Scandal in Copper Lake (11 page)

“Does your family live there?”

“My grandmother. After Granddad died, she moved into the guest cottage on the east side of the gardens. About half my uncles wanted to move into the big house, but she opened it to the public instead.” His smile felt more like a grimace. “They weren’t pleased.”

“What about you? Were you hoping to live there someday?”

“Good God, no. What would I do with eight bedrooms, six bathrooms and a ballroom, all filled with antiques that may have been made for many things but not comfort?”

“You could fill those rooms with children.”

An image popped into his mind of little girls with cocoa-colored skin and big dark eyes, with bright, wide smiles and missing teeth and a penchant for pink. Pretty little mixed-race girls living in the house built by slave labor, running through the halls where generations of white Calloways had ordered about generations of black slaves and servants and playing, as Robbie and his brothers had, in the slave cabins.

Cyrus Calloway would turn in his grave. So, probably, would his contemporaries in the Duquesne family.

“Thanks, no. When I get married and have kids, I’ll consider a house. Until then, the condo is fine for me.”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’re not the first person I’ve met whose ancestors owned slaves, and I’m not the first person you’ve met whose ancestors were slaves.”

No, but she was the first one he’d wanted to have sex with. Besides, there was just something about seeing the grand mansion and the tiny miserable cabins with Anamaria sitting at his side.

“So where did you grow up if not at Tara?”

He waited as the waitress set platters in front of them, then unrolled his silverware from a paper napkin. “My parents’ place is back toward town, though it’s still on the property. When I was a kid, you could see across the field to Granddad’s house, but they’ve let the trees grow up since then.”

“Did your mother remarry after your father died?”

“No. Being married to him was miserable enough that she didn’t want to try again.”

Her smile was a far cry from the picture he had of her with her mother. It barely touched her mouth, curving the corners just a little, and looked wise beyond her years. “You can’t let one broken heart keep you from living.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Not my own. My family’s.”

“Sounds like your mother was probably the one breaking the hearts.” Like mother, like daughter.

“She broke her share, I’m sure. Suffered her share, too.” After a moment’s silence to sample the catfish on her plate—
Excellent,
she murmured—she asked, “Has your heart ever been broken?”

“Once.” At the time, he’d thought he would never get over
it, now he had trouble recalling the woman’s face. “I was twenty and stupid. Or is that redundant? I was thinking marriage. She was thinking fun with as many guys as possible. She dumped me, I drank a lot, got into a lot of trouble and eventually got over it.”

“Do you still drink a lot?” She didn’t sound wary—didn’t look it, either. She might have been asking something as insignificant as whether he still worked.

“No.” He paused, then admitted something he’d never acknowledged before. “I’m a mean drunk. After Rick just about broke my face last time, I decided that since I couldn’t control my behavior while I was drinking, then I’d have to stop the drinking.”

“That’s not an easy thing.”

“No,” he agreed. It had been eighteen months, and he still missed the booze. His mouth still watered, and he still caught himself thinking,
Just one drink. What could it hurt?
But he hadn’t given in yet.

Deliberately, politely, she changed the subject. “It must have been nice growing up with three brothers.”

“You have two sisters.”

“But we never lived together. We didn’t get to know each other until we were teenagers. We’re close but not the way we would have been if we’d been raised together.”

“Why weren’t you?”

She ate for a moment before shrugging. “Mama was sixteen when Lillie was born. Lillie’s father was ten years older. He had money and a wife who couldn’t have children of her own and who didn’t mind raising someone else’s baby. Jass’s father was older, too, with a good job, a close-knit family and a strong conviction about living up to his responsibilities. He wanted to marry Mama, but she said no. When he wanted to take Jass, though, she said yes.” She smiled
faintly. “And then there was my father, who apparently couldn’t have cared less about Mama or me.”

“He may not even have known you exist.”

She gave another careless shrug. “Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.”

