Twilight had not yet deepened to dusk and the mimosa-fragrant air was a touch tempered by the approach of evening from the day’s depressing heat.
As she walked along the drive toward the plantation gates Margot resisted her impulse to glance back over her shoulder and take a check on her prediction about Smith’s bush-lurking. She could hear no footsteps, but then she would not, as he would follow her in parallel behind the mask of the drive’s border.
The coastal highway was empty of traffic, and she had passed the entrance drive to the Wynstable inn before the first car breezed by heading north. Neon lighting, gashing the fading day, came in view. It announced with no restraint whatever that Compton’s Tourist Cabins were on the job.
Margot still did not glance behind her for a trailing
