Copper Lake Confidential (4 page)

She was reaching for the vase when something drew her attention up the stairs. The dust motes still floated, still smelled faintly of Mark’s cologne. They reminded her she hadn’t yet gone upstairs, a fact that niggled at her. It was just a house, a structure filled with nothing more harmful than memories. Yes, the bedroom she’d shared with Mark was up there; yes, his clothes still filled the closet. Yes, the nursery was there, too, waiting for a baby who’d died before living.

But her things were up there, as well, and Clary’s. And she had to face it eventually.

Wiping damp palms on her dress, she climbed the first step. Her gaze dropped to the runner bordered on both sides with rich dark wood. She’d learned through all her treatment that focusing on long-term goals didn’t work for her anymore. She had to take life one day at a time. Take these stairs one step at a time.

Mark’s cologne smelled stronger as she climbed—too strong, it seemed, for a house that had been locked up for a year and a half. But it was a very distinctive scent, one created just for him, and the sense of smell was such a very strong one. Just a whiff of baby lotion took her back to Clary’s infancy, and cinnamon transported her to her grandmother’s kitchen with an apple pie in the oven.

The stairs made a straight run to the second-floor landing, a gracious space with a sofa, built-in bookcases and a view through a large round window of rooftops, trees and the Gullah River. To the left was Clary’s room, the nursery, a bathroom and two guest rooms. To the right was the master suite.

She turned right, automatically assessing furnishings as she walked: portrait of Clary at one year old, keep; prissy demilune table that had come down from Mark’s family, discard. Engagement photo of Macy and Mark, keep in case one day Clary wanted it; massive oil painting of a former Howard’s ship at sea, discard.

The bedroom door was closed. Doors were meant to be closed, Mark had preached, a habit that went at least as far back in the family as his grandmother. Macy wrapped her fingers around the cool knob, twisted it and swung the door open.

Whatever emotion she’d expected didn’t come. The room was so distinctly stamped with Mark’s personality that, even though she knew it intimately, it was as if she’d never been there. Dark woods, heavy furniture, murky palette...how had she ever slept in this space? Laughed? Made love? How had she breathed in here?

Breathing was no problem now as she walked through the room. She felt distant, removed from the moment. The book she’d been reading the day he died still sat on the lacquered table next to the sofa in the sitting area. The jewelry chest, almost as tall as she and ornately carved, still stood against the wall, the cherrywood gleaming from its recent cleaning. She opened the bottom drawer, then closed it before sliding open the next one. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, watches—too much gold and too many gems for a woman who’d never really cared about jewelry.

The first and second drawers, peeked into on tiptoe, held cuff links, Mark’s watches and a half dozen antique pocket watches. He’d known exactly which Howard ancestor each had belonged to.

She opened the third drawer last, the only one that they’d shared. This had been their everyday stuff: matching Rolexes, the first necklace he’d ever given her, their wedding rings.

She had refused to have the ring buried with him. Finding out the truth about him, learning that the man she’d loved didn’t really exist—she couldn’t have borne having that connection with him through eternity. The only thing she was grateful to him for was her daughter, and considering that grief and sorrow and scandal had taken her second daughter from her, she figured they were even. She owed him nothing.

Shoving the drawer shut, she continued her walk-through of the suite. His closet, his bath, her closet, her bath. There she stopped at the window, fingers parting the wooden blinds enough to give her a view of the backyard that had given her such pleasure, of the pool and the guesthouse. That had been her idea, a place for family to stay when they visited, where Miss Willa could live if she ever had to leave Fair Winds.

She sniffed. Mark’s grandmother had left the family home, all right. After the funeral, she’d gone to Raleigh with her and Clary to stay with Mark’s mother. A month later she’d gone to sleep and never woken up.

She never would have stayed in the guesthouse anyway. Except for Brent a few times, no one ever had.

Movement at one of the windows caught her eye, and abruptly she blinked. It must be a reflection from the setting sun, she told herself, or the shadow of a bird flying overhead. But the sun was too low to cast reflections or shadows at that angle. She leaned closer, until her nose was pressed against a wooden slat, and stared harder through the narrow slit.

