Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (3 page)

The old lady’s visit came as a surprise.

My only warning of her arrival was the quiet swish of the private elevator door opening. She gave me the once over with piercing eyes, and then she sailed across the room. I guess my ponytail, burgundy sweat pants, Gopher’s tee-shirt, and white athletic socks were beneath her. I remember thinking,
La-te-da
! It went unsaid.

She walked without a cane, and her posture was military straight. Alan’s mother, the grand dame herself, sat in the same chair Alan preferred, and once again, I was invited to sit on the couch.

Although not an attractive woman, her navy dress complemented her sterling hair laced with icy strands of white and her forget-me-not blue eyes.

She surveyed the room. “I haven’t been here in years. Not since my husband’s death. Walter kept his long-term women here too. You’ve taken excellent care of his things. Thank you.”

Instead of a reply, I sat on the edge of the couch, hoping her stay would be short. The women in Alan’s life seemed to enjoy letting me know I wasn’t the only other woman he was involved with. Ma called that rubbing your nose in it; a crude saying that fit my current situation perfectly.

“I have an inventory of the things I left here after Walter’s death. If anything is missing, I will know and will take legal action to get it back; is that understood?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised you left this place the way it was. Are you still using the monogrammed china as well?”

“Yes. Your son allowed me to change the décor in the master bedroom and the room that was our daughter’s. All the things from those rooms were carefully placed in storage. I will have them brought up for you before I move.”

I was trying my best to keep the chill in my voice as strong as the one in hers, but mine sounded wobbly at best.

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Did you paint any of the walls?”

“I painted Jillian’s a soft butter crème yellow. It was her favorite color.”

In silence, we observed each other for a moment, and I realized she was homely. Her nose and chin were large, and her eyes had a bit of a bulge to them. Her only assets were her slender build, expensive clothing, and aristocratic carriage.

My face must have betrayed my thoughts, because she said, “He married me for my money. To his credit, he turned what I brought into the marriage into far greater wealth. In turn, I have my son. It worked well for both of us.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I waited for her to continue.

“Alan prefers beautiful women,” she said.

The back-handed compliment caught me off guard.

“I knew her—your Jillian.”

Her words stunned me. “How? Alan had strict rules about keeping you and her apart.”

“No, he had strict rules about keeping
you
in your place. He allowed me to visit her in the hospital. Of course, she didn’t know who I was. I dressed down a bit, and went to see her as one of those volunteers—what did they call them? Ah yes, ‘visiting angels.’ During those hours I read to her, and she told me all about you.” In those few words, her tone of voice changed from a haughty dowager to a grandmother. “She loved you very much. You and Jesus.”

“What did she say about me?”

“Jillian told me about your inner beauty and your talent as an artist. She also said you kept that part of your life a secret because her daddy didn’t think it was important. Jillian loved him too. She had a gift for knowing the worst about people and loving the best in them.”

I nodded in agreement. In the face of this woman, my normally abundant supply of words disappeared.

She stood and said, “I’ll be going now. If you have something of Jillian’s you wouldn’t mind leaving with me, I’d be grateful. I have never been loved by anyone the way she loved me, and I have never loved anyone the way I will always love her.”

As the elevator descended, I reached for my phone and texted Michelle, “Please ask Mrs. Lyons not to visit again without calling first. Thank you.” It was my first step in taking my life back.

Moments later Michelle’s text arrived. “I will let her know.”

Then I did what seemed to be the next right thing. I ate a big bowl of peppermint bonbon ice cream I’d had Lloyd send up. As I consumed the frozen treat, my emotions thawed. I spent the rest of the day doing something Alan would consider undignified, and would never have allowed. I cried.

Because I could.

I cried and ate ice cream the next day too. This time strawberry covered in chocolate sauce. I justified my flavor option by telling myself it counted as fruit and dairy. Lloyd replenished my supply of junk food and tissues. When he rang the doorbell, I let him in, and thanked him for cleaning up the rose and broken glass from the hallway.

