Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (4 page)

I watched my pills head into the sewer system in a swirl. I don’t think I waved, but in my state of mind who knows.

My reflection in the mirror didn’t reveal a wild woman on the verge of a meltdown. At least that’s not what I saw. “No one else had to believe me, but I know I am not crazy. Scared, alone, and sad, yes. But not crazy. Or nuts. Or bonkers,” I said out loud to myself.

* * *

On my way out of the building, I decided not to use the private exit because it was a little too secluded for me. That meant I had to pass Lloyd’s desk. “Olivia, any time you want to see the security video for the last few days let me know. No one went in or out of your apartment through your door, nor was anyone recorded on the stairs or in the elevator. I have no idea how an intruder could get there. It is impossible.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, wishing for a statement a little less clichéd, but it was all I had and I followed it up with my best glare.

Merle held open the door for me. When he smirked, the urge to kick him in the shin was nearly more than I could bear. A businessman in an expensive suit and designer sunglasses stood on the sidewalk in front of me. He adjusted his reflective shades, nodded his head, and refused to move. I walked around him and muttered, “What? You think you own the sidewalk?”

He stared at me, and his presence rattled me. I thought he looked familiar, but as my paranoia grew, I felt that way about all men wearing sunglasses. Hurrying away, I struggled to get a grip on my emotions before they took over. I envisioned myself in a mental institution, rocking in place and ranting about my fears. Taking a deep breath, I told myself, “You have three options: someone is stalking you, you are insane, or both.” Nothing comforting there.

I only had a few days left at the school, and I was not going to let an invisible enemy who wrote notes, a couple of security guards on the Lyons’ payroll, or men hiding behind silvered sunglasses ruin the time.

Well, not much anyway. It was getting harder to stay in my internal safe place. It felt like the hinges were loose and the lock broken.

On my last morning at the school, my current and some past students lined the sidewalk heading into the building and then escorted me to the auditorium where they shared memories of our time together.

They sang, danced, painted, and performed a skit. They were funny, deep, wise, and clever. I was so proud to have been their teacher.

Then Evan stole the show. He stood with his back to the crowd in the center of a soft spotlight on an otherwise dark stage. He thanked me quietly for accepting him as he was and unveiled his most recent master piece—a sketch of me teaching with the faces of every student in the school surrounding me, and a small self-portrait of him at his easel off to the side in Norman Rockwell style. He exited stage left, where his mother waited for him. When she returned to the stage with him, we all did what she had taught us, we gave him a silent high-five. He returned it, nodded to me, and quietly followed his mom out of the room. When the floor lights went on, the rest of the students burst into applause and chanted my name.

I hadn’t prepared a speech which, for a moment, felt like a mistake. Then I realized the lights were bright enough I couldn’t see my audience well. The silence allowed me to pretend I was alone, and I let my heart show.

“You are here because you are talented,” I said. “But that’s not enough. Between today and the time you walk between the brass anchors out front after graduation, you have to find the courage to release your talent into the world. Not everyone will appreciate the beauty flowing out of your hearts, and that will hurt, but it’s also okay. You don’t need or want everyone’s acceptance or approval. You will be appreciated by the ones who matter most—the ones who will find something captivating and profound in your work. If you stay true to what you’ve been given to do, you will have lived well. I came here an unknown teacher. Today I am known by a few . . . by you. That is how I define success. You aren’t just enough, you are more than enough to keep my heart full and my creative juices flowing. I love you all dearly. I am grateful you are my students—the students of my heart.”

The next thing I knew, the lights swiveled into the auditorium. Students, parents, teachers, staff, and the board stood to their feet, clapping. In the far back, I noticed Stan, the janitor wiping tears from his eyes. At that moment, mine tipped over my lower lids onto my cheeks.

After a few moments, the administrator and the board filed up to shake my hand and wish me well.

Alan and I pretended we were barely acquaintances one more time. I watched my ex-lover walk off stage with his admirers as if he were some kind of royalty and wondered if I’d ever hated anyone as much as I did the Lyons king.

I had. Right before I decided to kill him.

