Copper Lake Confidential

chapter 11



Macy awoke before dawn Monday, her heart fluttering, her skin damp with perspiration, her stomach twisted in knots. It took her a long time to open her eyes and gaze around the room. Clary was sprawled across her half of the bed and then some. The closet and hall doors were closed, the hall one locked. The door to her bathroom stood open, a dim light on inside. The air was still and didn’t smell of anything it shouldn’t. The house was quiet.

So why was her skin crawling, her hands starting to tremble?

The panic attacks started this way: a sense of overwhelming anxiety in those first moments of awakening, when she wasn’t fully alert, when she was vulnerable to doubts and fears. On a good day, this was as far as it went. She’d drag herself from bed, take her medication and get busy, and before long the discomfort was gone.

On a bad day, it escalated. Sometimes she couldn’t sit still. Sometimes she couldn’t leave the house. Some days she cried until exhaustion set in. All those days she couldn’t bear to let her Clary see her.

But it hadn’t happened in so long. Months, since the doctor had adjusted her medication. She’d taken it faithfully. She’d stayed active. Now she’d had the something’s-wrong warning twice in two days.

And she wasn’t giving in to it. Throwing back the covers, she went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and dressed in cropped pants and a button-down shirt. She applied makeup, spritzed on perfume, then opened the pill bottle hidden in a drawer and shook out a single tablet. After a moment, she let a second one slide out. The doctor had told her it was okay to double up for a day or two if she felt the need, and this morning she did.

She washed down one tablet with a cup of tap water then stared at the other one. Something seemed different about it. It was white, round, incised with letters and numbers, as always. It just seemed...lighter? Heavier? Smaller?

Grimly she washed it down, too. When she started worrying about the precise dimensions of her medication, she was definitely in the early stages of an anxiety attack. And she wasn’t giving in, remember?

The first of the appraisers Lydia Kennedy had recommended was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 a.m. Macy got in a few hours’ work before waking Clary, fixing breakfast and getting Brent and Anne started on finishing up the family room.

When the doorbell rang, instead of the stuffy older man Macy had expected, the woman was about her own age, blond hair in a ponytail and wearing a suit that would have been the height of propriety if it’d had an additional six inches or so on the skirt. After introducing herself as Rebekah Johnston, she followed Macy into the living room and stopped short.

Macy saw the room as she always had—filled with old things and far too uncomfortable for friendly visits. Rebekah, apparently, saw treasures. She walked around the room, reverently touched a few pieces and made notes in the folder she’d brought along. When she was done, she crossed the hall into the library, her gaze sweeping over the remaining books. “I know a collector—”

“We’re donating the books to the local library. He can contact them.”

After giving her an odd look, Rebekah examined the chairs, the tables and the rug, then made a few more notes before moving down the hall to the dining room. It was another room Macy tended to avoid when possible. The table was huge, seating sixteen, and the matching china cabinets at each end were filled with china, crystal and sterling. “You’ll be keeping the family china.”

Macy looked at the dishes: delicate in color and design, with an elaborate H centered on every piece, the letters decorated with vines and leaves. She tried to imagine using them, her and Clary sitting down to a meal, passing a platter to Stephen, letting Scooter lick a dessert plate clean, and didn’t know whether to wince or laugh. “No, I won’t.”

Surprise flashed across the blonde’s face. “You understand these dishes are well over two hundred years old. Augustus Howard had them commissioned before he began construction of Fair Winds. He brought them to the U.S. on his own ship, transported them up the river to Augusta and ensured their safe arrival here. They’ve never left the Howard family, not so much as one plate. Even the breakage has been minimal.”

“I’m not a china sort of person.” And not a Howard, either. As Stephen had pointed out last night, she and Clary were the only Howards left in Copper Lake, and that could be easily changed. She wasn’t responsible for maintaining the legacy.

Rebekah looked as if she didn’t know what to say, then a round of giggles from the family room reminded her. “What about your daughter? Shouldn’t you preserve at least a portion of this for her?”

“Clary’s not a china sort of person, either. She’s three. She prefers dishes with cartoon characters on them.”

