Copper Lake Secrets (10 page)

Tension knotted Jones’s gut and turned the coffee bitter. Carefully he set the cup down, leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. He was about to admit something he hadn’t told anyone in fifteen years and hadn’t really believed he ever would. But if it helped find out something about his brother… “The address on Glen’s license was North Augusta, South Carolina, but we actually lived in Murphy Village. Just off the interstate, big houses, trailers, lots of statues of the Madonna. Are you familiar with it, Detective?”

Just for an instant, Maricci showed surprise—something, Jones would bet, he didn’t often do. Quickly his expression went blank again, and his tone was perfectly neutral when he spoke. “What law-enforcement agency in the region isn’t? So you and your brother…are…were Irish Travelers.”

Watching traffic on the street, Jones swallowed hard, then absently reached down to slip the second half of the biscuit to Mick. Touching the dog’s fur, feeling him breathe, hearing his gung ho crunch, eased him a bit.

Then he forced his gaze back to Maricci’s. “Yes. But that’s not what Glen was doing here that summer. It had nothing to do with the family business.”
Business
included just about every scam a man could think of: resurfacing driveways, putting on new roofs, selling stolen property, construction. Wheeling and dealing and stealing.

There was an art to the business, Big Dan always said. A man needed charm and sincerity, an ability to bullshit and a little bit of acting. The men hit the road in spring and stayed gone into fall, always doing business far from home. They didn’t run cons where they lived—another of Big Dan’s rules.

“It’s my understanding the older boys travel with the men. Why weren’t you and Glen doing that?”

“We asked for one summer off to do whatever we wanted. We’d always done what we were told to. We were good workers. Glen had already quit school, and they’d decided I’d finished my last year, too.” He’d gotten one more year than his brothers and most of his cousins, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted to learn more—to learn a different life. “Our family agreed to it.”

“And you used the time to get the hell out of the South.”

Jones nodded.

“Was Glen planning to go back?”

“No.” Grimly Jones recounted his brother’s plans, leaving out mention of Siobhan by name. She’d gone through with the arranged marriage—to one of Jones’s cousins—and had a half-dozen kids. Most likely, no one even suspected she’d intended to run away, and he’d prefer to keep it that way. Glen had found enough trouble. No use spreading it to her.

“How long was he here?”

“A few weeks. Three, maybe.”

“And the last time you saw him—where was that?”

“Right around where the backpack was found. He’d made camp and was going to stick around awhile. I went on without him.” The biggest regret of Jones’s life. If he’d stayed…

“What was his routine? Did he keep to himself? Hang out in town? Did he try to pick up a few dollars somehow?”

“We stayed out of town as much as possible. If there was fishing to be done, we did that. If there was a creek to swim in, we did that. We didn’t mess with people.” His jaw tight, he deliberately disregarded the last question. He and Glen had saved as much money as they could for the trip, and their father had given them some, but, yeah, they’d stolen when the opportunity was too good to resist—cash a few times, food a few others. They’d both wanted to live more law-abiding lives, but they’d been willing to do whatever was necessary to get to those lives.

Maricci was quiet a moment, then he pushed his chair back. “I’ll talk to the sheriff’s investigator who caught the case. Where are you staying?”

“Fair Winds. I’m putting together a bid to restore the gardens there.”

“Really. I’ve heard about those gardens from my grandfather. He said people used to drive out there just to look through the gate at them.” His gaze turned speculative. “What does Miss Willa’s grandson think of the plan?”

“He’s not thrilled, or so I’ve heard. I expect to hear from him sometime soon.”

“I expect you will. I’ll be in touch, too.” Maricci stood, offered his hand, then gave Mick a scratch before walking away.

Chapter 5

A
fter an excruciatingly stiff dinner with Grandmother and Mark, Reece retired to her room upstairs for a little light reading. The book she’d been instructed to study lay open on the bed, about as interesting as a six-month-old newspaper. The writing was as pretentious as the title—
Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia
—and the musty odor was giving her a headache.

