Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (16 page)

The more I thought about Alan’s press stunt, the more I detested him. It was no longer enough that he was Jillian’s father. She got the good in her from me and from, of all people, her grandmother, but not him.

I pondered and mumbled as I returned the Lyons’s possessions back to where they were when I moved in. I’d taken photographs so it was easy to put the heavy brass pieces and model ships encased in glass where a lonely wife had once placed them for her mean and womanizing man.

Afraid I’d do it wrong and damage the family heirlooms, I’d sent the brass out to be professionally cleaned and had the bill sent to Alan. The charge would be substantial, and although he’d probably never say anything, it would bug him no end.

I was savoring my small victory when Michelle called. “Olivia, I’m in the lobby with Lloyd, and I’ve called Harper. She should be here soon. We have to talk. Now.”

“Sure. Come on up,” I said and then started pacing in the hallway. This couldn’t be good.

When I opened the door, Michelle entered first, her normally gracious gait hurried and staccato. Harper was followed closely by Lloyd.

“Can I get any one anything to drink?” I asked.

“No. Not now. Well, maybe water. I don’t know!” Michelle was definitely not herself.

Lloyd got her a glass of water while Harper and I waited for her to catch her breath which was difficult for her. When she looked up, we could see she was near tears.

I did what worked with students terrified of tests. I sat beside her on the couch with my body turned toward her. I asked her to sit back and take three deep breaths.

“Count with me, Michelle. One, two, three,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. “That’s good. Now take a sip of water. When you’ve had enough, put the glass on the coaster.”

As she did everything I asked, her breathing returned to normal.

“Are you ready to tell us what happened?” I asked as if inquiring about the weather.

“Is it safe to talk here?”

Her question knocked me in the gut and Lloyd said, “No. Let’s go to my office. I swept it for devices this morning.”

We left the apartment single file with Lloyd leading and Harper last.

Off to the side of his office stood a small round table and four wooden chairs. All of it had seen better days. That seemed to get Michelle’s attention and she said, “Lloyd, when all of this is done, I’m going to have this room redecorated too.”

He nodded.

She told us, “I went to visit Aggie today. She’s being released from the hospital. Lloyd, are you sure no one can hear us? I need to be absolutely certain.”

She shivered and clasped her hands in her lap. Watching her, bile started to back up in my gut.

“This little room was restored a few years ago; other than the door, this room is pretty much separate. The heating is in the cement floor so the brick walls can be visible. The ceiling is a flat piece of twelve-inch concrete. I’m not sure why, but it was built like a bunker. I put the sheet rock up myself, so I know the inside walls are good. There are no listening or video devices in the room. I also installed the windows. Nothing has changed since we finished it. It has always felt like what I imagine a “safe” room might be like.”

“What’s a safe room?” Michelle asked.

“A place where someone like old man Lyons could come and be sure no one could hear his conversations. I added the window so the room would be legal.”

She brushed an invisible something off her slacks and began. “I visited Aggie this morning. She will be released from the hospital in a day or so. We are taking her to an undisclosed location. Harper, you will be notified, but no one other than Alan, myself, you, and her caregivers will know. We believe she is still in grave danger. There is some concern that we are all in danger.”

She stopped and I noticed her eyes darting around.

“It’s understandable you’d be upset for Aggie. How can we help?” Harper’s voice was softer than I’d ever heard it as she validated Michelle’s obvious concern for the old woman.

“That’s not all. When I was talking with her today she asked about her vases. She said they were her only valuables and she’d left them in Mother Lyons’s care when she had to go to Meadowview. She described them in great detail and told me how they had been in her family for years. I guess her grandmother and great aunts had each been given one vase as a wedding gift. Aggie was the only girl born into a large Irish family, and the women decided she should have the whole collection. I’ve never seen them in the house, but listening to her describe them, I think they are the ones being used against you, Olivia.”

“Is it possible they were stolen from the house at some point?” Harper asked.

“Why would someone come into a house full of far more valuable treasures and take vases that were stored away in some box in the attic?” Michelle whispered.

“How do you think the stalker got them?” Lloyd entered the conversation.

“Someone had to know they existed and where Mother put them. Until now, I was never privy to that information. Aggie said she’d been told they were in a cubby hole in the attic. There are several of those little hideaways up there, and they are full of old things the family wanted to keep.

