Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (12 page)

Lloyd called to see if I needed anything before he finished his shift and left the building. His kindness scared me. He’d want some kind of payback; people always did. I declined his offer.

After filling the tub with warm, bubbly water, I let my body soak up its fragrant warmth hoping for a dreamless night.

It wasn’t to be.

As the velvet blackness pulled me into sleep, evil enveloped me. I felt his hands gripping my throat, smelled his cologne and sweat, and heard the ragged breaths he released into the hallway as he violated my body and my very essence. I begged my brain to wake up, but felt compelled to remember. To look again.

I willed myself back into the dream.

He punched me in the face and stomach first, and then threw me down. I felt myself attempt to curl my body away from him even though I knew it was futile. I saw his hands coming at me yet again. He wretched me into position.

When he was done, I felt a pull at my wrist. I watched him remove the rhinestone bracelet I’d once been so proud of and loved wearing. It was worthless to anyone but me. Somehow he knew and had decided to take it as some kind of souvenir. A fluid, searing anger surged through my veins in the dream and I woke up.

To chase away the darkness, I turned on the light. To evict the fear, I grabbed my sketch pad and started to draw his gloved hand removing my mother’s bracelet. I saw him hold it up to the light and let it dangle as he laughed. I drew that moment too.

I wrote the words he’d said as I heard them again in my mind.

“This is the perfect representation of you. You are nothing but a cheap thing. Alan will never want you now that you’ve been had by me.”

He sounded just like the nurse.

Wide awake I screamed, “No!”

After the sun rose, I conference called Michelle and Harper, and told them, “Two bad guys just morphed into one.”

When my cell phone rang, I was delighted to see Nick’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey, Ms. Morgan! We’re meeting at the Perkins off of 494 tonight. Want to join us?”

“Yes, what time will you be there?”

“Seven o’clock. That way Patrick can join us after he gets off work. We usually get the back corner and they let us rearrange the tables. Since they’re open 24/7 we stay pretty late.”

I promised to be there with at least one new art project to share. Which meant I had some sketching to do.

I saw I had a missed call from Lloyd. He’d left a message saying he had a couple of packages for me. “I know you’re tired of the constant invasion of your privacy. Give me a call if you’d like me to send them up using the dumb waiter.”

I texted him.
The dumb waiter is a great idea. Send them up when you can.

Alan used the mini-elevator for surprises he had sent up for Jillian. I hadn’t used it since her death.

A few minutes later I heard the dumb waiter on its way up. When it stopped, I took out the packages and sent it on its way back down. Turning away from it, I realized it was clean although it hadn’t been used in years. I wondered if it was strong enough to carry a human up and down the old cables.

I texted Lloyd.
Thanks for cleaning out the dumb waiter before sending the boxes up.

He responded
. I didn’t clean it – I just put them in and sent them up
.

I shivered and texted,
Okay. Thanks again
. I carried the boxes to the kitchen counter wondering why there was no dust in the dumb waiter after not being used for years. Since Lloyd wasn’t responsible for it, I assumed the cleaning company who took care of the building was.

Opening the package from J. C. Penney, I was surprised the black skirt I’d ordered was so short although it was possible I didn’t remember my legs being so long. It barely touched the top of my knees. I realized that having my clothes tailored to Alan’s specific and conservative standards had left me out of touch with my body.

The other box was from Shepler’s. The black cowboy boots with the pointy toes fit perfectly and felt at home on my feet. I walked across the room, and confidence rose from somewhere deep inside me—a place I thought Gus had killed. It wasn’t rebellion or conceit. Wearing the boots was like walking into Mrs. Dawson’s trailer. I was at home.

A memory of a photograph rose up in my mind. I stood at the kitchen counter and drew a little girl about five years old in various stages of a twirl. I framed the four segments like an old thirty-five mm film. Her blond ponytail sat high on her head and her arms were out to her sides. She wore a Cinderella t-shirt, denim cut-offs, and both knees had band-aids on them as did one elbow. One front tooth was missing, but her smile was full and her eyes sparkled. On her feet were red cowboy boots. Off to one side was the face of a boy and on the other, the face of a beautiful toddler.

There was a row of trailers on either side of the gravel road on which she stood. They were muted in my mind and on the page. I filled in a few details with colored pencils. The last frame showed her full face, hands on her hips, feet firmly on the ground, and her dimples.

Her beauty startled me.

The little girl was me. Gus hadn’t touched me yet.

I remembered telling Mickey that day as I danced in the dust, “Dolly Parton would love these boots!”

“Dolly Parton wears boots?” he’d asked.

“Yep. Besides singing, that’s what she’s famous for,” I said with certainty.

Mickey couldn’t stop laughing at me. I stood my ground and said, “I’m telling ya, Ma and Gus watched her on T. V. the other night and Gus said, ‘Look at them boots!’ I did and they were beautiful, just like her!”

That sent Mickey into another laughing fit. I’d called him a dork.

