Copper Lake Confidential (21 page)

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked at the bottom of the stairs.

Macy’s smile was meant to be reassuring, he figured, but it just made her look vulnerable. “We’re safe. I’ll set the alarm, and there are panic buttons in every room.”

“Really? I haven’t seen any.” Not that he knew what a panic button looked like.

“On the nightstands. Underneath Mark’s desk, the dining table, Clary’s crib, the kitchen island. On the control panels themselves.” She shrugged as if there were too many to mention. “Brent and Anne are right out back, and you know how loudly I scream. They’ll hear me if I need them.”

They’d been safe before lunch, too. Daylight, people in and out, and still...

“I can spend the night,” he said. “I can manage that old couch or drag a chair in from outside.”

This time her smile was stronger. “You need rest. So do I. I think I’m tired enough to sleep through anything.”

He doubted that. After he left, she would put Clary to bed, then probably pace the room until she exhausted herself, and still she wouldn’t rest. Whether there was a ghost or not, the house haunted her.

“Please, Stephen. I appreciate the offer, but I’m a grown woman. I’m emotional, but I’m not crazy. I’m not even alone.”

“Okay.” Reluctance shaded his voice. “You have my number.”

“I do.” She stepped closer and nuzzled his jaw.

“Do one thing for me.”

She raised her gaze to his, so close he could see the shades of brown in her eyes.

“Let Scooter spend the night. He’s not trained as a watchdog, but he’s great about picking up on things that are out of place.”

Finally her smile became a real one. “I guess it would be good practice for when we get Roscoe and Bertha. And Clary will be thrilled to wake up in the morning and find him here.”

He kissed her, then bent to unsnap the leash. “You’re staying here, buddy, okay? Keep an eye on my girls.”

“Brent referred to the Right Track women as girls and one of them practically squared off with him. ‘I’m nearly nineteen,’ she said. ‘Don’t call me girl.’” She grinned. “I am woman. Hear me roar—or, more likely, whimper like a puppy.”

He chuckled then kissed her once more. Walking out the door was hard to do, but at least she’d agreed to keep the dog. It was a small comfort, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

Macy came awake suddenly. After wrestling a semiconscious Clary into pajamas and tucking her in, she’d barely had energy to change into her own pajamas. When she’d crawled into bed, she’d been pretty sure she wouldn’t sleep, but at some point, fatigue had won out.

Now she felt as if she’d never closed her eyes, never drowsed. The room was dimly lit by the bathroom light, and she could tell at a glance that nothing was out of place. Clary was stretched out on the far side of the bed, breathing evenly. The doors were closed, the desk chair propped against the one leading into the hall. Her bathroom door was just the way she’d left it, open wide enough to give light, not enough to be too bright.

So what had wakened her?

A low sound came from across the room, raising the hairs on her arms. Slowly she sat up, pushing back the cover. A shadow lurked near the hall door, big and fuzzy and—

Scooter, she realized and tried to swallow back a great laugh of relief. The feeling lasted for only a moment, though, because the dog was still staring at the door, still whining.

Her cell phone sat on the bedside table. Should she call Brent? Stephen? Awaken one of them from a sound sleep to tell them—what? That the dog wanted something? Not being a dog person, her best guess, given his concentration on the door, was that he needed to go out. Dogs sometimes did that in the middle of the night, didn’t they? Take care of business, maybe chase a few scents around the yard before returning to bed?

It was so damn easy to overreact, she thought as she fumbled her feet into flip-flops. She’d been so nervous the past week. Her doctor had warned her this trip could bring a lot of emotions to the surface. Brent had cautioned her, too, and she’d been well aware of the risks entirely on her own. She’d been so fixated on being normal, so sensitive to any indication that she wasn’t, that she didn’t know how to react to anything anymore.

This wasn’t a situation to overreact to. Scooter was a dog. Dogs sometimes had to pee at night. He was at the door, politely asking to go out, and by God, she would let him out without making a big deal of it.

