Copper Lake Confidential (12 page)

At least, that was Lorna before Mark’s death.

“Lorna rarely sees Clary.” Not since Miss Willa’s funeral, in fact. Lorna had visited Macy a time or two in the Columbia hospital, but she’d had little to say. Loss and grief had overwhelmed her. She’d insisted Mark was guilty of nothing. He’d been a good man, a loving son, husband and father. She’d sworn he wasn’t capable of hurting anyone. After all, she was his mother, and a mother knew these things.

She’d never believed the manner of his death, either. She’d accused Reece, Jones, some unseen stranger passing through. As far as Macy knew, nothing had changed her mind. Lorna had become reclusive, hiding away at her Raleigh estate, convinced her son had been murdered and falsely accused. Though Macy had contacted her several times, offering to take Clary to visit for a few days, the answer had always been no.

Secretly relieved by the flat refusal, and guiltily ashamed of the relief, Macy had quit offering. Lorna knew how to reach her if she changed her mind.

“It’s a good thing Clary has your family,” Stephen said quietly. “Sounds like the Howards aren’t worth much besides money.”

“Yeah. But Reece is different. So is Clary. She’ll be the complete opposite of them all.”

“I have no doubt.”

On the patio, Scooter stirred, stretched, then trotted out to them. Standing between them, he scented the air and a sound started low in his throat as the hair on his spine straightened. The growl sent a chill straight through to Macy’s bones.

It didn’t seem to concern Stephen at all. He gave the dog a reassuring pat. “What do you smell, buddy? Neighbors have a cat?” He chuckled. “He’s friendly to every animal around except cats. There are feral ones in the woods, and they drive him nuts when they come out.”

Macy stared in the direction Scooter was looking, the back side of the property, and told herself sure, it was just feral cats. The fence was tall and solid on all three sides of the yard. The only gates were on the house sides, and they were locked. The motion detector lights that lined the fence remained off.

The growl stopped, the dog’s hair returned to its normal position and the air of vigilance faded. Scooter sat down, backing up to his master for a scratch.

Just feral cats. Not a person. Not a ghost. Not a figment of a fragile imagination.

Stephen sighed lazily. “I guess we’d better get home. Tomorrow’s a clinic day.”

The anxiety Macy had just calmed flared again. She wished she could ask him to stay longer. Better yet, could she go home with him? She’d be happy to sleep on the sofa.

But instead, she took a breath to level her voice. “Sounds like fun.”

“Not always fun, but usually different.” He stood, then offered his hand. She took it without hesitation, letting him pull her to her feet, almost pulling her into his arms. When he realized how close they were, he stood motionless, and so did she. Her fingers were warm in his grip, and the heat spread up her arm and through her body. With her next breath, she caught another whiff of his scent and closed her eyes for a moment to savor it.

When she opened them again, the distance between them had diminished by half. Had he moved, or had she? In the next instant, it didn’t matter because he was bending his head to hers, brushing his mouth to hers. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and her free hand touched his chest, resting there on warm fabric.

Sweet kiss, but not really so sweet, not with its promise of hunger, of need and heat and being alone way too long. Her heart thudded louder, her breath turned liquid in her lungs and her body trembled in that incredibly nice yearning way that it hadn’t in far too long.

She moved closer, and their noses bumped, knocking his glasses askew. Ending the kiss, he pushed them back into place and gave her a slow, warm smile. “I’m awfully glad Scooter ran away the other day.”

Her smile felt smaller, shakier. “Me, too.”

Curling his fingers around her hand, he lifted it to his chest, then caught hold of the other one, too. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here all day.” Breathless words, little more than a whisper.

Still holding her hands, he made a smooching sound for the dog, then led the way to the patio. There he let go and filled his hands with dishes instead. It took them a few moments to carry everything inside: dishes in the sink, towels in the laundry room, leftovers in the refrigerator.

“I get off around noon,” he said at the door. “Is that too early?”

“No. I’ll fix lunch.”

