She took a seat at the kitchen table as Stephen emptied the bag. He didn’t bother with plates or napkins other than what had been tucked inside at the drive-in, discarding the greasy outer ones. He sat across from her, pinched off two bits of burger to stick Scooter’s pills in and gave them to the dog, then took a hearty bite for himself before fixing his gaze on her. “How’s the packing going?”
“Slowly.” She savored her first bite—a year and a half since her last SnoCap fix!—then swiped a crispy fry through ketchup. “It’s easy to figure out what I want.” Nothing. “I’m saving some stuff for Clary, but all the antiques, the family heirlooms...”
“Does your husband not have a family that wants them?”
“His mother’s in North Carolina, but she has enough family heirlooms of her own.” And Lorna blamed the Howard family for everything her only child had done, including his suicide. She didn’t want anything associated with them. “There’s a cousin, Reece, but she doesn’t want any of it, either.” The family had cost her too much, as well.
“So what are the options? Estate sale and invest the money for your daughter?”
Macy took her time chewing. The locals probably knew she and Clary had more money than she could ever spend, but there was no need for her to admit that. So far, Stephen had treated her pretty much like a normal person—albeit needy and a tad jumpy. But money changed people’s perceptions, and she needed to be treated like any other woman.
“Probably,” she agreed, though the thought of expending even that much time on Mark’s possessions soured her stomach. “Or make some museum donations.”
He blinked and his brows arched. “Huh. I wouldn’t know a museum-quality piece if I stepped on it. And you let Scooter in the house not once but twice?”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifted a hopeful gaze, then lowered it again when Stephen snorted. “Hell, you let me in? I’m not exactly known for my dainty feet and grace.”
“They’re just things,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. Hating the sound of herself callously dismissing priceless treasures, she gestured to the room on the right. “I wouldn’t have imagined a vet could do a whole lot of work at home.”
Not that it looked much like a vet’s office. There were tons of books, but even at this distance it was obvious they weren’t textbooks. Dry-erase boards competed with movie posters for wall space, and she wasn’t sure what kept the desk from collapsing from the weight of the mess on it.
“Different work,” he said casually.
She studied the dry-erase boards, covered with cramped writing, some items circled, arrows pointing to others, then caught sight of several small plaques hanging between them. They looked like awards of some sort. Vet of the Year? Best Neighbor Surrounding Woodhaven Villains? “What kind of work?”
He gazed into the room himself for a moment before saying, “I’m a writer.”
She hadn’t expected that answer. In truth, she’d had no idea what to expect. But once he’d said it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had a little bit of a nerdy aura about him—the glasses, the uncombed hair, the conversations with Scooter. Sort of an absentminded-professor thing. “You write for veterinary journals?”
“On occasion. My last article was on feline diarrhea.” Said with a self-deprecating look.
“A very important subject to cats and the people who clean up after them.”
His grin was quick, boyish. It reminded her how appealing boyish could be. “Mostly I write books. Epic fantasy. A universe far, far away. Villains and quests and warriors and saving the world.”
She’d met authors before—professors in college who were published, historians come to speak to the local historical society, ditto a few horticulturists at the garden society. The Howard family was the subject of its very own book: Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia. Granted, they’d paid the author to write it and the only copies that existed outside the family were in various Southern libraries.
But a fiction writer—excluding the Howard family biographer—was different. Someone who wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, for the simple entertainment of others...that was cool.
“Have you published anything?”
A faint grimace flashed, though she suspected he’d tried to hide it.
“I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”
“Pretty much everyone asks. I’ve had five books out. The sixth one is scheduled for this summer, and I’m working on the seventh.” Finished with his hamburger, he pushed to his feet, went into the office and returned with a hardcover novel, setting it beside her.
“S. K. Noble.” She wiped her hands thoroughly on a napkin before picking it up. The cover was rich purple, the artwork in the center an image of a mysterious man with storm clouds swirling above the mountains behind him. “How cool. I’m sorry. I don’t read fantasy.”
He sprawled back in his chair, reaching down to scratch Scooter with one hand. “No need to apologize. What do you read?”
“The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight, Moon. Sesame Street books. Anything with bright pictures, words that rhyme and messages short enough for the attention span of a three-year-old.” She flipped the book open, pausing to read the brief biography on the inside jacket. Too bad there was no photo of the author. In his office, with him looking as disheveled as it did, it would be charming. “How do you manage both working at the clinic and writing?”
Paper crumpled as he scooped up the wrappers from their lunch and tossed them in the trash can under the sink. Instead of returning to sit, he leaned against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle. “Clinic until noon three days a week, plus every other Saturday. Write at home the rest of the time.”
Guilt tickled her nape. “I’ve taken up an awful lot of your writing time,” she said as she stood. “Today, yesterday...”
“Everyone takes a break now and then, especially for food. We don’t miss any meals around here, do we, Scooter?”
The dog snuffled in agreement.
She stood there a moment, torn between staying a little longer in any house that wasn’t her own and not wanting to disrupt his schedule. He’d invited her for lunch, but lunch was over. Manners won. “I should let you get to work and get back to my own work. I appreciate lunch. It was wonderful.” She started toward the door, and he and Scooter followed.