“I’m coming, sweetie,” she murmured. She pulled the chair from its place in front of the door, then opened the door. The dog shot off down the hall as if launched from a cannon. She could tell by the slaps of his paws that he’d reached the bottom of the stairs before she’d turned the corner at the top, and she smiled. Clary hadn’t been potty-trained so long that these emergency
gotta-go-right-now!
episodes were forgotten.

In the faint light from the kitchen, she saw the golden glow that was Scooter, tail wagging furiously at the door, and picked up her pace. Shut off the alarm, unlock and open the door,
hurry hurry,
and the dog launched himself far enough to avoid the stone patio and land in the grass. Within a second or two, he’d disappeared into the shadows.

Arms folded across her chest, she surveyed the room while she waited. At 9:00 a.m., the second dealer would be here, this one looking at the smaller, collectible pieces—the Tiffany lamps, the ivory carvings in Mark’s office, the paintings and sculptures and so on. Once he was gone, she would work on the two nurseries. She would keep the chair she’d rocked Clary in, some clothing and books given to Clary by Macy’s friends, a few family heirlooms—an eighteenth-century sterling rattle, some ancient tatted bibs, a few crocheted dresses. She didn’t want anything from the other nursery.

Scooter barked a few times, drawing her attention back outside. The lights on the back fence showed him walking, nose to the ground, occasionally stopping to look around. He followed a trail only he could see to the side of the pool, sniffed the hook a few times, then wandered a bit more. He came back to the house by a different trail and nosed the door a few times before he would step back and let her close it.

When he looked up at her, she would have sworn he was smiling, letting her know he’d done his part in keeping them safe for the night. “Aw, you’re such a good boy. I’d give you a treat if I had any, but how about a good scratch?”

Though his ears perked up at the mention of a treat, he was satisfied with the rubbing and started down the hall when she was done. She set the alarm and followed him, nearly falling over him when he stopped in the living room doorway. “Scooter, you should—”

Her admonition faded as she followed his gaze. Light came from the room where it shouldn’t, not electric but wavering, flickering flames. Tapers. Two of them. In candlesticks that could be traced back to Paul Revere. One on each side of the mantel, placed to cast the best illumination on the wedding portrait that hung above.

“Oh, God...”

With a low rumble, Scooter moved closer to her, nudging her trembling hand with his head. She tried to pat him, tried to say or do something, but all she could manage was staring at the scene.

Someone had brought those candlesticks from the dining room to the mantel.

Someone had lit the flames.

Someone had been in the house.

Someone...who wasn’t her. She was sure of it.

“Clary!”
She raced up the stairs to her room, flung back the covers and gathered her daughter into her arms. Thank God, her daughter was safe...but
someone
had been in the house!

“Okay, okay. We can go to the guesthouse. Better yet, we’ll check into a hotel. I can call Jared at The Magnolia. He’ll make room for us even if they’re full.” She paced to the closet, shifting Clary, mumbling now, to one arm and hip while yanking clothes from the rods. “I’ll call Jared from the car...call Brent and tell him... Stephen.”

Scooter appeared in the doorway and barked once, then headed back out of the room.

Stephen. He was only a quarter mile away. He would welcome them. He would understand. He wouldn’t think she was crazy. He would hold her, comfort her, keep her and Clary safe.

Scooter came back to bark once more before trotting off again. Telling her to come on, quit wasting time, get out of this house.

She looked at the clothes she’d grabbed, two and a half outfits for herself, none for Clary, then dropped them on the bed. They could come back here and change in the morning, when it was daylight, when it was safe. She needed only two things besides her daughter and Scooter. She took her phone from the nightstand, grabbed her medication from the bathroom drawer and headed toward the stairs as Scooter barked a third time.

At the front door, she risked a look into the living room. The candles were still lit, their flames sending ghostly shapes across the canvas. “Gotta get out,” she whispered, arms clenching Clary more tightly, but halfway out the door she remembered Brent. If he found them gone and the clothes tumbled on the bed, he’d panic.

Rushing to the kitchen, she scribbled a note and left it in a prominent place on the island, then rushed back to the door. She was all the way out when she thought about the candles. She couldn’t leave them burning. They were a fire hazard. She didn’t care about losing the house, but she couldn’t endanger Brent and Anne or her neighbors.

