Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (17 page)

“I’m sure you learned this a long time ago in your training. Once you remove me as a suspect from your head, you’ll see the evidence without your current prejudice. Then you’ll be able to see the case with more clarity.”

“What if it leads me back to you?” he asked.

My stomach rolled violently, and I reached into my pocket for another mint.

“It won’t,” I muttered.

Harper said to Newman, “I have an idea. What if you and Michelle meet me back here around seven tonight with all our notes and evidence? We can use these white boards to organize what we have. That may show us something we’re missing now.”

“I can’t come?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping.

“No. We need the evidence to speak for or against you. I won’t be able to cover your guard detail until later tonight. I’ll call Lloyd. Does this work for everyone else?” Harper asked.

Everyone nodded but me. I wasn’t required to answer. Only obey.

Later, sitting on the couch in the apartment with Lloyd, we ate burgers and fries and watched old reruns of
Gunsmoke
I’d bought from Amazon. I almost laughed when the question crossed my mind that if Lloyd was Matt Dillon, and Harper was Miss Kitty, did that make me Festus?

When Harper arrived at eleven, I asked how things went.

“I think Newman is starting to see the case differently, but it’s hard for him. The evidence didn’t change or reveal the identity of the real killer. Something is missing. Something important. This case is going cold fast. We need a break soon because we have others to work on as well.”

I woke up from a dream at four in the morning, fear gnawing at me. There was one thing bothering me more than the rest— where was the stalker? He hadn’t showed his presence in my life for a while. I was relieved, but what did that mean? At that moment something on the table next to my bed shimmered in the moonlight.

I did the only thing I could. I screamed loud enough my throat hurt. I heard Harper scrambling to get to me. At least I hoped it was her. For good measure, I screamed again.

When Harper turned on the light, I pointed to the vase on my nightstand. This time it held a dead rose as black as the midnight sky behind it. The note beneath it read, “Soon.” There were blood splatters on the paper.

“Harper!” I eeked out. My throat felt raw.

Harper put her finger to her lips and then she bagged the thing. I nodded to show her I was coherent enough to understand what she believed she could not say.

“How did he get in here?” I asked.

“I have no idea. I am very sorry. I fell asleep,” she admitted.

“You’re supposed to sleep. I just don’t understand how he can get in and out without us knowing. It’s like he’s invisible or able to walk through doors without being seen or heard. Do you think that is blood on the paper?”

Harper took a long breath and said, “No. It was put there to represent your blood. We’ll have it tested. Sometimes these guys use animal blood.”

“You mean like a dog or a cat?”

“Yeah.”

She called for an officer and back up. When they arrived, she gave them the vase with the dead rose with strict instructions to book it all into evidence with extra care.

As we settled into the living room chairs, I said to Harper, “Sometimes what you don’t know can hurt you. In fact, it can be deadly.”

A comforting comment would have been welcome. Instead, she agreed.

My phone played the William Tell Overture. Patrick was calling. I let it go to voice mail. Even with the news station’s restatement of the facts, I couldn’t imagine the kids or their parents welcoming me back into their midst. Not able to stand it, I checked the message.

Hey, we're meeting tonight at Perkins. Can u join us? We have something for u. U know the deal; bring a new project
.

I texted him back.
I’d love to come. Are you sure? The press lately has been less than positive.

We trust u. Nothing they say will change that. So…?

I’m in.

Epic!

Harper and Lloyd were both tied up with their day jobs so an off duty female cop was on guard duty. She was young, had the body of a ballerina, and was about five foot seven. I know this because I could look her straight in the eye. She took my raised eyebrows as a question, and told me, “I’m a second level black belt, a master marks-person, and I’m fast.”

“She’s one of my best,” Harper said.

Her name was Sarah. She had a laptop and backpack with her. “I hope you don’t mind if I work on a personal project while I’m with you,” she said. “I’m studying to be a profiler. There’s a lot to learn if I want to get in to the training.”

“No problem. It will be better for both of us if we’re busy.”

That afternoon, under the watchful eye of my new guardian, I sketched the hands of the women I’d interrupted at Perkins. The sound of my pencil on the paper was like music to me. Each drawing seemed to have its own song. I worked on the collage first in my big sketch book. Then I did the individual “hand portraits” as 5x7s. Standing back after several hours, I pondered each hand. Who were these women?

Looking at each piece I knew I’d have to do another set because parting with this one would not work for me.

Hurrying to get ready, I realized I had forgotten to eat. My stomach complained all the way to the restaurant, and I knew a Granny’s Omelet was in my near future.

My petite protector slid into a booth that allowed her visuals of our tables, the front door, the kitchen door, and the bathrooms.

Patrick was the last to arrive, and he carried a large package wrapped in paper designed to protect art from light, heat, and humidity. When he propped it against the wall, I assumed it was his current project and could hardly wait to see it. Since we were all hungry, we decided to order right away and catch up before we began our “show and tell.” We were all into eggs and muffins that night.