As I signed the sketch, something I told my students was an essential element in art, a piece of myself that had been off-kilter for a long time shifted back into place.

I titled it,
Unstolen Innocence
.

The apartment was suddenly too enclosed for my cowboy boot clad feet. They needed to hit the road. So did the skirt. With black pantyhose and a vivid blue turtle-neck sweater, I looked like a country girl ready for line dancing at a country bar.

On my way to meet my students, I pulled into the cemetery, eager for some time with my daughter. I wanted to show her the drawing first.

I was delighted when Deacon pulled up and said, “Hi there, Missy. It’s been lonely around here without you.” He pulled out my chair and said, “Nice boots.”

“I don’t look like a brazen hussy?”

“Oh Missy, Jezebel would have looked brazen while wearing the most modest of clothes. It’s all about this,” he said tapping his chest. “You look like the nice woman you are.”

“But surely you’ve read about me in the papers or heard about me on the news.” In my mind, I compared my grungy story to the goodness in the man I was talking to. My blush was red hot. Heat started in my chest and rose all the way to my hairline.

“Olivia, this old man learned a long time ago not to believe everything he hears or sees in the media.”

“Thanks,” I whispered looking straight into his eyes to see if there would be a lie in his words. There wasn’t.

He smiled, nodded, and touched his fingers to the brim of his baseball cap and rode away.

I arranged the flowers I’d brought, and talked to my daughter’s headstone. I kept the bad news to myself thinking Jillian had endured enough in her very short life. She didn’t need to carry my burdens in death.

The one-sided conversation ended at the same time the smell from a cigarette warned me I wasn’t alone. Turning, I saw the homeless guy leaning on a tree a few graves over, taking a drag from his smoke. He wore his sunglasses and a smirk. I heard his walkie-talkie crackle and Deacon’s voice asking him to return to the office.

The stranger scared me. I wished I could be more compassionate like Deacon. Instead, I wanted him gone.

It was great to see my students. They had a fun system for their art dates. We each drew a number written on tiny pieces of paper out of Jordan’s beret. Then in numerical order, we each shared our new art for a couple of minutes. I was last, which was a relief at first, and then not. I showed her to them, and for a second, they were silent. I thought I was going to be sick.

Kelsey said, “Ms. Morgan! She’s amazing. Who is she?”

“How do you know she’s real?” I asked, wanting to avoid the truth.

“I can feel it,” she said.

“Yeah, me too, Jordan said.”It’s like she’s so full of life the paper can’t hold her.”

“She’s you,” Patrick said quietly as he looked into my eyes.

So much for the lie my brain was scrambling to create. “She is.”

“Did you use a photo?” Nick asked.

“No. My new boots inspired a memory.”

“This is amazing. What else do you have?” Patrick asked.

“Not much.”

“You need to show this to Claire Worthington. She is part owner in the Oak River Gallery. These are worthy of a show,” Nick said.

“No. . .”

“Remember what you always told us!” Jordan demanded.

Then in unison they said, “Never withhold your art from the world. It may hold the power to heal a heart or be the gift someone has been waiting their whole life to receive.”

“This has power,” Kelsey said.

Patrick’s stomach growled like a caged lion, saving me from responding to their challenge.

Biscuits and sausage gravy never tasted so good.

My phone made a zippy little noise signaling me I had a text message. It was from Patrick.

Ms. M – have u seen the news? There was a news bulletin a second ago. It was about u. There’s going to be an update in a couple of minutes.

I had to find the remote to turn on the television, and when I did, there was Alan looking into the cameras from behind a microphone-filled podium in front of a large downtown building famous for the number of attorneys who practiced law there.

“Lyons family is saddened by the recent violence that took place in our building. The authorities are looking into all the evidence and possible suspects. It appears the man found dead in our elevator may have been stalking one of the teachers employed at the Lyons School of Art & Music who lives in the Lyons Shipping building. We have no idea who ended his life. The name of the deceased has been released by the FBI, and sadly, he is one of their own agents.

“While the Lyons family draws no conclusions from what little information is available to us, the term ‘rogue agent’ has been used by at least one expert. We want the community and our clients to know we are working voluntarily and closely with both local police and the FBI. We are told by these authorities the building has been searched and deemed safe. This is excellent news for Lyons Shipping as well as those businesses who rent space in the historic building my grandfather built. Our security systems have been updated, and our staff has received the latest training from the law enforcement agencies working to solve this crime.

“It has come to our attention that our attempts to protect the identity of the person who found the body have failed. Olivia Morgan is a long-time resident of the building, a former teacher at the school started by my recently deceased mother. She has recently left the employ of the Lyons Academy of Art & Music, and has indicated her desire to change her residency. The Lyons family is committed to protecting our soon-to-be-former resident.

“My wife, Michelle Lyons, has agreed to be Ms. Morgan’s attorney should one be needed. Although the FBI and police still consider Ms. Morgan a person of interest, we are certain she is innocent. If you have further questions, I direct you to agent David Newman of the FBI, and detective Margaret Harper.

