Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,26

back with a cooler of drinks and a life vest for a pillow.

“That’s probably the best way to see it,” she remarked as the road wound through stands of pines. Soon it paralleled a wrought-iron fence, then reached an elaborate gate. She stopped there, rolled down the window and pulled a slip of paper from the sun visor. Stephen watched her punch a code into the keypad, watch the gate swing open then draw a deep breath and drive inside.

If a person appreciated architecture, Fair Winds was probably a prime example. It stood three stories tall, glowing white in the lowering sun, its brick columns straight, its grass mown, its flower beds bordering the porch blooming brightly. It was the sort of place that made the Lessers of the World stare in awe, imagining how good life must be in such a mansion.

But Macy was right: seeing it from the river was better. With that stretch of yard, the wrought-iron fence and strips of riverbank and water adding distance. Up close, the place was...unsettling.

She stopped in the driveway underneath a live oak that showed the wounds from a not-too-distant lightning strike and shut off the engine. She dried her palms on her shorts, took out a key from the console, then opened the car door. Pausing in the act of getting out, she asked in an everyday-normal tone, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No, not really.”

She smiled. “Good. Because they say this place is haunted. And I believe it.”

* * *

Macy had been raised with a fine appreciation for Southern historic sites and elegant old houses, but she’d disliked Fair Winds from her first visit. At the time she’d written it off to nerves at meeting Miss Willa and Mr. Arthur for the first time. She’d already been woefully aware of the differences between her and Mark, and Fair Winds had been a flashing-neon reminder.

Later, she’d thought she’d just picked up on the less-than-warm vibes Mark’s grandparents had put out. They hadn’t been a particularly friendly couple. They’d oozed haughtiness, and affectionate hadn’t been in their natures.

Now, as she stood beside the van and felt her gaze drawn, however reluctantly, to the front lawn, she wondered if the remnants of fear, anguish and loss permeating the place had been the cause for her dislike. So much ugliness had gone on within these grounds, from the slave labor that had built the place and multiplied the Howard fortunes to the sad people who’d lost their lives here.

Mark had lost his life here, somewhere in the field of green in front of the house. Suicide, everyone had said. He’d been so self-important; she’d never imagined he could even contemplate suicide.

She’d also never imagined he could lay a hand on another person in anger so, obviously, what did she know?

“Do you want to go inside or just walk around the outside?”

Stephen’s voice startled her, and she took a deep breath to hide it. Rumor said there were ghosts inside, too, but as far as she knew, none of them had died violently. Better than she could say of the poor souls for whom the front lawn had been their graves.

“Just a quick walk-through.” Pleased that her voice hadn’t trembled, though it had come out a bit breathy, she started toward the front porch. The steps didn’t creak, and though rarely used, the key turned smoothly and the door swung silently inward.

She flipped the switches beside the door, and lights came on down the broad corridor and up the stairs. Of course the electricity was still on, to provide climate control for the priceless antiques inside.

Her footsteps echoed on the wood floor until she reached the faded runner that ran the length of the hallway. Realizing that Stephen wasn’t following, she turned back.

“I should leave Scooter outside. One swipe of his tail, and I’d be in debt for the rest of my life.”

She spared a glance for the living room, then the corridor and smiled. “I always worried when I came here that I would break one of the prizes that Miss Willa treasured far more than any living being. Thankfully, I never did, or I would have been banished from the place like Clary was.” She paused. “Bring him in.”

“Was Clary really banished?” With Scooter’s leash wrapped three or four times around his large hand, Stephen crossed the threshold, keeping the dog at his side.

“Not formally, but Miss Willa always made sure we understood that dinner invitations meant getting a babysitter. She wasn’t a