Scandal in Copper Lake (19 page)

She eased away from him and picked up several plastic-wrapped plates of cookies, then added the stack of notebooks from the table. “We should leave soon or we’ll interfere with Marguerite’s show again,” she said quietly.

Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she went through the house, locking windows. By the time she’d secured the last one, Robbie was waiting for her by the door, looking as if he needed to say something and having no clue how to say it. Since she was sure it was an apology, she didn’t care to hear it.

After pointedly waiting for him to step outside, she locked the door, then crossed the porch and stepped outside the screen door. It was a warm day, the sky blue without so much as a streak of clouds, and the humidity hovered unseen, a thick moistness that added to the heat.

She didn’t offer to drive her own car but walked to the Vette with him. Cookies balanced in her lap, she stuffed the notebooks in her bag as they drove in silence to the nursing home—backstreets again, she noticed—where they walked down the long hall to Marguerite’s door.

There Anamaria stopped and held out a plate of cookies. “Why don’t you take these to Tommy’s grandfather? Tell him a friend made them. We can pass as friends, can’t we?”

“Damn it, Anamaria—” He broke off when an aide came out of the next room, giving them a curious look, then he took
the cookies and strode across the hall, rapping sharply at Mr. Maricci’s door.

Marguerite sat near the window again, the roses from their last visit on the sill beside her. She exclaimed over the cookies, professing to a sweet tooth that got worse with age, and asked about Robbie.

“I made this for you,” she said, picking up a notepad from the bedside table with a trembling hand. It took a second try to lift the top pages, then tear them off. “That’s everyone I could think of that knew Glory. Gentlemen, boyfriends, clients. People at church, people in the neighborhood.”

Anamaria scanned the spidery writing, recognizing a fair number of the names from the journal. Folding the pages in half, she asked, “Did you know that Glory planned to name the baby Charlotte?”

Marguerite’s wrinkled face wreathed into a smile. “That’s the closest she ever came to telling me who that child’s daddy was, when she said was gonna name the baby after him.” Slowly the smile faded and her brow furrowed. “Ain’t no Charleses on that list. No Carls, either. Isn’t that odd.”

“Maybe he didn’t live here in town.”

“Would’ve had to been a travelin’ man, then, because your mama, she didn’t go nowhere. Just down to Savannah to see her mama and sisters three or four times a year. More likely, it’s a middle name or a family name. If his name was George and she named her baby Georgina, there wouldn’t be much secret there, now, would there?” Her smile reappeared. “And Glory did like the secret. For her, it would have been enough that she knew the connection between the baby’s name and the daddy. It wouldn’t have mattered if anyone else got it.”

Keeping a secret for her own satisfaction—that sounded like Glory.

“Miss Marguerite, the night that Glory passed…do you think there’s any chance that Charlotte lived?”

The elderly woman’s eyes widened, and she raised one hand to the lace hankie pinned to the collar of her robe. “I never saw how it could be possible, but, honey, you said all through that night that your mama was dead and your sister was gone. Not passed. Not dead. Just gone. I thought maybe you was a little confused, or maybe just too young to understand the difference. But a funny thing—you said the shawl was gone, too. And sure enough, when the police found her, t’weren’t no shawl. No sign of it anywhere.” She sighed. “Me and some of her friends, we tramped through those woods and we waded through the water at the river’s edge from where she was found all the way down past town. We knew that shawl was important to her family, to you. But we never found nothin’.”

Robbie had slipped inside Marguerite’s room in time to hear the last of their conversation. Was it odd that Anamaria was willing to take so much more on faith than anyone he knew and yet needed cold, hard proof of her sister’s death? The police department had looked at the possible explanations and chosen the likeliest, and everyone but Anamaria had accepted it. But
possible
and
likeliest
weren’t definitive. There was no proof that Charlotte had died; there was no proof that she lived. Why shouldn’t Anamaria believe what was best for her? Was never seeing her hopes fulfilled any worse than giving them up without a battle?

“What next?” Anamaria asked when they left the room a short time later.

“Let’s go see Lydia.” He’d been forbidden to talk to Lydia about Anamaria or her mother, but the conversation would be ended long before Harrison found out. What would he do then? Fire Robbie? That wouldn’t change a thing he was doing.