“Aggie said, ‘Ida hid them for me herself. She told me exactly where they would be waiting until I’d decided who my heir would be.’ About three months ago, she called our attorney and bequeathed them to me. I didn’t know about this until today . . . I swear. I wasn’t supposed to know until Aggie’s death. Before I called you, I went home to the cubby hole she told me they were in, and all I found were empty boxes and packing paper. Alan came up to see what I was doing. He was extremely upset the vases were gone. He knew all about them and where they’d been hidden.”

“Does Aggie know they’re missing?” Harper asked.

“No, and I don’t know how I’ll tell her.”

“Why not wait a few days to let her adjust to the move as she continues to heal? Then we can take Olivia’s drawings to her and explain the vases have been misplaced or broken, and we can ask her if the ones in the sketches are similar to hers.”

“Thank you, Harper. That is a wonderful idea.”

“Michelle, what are you afraid of besides the missing vases?” I asked.

“She was terribly nervous around Alan. I don’t know why, and he seemed anxious around her.”

“Maybe they realized how close they came to losing each other and don’t know what to say,” I said.

“I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. When she described the intruder, she watched Alan as if she was waiting for him to respond,” Michelle said.

“Did he?” Harper asked.

“No.” Michelle said, rubbing her temples. “He just listened, looking back at her. It was like they could read each other’s minds.”

“How did she describe her attacker?” Harper asked, switching to interrogation-mode.

“She said he was a nurse who wore sunglasses and a wig. When he spoke to her, he used a fake Irish accent as if mocking her. He told her he knew he was administering a drug that would kill her. She’s on strong medications so the sunglasses part could be fiction.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Unless his eyes are two different colors.”

The next day, Claire called and asked me to lunch. She said to dress casually. We met at a little café that had plastic red checkered table cloths and wooden booths with no padding. Years of scuffs marked the wooden floor. Metal stools covered in red vinyl lined the counter, and a jukebox lit up a dark corner while the Carpenters sang about Rainy Days and Mondays. It was worn-out and retro at the same time.

I nearly missed Claire. She wore jeans that had seen better days, an old flannel shirt, and scruffy deck shoes. Thank goodness she waved at me from the back booth.

“Olivia! I’m so glad you could make it,” she said as I slipped into the seat across from her.

“Me too.”

“I’m not sure what kind of food you like, but they serve the best chicken dumpling soup in town.”

The waitress came over, smiling at us. “Hey, Claire! Welcome back.”

“Hi Angie. It’s good to see you. I’d like you to meet my friend, Olivia.”

We said hello and then Angie asked, “Well then girls, what can I get you? It won’t be long before this place will be hopping.”

Claire ordered the soup and an iced tea with lemon. I followed her lead.

Our soup was served in large bowls and dumplings bobbed on a golden broth. Our tea was served in curvy old-fashioned Coca-Cola glasses.

“I saw both of Alan’s press conferences,” Claire said.

After a deep breath I asked, “What did you think?”

“I saw a man in a panic. His mother and I were close friends, and I’ve known him since he was a little boy. Alan has always had a tendency to melt down on the inside and try to look great on the outside. He usually pulls it off better than he did this week.”

“What was he like as a little boy?”

“He was always the center of his mother’s life. If he thought it was funny, she’d laugh for his sake even if it meant foregoing her normal social graces. He was a beautiful baby and a handsome child. I know he strove to please his father, as Ida did, and that he was terrified to fail so he rarely did. I don’t know the details, but punishment was swift and painful for both mother and son.”

“The senior Mr. Lyons abused them?”

“In his way. So Ida protected her son and Alan did the same.”

“You mean he protected her?”

“No. I mean he protected himself. He lied. Covered things up. Blamed others, including his mother who was, after all, just a woman. His father could see through it all, but he respected those qualities in his son.”

“You knew all of this and did nothing?” I asked.

“Not at the time. Ida had to get old and sick before she said anything negative about either of them. I know it’s hard for younger women to understand, but she came from a different time when men ruled. There were days I thought she’d been born one hundred years too late. I’m twenty years younger than she was, and my generation didn’t have the freedoms you do, but we had far more than she did. Ida would have denied herself the freedom, no matter what, for the good of the family right to the end.”

