She had stopped believing in pots of gold under four-leaf clovers by the time she was eight, but on this gorgeous, clear, brilliant morning she felt as if everything was going to come up roses. Even if Elaine Jamison had thrown away a gun yesterday in the marsh, she felt confident that Elaine was not a murderess. On the morning that someone shot her brother, maybe she’d thought a gun was nothing to have in her possession. Annie did not believe, could not believe, would not believe that Elaine lifted a gun, held the grip tight in her hands, squeezed the trigger, and ended the life of the brother she adored. Annie plucked her cell from the pocket of her light and swirly georgette skirt with a bright pattern of tiny clamshells against a silvery background. She’d dressed with special care, her blouse a matching silver, a cool outfit for a warm day. She punched a button, held the phone up. “Mavis, Annie again. May I please speak to Billy?” A black skimmer passed so near as it dove toward the water that she could see its brilliant black cap and red bill.
