Copper Lake Secrets (7 page)

“But, Grandmother—”

She interrupted him, something she considered rude and common—a sign of how determined she was to see this plan through. “Have you forgotten, Mark, that I’m in charge of my own affairs? When I want advice, I’ll ask for it, and I’ll ask an expert, not you. At this moment, I’m not asking. I’m simply informing you of my plans. Don’t worry. There will be money left over for you and Macy and the children. You’ll have your inheritance, but I will have my gardens.”

Moving far more spryly than most women her age, Grandmother rose from the settee and left the room.

The silence was heavy, and just a bit darker as clouds blocked the sun and the windows fell into shadow. Uneasiness creeping up her spine, Reece wanted to make her exit, too—right out the door and onto the patio—but something kept her in her seat.

“Oh, my God.” Mark dragged his fingers through his hair, the gesture drawing attention to how much it had thinned in fifteen years. Another five, and he’d likely be completely bald on top, as his father had been. As her father might have been if he’d lived long enough.

Forever couldn’t have been long enough to suit her.

“Did you know about this?” Mark asked suddenly. “Is that why you just showed up after fifteen years without so much as a call?”

There, faint in his voice, in his eyes, was the hostility she remembered. Along with the shadows, it lowered the temperature in the room a few degrees.

“No. Jones was here when I arrived. They had pretty much completed their discussion by then.”

“Sorry.” Actually sounding it, he ran his hand through his hair again. “I can’t believe… I thought I had talked her out of… We can’t let her do this. I’ll talk to Robbie Calloway—he’s her lawyer—and see what we can do to stop her. Do you have any idea how
much
this will cost?”

“It won’t be cheap.” Martine shared the tiny courtyard of her building with Reece and the dogs, barely big enough for a fountain, two chairs and all the plants they could cram in, with a few patches of grass for the four-legged residents. Lush and lovely as it was, she doubted it would cost more than $100 to replant the entire thing.

“Wow, you have a way with understatement.” Mark gave her a rueful smile. “We’re talking tens of thousands, hell, probably hundreds of thousands of dollars. For some stupid flowers and bushes. What in hell is she thinking?”

Reece made her voice mild. “I imagine she’s thinking that it’s her money and she should spend it on what makes her happy.”

The flash of friendliness disappeared under the weight of a scowl. “Maybe you’re happy living in an apartment in the French Quarter, but that’s a few hundred grand that I’d rather have in my kids’ college fund than in the dirt out here.”

Then his gaze turned distant. “Though she does comment on how beautiful the flowers are every time she comes to the house. Macy has a real green thumb. She planted the whole area around the guest house just for Grandmother.”

How many young men would include separate living quarters at their houses for the day an elderly relative could no longer live on her own? How many young wives would embrace the idea? If someone told her
she
had to take in Grandmother or even Valerie to live, she’d pack up the dogs and disappear lightning-quick.

“You think she should go ahead with this foolishness.”

Reece nodded. “I do.”

“But she might not even live to—to see it done.”

“She knows that.” Though Willadene Howard had never answered to anyone on earth besides her husband; she might not answer to death, either, when it came calling.

“So I can’t count on you to help change her mind.”

“It’s not my place. I haven’t been here in fifteen years. I can’t just show up and start telling her how to spend her money.”

“I guess not.” He stood, leaned across and tugged her hair. “I’ve got to get back to town. See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here.” Unless Grandmother or the ghosts or the fear she’d lived with so long ran her off.

Out in the hall, he paused long enough to shout, “I’m going, Grandmother. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

A moment later, Reece saw him through the window, striding to the car as if he’d had nothing but the most pleasant of visits. She was turning back when a flash of movement at the door caught her attention. “Grandmother?”

The only answer was the soft whisper of footsteps on the wood.

“Lois?”

A breeze stirred the curtains, blowing one strip of filmy lace hard enough that it caught on her shoulder before drifting down again and, almost lost on that unseen wind, came a long feline whisper of sound.
Meow.