“But—”

“This is only about half of the service, Rebekah. My mother-in-law has service for twenty-five, and service for another twenty-five is at Fair Winds, where it will likely stay. If Clary feels a need to possess some of it when she’s grown, she can have that.”

“But you’re breaking up the set.”

Macy could imagine Stephen’s oh-so-logical voice saying, They’re dishes, for God’s sake. That was exactly how she felt. Of course some family heirlooms should be saved, but considering that two of the only four Howards Clary had known were murderers, Macy didn’t feel the need as strongly as she otherwise might have. Her daughter would have photos, jewelry, a delicate chair and desk from upstairs. And, for the time being, her own Southern mansion filled with heirlooms.

And the history she would treasure was her family. Not how much money they did or didn’t have. Not how long they’d lived in the state. Not whether they’d had power or influence, but whether they’d loved each other. Whether they’d loved her. How happy they’d been.

Radiating an antiques dealer’s disapproval, Rebekah stepped into the hall, waiting for Macy to lead the way to the next room. It was Mark’s office. She stopped just inside the door, close enough to step right back out if the need struck.

“Oh, my God. Is that desk a Littleton? Oh, wow, it is. I’ve read that he only made a half dozen of these and they’re all in private collections. And it’s in perfect condition! Absolutely perfect. This is amazing!”

Stopping on his way to the garage with a filled box, Brent mouthed, “You okay?”

Macy smiled, then brushed Clary’s hair as she marched past. “C’mon, Uncle Brent. I’ll open the door for you.”

Rebekah examined the desk, touching it lovingly here and there, rubbing her hand over the ancient leather of the chair, marveling at the exacting simplicity of the credenza, the library table, the game table and chairs near the fireplace. Then she turned her attention to the bookcases. “These are...”

“They’re Littleton, too. The room was built to accommodate them.” Done so well that no one noticed they weren’t built-in shelves. Each tall case unhinged into two shorter but still massive cases. The day they’d been moved safely into the house had been a happy one for Mark.

Had he gone out and murdered someone to celebrate?

The last rooms she showed Rebekah were the guest rooms upstairs. The furniture in the master suite was modern stuff, built with comfort in mind, but both guest rooms were furnished with pieces circa 1800. Another reason Macy had done the guesthouse herself, where the beds were wide enough and long enough and the mattresses actually had some give to them.

Still scribbling on her pad as they descended the stairs, Rebekah raised her hand only long enough to shake Macy’s before going out the door. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

No doubt with contracts to sign, arrangements to get detailed appraisals, probably requests for provenance if it existed. It did. In the old days it had been ledgers detailing every purchase, bills of sale tucked between the pages. More recent generations had used file folders, then computers. So proud of what they possessed.

And all those possessions they’d amassed were supporting her and Clary and would continue to do so. Macy was grateful for that, but at the same time she couldn’t wait to put the Howards in her past and do something for others. She could help fund Right Track. And the no-kill animal shelter Stephen had mentioned. She could do a whole lot of good for a lot of people, not for Mark or his grandfather but to honor the Howards who’d come before who weren’t murdering bastards.

They weren’t all murderers.

For Clary’s sake, she needed to remember that.

* * *

The crew from Right Track were loading a dresser into a yellow moving van when Stephen and Scooter arrived after work. The ones who knew him greeted them; the new women, probably from the streets of Atlanta or Augusta, gave him a familiar look of suspicion. Most of the residents at Right Track had been used and abused by men—fathers, brothers, boyfriends, pimps. It took some longer than others to trust that not all men meant them harm.

He met Brent at the door, watching them maneuver the dresser into the back of the van then tuck blankets around it. The rest of the space was filled with sofas, chairs, dining tables and such. “This is their third load. Can you believe they cleaned out the house and the guesthouse except for the bedrooms we’re using all by themselves? I’d be done in.”

Sadness settled over Stephen as he watched them close the heavy door then load up, two in the truck, four in a pickup truck. “When you’ve been victimized, you tend to become strong in an effort to give yourself a chance the next time someone comes after you. They get lessons in nutrition at the center and have their own garden, and they make good use of the gym. If they’re going down, they want to go down fighting.”