It was still there, pale and sort of oblong in shape, like a hand parting the blinds at the right height for a person to peek out just the way—

She swallowed hard. Just the way she was doing.

Dread washing over her, she jumped back as if the slats had burned, then kept moving backward until the tile floor changed to carpet. There she spun around and raced down the hall and the stairs to escape.

* * *

The aromas of a thin-crust pizza with heaps of onions and cheese scattered with the best of Luigi’s toppings filled Stephen’s car as he turned into Woodhaven Villas. The only thing keeping him from grabbing a piece already was the fact that he was driving, and the only thing protecting the pie from Scooter was the doggy seat belt securing him in the backseat. He was voicing his mournful disapproval when Macy Howard came running out of her house.

Running, Stephen mused. In
heels.
Not very gracefully, granted; he wouldn’t have imagined her body could move so
un
gracefully. It just didn’t fit with the image of a Southern belle. But still, running.

She came to a stop in the driveway near the minivan, though not actually
stopping.
Her hands patted her sides, the way a person did when feeling for keys or a cell phone in pockets, but her dress didn’t appear to have pockets. She looked from the van to the closed garage door, then back in the direction she’d come from, and her face, he saw, was ghostly pale.

Already knowing what his choice would be, he debated it anyway: Luigi’s pizza hot from the oven or damsel in distress? Before he even completed the question, he’d brought the car to a stop at the end of Macy’s driveway.

Scooter whined as Stephen unbuckled his belt. “I know, buddy,” he agreed. “But this’ll just take a minute, okay?”

He got out of the car and had closed half the distance between him and Macy before she became aware of him. For an instant, the blood drained from her face so completely that he was surprised she didn’t fall unconscious at his feet. Then recognition came, and she took a great heaving breath. “You.”

Was it a greeting or accusation? “Yeah, it’s me.” Again. He gestured awkwardly. “Is everything okay?”

Her cheeks pinked, and she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Yes, of course. Well, maybe...” She stared at her trembling hand when she lowered it—her entire body was trembling—then grimaced. “Maybe not. I—I thought I saw somebody. Out back. Well, not out back. Actually, in—in the guesthouse.”

So she’d startled and run out of the house without either keys or cell phone. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police—”

“No.”
Her color drained again and she reached out, though not far enough to make actual contact. “Um, no. No, no, no. Please.”

“If someone’s broken in—”

“No.” She breathed deeply. “If you could—could just...take a look with me?”

Stephen could say he’d never wanted to be a hero, but he’d be lying. He wrote fantasy, after all, which was all about heroics. But it would be truthful to admit he’d never been hero material. He was a bit of a geek, the total opposite of a jock, and believed in his heart that everything could be resolved without resorting to violence. Hell, the only fight he’d ever been in had ended when the other kid threw the first punch—the only punch—and bloodied his nose. He’d learned his strengths and limitations that day, and confronting a possible burglar definitely fell under limitations.

“Look, the Copper Lake P.D. is good. My sister works for them. They can have an officer here in no time, and I’ll wait until...” He let his words trail off when her head-shaking became emphatic enough to send her hair swinging.

“No police. It’s—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just...” She looked as if she didn’t have a clue what she would do.

Stephen sighed silently. “All right. No problem. Just let me get Scooter. I don’t want to leave him alone in the car.”

Her distress eased a little but didn’t go away completely. He didn’t know why she was so adamant about not calling the police—though there
was
his earlier theory that she wasn’t really Macy Howard—but he was pretty sure she wished one of her braver, brawnier neighbors had come along. Instead, she was stuck with the king of let’s-talk-this-out and a mutt who didn’t know the meaning of confrontation.

He opened the rear door of the car and set Scooter free, then turned back to find Macy already halfway to the door.

“My keys are inside,” she explained.

On many of his trips through the neighborhood, he’d wondered how the Lord Gentry of Woodhaven Villas lived. The inside of Macy’s house definitely lived up to his imagination. With her hustling ahead and Scooter trotting along beside him, he didn’t get a chance to see much—though he definitely recognized Macy in the giant wedding portrait in the living room; so much for the jewel thief or intruder theory—but what he saw was impressive. It was too big, too showy and seriously unwelcoming, but he was impressed.

