The Liar (4 page)

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with a manager. I’m Mrs. Richard Foxworth, and I have a power of attorney here. I lost my husband last December.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. I believe he had a safe-deposit box in this bank. I have the key here, and the power of attorney.”

Much quicker than fumbling around, she’d learned, telling bored bank people she’d found the key, didn’t know what it went to.

“Mrs. Babbington’s in her office, and should be able to help you. Straight across, to the left.”

“Thanks.” She went across, found the office, knocked on the open glass door. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. They said I should speak to you about getting into my husband’s safe-deposit box.”

She walked straight in—something else she’d learned—sat with Callie on her lap.

“I have the power of attorney here, and the key. I’m Mrs. Richard Foxworth.”

“Let me check on this. You have such pretty red hair,” she said to Callie.

“Mama’s.” Callie reached up to grab a hank of Shelby’s.

“Yes, just like your mother’s. You’re not listed on Mr. Foxworth’s box.”

“I— I’m sorry?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a signature card for you.”

“He has a box here?”

“Yes. Even with the POA, it would be best if Mr. Foxworth came in personally. He could add you on.”

“He—he can’t. He was—”

“Daddy had to go to heaven.”

“Oh.” Babbington’s face radiated sympathy. “I’m very sorry.”

“Angels sing in heaven. Mama, Fifi wants to go home now.”

“Soon, baby. He— Richard— There was an accident. He was in a boat, and there was a squall. In December. December twenty-eighth. I have the documentation. They don’t issue a death certificate when they can’t find . . .”

“I understand. I need to see your paperwork, Mrs. Foxworth. And some photo ID.”

“I brought my marriage license, too. Just so you’d have everything. And the police report on when it happened. And these letters from the lawyers.” Shelby handed it all over, held her breath.

“You could get a court order for access.”

“Is that what I should do? I could ask Richard’s lawyers—well, my lawyers now, I guess, to do that.”

“Give me a moment here.”

Babbington read over the paperwork while Callie shifted restlessly in Shelby’s lap. “I want my tea party, Mama. You said. I want my tea party.”

“That’s what we’ll do, soon as we’re done here. We’ll have a princess tea party. You should think about what dolls you’re going to invite.”

Callie began to list them off, and Shelby realized the nerves of waiting gave her a sudden and urgent need to pee.

“The POA’s in order, as is the rest of your documentation. I’ll show you to the box.”

“Now?”

“If you’d rather come back another time—”

“No, no, I appreciate it so much.” So much that she felt breathless and a little giddy. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I should do.”

“I’ll walk you through it. I’ll need your signature. Just let me print this out. It sounds like you’ll have a lot of guests at your tea party,” she said to Callie as she worked. “I have a granddaughter about your age. She loves tea parties.”

“She can come.”

“I bet she’d love to, but she lives in Richmond, Virginia, and that’s pretty far away. If you’d sign this, Mrs. Foxworth.”

She could barely read it the way her thoughts were racing around in her head.

Babbington used a swipe card and a passcode, accessed a kind of vault where the walls were filled with numbered drawers. Number 512.

“I’m going to step out, give you some privacy. If you need any help, just let me know.”

“Thank you very much. Am I allowed to take what’s in it?”

“You’re authorized. Take your time,” she added, and drew a curtain to block off the room.

“Well, I have to say holy . . . s-h-i-t.” She set the big bag she used for Callie’s things and her own, and Richard’s attaché, on a table, then, clutching her daughter, stepped to the box.

“Too tight, Mama!”

“Sorry, sorry. God, I’m nervous. It’s probably just a bunch of papers he didn’t want in the house. It’s probably nothing. It may even be empty.”

So
open
it, for God’s sake, she ordered herself.

With an unsteady hand, she slid the key into the lock, turned it. Even jumped a little when it clicked open.

“Here we go. Doesn’t matter if it’s empty. The important thing is I found it. On my own. I did it myself. I’ve got to set you down a minute, baby. You stay right here, you stay right here with me.”

She set Callie on the floor, pulled out the box, put it on the table.

Then simply stared.

“Oh God. Holy shit.”

“Shit, Mama!”

“Don’t say that. I shouldn’t have said that.” She had to brace a hand on the table.

It wasn’t empty. And the first thing that caught her eye was a stack of banded money. Hundred-dollar bills.

“Ten thousand each, and oh God, Callie, there’s so many of them.”

Now her hands weren’t just unsteady, but shook as she counted the stacks. “There’s twenty-five of them. There’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash money in here.”