The lonely dialogue with myself started after supper on that last day of school. Without friends or family, I was all I had. After a meal of canned spaghetti and cheese curls, I paced the long hallway in the apartment. During my solitary walk, I decided I needed to start moving my life ahead. There were a few keepsakes in my room, the things from my desk at school, and special items in Jillian’s room I could pack in preparation for my move. I needed boxes and newspapers.

Using the private elevator was out of the question, and Alan had also decided I was no longer welcome in the basement. That meant I had to depend on others for assistance. I called the front desk and was surprised when Lloyd answered.

“You’re working overtime?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

His voice left no room for more questions. “What can I do for you?”

“My new restrictions now extend to Mr. Lyons’ store room. However, he also told me if there are any more empty boxes down there, I am free to use them, and you have access. Do you have time to look for me?”

“I didn’t see any others down there, but I’ll check again. If not, I’ll get you some. Will you be ready for them in about an hour?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

The minute I hung up, I remembered I’d seen a wooden box down there.

Irritated by Alan’s limitations on me, I texted Harper.
“You asked about a wooden box with brass corners. I remember seeing one in a section of the basement where I’m no longer allowed to go.”

“I’ll be over in a couple of hours. If it’s of interest, I’ll call the FBI. Did you touch it?”

“No.”

“Good. See if a family member or representative can join us,”
she texted back.

I sent Michelle a text letting her know what I’d remembered and that the police were coming over, but I didn’t hear back from her.

While I waited, I cleaned out the refrigerator. There wasn’t much, but there were some plastic containers with leftovers that had green-gray fuzzies growing here and there. I tossed them into the wastebasket, bowls and all. It smelled ripe, so I triple bagged it and put it by the door.

Lloyd rang the bell. I was still annoyed with him for assuming I’d been drunk. Before I opened the door, I looked out the peep hole, mostly to be silently sarcastic. The view of the long hallway in the dim light initiated an unwelcome flashback. Lloyd’s voice saved me from that vortex of humiliation.

“Olivia, please open the door.”

I did, wishing I had the energy for a snitty smile. Instead, I knew I looked as undone as I felt.

“I found more than empty boxes. There are two with your name on them, and a couple of others, I thought you’d want to see,” Lloyd said.

I stepped back, and he pushed in one of those flatbed carts. As he rolled it past me, I noticed a couple of boxes with Jillian’s name written in Alan’s careful, all-capital-letter printing.

He must have seen the questions in my eyes I couldn’t ask. “I brought you Jillian’s things too.”

My daughter had loved Lloyd and he was devoted to her. He still had a picture on his bulletin board I’d taken of the two of them one morning when he’d let her go to work with him for a couple of hours. She’d been interested in his job and fascinated by the man. He had the carriage of a general. That morning, I’d asked him if he was ex-military and Jillian answered, “Mom, Lloyd is a marine. Others might be ex-military, but once you’re a marine you’re always a marine.” She’d ended the quote with her version of their famous
Ooh rah
! Which came out “who ya!”

He had not corrected her mistake and nodded at her in respect. She felt safe enough with him not to cover her bald head. That earned him a lot of points with me. She’d smiled up at him and said, “He made me an imaginary marine.” They’d high-fived and Semper Fied each other before hugging.

While I remembered, he stood in his normal “at ease” stance waiting for me to tell him what to do with the boxes.

“You were one of her heroes,” I stated.

He nodded and looked down. “And she was one of mine.”

“Would you mind putting hers in her room and the others in the living room?”

While Lloyd carried out his duty, I stayed by the door, thinking he had more right to be in the apartment than I did.

“Olivia?” Lloyd interrupted the start to my pity-party. “Would you like me to take your garbage down?”

He’d gotten the drop on me. I’d thought I’d hand him the bag as he was leaving, the way one might when dismissing a mere servant.

“Yes, thanks,” I muttered, disappointed he’d gained the upper hand with kindness.

He shut the door carefully then checked to be sure it had locked behind him. His act should have calmed my frayed nerves, but instead the nasty voice inside my head was back and asked in a hiss, “Does he want to be sure I’m safe or is he making sure I’m locked in like a criminal?”

