"Why don't you then?" Ricky stretched to relieve cramped muscles.
"I would if I could get Jeems. He's my model for the brother. He's enough like you, Val, for the resemblance, and his darker tan is just right for color. But he won't come back while Creighton's here. I could wring that man's neck!"
"But Creighton left for Milneburg this morning," Val reminded her. "Rupert told him about the old voodoo rites which used to be celebrated there on June 24th, St. John's Eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records—"
"Yes. But Jeems doesn't know he's gone. If we could only get in touch with him—Jeems, I mean."
"Miss 'Chanda!"
Sam Two, as they had come to call Sam's eldest son and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace, holding a small covered basket in his hands.
"Yes?"
"Letty-Lou done say dis am fo' yo'all, Miss 'Chanda."
"For me?" Ricky looked at the offering in surprise. "But what in the world—Bring it here, Sam."
"Yas'm."