Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (15 page)

Michelle walked over to two large paintings mounted on floor-level easels. “There is no way to prepare you for these. One of them is for you. The other is for Alan. I cannot spare you the pain you will feel, and I will not refuse you the joy. Please come around here.”

I have no idea what I said, if anything at all. I felt steadied as a strong arm went around my shoulders so it’s possible I swayed. In one life-sized portrait, Jillian twirled in her pink ruffled nightgown, arms up in the air as if reaching for a hug.

In the other, the artist had captured her praying. She stood bare footed, her face slightly raised, her hands clasped in front of her heart, and her mouth looked as if she were singing. She wore a different ruffled night gown—one in a buttery yellow I had bought for her. Her short, dark curls shimmered. I’d been surprised that her hair had grown back in quickly after her chemo treatments. This moment had to have taken place immediately before her death – when there were no more treatment options left.

“As you can see, Mother Lyons had an eye for detail.”

My daughter looked so alive, I nearly reached out for her, but resisted.

“Did she name them?” I asked.

“Yes. She called this one, ‘Dancing for Daddy’ and the other is ‘Praying for Mommy.’ Mother said she personally witnessed both moments just days before Jillian left.

“She was especially radiant then,” I said. My hopes had soared although Dr. Jack tried to warn me the dying are often given a short time of inexplicable joy before they depart. Until this moment, the truth of his words had seemed cruel. Now, seeing her this way, I felt a deep, unexplainable comfort.

“Are you okay?” Michelle asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Mother did many sketches of her. Would you like to see them?”

I must have nodded.

“They’re in this book. Maybe you’d like to sit on the couch, and we can enjoy Jillian’s beauty together.”

I sat down and Michelle handed me the sketch book and a photo album.

“This has some photographs I took of Mother Lyons when she wasn’t looking.”

The sketches were as breathtaking as the paintings. She’d captured my daughter’s hands, profile, and smile. The one of Jillian’s hand resting on an old woman’s hand nearly undid me. It was full of intimacy and peace.

“Can I have these?”

“Yes.”

“Alan won’t mind?” I asked.

“No. He’s seen them and believes they belong to you.”

“Where will he hang his portrait of Jillian?” I asked, knowing it was none of my business, but needing an answer.

“He’s going to place it in the boardroom at the school,” Michelle said.

I stood up. “So she doesn’t deserve a place in one of the hallways here among her ancestors?” It sounded like my voice bounced off the wooden floor, to the walls and finally back to me. My hands were planted so tightly on my hips, I was hurting myself.

“Do you think she fits in with those old curmudgeons in a hallway full of shadows and secrets? Or would these memorials to her spirit and beauty be better where art and music flourish? In the place she would have loved to go to school?” she asked.

Her questions eased my fears that she would be forgotten by her father.

I sat back down and opened the photo album out of gratitude for all Michelle had just given me.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, feeling bewildered. “She resembles the woman I met, but that’s about all.”

“This is the woman I knew. Mother let me into her heart and her secret world because she had a feeling my life would be very similar to hers. I took naps right here, wrapped in this ragged old quilt from her childhood, drank gallons of tea with her, read books, and told her about my dreams. This room was our haven. Her love and arms were the cocoon I wrapped myself in as often as Alan let me. When he was with you, I was with her. We didn’t speak against our husbands, even to each other. We weren’t avoiding our circumstances; we simply accepted our marital choices. It was how we were raised, with an expectation placed on us by ancestors we never met. Both of us took the responsibility seriously and treated it with great respect.”

Michelle paused to give me a chance to respond, but I had no words.

“She was in here almost every day of her adult life. It had been the nursery she grew up in. When she was pregnant with Alan, she prepared a suite closer to her bedroom and away from the staff’s rooms. Although she had Aggie’s help, she participated more in Alan’s life than her parents did in hers. Sometimes she fell asleep in the rocking chair she pulled up to his crib.

“After he was born, she came here to capture his face and his father’s. Eventually, she did landscapes and the portraits of others she cared about. Sometimes when both men were away with others, we’d sneak out in costume. Many times we fed the birds in the park as two straggly looking women
.
Ida preferred wearing dresses, and the only times I saw her in pants were when we volunteered at a homeless shelter. Now and then, we sat silently in the back pews of churches. Everywhere we went, she sketched so she could paint. Mother didn’t stop creating until a few months ago. Did you ever wonder who did the many unsigned paintings that hang at the academy?”