We had just finished our meals when the noon news came on. Someone turned up the sound on the television mounted behind the counter. The now bustling café, full of guys in work boots and dirty jeans, who had been flirting with our waitress, became strangely quiet when a familiar anchor said, “For the last few months, the Lyons family has endured two murders and an attack on their nanny. While these atrocities seem unrelated on the surface, my investigative report will reveal that a woman with close ties to the Lyons family has a history that involves the mysterious death of her father, Gus Smith. Is Olivia Morgan as innocent as law enforcement claims or has her past caught up with her? Join us tonight at 10 for a closer look at this art teacher who accepted the Lyons family’s generosity and may have repaid it with murder. What really happened in Oak River?” My picture was photo-shopped over a picture of our trailer house in flames across the screen behind the anchor’s head.

Somehow I made it into the bathroom stall before I lost my dumpling soup.

After flushing my lunch away, I opened the door to find Claire ready for me. She handed me a small paper cup, a tiny bottle of mouth wash, and said, “Here honey. Swish, spit, and rinse.”

I did, then watching her in the mirror, I said, “You come prepared.”

Angie stood behind her with her hands planted on her hips and said, “No, but I do. You never know around here. Did you kill those people?”

“No. I did not. I refused to give that reporter my life story. This is my payback. Why?”

“Ida Lyons used to come here with Claire. She was kind to me. Really kind. That doesn’t happen very often in a place like this to a woman like me. If you hurt her, I will do all I can to help that reporter get you. If you didn’t, we’re good.”

“Angie, there is no evidence linking Olivia to any crime that I know of. I loved Ida; she was my friend. Do you think I’d be friends with anyone I thought could be guilty of her murder? Ida called Olivia to her side when she knew she was dying. There were things between them that needed to be said. That’s all.” Claire’s voice was kind with an edge of passion.

“What about this guy from Oak River who’s dead?” Angie demanded.

“He was my father and there was a fire. He died.”

“Geez. That reporter made it sound like you started the fire. Did you?”

“No. I’d left the day before.”

“That seems a little coincidental don’t you think?”

“I’d been planning to leave for weeks. It wasn’t a secret; my family knew. So did my employer, my favorite teacher, and my best friend.”

My cell phone rang. “I need to take this. It’s my attorney, Michelle Lyons. That reporter might not believe me, but the Lyons family does.”

“Fine. I gotta get back to work.”

“Olivia, where are you?” Michelle asked.

“In the bathroom at some café with Claire. We just saw the news. Does Alan have anything to do with this?”

“No. Do you have your car?” she asked.

“I walked over. Why?”

“Can Claire drive you to the police station? We need to meet with Harper now. When Newman hears about this new development, he’ll be on your trail again. This reporter seems to have a vendetta against you. I’ve invited him to join us.”

Claire agreed to take me just as Angie returned.

“A guy in the diner called the reporter and said you were in the back booth. He’s on his way over. Come on, you have to get out of here,” Angie said. She opened the door, looked both ways, and signaled for us to follow her. We ended up in a smelly alley full of dumpsters. We hurried to where Claire had parked.

In the relative safety of Claire’s car, I asked, “Why did Ida Lyons come here?”

“We met here about once a month. She loved to ‘dress down and go slumming.’ Those are her words, not mine. In her own way, she loved the people she met, and when she really trusted them the way she did Angie, she let them in on her secret. She was herself in these places and more at home in her skin then in the world in which she lived. Being here and the other places she went transformed her. Sometimes Michelle joined us. It was sort of our ‘girl’s lunch out.’”

“I guess she was a captive too,” I said.

“Ida’s wealth came with expectations. Her husband added to them. On the surface, she played her role with excellence. When she let the role fall away, she was Ida: generous, funny, talented, wise, and strangely beautiful. Not as defined by society. Her beauty came from deep within. Remind me to tell you about the time she sang and danced with a young street musician. By the time we left, his guitar case was overflowing with money and a hand-written, but always honored scholarship to the academy.”

“Here you go,” she said handing me a tin of extremely strong breath mints. “Take a couple of these before you go in to your meeting. The return of your lunch is still on your breath. You’re feeling sick again aren’t you? Have you seen a doctor about this?” she asked, parking in front of the law enforcement center.

“I’ve done this since I was a kid; it’s my response to stress I guess.”

“It still wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s something that can be done.”

I nodded as I chewed one of the mints immediately. I thought my tongue was on fire. She smiled and said, “They might help with your upset stomach. You might want to keep one in your mouth at all times. Tuck a few into your pocket. Now off with you, my dear.”

Michelle was waiting in the lobby for me. “Harper wants us in her office,” she said.

Newman and reporter Ron were waiting in Harper’s office when Michelle and I arrived. My jaw clenched and the mints floating around in my mouth were crushed between my molars, clearing both my sinuses and my mind. My nerves were jangling. No one shook hands. Harper directed us down the hall to the conference room.