“The news station has told me they are providing you with the telephone numbers of both agencies on the screen and on their websites. As you know, the Lyons family is also grieving the death of my mother. We are deeply saddened by our loss, and although we are also concerned that her murderer remains at large, we are confident her killer will be found and brought to justice. We ask that you respect our privacy at this difficult time. I will not be taking any questions today. I do want you to know if you ignore this request, any future releases from Lyons Shipping or the Lyons family will not be shared with your news program. Thank you.”

Alan nodded, turned, and left a strangely quiet crowd of reporters as a man in an expensive-looking suit held the door for him.

Rage is a funny thing. It can be ice cold or red hot. Mine was on the chilly side. How dare he imply Mickey was a rogue agent? Could he say his last name just one more time? Was he really using Mickey’s death to get his company free advertising?

My phone sang out again and Patrick had typed,
r u okay?

I’m fine. Thanks for the heads up.

No prob.

Before I could text him again, my phone rang. It was Harper.

“Keep your answers to yes and no. Do you understand?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“Have you seen the Lyons press conference on television?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware of it before you saw it televised?”

“No.”

“We’re downstairs. Meet us in the Caribou. Get your own coffee and join us ASAP.

“Okay.”

She hung up.

I joined an angry detective and a sullen FBI agent hunkered down over their beverages at a corner table. They were seated so one could watch the window and the other the door. I noticed Harper nod to someone behind me and knew I’d been followed. She had my back.

“Know what they call those pointy-toed boots in Texas?” Newman asked.

“Yeah. Roach killers,” I said.

He raised a surprised eyebrow and one corner of his mouth twitched briefly.

“Have you talked to your attorney yet?” Harper asked.

“No. Why?”

“Seems strange she wasn’t present when her husband made his grandiose announcement this morning.”

“Not really. Alan Lyons is a lone wolf. He doesn’t need his woman by his side to make the press or the public listen to him. He’s got that thing most politicians wish they had.”

“What’s do you mean?” Harper asked.

“That JFK kind of charisma,” I said.

“So, he’s a one man show, huh?” Newman asked.

“No. He’s a brilliant business man with a great deal of personal power as well as political clout. He’s got enough class, wealth, and confidence that this move leaves you eating his dust, Agent Newman. You’d do well to remember that in the future. You want him on your side.”

“My client is right,” Michelle’s voice startled us all.

She pulled out the fourth chair, sat down, and got out her yellow legal pad. “Is there something you wanted to ask my client?” she asked, looking from Harper to Newman.

“I left you a message,” Harper said to her.

“I was already on my way over here for a meeting. And for your information, Special Agent, I didn’t know my husband was going to make a statement to the press. It would have been more tasteful to have waited until after Mother Lyons’s funeral, but Alan has a mind of his own and did not ask for my counsel. Although when you consider the circumstances of his mother’s death, I’m sure you understand why he wanted to speak out. He’s a man of action. Waiting leaves him feeling helpless.”

We all nodded. Like her husband, she was both captivating and in control. That could come in handy if I ended up in front of a jury for something I hadn’t done. Or for something I had.

“It might be a good PR move on your part,” she continued, “if you release a statement and support his comments. You don’t have to mean it, but you’d win the public and with the politicians you are most likely facing behind the scenes. I know he’s called in all the top brass to pressure you into closing this case quickly. That can’t be pleasant on your end.”

“Michelle, who gives a rat’s butt about pleasant?” The words came across my tongue as a hiss.

I surprised them all which I found strangely satisfying.

Newman snorted. Harper choked on her tea. Michelle asked, “Can we talk about this later?”

“No. Now is good,” I said determined not to let another Lyons get the best of me.

“Fine, but keep your voice down,” she instructed.

“How dare he imply that Mickey was a ‘rogue agent?’” And he told the world I’m a person of interest, which I know I am, but what gives him the right to manipulate the facts to suit his agenda? I’ll never get a new job teaching with this on my public record. Even now he’s orchestrating my life to the score he’s writing. He lied about the best person I have ever known. I feel like he just murdered Mickey again,” I said.

Newman cleared his throat as if to speak, but Michelle beat him to it. “We can sit here all day and bemoan the way this complicates things for all of us. Or we can make this work for us. It’s up to the three of you.”

“Okay, fine,” Harper said. “But do you have an office? We cannot do this in public.”

“My office is being renovated. I’ll see if we can use Alan’s. She made a call and then said to us, “Let’s go.”

“Do you guys really need me to be part of your power talk?” I asked. A blanket of exhaustion was trying to take my mind hostage.

“No, we’ve got this covered,” Michelle said.

Harper nodded her agreement. Newman couldn’t resist asking, “Where are you going?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Special Agent Newman, but I’m headed for a cup of tea and my couch,” I said quietly.

As I rode up the elevator to the apartment, I felt like I’d fallen into the deep end of the pool and there was no lifeguard on duty. That’s a terrible feeling for a woman who couldn’t swim.