“Sure. It’s always been a mystery.”

“Now you know,” she said.

“Why the secret? Her talent was amazing.”

“Father Lyons thought it was a waste of her time, a frivolous hobby. When she insisted on funding the school, he was terribly cruel, but she had a large amount of money set aside he couldn’t touch. I have no idea how she did it, but she convinced him the school would benefit the family name and their bottom line. In exchange, she respected his request that no one in his lifetime would know about what he called her silly infatuation with painting and all of the arts.

“That’s about to end. Alan and I are planning a special event at the school to reveal the mystery artist’s name and the hundreds of other paintings she completed. Sales of the pieces Alan is willing to part with will fund scholarships for years to come. All of her art will be on exhibit, except for the two of Jillian, the sketches, and the dark one of the yard.”

Michelle continued. “Just before I learned you were pregnant, I was determined you had to go. Mother agreed to help and went to the academy to get you fired. She had your lectures recorded, and she asked board members to sit in your classroom to audit you. You never once messed up. She had your office searched and found your secret art stash. That’s when she discovered your talent and refused to have you removed as a teacher. She said we had to keep you for the student’s sake. One night we sat right here, and she said it was likely you were as sad as I was. She told me she knew Alan treated your talent the way Father Lyons treated her art. I cried myself to sleep with my head in her lap. She was so very kind.

“Jillian saw that immediately. In fact, your daughter was deeply insightful. She asked Mother if she could call her Grandmother. She told me later that moment was the highlight of her life. Her whole life, Olivia. Even the birth of Alan. She adored him. You stole a lot from me, but I will always be thankful for what you gave her through Jillian.”

I left the portrait and album in Michelle’s safe keeping. I don’t remember leaving the house or the ride back to the apartment. It was like I was wrapped in a thick fog. Lloyd met me in the garage and rode the elevator up with me, ready to leave me in Harper’s care for the night. They smiled at each other like teenagers.

“If you two would like to take your time catching up on things, there’s a new bag of coffee beans in the cupboard. I’m tired.” I was amused to think my protectors liked each other in that man-woman kind of way.

When I closed the door to my room, I heard the coffee grinder whirring. Soon the clink of cups and the quiet murmur of voices intentionally softened were the only noises in the apartment.

Getting ready for bed, I felt disjointed in my heart and disconnected from my body. Chaotic thoughts tumbled around in my head as if someone was playing a mean game of pinball in the confines of my skull.

When I did sleep, an evil pig-man chased me around a black and blue back yard. I woke up wishing I never had to sleep again. I must have screamed because the light in my room went on, and there stood Harper and Lloyd, guns drawn. It was one of those almost-over-the-edge-moments, and I started to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Harper demanded.

“You two look like you were either sleeping or making out,” I said.

As they re-holstered their guns, I noticed a slight tint of red on both their faces. Lloyd left the room to get us all a cold drink.

“You know he stayed here one other time, and there’s something you should know,” I said to her.

Her eyebrows raised.

“He snores, Harper. Is that okay with you?”

“Yep,” she said, heading down the hall. “Come on. You need to tell us about your dream. There might be something hidden in there we need to know.”

I told them about the boat house and Mrs. Lyons’s aversion to it. I mentioned the dark painting that was part of my nightmare. I left out the pig-man. He wasn’t part of this case, so what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

A few days later, Michelle called and asked if we could meet in the coffee shop. She was in the building to check on the progress of her office renovation and didn’t have a lot of time but wanted to catch up.

We got our coffees and cinnamon scones, and sat down at a small high-top table. I was more than a little annoyed when another customer turned on the television. In a couple of seconds the voice of Alan Lyons filled the room as he gave another press conference.

I watched Michelle cross her arms and clench her jaw. I felt red blotches of rage exploding on my throat. It was getting to be a familiar and annoying response.

A reporter with lovely blonde hair and red lipstick asked, “Mr. Lyons, is it true that your nanny is recovering from what might have been an intentional attack?”

“Sadly, yes. It looks like Aggie was given an injection of a medication she is extremely allergic to, and that the dosing was intentional.”

“Your mother died because of a lethal injection, didn’t she?” the reporter asked.

“Yes, she did,” Alan said, lowering his voice.

“Wasn’t Olivia Morgan a suspect in the death of your mother?”