Shivers racing through her, Reece stood and hurried to the door.
One, two, three, four, five…

On summer jobs, where the temperature could be unbearable by noon, Jones usually tried to get a really early start on the job site by the time it was light enough to see. When excessive heat wasn’t a problem, he took his time, actually sitting down to eat his breakfast, checking his email, catching up on the news.

That was what occupied him Tuesday morning when Mick trotted to the open door and snuffled. His tail was wagging in a broad enough swath to take down any antiques within range—the reason Jones had spent a good part of yesterday afternoon moving all breakables to a safer place.

After he’d stood at the door the entire time Mark Howard was inside the house. When Mark had come out, he’d looked satisfied, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Had the meeting with Reece gone that well, or was he just really good at hiding his emotions?

Even after Mark had left, Jones had stood there, watching, but Reece hadn’t come out again. Neither had Miss Willa.

Now, though, it looked as if he’d have a chance to find out how the reunion had gone, because Mick wasn’t wagging his tail so eagerly for the old woman who didn’t care for dogs.

Shutting his laptop, he went to the door, unlatching the screen. Mick shot out, barking and bounding down the driveway toward the barn. Sure enough, Reece was a few hundred yards down the road, wearing the short pants his secretary called capris and a bright orange top, her stride long but easy, as if she didn’t have a particular destination in mind.

Upon hearing Mick’s approach—something similar to a freight train—she turned, then braced herself for any excited leaping. Jones grinned. No jumping was the first lesson he’d taught the dog. He’d guess her own dogs hadn’t learned it as well.

Mick immediately sat down in front of her, and she bent to scratch him. Her mouth was moving, but Jones couldn’t hear the words until he got closer.

“…such a good boy. You’re so pretty, and look at that face. Who wouldn’t love such a handsome face?” Her tone was softer than usual, gooier than usual. She was a sucker for four-legged guys, even if the two-legged ones made her a little wary.

“You’re gonna spoil my dog rotten,” he said from a few yards away.

Her gaze lifted, and wariness did enter it, just a bit. “He deserves to be spoiled. He’s a good boy.”

“You headed someplace in particular?”

She shook her head.

“Mind if I join you?” At her hesitation, he went on. “I told you yesterday, one of the things I need to do is walk the property. We need to know what conditions we’ll be working with, if there are better ways in or out, where we can stage equipment when we’re not using it, that sort of thing. Maybe you can show me around.”

She was quiet for a time. She glanced at the old barn ahead, then past it where the road trailed off. Regretting that he’d ruined her plans for a quiet morning walk? Or was there something more to her walk this morning? Was she planning to revisit old haunts? Maybe to check that things out there hadn’t been disturbed?

Things like Glen’s grave?

She shrugged. “I’m not sure how much showing around I can do, but you’re welcome to come along. I really don’t remember much about the place.”

“I thought you said you spent as much time away from the house as you could.”

“I did, but it was a long time ago. I was a kid. I didn’t pay much attention.” She started walking again, and he fell into step with her. Mick raced on ahead, regularly looping back to encourage them onward.

Curious why she was lying about something as simple as knowing her way around the woods, Jones continued subtly probing. “I understand that a creek runs through here somewhere before it empties into the river, and that there’s a pool deep enough to swim in.”

“Really.” She spared him a glance before shifting her gaze down again. The road had petered out and the ground was getting rougher. “I don’t like to swim. I can’t remember the last time I was in the water.”

Jones’s muscles tightened. Now
that
was a flat-out lie. He couldn’t even count the number of times she and Glen had met at the pool to swim, and she’d done it like a fish. And how the hell could anyone forget the time they went swimming and their cousin tried to drown them?

“You’re kidding.” He hoped his voice sounded more natural to her than it did to him. “Everyone likes to swim. What’s better on a hot summer day than jumping into the water?”

Her smile was small and unsteady. “Anything, for me. I don’t like the water. I’d rather swelter.”

Her tone was just short of fervent, but her expression: eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, muscle twitching in her jaw… Was she doing a poor job of lying, or telling the truth with large parts left out?