Feeling like a thief, she flicked an anxious look at the curtain, then shoved the money into the attaché.

“I have to ask the lawyers what to do.”

About the money, she thought, but what about the rest?

What about the three driver’s licenses with Richard’s photo? And someone else’s name. And the passports.

And the .32 semiautomatic.

She started to reach for the gun, pulled her hand back. She wanted to leave it, couldn’t say why she didn’t want to touch it. But she made herself lift it, remove the magazine.

She’d grown up in the Tennessee mountains, with brothers—one who was now a cop. She knew how to handle a gun. But she wasn’t carrying a loaded gun with Callie around.

She placed it and the two extra mags in the attaché. She took the passports, the licenses. Discovered Social Security cards under the same three names, American Express cards, Visas. All under those names.

Was any of it real?

Had any of it ever been real?

“Mama. Let’s go, let’s go.” Callie tugged on her pants.

“In a second.”

“Now! Mama, now!”

“In a second.” The tone, sharp and firm, might have had Callie’s lip quivering, but sometimes a child had to be reminded that she didn’t run the show.

And a mama had to remember that a three-year-old had a right to get tired of being hauled all over creation and back every damn day.

She bent, kissed the top of Callie’s head. “I’m almost done, I just have to put this back now.”

Callie was real, Shelby thought. That’s what mattered. The rest? She’d figure it out, or she wouldn’t. But Callie was real, and over $200,000 would buy a decent minivan, pay off some of the debt, maybe squeeze out enough for a down payment on a little house once she got steady work.

Maybe Richard hadn’t meant to, and she didn’t know what it all meant, but he’d provided for his daughter’s future after all. And he’d given her room to breathe, so she’d think about the rest later.

She hauled Callie up, shouldered the bag, gripped the attaché as if her life depended on it.

“Okay, baby girl. Let’s go have a tea party.”

S
he opened up all the rooms, turned the heat back up, even switched on the fireplaces—all seven of them.

She bought fresh flowers, baked cookies.

The time spent on her laptop researching the best way to sell a house, and fast, had suggested cookies, flowers. And as the realtor had decreed, depersonalizing.

Keep it all neutral.

As far as she was concerned, the place was as neutral as they came. She didn’t find the big house welcoming, but then she never had. Maybe with softer furnishings, warmer colors—it might have felt like a home.

But that was her sensibility, and hers didn’t matter.

The sooner she unloaded the damn place, the sooner that section of the crushing debt lifted off her shoulders.

The realtor arrived armed with flowers and cookies, so Shelby figured she could have saved her time and money there. She’d brought what she called a staging team with her, and they swarmed around changing the placement of furniture, displaying more flowers, lighting candles. Shelby had picked up a dozen scented candles, but decided she’d keep that to herself, just return them or keep them, depending on what seemed best when this was all said and done.

“The place is immaculate.” The realtor beamed at Shelby, gave her a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “Your cleaning crew did a terrific job.”

Shelby thought of her midnight scrubbings and polishings, and only smiled. “I want it to show well.”

“Believe me, it does. Short sales can be tricky, and will put some potential buyers off, but I’m confident we’re going to get offers, good ones, and quickly.”

“I hope you’re right. I wanted to say, I’ve got someone coming in Monday morning to see about the furniture, but if anyone who comes in is interested in buying it, any of it, I’m going to price it to sell.”

“That’s excellent! There are so many wonderful pieces. I’ll make sure we let people know.”

She took a last critical look around herself, thought of the gun, the papers, the cash she’d locked in the safe in Richard’s office.

Then she hefted the big bag she habitually carried.

“Callie and I are going to get out of the way. I have errands to run.”

And a minivan to buy.

•   •   •

H
ER DADDY MIGHT NOT
have approved that she didn’t buy American, but the five-year-old Toyota she’d found through CarMax got high ratings on safety and reliability. And the price was right.

The price got better when she made herself haggle—offering cash. Real cash.

Her hands wanted to shake as she counted it out—half now, the rest when she picked the car up the next afternoon—but she bore down hard.

Maybe she had to pull over three blocks away, rest her forehead on the wheel. She’d never in her life spent so much money in one place. Never in her life bought a car.

Now she let herself shake, but it wasn’t from nerves, no, not now. It was from stunning delight.

Shelby Anne Pomeroy—because that’s who she was down into it, whatever the legal papers said—had just bought a 2010 Toyota minivan in happy cherry red. By herself. On her own.

