Copper Lake Confidential

chapter 6



At the top of the stairs, Stephen paused to study a photograph of Macy and Mark. She looked so very young and innocent and happy. And Mark...he was good-looking, self-assured, reeking—even in a one-dimensional photograph—of superiority. His arm was around Macy’s shoulders—possessive, Stephen first thought, then reluctantly amended it. They were engaged, with a honker of a diamond ring that looked too heavy for her delicate hand. If Stephen were engaged to her, he’d be holding her, too, with the intention of never letting go.

What had Mark done to steal his wife’s sense of wonder and magic? Infidelity was the first thing that came to mind. Stephen had been lucky. Sex had never been a problem with him and Sloan. Even when they couldn’t bear to be in the same room with each other at the end, they’d had no problem being in the same bed. But he could imagine how it must feel to find out the husband you loved was unfaithful to you. That could put a damper on the way you viewed life.

Turning away, he went left past what was obviously Clary’s room, all bright colors and activity. Across the hall and down a few feet was a closed door. Assuming he’d reached the closet, he opened the door and froze in place.

The room was painted pale green with nursery scenes in soft colors forming a band around the middle. Poufy curtains on the windows, white crib, dresser, rocker, a couple of piles of outfits and stuffed toys with the price tags still on them. It was a nursery.

Had Macy had another child, one she’d lost along with her husband? Had she been expecting one? Or merely planning ahead for the time she would get pregnant again?

Intensely aware that he didn’t know nearly enough about Macy, he gently closed the door. He’d avoided doing a Google search on either her or Mark so far; he just felt friends and maybe more should get to know each other the old-fashioned way. But when he got home tonight, Google, here he came.

Behind the next closed door, he grabbed an armload of thick towels and headed back downstairs and onto the patio.

The vegetables were roasting and the steaks sizzled on the grill, filling the air with aromas that made both him and Scooter stand taller and drool. Macy glanced briefly at him as he knelt beside the dog, then turned back to the food.

“I thought you might have some old worn-out towels up there for dog drying, but you didn’t.”

“No,” she agreed. She didn’t need to say it; he understood. Not in Mark’s mansion.

The only thing Scooter loved more than getting wet, possibly, was getting dried off. He stood still, lifting each foot when Stephen touched it, tilting his head back, then to each side. He gave Stephen a long-suffering look when he felt the towel around his tail, but waited patiently.

“So tell me about your brother,” Stephen said as he continued to rub, turning the drying into a massage.

“Brent? He’s seven years older than me. Best older brother I could ask for.”

He recognized his own words describing Marnie the night before. He’d bet she didn’t have a but...following hers.

“He started his own lawn service when he was fifteen. By the time he graduated from high school, he had so many customers that he didn’t have time to go to college. Now he has about sixty employees, but he leaves the administrative stuff to others and still goes out four or five days a week to mow grass.”

“Smart man. Where’s the success in owning a business when you have to manage instead of doing the work that attracted you in the first place?”

She moved the wire basket filled with vegetables to the cooler side of the grill, next to the potatoes, asked how he liked his steak, then added another question. “Is that why you’ve chosen not to open your own practice?”

“I’d rather be an employee than the owner. Whole different realm of responsibilities. And there’s the writing gig, too. Need time for that.”

After placing another foil packet on the grill, she faced him, leaning against the brick, hands next to her hips. “Brent’s happy doing what he does. He gets off when he wants and has all the work he can handle the rest of the time. His wife, Anne, works for him when he needs extra help. They’ve been married about eight or nine months. They’ve talked about having kids soon—Anne’s nearly thirty-eight—but...” Shadows darkened her eyes. “The time hasn’t been right.”

Were they having trouble conceiving? Was their brother-in-law’s death enough stress for the family to deal with for the present? Or did that nursery upstairs have something to do with it, too?

He wished he knew, but even Marnie would recognize there was no polite way to ask such questions.

