Copper Lake Confidential (10 page)

Not in the other guest room. Not in her bedroom. Not in her bathroom. Not in Clary’s room. Not in the dining room. Not in the family room. Still not in the living room or kitchen.

There was only one room she hadn’t checked: Mark’s office. It was just down the hall, the doorway under the stairs. The sheriff’s department had searched it after his death, along with his office in town, but they’d found nothing of interest. If he’d kept records or mementos of his killings, he’d hidden them well.

The contract couldn’t be in there. She hadn’t even looked at the closed door. Though she had to deal with the room eventually, she planned on doing it when Brent and Anne were here, maybe even letting them do it without her. She’d never planned on walking in there alone.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob as she forced deep breaths into her lungs. It was a room. Empty but for furniture, keepsakes, papers. The only thing in there that could hurt her were memories, and God knew she had enough of those. What were a few more?

She pushed the door and it silently swung inward. Mark had never been private about the office. Often she’d curled up in a chair to read while he worked at the mammoth desk one of his great-greats had had commissioned from one of Charleston’s premiere cabinetmakers. Clary had napped on a quilt on the floor while he’d caught Macy up on his day. She’d always been welcomed inside.

Tonight she didn’t feel welcome.

A flip of the switch lit the room brightly. Mark had teased his vision was receding, along with his hairline, so he’d liked good lighting. The room by its nature was dark: wood paneling and floors, marble fireplace surround, deep crimson paint on the walls, lots of gleaming mahogany pieces. It smelled of Mark and paper and disuse. If she listened hard enough, she was certain she could hear his voice, see his silhouette leaning back in the leather chair, feel the warmth of his presence.

She didn’t listen. Instead, she stared at the desk. Rather, at the packet of white papers centered neatly on it.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh—” Clamping her hand over her mouth, she realized she was trembling, her fingers unsteady, her legs shaking. “I didn’t— God, I know I didn’t—”

Her gulp of air did little to ease the strangling sensation in her chest. It fluttered, rose, overwhelmed her and sent her on a hasty dash to the bathroom just down the hall, where she emptied her stomach.

She was washing her mouth when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Eyes too wide, forehead wrinkled, face drained of color. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if she
had
seen Mark sitting there in the chair.

“How could I go in there and forget?”

Her reflection didn’t answer, but there was only one answer: she was losing control again. No, not losing. Had lost control. Had lost the memory of opening that door, walking inside, laying the contract—arranging it—on the desk.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as if Mark would actually find the contract there to review it. She was keeping
her
papers on the island. She’d never kept
her
papers in his office, what few she had. She
wouldn’t
have put it there. Couldn’t have.

And yet there it was. Had it moved under its own power?

Do you believe in ghosts?
she’d asked Stephen earlier.
Because they say this place is haunted. And I believe it.

She really did believe Fair Winds was haunted. But not her own home. She wasn’t living with ghosts. It just wasn’t possible.

But her putting it there? Forgetting it? Sinking into the darkness again?

Dear God, that was entirely too possible.

After drying her mouth, she left the bathroom and made a circuit of the house, checking every door, every window, every item that came into sight. Could someone have gained access to the house? Had this been moved? Had that been touched?

The answer, she was forced to admit when she sank down on her bed after checking the entire place, was no. Access was secure. Nothing else was out of place. The only thing that had been moved was the contract, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Call the police? Oh, yeah, they’d take her seriously.

Tell Brent? He’d be on the phone with her psychiatrist as soon as he hung up.

Call Stephen?
The little voice tempted and tantalized her. He was only a quarter of a mile away. He might think she was odd, but he liked her anyway. He didn’t know anything about her past, her problems, her time in the psych facility.

Her fingers reached automatically for the cell in her pocket, but before she could dial, she pushed it away. She liked Stephen, too, and she wasn’t calling him when he had to work tomorrow to tell him that she’d found the contract in a place she didn’t remember being. She wouldn’t give him reason to think she was any less stable than he already did.

