Copper Lake Secrets

by Marilyn Pappano

  “She was a typical mother. She loved us even when we were getting on her last nerve. She wanted the same kind of life for us that she and our father had. We heard a lot of ‘Wait till your father gets home,’ but she was really the one who put the fear of God in us.”

  “And yet you walked away from that. What did you want that you couldn’t get there?”

  “Freedom.”

  “Was it worth it?” She smiled faintly. “Life is meant to be lived with family. Not just parents and grandparents and stepparents, but siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, the more, the merrier. You gave all that up. Was it worth it?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t hesitate over the answer, nor was he embarrassed by it, though some part of him felt as if he should be when she’d wanted a family and been denied a real one for more than half her life.

  “Freedom to do what?”

  “Freedom to not do,” he replied. Finished with his meal, he leaned back in the chair. The streetlights were buzzing, voices sounded through the windows and on the sidewalks, and music came from a restaurant across the street. If the night were ten degrees warmer—and the conversation more casual—it would be the most comfortable he’d been in a while.

  “My family had certain expectations for me. They couldn’t accept that I wanted something more.”

  “What expectations?”

  Jones sighed. He’d told Detective Maricci the truth. He could tell Reece. Hell, she might not have a clue who or what the Travelers were—their reputation, their activities. But he could guarantee Miss Willa knew, as surely as Maricci had.

  “My family is very insular. My brothers and I were raised to follow in our father’s and grandfathers’ footsteps. My sisters’ lives would be just like our mother’s and grandmothers’. We’d be in the same business, live in the same community, teach our children the same values.”

  “Sounds like a religious cult,” she said cautiously.

  He grinned. Not a cult, but a clan. A very close-knit, like-minded, strict-living clan. “No, just plain ol’ Catholics. I love my family. They’re not bad people. They’re just very set in their ways, and I wanted something different.”

  “And they can’t forgive you for that?”

  “I disappointed them. They don’t forgive easily.”

  “Sounds like you shocked the socks off them.” She sighed heavily, too. “Welcome to the club. Grandfather didn’t know the meaning of the word forgive, and Grandmother might do it, but she never forgets. I think she’d find it easier if I said I was sorry for missing his funeral, but I’m not. I just couldn’t face it.”

  “A reasonable person wouldn’t expect you to.” Even if the old man had never laid a hand on her—and God, Jones hoped that was true—the fact remained that Arthur had terrified and traumatized a kid. The child could be forgiven for the state of their relationship. The supposedly mature, responsible adult couldn’t.

  Reece laughed at his comment. “You expect Grandmother to be reasonable? She doesn’t have to. She’s a Howard, you know.”

  “So are you.”

  Her leftover smile faded. “Only in name, Jones. Only in name.”

  When Jones excused himself to go inside the restaurant, Mick moved to Reece’s side, placing his head where she could easily rub the favored spot between his ears. The action was repetitive, soothing, and allowed her to let her thoughts wander.

  Valerie an alcoholic. Yes, that fit. If she closed her eyes and looked back in time, she had vague images of her mother, totally undone, eyes puffy, face swollen, fingers clenching tightly a tall, clear bottle. She’d raged at everyone who ventured near—Reece, Grandmother, the housekeeper. The best Reece could remember, Grandfather hadn’t tried to approach her, though he had retrieved that bottle from her room a time or two.

  She could call Valerie and ask, but she would likely get the same response she’d always gotten: Really, Clarice. The past is past. And then she would change the subject to something inane and totally inconsequential.

  Better that she ask Grandmother. It was less personal with her, so she was more likely to answer. Though only if she wanted to.

  Movement near the screen door caught her eye, and she saw Jones talking to a muscular dark-haired guy. The guy was holding a child, two, maybe three years old. With its shaggy hair, jeans and a T-shirt, she couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or girl.

  Their conversation appeared serious until the child broke in. Whatever he said made Jones grin and tickle his tummy, which made the kid squeal with laughter.

