Copper Lake Confidential

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 ungracefully. 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 co-workers 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.

“Hey, we’ve got a pizza in the car. Want to share it with us?” When she hesitated, he added, “It’s from Luigi’s. Even people who just pass through town know that Luigi makes the best pizza ever.”

Her smile was just a little one. “I know. I have cravings for it in Charleston.”

“It’s an extra-large supreme. We can bring it in or you’re welcome to come to our house.” Sensing her uncertainty, he grinned. “Come on, it’s Luigi’s.”

For a moment, her features tightened even more, then relaxed a little. “Sure,” she said, opening the door to allow him and Scooter inside. “Bring it in.”

Chapter 3

The instant the front door closed behind Stephen on his way to get the pizza, Macy grimaced. The last thing she wanted tonight was to have dinner with a stranger and his dog, even if it was a Luigi’s pizza.

No, the last thing she wanted was to be alone in this house. And with this being their third visit in one day, Stephen wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore. If he were a homicidal maniac—like Mark—he’d had enough chances at her already. And she liked his dog. Scooter was sweet and cuddly, and the Lab neither suspected nor cared that she was apparently delusional.

Her gut tightened, her stomach heaving so violently that she pressed one hand to her abdomen, the other to her mouth. Had she really seen someone in the guesthouse? Was she crazy? Was she already losing the balance she’d fought so hard to recover?

Since there was absolutely no sign of anyone having trespassed on the property, she couldn’t have seen someone, but she preferred to think she’d overreacted rather than imagined a threat. She was anxious about being here. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?

She’d let memory get the best of her and made a fool of herself, but now it was over. At least she’d had the luck to find Stephen driving past and not one of the neighbors she knew, and enough control to stop him from calling the police. She didn’t know if her months in the psychiatric hospital were common knowledge in Copper Lake, but she didn’t intend to give anyone reason to doubt her sanity. No panicked calls to the police about nonexistent intruders. No more fodder for the town gossips.

And she could look on this dinner as therapy. If she and Clary were ever going to have a normal life, she had to learn how to socialize again. Small talk, no anxiety attacks, just a well-adjusted woman sharing a pizza with a man who’d done her a favor.

The front door clicked, signaling Stephen’s return, and she moved to the cabinets, taking out plates, glasses and napkins. An earlier check of the refrigerator had revealed that Robbie Calloway—or, more likely, Anamaria—had had it stocked with the basics, so she removed a jug of iced tea, a couple of bottles of water and a couple of bottles of her favorite pop.

The enticing aromas of the pizza entered the kitchen a few seconds ahead of Stephen and Scooter. For just a moment, Macy felt light, eagerly anticipating the pleasure to come. It was a fleeting sensation, one she’d almost forgotten, and it left an ache when her usual uneasiness replaced it.

“I should have asked…do you mind having Scooter inside? I can run him home if you’d prefer.”

She thought of all the things the dog could damage—antique rugs peed on, wood floors scratched, delicate porcelain broken with a swipe of his tail—and a smile blossomed across her face. “No, he’s fine. Nothing in here is that important.” Not to her, at least. Anything he did damage would just be one less thing for her to find a home for.

They settled across from each other at the small dining table that separated the kitchen from the family room. Scooter took up a position exactly between them, looking excitedly from one to the other.

“He’s a beautiful dog,” she commented. “I’m thinking of getting one for my daughter and me.”

“Your daughter?” Stephen stood and crossed the few feet into the kitchen. “Knife?”

She nodded toward the block on one counter pushed far out of reach of little fingers. “Clary. She’s three. She’s in Charleston with my brother and his wife. They’re coming up Friday to help.”

Returning with a paring knife, he cut a slice of pizza into Scooter-sized pieces, fed one to the dog, then took a bite of his own slice. “You have any particular breed in mind?”

The one time she’d broached the subject with Mark, he’d listed the breeds he would find acceptable—in other words, very expensive—before giving a flat refusal. She had been disappointed by both responses but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, an over-the-top belief in their own superiority was a defining characteristic of the Howard family, and Mark liked order. A yappy puppy would have upset that.

With those expensive, purebred animals in mind, she replied, “Something without a pedigree. One that needs a home and is good with kids.”

“There’s a no-kill shelter just outside town. Unfortunately, they have plenty that meet your requirements.”

Macy chewed her first bite, and the pleasure she’d briefly anticipated bloomed through her. It was almost enough to make her moan. After swallowing, she asked, “Is that where Scooter came from?”