He fastened the leash on Scooter’s collar, then kissed her again. “I’ll see you then.”

Her lips tingling—her entire body tingling—she locked the door, set the alarm, then sighed. It was a precious feeling, this sense of normalcy. At least, almost normal. More or less. If she discounted her jumpiness and the contract she’d moved without knowing it.

Then she lifted her gaze to the wedding portrait above the living room fireplace and her features settled stubbornly.
No.
She
was
normal. The jumpiness was normal. As for the contract... If she wasn’t entitled to a little forgetfulness, then who was?

She was three months shy of her thirtieth birthday, a widow, a single mom and having a bit of a hard time closing out this chapter of her life. No one had expected it to be easy. Brent, Anne, her psychiatrist—they’d all told her it would be tough. She’d known it without their warnings.

But she would get through it. Mark had cost her so much already. Tying up the loose ends of their life together wouldn’t steal her self-confidence, and it damn well wouldn’t steal her sanity. Not again.

* * *

Stephen woke Friday morning to the eau du doggy, thanks to his bed partner sprawled in a limp, doggy-breath-emanating heap, pinning him to the mattress.

The fragrance drifting on the air when Macy woke was exotic with notes of sandalwood and orange and cost $200 an ounce. It came in an elegantly curved black bottle that sat on the counter in Mark’s dressing room and had a faintly off scent, as if something had turned with age.

Stephen hardly noticed the doggy breath or the chlorine lingering from last night’s swim or the fine grit four massive paws had spread over the bed after their walk home. Smells and dirt were par for the course with a dog in the house. He started the coffee, jumped in the shower, then checked his email while scarfing down protein bars with the java.

Macy lay paralyzed in bed, hating that cologne as intensely as she hated the man it represented, until finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. She jumped from bed, marched into her bathroom for a can of germ killer, then stalked across the room to Mark’s bathroom, filling both it and the closet with a fine mist of medicinal-smelling lemon. Try to overpower
that,
sandalwood, she thought as she grabbed the black bottle and tossed it in a box in the hallway holding trash.

The Howard house looked quiet and imposing as Stephen drove past. A lot of curtained windows, a lot of impenetrable brick. He wondered if Macy felt like a prisoner locked away in its unwelcoming interior.

“It’s a house,” he said aloud to rein in his imagination. “A beautiful house that someone will eventually pay a cool million or two for.”

After living like a Howard for so many years, her idea of prison would probably be the little house he lived in. Clary’s bedroom was three times the size of his office. The linen closet was nicer and bigger than his bedroom.

But he could afford more. He didn’t make a lot of money, but other than expenses such as the computer, the internet, research groups and the professional dues he paid in both jobs, he didn’t spend much money, either. It wasn’t as if he was poor. He worked part-time at two jobs, neither of which paid a lot, because he loved them, not because it was all he could do.

When he reached the clinic, he parked out back, then let himself in the rear door. Lights were already on, and music filtered down the hall from the reception counter. It didn’t matter how early he got in, Zia Cruz always beat him. He didn’t know where she found the energy. She was five years older than him, worked here six days a week and spent evenings caring for her five nieces and nephews while her brothers worked their night jobs.

“Hi, Zia,” he called as he stopped in his office to set down the fast-food breakfast he’d brought along, then he followed the smell of coffee to the break room. She sat at a table, feet propped up, reading the newspaper.

“Hey Doc.” She didn’t look up from the paper. For a small city, the
Clarion
was a decent paper, published six days a week as well as online. They had the benefit of extremely generous support from the Calloway and Kennedy families, which made their battle to survive more of a skirmish.

“Anything interesting in there today?”

“Interesting, sad, depressing.” She finished the front section and laid it aside in trade for the next.

Stephen filled his coffee mug, stirred in sugar and creamer, then leaned against the counter. The position immediately reminded him of Macy. “How long have you lived here, Zia?”

She looked at him over the paper, one brow raised. Her skin was olive-toned, her hair black, her eyes almost black. “Despite my name and my appearance, I was born and raised here. All of us kids were, except Jimmy.” She wrinkled her nose as if in distaste. “He was born in New York.”