Someone else might have doubted her, but Robbie didn’t. His own father’s absence from his life didn’t matter, either. Gerald dying when he did had been a good thing for Robbie and his brothers, and God knows, Sara’s life had improved. Whatever she’d felt for Gerald in the beginning, in the end she’d been happier without him.

Robbie didn’t want to be happier without someone he’d once loved and had kids with.

Anamaria pushed her plate away, caught the waitress’s eye and ordered a slice of sweet potato pie. When the waitress glanced at him, he shook his head. Watching Anamaria eat would be dessert enough for him.

The silence that settled around their table was close and comfortable. She sat, arms crossed loosely beneath her breasts, and watched the river, and he sat, watching her. She was aware of his scrutiny—he could see it in the faint smile that played over her mouth—but she didn’t mind. She let him look all he wanted.

But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t help but wonder how much
would
be enough.

Or, with Anamaria, was there even such a thing as
enough?

Chapter 5

T
he trip back to Copper Lake was quiet, followed by another journey along its backstreets. Anamaria gazed out the window, thinking about secrecy and temptation and pride, before she recognized the car next to them as hers. Glancing around, she saw that they were at the mall, that Robbie was waiting for her to get out of the car. She forced a smile as she opened the door. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You don’t have to go with me to see Marguerite tomorrow.”

His shrug was impossible to read.
Not a problem, I’m happy to go, I’m happy to not go.

“I’ll see you.”

He nodded, muttering something that she barely heard as she got out of the car.
Soon,
she thought, but she couldn’t be sure.

Soon,
she knew anyway. Destiny or foolish desire, he wouldn’t stay away. She didn’t want him to.

With a wave, she got in her car, started the engine, rolled down the windows and drove away. He was still sitting there when she caught her last glimpse before distance and traffic blocked him from sight.

She returned home on Carolina Avenue and River Road, driving through the heart of downtown. She let herself into the house, left her purse on the chair just inside the living room doorway, then went to the kitchen to pick up a straw bag filled with plastic-covered plates of cookies. There were still houses in the neighborhood to visit, people to meet who might have known her mother. Though people regularly came and went in her Savannah neighborhood, there were also plenty of people who’d lived all their lives in those few blocks. This neighborhood wasn’t likely to be any different.

When she turned to take a bottle of water from the refrigerator, something crunched beneath her feet. Glass, shards of it, dotting the floor, the rug in front of the sink, the countertop.

The window above the sink had been broken, the brick that had done it looking incongruous against the white porcelain. With goose bumps rising, she concentrated on the house but felt nothing unusual, no sense of danger, no threat.

In her bedroom she found two shattered windows, two bricks. The bathroom window, small and narrow, was intact, though one window in each of the two front rooms also was cracked.

Juveniles? Vandals choosing victims at random? Or a warning from someone who didn’t like her questions?

Back in the kitchen, she located the local phone book that had come with her new phone service and dialed the nonemergency number for the Copper Lake Police Department. The dispatcher wasn’t particularly interested in the call. Petty van
dalism, especially in her neighborhood, wasn’t a high priority what with
real
crime going on.

Twenty-three years ago a five-year-old girl hysterical over her missing mother hadn’t been a priority, either.

She was about to hang up and start looking for a repairman when the dispatcher put her on hold. Almost immediately, Tommy Maricci came on the line.

“Hey, Anamaria, this is Tommy, Robbie’s friend. We met yesterday. What’s up?”

“Someone delivered five bricks through my windows while I was out this morning. I was just checking to see if it was worth my time to make a report.”

“I’ll be over in a few minutes. You need a glass man? I can call Russ on my way and get someone.”

For half an instant, she considered refusing. A few broken windows didn’t need the attention of a detective, and she was perfectly capable of finding someone to replace them herself. But if knowing Robbie could get her both a detective and a repair guy that easily, why not?

“That would be great. Thanks.”

“You’re not in the house, are you? If someone’s hanging around—”

“They’re not. I can feel it.”