Restlessly she got out of bed and went to the windows. The nearly full moon cast its eerie light, giving a ghostly glow to the objects it reached directly, casting deep shadows elsewhere. Out front, except for distant lights across the river, everything was dark. On the side, a lone light shone on the patio, but the cottage was in darkness. Everyone was asleep but her.

There had been more talk at dinner about the garden project, Mark trying repeatedly to get her to side with him. She hadn’t, which had frustrated him, but he’d continued to argue his case until Grandmother had flatly told him to shut up or leave.

After that, conversation had fizzled out. He had asked a few halfhearted questions about her life in New Orleans, talked a bit about his daughter, then murmured on his way out, “Thanks for the support, Clarice.”

After the door had closed behind him, Grandmother had drily repeated, “Yes, thanks for the support, Clarice.”

It’s none of my business.
She hadn’t said the words out loud, but she’d shrieked them inside.

As she stared out the window, movement caught her attention in the shadows across the driveway. She squinted, trying to find focus in the lack of light. Was it merely leaves rustling? A bird fluttering past? Maybe Mick, out for a middle-of-the-night bathroom break.

She couldn’t make out anything, and trying just made her head hurt worse. With a sigh, she began to rub her temples, but her hands stilled as a thud sounded downstairs.

It was likelier one of the resident ghosts than Grandmother. Still, after a moment, she started toward the door. She would really rather lock herself inside, crawl into bed and let the book bore her to sleep, but there was no lock on the door, and what if it
had
been Grandmother? What if she’d gone downstairs for something and fallen?

Opening the door, she looked quickly down the hall. Grandmother’s door was closed, but that didn’t mean anything. It was always closed.

She stepped into the hallway and softly called, “Grandmother?”

No response from upstairs, but the quiet click of a door came from below. Just as the bedroom doors were always closed, the doors downstairs were always open, except the kitchen door…and the one that led to Grandfather’s study. Reece took the few steps necessary to reach the top of the stairs, then crept to the landing, where the study door became visible, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.

Faint light seeped out underneath the door, and distant footsteps shuffled. Unable to breathe, unable to do anything at all but cling more tightly to the stair rail, she watched the shifting light as those footsteps paced slowly to the left, then slowly back again.
One, two, three, four, five…

Maybe it was Grandmother. Maybe she felt closer to Grandfather in his study than anywhere else, so she went there when she couldn’t sleep.

But to convince herself of that, Reece would have to go down the stairs, across the hall and open the door. She couldn’t.

…six, seven, eight, nine…

Chills swept over her, creating shivers that left her barely able to stand. She wanted to throw her stuff in the truck and drive home without stopping. She wouldn’t feel safe again until she was curled up in her own bed with Bubba, Louie and Eddie all snuggled close.

Abruptly the footsteps stopped and the light winked out. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, all the normal sounds gone. There was the light rasp of her breathing, the thudding of her heart and nothing else.

She couldn’t say how long it took to steady her legs or to uncurl her fingers from the banister. Afraid to turn her back on the study door, she backed up the steps and down the hall, pivoting when she reached her room. She closed the door noiselessly, leaned against it and gave a great exhalation.

When she breathed again, she caught the faint hint of tobacco smoke on the air. Her stomach knotted once, then did it again as her gaze took in the book she’d left open on the bed, closed now and resting on the dresser. Then, slowly, she looked upward to the message barely visible on the mirror.

Go away.

It appeared as if it had been written on wet glass, fading as the moisture dried. Even as she watched, it disappeared, not leaving so much as a smudge behind.

Which resident ghost was the message from? Was it friendly advice…or a threat?

Moving to the bed, she shoved her feet into a pair of flip-flops, then hastily left the room again. She tiptoed down the hall to the back stairs—anything to avoid the area around the study—then switched off the patio light and let herself out the side door. Moonlight was illumination enough for her tonight.

It was a little too cool for the thin cotton shorts and T-shirt she wore as pajamas, but she didn’t care. Out here she could breathe. She could think. She could feel, if not safe, then saf
er.

