over when the woman says it’s over.
“At least Judge Parker’s going to take away his
guns.”
“That’s a step in the right direction,” I said trying to
ignore the dish of butter between us that cried out to be
spread on the last of my cornbread.
My back was to the door so I didn’t immediately
see the woman who spoke to Portland by name as she
started to pass our table.
Portland looked up and did a double take. “Well, I’ll
be darned! Hey, girl! What brings you up to Dobbs?”
“A man, of course,” the laughing voice said. “Isn’t it
always?”
65
MARGARET MARON
I half-turned in my seat and immediately recognized
the redhead who had been in my courtroom yesterday.
“Deborah,” said Portland, “do y’all know each other?
Robbie-Lane Smith?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Well, you’ve heard me talk about her. Deborah
Knott, meet Robbie-Lane Smith. She managed that res-
taurant down at Wrightsville Beach where I worked two
summers.”
“I thought her name was Flame—? Oh, right. The
hair.”
The woman laughed. “A lot of people still call me
that.”
Portland arched an eyebrow at her old roommate.
“People of the male persuasion?”
A noncommittal shrug didn’t exactly deny it. She
wore jeans again today and carried her tan fleece-lined
jacket over one arm. Her silk shirt was a dark copper
that did nice things for her green eyes and fair complex-
ion even as I realized that she was probably mid-forties
instead of the late thirties I’d first thought her.
“Are you by yourself?” Portland gestured to the
empty chair at our table. “Deborah and I are almost
finished, but why don’t you join us?”
“Sorry. I’m meeting someone.” She pulled a card
from her pocket. “Here’s my cell number and email,
though, and why don’t you give me yours? It looks like
I’m going to be around for a couple of days. Maybe we
could get together for drinks or something?”
“Sure.” Portland rummaged in her purse and came
up with one of her own cards.
“Portland
66
HARD ROW
“And the mother of a two-and-a-half-month-old,”