Stephen ducked his head. “Pardon my jumping to conclusions. I just haven’t met many people born here.”

She rolled the newspaper and swatted his leg with it. “You don’t do hangdog well. Do you wanna know something about this burg, or are you just trying to make polite conversation?”

He put off answering by sipping his steaming coffee. He hadn’t gone straight to the computer when he and Scooter got home the night before. He’d felt too...hopeful. Whatever the internet could tell him could wait. He’d rather hear it from Macy anyway.

But would it hurt to ask just a question or two?

“Do you know a family named Howard?”

Zia’s white smile flashed. “In Copper Lake, there are plenty of families named Howard, but there’s only one Howard family. Money, tragedy and scandal—the kind of stuff people do one-hour TV shows about.”

Stephen went back to drinking coffee hot enough to scald and impossible to taste with the thoughts rattling in his head. Zia’s pronouncement didn’t sound good. He knew the Howard money went back generations. How about the tragedy and scandal? In Southern families, the age of the scandal didn’t always matter; some people talked about ancient history as if it were just a year or two ago.

And which was Mark’s suicide? Scandal? Or tragedy?

“You know, they own that big beautiful place on the river,” Zia added.

“Fair Winds. I’ve seen it.”

Zia drummed her fingers on the table. “Wonder what the daughter-in-law will do with it. It’s been empty since the old woman died.” She shuddered exaggeratedly. “Hateful old woman. Never had patience for anyone but her own family, and not even all of them. Her only granddaughter wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Miss Willa was the biggest snob you ever met. Compared to her, Louise Wetherby is super friendly, all-welcoming and oozes compassion.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“Not that I’m gossiping or anything,” Zia said with a smirk as the back door opened and multiple voices filtered down the hall.

Stephen took his coffee back to his office, passing a couple of the vet techs on the way. He greeted them, joked for a minute, then slipped through the door into the tiny windowless room that contained his desk, computer, a couple of file cabinets and a chair held together with duct tape.

Ah, the gracious life he lived. It was a miracle a woman like Macy bothered to spend time with him, much less let him kiss her.

Immediately he regretted the thought. Macy hadn’t been born into all that money. She hadn’t been raised with a silver spoon and an inflated sense of entitlement. She was an average person, just like him, just like Zia, who’d fallen in love with a very wealthy person. It had changed her life forever—marriage always should—but not in a good way.

And even if she had stopped loving Mark back when he died, she still had some things to deal with. Trusting someone new with her whole story was one of them.

So he’d stick around until he wasn’t new anymore. Until she had no choice but to trust him. Until even a fly on her wall could see that he was nothing if not trustworthy.

Worthy, period.

He’d just finished breakfast when his first patient arrived. He did routine exams and vaccinations, checked out an eleven-year-old hound whose appetite was off, put a few stitches in a Jack Russell terrier who thought he ruled the jungle, or at least the woods around his house, and barely escaped with his fingers intact after treating a cat for gingivitis.

He loved animals, he reminded himself as he cleaned the cat scratch on his left arm. He really did. He just loved cats a little less than the dogs, guinea pigs, snakes, birds, ferrets, rabbits and hedgehogs that made up the pet population at the clinic.

After finishing his reports, he went to the reception counter. “Zia, I’m heading out.”

She didn’t look up from the computer. “You’re on in the morning. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

Then she sneaked a sly glance at him. “I hear you’re on tomorrow night, too. Are all your shots up-to-date?”

The idea of spending an entire evening with Kiki made him groan. “How do you hear these things?”

She shook a finger at him. “Your sister may not gossip, but everyone else in town does. You keep your wits about you. I hear the Kiki Monster bites, and her toxin might be fatal.”

“Thank you,” he said with a scowl, “for making me anticipate the evening even more than I already was.”

