Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,66
emotions on Stephen’s handsome face were in her favor: sympathy, sadness, sorrow. No sign of dismay that she had been, at one time, mentally defective. No revulsion. No horror. No hint of She was broken once; what if she breaks again?
But that was why the rest of her story was the worst.
She sighed. It was a beautiful sunny day. Foot traffic was picking up a little, along with the cars. Church bells tolled nearby, and she imagined the big broad doors opening, kids spilling out first, followed by mothers who had pot roasts in the slow cooker or hungry folks wanting to reach the restaurants before everybody else.
She and Mark had always been slow to reach the parking lot. He’d greeted everyone he’d felt worthy, exchanging small talk, and she’d said hello to friends and acquaintances and people like Louise Wetherby. It had been part of their routine: Clary dressed like a little angel, Mark in his custom-tailored suits, Macy in dresses or skirts. No pants in church for her ever. They hadn’t had to hurry to dinner because Mark had a standing reservation at the country club—the best table, the best server and tips well worth the inconvenience of holding the table.
She sighed again. It was a beautiful sunny day, and if she couldn’t tell Stephen the worst of the story now, when could she? No one was close enough to listen. Her daughter was in Anamaria’s perfectly responsible care, playing with kids her age and loving it. And Stephen was waiting patiently, not pressing her. She could say, I can’t talk about it, and he would accept it.
She really didn’t know if she could talk about it. Outside of therapy, she’d never tried. But there was a first time for everything.
“Mark’s suicide was a huge shock to everyone. He was happy. He had a very strong sense of entitlement, of ego. He was quite convinced that he truly was one of the reasons all this existed—for his satisfaction, his pleasure.” She indicated the town with a wave of her hand. “But for all that, he was a decent man. People liked him. They were happy to call him their friend. Clary and I adored him.”
Stephen’s expression was open, nonjudgmental, though there was a flash of something at her last sentence that looked like envy. By the time she was done with this story, he would know beyond a doubt that her one-time feelings for Mark were no threat to him.
“His cousin Reece had come to town that October. I never got to meet her until...after. She and Mark were never close. The one summer they’d spent together, he’d tormented her regularly.” Long story that Stephen could learn later, if he was interested. If he was still around. “That day, he took Miss Willa and me to lunch at the country club, then she went to a meeting with me. He was supposed to be playing golf, but instead he went out to Fair Winds, and he—he—”
A customer went into the coffee shop. Two came out. Two more passed on their way down the block. When the sidewalk was clear in every direction, she blurted it out. “He tried to kill Reece and her boyfriend.”
That knocked the calm, studied look right off Stephen’s face. How many people outside law enforcement ever knew a murderer? How many lived next door to one, went to church with him, played golf with him?
How many had babies with him and slept in his bed every night without even the faintest hint of a clue?
“Oh, my God, Macy.” He barely breathed the words.
Her smile trembled, and her vision got blurry. Allergies, with all the newly bloomed flowers around. “You haven’t heard the worst of the story yet.” She checked their surroundings once again, noted Clary and Gloriana seated primly on the gazebo steps with Anamaria while Will and Scooter performed tricks in front of them.
“You see, the reason Reece and Mark were never close was because he’d tried to kill her once before when they were kids. The last time, she and Jones had dug up a bone from a grave on the front lawn at Fair Winds, and Mark had no intention of letting them call the authorities because either Mark or his grandfather had murdered the man. He couldn’t be sure which, since there were more than forty graves on that front lawn. It had been their hobby, the pastime that bonded them. No one knows exactly when Arthur started killing, but