  The simple action touched something inside Reece.

  After a moment, Jones returned to the table. “I paid the check while I was inside. Ready to go?”

  Mick leaped to his feet. Like with her dogs, go was a magic word. No matter how much Bubba, Louie and Eddie loved where they were, they were always thrilled to go somewhere else.

  She stood, and Jones automatically reached for her hand. She naturally let him take it. It felt normal. Good. And just the mere presence of him felt promising.

  She’d been hopeful in the beginning with other men, she reminded herself. Not every new relationship came with that sense of promise, potential, future, but a few had, and look what had happened: every one had ended. And those were with guys who lived in the same part of the country she did, never mind the same city.

  This thing with Jones wasn’t likely to be any different, even if he was open to the idea of a long-distance relationship.

  A CD played quietly on the stereo on the drive home, classic rock, hits from a band that had peaked before either of them had been born. It was one of her favorites.

  When they reached Fair Winds, he entered the code and the gate swung slowly open. With little moon and too much shadow, the place looked eerie—nothing new there. But she didn’t feel the eeriness quite as sharply as she normally would have. Too bad she couldn’t just attach herself to Jones and hold on to that safe feeling the whole time she was here.

  Mists swirled in the shadows as they drove along the drive, despite the fact that the air was calm, and awareness hummed along her veins, as surely as if their voices were in her ears. It was just plain creepy, even if she was safe with Jones.

  He parked beside the cottage, shut off the engine and looked at her. “Want to make out while we’re here?”

  With a laugh, she considered the broad console between them. “I don’t think this truck is made for making out. That’s a long way to lean.”

  “Or you could just come over here and sit on my lap.” He tilted the steering wheel up and out of away, then grinned as he offered her a hand.

  Making out was good. She’d never had any trouble handling that. She climbed across the console, wriggling and twisting to get comfortable, and drawing a grunt from him in the process. Once she was settled, he didn’t kiss her right away, though. Instead, with one arm around her shoulders, he touched her face with his free hand. “You’re a beautiful woman, Clarice. I always thought…”

  When he fell silent, she prodded him to go on. “Thought what?”

  He seemed lost for a moment, then his mouth quirked. “The girl my mother picked out for me to marry was a redhead with watery blue eyes, but I always had a weakness for brown-eyed blondes.”

  “Your mother picked out a bride for you?” she echoed. “Just how old were you when you left home?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were just a kid.”

  “So were you back then,” he retorted. “We’ve both grown up.”

  There was no denying that, not sitting the way they were, her on his lap and his fingertips just grazing the side of her breast. “So…what? She was your mother’s best friend’s daughter and they thought ‘wouldn’t it be great if our kids got married’?” Her voice hitched as those feathery little caresses continued.

  “Something like that.” There was some emotion in his voice, too—dark, deep, sending tiny shivers along her arms. But he didn’t say anything more because he was kissing her, s
weet nibbling tastes, starting with her forehead and working his way to the corner of her mouth, then the bottom lip, then the bow in the center.

  She opened her mouth and his tongue dipped inside, and something deep in her dissolved. This was good. Promising. Full of potential and future.

  They kissed leisurely, touched slowly, as if they had the entire rest of their lives to do nothing but explore each other. It was sweet and lazy, and the heat built slowly. They took it easy, a new experience for Reece with first-time sex. He wanted to get her clothes off—she could feel that tension thrumming through his body and into hers, could feel the erection swelling against her hip—but there was no rush. They could take the time to do it right.

  In the backseat, Mick gave a little whine, then exploded in a frenzy of barking, hitting the seat with such force in an attempt to get out of the driver’s window that it jarred Reece and Jones apart. “Hey,” Jones started to complain, but he recognized before she did that this wasn’t routine, want-out-of-the-truck barking. His muscles tightening, Jones twisted beneath her to look off to the east for the source of Mick’s sudden alert.

