Scandal in Copper Lake

by Marilyn Pappano

  “She’s in the house. Anamaria, this is Lydia’s and my shared nephew, Kent. This is Anamaria Duquesne, Glory Duquesne’s daughter. You remember her, don’t you?”

  So this was Kent Calloway, subject of Mr. John’s second message to Lydia. In his early forties, blond-haired and brown-eyed, he was handsome in a faded, superficial sort of way. His father had criticized and belittled him, his mother had abandoned him, and he’d let it sink into him until bitterness and resentment hovered in the air around him. Unhappiness had become a permanent part of who he was, staining everything else about him.

  He stared at her a moment before answering Sara’s question. “I’ve heard the name. I never met her, though.” He nodded curtly. “Nice to meet you. I’ll catch Aunt Lydia at the house.”

  According to Glory’s notebook, she’d done a reading for K Calloway the same time she’d advised Sara to buy stock in hair coloring. Was there another Calloway with the same initial, or had Kent been too young and disinterested to notice her?

  She asked the question of Robbie as they drove away from the house two hours later, and he snorted. “He’s at a table with two women old enough to be his mother and an exotic, beautiful girl only a few years older than him and he doesn’t notice her?”

  “Could there be another K Calloway besides Kent?”

  “I don’t know. My grandmother spends her spare time working on what she calls the family forest. She’s got every birth and death in the family from 1800 to the present. I’ll call her.” After another moment, Robbie asked, “What did you and Mom talk about?”

  “I told her that we were going home after lunch and I intended to make wild, wicked love to you.”

  His look was as chiding as his mother’s voice had been earlier. “Anamaria.”

  “Last night you called me Annie.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I don’t know.” She liked her name, but it was a mouthful, and there were times when something shorter and sweeter, like Annie, a special name to be used by a special person, would be nice. “I’ll let you know next time you use it.”

  He reached for her hand, his warm and calloused as it closed around hers. “What did you and Mom really talk about?”

  “I told her she should make wild, wicked love to Mr. Greyson.”

  His grimace was exaggerated; the shudder running through him wasn’t. “Jeez, this is my mom we’re talking about.”

  “We’ve spent a lot of time talking about my mother and her sex life, and it didn’t bother you.”

  “Yeah, because it’s your mom. This is mine. If she has a sex life, I don’t want to know it.”

  “Sara’s only—what? Sixtyish? Don’t you intend to still be dazzling women in bed when you’re sixty?”

  “Women? Plural? I’m pleased that you think I’ll be capable.” Raising her hand, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “But right now, I’m just looking to dazzle you.”

  He didn’t have anything to worry about there. She was already pretty dazzled, and they hadn’t even reached her house yet. If she wasn’t careful, he could dazzle her right into heartache and heartbreak and loneliness too enormous to bear.

  But she would manage. Duquesne women always did. It was a lesson drummed into her when she was a little girl, and it was a lesson she would start teaching her own little girl in a few years.

  The only question was whether she would do the teaching alone.

  Chapter 9

  Her tires were flat. The rusty screens that encircled the porch had been slashed and torn. The porch furniture was upended, two legs broken off the table, and the light fixture was shattered, leaving only wires hanging from a hole in the wall. The front door had been kicked with enough force to break both the lock and a hinge, and inside, clearly visible in the dim shadows, a word sprayed in paint led off to the kitchen. WHORE.

  Robbie stood at the bottom of the steps, hands knotted into fists, as fury vibrated through him. Who the hell had done this? Was the bastard a coward who’d waited for them to leave that morning, or had it just been coincidence? What would he have done if he’d found them there? Worse, if he’d found Anamaria alone there?

  She sat in the front seat of the Vette, with her door open and her arms wrapped around her as if she were freezing. She didn’t look so strong and serene now but hurt and frightened. Soon enough, she would become angry. Robbie wanted her angry. Then she could deal with it.

  “You have any ideas who was behind this?” Tommy asked, stepping off the porch and onto the concrete slabs below.

