Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (19 page)

A knock at the door interrupted the silence that filled the office after Michelle had finished.

We jumped in unison.

From the other side of the door Newman asked to be admitted.

“How’d you get in here?” Harper asked.

“I flashed my badge and asked specifically for you.”

“Great. They think you’re one of the good guys,” I said.

“What if I am?” he asked.

“Since you’re here, you may as well tell us what’s on your mind,” I said while pulling a folding chair out for him to sit on.

“I did what you asked,” he said looking at me. “I looked at the evidence as if you were the victim. I talked to your mother, a neighbor, a teacher, and a woman you worked for. Three of them mentioned they believe you were sexually abused by your father. You understand that can be a strong motive for some women to hate and even kill men?” he asked.

Shame from what Gus did nearly choked me. They’d told Newman. About that. What else had they said?

“Did you ask them if they think I’m capable of murder?” My words came out in a raspy whisper.

“No. I let them tell me who they thought you were and left it at that. I’m not investigating you, but I did ask them questions about Mickey. You were a natural extension of that discussion. To be honest, I got the feeling they liked you.”

“All four of them?”

“Yeah. I have to admit the change in perspective was clarifying. While I’m not 100 percent sure about your innocence in the Gus Smith case, I believe you are in the others. You have to give me a break here. These kinds of murders and attacks are personal, and you seem to be the only link to all of them. We’re missing something. Whatever Mickey knew that we don’t, got him killed. I’m not part of this investigation, so I’m leaving. If this new way of thinking turns anything up, I’ll let Harper know.”

“Thanks,” I said and offered him my hand. He shook it and left.

While I was relieved to know the FBI guy was now sort of on my side, I was more anxious to hear from the students. Lloyd was assigned as my bodyguard, Michelle headed off to tell her husband what she’d done, and Harper left to get search warrants for the academy and Stan’s home.

Caroline came in to tell me she’d set up ten-minute appointments with fifteen students. She was sure there would be more after lunch. “Also, Evan’s mom kept him home today. He’s coming down with a cold, and she wants to protect him from the news about Stan for as long as she can.”

For the rest of the morning, students came in and out bringing their tears and fears to my old desk.

Because their grief had a panicked feel about it, at lunch I asked the other teachers if they would be willing to call an emergency assembly. I proposed we could let the kids use the microphone as they wanted. We’d invite them to bring their laptops for writing and their sketch pads. Others could play the piano, sing, or even dance to express themselves. It would be a free and open place for them to be who they were for their friend, Stan. Everyone agreed. The staff would stand or sit in the back of the room. The students could come to us for help if they chose to.

The secretary made the announcement, and the students joined us in the auditorium, eager to release some of their fear in a community setting. It was a beautiful afternoon spent honoring a man we all loved.

As the last note rang, the kids left the room in a respectful silence. Each one stopped by me with a note to deliver to Stan when he woke up.

I went into the hallway to face a red-faced Alan and a red-eyed Michelle. “Who authorized this assembly?” he demanded.

“The staff did. The handbook clearly states that in an emergency of this kind, they have the authority to arrange a supportive assembly,” I answered. “It’s likely tomorrow morning you will be getting a lot of phone calls from grateful parents. Stan is loved by many of them as well. If you get any complaints, please give them my number,” I said.

“Oh that will be great. Give them the number of a former staff person who has recently been a person of interest by the police and the FBI. No thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Would you mind if we have this discussion somewhere else?” I asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Alan said and turned to go. Michelle shadowed him, but he wasn’t quite finished. “Michelle agreed to be your attorney so we could keep a close eye on you. It’s possible you fell for her act, Olivia, she’s really quite a good actress. Since you no longer need her professional services, it’s best for you to know she was an excellent source of information in our home. When you’re a Lyons, it’s all about family. Never forget that.”

She stood her ground facing me for a moment, tears flowing down her porcelain cheeks, her head shaking no. “He’s lying, Olivia. I have never broken your confidence,” she said and handed me a file folder.

“Michelle!” his bark echoed in the high-ceilinged hallway, causing us both to jump. Watching them walk away, I felt a little sorry for Alan. He was in so much trouble.

Harper and Lloyd joined me in my old office where I picked up my purse.

“So, Michelle Lyons isn’t who you thought she was,” Harper commented.

“I disagree. I think she is exactly who she said she is. Alan has no idea what he is about to face. She’s hurt right now, but she will rise strong and steady. He will be strategically confronted in a way that he won’t soon forget. Besides, having her as my attorney kept him in my orbit as well. While I didn’t know what he was up to, with her in my corner, he couldn’t do as much damage,” I said.

“Wow. So you were both setting each other up?” Harper asked.

“No. Wasn’t it the Godfather who said, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ And Lincoln said, ‘The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend.’ That’s what we were doing. And although it may not look like it now, it worked. That woman is not done.”

“How can you be so sure?” Lloyd asked. “She looked devastated.”

