Scandal in Copper Lake

by Marilyn Pappano

  Harrison’s hand shook as he drained the whiskey, then set the glass down with a thud. “I knew the woman was a phony, but she wasn’t charging any more than the doctor whose best idea was to medicate Liddy into a fog. And she seemed to help Liddy find some peace, so I was more than happy to pay for their once-a-week sessions. And then, about a year after Liddy started seeing her, the woman…”

  His jaw tightened, and he bit out the last words. “She died.”

  “How?” Robbie asked, gazing again at the photograph. Anamaria Duquesne couldn’t have been more than six, maybe seven years old at the time, a little older than he’d been when his father died. He’d hardly known his old man, though, and Sara had made sure he’d never missed him. Had there been a father to take in Anamaria? Family somewhere who wanted her?

  “Accident, the police said. She went for a walk along the river at night, fell and hit her head. They found her body, snagged on some branches, half in the water.” Harrison reached for the glass again and looked surprised that it was empty. His tone turned grimmer. “She was nine months pregnant. Coroner said the fall caused her to go into labor and that the baby…His best guess was that the baby was washed away by the river. It was never found.”

  “God.” No wonder Robbie hadn’t heard the story before. He’d been a typical kid, outside running wild most of the time, and his only use for the Copper Lake Clarion or a news broadcast had been the scores for his favorite teams. A pregnant mother dying alone in the night, with her newborn baby swept away to drown in the river, was definitely something his mother wouldn’t have discussed in front of him.

  But all that was history. “What’s happening now?”

  “Liddy got a call yesterday from the girl. Said she was in town and had a message for Liddy and could she come over to deliver it. It was some mumbo jumbo—something about a white-haired man and flowers.”

  “Did she ask for money?”

  “No. And Liddy didn’t offer her any.” Harrison’s mouth took on a pinched look. “That time. But she’s got an appointment to see her tomorrow morning. The girl’s promised another message.”

  Like mother, like daughter. Anamaria had been just a child when her mother died. Had she observed that much of Glory’s scams in that short time, or had someone else taken over her education after Glory’s death?

  Robbie moved to sit on the edge of his desk. “I can recommend a good private investigator.”

  “What can a private investigator do that you can’t?”

  Nothing, as far as gathering information went. Robbie had access to the same databases, and while he wasn’t the most Internet-savvy person around, his paralegal was. And he had an in that most PIs didn’t: Tommy Maricci, his best bud since they’d given each other black eyes on the first day of kindergarten, was a detective with the Copper Lake Police Department. Granted, Tommy’s help would be bending the law more than a little, but it was for a good cause.

  “I’ve never had any experience at surveilling or following anyone. I’m not exactly covert when I go out.”

  “I don’t want you to be subtle,” Harrison said. “I want her to know she’s being watched. I want her to understand that if she says one thing to upset Liddy, she’ll pay dearly. Find out who she is, what she’s up to, why she’s here…and then put the fear of God into her so that she goes away.”

  Robbie smiled thinly. He could do that. He might be only a part-time lawyer, but he gave his all to every case. There was nothing sweeter than that moment when he knew he’d prevailed, except the moment when his opponent knew it, too.

  “Can I talk to Lydia?”

  Harrison didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  “But—”

  “No. Leave her out of this.”

  That might be hard to do, considering that without Lydia, there was no this. But Robbie nodded in agreement. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Harrison nodded, slapped him on the back affectionately then left the office.

  Robbie sat down at his desk, sliding the computer keyboard closer, then braced the phone between 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 took only a moment to fill two glasses with ice, another to remove the pitcher from the refrigerator. Balancing it all, she carried it through the quiet house and onto the porch. The pitcher was already sweating when she set it on a small table, then filled the glasses.

  “What is it exactly that Mr. Kennedy wants to know about me?” She handed one glass to Robbie, careful not to touch him, then sat down again in Mama’s rocker, cradling her own glass between her palms.

  “Who you are. Why you’re here. What you’re up to.”

  “You know who I am. Do I need an explanation for coming to stay at a house I’ve owned for twenty-three years? As for what I’m up to…I’m resting. Taking a break from my regular life. Retreating.” After a long drink of lemonade, she went on. “I suspect Mr. Kennedy’s primary interest is what I want with Miss Lydia.”

  “What do you want with Miss Lydia?”

  “For me, nothing. My mother had a message for her that I agreed to pass on.”

  Skepticism crossed Robbie’s face. “You talk to your dead mother?”

  Ignoring the sting of pain deep inside, Anamaria shook her head. “I don’t have that ability. She speaks to my grandmother.” As a small child, Anamaria would have been afraid to suddenly hear Mama’s voice again. As a teenager, she would have given a lot to hear her say one more time, Everything’s gonna be all right, baby doll. As an adult, she felt snubbed. She hadn’t asked for any sort of abilities, but if she had to have something, why couldn’t it have been the one gift that would allow her to connect with the mother she missed so desperately?

