Scandal in Copper Lake

by Marilyn Pappano

  She returned home on Carolina Avenue and River Road, driving through the heart of downtown. She let herself into the house, left her purse on the chair just inside the living room doorway, then went to the kitchen to pick up a straw bag filled with plastic-covered plates of cookies. There were still houses in the neighborhood to visit, people to meet who might have known her mother. Though people regularly came and went in her Savannah neighborhood, there were also plenty of people who’d lived all their lives in those few blocks. This neighborhood wasn’t likely to be any different.

  When she turned to take a bottle of water from the refrigerator, something crunched beneath her feet. Glass, shards of it, dotting the floor, the rug in front of the sink, the countertop.

  The window above the sink had been broken, the brick that had done it looking incongruous against the white porcelain. With goose bumps rising, she concentrated on the house but felt nothing unusual, no sense of danger, no threat.

  In her bedroom she found two shattered windows, two bricks. The bathroom window, small and narrow, was intact, though one window in each of the two front rooms also was cracked.

  Juveniles? Vandals choosing victims at random? Or a warning from someone who didn’t like her questions?

  Back in the kitchen, she located the local phone book that had come with her new phone service and dialed the nonemergency number for the Copper Lake Police Department. The dispatcher wasn’t particularly interested in the call. Petty vandalism, especially in her neighborhood, wasn’t a high priority what with real crime going on.

  Twenty-three years ago a five-year-old girl hysterical over her missing mother hadn’t been a priority, either.

  She was about to hang up and start looking for a repairman when the dispatcher put her on hold. Almost immediately, Tommy Maricci came on the line.

  “Hey, Anamaria, this is Tommy, Robbie’s friend. We met yesterday. What’s up?”

  “Someone delivered five bricks through my windows while I was out this morning. I was just checking to see if it was worth my time to make a report.”

  “I’ll be over in a few minutes. You need a glass man? I can call Russ on my way and get someone.”

  For half an instant, she considered refusing. A few broken windows didn’t need the attention of a detective, and she was perfectly capable of finding someone to replace them herself. But if knowing Robbie could get her both a detective and a repair guy that easily, why not?

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “You’re not in the house, are you? If someone’s hanging around—”

  “They’re not. I can feel it.”

  He might have smirked, but he didn’t say anything cynical. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks.” She hung up, then gazed at the fragments of glass still in the window frame. The house had stood empty for twenty-three years with no problems, and now, four days after she’d moved in, this had happened. What a coincidence.

  Except that she didn’t believe in coincidence.

  At least it didn’t appear that the vandals had come inside. There was little to steal: a colorful wardrobe. A supply of cosmetics and perfumes. An array of cast-off dishes and pans from the diner. She’d brought nothing of value with her besides—

  Rushing into the bedroom, she tugged the suitcase from the closet shelf, then heaved a sigh of relief. The wooden chest remained in its corner, untouched since she’d placed it there Sunday evening.

  Her heart was slowing to a normal beat when car doors slammed outside. She went to the door, opening it as Tommy Maricci came up the steps, accompanied by a uniformed female officer. “Detective,” she greeted him.

  “You can call me Tommy.”

  “First names could make it awkward if you arrest me.”

  “Nah. I’m on a first-name basis with most of the people I arrest. This is Bonnie DeLong. She’s going to look around.”

  She nodded to the woman, a petite brunette who projected an air of confidence. Size aside, she could take care of herself, or at least did a good job of making people think she could.

  “We don’t get many calls to this street,” Tommy said as he followed Officer DeLong inside.

  “Don’t get them? Or don’t answer them?” Anamaria asked.

  His gaze was level. “Easy Street’s a pretty quiet place. Miss Beulah next door and Mr. Gadney at the end of the block keep an eye on everyone around here, kids and adults both.”

  So he knew something about the neighborhood. She was impressed, and just a little chastened.

  Leaving Tommy and Officer DeLong talking, Anamaria went out to the front porch and sat in a chair, the creak in its rockers soothing in the warm afternoon. A few minutes later, Tommy joined her, a notebook and pen in hand.

  “How long were you gone this morning?”

  “I left at ten and got back a few minutes before I spoke to you on the phone.”

  “Where did you go besides the nursing home?”

  She looked at him, and he raised both hands in a mock defensive gesture. “Pops never has been able to keep a secret. Miss Marguerite, either.”

  But Robbie could.

  “I had lunch at a place called Joe Bob’s.”

  Tommy made a note of that. “It used to be Joe & Bob’s,” he said conversationally. “Brothers. But the and fell off the sign, and they never replaced it, so now it’s just Joe Bob’s. Alone?”

  The sudden question was intended to catch her off guard, and it almost worked. She opened her mouth to answer but asked her own question instead. “Does it matter?”

  “Only if we find a suspect and it turns out he was with you the whole time. Though Robbie heaving bricks through the windows is about as likely as Miss Beulah doing it.”

  She didn’t respond. Apparently, going to such an out-of-the-way place for lunch wasn’t enough to keep people from talking. Robbie’s caution had been for nothing.