“I didn’t clean anything up. There was nothing out there.”

“Someone delivered a single rose in a crystal vase the other night and dropped it. If you didn’t clean it up, who did?”

“Olivia, are you sure you’re okay? Only Mr. Lyons, you, and I have access to this floor. I saw Mr. Lyons leave with his wife. No one else used either elevator. I have the security video to prove it.”

“I cut my foot on shards of the crystal. I know it happened.”

With his eyebrows raised nearly to his neat crew-cut hairline, he said, “You haven’t asked about the dead man in the elevator.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a whirlwind of change for me around here as I’m sure you know. Do you know who he was?”

“His name is being withheld by the police pending notification of his family. How did you get him in here?”

“I didn’t do anything with him. He was there when the elevator door opened to take me down to the lobby. I have no idea how he got there. There are other floors above this one; he was probably up there doing something for Alan. Why don’t you ask him?”

“The only way to use the elevator is with a special key card like the one you have. Mr. Lyons mentioned an old back entrance that has been blocked off for many years. He also said it was possible there had been a spare to the door here in your apartment. Do you have that key?”

“I have the key to this door. That’s it.”

Lloyd’s phone rang and he said, “I’ll activate the elevator.” Then he turned to me and said, “The police are on the way up with a search warrant.”

He walked into the living room to the private elevator and slid his card into the special slot added to the old brass button plaque.

“Hey! Couldn’t the killer have used the stairs like you just did?” I hollered at him.

Standing by the door waiting for the elevator door to open, he said, “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain how the victim got into the building in the first place. He didn’t use the front door, and there is no sign of him on any of the security cameras. Without a key, he had to have permission and know the security key codes to get beyond the foyer.”

“It wasn’t me,” I said with my teeth clenched almost as tightly as my fists.

The police arrived, and I let them in. I invited Harper to sit at the dining room table while she asked me questions, and her team commenced the search. I sat down, more worried than scared. I liked Lloyd, and it bothered me he knew I was newly un-kept, and he seemed to think I was also crazy and might be capable of murder. I didn’t know until then how much it mattered to me what he thought. I also wondered if he’d already shared his opinions with the cops before now.

I asked her, “Are your guys going to sift through my underwear drawer?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“A little bit. It’s weird to think strange men will see my stuff.”

“It’s not personal, and they are professionals.”

It felt grossly intimate to me, but she had a list of questions, so I focused on them.

“We’re looking for an old wooden box with brass corners and a lock that takes what they sometimes call a skeleton key. Mr. Lyons told us his father kept a spare key in a secret drawer located inside the box. It used to sit on the buffet.”

“As long as I’ve lived here, I don’t remember seeing a box. That world globe has always been where it is now. What door does the missing key open?”

“I was told it was an old coal chute door that’s been locked for years. When they stopped using the old coal-burning furnace, the senior Mr. Lyons had it cleaned out and sealed with some kind of bonding material,” she said.

“Have you seen this door?” I asked.

“Yes. It hasn’t been used in a very long time, and the keyhole was also filled in with some kind of putty.”

“There are no other doors?”

“Not that we know of or could see.”

The officers didn’t find a box or a key or anything else they thought looked suspicious but told me they might be back to question me as the investigation continued. I was warned to stay in town and to be available.

Whatever. I had no reason to go anywhere, because this time I hadn’t done it.

Lloyd called and asked if he could do anything. I ordered a variety of ice creams—those gourmet kinds that come in small cartons. Later, I wished I’d asked him to bring me some potato chips too. With dip. Popcorn with extra butter and salt would have to suffice. What else does a woman with a broken heart do? Besides, I got great pleasure knowing my binge would have ticked off my former keeper. I toasted the air with a root beer float. “This one is for you, Alan!”

