Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,74

Southern mansion filled with heirlooms.

And the history she would treasure was her family. Not how much money they did or didn’t have. Not how long they’d lived in the state. Not whether they’d had power or influence, but whether they’d loved each other. Whether they’d loved her. How happy they’d been.

Radiating an antiques dealer’s disapproval, Rebekah stepped into the hall, waiting for Macy to lead the way to the next room. It was Mark’s office. She stopped just inside the door, close enough to step right back out if the need struck.

“Oh, my God. Is that desk a Littleton? Oh, wow, it is. I’ve read that he only made a half dozen of these and they’re all in private collections. And it’s in perfect condition! Absolutely perfect. This is amazing!”

Stopping on his way to the garage with a filled box, Brent mouthed, “You okay?”

Macy smiled, then brushed Clary’s hair as she marched past. “C’mon, Uncle Brent. I’ll open the door for you.”

Rebekah examined the desk, touching it lovingly here and there, rubbing her hand over the ancient leather of the chair, marveling at the exacting simplicity of the credenza, the library table, the game table and chairs near the fireplace. Then she turned her attention to the bookcases. “These are...”

“They’re Littleton, too. The room was built to accommodate them.” Done so well that no one noticed they weren’t built-in shelves. Each tall case unhinged into two shorter but still massive cases. The day they’d been moved safely into the house had been a happy one for Mark.

Had he gone out and murdered someone to celebrate?

The last rooms she showed Rebekah were the guest rooms upstairs. The furniture in the master suite was modern stuff, built with comfort in mind, but both guest rooms were furnished with pieces circa 1800. Another reason Macy had done the guesthouse herself, where the beds were wide enough and long enough and the mattresses actually had some give to them.

Still scribbling on her pad as they descended the stairs, Rebekah raised her hand only long enough to shake Macy’s before going out the door. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

No doubt with contracts to sign, arrangements to get detailed appraisals, probably requests for provenance if it existed. It did. In the old days it had been ledgers detailing every purchase, bills of sale tucked between the pages. More recent generations had used file folders, then computers. So proud of what they possessed.

And all those possessions they’d amassed were supporting her and Clary and would continue to do so. Macy was grateful for that, but at the same time she couldn’t wait to put the Howards in her past and do something for others. She could help fund Right Track. And the no-kill animal shelter Stephen had mentioned. She could do a whole lot of good for a lot of people, not for Mark or his grandfather but to honor the Howards who’d come before who weren’t murdering bastards.

They weren’t all murderers.

For Clary’s sake, she needed to remember that.

* * *

The crew from Right Track were loading a dresser into a yellow moving van when Stephen and Scooter arrived after work. The ones who knew him greeted them; the new women, probably from the streets of Atlanta or Augusta, gave him a familiar look of suspicion. Most of the residents at Right Track had been used and abused by men—fathers, brothers, boyfriends, pimps. It took some longer than others to trust that not all men meant them harm.

He met Brent at the door, watching them maneuver the dresser into the back of the van then tuck blankets around it. The rest of the space was filled with sofas, chairs, dining tables and such. “This is their third load. Can you believe they cleaned out the house and the guesthouse except for the bedrooms we’re using all by themselves? I’d be done in.”

Sadness settled over Stephen as he watched them close the heavy door then load up, two in the truck, four in a pickup truck. “When you’ve been victimized, you tend to become strong in an effort to give yourself a chance the next time someone comes after you. They get lessons in nutrition at the center and have their own garden, and they make good use of the gym. If they’re going down, they want to go down fighting.”

Brent’s expression turned troubled, only to fade when the slap of running steps echoed down the hall behind them. They both turned in time for Clary