Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,25

hair from his khaki shorts and decided they were reasonably clean. After wiping his glasses on the discarded shirt, he was ready to go. With his cell in his pocket and keys in hand, he whistled for Scooter, still waiting hopefully by the refrigerator. The dog raced to the door, sliding into a sitting position an instant before hitting the wall, and Stephen attached his leash. “We’re going for a ride, buddy. Be on your best behavior.”

The mutt gave him a whaddaya mean sort of look, and Stephen laughed as he opened the door. By the time he got the house locked up and walked Scooter to the gate, Macy’s fancy minivan was gliding to a stop in front of them.

“You sure you want to let him in there?” he asked through the open window. “I don’t mind driving.”

She glanced at the luxurious leather of the rear seat and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t mind dog hair.”

“Or scratches from his claws?”

“Don’t worry about it. Get in.”

Stephen slid the back door open and Scooter hopped inside, immediately going into sniffing-new-territory mode before settling on his haunches in the seat behind Macy. The front passenger seat sank under Stephen’s weight, molding around him, reminding him that his car was old and well used and hadn’t been this nice to start.

But it was reliable and paid for. That counted for a lot.

“Where are we going?”

Macy made a tight U-turn. “A few miles outside town. Mark— My husband’s grandmother owned a house out there. She died a month after he did, so it’s Clary’s now.”

“Are you going to keep it, sell it, live in it?” He caught himself before she could answer. “No, you’re not planning to stay around here.”

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as they passed through the gate into Villain country. “I’ve had a suggestion, but I don’t know what I want. I figured I should start by at least looking at it and making sure everything’s okay.” She flashed a smile his way at the precise moment they passed her own house. “I appreciate your going with me.”

He didn’t say that he appreciated being asked. She’d lived in Copper Lake a long time before her absence, so she must have had other options—friends, neighbors, a lawyer. Hell, for someone who lived in Woodhaven, the sheriff’s department probably would have been happy to provide her with an escort.

After they exited the subdivision at the other end, her grip on the steering wheel loosened and her shoulders relaxed. She clearly didn’t like the place any more than he did. His reasons were simple enough: he was into reverse snobbery, and the residents had deemed him, the sisters and their families as unworthy to even drive on their precious streets.

But what was Macy’s reason? Still mourning her husband? Not likely, considering her comment last night. It would be tougher if I still loved him.

Had she married up and been on the receiving end of the same scorn her fancy neighbors had shown him?

Had her husband abused her in that house?

He studied her while the idea rolled around in his head. After a moment, he let it go. He had a lot more experience with abused creatures than anyone should have, and she just didn’t present that way. She had a lot of self-doubts, needed a boost in confidence and spooked easily, but she didn’t act like a woman who’d been abused.

Maybe it was guilt because she didn’t love her dead husband.

“You know, it’s impolite to stare.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to.” He blinked, realizing that she was glancing his way, that the van was slowing and the turn signal was clicking rhythmically. A look around showed that they were on River Road just north of the city limits, and a plaque set into a brick column on the left side of the road said they were turning into the private drive for Fair Winds.

He blinked again. “Fair Winds? The property your three-year-old daughter owns is Fair Winds? The plantation?”

Uneasiness fluttered through her. After a semi passed, its blast rocking them, she turned onto the wide dirt road. “Yes. Her father was one of those Howards.”

Didn’t sound as if she thought much of her husband’s family. The rich are different, someone had once said, so the super-rich were probably super-different.

“I have to admit, I don’t know anything about the family, but I’ve seen the house from the river.” Stephen wasn’t much on fishing, but occasionally he borrowed Yancy’s boat and spent an entire afternoon kicked