Her laughter followed him down the hall. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”

Chapter 7

L
unch was sandwiches of leftover steak and vegetables warmed and topped with gooey melted cheese, plus homemade chips Macy had picked up at Ellie’s Deli. By two o’clock, it was a dim memory. After eating, she’d begun packing in the living room while Stephen moved the stacks of boxes from the hallway to the garage. Without prompting, he’d organized them: keep, donate, get rid of, with
donate
meaning something of historical or collectible value,
get rid of
referring to things that could be donated anywhere.

She liked a man who could organize things on his own.

Hands on hips, she looked around the room before her gaze settled on the wedding portrait again. She’d felt foolish having an actual portrait painted; it was so outside the realm of Ireland experience, where even professional photographs were a rarity. Snapshots were good enough for her family.

But Mark had insisted—as had Miss Willa—and the artist had been more than happy to work from a photo. They’d had a big party when it had arrived, coinciding with their first anniversary and their move into the house, and people with their own portraits looming over them at home had admired it.

For the first few months, it had disconcerted her, confronting a six-by-eight-foot image of herself and Mark every time she’d walked into or past the room. Eventually she’d stopped noticing it, but now it disconcerted her again. It was a huge lie done in oils.

Dragging a chair to the fireplace, she climbed onto it and was gripping the bottom of the elaborate gilt frame when Stephen spoke from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking it down.” Not as easily said as done. The sucker was heavy and attached to the brick far above her head. Holding on tighter, she leaned forward and shoved upward. The frame moved wildly, and so did she, losing her balance on the chair. Letting go, she flailed her arms then found herself steady with both hands on Stephen’s shoulders. He held her a moment before lifting her to the floor.

“Wait till we get a ladder,” he said reasonably.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to look at it anymore.” But it was hard to be pouty when his hands were still cradling her waist and the heat radiating from his body was a match for her own. “Can we cover it with a sheet?”

“When we get a ladder.” He studied her a moment, then said, “How about this? I’ll get the marker and draw mustaches and glasses with fuzzy eyebrows on both of you. You won’t recognize yourself.”

“Sounds good.” She hesitated then rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming over. I know you’ve got better things to do.”

“Other things,” he agreed. “Not better.” His hand slid up her spine in the same sort of deep-tissue, muscle-relaxing massage he’d given Scooter the night before. She thought she might react the same way the dog had—a few guttural moans, then going limp and sinking to the floor with her tongue hanging out.

Before that could happen, though, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stepped away. “What are you going to do about all the furniture? The antique stuff.”

It took a moment for strength to replace the laziness he’d created in her body, then she glanced around. Every single piece in the room, including the chair she’d just climbed on, fit in that category. As far as she could remember, the newest piece was somewhere around one hundred fifty years old. “Sell what I can and donate the rest, I guess.”

“You have anyone in mind to handle the deal?”

“If I had ever needed an antiques dealer, I would have asked Miss Willa or Lorna. Now...” She shook her head.

“Lydia Kennedy is a client of mine. You know her?”

This time her head bobbed. The Kennedy family had been in Copper Lake for six generations or more and, like the Howards and the Calloways, were blessed with riches. “Her husband is a distant cousin of Miss Willa’s.”

“She likes to buy and sell antiques. Why don’t I call her and see who she recommends?”

“I’d appreciate that.” Macy hadn’t wanted to think about the furniture beyond getting rid of it, so sources of referrals hadn’t even made it to the back of her mind. There was no doubt Lydia dealt with only the best—she and Miss Willa had had that in common, though little else. Lydia was a kind woman who actually cared about people.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started toward the hallway. Turning back, he asked, “What were you going to do with the painting if you’d gotten it down?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Taken it out in the backyard, chopped it up and burned it in the fire pit.”

His head shake was regretful. “The artist put a lot of work into it.”

“He was well paid.”

“Still...”

“The painting—however many thousands of dollars. Not having to see it again—priceless.” She smirked as he rolled his eyes. When he walked out of the room and began speaking to someone about getting Lydia’s number, she gave another serious look around her. All the smaller pieces were packed. Even the Tiffany lamps were solidly cuddled in Bubble Wrap, the boxes labeled
Fragile
and
Handle with Care
in big red letters. There was nothing left in the room that she could deal with on her own.

