“So nothing memorable happened that summer.”
Grandmother gave her a chastising look. “Obviously not, or you would have remembered it.” Gripping the book with both hands, she lifted it from her lap. “I’ve brought this for you. It’s a history of the Howard family. Your great-grandfather commissioned it shortly before he passed. You should know from where—and from whom—you come.”
With reluctance Reece took the book. It was heavy, bound in leather, its pages yellowed and its fragrance musty. She couldn’t imagine much more boring than a family history where the family chose which facts to include and which to leave forgotten. No doubt every Howard in the book appeared as highly intelligent, benevolent, compassionate, heroic and generous, and from her limited experience, she knew better.
“I’ll look at it this afternoon.” Not a lie. She would look at it. She just might not open the cover. Though knowing Grandmother, there would probably be a quiz later.
“Did Mark and I get along that summer?”
Grandmother’s gaze was directed westward, toward the river barely visible through the live oaks. “Of course you did. You were cousins. He might have been something of a pest, but you were rather spoiled and had a tendency to cry.”
Of course I did! My dad had died and Valerie had left me here where I hated it!
“We’d hoped you would grow out of it, and you did stop tattling fairly quickly, but you were still prickly. Comes from being an only child, I suppose.”
Mark was an only child, as well—and a brat. He’d gotten her in trouble, blamed her for his own actions and scared her more times than she could count. But he’d been the grandchild they knew, the one they could handle.
The silence had gone on awhile when abruptly Grandmother spoke again. “I blamed your mother, you know.”
“For spoiling me?” Wrong person. Valerie had been okay as a mother, but it was Dad who had indulged Reece. He’d been like a kid himself, finding wonder in everything they did. He’d loved being silly and making her giggle, and he’d usually found a way to give her things Valerie had said no to, without upsetting Valerie, either. He’d had a knack for getting his way without upsetting people.
Which made his estrangement from his parents seem that much odder.
“For your father’s death,” Grandmother answered. “If she hadn’t come to Georgia for college…if she hadn’t insisted on going back to Colorado…if Elliott had been here where he belonged, he wouldn’t have been on the highway that day. He wouldn’t have been hit by that speeding truck.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “He wouldn’t have died.”
Pain stirred in Reece’s chest. One thing she did remember from that time was the
if
game.
If I’m a good girl, Daddy will come back. If I do everything I’m supposed to do, they’ll tell me it was a mistake. If I pray hard enough tonight, when I wake up in the morning he’ll be here.
But there had been nothing conditional about it. Her dad was dead, and there was nothing she could do to change it.
“Dad didn’t leave Georgia because of Valerie.” She was staring out across the yard, too, but she felt the sharp touch of Grandmother’s gaze. After a moment, she looked at her. “You know it’s true. He left because of Grandfather.” He had never deemed Reece old enough to hear the whole story, and all Valerie would say was that he and Arthur had
had issues,
but that was the reason they’d moved to Valerie’s hometown of Denver. It was the reason for their infrequent visits and why Dad had little contact with his mother and virtually none with his father.
Plum-tinged lips drew into a thin, hard line, but Grandmother didn’t argue. Did she regret that she’d let her husband cost her so much time with her son?
Reece didn’t have the chance to find out. Grandmother abruptly stood and started to the door. There she turned back. “Read the book. There will be discussions later.”
After leaving Reece, Jones did work on the project for a while, making a few preliminary sketches, compiling lists of plants needed, including virtually every variety of azalea and crape myrtle known to man. It was always fun at this stage, pretend-shopping with someone else’s pretend money. The final budget, of course, dictated what they could actually buy, but in the beginning, on a project of this scope, anything was possible.
He had an appointment at one, so he worked with one eye on his watch and about half his senses tuned outside. There’d been no company this morning and, more importantly, no sign of Reece since he’d left her to face her grandmother. He wondered how that chat had gone.
Assuming that someday he got married and had kids, then grandkids, he didn’t want to be the type of grandparent who deserved the name of Grandfather. He had one grandpa and one papaw, and either one was good enough for him.