And had shaved a thousand dollars off the deal because she hadn’t been afraid to ask for it.

“We’re going to be fine, Callie,” she said, though her daughter was deep in her
Shrek
zone. “We’re going to be just fine.”

She used her cell, called the leasing company and arranged for them to pick up the SUV. And bearing down again, made herself ask for a ride to pick up the minivan.

Might as well deal with the insurance while she was at it, and Callie was in her zone. She’d just consider the SUV her office, temporarily.

Once she arranged for the car insurance to be transferred, she checked the online site where she’d listed the wine for sale.

“Oh my goodness, Callie, we’ve got bids!”

Delighted, fascinated, she scrolled through, adding in her head, and found over a thousand dollars already bid.

“I’m going to put another twelve bottles up tonight, that’s just what I’m going to do.”

Since it seemed her luck was running hot, she geared herself up for the drive into Philadelphia. Even with the GPS she made three wrong turns, had her belly knotted by the traffic. But she found the fur shop, hauled the never-worn chinchilla and her daughter inside.

To her surprise, no one looked at her like she was pathetic, or made her feel small for returning the coat. And that carved away a major chunk from a credit card, knocking the principal down to not-quite-as-scary, and lowered the painful interest rate.

She’d sat frozen for too long, Shelby admitted, and treated her little girl to a Happy Meal. Way, way too long. She’d broken the ice now, and damn it, she intended to make a flood.

She waited until she was out of the city again, gassed up the car—cursed the cold and the price of gas—then drove aimlessly for a while as Callie had fallen asleep.

Twice she drove by her own house—or the lender’s house—and kept going when she counted the cars out in front. That was good, of course that was good, anyone who came to look at the house could be the one to buy it. But God, she just wanted to take Callie back, settle in, work on her accounting spreadsheet.

She stalled long enough so just the realtor waited.

“Sorry, give me one minute,” Shelby said on the run. “Callie really needs to pee.”

They made it—just barely. When she went back out to the great room, the realtor sat working on her tablet.

“We had a
very
successful open house. Over fifty people, and this time of year that’s excellent. We had a lot of interest, and two offers.”

“Offers.” Stunned, Shelby set Callie down.

“Low offers, and I don’t think the lender’s going to accept, but it’s a good start. And we have a family of four very interested. I have a good feeling about them. They’re going to talk it over and get back to me.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I also have an offer on your master bedroom suite. One of the lookers brought her sister, and while the sister isn’t in the market for a house, she is for furniture. The offer’s a little low, in my opinion, and she’d want it right away. Monday at the latest.”

“Sold.”

The realtor laughed, then blinked in surprise when she realized Shelby meant it. “Shelby, I haven’t even told you her offer.”

“It doesn’t matter. I hate that furniture. I hate every stick of furniture in this house. Except for Callie’s room,” she amended, pushing at her hair as her daughter pulled out the basket of toys Shelby kept in one of the base kitchen cabinets. “It’s the only one where I picked everything out myself. She can come haul it away tonight, for all I care. There are plenty of other places to sleep in here.”

“Can we sit down?”

“I’m sorry, of course. I’m sorry, Ms. Tinesdale, I’m a little wound up, is all.”

“I told you to call me Donna.”

“Donna. Do you want some coffee or something? I’ve forgotten every bit of my manners.”

“Just sit. You’re dealing with a lot. Frankly, I don’t know how you’re dealing with it all. I want to help you. That’s my job. The offer for the furniture is too low. Let me make a counteroffer. There’s nothing wrong with a bargain, Shelby, but I don’t like feeling you’re getting taken advantage of. Even though it’s ugly furniture.”

“Oh!” Something inside Shelby just lit up. Like vindication. “Do you think so, too? Really?”

“Just about every piece of it, except Callie’s room.”

Shelby let out a laugh that to her shock turned to weeping in a finger snap.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.”

“Mama.” Callie crawled into her lap. “Don’t cry. Mama, don’t cry.”

“I’m all right.” She clutched Callie, rocked. “I’m okay. I’m just tired.”

“Mama needs a nap.”

“I’m okay. I’m okay, baby. Don’t worry.”

“I’m going to pour you a glass of wine,” Donna announced, and dug tissues from her pocket. “You sit. I saw a bottle in the fridge.”

“It’s kind of early.”

“Not today it isn’t. Now tell me,” she continued as she went to get a glass. “What else do you want to sell? The art?”

