Envy(8)
“That’s in our county.”
“Georgia, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he proudly replied.
“Is St. Anne actually an island?”
“Not much o’ one. What I mean is, it’s small. But it’s an island, awright. Little less than two miles out from the mainland. Who’re you looking for?”
“Someone with the initials P.M.E.”
“Did you say P.M.E.?”
“Have you ever heard of anyone who goes by those initials?”
“Can’t say that I have, ma’am. We talking about a man or woman?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Huh.” After a beat or two, the deputy asked, “If you don’t even know if it’s a man or woman, what do you want with ’em?”
“It’s business.”
“Business.”
“That’s right.”
“Huh.”
Dead end. Maris tried again. “I thought you might know, or might have heard of someone who—”
“Nope.”
This was going nowhere and her allotted time was running out. “Well, thank you for your time, Deputy Harris. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother.”
“Would you mind taking down my name and numbers? Then if you think of something or hear of someone with these initials, I would appreciate being notified.”
After she gave him her telephone numbers, he said, “Say, ma’am? If it’s back child support or an outstanding arrest warrant or something like ’at, I’d be happy to see if—”
“No, no. It’s not a legal matter in any sense.”
“Business.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, okay, then,” he said with noticeable disappointment. “Sorry I couldn’t he’p you.”
She thanked him again, then closed her office and hurried down the hallway to the ladies’ room, where her cocktail dress had been hanging since she’d arrived for work early that morning. Because she frequently changed from business to evening attire before leaving the building, she kept a full complement of toiletries and cosmetics in a locker. She put them to use now.
When she joined Noah at the elevator fifteen minutes later, he gave a long wolf whistle, then kissed her cheek. “Nice turnaround. A miracle, actually. You look fantastic.”
As they descended to street level, she assessed her reflection in the metal elevator door and realized that her efforts hadn’t been in vain. “Fantastic,” was a slight exaggeration, but considering the dishevelment she’d started with, she looked better than she had any right to expect.
She’d chosen to wear a cranberry-colored silk sheath with narrow straps and a scooped neckline. Her nod toward evening glitter came in the form of diamond studs in her ears and a crystal-encrusted Judith Leiber handbag in the shape of a butterfly, a Christmas gift from her father. She was carrying a pashmina shawl purchased in Paris during a side trip there following the international book fair in Frankfurt.
She had gathered her shoulder-length hair into a sleek, low ponytail. The hairdo looked chic and sophisticated rather than desperate, which had been the case. She had retouched her eye makeup, outlined her lips with a pencil, and filled them in with gloss. To give color to her fluorescent-light pallor, she had applied powdered bronzer to her cheeks, chin, forehead, and décolletage. Her push-up bra, an engineering marvel, had created a flattering cleavage that filled up the neckline of her dress.
“ ‘Her tan and tits were store-bought.’ ”
The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor. Noah looked at her curiously as he stepped aside to let her exit ahead of him. “I beg your pardon?”
She laughed softly. “Nothing. Just quoting something I read today.”
Chapter 2
Although it had stopped raining a half hour earlier, the air was already so moisture-laden the rainwater couldn’t evaporate. It collected in puddles. It beaded on flowers’ petals and the fuzz of ripe peaches ready to be picked. The limbs of evergreens were bowed under the additional weight. Fat drops rolled off hardwood leaves recently washed clean and splashed onto the spongy, saturated ground.
The slightest breeze would have shaken water from the trees, creating miniature rain showers, but there was scarcely any movement of air. The atmosphere was inert and had a texture almost as compacted as the silence.
Deputy Dwight Harris alighted from the golf cart he had borrowed at the St. Anne landing. Before starting up the pathway to the house, he removed his hat and paused, telling himself that he needed a moment to get his bearings, when what he was actually doing was second-guessing his decision to come here alone after sundown. He didn’t quite know what to expect.
He’d never been here before, although he knew about this house, awright. Anybody who was ever on St. Anne Island had heard stories about the plantation house at the easternmost tip of the island, situated on a little finger of land that pointed out toward Africa. Some of the tales he’d heard about the place stretched credibility. But the descriptions of the house were, by God, damn near accurate.
Typical of colonial Low Country architecture, the two-story white frame house was sitting on top of an aged brick basement. Six broad steps led up to the deep veranda that extended all the way across the front of the house and wrapped around both sides. The front door had been painted a glossy black, as had all the hurricane shutters that flanked the windows on both stories. Six smooth columns supported the second-floor balcony. Twin chimneys acted like bookends against the steeply pitched roof. It looked pretty much like Deputy Harris had imagined it would.