Alan sent a press release to the local news stations stating my shock, and asking my privacy be respected as law enforcement officials looked for the murderer. He also requested reporters keep a decent distance from their building so business could be conducted with as little interruption as possible.

They complied for a few days.

After that, I left the building through the emergency exit in the underground parking garage so I could walk to work without shouts or invasive questions.

The apartment was located four blocks from the prestigious facility for college-age students gifted in the arts. Every time I stepped past the huge brass anchors standing like sentinels beside the walkway, up the stairs, and through the tall glass doors, a sense of privilege gripped my heart. I’d never gotten over the honor of teaching the students at The Lyons Academy of Art and Music.

As I entered my office, my assistant, Caroline, greeted me with tears in her eyes. “Olivia, you are going to be so missed. We had no idea you wanted to pursue other interests. We didn’t even know you had any beyond teaching.”

Alan required that of me. No friends outside of the school, and I could only talk to my co-workers at work. No family. No art other than what I taught, and what I could sneak in when he was with Michelle.

I hugged her and said with conviction I didn’t know I felt. “It’s time. I will miss you all though.”

She nodded and said, “Now you go see what your students and their parents left for you while I brew you a mug of tea.” She’d started the daily tradition on my first morning on the job. My Lady Grey was brewed strong and sweetened just right with honey.

On my desk were two piles of envelopes. Letters from students were separated from those of their parents. If I was going to hold it together, I’d have to look at them later.

Carrying in the steaming brew, Caroline said, “There’s going to be a special assembly sometime before you leave—a farewell party. Your students are in charge of it. I thought you should know they might be a little distracted.”

“I wish they wouldn’t do that.”

“They love you, Olivia. You need to love them enough to let them do this for you.”

She was right as usual. I looked at the envelopes and sipped my day starter. Alan had truly tied up all the loose ends I had become in his life. How very nice for him.

The truth was I’d had more years with Alan than I should have expected. With that thought, I slipped back into the memory of my journey into his life.

I’d read in the paper about a party being held to honor businessman Alan Lyons for his dedication and generosity to a private art school started by and partly funded by his family. Using a computer in the public library, I did my homework on him. He was handsome, in great physical shape, rich, generous, and nothing like Gus.

After checking the list of former students, I chose the name of a girl who had graduated, and moved to Africa to teach art to children as a volunteer with some special organization. After taking a look at her public records, I knew she wouldn’t be attending because she was leading some kind of seminar in Zimbabwe. It also helped that her first name was Olivia, and she had blond hair, blue eyes, and was about my age. All of this made my game easier.

The event was by invitation only so I dressed up in a simple navy blue suit, plain white blouse, and black heels I found at the local Goodwill that looked like something a missionary would choose, and went to his office to get myself invited. Justine believed every lie I told her about being the former student, and wanting to thank Mr. Lyons myself for making my future brighter. She wrote the other student’s name in beautiful calligraphy on an embossed invitation and handed it to me.

More brazen than brave, I entered the ballroom in a red dress I’d also found at the Good Will that covered most of my skin and still accentuated all of my curves. I was confident I was going to leave with him, and I did. He spoke to the admiring crowd, told them his wife was suffering from a headache, and apologized for her early departure. As the applause faded, he brought me a glass of champagne I didn’t drink, and told his assistant he was needed at work. He told the few guests who noticed us leaving he wanted to catch up with my work in Africa and talk about a possible position at the school. A few minutes later, I was in the backseat of his limo.

The next day I took a taxi back to the motel to get my suitcases and a couple of boxes containing the only stuff that mattered to me—the designer clothing cast-offs given to me by the rich women whose houses I cleaned, a sketch pad, some pencils, and a picture of my sister and me. And my portfolio with the drawings, and photographs a college professor had helped me compile into an impressive presentation. I’d graduated with honors and degrees in teaching as well as art. My resume was interesting and included some important names.

