Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,42
had a faintly off scent, as if something had turned with age.
Stephen hardly noticed the doggy breath or the chlorine lingering from last night’s swim or the fine grit four massive paws had spread over the bed after their walk home. Smells and dirt were par for the course with a dog in the house. He started the coffee, jumped in the shower, then checked his email while scarfing down protein bars with the java.
Macy lay paralyzed in bed, hating that cologne as intensely as she hated the man it represented, until finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. She jumped from bed, marched into her bathroom for a can of germ killer, then stalked across the room to Mark’s bathroom, filling both it and the closet with a fine mist of medicinal-smelling lemon. Try to overpower that, sandalwood, she thought as she grabbed the black bottle and tossed it in a box in the hallway holding trash.
The Howard house looked quiet and imposing as Stephen drove past. A lot of curtained windows, a lot of impenetrable brick. He wondered if Macy felt like a prisoner locked away in its unwelcoming interior.
“It’s a house,” he said aloud to rein in his imagination. “A beautiful house that someone will eventually pay a cool million or two for.”
After living like a Howard for so many years, her idea of prison would probably be the little house he lived in. Clary’s bedroom was three times the size of his office. The linen closet was nicer and bigger than his bedroom.
But he could afford more. He didn’t make a lot of money, but other than expenses such as the computer, the internet, research groups and the professional dues he paid in both jobs, he didn’t spend much money, either. It wasn’t as if he was poor. He worked part-time at two jobs, neither of which paid a lot, because he loved them, not because it was all he could do.
When he reached the clinic, he parked out back, then let himself in the rear door. Lights were already on, and music filtered down the hall from the reception counter. It didn’t matter how early he got in, Zia Cruz always beat him. He didn’t know where she found the energy. She was five years older than him, worked here six days a week and spent evenings caring for her five nieces and nephews while her brothers worked their night jobs.
“Hi, Zia,” he called as he stopped in his office to set down the fast-food breakfast he’d brought along, then he followed the smell of coffee to the break room. She sat at a table, feet propped up, reading the newspaper.
“Hey Doc.” She didn’t look up from the paper. For a small city, the Clarion was a decent paper, published six days a week as well as online. They had the benefit of extremely generous support from the Calloway and Kennedy families, which made their battle to survive more of a skirmish.
“Anything interesting in there today?”
“Interesting, sad, depressing.” She finished the front section and laid it aside in trade for the next.
Stephen filled his coffee mug, stirred in sugar and creamer, then leaned against the counter. The position immediately reminded him of Macy. “How long have you lived here, Zia?”
She looked at him over the paper, one brow raised. Her skin was olive-toned, her hair black, her eyes almost black. “Despite my name and my appearance, I was born and raised here. All of us kids were, except Jimmy.” She wrinkled her nose as if in distaste. “He was born in New York.”
Stephen ducked his head. “Pardon my jumping to conclusions. I just haven’t met many people born here.”
She rolled the newspaper and swatted his leg with it. “You don’t do hangdog well. Do you wanna know something about this burg, or are you just trying to make polite conversation?”
He put off answering by sipping his steaming coffee. He hadn’t gone straight to the computer when he and Scooter got home the night before. He’d felt too...hopeful. Whatever the internet could tell him could wait. He’d rather hear it from Macy anyway.
But would it hurt to ask just a question or two?
“Do you know a family named Howard?”
Zia’s white smile flashed. “In Copper Lake, there are plenty of families named Howard, but there’s only one Howard family. Money, tragedy and scandal—the kind of stuff people do one-hour TV shows about.”
Stephen went back to drinking coffee hot enough to scald and impossible to taste with the thoughts