“It’s time, Patrick. Show her,” Patina said, pushing her plate away.

The others nodded and the mood switched from easy to formal. My hands gripped and twisted my napkin.

“We were helping out at the school because it was the janitor’s birthday, and he’s not one to take gifts. Stan is a diabetic so we couldn't get him a cake." He shrugged, "Instead, we asked him if we could do his job for one day. He could tell us what to do and check out our work. He agreed.”

Patrick took a breath and Nick picked up their story. “We found an old closet. It wasn’t locked, and we were curious.”

Kelsey jumped into the tale. “We found a gold mine. It is full of paintings. They need some cleaning, but they are amazing. They remind me of the ones in the hallways done by, you know, the mystery artist.”

“Did you look at them all?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Most of them are of two women and two little boys in a nursery of some kind. It’s kind of like a series. We brought one to show you. Since you know the Lyons family, we thought you might want to let them know. These are incredible.”

He unwrapped the painting that might be considered stolen to some. It took my breath away. In the hands of a man wearing white, blood-soaked gloves, was a baby so brand new the umbilical cord was still attached to his tummy. A woman’s hands were underneath the man’s as if a hand-off were taking place. Something in my gut told me I knew this baby, but that was impossible.

Stephanie’s eyes glistened as she said, “You know how it is when a piece of art is so true it feels like something supernatural touched it? That’s how I feel about this. They came from the artist’s core.” Then a tear escaped the outer corner of her eye.

I nodded, thinking that the very proper Ida Lyons would be quietly and elegantly thrilled her work touched the heart of a young woman with tats, piercings, black lipstick, and tonight, purple hair.

“Are the other paintings similar?” I asked.

“Yeah. They are of the same two women and boys from newborn to maybe ten years old. They are very close in age. One woman has flaming red hair and green eyes. The other only reveals her hands,” Patrick said.

“We believe she is the artist, “Stephanie said. “She painted only what she could see.”

“Even though I’m not into material stuff, the rings she wears tell part of her story. They're beautifully crafted Platinum with a large well-cut stone. The woman has to be very wealthy.” Patina said.

“One boy has strange eyes,” Nick added.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They're two different colors.”

My ears started to ring as if trying to blot out the words I’d just heard. “Patrick, please wrap this up again for me,” I said. “Where is this closet? I’d really like to see more of these pieces before I alert the Lyons family about this find. They will know what to do with them. Do you think Stan would let me into the building for old time’s sake?”

“I think he’d be glad to see you. The closet is near your old office. There’s a brass plaque on the door that says, “Storage.”

“I remember that door. It’s still unlocked?”

“Yeah.”

Denying my desire to go to the school immediately, I said, “I’d appreciate it if we kept this to ourselves until I’m able to see what’s there and let the family know what we’ve discovered. As you know, they’ve been through a lot. I’d like to see the pieces before we get their hopes up about their value.”

“Cool,” Patrick said.

And with that, we switched gears. It was show time and my fellow artists had been busy. There were new dragons, a lemon colored dahlia with an abstract background, a series of three antique cars from a collection owned by Nick’s grandfather, an oil of a maple tree in the fall so detailed I expected to feel the breeze on my skin that carried the leaves twirling gracefully to the ground. I pulled out my hand collage hesitantly. Showing one’s art is a fearsome thing.

Patina carefully took the piece and studied it for a moment. “You must know these women well. You somehow captured part of their essence.”

“I agree,” Patrick said. “Are they family?”

“No. They were four women I saw sitting at the table over there one day. They are total strangers to me, but watching them talk with their hands, pour each other coffee, and holding their cups, captivated me.”     

“You're practicing what you taught us,” Patrick said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re looking for the beauty to be found in what others might consider ordinary,” he quoted.

“The details are amazing,” Stephanie added. “Their rings, the way they each hold their cups differently, their hands reaching to help or touch each other, and the knobs of arthritis seem to make it all more beautiful. Are you going to sell them?”

“No. This is the practice piece. I’ll do another one for the ladies. One of them owns a yarn or craft store in Oak River. I’ll give them the next sketch and the ones I’ve done of each hand as my thanks for letting me save that moment in their lives.”

“That is so cool. And generous. I love that about you,” Patina said, her black-lined eyes glistening as if I’d done something great.

“What are you going to do with your pieces?” I asked. “They are wonderful.”

“We’re going to ask the school board and Claire Worthington if we can do a fundraising gala for the school with art from all the students on display and for sale. The orchestra could play, and we could have solos and a dance routine so each of the main art departments are covered,” Nick said.

“Evan wants in,” Patrick said.

“That's a great idea. Let me know how I can help. I know my current notoriety means I’d need to participate in the background, but that’s fine with me. And yes, you’re all adults, but are your parents on board?” Excitement rose up in me. I had no idea if I’d actually be allowed to be part of their project, but I’d encourage them every chance I was given.