Alan looked a little startled, but answered, “Ms. Morgan was a witness, but never a suspect. There is no evidence other than coincidence tying her to any of the recent crimes against my family. Both the FBI and St. Paul Police Department cleared her of any wrong-doing.”

“I understand Ms. Morgan has recently left teaching at the prestigious Lyons Academy of the Arts. What led to her resignation?”

Alan looked helpless as the reporter continued her assault, but managed to say, “Ms. Morgan recently told her students she is leaving to spend more time on her own art.”

From there it snowballed out of his control.

“Wasn’t she with your mother when Mrs. Lyons was murdered?”

“Yes. My mother invited her to our home, very likely to encourage Ms. Morgan in her plans.”

“So, Olivia Morgan is no longer a suspect in any of the murders or the attempted murder of your former nanny, Aggie Bailey?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Isn’t it true that your wife is Olivia Morgan’s legal counsel? Why would your family be involved in helping the woman who may have murdered your mother and your nanny?”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions. As I’ve said, there is no evidence linking Ms. Morgan to these crimes. I have mentored Ms. Morgan for several years, even when she became an unwed mother. My wife is representing her so that if she is involved in any way, she will be represented by the best,” Alan said.

“Ms. Morgan has been given so much by your family and the Academy. Doesn’t her leaving at this time leave any doubt as to her innocence? After all you’ve been through with her and have done for her, would you still recommend her as a teacher and risk putting young people in her care?”

“As I told you before, Ms. Morgan has not been found guilty of anything nor is she a suspect. The FBI has officially removed her from their list. Our family is certain of her innocence. Let’s not convict anyone in this interview. My family, the school board, the adult students at the academy, and their parents have confidence in the investigators of this case as well as in Ms. Morgan’s character. You’ve interviewed several of the families yourself and know that the students were never at risk.”

“What do you know about Ms. Morgan’s past? Isn’t she a runaway from Oak River who knew the first victim? And didn’t her daughter die? It seems like a lot of the people who come in contact with her are dead. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Finally, Alan’s mind cleared.

“Olivia Morgan’s daughter died from childhood leukemia. She has worked tirelessly since then to raise money that has gone toward giving thousands of sick children a chance for a cure. You are mistaken about her past. Ms. Morgan graduated from college with high honors, told her family about her plans to move to St. Paul to teach, and then did so. The man in the elevator was a childhood friend, but more than that he was an FBI agent. We have no idea why he was there or how he got there.

“Now Ms. Young,” he said giving her his most winning smile, “let’s get to the reason I called this press conference. I’m here to ask the public to call the authorities if they have seen or heard anything that would lead to the answers my family needs for closure. Surely someone saw something,” Alan pleaded as he faced the camera.

“We will be showing the numbers viewers can call on the screen below and on our website,” the reporter said. “Mr. Lyons, isn’t it true that Ms. Morgan is the only person of interest the police and the FBI had in this case? And isn’t it also true that, although circumstantial, all of the evidence so far connects her in some way to both murders and the attack on Aggie?”

“I have no comment,” Alan hedged.

I noticed Michelle reach for her phone and stab a button.

“One final question, Mr. Lyons, do you know where Ms. Morgan was at the time of the attack on Aggie?”

“No, I don’t.”

The reporter’s persistence made Newman look like my BFF.

Alan’s cell phone jangled. He looked at the screen and said, “This call is from my wife. I must take it. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any news.”

He turned from the microphones, but the television audience heard him say, “Michelle, darling, what is it?”

What they couldn’t hear was the icy voice of my attorney saying, “Alan. What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

She listened for a moment and then said, “Her only intention was to get information on Olivia and sensationalize the case, nothing more. To her, this is a career maker. You are getting old, my dear husband. You fall far too easily for the charms and flattery of beautiful younger women. You’re no longer using them. They’re using you. Don’t you find that embarrassing?”

Again she let him respond before saying, “Enough. You have likely damaged the case for the authorities, and in different circumstances I’d be hauling you into court on slander charges.”

She took a breath before saying, “Alan, stop whining. You blew it. That new yacht you ordered? As of this moment, it’s on hold. So is everything else you want now or will ever want. Do. Not. Mess. With. Me. If you don’t do something to make this go away, the personal price for you is going to be very high.”

She listened briefly before saying, “I’ve been quiet for far too long, Alan. It’s my turn.”

She quietly clicked her phone off and turned to me. Her eyes looked over my shoulder. “Harper. Welcome. Won’t you join us?”