At noon, he knocked off work, drove into town and downed a fast-food burger, then headed north on River Road. His destination was a construction site just north of the turnoff to Fair Winds. His truck bounced over the rutted road that cut through a thick stand of tall pines before opening into a cleared area not visible from the road. White pickups bearing Calloway Construction logos were parked around the site, along with heavy equipment that was gouging up the earth.
Russ Calloway was studying plans spread out in the tailgate of his truck while a huge black dog stood in the bed, front paws braced on the side and head up as if it were supervising the activity.
Beside Jones, Mick straightened and pressed his nose to the window as they stopped next to Calloway. He and the black exchanged looks, then barks before Mick pawed at the door. “Stay,” Jones commanded.
Mick didn’t look happy about it, but he obeyed.
The machinery made easy conversation out of the question, so Russ gestured to the south, and they began walking that way. Twenty acres of trees had been taken down on the site, and five houses were going in. The construction would be excellent—Calloway Construction was known for top-quality work—and the houses would be expensive, with big lots, swimming pools and room to park monster RVs and boats. The new owners would spend small fortunes having mature trees brought in to replace those dozed down, but not pines. Oaks, likely, maybe a few pecans and sweet gums.
Little work had been done at the southern tip of the site. The ground had been graded a bit, and a brush pile, there fifteen years or more, had been moved, stick by stick, thirty feet away. Sprigs of weed were starting to poke up from the bare earth.
“This is where the surveyor and I found the backpack,” Calloway said, gesturing to the new weeds. “It was stuffed in underneath the top layer of brush. Looked like it had been there a long time. It was faded, parts of it rotted.”
It was easy for Jones to imagine Glen hiding the pack that held everything he owned. In the weeks they’d camped on Fair Winds—just through the trees and across the fence—they’d routinely hidden their belongings before leaving camp, especially after they’d seen three Howards—Reece, Mark and their grandfather—roaming the woods. They might have gotten caught and chased off, but no one was going to steal their stuff.
“We called the sheriff,” Calloway went on. “Once they confirmed that the owner of the backpack hadn’t been seen in years, we cleared out the brush pile to make sure…”
That Glen’s body wasn’t under there, as well. Jones swallowed hard.
“You, uh…know the guy?”
Jones stared at Fair Winds, barely able to make out the crooked pine, barely able to hear the creek. He had asked a lot of questions since he got to town, but all of them about the Howards. No one had reason to suspect his real interest in the area.
Exhaling a heavy breath, he met Calloway’s gaze. “I’d prefer people not know for obvious reasons, but…he’s my brother. And you’re right. The family hasn’t seen or heard from him in fifteen years. Not since he was here.”
Calloway’s expression turned both sympathetic and awkward. “Sorry. We didn’t find anything else. He wouldn’t have just gone off and left his stuff, I guess.”
Jones shook his head. His people were all about survival. Glen could have survived without his belongings, but it wouldn’t have been easy. He’d handled those pictures of Siobhan so much that he’d just about rubbed the color off of them. If he’d left Copper Lake, he would have taken them and the backpack with him.
If he were alive, he would have contacted Siobhan.
“Who owned this property back then? Do you know?”
“My grandmother owned it, but it was leased to Arthur Howard. He didn’t do anything with it, though. Some Calloway two or three generations before her had leased it to the Howard family for logging. The Howards got out of that business, but they kept renewing the lease.” Calloway looked back at the site as if checking on his crew. “My grandmother used to say that Arthur kept writing those checks because he wanted as much land between him and the world as he could get.”
Interesting theory. Was the man just antisocial? Or had he had something to hide?
As they started back to their trucks, Jones asked his next question. “How chatty is the sheriff’s department around here?”
“You want to talk to them about your brother without everyone else finding out he’s your brother?” Calloway drew a wallet from his pocket, thumbing through it for a business card. It was white, embossed in gold with the badge for the Copper Lake Police Department. “Tommy Maricci’s a detective in town. He knows everyone on the sheriff’s department, so he can help you out. He’ll make sure it stays private.”