Hearing the murmur of Stephen’s voice from the kitchen, where he was probably making notes at the island, she went into the library across the hall. Mark hadn’t been an avid reader, but of course they had an entire room to house books. These were the really old ones, the rare ones, handed down through the family. It wasn’t likely that ungloved hands had touched them in her lifetime. No one read them for pleasure or even out of obligation. They simply sat on their shelves, looking old and tome-ish and neglected except for regular dustings.

“Lydia said she’ll get in touch with her two favorite dealers and set up an appointment.” Stephen stood beside Macy a moment before walking farther into the room. He stopped in the middle, right in the center medallion of the hand-woven Tunisian rug, and turned slowly.

What did he see? She saw a pretty, dark, lavishly decorated room with plush chairs, more Tiffany lamps, cherrywood and mahogany and oak tables that gleamed with age. She saw the library ladder, propped against one wall like a praying mantis, and the eight-foot-high shelves filled with row after row of books bearing uninspired covers and often script nearly impossible to decipher.

But he was an author. Words and books were his passion. Did his fingers itch to sit down with an armful of these? Could he spend a few hours or days in here, browsing and appreciating?

From the oak library table, he picked up a piece of jade, turning it gently in his large hands. Three dozen carvings were spread across the surface, none bigger than an egg, ranging in color from typical green to white and in between.

“Those belonged to Mark’s father. They were his passion. He made countless trips to Asia, selecting each one himself. When he died, they passed to Mark, though without the passion. He displayed them because that’s what you do with valuable old things. They used to be in the living room, but Clary could reach them there, and she was in that putting-everything-in-her-mouth stage, so he moved them in here.” She hugged her middle. “Clary didn’t like this room. All her crawling, walking and wandering, she wouldn’t come in here.”

Stephen carefully replaced the jade. “I don’t much like it, either. It’s not exactly a welcoming place. Libraries should be about comfort and books, not about hands-off displays. Though I bet some collector would pay a fortune for the whole set of books.”

“These books are going to the library, too. They never have enough money to do what they need. They can be the proud owner of all these rare books, or they can sell them and supplement their budget for a while. As for the jade...I’ll offer it to Lorna or maybe keep it for Clary.” Her smile was on the bitter side. “I don’t hate her grandfather.”

Distantly there came the sound of a thudding car door. Macy’s gaze jerked to the clock on the library wall. It wasn’t even three—early for Brent and Clary. If it was Louise Wetherby wanting an answer on the disposition of Fair Winds, Macy would give it to her:
No. Not in this lifetime.

Brushing her hair back, she went to the door as the bell pealed, that awful funereal tone that Mark had picked. She opened it to find no one there, and for one instant a terrible fear started to form in her chest. Then a giggle came from around the corner, and from opposite sides of the steps, Brent, holding Clary, and Anne stepped out from where they’d pressed themselves flat against the wall. “Surprise!”

Breathe deeply. Don’t let them see they frightened you.
She took a breath, then forced an animated exaggerated fright onto her features. “Oh, my gosh! You scared me!”

“Don’t be scared, Mama. It’s just me an’ Uncle Brent an’ AnAnne.” Clary leaped from Brent’s arms into hers, making her stumble back a step or two. Her little girl felt so solid and warm and smelled so sweet, and she’d missed her, God, more than she’d been willing to admit. She held her tightly for an instant, enough to make Clary squirm, then pressed loud smooches to the girl’s cheeks, throat, stomach, sending her into another fit of giggles.

“I know we’re early, but we can take Clary to the park for a few hours if you want,” Brent offered as he followed Anne through the door.

She swatted his shoulder before hugging him, too, then her sister-in-law. “You could never be too early. Not with my baby.”