As she settled in one of the chairs with her back to the house, her shoulders sagged with release. It wasn’t her first encounter with a Fair Winds ghost. She hadn’t been in danger. Someone was just telling her to do what she very much wished she could: say goodbye to this place forever. If the message had been a threat, any ghost could have come up with more ominous words.

If it was just a warning, though, it could have at least said
please
or
for your own good.

Or someone could have just been making mischief. A weird sense of humor in life would likely follow its owner into death.

Across the road came a little creak, and her muscles started tightening again before she saw Mick leap off the cottage porch and trot toward her. There was no other sign of movement from the place; she guessed Mick had awakened Jones and he’d let the dog out and was waiting half-asleep inside.

“Hey, sweetie,” she murmured, offering a scratch to the dog.

He put his paws on her leg, stretched up and licked her chin, then hunkered down again, practically vibrating with pleasure as she rubbed the base of his ears and down his neck. He reminded her of how very much she missed her dogs. They were probably all stretched out on her bed right now, snoring loudly, pushing against each other as they rambled in their dreams.

“I wish I had a treat to give you, but I haven’t trespassed into the kitchen yet. I don’t know if Lois would mind, but there’s no doubt that Grandmother would.” She’d found the kitchen the most welcoming room in the house fifteen years ago, and Inez, the housekeeper then, the most sympathetic person. But once Grandmother had caught her slipping in there, both Reece and Inez had been warned.

Mick didn’t seem to mind affection in place of treats, so she continued to rub him, leaning forward as he slowly sank onto the ground, then rolled onto one side to expose his belly.

“Don’t forget you already have three at home. You can’t have mine, too.”

She startled, but just a bit, nothing like the scare she’d already had. Jones did indeed look only half-awake. His hair was mussed, he wore the same shirt and shorts he’d worn on their walk that morning, and his feet, like hers, were in flip-flops.

“I’m not trying to win over your dog.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of it for not trying.” He sank into the nearest chair and propped his feet on the fountain rim. “I wondered what was taking him so long. I should have known. If there’s a pretty girl with magic fingers around, he forgets it’s the middle of the night.”

Pretty girl.
The warmth that settled over her was far too much response for the casual compliment.

“Sorry I kept him out.” But she wasn’t. She’d needed the peace Mick provided, even it was just for a few minutes.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“I never have trouble sleeping. Mick doesn’t snore, but he does have this loud, rhythmic breathing when he sleeps. It just kind of draws you in. I’m usually out ten minutes after he is.”

“Lucky you.” Though, usually, falling asleep wasn’t her problem. The rude awakening from the nightmares was. Nothing like a few bloodcurdling screams to put the end to a much-needed rest.

“I saw your cousin leaving after dinner. He didn’t look like a happy man.”

That was a good description for Mark, at least on the subject of the garden plan. He’d told Grandmother he was worried and didn’t want anyone taking advantage of her. Grandmother had retorted that it was her
money
he was worried about, not her, and not to worry, that she wouldn’t let
anyone,
including her grandson, take advantage of her.

“Has he talked to you yet?” Reece asked. “Tried to send you away or make it worth your while to convince Grandmother you can’t fit her into your schedule? Or maybe he’ll decide she can have a smaller—much smaller—garden.”

“Not yet. He’s probably checking out his options. First he’ll try to change her mind. When that fails, he’ll either bring in other family members—”

Reece interrupted with a snort that made Jones grin.

“—or talk to his lawyer to see what legal steps can be taken.”

“He mentioned Grandmother’s lawyer.” The thought of that kind of interference irritated her. Having been married to Grandfather for fifty-some years certainly entitled Grandmother to spend her money on anything she wanted, even if it was clowns performing every day in a combination water/skateboard park on the front lawn. “Has it really come to legal action on any of your jobs?”

“Just once, in Florida. Old man with grown children and a new bride. He left the bulk of his estate to his kids, but the wife got to spend pretty freely while she lived. The kids insisted she was trying to bleed the estate dry to punish them. The thing is, the kids were going to get about $20 million each, and they paid their lawyers more than the project was budgeted for to fight over the cost of a five-acre garden.”