Estevan Foursons lived in a house very much like the Leighs'. Vineyards grew behind it, vineyards grew on either side of it, and across the road, more vineyards grew. The sweet smell of grapes ripening on the vine was almost cloying. Drake climbed the steps of the front porch, stood in the artificial light streaming through the window in the door, and knocked. A tall young man wearing pastel slacks and a red-plaid peasant blouse came down the hall. He had dark-brown hair, gray eyes, and rather full lips. Only the mahogany cast of his skin betrayed his racial origin—that, and his unruffled calm when he opened the door and saw Drake. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Estevan Foursons?"
The young man nodded.
"I'd like to talk to you about Annabelle Leigh," Drake went on "It was on my ship that she—"
"I know," Estevan interrupted. "Penelope told me. Nathaniel Drake, is it not?"
"Yes. I—"
"Why are you interested in a dead woman?"
For a moment, Drake was disconcerted. Then, "I—I feel responsible for her death in a way."
"And you think that knowing more about her will make you feel less responsible?"
"It might. Will you tell me about her?"