  “We have a whole notebook full of ideas.” He told him about Glory’s appointment books, the customers versus the clients versus the dates.

  “You didn’t find your dad or mine in there, did you?” Tommy asked, only half joking. In addition to his long-term affairs, Gerald had had a lot of women like Glory. Tommy’s father, on the other hand, had lived like a monk for twenty years after his wife left.

  “No, but we did find Uncle Cyrus.”

  “That old devil?” Revulsion crossed Tommy’s face. “Well, hell, let’s get Mama Odette on the phone, head over to the cemetery and ask the bastard what he knows.”

  Robbie watched Bonnie DeLong and a couple of evidence techs working on the porch and inside the house. A few days ago, the idea of asking someone to pass on a question to a dead man would have been reason for a good derisive laugh. But if he thought for a second that Mama Odette really could contact Cyrus, he would get on the phone that quick. Though he doubted it would do any good. Cyrus alive hadn’t been exactly sociable. Dead, he was likely to be downright unpleasant.

  “You really believe this psychic stuff?”

  Tommy put him off a minute while he talked to one of the officers, then turned back. “I heard she broke the news of your mom’s new boyfriend. Where do you think she got that information? Your mom sure as hell didn’t tell her. The guy, Greyson, doesn’t even live around here, so odds that she found out from him are pretty slim. Lydia didn’t even know part of it. So where do you think Anamaria got it?”

  Robbie stared at him. “Where the hell did you get it?”

  “You and Lydia discussed it in front of the cook, who told her daughter the dispatcher, who was repeating it to—” Tommy broke off and laughed. “There are a lot of ways to get information. For me, the gossip hotline works pretty well. You can’t deny that for Anamaria there’s something more at play.” Without taking a breath, he switched subjects. “Are you taking her home with you?”

  For an instant, Robbie stiffened. Just that morning he’d noticed that the condo smelled different from this house, totally absent of Anamaria’s fragrances. If he moved her in there, even for a day or two, that would change forever. Her scents would seep into his bed, his furniture, his very walls, and after she left, her essence would linger, barely noticeable but impossible to remove.

  “Afraid you can’t sneak her in through the garage without the neighbors noticing?” Tommy asked with a scowl. “If you’re not gonna man up, she can stay at my house.”

  “Screw you. Can I go in and get her stuff?”

  “DeLong!” Tommy shouted. “Take him inside to the bedroom. Don’t touch but what you need. And look around while you’re there and see if anything obvious is missing.”

  Robbie nodded, glanced at Anamaria, who was gazing into the distance, then followed Bonnie across the porch. Besides the insult painted on the floor, there was no other damage inside the house. The kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom were just the way they’d left them.

  He packed Anamaria’s clothes and toiletries hastily, then took the wooden chest from its place high on the shelf. Cautioning her to be careful with it, he handed the chest to Bonnie, carried the suitcases into the hall and stopped short, gazing at the dining table.

  “Is something wrong?” Bonnie asked.

  “There was a baby bonnet on the table when we left this morning.”

  “A baby bonnet?”

  “Yeah. It was white and had pink ribbons.” Anama
ria had set it beside the notebooks that morning and had seemed a little distracted while touching it when he’d returned with coffee and doughnuts. He’d put it down to missing her mother, thinking about when she’d worn that bonnet and that Charlotte would have been next to wear it.

  DeLong frowned. “You think someone who’d write whore on the floor would steal a baby bonnet?”

  “I think he’d take something that obviously means a lot to the woman he’d written whore about.”

  “I’ll tell the detective,” she said with a shrug.

  “Don’t knock yourself out,” he muttered. He carried the bags out to his car, then took the chest from DeLong and handed it to Anamaria. “Did you put that bonnet away when we left this morning?”

  She shook her head. “I took the notebooks, but I left it on the table. Why?”

  “Apparently, your vandal took it,” Tommy replied.