  “What are your abilities?”

  She smiled the aloof, mysterious sort of smile that customers always responded to. “I can read your palm, your tea leaves or your cards. I can look into your future and tell you something so vague it could be taken a dozen ways. I can gaze into the crystal ball or throw the bones or study your astral charts and give you information so startlingly imprecise that it could apply to anything or nothing at all.”

  “So you’re a total fraud.” He grinned. He was handsome enough when his mouth was set in a grim line, but when he grinned…That flash of blinding-white teeth made his dark hair darker, his blue eyes bluer, his bronzed skin damn near lustrous.

  A warning sounded distantly in her mind. Men and love were the downfall of the Duquesne women, together more dangerous than anything else they might face. So far, she had managed to avoid feeling passionately about anyone, but she was always on watch, always drawing away.

  But if any man was safe for her, it was this one. Robbie Calloway was the most elite of an elite group. He was white, very socially aware, raised with two hundred years of teaching that the races didn’t mingle. His family, his church, his country club, his office, his circle of friends—all white. He’d dated enough women to populate a sorority house or two—all white. He wasn’t a threat to Anamaria.

  Though he might make her a threat to herself.

  “Did you take time from your busy workday just to check me out?”

  His smile was wry. “Yeah, I lead a busy life. Twenty hours a week in the office is about ten too many for my tastes.”

  “I thought you were a successful lawyer.” She hadn’t lied about reading the newspaper; reading back issues of the Clarion had been one of the first things she’d done once she’d decided to make this journey. His name appeared on a regular basis, as much for professional activities as for social ones.

  “I am successful. I just don’t see the point of expending too much time or energy at it.”

  “It’s not your passion?”

  He drained his lemonade, then set the glass next to the pitcher. She asked with a gesture if he’d like more; he shook his head. “I feel passionate about some of my cases, but the job itself? No. Is scamming—sorry, I mean advising—people your passion?”

  “One of them.” She loved her work, her family, her job at Auntie Lueena’s diner. The only thing that could make her life better was having her mother and baby sister in it.

  “What are the others?”

  “That’s an impertinent question to ask someone you’ve just met.”

  Robbie shrugged, his deep-green shirt rippling over nice muscles. “What was the message for Lydia Kennedy?”

  The change of subject caught Anamaria off guard, though she hid it. “That’s Miss Lydia’s business. It’s not my place to share.”

  “If I ask her, she’ll tell me.”

  “So ask her.”

  He studied her a moment, then slowly smiled. “I’ll do that.”

  She doubted Lydia would have any qualms about sharing. The message had been innocent enough: good wishes from a white-haired man who loved to garden, along with a reminder to look out for his prized irises. It really had come from Glory, through Mama Odette, though no doubt Robbie was skeptical. He was a lawyer who believed in evidence, hard fa
cts. Anamaria was a dreamer who took many things on faith. His feet were firmly planted in his reality; she was adrift in her own.

  “How long will you be staying in Copper Lake?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe long enough for Mr. Kennedy to finance another toy for you.” She waved one hand languidly in the direction of the Corvette. Automobiles were transportation to her, nothing more. Mama Odette had never owned a car or learned to drive. Even now, closing in on seventy, she preferred her own two feet for getting around. That was why the good Lord gave them to her, wasn’t it?

  Anamaria prayed the good Lord would let her grandmother continue getting around. She was having a hard time recovering from this last stint in the hospital. Her heart was weak, the cardiologist said. Maybe not so much, Mama Odette had declared with a wink. There’s still livin’ left to do. Fortunes to tell, places to go, people to meet.

  Robbie looked offended at her description of his car. “That’s the sweetest car this side of Atlanta. She has 327 cubes at 365 horsepower and tops out at 140 miles per hour.”

  The words meant nothing to her. Duquesne women weren’t mechanically inclined, but they had a knack for finding men who were. “A high-performance toy. It won’t take you anywhere my Honda won’t go.”

  “No, but I’ll get there in style,” he said with a grin as he rose from the rocker. It creaked in protest a few times—at the movement? Or his leaving?

  Anamaria stood, as well, and walked to the screen door with him. She was tall, five-ten in her bare feet, but he stood a few inches taller. He moved with the ease of someone who’d always known his place in the world. He did wondrous things for khakis and a polo shirt, and he smelled rich and sexy and very, very classy. He was most definitely what Auntie Lueena would call a fine catch—with four daughters, Lueena was ever hopeful that one would break the curse and marry—and yet he remained single.

  It wasn’t Anamaria’s place to wonder why.