She ran into the living room, blew out the flames, breathed in the acrid smoke that curled up from the wicks, then ran out again. Scooter, waiting patiently on the steps, barked, and she closed the door, locked it and hustled for the van. For such a short drive, she set Clary in the passenger seat, shushing her when she murmured and shifted. Scooter jumped into the front floorboard and rested his chin on Clary’s leg. She sighed, patted his head and went on sleeping.

Once Macy drove through the Woodhaven gate, streetlamps were fewer and much farther between. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they almost went numb, and her gaze kept shifting: street ahead, daughter beside her, road behind her. She braked to a jerky stop in front of the neat little cottage, yanked out her keys, ran around to the passenger side and lifted out Clary, then followed Scooter to the porch.

Her first knock qualified as polite. Ludicrous. She’d fled her house with her little girl in the middle of the night and acted as if she were making a routine visit. Scooter thought it silly, too, because he nosed the screen door open, banged the door with one paw and let out a great deep bark. She imitated his knock, curling her fingers into a fist and banging on the door, then called, “Stephen! It’s me and Clary! Open the door, please!”

Lights came on in the bedroom, thin wedges spilling around the edges of the curtains, and she practically danced in place, anxious to get inside and into his embrace. A moment later, the lock clicked and Stephen pulled the door open. He was wearing boxers—black, she noticed, charmed in some small corner of her mind—and nothing else, not even glasses. His expression was dazed, worried and startled when she threw herself and Clary against his bare chest.

“Mace?” His mouth brushed her ear, and his arms automatically went around them, as if it were the most natural action in the world. She
felt
as if having them around her was the most natural. “What— Why— Are you guys okay?”

Scooter brushed around them and went into the kitchen, and the sound of lapping at water came a moment later. Normal, she thought again. Scooter was home and getting a drink. She and Clary were home and getting hugged by Stephen. Normal was such a shaky idea for her, one that she wanted so desperately that she didn’t trust her voice to work. “C-can we st-stay here?”

“Of course you can.”

His sleepy, husky voice drifted over her, and the sharp edge of tension gripping her began to dull. Whatever had happened at the house, now she could relax. Now she and Clary were safe. The knowledge sent shivers through her, each ripple diminishing fear and anxiety, until at last her body went limp, taking support from his, her mind easing with the soft stroking of his hand down her spine, the soft murmurs.
You’re okay. It’s okay.

When the shaking had stopped, he stepped back, moved his hands to her shoulders and met her gaze. “What happened?”

Her deep inhalation smelled of him and Clary and soap and triggered another loosening sensation of tension. She wanted to just breathe it in, just stand there, her, Clary and Stephen, and absorb the goodness of it, the rightness, but the muscles in her left arm and back were showing the strain of holding her baby for so long. She started to shift her to the other arm, but Stephen intercepted her, lifting Clary gently and laying her on the couch. He slid a small pillow under her head, tucked a quilted throw over her.

When he came back, he closed and locked the door and asked again, quietly, patiently, “What happened?”

Her first attempt at answering was little more than babbling, but after another deep breath, she folded her arms across her middle and feigned control. If you could pretend it, she thought, you could be it.

“Something startled me awake, and I realized Scooter was at the bedroom door, wanting to go out. I took him downstairs and let him out. When he came back in, he stopped in the living room doorway and that’s when I saw candles burning on the mantel under the portrait.”

His gaze narrowed so intently that she wondered for one heartbreaking moment if he doubted her, if his reassurances that afternoon had been merely an attempt to placate her, as her family often had. When he held up a finger and pivoted away into the bedroom, though, then came back with his glasses on, relief banished her own doubt. He’d just been trying to bring her into focus.

“Where did the candles come from? There have never been any on the mantel.”

“The candlesticks were in the dining room. The china cabinet at the far end. Bottom cabinet. Paul Revere made them. The tapers must have been in there, too.”

His eyes widened slightly. “
The
Paul Revere?”

“That’s what the documentation says.”