  She slid out of the seat, rising to her full height, her chin lifted. Robbie was glad to see the shock receding and anger taking its place. “He tore up my porch, called me a whore and stole an old baby bonnet?”

  “Maybe the message wasn’t for you.” Robbie leaned against the car at her side. “We’ve been asking questions about your mother’s lovers and about the baby’s father. Maybe one of them left the message in reference to her.” Only a few hours ago, Lydia had barely caught herself before calling Glory a whore, and everyone agreed that she had adored Glory. An angry ex-lover, maybe a spurned ex-lover, would likely call her that and more.

  While no one in town besides Tommy, who’d probably guessed, knew that Anamaria was sleeping with Robbie.

  And an ex-lover who thought that Charlotte might have been his daughter might have, for reasons good or bad, taken the bonnet.

  “You guys go on, get out of here,” Tommy said. “Just let me know where to reach you.”

  “We’ll be at the condo,” Robbie said. Man up, my ass.

  “You wanna leave me your keys, Anamaria? I’ll get the tires taken care of and call Russ about the rest of it.”

  That was something Robbie should have thought about and would have eventually, he wanted to protest as she pulled her key ring from her purse. He just had more important things—like her—on his mind.

  After thanking Tommy, she didn’t speak again until they were several blocks away. “I can stay at a motel.”

  “Nah. You never know who’s been sleeping in those beds.”

  She cut him a sidelong look. “And who’s been sleeping in your bed?”

  “Just me. I don’t usually take women home with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I? Their places are just as convenient.”

  “With the added bonuses that you can leave whenever you want and your space remains your space. They don’t get the chance to bring stuff over and conveniently leave it behind.” She glanced at him again. “I’ve got stuff, but when I leave, I promise, I won’t leave any of it behind.”

  The promise wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been. Once they walked in the door, his space was going to be their space. Even when there wasn’t a single piece of clothing, a shoe or so much as a fingerprint to indicate she’d ever been there, he would know. And he would miss her.

  He typed in the code for the electronic gate, then turned into the drive that ran along the rear of his building. His garage was on the end, neater than any other place in his life because that was where he worked on the Vette.

  As the door lumbered down behind them, Anamaria looked at the tools that hung on Peg-Boards and filled chests along the walls. “You’ve got enough tools here for a well-stocked garage. Do you actually know how to use them?”

  He gave her a wounded look before heaving her bags from the trunk. “I rebuilt this car from the frame up. When I bought her, she was a rusted heap sitting beside an old barn in southern Georgia. I did everything myself except the paint job. Where do you think I got these calluses and scars?”

  “I apologize. And I’m impressed.”

  “My brothers and I practically grew up at Charlie’s Custom Rods, out on Carolina Avenue. We’ve been tearing down and restoring old cars since we were kids.” He grinned. “If you want to replace that bland car of yours with something deserving of a beautiful woman, I can find you the body and show you how to do it.”

  Cradling the wooden chest in her arms, she followed him to the door leading into the utility room, where he typed in the code on the alarm keypad. “I like that bland car of mine. Besides, that sounds like a time-consuming project. One of us would have a long commute.”

  “Or one of us could move to Copper Lake.” He stiffened the instant he heard his own words. It wasn’t the first time he’d, as Lydia put it, let his mouth get ahead of his brain. If he could take back the suggestion, he would…. At least, he thought he would. He wasn’t sure.

  In an effort to lessen the impact of the words, he shrugged carelessly. “The tools are here. When it comes to restoring old beauties, tools rule.”

  With nothing more than a barely-there murmur, she followed him through the laundry room and kitchen, past the dining and living rooms and upstairs. There were two bedrooms up there, the second not even half the size of the first. Russ had built the condos and had adapted this floor plan for Robbie. Sleepover guests would be few and far between, and Robbie had preferred the extra space for the master bedroom.

  Without considering whether Anamaria might like the pretense of her own room, he carried her bags into his room. It was at the front of the house and faced the river, a wide lazy ramble at this point. The windows let in tons of light and a lot of afternoon heat, but he was rarely there then, so he kept the drapes open for the view.