Hugging herself tightly, she lay down on the bed, still trembling, too afraid to close her eyes, and held on.

* * *

The writing went extraordinarily well Thursday. Not having to go into the vet clinic helped. Thinking about Macy every other sentence didn’t, until he finally managed to block her in a dark corner and concentrate on the other women in his life.

When he’d reached his daily goal and run out of words, Stephen took Scooter for a walk to Holigan Creek, then made it a quick shower. Now he stood in his boxers in front of his small closet while the dog lounged on the bed. “Not much to choose from, is there?”

Jeans and T-shirts, with shorts on the shelf above. Also, pushed into the very back, was a rarely worn suit, light gray, and a white dress shirt. He would have to wear that this weekend. And that was it on options.

When was the last time he’d cared how he looked? Probably the day he married Sloan, when her mother had forced him into a rented tux. His wife-to-be couldn’t have cared less, but after paying for vet school, her mother had been determined to have the wedding of her dreams.

Too bad her dreams hadn’t extended to the marriage.

“Last night I wore khaki, so tonight I guess I’ll go with khaki.” He pulled a black T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts from the closet and yanked them on, gave his hair its usual finger comb, then put on his glasses. A spray of cologne, and he was ready to go—more than an hour early. But Macy had said come over when he was finished working, so he was taking her at her word. If she was busy with dinner, he could help. If she was still sorting and packing, he could help with that, too. Or he could just sit out of the way and watch her.

He was easy.

He and Scooter strolled the quarter mile to her house, burning time but still early. He kind of hoped his hair would dry on the way, but the humidity was so high that when he combed it one last time on the way up Macy’s driveway, it was still damp. Oh, well. It wasn’t as if this was a date, and even if it was, she wouldn’t expect him polished and dressed up. She’d spent enough time with him to know better.

When she answered the door, her dress was sleeveless, her feet were bare and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. With the soft, blurry pastels of her dress, she looked like a spring dream.

Until his gaze reached her face. There were shadows under her eyes, and her face was pale. She’d had a really bad day—or night. She was a different woman than the one he’d kissed right here last night.

He meant to be polite and not comment on her appearance, but when he spoke, it wasn’t
hello
that came out. “Are you okay?”

Had she gotten bad news? Had something happened to Clary? No, of course not. If her daughter needed her, she would have moved heaven and earth to be with her. Maybe something had happened with her parents. They were in Europe, she’d said.

Or maybe packing up the house she’d shared with her dead husband was finally getting to her. Memories, good and bad. Reminders of what she’d lost, maybe what she’d escaped.

Her wan smile wasn’t reassuring. “No sleep last night and a headache today. Come on in.” Bending, she scratched Scooter as she unhooked his leash. “Hey, big boy, aren’t you the prettiest baby.”

Scooter gave her his biggest doggy grin. The instant the scratching stopped, though, his nose began quivering, and he followed it down the hall toward the kitchen, his tail slapping boxes on the way.

The family room looked as if a perversely neat tornado had blown through, with packed boxes stacked on the couch, chairs and tables, shelves mostly empty, even the throw pillows tossed into a large open box. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m getting rid of the easy stuff. The DVDs are going to the retirement center, the books to the library. I called Right Track today and offered them all the casual furniture, so they’re sending a truck on Monday.”

“Ellie Maricci’s pet project.” Right Track was a residential training program for young women who were booted from the juvenile system at eighteen with no help and little hope for their futures. They got job training and counseling, learned to cook, clean and do laundry, helped pay expenses with part-time jobs and took on the responsibilities of their homes. He’d found a few dogs and cats to be pets at the center and donated the food and care necessary for them and a few strays who’d joined them.

Ellie didn’t believe in turning any strays away, two- or four-footed. Neither did he.

“They’re getting the televisions, too, and the stereo and Mark’s computers. I’m taking them in tomorrow or Saturday to have copies made of whatever I need and get the hard drives erased.”