“I’ll give you a ride home.”
Macy paused in the open door, remembering that he’d driven. Then she glanced at the blue sky, the soft white clouds, the leaves rustling in the breeze. “I’d rather walk.” She liked walking and took Clary for a ramble through their Charleston neighborhood every day. But in all the years she’d lived here, she’d never walked down her own street because while gardening was an acceptable pursuit for Mark Howard’s wife, exercise where anyone could see wasn’t.
“We’ll walk with you,” Stephen offered.
She wouldn’t mind his company a little longer, but she shook her head. “That’s okay.” By herself, she could set her own pace. If she wanted to stop and stare at the woods, she could. If she wanted to stroll aimlessly and listen to the birds in the trees, no one would be inconvenienced.
If she wanted to delay reaching the house and going inside as long as she could, no one would know.
The two males stood at the top of the steps as she made her way to the sidewalk, across the lawn and out the gate. She turned back for a smile and a wave, then headed south.
Her pace was steady, not the slow-and-go method Clary preferred. Her daughter could skip energetically for an entire block, then stop to examine everything from a crack in the sidewalk to a fallen leaf to an ant crawling over a blade of grass. Just the thought of her, squatting precariously to study some new discovery like a dandelion or a pinecone with such intensity, made Macy’s heart ache with equal intensity. Today was Wednesday. Clary, Brent and Anne would be here in time for dinner Friday. Only two and a half more days and she’d have her little girl at her side.
O
nly two and a half more days alone in the house looming ahead. She could already feel its weight—its memories of Mark—settling on her shoulders. Her steps were already slowing. But following the advice from all those months of treatment, she forced herself to keep moving, one step at a time.
Chapter 4
It was amazing how, on the north side of the brick arches, the pavement was smooth and the air was, well, simply air, but on the south side, Macy felt as if she were slogging through an invisible barrier, as if her feet were sinking into the concrete with each step. The dread trickling down her spine intensified when the hum of a well-tuned engine penetrated the buzzing in her ears.
Ahead a sleek white Mercedes glided to a stop at the end of her driveway. Though she didn’t recognize the car, her stomach knotted, and with good reason: Louise Wetherby was sitting behind the wheel.
Macy groaned silently. Of all the people she’d wanted to avoid in Copper Lake, Louise headed the list. She was the biggest snob in town, with more money than anyone besides the Howard and the Calloway families and a stronger notion of her own self-worth than all of them. She thinks highly of herself for a butcher’s granddaughter, Mark’s grandmother had often said disdainfully.
Had Willa Howard still thought so highly of herself after finding out her esteemed husband and her beloved grandson were murderers? Good breeding obviously didn’t equal decent human being.
Neither did a boatload of money, she added as Louise climbed out of the car.
Her silver hair was simply styled, her suit summer-white, her nails icy pink, her gaze glacial. She would have been an attractive woman if she hadn’t looked perpetually dissatisfied with the life she’d been dealt. “So you’ve finally come back.”
Hello to you, too. I’m fine. How about you? Macy forced a deep breath and a polite smile that was as phony as Mark had been. “Hello, Louise.”
“Are you planning to stay, and if not, are you putting the house on the market? It’s not good for the neighbors to have an abandoned house next door.”
Macy glanced at the house, then the neighbors’. There was absolutely nothing to suggest her house had been empty all those months. If anything, her house and the yard were in better condition than the others. But before she could respond, Louise went on.
“You’ve disconnected your home phone, and your cell phone isn’t listed in the Woodhaven directory, so I was going to leave this in your mailbox if you weren’t home.” She held up a creamy-hued envelope but didn’t offer it. “Let me just grab the paperwork and we’ll go inside out of this terrible heat.”
Macy automatically took a few steps up the driveway before good sense stopped her. She waited until Louise reappeared from the car’s interior, a folder in hand, before asking, “Paperwork for what?”
Instead of answering, Louise gestured toward the house. “Inside. It’s steaming out here.”
She should have accepted Stephen’s offer of a ride home. Then she would have already been inside when Louise arrived, she would have checked the peephole when the doorbell rang and she would have gone about her work, leaving Louise no choice but to drop off the letter and go home.
She should have stayed at Stephen’s, so she really wouldn’t have been home.
Louise set off for the door, and ingrained manners overtook Macy. Gritting her teeth, she followed in the woman’s trail of Chanel, then unlocked the door. When she caught sight of the boxes stacked in the hallway, she wished she’d moved them to the garage instead, or that she had the backbone to tell Louise to come back at a more convenient time. As if there were a convenient time to deal with Louise Wetherby.
Since it was too late—and she didn’t have that backbone—she stepped aside for the older woman to enter, then closed the door and went into the living room.
“So you are putting the place up for sale.” Louise made no effort to hide her perusal of the handwriting on the boxes in the hallway, making Macy glad she’d settled on shorthand and a numbering system. There was a detailed itemized list of the cartons’ contents in the kitchen, but nothing on them that would give much, if any, clue.
