“Catherine, Mr. Boucher would like to know if there are any arches on the property.”

The swiftness of the response showed her suspicions had been right; the Realtor had been hanging about, hoping to overhear something useful.

“An arch? No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

“No reason. Thank you.”

Annja walked back to where Garin was standing, waiting for her.

“An arch?” he asked.

She explained how she thought Parker might have carved something into the surface of the keystone, providing the direction they needed to find the second clue.

“No arch, no keystone,” she said. “Obviously I’m on the wrong track.”

“Not necessarily,” he replied, turning to pace the floor in short, sharp strides that seemed to punctuate what he was saying. “That’s not the only definition of keystone, you know. It also refers to a central concept or idea, something that supports the whole by its very presence. So what would you consider to be centralto the estate?”

The answer came to her as soon as he finished speaking.

“The cornerstone.”

The first stone laid in a foundation, the one from which everything else extended. “The keyto all the rest,” she whispered.

They both knew she was right the moment she said it. Crossing the wine cellar, they climbed the stairs and found the Realtor standing nearby, debating the wisdom of going back down in the cellar to try and push for the sale.

“Oh,” she said, startled by their sudden appearance. “Is everything all right?”

“We’d like to see the cornerstone, if we may,” Annja said.

“The cornerstone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

For a moment, Annja was flummoxed. She had no idea what to say. Why would anyone looking to purchase a house be interested in seeing the cornerstone?

Then it came to her. “Mr. Boucher would like to see the date for himself.”

The Realtor stared at her oddly for a moment and Annja thought she was going to press for a deeper explanation, which would be a problem since she didn’t have one, but apparently the woman chalked it up to eccentric behavior on the part of the wealthy client and shrugged it off.

“This way, please.”

She led them around to the opposite side of the house and pointed to a stone set firmly in the foundation. Carved into its surface was the year 1853.

Next to that, someone had carved a crude compass.

The stone was weathered, so it was hard to say which one had come first, but to Annja’s experienced eyes she thought the date looked older. It was deeper, for one thing, showing that whoever had done it had come prepared with the proper tools for the job. The compass, on the other hand, was more shallow, and the lines were thinner, too, making it seem like it was a rush job or that the creator had been forced to work with whatever tools had been on hand.

There was also the simple fact that the compass was pointing in the wrong direction.

The sun was setting off to Annja’s right, directly in line with one arm of the compass. What was unusual was the fact that the arm in question was labeled as north, rather than west. Even more intriguing, the line was also a good two inches longer than the others.

That’s got to be what we’re looking for, Annja thought, and she could see by Garin’s expression that he thought the same thing.

The trouble was, she wasn’t certain how to interpret it. Did they follow the direction of the compass arrow and go west? Or did they assume the compass was telling them the proper direction, despite its being out of alignment, and go north?

Catherine, who had been quiet during their examination of the cornerstone, spoke up.

“As you can see, the house was indeed built in 1853, and I can assure you that the date has been verified by several sources, including the company that originally built the structure.”

Annja interrupted her. “Is there anything around here, Catherine, that might be described as being a place where two mouths meet?”

The woman stared at her with such a strange expression that for a moment Annja feared she wouldn’t answer. It was an odd question, she had to admit, but apparently Catherine had already decided that her potential client was truly an odd duck, for after a moment she answered as if it were the type of question she received every day.

“Well,” Catherine said, with the kind of professional smile that was designed to hide her true thoughts, whatever they might be. “I’d think that such a phrase would probably refer to the conjunction of the Broad and Savannah rivers.”

Annja’s heart beat a little faster.

“And which direction would that be from here?”

The Realtor thought about it for a moment and then turned and pointed out across the hills toward the north.

“That way, about twenty miles I’d guess.”

She turned to face Garin and, with another smile, went back to her pitch. “Now perhaps Mr. Boucher…”

That was as far as she got. Garin broke in with a long and unrelenting stream of French that grew louder and sounded more exasperated as it went on.

Annja pretended to listen to it, a grave expression on her face, and then turned to the Realtor.

“Thank you so much for your time, Catherine, but I’m afraid Mr. Boucher has decided to pass on the property. He’s an eccentric sort, as you can imagine—most people with his level of money are, I’ve found—and he’s just informed me that he can’t possibly live in a home that was built in an odd-numbered year. I’m sure you understand.”

Garin kept up the act, alternating waving his hands in the air and letting loose a fresh burst of French. The fact that he seemed to be spouting off his grocery list was completely lost on the poor woman, who looked confused and even a bit unsettled by her would-be client’s sudden animation.

Annja took advantage of her hesitation to offer their excuses, blaming it all on herself and suggesting that she get Mr. Boucher away from the property before his anxiety levels grew too high and he had a fit or, heaven forbid, a heart attack.

As Catherine stood there and stared after them in stunned amazement, Annja dragged the ranting Garin back to the car and quickly drove away.

21

I bet they’re sleeping together, Catherine Daley thought as she watched Mr. Boucher and his agent drive off down the street. There just wasn’t any other explanation. After all, she’d given him the look more than once, and Lord knew that was all it usually took to reel them in like a catfish on a line. The fact that he’d basically ignored her in favor of that annoying woman was infuriating.

Look what she’d been wearing, for heaven’s sake!

And that crazy fit he threw. Whoever heard of such a thing? What difference did it make if the house was built in an even-numbered year or an odd one? Such nonsense!

Yes, that would explain it. He had to be crazy. It certainly made much more sense to believe that he was nuts, than to entertain the thought that a man of Mr. Boucher’s obvious sophistication and financial status wouldn’t be interested in a woman of her caliber and breeding.

Feeling better about herself now that she understood her worldview wasn’t so drastically challenged, Catherine turned her attention to closing down the property.

As they were her last clients scheduled for the evening, she went through the house checking windows, turning off lights and locking up for the night. It took her some time and night had fully come by the time she was finished. She was walking out to her car when she saw the lights of a vehicle come down the road and pull into the drive.

For a moment she was hopeful that Mr. Boucher had reconsidered, but then she saw that the vehicle was an SUV and knew she couldn’t be correct. Mr. Boucher had arrived in a Mercedes.