  By the time Jones started to lift her away, Reece was already scrambling onto the console. “There’s a light in that shed,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t there when we pulled in. I would have noticed it. You stay here—”

  “Like hell.” When he slid out the open door, she was right behind him. He scowled at her, but Mick bounding out of the truck, hair on end, and racing toward the shed claimed his attention.

  The shed was fifty feet past the garage, an identical structure with an overhead door and a smaller side door. The light shone through the panes of glass in the side door and leaked under the front one. Jones was right, she thought as she matched her strides to his. The light gleamed in the darkness; they would have noticed it when they’d come home.

  Mick reached the shed far ahead of them and ran from door to door, quivering, snarling, nose to the ground searching for scent. Jones peered through the door glass, but it was covered—painted white, Reece abruptly recalled. To let light in and keep nosy looks out.

  He silently tried the knob, but it was locked. Moving to the overhead door, he twisted the handle to unlock it, gave her a steady look until she backed away a few feet, then heaved it open.

  The long-unused mechanism shrieked, and Reece clapped her hands over her ears, trying to ignore the queasiness in her stomach and the goose bumps popping up everywhere.

  A naked bulb dangled overhead, its pull-chain swaying slightly, showing and shadowing the only items in the building: Grandfather’s old truck, two shovels leaning against one wall and a pile of canvas tarps neatly folded on a rough-built shelf. Another tarp was hung to dry over the side wall of the pickup bed, an aged dark stain making it stiff where it should have draped.

  Jones went into the shed, looking around the truck, under it, inside the cab. There was no place for anyone to hide.

  No place for Reece to hide.

  Oh, God, what have I done? The words were years old, the tone so harsh and horrified that she couldn’t recognize it.

  And the response, too quiet to hear.

  The heat of that long-ago August afternoon beat down on her as she stiffened in place, staring through the open door. Such anger, evil and hate—such utter coldness—emanated from the space.

  She choked back a cry as she stumbled back a step, terror flooding into her very bones, drawing their attention to her.

  Get back in the house!

  And the tiny voice inside her, echoing nearly as loud as Grandfather’s roar: Run, run, run!

  Heart thudding, vision blurring, she spun around and dashed away. Dimly she heard a dog bark, a man shout, but she didn’t slow. Her arms swung, her legs pumping, her strides closing the distance, but, God, not fast enough. He was chasing her—Grandfather? Mark? He was stronger, faster, and she was too slow, too clumsy. Her feet slid in the gravel, and she tripped over a hank of grass when she veered off the road.

  He caught her, arms wrapping around her, holding her close. His breathing was loud in her ears, his voice unfamiliar as he murmured, “It’s okay, Reece, it’s okay. Just an old memory. It can’t hurt you. They can’t hurt you. It’s just you and me and Mick. You’re safe.”

  She inhaled sharply, intending to scream, but the scents caught in her nose: soap, shampoo, cologne, dog. She knew those scents. She trusted them.

  Jones. Mick.

  Pivoting, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as if only he could chase away the fear, the ghosts, the memories. Only he could make her feel safe.

  She held on for dear life.

  Chapter 9

  Silently cursing, Jones scooped her into his arms, choking at the strength with which she gripped his neck, and walked to the cottage with long strides. What the hell had happened? Had the mere sight of the old truck brought that memory of her grandfather and Mark back to vivid life? Judging by the sheer panic in her eyes, he’d say yes. She hadn’t been merely remembering. She’d been living it again.

  Balancing her on one hip and against the door frame, he got the front door open and carried her to the couch. She was trembling, making a terrible keening sound that set his nerves on edge. It worried Mick, too, who stood beside the couch for only a moment before trotting back to the screen door to peer out, then trotted back to the couch. On guard, like a good dog.

  Jones couldn’t get her to let go long enough to set her down, so he sat instead, settling her on his lap. He’d never dealt with a hysterical woman before. He didn’t know what to say or do, so he held her, stroked her, murmured promises to her. It’s all right. You’re safe. I won’t let them hurt you.