Of course she was putting it up for sale. The house was forbidding, dark, filled with memories of Mark and his lies. It seemed so obvious that she didn’t bother to comment on it, but sat instead, fingers laced loosely together. “What kind of paperwork do you have?” Surely it was something to do with the homeowners’ association. Louise had been president since it was formed, a position Mark had chosen her for. They had the same goals, he’d said, and she had the time to do the job properly.
What he’d really meant was that Louise had been so hungry for Howard family approval that she was fairly easy for him to manipulate, and he’d been too busy with his murders to worry about grass height, paint colors or parking.
Louise settled at the end of the sofa nearest Macy’s chair and laid the folder in her lap. “Since you’ve been gone so long with no hint of whether you’d ever return, there’s been some concern about your property here.”
Macy blinked. Her so-called abandonment. The place had been cleaned regularly, the lawn watered and mowed, the house inspected routinely for any maintenance needs. Really, what more could the woman expect? “You can see the house is as well maintained as when I lived here.” Not that it’s any of your business. Of course, Louise liked to think that money and a sharp tongue made everything her business.
Diamonds flashed with Louise’s dismissive wave. “Not this property. Fair Winds. Your daughter’s ancestral home.”
Another blink, followed immediately by a shudder. Fair Winds was a beautiful place, two centuries old, rising out of the middle of a lush expanse of lawn on the banks of the Gullah River. For generations there had been rumors the place was haunted. The discovery of more than forty bodies buried on the grounds made the rumors easy to believe.
“What interest could you possibly have in Fair Winds?”
Louise offered what passed for a smile. “I’m the president of the Fair Winds Preservation Society. You know the plantation holds an important part in Copper Lake history, along with the Howard family, and of course Willadene was one of my closest friends. It would break her heart to see the place falling into such disrepair, knowing that it’s standing empty and all alone out there. We formed the society to come up with a plan for its future and—”
“‘We’ who?”
Louise listed a few names—ladies who lunched on the misfortunes of others, vipers every one—then opened the folder. “We’re proposing that you sign the plantation, with its contents, over to the society for the purpose of preservation, education and promoting tourism for the community. Certainly you won’t want to live there, and a donation such as this—”
Macy tuned out her voice and focused on her own thoughts. Georgia was filled with beautiful antebellum homes open to the public; the Calloway Plantation just north of town and River’s Edge downtown were two prime examples. And as far as Louise being Miss Willa’s closest friend...ha. Miss Willa hadn’t had friends. Hadn’t needed or wanted them. Had thought herself too good for everyone in Copper Lake besides Mark.
In eighteen months Macy had considered a lot of things—whether she could survive the loss of her baby, whether she could get past Mark’s ugly secrets, whether she would ever be well enough to take care of Clary, where they might live, what she might do. But she’d never given a moment’s thought to what she would do about Fair Winds. She certainly would never live there.
But sign it over to a preservation group she’d never heard of until five minutes ago? With all its contents? And to a group headed by Louise Wetherby, no less?
What kind of gift would that be? She’d never asked what the place was valued at, and neither Mark nor Miss Willa had ever said. The furnishings alone were probably worth several million. Mark’s ancestors had sailed the world and brought back the best goods each country had to offer, and they’d never parted with a single treasure. Add the house—in nowhere near a state of disrepair, no matter wh
at Louise said—and the riverfront property...
A hell of a gift. And one that wasn’t hers to give.
Realizing that silence had fallen, she looked at Louise to see her offering what appeared to be a contract. She took it but didn’t so much as glance at it. “You realize I didn’t inherit Fair Winds. Clary did.”
Another dismissive gesture. “You’re her mother. You control her inheritance. Until she’s of age, you choose what’s best for her. You certainly can’t leave the house empty and forgotten for another fifteen years. How irresponsible is that?”
And yet giving it away free and clear was responsible?
“Of course, the Howard name would remain attached to the plantation, and it would remain a memorial to their history as well as their many, many contributions to Jackman County and Georgia. We would see that the house was restored to its former glory and would ensure its graceful arrival into its next century.”
Macy swallowed a derisive snort. She’d been gone a year and a half, granted, but Miss Willa had never let a board go unpainted or a screw unloosened any longer than the time it took to make a phone call. The only restoration work it could possibly need was on the front lawn. The killing grounds.
Was that part of the history the preservation society wanted to memorialize? Macy shuddered. That really would break Miss Willa’s heart. Four hundred years of spotless Howard reputation destroyed by the last two surviving Howard males. Thank God. If ever there was a name that deserved to die out...
“All you need to do is sign the papers and—”
“No.” Swallowing hard, Macy set the papers on the coffee table.
She had the pleasure of leaving Louise Wetherby speechless, albeit temporarily. The woman gaped for a moment, like a fish trying to undo the hook in its mouth. Good heavens, she’d actually thought Macy would meekly acquiesce and sign away a seven-figure chunk of her daughter’s inheritance at her command. Did she believe Macy was that malleable? That weak? Or that crazy?
Copper Lake Confidential Page 6