Jones accepted the card, holding it lightly between his fingers. Seeking assistance from a cop…what would Big Dan think of that?
It wasn’t as if he could slip much lower in his father’s respect.
He offered his other hand to Calloway. “Thanks. I appreciate your time.”
On the way to town, he called the cell number on the business card. Maricci answered on the third ring, sounding distracted. Jones introduced himself, then dropped the Calloway name. It didn’t take a stranger more than a day in Copper Lake to realize that the Calloways were important to the area. Their name opened doors or, at least, stirred interest.
They arranged to meet at the coffee shop on the town square. Mick’s ears pricked at the mention. Jones had had coffee there every day since coming to town, and every day the pretty barista had given him a treat for Mick, waiting outside.
“You know, she might not be there,” he warned. It didn’t wipe the anticipatory look from the dog’s face.
“I spend more time talking to a dog than I do to people,” Jones muttered to himself as he found a parking space down the block. “Of course, most people aren’t as smart as you, Mick.”
Three small tables occupied a portion of the sidewalk in front of A Cuppa Joe. Jones left Mick at the nearest one while he went inside to order his coffee. He got the plain stuff—dark roast, sugar, one cream. No foam, no ice, no exotic flavorings. Armed with that and a dog biscuit, he returned out front to find that Detective Maricci, identifiable by the shield embroidered on his shirt and the gold one attached to his belt, had arrived and was sharing the table with Mick, who’d climbed into a chair for a better view.
“Pretty dog,” Maricci commented.
“Yeah. He gets away with a lot because of that face.” Jones showed Mick the biscuit, and the dog immediately sat, his tail thumping steadily. “Sit down there,” he commanded, pointing to the ground.
All Mick did was follow the biscuit with his gaze.
Jones set his coffee down, then gave the dog a shove. As soon as his paws hit the sidewalk, he sat again, quivering, and Jones gave him half the cookie.
“My kid responds well to bribes of cookies,” Maricci observed.
“Don’t we all.” Jones settled into Mick’s chair and removed the lid from his coffee to let steam escape. Nothing smelled better, he decided, than a freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Except maybe a woman.
“I talked to Russ after you called. So the missing guy is your brother. You have any idea what he was doing out there?”
“Traveling. Camping.”
“Did he have a car or was he hitching rides?”
“A little hitching. Mostly walking.” Not many drivers had wanted to give rides to two teenage boys, and they’d been wary of the ones who did.
“Do you know for sure he was in this area? Maybe someone stole the backpack elsewhere and ditched it here.”
Jones shook his head before taking a sip of coffee. “No. He was here. He told me.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“August 12. Fifteen years ago.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he liked this area and was going to stay awhile.” There had been more to it than just that. Glen had wanted to stay because of Reece. He’d figured she needed someone on her side if her cousin tried to kill her again. Mark had been scheduled to return home a week later; then, Glen had said, he would leave, too.
Atlanta had been his destination. He was going to get a job and a place to live, then send for Siobhan. Their families would have been appalled that they’d turned their backs on their heritage, even more so over the two broken marriage contracts, but Glen and Siobhan had been prepared for that.
Mark had eventually left, but Glen never had.
“Why didn’t your family report him missing at the time?”
“I left home that summer. I didn’t know he’d disappeared until the backpack was found. I guess our family thought he’d gone with me, so they didn’t know until then, either.”
Maricci’s gaze narrowed. “Where did you go?”
“I headed out west. About the time I reached the California coast, I turned eighteen and joined the navy. After that, I used the G.I. Bill to get through college and settled in Kentucky.”
“You didn’t think it was odd you didn’t hear from your brother all that time?”
Jones’s smile was more like a grimace. “I haven’t heard from any of my family. The one time I went home, my father closed the door in my face. Every time I call, as soon as my mother recognizes my voice, she hangs up. The only exception was when she told me Glen’s backpack had been found.”
“So your family took your leaving hard.”