He might have smirked, but he didn’t say anything cynical. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks.” She hung up, then gazed at the fragments of glass still in the window frame. The house had stood empty for twenty-three years with no problems, and now, four days after she’d moved in, this had happened. What a coincidence.

Except that she didn’t believe in coincidence.

At least it didn’t appear that the vandals had come inside. There was little to steal: a colorful wardrobe. A supply of cos
metics and perfumes. An array of cast-off dishes and pans from the diner. She’d brought nothing of value with her besides—

Rushing into the bedroom, she tugged the suitcase from the closet shelf, then heaved a sigh of relief. The wooden chest remained in its corner, untouched since she’d placed it there Sunday evening.

Her heart was slowing to a normal beat when car doors slammed outside. She went to the door, opening it as Tommy Maricci came up the steps, accompanied by a uniformed female officer. “Detective,” she greeted him.

“You can call me Tommy.”

“First names could make it awkward if you arrest me.”

“Nah. I’m on a first-name basis with most of the people I arrest. This is Bonnie DeLong. She’s going to look around.”

She nodded to the woman, a petite brunette who projected an air of confidence. Size aside, she could take care of herself, or at least did a good job of making people think she could.

“We don’t get many calls to this street,” Tommy said as he followed Officer DeLong inside.

“Don’t get them? Or don’t answer them?” Anamaria asked.

His gaze was level. “Easy Street’s a pretty quiet place. Miss Beulah next door and Mr. Gadney at the end of the block keep an eye on everyone around here, kids and adults both.”

So he knew something about the neighborhood. She was impressed, and just a little chastened.

Leaving Tommy and Officer DeLong talking, Anamaria went out to the front porch and sat in a chair, the creak in its rockers soothing in the warm afternoon. A few minutes later, Tommy joined her, a notebook and pen in hand.

“How long were you gone this morning?”

“I left at ten and got back a few minutes before I spoke to you on the phone.”

“Where did you go besides the nursing home?”

She looked at him, and he raised both hands in a mock defensive gesture. “Pops never has been able to keep a secret. Miss Marguerite, either.”

But Robbie could.

“I had lunch at a place called Joe Bob’s.”

Tommy made a note of that. “It used to be Joe & Bob’s,” he said conversationally. “Brothers. But the
and
fell off the sign, and they never replaced it, so now it’s just Joe Bob’s. Alone?”

The sudden question was intended to catch her off guard, and it almost worked. She opened her mouth to answer but asked her own question instead. “Does it matter?”

“Only if we find a suspect and it turns out he was with you the whole time. Though Robbie heaving bricks through the windows is about as likely as Miss Beulah doing it.”

She didn’t respond. Apparently, going to such an out-of-the-way place for lunch wasn’t enough to keep people from talking. Robbie’s caution had been for nothing.

“Bricks are hell to get fingerprints off, but we’ll try,” he went on. “The grass is beaten down around back and on the sides. Bonnie’s gonna see if it leads to the woods or the street. After yesterday’s rain, there might be a footprint or two, but I wouldn’t count on it. Unless the goober happened to drop his wallet out of his pocket, we probably won’t find out who it was. By the way…” He eased his wallet from his hip pocket, flipped it open and pulled out a handful of business cards. The top one he handed to her, then after sorting through the others, he offered her a second one as well.

The first was his, with numbers for the police department, the detective division and his cell phone. The second belonged to a yard service. “They do good work for a good price.”

“Is that a hint, Detective?” she asked with a smile.

“Half the punks in town could hide in this yard. If
someone’s going to come sneaking around here, at least make it harder for them.”

She folded her fingers around both cards. “I’ll give them a call.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the squeak of her chair, a bird in the live oak and the occasional growl of distant thunder. The afternoon sun was bright, casting sharp-edged shadows, and the air was heavy, typical of a Georgia spring day. The far-off storm might roll through or might dissipate completely. Either way, the warm afternoon would turn into a warm evening, full of sweet scents and promise.