“Nope. A client bought him sight unseen, didn’t do any training, then wanted me to put him down because he didn’t behave. He’s been with me ever since.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised, but my husband’s grandmother generally turned down visits with her only great-grandchild because Clary refused to be merely seen and not heard.” Miss Willa had had no patience for the baby, just as Mark would have had no tolerance for an exuberant dog. He’d killed people for no more reason than he wanted to. It was doubtful he would have spared a dog that was less than perfect.

Revulsion rippled through her, her fingers gripping her glass until the tips turned white. She took a couple of deep calming breaths and was grateful to hear Stephen go on talking, though for a moment the words were dampened by the hum in her ears.

“—is afraid she’s never going to get grandkids, much less great-grandkids,” he was saying when she could focus. “I tell her she should have had more than just the two of us. I doubt ‘procreate’ even makes Marnie’s list of things to do in this lifetime, and I—Well, gotta have a wife before I have kids.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not for a long time. Sloan and I met in vet school, graduated together and both got jobs in Wyoming. I did small animals, she did large. I hated the winter, she loved it. I didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to leave.” He shrugged as if his marriage and divorce had been that simple. No sign of regret in his voice. No heartbreak in his eyes.

She gave the obligatory I’m sorry, and he shrugged again, a loose, easy movement.

“Sometimes things don’t work out. She’s happy there. I’m happy here.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “What about you? Is there an ex-husband somewhere?”

Her hand trembled, and a chunk of onion fell to her lap. She set down the pizza, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spot it left on her dress while her mind raced. Wouldn’t it be okay to lie, to simply say, “We’re divorced. He’s out of the picture”? It wasn’t as if she were staying in Copper Lake or would even see Stephen again once she left next week. Not every person who asked was entitled to the truth about Mark. It could be her little secret.

Her dirty little secret. Just as Mark had his.

He’d wound up dead because of his.

She took a drink to ease the dryness in her mouth, then folded both hands together in her lap, out of Stephen’s sight, and opened her mouth to tell the lie. But the wrong words came out. “No. He’s an ex only in the sense that he’s not around. He, um, died a year and a half ago.”

That was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t had to tell her family when it happened because the sheriff did it for her. She hadn’t had to tell Clary because her daughter was too young to ask. Everyone else had found out through the media or the very efficient gossip network.

Granted, she’d told the bare minimum just now. She didn’t mention that he’d been trying to kill his cousin, Reece, and Jones, the man she’d married soon after, after they’d unearthed a bone from one of Mark’s and his grandfather’s victims. She didn’t try to find words to say that he’d shot himself in the head when his murder attempt failed. She couldn’t even imagine telling anyone that she’d been married to a cold-blooded sociopath.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Stephen said in a quietly comforting tone, the one he likely used when he had to deliver bad news to his patients’ owners. “That must be tough.”

“It would be tougher if I still loved him.” Immediately she clapped one hand over her mouth. Oh, God, had she actually said that out loud? To a stranger?

Shoving her chair back with a scrape, she jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen, face burning, palms sweaty. Her stomach was knotted, making her hope she wouldn’t have to dash for the bathroom. She damn well needed practice at this social interaction thing if she couldn’t even control the words that came out of her mouth.

A low whine came from Scooter, followed by a soft word from Stephen, then the sounds of the dog enjoying another bite of pizza. Macy stood in the middle of the kitchen, back to them, hugging herself, wondering what to do next.

Deal with it. You made the comment. Now stop acting like a nut job and go back to the table.

Grabbing a handful of napkins they didn’t need, she slowly retraced her steps and sat down. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say—I don’t normally bring that up in conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t repeat it to anyone.” He slipped another bite to Scooter, then changed the subject. “I haven’t been to Charleston yet. Is that where you’re from or did your parents move there later?”

Her breathing slowed, her fingers slowly unclenching. “I’ve lived there all my life, except for here and in college. My parents bought my grandparents’ house after they passed, so there have been Irelands living in it for more than a hundred years.” Her smile felt crooked, though she gave it her best. “Mom and Dad are celebrating their fortieth anniversary with an extended tour of Europe. It seemed as good a time as any to take care of things here and—” She considered choices: start living again. Put the past behind us. Get away from the shame and the scandal. “—move on.” That was bland enough.

“Do you think you’ll stay there? Just get a place of your own?”

“I think I might close my eyes really tight, point to a spot on a map and go there.” She didn’t see herself in Charleston five years from now, or even five months from now. Emotionally, she needed her family close, but emotionally she needed distance. Yes, she needed their support, but too much support made her dependent. Even now, when she was adamant about getting back to her life, she hadn’t been able to give much thought to where she wanted that life to play out. She had to start relying on herself, making decisions and standing by them. She needed to take control again.