“Yeah. They're ready. They wanted us to invite you to join the team.” Nick said.

“Will the money raised go to the school or for a cause?” I asked.

Patina’s eyes shone as she said, “The proceeds would be for a scholarship to an as-yet-undiscovered talent. We want to contact all the art teachers in the Twin Cities and ask them to nominate one student and send us a piece of his or her art or a video of the student performing. Based on specific criteria, developed by my brother, a student will be chosen.”

“How is your brother?” I asked her.

“He’s good. Always focused on numbers, stats, and stuff I can’t even begin to understand,” she answered.

“Ms. Morgan, what’s the name of your sketch?” Patrick asked.

“I was going to call it ‘Old Friends,’ but some women would rather not be called old. I think I will let them title it.”

My students nodded their approval. It was nearly midnight when the waitress brought us our last pot of coffee. We raised our stout white mugs, toasting each other with enthusiasm that could have been part caffeine overload.

Something was bothering me about the old painting. “Patrick, on that painting is there a title anywhere? Sometimes artists put them on the back of the canvas.”

“In faded pencil it says, ‘The Butler’s Delivery’ which would explain the white gloves. I guess those guys had to know how to do more than open doors and announce guests, huh?”

“Yeah,” was all I could manage, hoping my smile covered my fear. There was so much more here I didn’t understand but knew on a gut-level was important.

We talked for a short time before I yawned. It was time for the day to end.

I hugged everyone good-bye and headed for the bathroom. A lot of coffee does that to a bladder just over thirty-five.

Sarah joined me a moment later. “Those kids are really talented and so are you,” she said.

“They are,” I agreed, “but how do you know that?”

“You don’t have to be an artist or an art critic to know something is good when you see it. Most of the art in this world is owned by people like me who can’t draw a decent stick figure. We know it’s good when it touches us on a level some call their hearts, but is really far deeper. Your sketch of the hands did that to me. That’s powerful and beautiful.”

I thanked her, grateful for her kind and knowledgeable response.

Back at the apartment we opened the door to the smell of death. Sarah shut the door, escorted me back into the elevator, and took me to Lloyd’s office. She informed Merle something was “off” in the apartment, had him stand guard at the front desk, and then she called both Lloyd and Harper.

I heard her say, “It looked like a dead cat to me. A small one. Smelled like it had been that way for a while. There’s a note stuck into the creature with a jackknife. Also, the apartment is extremely warm like someone turned the heat way up.” After listening for a moment, she said, “Okay.” She stuck her phone in her pocket, took out a hand gun of some kind, and told Merle, “I’ve been instructed to go back up there. Do not let Ms. Morgan out of your sight. Are you any good with your side arm?”

“I am,” he said.

“Good. Unholster it.”

Merle obeyed with about the same amount of finesse as Barney Fife.

Lloyd escorted me to his office where I watched the action through the bank of windows that were the front wall of the office. As the elevator door closed on her, Sarah nodded at me as if to let me know it would be okay. I felt less safe without her. For a little woman she had a strong presence. To give him credit, Merle took his role seriously. He stood at the security desk with his feet apart, his mouth set, and his hand on his holster. He was ready, willing, and able to do whatever would be required of him.

Lloyd arrived on the scene first and instructed Merle to stay on guard and told me to stay put. He looked dapper in a black suit and a blue tie. Harper rushed in behind him looking very much the lady in a little black dress, high heels, and a tiny, shiny, black beaded purse.

The dead thing had ruined their date.

Soon there was a circle of techs, cops, and the press in the lobby. A certain leggy reporter hung out on the fringe to one side of the elevator, and a TV anchor took notes on the other. Now and then one of them would use his or her thumbs on the keyboard of his or her cell phone. The other would look at his or her phone and repeat the process. Sometimes they’d nod at each other and return to watching or note-taking.

A camera man tried to get a shot of me, but Merle blocked the guy and told him to take his equipment and go outside. His voice boomed across the marble room giving him the sound of authority. The camera man obeyed without question, and Merle stood a little taller.

The dead animal was carried out in a black bag by the handsome coroner I’d met the night I wore my red dress. I ducked my head, hoping he hadn’t seen me. Looking around for the nearest wastebasket, just in case the rumble in my stomach became more, I wondered if the animal had been road kill or an intentional victim of the murderer. Either way, I didn’t like the message being sent.

My cell phone rang. It was Michelle. “Olivia, I have you on speaker phone. Are you all right? Harper called to inform us about the problem at the apartment. Do you need us to come?”

“I’m fine. Unless the police need you, I think you can stay home,” I said, not wanting to give Alan yet another reason to get after me.

“You can’t sleep there until we get it aired out. I’ll call the St. Paul and get a room for you. Ask Harper to bring you whatever you need for a couple of days.”

“Was this done while you were in the apartment?” Alan asked.

“No. I had an art meeting tonight and was out late. The apartment was empty for several hours.”