College at the U of M demanded I work, so I opened my own house-sitting business called The House Nanny. I started with a couple of my professors and the college dean before graduating to their rich and generous friends. My belongings were stored in a suitcase, backpack, and a locker at the local Y. I had full-time work and places to stay rent-free. I walked their dogs, changed their cat’s litter boxes, slept in their guest rooms and in some cases, guest houses.

Gaining and keeping their trust meant I never took anything they didn’t give me and never partied on their time or in their homes. They gave me the keys and security codes to their properties and paid me more than my friends who waited tables.

This not only kept me off the streets, and allowed me to pay cash for my education, it kept me off the radar—address-wise. My student file had the address of a family in the city with the last name of Morgan. No one followed up with them. I didn’t want any connection to my real family.

With very little effort, I had a handsome, rich lover who couldn’t get enough of me and provided all the benefits I had dreamed of: a job as an art teacher at a prestigious school, a fabulous apartment, a BMW, designer clothes, expensive make-up and hair cuts. He taught me how to walk, talk, and act like I belonged. Together, we created a new past for me and a future that included an exaggerated resume and references from people who owed him favors, which included two governors, a mayor from a nearby city, and a couple of State Representatives. I’d never met any of them.

I brought a few things to the deal: excellent grades that didn’t have to be forged, a gift for teaching, and artistic talent. These treasures remained mine alone.

I was confident that while he’d never leave his wife, he’d never leave me either. I let myself believe I fit into his world. Looking back through the glasses of my new reality, gray rather than rose-colored, I knew he’d seen an easy mark—a girl eagerly offering herself up onto the altar of his lust. By the time his addiction to me lessened, we had a daughter.

Somewhere along the way I’d accepted we could only be seen together in public once a week at our
mentoring meetings
in my office. Since he met with the rest of the staff too, our secret was safe. He limited my access to most other places, although I could visit the museums any time I wanted to and twice a year went to the Mall of America to get a new wardrobe. I got my hair and nails done and bought my make-up in the salon just off the main lobby of the Lyons Shipping building where my apartment was located. I worked out in his private exercise room adjacent to his office. The credit card I used for expenses was in my name, but all the charges were monitored by Alan and paid by his accountant. My groceries were delivered to the security desk and brought up to me by one of Alan’s men. He deposited my checks from the school, and invested a portion of each one for me. While I loved my luxurious lifestyle, there was one negative. For five glorious years, Jillian interrupted my loneliness.

My cell phone alarm beeped, drawing me back into the present day. Soon, the school’s warning song would sound, and I liked to be the first to arrive in my classroom. Other places had bells. We had Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, and Schubert.

I walked down the hallway to my classroom, where for an hour, we’d consider the art and genius of Leonardo da Vinci, and then we’d spend another two hours sketching. Several of my students were fascinated by his habit of using mirror-image cursive for his notes. The mystery that was the man held our attention as no other artist we’d studied together. His legacy is one I never tired of teaching.

When I opened the door, my students were already there with questions, tears, and hugs. As unprepared as I was for Alan’s rejection, nothing could have readied me for their acceptance.

All but one student sat down. Evan glanced at me briefly. He started to rock back and forth on his feet. We all accepted his Asperger’s Syndrome. His mother taught us what he needed from us. We were part of his team, and he was part of ours. We respected him and were in awe of his gifts. His great joy was his art, the feel of his pencils, the paper, and the sight of his hand placing what his mind saw there. Evan rarely spoke and was unsettled by any change. My news threatened to throw him off-kilter. He needed facts – nothing more. None of us moved, but we were all ready to support him if he needed us. Although his rocking increased, he held on. He usually retreated to his easel even when I lectured—it was his safe place—but he didn’t miss a word I spoke. That day, he stood in front of his peers and asked me, “What are you going to do?”

Until I looked into that courageous young man’s eyes, I had no idea. Somehow he would know if I lied. As the plan took center stage in my brain, my stomach did a double backwards somersault of excitement mixed with fear.