“Because she gave me this before she left,” I said, holding up the folder. I opened it and said, “This sticky note says, ‘Have Harper or Newman run these social security numbers.’”

I read the second sticky out loud. “The paintings tell the whole story. If we never recover them, there has to be a sketch book somewhere. She always painted from a sketch. They hold the key to everything. I’ll be looking here at the house.” Harper held out her hand, and I gave everything to her.

Harper called Newman and told him to meet her in his office.

“Lloyd, please take Olivia to The St. Paul. I’ll call
Newman,
and we’ll get on these numbers. Lloyd, are you free for supper? I’d like to catch up a little.”

“Call me with the details.” Lloyd smiled. “Come on, Olivia, we need to let security shut this building down for the day.”

“When will the police search the school?”

“My guess is tonight when they have the place all to themselves.”

“Can we stop by McDonald’s on the way to the hotel? I need a coke to settle my stomach.

“Sounds good. Let’s give them a thrill and use the drive-thru. I bet they don’t get many limos through there.”

The kid in the window asked the driver if he had someone famous in the back. “That’s top secret,” he said, his voice deep and serious. The teenager nodded sagely as if he’d just been entrusted with information from the CIA.

Back on the road Lloyd asked, “So you don’t think Michelle Lyons has been destroyed by all of this?”

“Devastated, yes. Destroyed? No. You’ll see.”

“If you’re right, she needs to write a book and go on Dr. Phil to tell other abused women how to heal.”

“You watch Dr. Phil?” I asked, unable to hide a snarky smile.

“Yeah. Doesn’t everyone?” he asked.

Newman’s call surprised me.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Sure. I’ll have my body guard with me. She’s one of Harper’s.”

“You trust her?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I need to ask you some hard questions.”

We set up a time to meet in the coffee shop at Lyons Shipping before my appointment to do a walk-through in the apartment. The cleaning crew had been there, and as current resident, my approval was required.

We went downstairs, and I bought Sarah a mocha cooler and myself a black, grande dark roast, and then we joined Newman at his table.

“So, what’s up?” I asked.

“You want me to jump right in? No niceties?”

“We can skip those,” I said. After all, he’d never engaged in
niceties
before.

“Good. Do you know a woman named Carrie Dunford?”

“I knew a Carrie in school. Her last name was Simpson.”

“That’s her. She said you and Mickey were physically involved as teens and that your father caught you fooling around. She said you were ‘livid’ and that no old man was going to tell you what to do.”

He waited for my response which was slow in coming since I’d burned my tongue on my brew and choked on her lie.

“Carrie had a huge crush on Mickey. She was pretty in a hard kind of way, but she had a mean mouth and was known by the boys in town as the girl who liked to make-out whether she was your girlfriend or not. We had homeroom together our senior year. Mickey was resistant to her ‘charms’ and that made her angry. I always felt a little sorry for her. I don’t think she drank or did drugs, but she was hooked on boys and sex.”

“So you didn’t like her?” he asked.

“I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t like or dislike her. I avoided her because, even though I was poor white trash, I didn’t want the boys to think I was like her.”

“Were you and Mickey messing around?”

“No. We had this one kiss. It was clumsy and goofy and we never tried it again,” I said.

“So, she lied. Does that bother you?”

“Newman, a lot of things about my life bother me right now. Her story is a waste of her time and yours. Don’t you think it’s more than a little sad that after all these years, she’d lie to you, hoping to pin Mickey’s murder on me because he liked me and not her?”

“You believe that’s the way it is?” he pushed.

“Yes.”

“So do the four women I spoke to in Oak River. One of them said you were a lot of things, but you weren’t a slut.”

“That would be my ma.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the other three would never say that word. Is Carrie still married?”

“Not to the guy she’s living with.”

“That makes me sad. I’ve just spent ten years being ‘mentored’ by a man who used me and recently decided to void our relationship. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone—not even Carrie.”

He sat back and nodded. “Do you hate Mr. Lyons?”

“Still looking for motive?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“I don’t like Alan Lyons, and I hate what I let him do to me, but he is the father of my dead daughter. I would never kill him for that reason alone.”

“Does anyone else know her family connection?”

“It’s not public knowledge, but more people than I thought know. She died from cancer when she was five. She loved him deeply. That’s enough to keep him safe from me.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

His question jolted me. “I have no idea, and it’s probably stupid on my part.”

“You’re a lot of things Olivia Morgan, but stupid isn’t one of them,” he said.

“What kind of woman leaves her father’s abuse behind only to intentionally become what all of those women you talked to would call a ‘kept woman’? I call that stupid,” I argued.

He stood up letting me know our conversation was over. “I’d call that vulnerable. Most of the girls who leave a home life like yours end up prostitutes. You were lucky.”

“Newman, the only difference between those girls and me is that they landed on a street corner, and I ended up in a fancy corner apartment.”

I left before he could say anything.

In the elevator Sarah asked, “Do you really believe that about yourself?”

“We both know what I did for my perks and benefits. My life was just cleaner and safer and my clothes were more expensive.”