She asked if she could record our conversation. I nodded at Michelle and she agreed. She continued, facing Michelle, “I understand you invited Ron to this interview; is that correct? You and your client are also aware that the FBI continues to investigate the case and that special agent Newman is also present.”

“Yes,” Michelle said, answering both questions.

“I want you to know that you are not under investigation by either department, Olivia. However, with the public announcement made by a local television station, we have some questions for you.”

I looked at Michelle who nodded. “I’m glad to help, if I can,” I said.

Harper questioned me first. “Olivia, what do you know about the fire in Oak River that took the life of your father?”

“I didn’t know anything about it until you told me after Mickey’s death.”

“How can that be?” Newman asked.

“I left Oak River the day before on a Jefferson bus.”

“Why did you leave?” Harper asked.

“I had my teaching and art degrees. I wanted to live and teach in the city. In my dreams, that was New York. However, I had saved only enough to get to St. Paul, rent a cheap room, get my resume copied at Kinkos, and have enough to live on for about two weeks. I met Alan Lyons the second night I was here which, from what Harper told me, is when the fire happened. Alan seemed to understand my dreams. The next day he gave me a job and a place to live.”

“Can he verify this?” Harper asked.

Michelle answered for me. “I have his verification with me.”

“What kind of proof will he give?” Newman asked.

“He had a courier deliver Olivia’s resume and application to the academy board members that very day.” She pulled a folder out of her brief case. “The date on the receipt is the morning after the fire in Oak River. In addition, here are three photos from the gala Olivia attended the night of the fire where she met my husband. You can clearly see her in them. When he learned of her dire straits, he escorted her to the room she had rented and then took her to the company apartment where she has resided for the last ten years. You will find her signature on this time and date stamped security form just below my husband’s. This conclusive evidence proves she was not in Oak River, and, therefore, could not have started the fire. It also cancels out the validity of your story, Ron. It will be in the best interest of the station and your career to rework your investigative report to reflect the truth and not some made-up drama. If you and the station choose not to change your story, libel and slander charges will be filed tomorrow morning against the station and you personally.”

“You don’t by any chance have your Jefferson Lines ticket stub?” Newman asked me.

“Right here,” Michelle said, pulling the old ticket from the file as well.

The folder felt like a magician’s hat and that stub of paper represented my rabbit, but it also irked me. “Where did you get that?” I asked.

Michelle lowered her head. “When you first moved in, I went to the apartment and snooped through your things. I had to know who you were. There was a small envelope on the nightstand. I took it and kept it. I don’t know why except when I took it out to look at it, I felt superior to you.”

“Superior how?” I asked, fascinated by her confession.

“I have always ridden in limos. You rode a bus. I reveled in that.”

The reporter’s cell phone rang, and he took the call. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll get right to work on it.”

We’d forgotten about him.

His face was red when he turned to Michelle and said, “Your friend, my boss, needs me back at the station to redo the update. This is censorship, and you know it.”

“No, this is the truth—something you have always pursued in your brilliant career. We’ve only edited out the lies,” Michelle responded. “At first I had no idea why you’d compromise that, so I did a little fact checking of my own. Ron and Newman here have been friends since you were kids. Maybe you owed him a favor or perhaps he promised you an exclusive. For two guys with stellar reputations and records, you are on the wrong team this time. Everyone in this room knows Olivia did not start that fire. We also know she did not kill Mickey, Mrs. Lyons, or attack Aggie. That means there is at least one very dangerous person out there planning another crime. That is what should be driving you on this story—not my client.”

She looked at Harper and said, “Are we through here?”

“We are.”

As we got up to leave, Harper said, “Newman, you’ve gone too far. I’m going to report this to your boss.”

An idea flashed across my mind. “Can you wait on that for a little while, Harper? If the bad guy thinks one of the good guys is on his side that could work in our favor, couldn’t it?

“Maybe.”

I turned to Newman. “What if you changed your focus and took another look at all the evidence you have in Mickey’s case as if I was the victim? Would you see it differently?” This is a tactic I often took when a student was stuck in an art project. I asked them to see it from the opposite perspective. It had proved to be a powerful tool in the lives of my students. I could only hope it would work here too.

“You up for that, Newman?” Harper asked.

“How does that work?” he asked.

“Every time you see my name instead of thinking ‘villain,’ you replace that word with ‘victim,’” I replied.

“But what if you really are the villain?”