Twin Oaks was a couple of miles east of town. The Federal house stood in the center of a thousand acres or so of its original holding, with massive live oaks anchoring the front at each side. Lydia’s Cadillac was parked under a smaller oak to the left; so was a familiar red SUV.

Robbie considered swinging the wheel in a U-turn and heading back to town. He didn’t want to disturb Lydia when she had company, he could say. But her visitor wasn’t a visitor at all; she was more like family to Lydia—and she was definitely family to him—and if Anamaria ever found out, she’d be disappointed. Damn it, he didn’t like the way that made him feel.

He parked beside the SUV, then gestured toward the rear of the house. “They’ll be in the gardens out back.”

Their steps crunched on the gravel drive as they followed it past the house and hedges. At the first path, they turned to the right, then followed the voices beyond multiple gardens and a fountain before they reached the small nook framed by azaleas that circled a teak table and four chairs. Lydia occupied one, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a floppy hat and fiddling with a pair of gloves.

Robbie’s mother, Sara, sat in the other.

“Hey, Miss Lydia, Mom.” He kissed both women on the cheek, then stood back to draw Anamaria in closer so he could perform introductions.

“Miss Lydia. Mrs. Calloway,” she said politely.

“You can call me Sara,” his mother replied, then raised her hand before Anamaria could respond. “Not Miss Sara. Just plain Sara.”

“Oh, shoot, now you make me look old-fashioned,” Lydia fussed. “I like being called Miss Lydia by the young folks.”

“It is old-fashioned, but enjoy it if you do. Just don’t sentence the rest of us to it,” Sara said. “Come have a seat, Anamaria. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Anamaria slipped between Robbie and the bushes to reach the chair his mother gestured to. She missed the look Sara gave him—measuring, curious. Disapproving? What had she heard about Anamaria, and who had she heard it from? Not him, which was likely one of her complaints.

“You sit, too,” Lydia commanded, nudging the remaining chair toward him as she pulled a cell phone from her pocket and notified the cook that there would be two guests for lunch.

There was a time not so very long ago, when Robbie’s grandparents were young, that a servant would have been hovering nearby for the sole purpose of delivering messages and refilling tea glasses, and a time before that when it would have been a slave. When Lydia’s family—when his own family—had
owned
people like Anamaria’s family. What did Anamaria think about that? Was she half as uncomfortable with the idea as he suddenly was?

“So, Anamaria, tell me about yourself,” Sara invited. “You’re Glory Duquesne’s daughter, and you probably don’t remember much about Copper Lake, since you were so young when you left. We met once, if I recall, right here. Lydia had an appointment with Glory, and I barged in. She read my cards and answered a few questions for me.”

Shaking off the disquiet, Robbie asked, “What kind of questions?”

“The usual for a woman my age, I imagine. Would I fall in love? Would I remarry? Oh, and would you boys ever settle down and act like civilized human beings before my hair turned white?” Sara smiled at the memory. “She told me to invest in hair coloring.”

He found the other questions more interesting. He’d always seen Sara as his mother. Not a woman, and certainly not a woman who missed dating, making out, having sex. But truth was, she’d been only thirty-six when Gerald had died. Too
young to spend the rest of her life alone, too young to give up being a woman, to settle for just her roles as mother and, now, grandmother. But here she sat, as alone as the day Gerald had died. Robbie couldn’t recall her going out on a single date, or even remember her looking at any man with interest.

He didn’t
want
to see her looking at any man with that kind of interest. She was his
mother,
for God’s sake. But he wanted her to be happy.

“Perhaps if she were here today, she’d tell you to quit keeping Mr. Greyson at a distance and accept one of those invitations he’s been offering.” Anamaria smiled serenely. “She would probably recommend the cruise, though the picnic might be a better first date.”

Sara’s face flushed red, and Lydia gave a whoop of amazement. “You never told me he asked you to go on a cruise! That dirty old man!”

“Who the hell is Mr. Greyson?” Robbie demanded.

“Watch your language,” Sara said, swatting at him but so distracted that she missed. “He’s just a man who’s been coming to church the past few months. He lives in Augusta, but he’s planning to move here, once he finds a suitable place, so he’s spending weekends here. And he was very clear that we would have separate cabins.” Her face grew redder as she spoke, until she threw up both hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re my son. I don’t have to answer to you.”