There was a soft shuffle behind her, and everyone’s attention shifted that way. Macy saw surprise and curiosity on Brent’s and Anne’s faces before she shifted Clary to one hip and turned. An odd sense of nerves and pleasure went through her. It had been so long since she’d introduced a man to her family, and look how that had turned out.

But Stephen wasn’t Mark. He was so much more.

“Stephen, this is my brother, Brent, and his wife, Anne—”

“Uncle Brent and AnAnne,” Clary clarified.

Anne ruffled Clary’s silky brown hair. “She doesn’t quite get that there’s a
t
on
aunt.
”

“And my daughter, Clary,” Macy continued. “Guys, this is Stephen Noble.” She thought about clarifying him, too—
my neighbor, my friend, the man who kissed me last night and made my whole body go weak.
She didn’t add anything, though. Stephen was enough.

He and Brent shook hands; he and Anne exchanged greetings. His expression when he turned to Clary was serious, gentle, not overly friendly like so many adults. “Hey, Clary.”

Clary curled a strand of hair around one finger. “Why you wear those?” She pointed to his glasses with her other hand.

“Because I don’t see very well without them.”

“Can I try?”

Macy was about to tell her no when he removed the glasses and handed them over, apparently uncaring whether she got prints on them. Of course, they were way too big for her, but she held them with one hand over the bridge and half of each lens, then looked at each adult. “I see silly.”

“You are silly, Jilly. Now give them back carefully.”

Her daughter obeyed, and Stephen cleaned the glasses on his T-shirt—black today—before putting them on again.

Macy tuned out the conversation. She was here with the people she loved best and the man she liked best in the whole world. Finally, this house didn’t seem so cold.

* * *

After giving them all a tour of the house—it was Anne’s first visit and Stephen’s first time to see everything—Macy suggested they go outside to catch up. It was a warm afternoon, but with the shade and the ceiling fans overhead, it was comfortable.

Macy and Anne stopped in the kitchen to get drinks while Stephen, Brent and Clary went ahead. She ran in the yard from one flower bed to another with the unfailing energy of a three-year-old, and they more or less drifted to the teak love seat and chairs nearby. Stephen, who never found himself at a loss for words, wasn’t entirely sure what to say to Macy’s protective older brother. He’d caught Brent’s first wary look when he’d come out of the library. He figured none of the Irelands would be happy to see her getting involved with another man unless it was someone they knew and approved of.

“So...Macy says you’re a vet.”

Stephen nodded. “I work part-time at a clinic in town.”

Brent’s own nod was kind of measuring. Wondering what else he did with his time? If he was part vet, part lazy bum? If part-time work was the best he could get?

Stephen sat in one of the chairs, facing the love seat, its cushions sighing under him, and Brent took a seat across from him.

“How long have you been in town?”

“A little under a year.”

Another measuring nod. “Has she told—” Brent broke off, then substituted another question. “What brought you to Copper Lake?”

“My sister lives here. When the vet job came open, I decided to take it.”

“Is she younger or older?”

Stephen suppressed a smile. “Older. She works for the Copper Lake Police Department.”

As he’d expected, that took a little of Brent’s edge off. He was worried about his sister. Mark’s suicide had been tough for her. Stephen had no doubt that was what Brent had started to ask:
Has she told you how her husband died?
He didn’t want her hurt again.

They were on the same side there.

“Do you do anything besides be a vet part-time?”

Before Stephen could answer, Clary ran up, skidding to a stop right beside his chair. “What’s a vet?”

She looked like her mother. He’d seen it in the photograph, but gazing into her face, flesh and blood and dimension, it was so much more obvious. If there was a hint of her father in her, he couldn’t see it. Or maybe didn’t want to see it.

“A vet is a doctor for animals.”

“I go to a doctor for kids. His name is Dr. Chris. Do you give the animals shots?”

“When they need them.”

Her little face screwed up. “I don’t like shots, but I don’t cry, and I get a Band-Aid with a
puppy
on it.”

“That’s pretty cool. Do you like puppies?”

Her hair bounced with her emphatic nod. “Do you have any?”