  Anamaria set the chest on a side table, walked to one of the oversize windows and stood, eyes closed, breathing steadily. The sunlight gleamed on her skin, giving it a burnished hue, and it softened the tension lines on her face. The goddess was back.

  He set the bags down at the end of the bed, then silently moved up behind her. She didn’t startle but tilted her head to one side so he could leave a line of kisses along her throat. “I believe you said something earlier about wild, wicked lovemaking.”

  A satisfied smile curved her mouth. “Yes. Your mother and Mr. Grey—”

  Gently he nipped her lower lip, silencing her. “No mothers in this room, please. Just you and me.”

  “All right.” Her movements slow and lazy, she twined her arms around his neck, then kissed him, her mouth hot and greedy, tasting of hunger and need and desire. She finished the kiss with her own gentle nip, then lifted her head, her gaze slumberous, her coastal accent more pronounced. “Tell me what you want, Robbie Calloway.”

  He looked into her eyes, the color of rich chocolate, set off so well by her mocha skin, and answered simply, “You.”

  One brow arched delicately. “For how long?”

  “As long as we have.” A day, a week, a month, a lifetime. However long, he wanted it.

  She chuckled. “You sound like Mama Odette. ‘We want what we want, we take what we’re given, we have as long as we have.’” The humor faded, and her voice turned husky as she took his hand and pulled him to the bed. “Come to bed with me, Robbie. Take what I’m giving. For as long as we have.”

  It wouldn’t be enough, he thought as she drew him down to the mattress with her, as she kissed him again, as their hands worked away their clothes. No matter how long they had, no matter how much she gave, no matter how much he gave back, it would never be enough.

  Not until she gave her heart. Not until he found his courage.

  Anamaria awakened alone in bed, the sun a purple glow on the western horizon. She wasn’t the sort to awaken disoriented. Though the bedroom was dark, she knew immediately where she was. She could sense Robbie all around her.

  Light filtered in from the hallway, showing her bags at the foot of the bed. Rising, she opened the larger of the two and dressed in a pair of soft cotton shorts and a ribbed tank, both in ath
letic gray. After a stop in a luxurious marble bathroom, she padded downstairs and through to the kitchen.

  Robbie, dressed in faded khaki shorts and a Copper Lake High School baseball shirt, was removing foam dishes from a large paper bag, releasing incredible aromas into the air. “Lucky for us, Ellie delivers, because I don’t cook and I don’t keep enough food in the house for someone else to cook, unless canned spaghetti counts.”

  “Spaghetti ceases to be food once it’s canned.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t have to eat dirt to know it doesn’t taste the same as Auntie Lueena’s chocolate silk pie.” Circling the island, she found glasses in the cabinet, filled them with ice and took two bottles of pop from the refrigerator. By the time she’d poured, he’d transferred the food to heavy pottery plates: grilled chicken breasts with roasted onions and peppers, mashed sweet potatoes and spiced green beans.

  They ate at the antique oak dining table, a good-size square that seated four in ladderback chairs. She’d noticed other antiques in the house—the barrister’s bookcases in the living room, the demilune table in the hallway, the desk in the sitting area of his bedroom and a very old primitive table in the upstairs hall. She didn’t get vibes from furniture about the lives it had witnessed, but if she had that talent, that table would surely give her the willies.

  After giving her time to make a dent in her food, Robbie spoke quietly. “Tommy called and said the guy from Charlie’s Tires—he also owns Charlie’s Customs Rods—will get your new tires on tomorrow. There’s a two-inch gash in each one, probably from the same knife used to slash the screens. Russ fixed the door and replaced the lock, but he can’t get a crew over to resand the floor and fix the light and the screens until Monday.”

  She took another bite of green beans, just to prove that the news hadn’t ruined her appetite, then smiled politely. “Your brother’s a nice guy. He must think a lot of Tommy, to answer his calls so quickly.”