“Thank you for asking, Evan. I’m going to do art. I’m going to draw trees, and flowers and faces. I’m going to take photographs of whatever fascinates me, and I’m going to write poetry. I might teach again someday, but for a while, I will do what I tell you to do every day we’re together: I’m going to be me in and through my art.”

The students clapped and hooted. Evan covered his ears until the others were quiet again, and then he said, “I think that’s a great idea.” He gave me a partial high-five, where we raised our hands toward each other, but didn’t touch. He walked to his easel and sat on his stool. I wondered if I’d ever love a student as much as I loved him at that moment.

Then I taught da Vinci as I never had before. My passion for the man’s talent, curiosity about his life, and respect for his brilliance could no longer be restrained.

Nor could I. That day, a boy trapped inside himself had set me free. The cocoon was off and I was emerging, wet and bedraggled but full of possibility.

* * *

Instead of crying the night away, I went to the basement storage room Alan had assigned me when I moved in. I hadn’t brought much but hoped the little I did was still there. I discovered it wasn’t just my stuff down there. Broken antiques, cardboard boxes, and wooden crates were everywhere. The dust made me sneeze, and in some spots, the dust bunnies huddled together and looked like they were morphing into something bigger. On top of an old table, I found my art portfolio.

When I turned to go, I noticed under the stairs lay an old wooden box with brass corners. I left it where it was, intending to tell Lloyd or Justine in the morning where to find it.

Back in the apartment, I stared at the oversized case holding work I hadn’t seen in years. The black plastic was cracked and gray with dust. I didn’t open it then, but I wiped it off with a damp paper towel and put it in Jillian’s closet with my old backpack and a large tote that now held the letters from my students and their parents. I knew in order to move forward, I would have to take a brief look back, but that would have to wait. I was tired and decided to sleep in Jillian’s canopied bed under her ruffled comforter.

Before I fell asleep, I remembered one of Jillian’s favorite lines, “Mommy, I think it takes a princess to make a princess so if I’m one, you must be one too.”

I whispered to the room, “I wish.”

* * *

I woke up, certain I heard someone walking away from me and then the click of the front door closing. Afraid to move, I stayed as still as possible until dawn. I got up and acted like nothing was bothering me. If someone was there, I’d run screaming. It wasn’t much, but it was my plan. A single rose in a vase on the bedside table shattered my courage. The attached note said, “I remember you.” I grabbed my cell phone and called Lloyd.

“Someone has been in the apartment. Get up here now.” As I felt the bile rise in my throat, I demanded, “Let yourself in.”

Lloyd and his sidekick Merle found me throwing up in the bathroom. “Olivia? Are you okay?”

“No. I mean yes, but someone was here. Look at the rose,” I said pointing at the bedside table.

It was gone.

“Maybe you had a little too much to drink last night?”

“No. It was there, and I heard someone.”

“I think you’re mistaken. Maybe a little hot coffee and an aspirin will help.” Although Lloyd’s words were kind, they felt condescending as they scratched across my heart.

His cell phone rang, and he stepped out into the hall. I heard him say, “She’s fine, Mr. Lyons. I think she’s a little hung over and may have had a nightmare. It looks like she slept in the little girl’s bed.”

Merle watched me the way one might an alien, as if expecting me to spew green slime while I reached out to strangle him with the strength of a boa constrictor.

“Get out! Both of you. Now!”

“We’re leaving. Call us anytime you need us.” Lloyd said.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, and something crackled in my pocket. The note. I’d grabbed it before heading to the bathroom. I’d hidden the first one underneath the bottom shelf in the medicine cabinet. There was a slender space there I’d always used to hide my birth-control pills.

After a hot shower, I placed both of them in a plastic bag. On my lunch hour, I’d go to the bank near the school, open a new account as requested by Alan, and rent a bank box. Until then, the baggie would be pinned to the inside of my waistband.