He couldn’t say. He wasn’t an expert at detecting liars. If he was, he wouldn’t have fallen for the stories of one customer and the beautiful blonde he’d dated a few years back. In their own way, both of them had cost him quite a chunk. Was Reece lying to him? If so, she sure lacked the finesse of the customer and Elena.

As they walked deeper into the pines, he asked, “How did it go with your cousin yesterday? Was he happy to see you?”

“He seemed to be. He apologized for being such a brat.”

Was that what the oh-so-superior Howards called attempted murder: being a brat? He’d hate to see how they truly defined a crime.

“I’m kind of surprised he didn’t go to meet you when he left the house. Grandmother told him about her plans.”

“And he wasn’t happy.” Jones laughed. “You’d be surprised how often the extended family
isn’t
happy. It’s a lot of money, and a lot of families would rather see that money in their pockets rather than mine.”

“He plans to change her mind. But good luck with that. I think Grandmother is constitutionally incapable of changing her opinion. She doesn’t waffle, never sits on the fence and never backs down once she’s reached a decision.”

“Sounds like my dad. Big Dan has standards, and anyone who fails to meet them is out of his life.”

Reece looked at him, her gaze both curious and sympathetic. He realized he’d said more than he meant to, but he didn’t try to explain away the words. He was grateful, though, that she didn’t ask questions.
What standards did you fail to meet? Is that why you’re not close? Did you disappoint him?

Standards regular people would applaud him for turning away from.

But his people weren’t regular people. If they were, he’d probably still be there in South Carolina, living close to the family, a part of their everyday lives.

To fill the lull, he gestured around them. “Did you know your family used to be in the logging business? That’s why these trees are planted in rows.”

“I did know that.” She sounded relieved for the mundane subject. “How do you know about Fair Winds?”

“I visited here once a long time ago, when I was a kid.” He watched her peripherally, but no reaction crossed her face. “When I went to college, I came across some articles on it, remembered it and began collecting information.”

“You must have been excited when Grandmother contacted you about redoing the gardens. What a coincidence, huh?”

“Not at all. I contacted her. I was in the area, my crew doesn’t need me at our other job sites, and I wanted to see the place again. When I told her what I do, she offered me a job.”

“It’s that easy to get such a large contract?”

“Not usually. Must have been fate.” Like Granny always said.

A shape took form in the woods ahead to the right, shadowy, its sharp, straight, man-made lines softened by the vines that grew over and around it. With a touch on Reece’s arm, Jones steered her in that direction and onto the faint remnants of a rarely used trail.

Wrought iron encircled the Howard family cemetery, its paint faded and peeling where it poked free of the vines. Two brick pillars marked the gate, with another in each of the four corners. In the center stood a marble bench, and rows of markers marched away from it in all four directions. The rusted gate was propped open, and he walked through it, getting to the third row of headstones before realizing that Reece still stood at the gate, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Mick sat beside her, apparently understanding this was a place he shouldn’t go.

“Ghosts rarely haunt cemeteries,” he said quietly. “They attach to places or people that were important in their lives, not their deaths.”

She moved forward enough to lean against the brick. “Do your clients know you believe in ghosts?”

“Unless the place has its own ghosts, it usually doesn’t come up.” He gazed over the oldest markers: 1821, 1845, eight from the Civil War. Most were elaborately carved: name, spouse, sometimes children, date of birth, date of death, a bit of poetry or Scripture. One had a carving of a galloping horse, another a sculpture of a fallen tree. The infants’ graves bore hearts or angels.

“Is that Grandfather’s grave?”

He didn’t have to hear the quaver in Reece’s voice to know she was uneasy, didn’t have to see her gesture to locate the newest grave toward the back of the plot. The earth was no longer bare. Grass had grown over, and a tendril of vine from the nearest fence was beginning a slow curl around the base of the stone.

“It is. Arthur Belvedere Howard.” He was reading the marker, massive, granite—a hard stone for a hard man—when Reece slowly came to stand beside him. She stared at the grave as if she feared the old man might reach up through the ground and yank her in.