Copper Lake Secrets. Marilyn Pappano

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      Thin streaks of moonlight filtered through the clouds to silver the landscape below, glinting off the stick-straight spears of wrought iron that marched off into the distance on both sides of the broad gate. Spelled in elaborate curls and swoops was the plantation name: Fair Winds.

      Though this night there was nothing resembling fair about the place. Trees grew thick beyond the fence. Fog hovered low to the ground. No birds sang. No wildlife slipped through the dark. Silence reigned inside the wrought iron.

      Jones had been in town for two days and had found plenty of people willing to talk. They said the place was haunted. Strange things happened inside those gates. On a quiet night, wailing and moaning could be heard a mile away.

      This was a quiet night, but the only sound drifting on the air came from the dog beside him. Jones laid his hand on Mick’s head, scratching behind his upright ears, but it didn’t ease the quivering alertness that had settled on the animal the instant he’d jumped from the truck and scented the air.

      Mick would rather be in town at the motel or, better yet, back home in Louisville. He liked traveling; he went with Jones on most of his jobs. But he didn’t like spirits, and here, there be ghosties.

      It was his father’s voice Jones heard in his head, a voice he hadn’t truly heard in fifteen years. His father was loving and generous and good-natured, but he wasn’t forgiving. He nursed a grudge better than the meanest of spirits. His two middle sons were dead to him and always would be.

      It appeared that Glen really was dead.

      Absently Jones rubbed his chest as if that might make the pain go away. He’d been cold inside since he’d heard the news that everything Glen had owned in the world had been found buried under a pile of ancient brush outside Copper Lake. Clothes, books, driver’s license, money, photographs, hidden no more than thirty yards from where Jones had last seen him. Maybe Glen would have gone off without his books or his license, even without the clothes or the money, but not without the photos of Siobhan. He’d been crazy mad in love with the girl, had intended to marry her. He never would have left her pictures behind.

      And it was partly Jones’s fault. All these years, he’d thought Glen was doing the same as him, making a life for himself that had nothing to do with family tradition. All these years, he’d been wrong.

      Jones had rushed through his last job when he’d heard the news, then driven straight through from Massachusetts to Georgia. He’d had hours to come up with a plan, but after two days in town, he still didn’t have one. All he’d been able to do was think. Remember. Regret.

      Had his life been worth everything he’d given up? Doing what he wanted, being what he wanted? If he hadn’t gone along with Glen, would his brother still be alive?

      Their granny had been big on fate. Things happened as they were meant to, she’d insisted, and he’d been eager to share her belief. After all, that absolved him of responsibility. So he’d broken his mother’s heart; it hadn’t been selfishness but fate. He’d turned his back on the life his family had embraced for generations because fate had meant him to. He’d denied his heritage and lived for himself because that was the cosmos’s plan for him.

      But had fate decreed Glen should die before his eighteenth birthday?

      Jones didn’t think so. Someone else had made that determination, and he wanted to know who.

      He figured he already had a pretty good idea of why.

      Beside him, Mick gave a low whine. His ears were pricked, his tail stiff, his rough coat bristling. He was staring through the gate at the mists that formed, swirled, then dissipated, only to re-form a few steps away. Ghosts, essence, imprints—whatever you called them, Jones believed in them. His work took him to centuries-old houses all around the country, and every one housed at least one spirit. He didn’t bother them, and they returned the favor.

      Mick whined again as an insubstantial form separated from the shadows of the live oaks that lined the drive and stepped into the moonlight. Jones’s jaw tightened with annoyance. Who would have expected the elderly and recently widowed owner of Fair Winds to be out haunting the place at nearly midnight?

      She wrapped fragile fingers around one of the bars on the gate. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?”

      Mentally kicking himself for coming to the place unprepared, he slid from the tailgate to the ground, felt his wallet shift and immediately knew his approach. As he walked to the gate, he pulled the battered leather from his hip pocket and silently handed her a business card.

      It gleamed white as she tilted it to read his name, then tapped it on the bar. “I’ve heard of you.”

      He wasn’t surprised. The business of historic garden restoration was an insular one. Word of mouth was still the best advertising; a satisfied client was happy to pass on his name to anyone who might be in need of his services. The subject was likely to have come up at least a time or two with the owner of Fair Winds, once home to the most spectacular gardens in the South.

      “I’ve heard of you, too, Mrs. Howard.” Then he gestured behind her. “Actually, more of the gardens.” It was true. Because of the time he and Glen had spent at Fair Winds, he’d always paid attention when the name had come up. He’d researched the gardens while completing his degree, had seen plans, photographs and praise lavished by guests at the house during the gardens’ prime in the 1800s.

      “Humph. They haven’t existed in the fifty years I’ve lived here.”

      “But they’re legendary.”

      “That they are.” She tapped the card again. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re sitting outside my gate close to midnight.”

      “No, it doesn’t.” He shrugged. “I’m between jobs, and I found myself in this area. I was curious.”

      “Curiosity killed the cat, don’t you know?”

      His smile was cool. “Do I look like a cat to you?”

      She stared tight-lipped at him for a moment, then folded her fingers over the card. “Come back tomorrow. You can see more in the daylight.” Turning, she took four steps and disappeared into the shadows. The only sound of her passing was the crunch of footsteps on gravel that quickly faded away.

      Mick whined again, and after a moment staring into the darkness, Jones faced him. “You’re just a big baby, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s go back to town. We’ve got work to do.”

      When he opened the pickup door, the dog jumped into the driver’s seat and started to settle in, grumbling when Jones nudged him over the console to the passenger seat. Jones had picked up the shepherd mix at a job in Tennessee. One day he’d appeared at a stop sign, looking into every vehicle that came along before sinking back to the ground. He’d stayed there for days, growing thinner and more despondent, waiting for the owner who’d dumped him to return. Knowing what it was like to be alone and on your own and not sure you were up to the challenge, Jones had begun taking food and water to the stop sign.

      On the eighth day, after he’d delivered the meal, Mick had eaten, then walked back to the house with him. They’d been together since.

      He followed the hard-packed road to the highway, then turned south. Copper Lake was just a few miles away, but he СКАЧАТЬ