  “Bricks are hell to get fingerprints off, but we’ll try,” he went on. “The grass is beaten down around back and on the sides. Bonnie’s gonna see if it leads to the woods or the street. After yesterday’s rain, there might be a footprint or two, but I wouldn’t count on it. Unless the goober happened to drop his wallet out of his pocket, we probably won’t find out who it was. By the way…” He eased his wallet from his hip pocket, flipped it open and pulled out a handful of business cards. The top one he handed to her, then after sorting through the others, he offered her a second one as well.

  The first was his, with numbers for the police department, the detective division and his cell phone. The second belonged to a yard service. “They do good work for a good price.”

  “Is that a hint, Detective?” she asked with a smile.

  “Half the punks in town could hide in this yard. If someone’s going to come sneaking around here, at least make it harder for them.”

  She folded her fingers around both cards. “I’ll give them a call.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the squeak of her chair, a bird in the live oak and the occasional growl of distant thunder. The afternoon sun was bright, casting sharp-edged shadows, and the air was heavy, typical of a Georgia spring day. The far-off storm might roll through or might dissipate completely. Either way, the warm afternoon would turn into a warm evening, full of sweet scents and promise.

  Would she spend it alone?

  Officer DeLong came onto the porch, the screen door banging behind her, and gave her report: The bricks were like a million other bricks in the county; there were no footprints; and the trail through the tall grass disappeared into the woods. “Probably kids,” she said. “Sneaked in from the woods.”

  Anamaria knew she was wrong about the first part. Whoever had paid her a visit probably had come from the woods, but the senseless innocence of kids playing vandal didn’t hover in the air. Still, she thanked Officer DeLong before Tommy sent her on her way.

  When he showed no inclination to leave, Anamaria asked, “What do you know about m
y mother’s death?”

  “Only what’s in the file.”

  “The file you gave Robbie?”

  He didn’t flush, look away or show any other signs of guilt. “Yeah.”

  “The officer who found my mother—is he still around?”

  He shook his head. “It was a guy fishing who actually discovered her. He died probably ten years ago. The officer who got the call moved away while I was still in high school, and the detective who caught the case is gone, too. Retired eight, nine years ago, and left town.”

  She stopped rocking, crossed her legs and folded her arms over her middle. “What about the baby? Is there any chance…”

  “That she survived? That somebody pulled her from the water and decided to keep her?” He shook his head. “You don’t just keep kids you find. People notice. They ask questions, especially when a baby that’s disappeared is in the news.”

  Anamaria nodded in agreement. Mama Odette had never sensed anything one way or the other about the baby, and Glory didn’t know, either. There were some who believed babies had no spiritual connection to the living until their births, that those who died at the time of birth returned to heaven unknowing of their family on earth. Mama Odette believed the trauma of death, leaving the world at the same time her baby came into it, had kept Glory from knowing Charlotte’s fate.

  Anamaria didn’t know what she believed.

  An approaching vehicle drew her attention to the street. A pickup truck pulled to the side behind Tommy’s police car, and a rotund man in a sweat-stained T-shirt climbed out. He took a toolbox from the bed of the truck before starting toward the house.

  “That’s one of Russ’s guys,” Tommy said. “He’s going to replace those windows.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He met the workman outside and disappeared around the corner with him. When he returned alone a few minutes later, he came no farther than the top of the steps. “If anything else happens, call me. And if you need a friendly ear, you know where to find me.”

  She smiled at the echo of her words to him the day before. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Robbie left the Eleanor Calloway Public Library shortly after three with a list of names, courtesy of the city directory from twenty-three years ago: every family that had lived on Easy Street, Tillman Avenue and the surrounding streets. Some he recognized as still living in the local area; others were unfamiliar to him. It shouldn’t take long to find them on the Internet—or, easier still, to turn them over to Tommy and let the police department do the looking.

  He’d just unlocked the Vette when a ’72 mint-condition Chevy pickup stopped behind him. Wearing a Calloway Construction cap and looking hot and grimy, Russ raised one hand in greeting. “Don’t you ever go to the office?”

  Robbie walked back to the truck. “Not if I can help it. Don’t you ever stay in the office?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Russ gestured toward the brick building. “Haven’t you heard? The Internet has made the library obsolete.”

  “Not entirely. Where are you headed?”

  “To the Hobson site. Gotta fill in for one of my guys. He’s doing some work over at Anamaria Duquesne’s house. Apparently, someone used her windows as targets.”

  Robbie’s muscles tightened. Why would anyone break her windows? And why had his brother found out before he had? Hell, even if she’d called the police first, she should have called him second, and Tommy should have called him, too.

  Oblivious to Robbie’s silence, Russ went on. “Hey, you want to come to dinner Saturday night? Mom’s coming, and Rick and Amanda will be in from Atlanta. You can even bring a date if you can get one.”

  Anamaria’s image formed much too quickly, and so did a picture of his family. Even though he couldn’t think of another woman he wanted to spend an evening with, he just couldn’t merge the two images into one. “I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  “Yeah, well, let us know or just show up. There’s always plenty of food.” Russ shifted into gear and, with a nod, drove away.