He finished with Scooter and draped the damp towels over nearby chairs before finding a post to lean his shoulder against. “You like Anne?”

“I do.”

“That counts for a lot. Sloan had three brothers, all married. Their wives were the worst nags, gossips and whiners I’d ever known. Remember, my only sister is the female Spock, so I had no clue how to deal with such drama queens. One of the best things about the divorce, other than avoiding another Wyoming winter, was never having to listen to those women again.”

“Anne’s not like that at all.” She pressed the steaks with a practiced fingertip, then used the tongs to place them on plates. “She’s smart, warm, unflappable and compassionate. She’s good for Brent. She’s good for all of us.”

Within a few minutes, with an ease that belied her earlier planner-not-doer statement, dinner was on a teak table at the other end of the patio. He took the seat she indicated, his mouth watering thanks to the aromas wafting off the plate. “This smells incredible.”

“My dad is a grill master. He insisted Brent and I learn a few tricks before we left home.”

The first bite of steak was more than incredible—just the right amount of char, spice and cool center. The potatoes had creamy interiors, the vegetables a sweet smoky flavor and the bread—the last item she’d put on the grill—was nicely garlicky.

“You are definitely a doer, Macy,” he said when he’d eaten all he could. “All your friends who came here to eat other people’s food don’t have a clue what they were missing.”

Her only response was a faint smile and to slip another piece of steak under the table to Scooter. Though she’d been subtle, Stephen had known the first time she’d done it and that she’d continued to do it by the way the dog abandoned him about two minutes into the meal.

She was pretty, nice, had a sense of humor and sneaked treats to his dog. What more could a man want in a woman?

Maybe a clearer, more hopeful look in her eyes. Those shadows didn’t belong. Whatever had put them there—Mark’s death, his life, the empty nursery—still held powerful influence over her. He’d like to see the smile on her lips chase those shadows away permanently. He’d like to see her really, truly happy.

Because he was a nice guy. He thought everyone—more or less—deserved to be happy. Though maybe not Mark Howard or his baby-snubbing grandmother.

“Did you stay in touch with your friends here when you left?” It wasn’t too nosy a question, was it? She could ask him the same. She could ask him anything. His life was pretty much an open book.

She slid a last piece of steak to Scooter then folded her napkin on the table, creasing it with one finger. “No. It was a tough time. I didn’t have the energy to spare for keeping up with anyone but my family.”

She didn’t seem to have much energy tonight, either. It was funny how emotions could smack you down harder than the toughest physical labor ever could. Packing up the house, closing out a part of her life that had started so well and ended so badly, along with the uncertainty of the future, had drained a lot out of her.

Stephen watched her worry the napkin a moment before tugging it from her grasp and laying it aside. She looked startled, as if she hadn’t realized what she was doing, then linked her fingers loosely.

“Can I ask you...”

She tensed, and he almost switched to something unimportant. But he really wanted to know more—about her, about the important things in her life—and she could always refuse to answer.

“How did Mark die?” He’d been a young man—late twenties, early thirties. Had it been a car wreck, cancer, a heart attack? A jealous husband, random bad luck, a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Abruptly she pushed back her chair and stood, gathering dishes. When she reached for his plate, he caught her hands, small and soft, the muscles clenched. “You can always say ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”

She stared at their hands, stress radiating off her strongly enough to compete against the humidity in the night air. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. He’d bet his next publishing contract that she was trying to sound normal, but anxiety overlaid the casual effort.

Then her fingers went limp in his, and a sigh shuddered through her. “Can we—” Her gesture took in the entire yard, an invitation to move.

He slid back his chair with a scrape of wood on stone, and she used the opportunity to tug her hands free. She moved onto the path then hesitated before turning toward the pool. Scooter, his yen for swimming fulfilled and his belly just plain full, decided to let them wander, settling instead into the plush cushions of a chaise on the patio.

Macy stopped beside the pool. The water was a glossy surface, lit from below, undisturbed by wind or creature. Peaceful and calm, it seemed to be what she needed at the moment. Stephen thought he would have preferred the bubbles and splashes of the fountain.