Brent’s expression turned troubled, only to fade when the slap of running steps echoed down the hall behind them. They both turned in time for Clary to leap into Stephen’s arms then lean across to link one arm around Brent’s neck. Stephen felt emptier inside. Some of the women at Right Track had been abused for as long as they could remember, but some of them had had wonderful childhoods. They’d begun life every bit as loved and pampered as Clary, until at some point things had gone horribly wrong.

Macy would love Clary with her dying breath, and so would Brent. Hell, Stephen had a deep urge to hold her tightly and never let go. But things could still go horribly wrong. With peer pressure she could end up on the streets, using drugs, drinking too much, selling herself for affection. God forbid, Macy could marry some pervert who liked little girls, or something could happen to Macy and Brent; Clary could wind up with a court-appointed guardian whose only interest was her money. Some greedy bastard could lure her onto the wrong path, away from her family, use her, take her money and leave her alone to die.

There were so many ways things could go wrong. But not as long as Stephen could do anything about it.

“Dr. Stephen, Uncle Brent, Mama said you could decide where we’re gonna eat. She was gonna make a salad—” her little face scrunched up with distaste “—but she said we’ll go wherever you want, and I wanna go to Aunt Mary’s. Just so you know.”

“Aunt Mary’s?” Brent echoed.

“I think she means Tia Maria’s. Mexican food, Little Bit? Is that what you want?”

Clary bobbed her head. “Tacos and salsa! But Mama said I had to let you choose, so when you do, remember tacos.” She struggled down, greeted Scooter exuberantly, then skipped back down the hall with the dog at her side.

The family room was completely empty when Stephen and Brent followed her in. Just a long expanse of tiled floor, even the rug rolled up and carried out, flanked by empty shelves. The small dining table where he and Macy had shared their first meal was gone, too. The sense of space and emptiness made it hit home intensely: she was moving out. Out of the house, probably out of the town, even the state.

Unless he could change her mind.

He really wanted to change her mind. Yesterday morning—breakfast at Ellie’s, playing at the park, the walk around town—had been a damn near perfect morning, except for the conversation. He could see himself making that a weekly habit. Going to church, staying for even the boring parts. Meeting friends for after-church meals. Picking up Clary’s little friends for trips to the park. Concerts in the square on summer evenings.

Him, Macy, Clary and Scooter.

A family.

Macy was standing between the island and the counters with Anne. “Okay, guys, what do you want for lunch? My salad idea was completely blown out of the water—” Anne and Clary booed “—so we’re letting you choose.”

“Gee, I think I’d really like to have Mexican,” Brent said. “Some tacos.”

“And salsa,” Stephen added. “Sounds really good.”

Clary and Anne cheered as Macy rolled her eyes. “Two grown men, and neither of you can stand up to a three-year-old girl,” she murmured as she passed them. “I’ll get my shoes.”

Anne headed to the guesthouse to get her purse. Clary watched from the glass door until she was out of sight, then turned and gave the men a bright smile and a crooked thumbs-up.

Both of them grinned foolishly back at her before she darted off with Scooter. Nope, neither of them could withstand her charm. More important, Stephen decided, neither of them wanted to.

“You want to load some boxes in the back of my pickup and Macy’s van to drop off at the library after we eat?” Brent suggested.

“Sure.” The quicker they got the boxes out of the house, the sooner he could stop toting them...and the sooner Macy would be gone. That dimmed his smile.

The women came out about the time they finished. Not slow to put on shoes or find purses, Stephen figured, but smart enough to avoid the heavy labor while they could. Macy retrieved her keys from Brent and closed the door, then stiffened and did a quick look around. “Where’s Clary?”

“She was inside,” Stephen and Brent said at the same time. “In the kitchen.”

“With Scooter,” Brent added.

Macy opened the door. “Clary? Come on, let’s go.”

Nothing but a faint whine came in reply.

“Clara! This is no time to play.” Macy’s voice was tense, her color pale.

When no call or giggle came in response, Stephen, Brent and Anne headed for the door, following Macy in. Scooter sat at the back door, his attention on the yard it barred him from, and whined again, fur bristling.

“Clary! Let’s go, sweetie. We’re all hungry.”

“You two check upstairs,” Brent ordered. “Anne and I will look down here.”