  Robbie remained where he stood for a moment. He believed in looking ahead and being prepared. He wasn’t prepared to fall in love with a woman so different from himself. He wasn’t prepared to be part of a relationship that came with all the usual problems and then some.

  He wasn’t prepared to deal with prejudice that would affect any children he had.

  Did that make him prejudiced as well?

  Or just weak?

  Frowning, he walked back the few feet to his car. He had intended to go by the office next, but instead he headed for Easy Street. As soon as he drew close, he identified the white Calloway Construction pickup parked on the street. Then he saw Anamaria, standing at the end of the driveway, talking with Lenny Parker. He eased his foot off the gas, slowing to little more than a crawl, and watched as she extended her hand and Lenny took it.

  Annoyance rumbled through him. When was the last time he’d been jealous over a woman? He couldn’t recall. He didn’t want to be now. Didn’t want to give a damn who she touched or that she didn’t touch him.

  But he did.

  She let go of Parker, and he got into the truck, waving as he pulled away. He repeated the gesture a moment later as he passed Robbie.

  By the time he’d parked behind her car, she’d climbed to the top of the steps. She still wore the black-and-pink dress that fitted like a second skin and made him think about nothing but taking it off her. Her hair swayed in the breeze as it freshened, bringing with it the lush scents of the woods, the muddiness of the river and distant rain, and her gaze remained on him, steady and calm.

  “Why doesn’t a rat bite a lawyer?” she asked, waiting a beat before answering, “Professional courtesy.”

  He took the steps one at a time, stopping on the second, so close that only the faintest breath of muggy air separated them. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I called the police.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  She hesitated before replying, “I would have told you.” Not necessarily today, maybe not even tomorrow, but at some time she would have mentioned it to him.

  A good enough answer…but not the one he wanted.

  He stared at her, and she stared back. It was hot and sunny, and he swore the hairs on his arms stood on end, as if the very air were charged with energy and arousal. He moved to close the inch between them, and she took a backward step onto the porch. He followed. She retreated. Across the porch. Into the house.

  She backed away until the living room door frame was at her back and he stood so close at her front that their clothing brushed with each breath, hers shallow, his ragged. He rested one hand, just inches from her head, on smooth wood, the other on papered wall, and leaned in until he could feel the soft puffs of her breath, could see the rapid beat of her heart, could smell the nearly faded fragrance that floated around her. “Why—” his voice was barely audible above the thudding of his own heart “—didn’t you call me?”

  She stared at him, her eyes big enough, dark enough, intense enough, to get lost in. Then she answered softly. “I knew you would come anyway.”

  Wind blew through the open windows, cooling his skin, making him realize that he burned hot from the inside out. Heat radiated from her, too, her skin gleaming and damp, tiny strands of hair clinging to her forehead. Thunder vibrated through the house, and the lightning that followed fed the sparks that arced around them.

  “You wanted me to come,” he said, his gaze locking with hers.

  A tiny nod, then the words, “I needed you to.”

  Needed. He hadn’t needed a woman since he was twenty, and that hadn’t been need so much as immaturity, possessiveness, familiarity, expectations. He didn’t need now. He could leave. Could put space between them. Could walk out the door, get in his car and drive away as if nothing had ever happened. As if it might not kill him.

  He didn’t need to stay.

  But he wanted to.

  Anoth
er gust of wind rustled through the house, stirring his hair. She raised her hand as if to brush it back but hesitated, her fingers unsteady between them. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look at anything but her fingers, couldn’t want anything but her fingers on him. Stroking him, holding him, arousing him.

  And finally, finally, she touched him. Her fingertips brushed through his hair, something his mother and grandmother had done dozens of times since he was a child, simple, innocent.

  And so damn intimate that he hurt with it.

  She smoothed his hair back, then slid her hand along his cheek, his jaw, his throat, so lightly that he might have imagined it. Abruptly, her fingers curled up a handful of his shirt, and her other hand was there, as well, pulling him hard against her as she rose onto her toes and kissed him.

  Anamaria couldn’t say she’d given much thought to their first kiss—who would initiate it, how the other would receive it, whether it would be sweet and gentle, or hello or good-night or goodbye. All she’d known was it would come sooner or later. Be welcomed, sooner or later.

  It scorched her head to toe, sensitized her skin and revved her heart into a thundering rush. Every breath was hot and hungry and smelled of Robbie. She was absorbing him through her skin, her pores, the very air that seeped into her lungs. In the course of that one sweet, greedy kiss, tongues entwining, bodies pressing together, fever rising, she recognized him as the real reason fate had brought her to Copper Lake.

  He was her destiny. Her broken heart.

  But as he slid his hands around to cup her bottom, to lift her against his erection, she didn’t care. Broken hearts healed. She could try to protect herself by sending him away, but he would come back and she would welcome him. And she would survive, as Glory had survived. As all Duquesne women survived.

  She was only vaguely aware of moving along the hallway, of stepping out of her shoes, of pulling his shirt free of his trousers. His belt gave way with a tug; his zipper slid open with a yank. They bumped into something—the doorway, she thought dimly—and then they were in her bedroom, bright with sunshine and cooled by the breeze coming in the open windows.