Harper held her cell phone toward us. “Mr. Lyons, I have you on speaker phone. I have a question for you, Olivia. Where were you when Aggie was attacked?”

“With my attorney.”

“Is that true?” Harper asked Michelle.

“Yes, it is,” Michelle said.

Harper asked her phone, “Mr. Lyons, did you hear that?”

His voice came from the phone. “Yes. I did.”

“Did you know this before your press conference?”

“I may have. Why do you ask?”

“Because instead of telling the reporter you knew Ms. Morgan could not have hurt Aggie, you manipulated the public and inferred guilt on your wife’s client. That is not only unprofessional, sir, it’s unwise. It might lead a cop to call her own press conference, and at that time she might let them know that the person of interest now at the top of the list is you. She might also lead them to wonder where
you
were at the time of your nanny’s attack. After all, Mr. Lyons, you would know what medications would endanger her life, wouldn’t you? And you had easy access to the women and to all the buildings, including Meadowview.”

“Do I need to call my attorney?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lyons, do you?”

“No,” he said.

“Good. I would advise you to call your favorite blond reporter and let her know you’d like to clear up any misunderstandings your interview might have caused. Tell her Ms. Morgan has a solid alibi for the time of the attack, and you and your family are convinced of her innocence. You can also let them know she is
not
a person of interest in the case and that as of this time, she has been cleared of all suspicion by the St. Paul police department and the FBI. If you choose not to comply with this request, I will call her. Are we clear?”

“Fine,” he said his voice a combination of growl and grumble.

“And, I think it would be advisable to have your wife by your side when you get in front of the camera again. She’s very photogenic, and it would be wonderful if you’d let her speak for herself and her client. You, sir, have said entirely too much on the subject to date.”

“I will take your suggestions under consideration, Detective Harper,” he said.

“Sir, from the look on your wife’s face, you will do more than consider it.” Harper said before she hung up on him.

“Now I’ll join you,” Harper said to both of us.

“Olivia, are you okay?” Michelle asked.

“Will I ever teach again?” I asked.

“Yes. You will. I promise. Alan will not hide your talent ever again. He will not do what Father Lyons did to Mother.” Michelle gave a genuine smile.

Her phone rang and she listened for a moment. “Yes, I can meet you in your office shortly.”

She smiled at Harper and said, “Wow. He’s ready to make amends publically. The leggy reporter and her camera guy are on the way over. This should be fun. I have just enough time to change into my new suit which is hanging in Alan’s office closet. The skirt is a little short and my heels are a little high. I wonder how Miss Television will like the competition.”

The second Lyons news conference of the day was stellar. Michelle was classy, sassy, and her legs looked better on the screen than the reporter’s. My favorite part was when she said, “My husband means well. He wants the murderer of his mother and Aggie’s attacker caught, no matter who he or she is. His goal is to be open to all possibilities and show no favoritism. However, we are both completely certain of Ms. Morgan’s innocence. She has our trust and confidence. When these crimes are solved, we will all be greatly relieved. We hope that you, Miss Young, will use the power of the press and your many connections to seek the truth and not practice shock journalism.”

Then she dropped her own bomb.

“A few minutes ago, we were able to view the video footage from Meadowview where Aggie is a resident. An unknown male can clearly be seen in the footage entering and exiting the building on the day and at the time Aggie was attacked. He shows a striking resemblance to the man we know killed Mother Lyons. The police will be releasing the video to the press in a few hours with the first exclusive going to you, Ms. Young. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we are on our way to visit our beloved Aggie. We are delighted to tell you she is recovering nicely and will be returning to Meadowview when the person who attempted to kill her is in police custody. We want you to know we do not hold the care center responsible for the attack. We hold only one person accountable—the perpetrator of the crime.”

I turned to Harper. “Did you know about the video and the guy?”

“Yes. The chief of police was waiting outside for Michelle. He wanted to show it to her himself. Everything was on schedule until Alan decided to hold yet another side show. You’d think he had political goals. He really likes the press. Has he always been a jerk?”

“He has. I guess that makes me a fool.”

“Nah. We’ve all fallen for one or two jerks in our days.”

“So what category does Lloyd fall into?”

She smiled and said, “He is the one in a million.”

Before we could continue our discussion, Mr. Million walked in to see how we were. They tried to act professional, but from my ring-side seat they were both goners.