Macy took the stairs faster than even Stephen’s long legs could manage. At the top she went right, to the master suite, and he turned left. The girl’s name echoed through the house, and something awful—primal fear, he thought—soured his gut. She’d been standing at the French doors, looking out after Anne. She’d given him and Brent the thumbs-up, then took off around the family room with Scooter, and now Scooter was standing at the door, staring into the backyard.

Not just standing there, he thought, recalling the dog’s stiff posture and his hair on end. Alerted there. Scooter saw or felt or sensed something wrong outside.

He was leaving Clary’s room with long strides just as a scream came from down the hall, a piercing cry, and commotion sounded in the corridor. Macy, face contorted in pain, raced from her own room and tore down the stairs, whimpering, “Oh, God, no, no!” Lungs constricting, he ran after her.

She skidded around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, banging her shoulder against the wall, losing one of her flip-flops. She didn’t notice but ran to the back of the house. Brent appeared from Mark’s office, face going stark at his sister’s panic, and Anne came running from the utility room. “Macy, what—”

It seemed to hit the rest of them at once: the swimming pool. Dear God.

They raced together out the door and toward the pool, Brent jumping a row of shrubs to reach it first. He stopped abruptly, breaths heaving, and looked from the pool to Macy. Her cry peaked, and she clapped both hands over her mouth to stop the keening.

The surface of the pool was smooth, serene as ever. Nothing more than a leaf disrupted it; nothing but the intricate tiles down the sides and across the bottom showed through the water.

They stood silent, one horrible moment turning into relief. Then, remembering that the child was still missing, Stephen turned to scan the yard. “Clary! Where are you, Li’l Bit?”

A sweet face popped up over the back of a wooden chair in front of the fountain, in the far corner of the yard. “Here I am. Are we ready to go eat yet?”

Brent trotted toward her. So did Anne. Stephen stayed where he was, near Macy, who stared at the quiet pool. Her expression was still horrified. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and a look of such anguish twisted her features. “I thought...” Her weak whisper trailed off. “I saw...”

“What, Macy?” When she showed absolutely no response, he stepped closer, cupped his hands to her cheeks, forced her to look at him. “What did you see?”

Her eyes were sad and haunted, haunting. “I saw Clary. My baby. In the pool. I saw her, Stephen.” Her hands gripped his wrists so tightly that her nails left impressions. “I didn’t imagine it, Stephen!” she said in an urgent whisper. “I saw her! I saw...something.”

He didn’t try to reassure her, to dissuade her. He just pulled her snugly against him, his arms wrapped around her as if simple proximity could protect her, make her feel safe, keep her safe. He held her and smoothed her hair and whispered, “It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s safe, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

His body absorbed her trembling with an ache. After a long moment, she raised her head, her face no more than an inch from his. “Stephen...am I crazy? Again?”

“No.” He put as much conviction into the syllable as he could. He’d seen the terror. She’d truly believed her daughter was in the pool. He was no expert at psychology, but even he knew that visual hallucinations weren’t typical of a diagnosis of depression and anxiety. She was stressed, no doubt about that. Misplacing things, sure. But seeing things that weren’t there?

Though she’d thought that the day she’d seen movement in the guesthouse.

Nails clicked as Scooter trotted to them then rubbed against Stephen’s leg with a whine. Stephen lowered one hand to rub his head, quieted him with a low word, wondering. Had Scooter been at the back door simply because Clary went out and didn’t take him with her? That would be enough to make him pout, maybe enough to make him whine. But to make him bristle? Go on alert?

Had he sensed danger for Clary, alone in the yard with the pool when she should have been with her people? Had he seen someone else in the yard? Had he seen something in the pool?

“Mama, are we gonna go eat?” Clary asked from her position on Brent’s shoulders as he and Anne approached.

The shudder that rocketed through Macy convinced Stephen that all she wanted was to curl up somewhere safe with her daughter. She couldn’t miss the innocence on Clary’s face or the concern on Brent’s and Anne’s. Serious concern, serious worry about her mental status. But she drew a deep breath and, with an impressive sense of normalcy, she said, “Sure, baby. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yay!” Clary clapped her hands over Brent’s head. “Let’s go!”