Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,44

artist had been more than happy to work from a photo. They’d had a big party when it had arrived, coinciding with their first anniversary and their move into the house, and people with their own portraits looming over them at home had admired it.

For the first few months, it had disconcerted her, confronting a six-by-eight-foot image of herself and Mark every time she’d walked into or past the room. Eventually she’d stopped noticing it, but now it disconcerted her again. It was a huge lie done in oils.

Dragging a chair to the fireplace, she climbed onto it and was gripping the bottom of the elaborate gilt frame when Stephen spoke from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking it down.” Not as easily said as done. The sucker was heavy and attached to the brick far above her head. Holding on tighter, she leaned forward and shoved upward. The frame moved wildly, and so did she, losing her balance on the chair. Letting go, she flailed her arms then found herself steady with both hands on Stephen’s shoulders. He held her a moment before lifting her to the floor.

“Wait till we get a ladder,” he said reasonably.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to look at it anymore.” But it was hard to be pouty when his hands were still cradling her waist and the heat radiating from his body was a match for her own. “Can we cover it with a sheet?”

“When we get a ladder.” He studied her a moment, then said, “How about this? I’ll get the marker and draw mustaches and glasses with fuzzy eyebrows on both of you. You won’t recognize yourself.”

“Sounds good.” She hesitated then rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming over. I know you’ve got better things to do.”

“Other things,” he agreed. “Not better.” His hand slid up her spine in the same sort of deep-tissue, muscle-relaxing massage he’d given Scooter the night before. She thought she might react the same way the dog had—a few guttural moans, then going limp and sinking to the floor with her tongue hanging out.

Before that could happen, though, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stepped away. “What are you going to do about all the furniture? The antique stuff.”

It took a moment for strength to replace the laziness he’d created in her body, then she glanced around. Every single piece in the room, including the chair she’d just climbed on, fit in that category. As far as she could remember, the newest piece was somewhere around one hundred fifty years old. “Sell what I can and donate the rest, I guess.”

“You have anyone in mind to handle the deal?”

“If I had ever needed an antiques dealer, I would have asked Miss Willa or Lorna. Now...” She shook her head.

“Lydia Kennedy is a client of mine. You know her?”

This time her head bobbed. The Kennedy family had been in Copper Lake for six generations or more and, like the Howards and the Calloways, were blessed with riches. “Her husband is a distant cousin of Miss Willa’s.”

“She likes to buy and sell antiques. Why don’t I call her and see who she recommends?”

“I’d appreciate that.” Macy hadn’t wanted to think about the furniture beyond getting rid of it, so sources of referrals hadn’t even made it to the back of her mind. There was no doubt Lydia dealt with only the best—she and Miss Willa had had that in common, though little else. Lydia was a kind woman who actually cared about people.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started toward the hallway. Turning back, he asked, “What were you going to do with the painting if you’d gotten it down?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Taken it out in the backyard, chopped it up and burned it in the fire pit.”

His head shake was regretful. “The artist put a lot of work into it.”

“He was well paid.”

“Still...”

“The painting—however many thousands of dollars. Not having to see it again—priceless.” She smirked as he rolled his eyes. When he walked out of the room and began speaking to someone about getting Lydia’s number, she gave another serious look around her. All the smaller pieces were packed. Even the Tiffany lamps were solidly cuddled in Bubble Wrap, the boxes labeled Fragile and Handle with Care in big red letters. There was nothing left in the room that she could deal with on her own.

Hearing the murmur of Stephen’s voice from the kitchen,