  He hoped he wasn’t lying.

  After a time, the keening stopped. Traditionally, he knew, it was a mourning for the dead. Was it purely an emotional response? Or had she witnessed a death? A murder. Glen’s murder.

  The shudders slowed, losing their violence, fading into occasional tremors before disappearing entirely. She lay limp in his arms, probably exhausted by the shock, and her voice, when she spoke, was weak. “The stain on that tarp, it’s blood. I’m sure of it. I smelled it.”

  Glen’s blood? Would it be possible to prove after all these years? Jones knew science as it pertained to plants, not people. But Maricci would know. He would know where to send it, and where Jones could give a sample if DNA was retrieved to see if it matched.

  His muscles ached to set Reece aside and go now: get the tarp, jump in his truck, call Maricci on the way into town. But it was late, and he couldn’t just set Reece aside. She needed him. The tarp had survived this long. It would keep until tomorrow.

  He could put off knowing for absolute sure that Glen was dead for a little while longer. Though he felt it in his bones, as long as he didn’t have definitive proof, some part of him could still hope…

  “Whose blood?” he asked softly.

  Staring into the distance, she shook her head.

  “What did you see, Reece?”

  “The same thing,” she said dully. “Grandfather, Mark, the truck. It was August. So hot, so humid. There was such threat in his voice. I’d only seen him like that once before, when I…”

  The thought seemed to strike them both at the same time. When she’d repeated the memory to him earlier, she’d said, He was angrier than I’d ever seen him.

  Her gaze met his. “One day he caught me digging in the yard, and he was livid. He grabbed my shoulders and lifted me right off the ground and said, ‘Do you know what happens to little girls who poke around where they don’t belong?’ Then he set me down and dragged me to the front door, where he bent down right in my face. He said, ‘If you ever tell anyone…’ And I didn’t wait for him to finish. I ran inside and straight to Grandmother’s study. I didn’t say a word to anyone, but every day I looked at the bruises he’d left, then stayed as close as I could to Grandmother or the housekeeper, until they got tired of it and made me go outside.”

  Jones g
rimly stared at her. “Were you digging in the front yard? Where the garden used to be?”

  She nodded.

  Arthur Howard may have been a good man as far as his family, excluding Reece’s father, was concerned, but he’d definitely had a secret to keep. His destruction of the gardens, his fury at Reece for digging there, his messages from the grave for her to get out…

  Could that secret be Glen’s body? Even though Mark said he’d never told his grandfather about Jones and Glen, that didn’t mean the old man hadn’t discovered Glen on his own. Hell, they’d seen him in the woods several times, striding about like a king surveying his kingdom. He’d felt so secure on his property that he’d never seemed the slightest bit aware that there were trespassers who watched him from the cover of low growth or sturdy tree branches.

  And Glen had been worried about Reece. He’d intended to move his camp off Howard property, but he would have sneaked back close to the house to watch for her. If Arthur had caught him…

  Had the old man really been violent enough to kill a trespasser rather than chase him away or call the sheriff? He’d deliberately, cruelly traumatized his own granddaughter. He’d had a cold, uncaring side, along with the strong sense of entitlement that came from being a Howard in a place where that meant everything. He’d been taught he could do what he wanted and that money, power and the family name would protect him.

  What was it Russ Calloway’s grandmother had said about him? That she believed Arthur had kept leasing that land where Glen’s backpack was found because he wanted as much land between him and the world as he could get. Between his secrets and the world.

  His head starting to throb, Jones shifted underneath Reece until they were both lying on the couch, face-to-face in the narrow space. “Why were you digging in the yard?”

  “I don’t know.” She pushed back to give him an inch or two more of space, and he took it, moving until their bodies were snugly pressed together again. Her hand rested on his rib cage, her knee between his. “When I left here that summer, I dug a lot. I planted garden beds everywhere Valerie would let me. I also had nightmares, a new fear of deep water and counted.”