Hugging her arms across her middle, she stared at the water a moment before meeting his gaze head-on. “He killed himself.”

That was an option that hadn’t occurred to Stephen. It stunned him into glancing at the elegant house, the lush gardens, the guesthouse, then Macy again. Mark Howard had had a beautiful family, all this, more money than most people even dreamed of. What could possibly have been so bad in his life that ending it was the best solution?

“God, Macy, I’m sorry.” Then, before he could control his tongue... “Why?”

* * *

The more times you tell it, the easier it is to tell.

So claimed Macy’s psychiatrists during her inpatient stay. She wasn’t convinced they were right. In fact, she was pretty sure they weren’t. She was totally sure she would rather never discuss Mark’s death with anyone ever again in her life.

Though someday Clary would have to know.

Please, God, not for another twenty-five or thirty years.

You can always say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Those eleven words meant a lot to her. The doctors had always made her talk about it eventually. Her parents and Brent put less pressure on her, but they’d needed to discuss it, too.

But she could tell Stephen and he would drop the subject. He very well might go home and search the internet or ask someone at his clinic tomorrow, but he wouldn’t make her give the details.

And she wasn’t yet able to give the important ones. The real why. Mark and his grandfather’s ugly secret.

But she wanted to tell Stephen something. Amazing, since she’d never thought she would want to tell anyone anything.

“He had some...issues. I didn’t know until...” Backing a few feet away from the water, she sank into one of the lounge chairs. “Did you know it’s possible for love to vanish instantly? To just go away?”

The cushions in the next chair gave a soft whoosh as he sat, too. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

Her hair swung against her cheek as she grimly shook her head. “I didn’t know. I thought people fell out of love, they grew out of it or it just died a slow death from lack of attention. I didn’t know that you could love someone totally, completely, one moment and not love him the next. But that’s what happened.”

His gaze shifted from her to the house, then back again. “He didn’t—”

“Do it here? God, no. At Fair Winds. On the front lawn. He shot himself.” She watched Stephen shudder, presumably at the thought that they’d been there just last night. Did he think it odd that she’d said nothing then, reacted to nothing then? Or was he too shaken by the story now to think about her behavior last night? Would that occur to him later?

“His grandmother didn’t—?”

“No. Miss Willa wasn’t home. In fact, she was with me. We’d had lunch with Mark at the country club, then she and I went to a meeting of the local historical society. But his cousin was at the house, and her husband. They saw him do it.” She left out the fact that he’d been trying to kill Reece and Jones at the time. Had it been desperation that made him turn the gun on himself? The certainty he was caught? That all the money and influence in the world couldn’t buy his way out of the nightmare he and Arthur had created?

Maybe it had been the shame he’d brought on the Howard name. That damn name had always meant so much to him and Miss Willa. He would have killed to protect it.

Though, apparently, finding a reason to kill hadn’t been difficult for Mark.

And truth was, she didn’t care why he’d done it. She was just glad he had. The evil residing within her husband’s heart and soul hadn’t deserved to live.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Stephen said quietly. “I’m sorry I asked you about it.”

She drew a deep breath and smelled flowers, the lingering aroma of steak and, fainter, the scent that was Stephen. It was nothing special. It didn’t smell as if he’d bathed in money. But it was comforting. It didn’t make her stomach churn. Even the slightest memory of Mark’s cologne inside the house could do that.

“It was a huge shock,” she admitted. “But that part of my life is almost over. Once I leave this place and settle down somewhere with Clary, it will be over. Done. Until Clary’s grown, all she’ll know is that her father is dead.”

“What about his mother? Won’t she want her son’s memory kept alive for her granddaughter?”

Macy listened to the song of a whippoorwill in the trees beyond the yard as an image of Lorna Howard formed. Average height, sturdy, the sort of woman who could have taught General Patton a few lessons about being in charge.

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.”