“Oh my God, yes.” Worn to the bone, she let Callie pat a tissue over her face. “It’s on my list to see about. I don’t understand paintings like all these.”

“Rugs? Lamps?”

“I’ve packed up everything I want out of here, except for Callie’s room and my clothes, and a few things I need to keep around while we’re living here. I don’t want any of it, Mrs.— Donna. Even the dishes aren’t mine.”

“There’s quite a wine collection downstairs.”

“I’ve put twenty-four bottles online, this site I found. People are already bidding. I’m going to put another dozen on tonight.”

Donna angled her head, gave Shelby what Shelby thought of as an appraisal. “Aren’t you clever?”

“If I was clever, I wouldn’t be in this fix. Thank you,” she added when Donna gave her the wine.

“I don’t think that’s true, but let’s start where we are. Can you give me the name of the company you have coming in about the furniture?”

“It’s Dolby and Sons, out of Philadelphia.”

“Good. That’s good, and exactly who I’d recommend.” Sipping wine, Donna made notes on her tablet, spoke briskly. “I’ll make a counteroffer, but this buyer is going to have to come up to reality if she’s serious about the master bedroom furniture. Otherwise, Chad Dolby—that’s the oldest son, and he’s probably the one who’ll come in to give you a price—will make a fair offer. I know someone who would give you another price on your dishes, glassware, barware. And there are two art dealers I’d recommend for purchasing your art.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It’s my job,” Donna reminded her. “And it’s a pleasure. I have a daughter just a couple years younger than you. I’d hope someone would help her out if she ever found herself in . . . this kind of fix. I noticed you’d cleaned out your husband’s closet.”

“I did. Mama’s fine, baby.” She kissed Callie’s hair. “You go ahead and play now. I took most of it into Second Chances,” she told Donna when Callie slid off her lap.

“Perfect. Macey and Cheryl are very good at what they do, and their store gets a lot of traffic.”

“Do you know everyone?”

“That’s part of the job. How about the books?”

“I packed up my books, the ones I like. Richard bought the ones left in the library. He just bought them—what was it?—in a lot.”

“And we’ll sell them the same way.” Donna nodded, tapped on her tablet. “I’m going to add that to my notes. And if it’s what you want, I’m going to put some of the contacts I have in touch with you. You can set up appointments.”

“That would be wonderful. I would appreciate that so much. It feels like I’ve been stumbling around, trying to figure out what to do with what for so long now.”

“From what I’m seeing, you’ve figured it out very well.”

“Thank you, but it helps so much to have advice and direction. You’re so nice. I don’t know why you made me so nervous.”

Now Donna laughed. “I can have that effect. Should I give the contacts your cell number or the landline?”

“Maybe you could give them both. I try to keep my cell phone with me, in a pocket, but sometimes I forget.”

“Done. These are businesspeople, and they’re looking to make a profit. But they won’t lowball you. If you think of anything else, you just let me know.” She smiled. “I really do know everybody. And, Shelby, I’m going to get you an offer on this house, a good one. It’s a beautiful space in a prime location, and the right buyer’s out there. I’ll find the right buyer.”

“I believe you will.”

And because she did, Shelby slept better that night than she had in weeks.

•   •   •

T
HE EN
TIRE NEXT WEEK
her head never stopped spinning. She made the deal with Dolby and Sons, shipped off wine won through the online auction house, picked up a very nice check from the consignment shop for some of Richard’s clothes—and hauled in three garment bags from her own closet.

She accepted the offer for the dishes and glassware, packed it all up—and bought a set of four colorful plastic plates, bowls, cups.

They’d make do.

Though it might have been more sensible to eke out payments, she paid off one of the credit cards in full.

One down, she thought, eleven to go.

The art—not originals, as Richard had claimed—wasn’t worth as much as she’d hoped. But the quantity made up for some of that.

Every day she felt lighter. Even the storm that blew in fourteen inches of snow didn’t throw her off. She bundled Callie up like an Eskimo, and together they built their first snowman.

Nothing to write home about, she thought, but she did just that, snapping pictures with her phone to send back to Tennessee.

And the adventure wore her little girl out so Callie and Fifi were tucked in by seven. That gave Shelby a long, solid evening with her spreadsheet, her bills and her to-do list.

Should she use this money here to pay off one of the smaller credit cards, just get it gone? Or should she apply that money to one of the big ones, cut the interest payment down?

As much as she wanted to say two down, ten to go, it made more sense to cut down the interest.