Copper Lake Secrets

Not as much as he would be of you, she’d retorted before slamming down the phone. She believed that wholeheartedly. She just didn’t know why.

She was tired of not knowing.

Across the table, Evie was waiting patiently. If something bad would come of a trip to Georgia, surely she would sense it. She warned people of danger; she helped them make the right decisions. If she thought Reece should go …

Reece huffed out a sigh. “Okay.” Then … “I don’t suppose you’d want to go with me.”

“And leave Jack alone with the kids? His idea of day care would be sticking them in a holding cell while he interviewed suspects.” She squeezed Reece’s fingers. “You can call me anytime day or night, and if you need me, I’ll come.”

A knot formed in Reece’s throat, and she had to work to sound casual. “At least you didn’t say, ‘And take my kids to a haunted house.’“

Her brows drew together. Yes, she had a psychic advisor; yes, she worked in a shop that sold charms, potions and candles to true believers. But ghosts, haunting her father’s childhood home? The mere thought should make her laugh, but it didn’t. It felt … like truth.

“A place that old, that was worked by slaves, is likely to have a few spirits, but generally they won’t harm you.”

Maybe. Maybe not. It was impossible for Reece to know what she feared about Fair Winds and her grandparents without knowing what had gone on during those months she lived there.

Grimly accepting, she got to her feet. “All right. I’ll go. But if something happens to me while I’m there, Evie, I swear, I’ll haunt you for eternity.”

Evie stood, too, and hugged her. “I’d enjoy it, sweetie. Now, I’m serious—if you need anything, you call me.”

“I will.” Though, as she hugged Jackson and Isabella goodbye, she acknowledged she lied. Fair Winds was an evil, forbidding place, and she wouldn’t expose these kids’ mom to that for anything, not even to save herself.

It was a quick walk from Evie’s to the building that housed Martine’s shop on the first floor and both her and Martine’s apartments on the second. When she walked in, the faint scent of incense drifted on the air, sending a slow creep of calm down her spine. The tourists browsing the T-shirts and souvenirs glanced her way, and she automatically flashed them her best customer-service smile as she passed through to the back room.

“I suppose you’re going to ask me to take care of those mutts of yours while you’re gone.” Martine’s back was to Reece as she collected specimens from the bottles and tins that lined the shelves behind the counter. Some customers thought she had a sixth sense, maybe seventh and eighth ones, too, but Reece knew there were mirrors discreetly placed along the tops of the shelves.

“My puppers are not mutts.”

Martine sniffed. “What’s their breed? Oh, yeah, Canardly. You can ‘ardly tell what they are.”

“And they love their Auntie Martine so much.”

Another sniff before she turned, laying ingredients on the counter. “When are you leaving?”

“What are you, psychic?”

“iPhone and I know all.” Martine’s wicked grin was accompanied by a nod toward the cell on the counter. “I’ll have everything you need in an hour.”

Everything included charms, amulets, potions and notions. Reece couldn’t say from personal experience that they would ward off evil or work to keep her safe, but they sure as hell couldn’t hurt. “Then I’ll leave in an hour and five minutes.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Martine asked drily.

The answer was a surprise to Reece, as well, but she knew if she put off her departure for even one day, the dread and anxiety that were tangled in her gut would just keep growing. The drive would give her plenty of time to think of all the reasons this was a bad idea; no use giving herself additional time to wuss out.

“I wish you could go in my place. Grandmother hasn’t seen me in fifteen years. She might not notice the difference.”

How did Martine make a snort sound so elegant? “Oh, sure, we look so much alike. Maybe the woman’s gotten deaf, blind and stupid in addition to old.”

Reece grimaced. Though they were about the same height and body type, she was light to Martine’s dark: fair-skinned and blond-haired. Having lived all her life in Louisiana, Martine had a pure and honeyed accent, while Reece’s frequent moves had left her with a fairly nondescript voice.

“Okay.” A sickly sigh. “I’m going to pack and tell the puppers that Auntie Martine will be taking care of them. They’ll be so excited.”

As she slipped through the rear door and trudged up the stairs, she wished she could dredge up a little excitement.

But all she felt was dread.

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.