“No wonder you have a headache. You’ve done a lot.”

She smiled that faint smile again and muttered as she turned to the kitchen. He thought it sounded like
I wish.

He followed her to the island. Scooter sat on the other side, staring up at the counter. A pan of gooey brownies sat there, far back out of his reach, but that didn’t stop him from drooling over the incredible aroma.

“Since we’re grilling, I thought we’d eat outside. I could use a little fresh air. Could you grab that pan?”

He picked up the large tray and followed her to the rear door. Scooter darted between them, second one out, and immediately tore across the yard. “Aw, man, I forgot you have a pool. Scooter loves water. About half the time he escapes, he goes for a swim in the creek, and he likes to wallow in puddles after it rains.”

“Creeks, puddles, my daylilies. He wallows a lot, doesn’t he? It seems a veterinarian would have a better-trained pet.”

Tilting his head, he put on a perplexed look. “It’s funny how many people think that. But remember, I’m only a part-time vet, and Scooter’s a full-time character. Besides, what’s a little wallowing between friends?”

She laughed. “I’ve got plenty of towels. Wallow away, Scooter.”

Stephen had been in the backyard before, but that was the first night, when she thought she’d seen someone in the guesthouse. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the area. Now he took the time to really look around. The flagstone patio extended into lush green grass, with outdoor furniture better than his indoor stuff, a fire pit for chilly nights and a grill and sink set in a massive brick outcropping to the right.

The rest of the large space was filled with guesthouse, pool, swathes of grass and extensive flower beds, the kind that took hours of planning even before the first spade or shovel was turned. “My mom would love this garden.”

Macy set down the items she’d carried on the stone counter next to the giant grill. “
I
love this garden. It’s the only thing I’ll miss about the house.”

“But you can have a garden anywhere, right? That was Mom’s theory. She said she was beautifying the Southwest one home at a time.”

He put the tray next to her, then stepped back as she unfolded foil to expose thick slabs of steak, aluminum-wrapped potatoes and a wire basket filled with sliced vegetables. She seasoned the meat with salt and pepper before setting the potatoes on the grill and closing the lid.

“Would you like something to drink? I have water, pop and iced tea.”

“House wine—” He caught himself. “I bet you’ve heard that hundreds of times.”

Her smile confirmed it. “Actually, the house wine for Mark’s Southern family was a Chateau Lafite something or other.”

“I can only guess that’s as expensive as it sounds. I’ll get the drinks.” He returned to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice and grabbed both tea and pop. When he returned to the patio, she was standing at the beginning of a stone path that led to the yard, hands on her hips, watching Scooter. The dog jumped into the pool at one end, swam to the other, jumped out and gave a great shake, spraying water fifteen feet, then raced to the other end to do it again.

“His needs aren’t many.” Stephen handed her a glass and a can of pop, then filled his glass with tea. “You work in the yard yourself?”

“I drew up the plans, found the plants and dug every bed. I even did about half the fountain.” She gestured toward the back corner opposite the guesthouse and, with a silent prompt from him, started walking that way. He let her lead, just by a little, just enough that he could watch the dreamy fabric of her dress sway and shift with each step and the lean muscles in her calves contract and release.

It was a lovely sight.

* * *

The fountain was the part of the garden Macy had worked hardest on. It sat beneath a maple tree, with lush shade plants on all sides giving it an air of privacy. Though Mark had hired the nursery in town to build the rocky grotto, she’d been a full partner in the work. She’d gotten filthy, sore and bruised, and paid the men a bonus not to tell anyone. It had been her spineless way of going against Mark’s will, even if he’d never known it. And he definitely had never known. He’d never been one to let little rebellions pass unnoticed.

The same rocks that formed the fountain made a small patio in front, just big enough to hold two comfortable wooden chairs, painted dusky lavender to play off all the green. The paint was flaking, exactly the effect she’d wanted when she’d painted the wood, but Mark had declared it tacky and she’d redone it, giving it a glossy, perfect surface.