“You’re thinking about running off on a romantic cruise with a total stranger? Oh, yes, you do. Do the others know about this guy?”

“If any of you bothered to come to church on Sunday mornings, you would have met him for yourself. But, no. I haven’t mentioned it to any of them.” Her gaze sharpened. “To
anyone
except Lydia.”

“Don’t look at me that way,” Lydia said. “I’ve been keeping your secrets since second grade. I didn’t snitch.”

“So…” Sara drank deeply of her tea before managing a semblance of calm and facing Anamaria. “I understand you’re trying to find out something about your mother’s time here. Are you having any luck?”

“Some.”

“She was a lovely woman. I only spoke to her a few times, but she certainly seemed to have no shortage of m—friends.”

Men,
she’d been about to say. She didn’t know the half of it, Robbie thought. He met Anamaria’s gaze, his brow quirked and she nodded imperceptibly. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the tabletop, and casually asked, “Did either of you know that Uncle Cyrus was a friend of Glory’s?”

“Cyrus didn’t have a friend in the world,” Sara declared.

“He couldn’t even relate to people he had a lot in common with,” Lydia added. “What interests could he possibly have shared with Glory?”

Robbie cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He was a man. She was a beautiful woman.”

Sara and Lydia looked at each other and burst into laughter. “Cyrus? Having sex? Oh, please!”

Lydia wiped tears from her eyes. “If that boy didn’t look just like him, I’d have sworn it was a case of immaculate conception. My sister never knew whether to resent or rejoice that he had no interest in sex. On the one hand, it doesn’t make a woman feel too good that her husband doesn’t want her, but on the other hand—”

“When that husband was Cyrus,” Sara added, and the laughter began again.

After a time, Lydia gave a heaving shudder. “Oh, my. That old goat was old enough to be Glory’s daddy, and out chasing her like he had a right. No wonder Mary danced on his grave.”

To the best Robbie could recall, Mary had been vacationing in Europe when Cyrus died, and she had made it home only hours before the funeral. She’d stayed long enough to accept everyone’s condolences and to hear the will, then had retired to a friend’s villa in Tuscany to grieve in private.

Not that anyone had really grieved. Not Cyrus’s brothers and sisters, not his nieces and nephews, and certainly not his son and grandson. He’d been a difficult man to endure. Glory wasn’t the only one who’d required payment to put up with him.

“Do you think Mary or Kent knew?” Sara asked.

Lydia shook her head. “Heavens, no. Mary would have told me, after she’d flayed Cyrus alive. And Kent…he would have told me, too, I think. He kept a secret or two, but they were about the girls in his own life. Anything about his father, he eventually told me. Lord, even today this would upset Kent. His daddy always giving him hell about what he did and who he saw, and the whole time he was out screwing around with a wh—”

Abruptly Lydia froze, and the color in her face matched the red in her gloves. Sara was stricken, too, her eyes wide. Anamaria’s color was heightened, though Robbie doubted anyone could tell but him. Her expression was polite, almost serene, but underneath sparked anger in her mother’s defense.

“Oh, Anamaria, I’m
sorry,
” Lydia said, laying her hand on Anamaria’s. “I just forgot who we were talking about. I was thinking about the kind of woman who would get involved with Cyrus and let my mouth get ahead of my brain. But I adored Glory, you know I did, and I’m sure she had her reasons. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Miss Lydia,” Anamaria said, without so much as a hint of the stiffness that held her rigid a moment earlier. “I’m sure she did have her reasons.”

Yeah, like keeping a roof over her head and providing food for her daughter. A regular job would have been more re
spectable, but Glory had never held one of those, according to Cyrus’s notes in Harrison Kennedy’s file. Besides, being a mistress paid better for a woman with no job skills beyond her psychic gifts and making a man happy.

Apparently, she’d made a
lot
of men happy.

“Well…well…” Lydia fluttered her hands. “Let me go see what’s taking so long with lunch. Y’all stay right here.”

“Why don’t you go with her, Robbie?” Sara suggested. “You can help carry everything out.”