She walked quickly, sweeping keys and cell off the kitchen island, marching to the patio door. There she hesitated, and he was about to suggest a call to 911 again when, as if she’d made a decision, she unlocked the door and strode toward the guesthouse.

The entrance faced north and the gardens instead of the main house. They climbed the brick-edged steps to the porch, then it took a while to unlock the door. She probably needed both hands to guide the shaking key into the little hole. Finally the tumblers fell into place, and she stepped back to allow him to enter first.

In his practice, he’d faced vicious pigs, aggressive dogs, recalcitrant horses and a huge number of cats that had tried to rip his skin off. He’d been bitten, scratched and stepped on, but that was okay. The animals had mostly been scared. They hadn’t
intended
to hurt him. Except maybe the cats. But an intruder who’d broken into an unoccupied house, who, as far as they knew, could have been hiding there since Macy had moved out...

Fortunately for Stephen when he opened the door, Scooter didn’t overthink situations. He sniffed the air, then trotted right past Stephen and Macy and into the living room, his nails clicking on the wood floor. He didn’t seem fearful, his hair wasn’t standing on end, he wasn’t on alert. If anyone had been here, they were likely gone.

The living room, dining room and kitchen ran from front to back, occupying the middle third of the house. Doorways on each side led off, presumably, to bedrooms. There was a whole different vibe to the little house compared with the big one. The colors were warmer and lighter, the furniture more about comfort. Even with the blinds closed, it didn’t seem as dark here as the big house did with all those windows.

Stephen followed Scooter through the room, checking possible hiding places, looking inside a coat closet and a pantry. Macy stayed a few steps behind him. “Does anything look out of place?”

When she didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder to see her shaking her head from side to side.

“Where did you think you saw this person?”

“At the window. There.” She pointed to the doorway on the right, and their odd little entourage moved that way. The bedroom was sparsely furnished with sleek pieces and a serene blue-gray color scheme. It was simple, elegant. Like the woman behind him.

He went to the window that faced the house, double-wide with wooden blinds the same delicate gray as the bed linens. There was no dust on the slats, none of them appeared disturbed and no footprints were visible on the floor. If they called the police, considering that the scene of the crime was in Woodhaven Villas, the responding officer would probably send one of Marnie’s coworkers out to dust for fingerprints. Hell, Marnie would do it herself if he asked, even if Macy did refuse to make a report.

But so far, he’d seen nothing to indicate anything more than an overactive imagination.

When he looked at Macy, her cheeks were pink again and she stared at the floor instead of him. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Even if she didn’t see it, she would hear it in his voice. “The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be anyone here. Let’s check the other rooms just to be sure.”

A faint nod was her only response.

The closet and bathroom were empty, ditto the bedroom and bath on the other side of the house. The door from the kitchen to a tiny patio was dead-bolted, and all the windows were closed and locked. The house was more secure than his own.

Realizing he’d lost Scooter along the way, Stephen returned to the first bedroom, hoping the mutt wasn’t curled up on the bed. He wasn’t, but was sniffing the floor beneath the window instead. Strange houses were full of new scents for his sensitive nose, which was okay as long as he didn’t feel compelled to leave his own. “Come on, Scooter. Let’s go.”

Tail quivering, the dog spun around and raced out of the room. If Stephen had been a second slower opening the front door, Scooter would have smacked into it.

“I’m sorry,” Macy said as she relocked the door. “I really thought I saw...” Her voice wasn’t much steadier than it had been before they’d entered the guesthouse. He guessed it was embarrassment now. People like her probably weren’t used to making panicky mistakes.

“It’s okay. Better to be sure, right?”

She made a soft sound that might have been agreement or could just as easily have meant nothing at all. Hands tightly clenching her keys and cell phone, she led the way back through the garden and around the pool to the patio. There she glanced at the guesthouse with such a look of dismay on her face that he couldn’t help but say something.