a living.” He took her hand as he spoke and felt her muscles tighten at his remark. She didn’t try to pull away, though, even if he was holding on far too long for a handshake. Her skin was soft and warm, and it made him wonder if she felt like that all over. She was gorgeous with her clothes on. He could only imagine how stunning she would be with them off.
When he let go of her hand, she sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “You know what they call ten lawyers at the bottom of the sea? A good start. You have some nerve, criticizing what I do for a living.” Her voice was soft, fluid, the accent pure coastal Georgia. It was a voice that could quiet a cranky child, soothe a troubled soul or arouse a man until he hurt. If she ever took her clairvoyant nonsense to the radio, every man within listening range, believer or not, would tune in just to hear that voice.
“I understand you used to live here,” he said.
“A long time ago.”
“Why are you here now?”
She smiled faintly. “Because I used to live here. Why are you here?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Let me guess. Harrison Kennedy asked you to check me out.”
“Do you blame him?”
Her brows arched as she shrugged. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You have an arrest record.”
Another shrug. “You would have one, too, if you weren’t a Calloway, and for more serious charges than my own.”
Robbie couldn’t argue the fact with her. He and his brothers had gotten into a lot of trouble when they were kids. There was no doubt that the family name, as well as Granddad, had kept them out of jail on more than one occasion.
“What do you call what you do?” he continued.
“A gift. Sometimes, not so much.”
He gestured. “Are you a psychic? Seer? Reader? Palmist? Do you have a sign outside your house in Savannah that says Sister Anamaria Sees All, with an evil eye and a palm, a moon and some stars?”
“I’m an advisor. No signs.”
“Then how do your customers find you?”
“Everyone in Savannah knows where to find Mama Odette’s girl.” Uncrossing her legs, she stood gracefully. Her skirt flowed around her in psychedelic ripples. “Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade? I use Auntie Lueena’s recipe. I’m sure you know who she is.”
“Sure. Why not?”
She went to the door, opened it, then turned back to give him a devilish smile. “And I promise, Robbie Calloway, I won’t doctor it with anything. Healing or otherwise.”
It