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You loved him and were faithful to him. You had his child. There’s a big difference between that and a few minutes in a car or a half an hour in a dirty motel.”

“Maybe, but I was still always his girl on call.”

I was sitting with his wife, playing solitaire when Stan woke up. We were convinced he’d been trying for days. The medical team urged caution. The only hope they offered was that the bleeding in his brain had stopped and the swelling was less. They continued to tell us his movements were the involuntary kind.

His return to us wasn’t dramatic. His breathing changed, he sort of groaned, and he made a couple of funny faces before opening his eyes and then closing them again. The on-duty nurse was in the room at the time and she quietly said, “I’m going to alert the team.”

We stepped up to the bed and Stan opened his eyes again. This time he focused and was awake long enough to say to his wife, “Woman, I’m tired.”

This time I was ready. Patrick had taught me how to use the video function on my phone and I captured this stellar moment.

The doctors stepped in and asked us to leave. Marge was not going anywhere, but she sent me to the family room to tell the others.

The lead doc said, “Keep them out there until we can run some tests.”

It was an order I was not sure I could obey. “There are over a dozen people out there, Doc. How am I supposed to keep them away?”

“That’s up to you, Ms. Morgan. You are teacher of creatives, aren’t you?”

He turned away from me before I could ask how he knew about me. The nurse who held the door open for me whispered, “We see a lot of TV in these rooms. You’re a bit of a local celebrity.”

Oh great.

When I told the folks in the family room that Stan was awake, they cheered, laughed, and cried. In unison. Then someone said, “Let’s pray.”

I slipped out into the hallway because someone had to guard the door in case one of them tried to escape.

I also called Harper. It was fun to share the good news. She said she’d be right there, and that she needed to talk to Stan ASAP. To her it was a case.

“Olivia!” Marge’s voice had a song in it. “Stan wants to talk to you right away. The doctor said it’s okay if you only stay a minute or two.”

Stan’s usual robust greeting was frail, but his eyes shone with determination. “I hid them,” he whispered.

I knew immediately what he was talking about.

“The secret panel in your office.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Even I could tell they were valuable. Years ago I’d helped Mrs. Lyons—the old one—put a bunch of paintings in that closet. I told her I’d change the lock, and she told me to keep it unlocked because new brass on an old door would stand out. She asked me to keep it a secret, and I gave her my word. I don’t take that lightly.”

He took a deep breath, and I could see this was wearing him out.

“Stan, can you save the rest of this for the police? detective Harper is on her way.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

He closed his eyes, and I stood guard at the foot of his bed, delighted when a snore that was more of a snuffle escaped his air passages. I found myself breathing in rhythm with him.

Harper was admitted by a nurse who woke Stan up by letting him know he had another visitor.

“Are you up to a few questions, Stan?” Harper asked.

“Sure,” he said, trying to sit up taller in the bed. He winced as broken ribs rebelled against the effort.

“We can do this later,” she said.

“No. I don’t know that we can. This is about those paintings. I’m not even sure they’re still where I left them.”

“Did the person who attacked you want the paintings?”

“Yeah. He kept asking me where I’d put them. I was going to tell him—no amount of talent, paint, and canvas would be worth dying for, at least not to me—but he just kept hitting me and demanding answers he never let me give. I blacked out before I could tell him. I guess he thought I was dead and left.”

“Do you remember anything about his appearance?” Harper asked.

Stan nodded and took a sip of water from the cup Marge held before continuing.

“Would it be possible for you to describe him to Olivia? I know she’s not a forensic artist, but she’s good, and it might speed things up a bit.”

“Oh I know how good she is. Sometimes I got a glimpse of the art she hid in her office at the school,” Stan said.

My stomach clenched. He knew about my deception. I thought I’d been great at keeping my own secrets. Now it seemed like the only one in the dark was me.

I sat down and pulled out my small sketch pad. Stan took a few deep breaths. In order to remember the kind of details we’d need, he knew that in his mind, he had to go back to the scene of the attack.

“He was slender, but in a deceptive way. He was strong, his fists large and hard. His face was on the long side, and he had a deep dimple in his chin so deep it looked like it needed a little putty. His lips were thin, the top one nearly invisible. He had blondish hair that had a little bit of curl. Do you remember the old cartoon where the good guy was called Dudley Do-Right?”

We both nodded.

“He looked like Dudley only evil.”

“Can you remember anything else?” Harper asked.

“He might be blind in one eye.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, nearly choking on the lump that was suddenly lodged in my throat.

“When he pushed his way in the front door, he was wearing a pirate’s patch. In the scuffle, you know I fought back at first, right?”

We nodded. We’d all seen his puffy and bruised hands. Harper said they were defensive wounds. I called them evidence of Stan’s bravery.

“Good. Anyway, in the scuffle I grabbed the patch. That’s when he got the upper hand. I’d never seen anyone with two different colored eyes, and they distracted me from fighting for a second. That’s all he needed.”

And that was all I needed to hyperventilate.