My phone buzzed with a text.
We’re all busy on two new murders tonight. Either special agent Newman from the FBI or I will be over to see the box tomorrow. Is it secure?

I typed in the answer.
Lloyd is on the job and can be trusted.

Our texting ended there, and I wondered how they lived with so much death on their minds. I knew from personal experience it wasn’t easy.

Lloyd had left the bedside lamp on in Jillian’s room. As I walked over to shut it off, I took a detour toward the boxes the way a June bug is drawn to a light bulb. The first one was full of her favorite stuffed animals; Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod, her teddy bear trio, Taxi the bumblebee, and Gill, her Nemo look-alike, were wrapped carefully in white tissue paper.

Next came her doll box. She only had one, a dimply, life-sized, round baby girl doll she named Merry the moment she’d unwrapped her. Along with the doll were the clothes I’d bought to go with her; real baby onesies, footie pajamas, frilly dresses, and matching shoes. My favorites had always been the soft suede baby moccasins with Native American beading. Jillian had asked, “Mommy what dress do these go with?” The rebel in me rose up, and I said, “All of them.”

In the bottom of the box lay a pair of little pink leather cowgirl boots wrapped in the doll’s favorite blanket. Jillian fell in love with the boots and wore them with all of her frilly dresses.

Alan’s words rang in my memory. “Olivia, I do not think cowboy boots are acceptable footwear for my daughter.”

My response hadn’t pleased him, although it felt great to me. “That may be true, Alan, but they are perfectly acceptable for
my
daughter.”

He tried to end the conversation by saying, “Is that what white trash wore in your day?”

I momentarily bested him when I said, “Dang straight.”

It was the closest I’d ever come to swearing at him. I’d promised myself I’d never sound like my ma or Gus or any of their foul-mouthed friends. Over time, most of the pledges I made to myself had been broken, but not this one or the one not to drink. I’d kept those two no matter what Lloyd and the police detective might think. Cussing wasn’t just crass; it represented
them
. Drinking alcohol could be deadly, as Gus surely knew in the last moments of his life.

Alan had taken the opportunity to put me in my place. “Olivia, crude language isn’t necessary. It’s really beneath who you’ve become,” he said before leaving.

I’d accepted his discipline, but thought,
Buddy, you have no idea what crude sounds like.

I studied the boots again. Alan had hated them, but he’d loved Jillian enough to save them, which probably meant he wasn’t all bad. Maybe.

The third box held the photo albums Alan had taken away from me. He’d threatened to destroy them if I didn’t buck up. Then he said he’d return them to me when I was handling her death better. He’d lied. Perhaps he’d kept them boxed away for his own sake. That was far more likely than out of any concern for me.

The final box held her drawings, paintings, and other art projects. Near the top was the plaster cast of her tiny hand. I pressed my fingertips into the indentations and missed the way it felt when her fingers held onto my hand. In the first and last Valentine’s Day box she’d decorated were her love notes to me. I couldn’t read a single one of them then, but when I opened it, I smelled glue, colored paper, and color crayons, as fragrant as any expensive perfume to my shattered heart.

As I tucked the box covers back together, I noticed the garment bag hanging on the closet door. I gasped as I slid the zipper down. There was her flannel nightgown, two of her fancy dresses, and the blanket given to her by a “visiting angel” she loved and had been wrapped up in when she died. I lifted it carefully to my nose, afraid it would smell like cancer and death. Instead, it held the faint scent of fabric softener. I was grateful for someone’s kindness. The quality of the material and the perfection of the stitches made me wonder if it had come from Alan’s mother.

I lay down on her bed and hugged the blanket. Just before the black velvet of sleep took me captive, I decided Alan was a jerk, but he’d saved the best of what remained of our little girl.

“Olivia, the homicide detective is here to see you again. She wants to see the box you saw in the basement,” Lloyd said.

“Good. I’ll be right down. Would you consider coming along as a witness for the family? I texted Michelle, but I haven’t heard back from her.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” he said. “Merle is on duty and can watch things up here.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right down.”

When I stepped into the foyer, Harper was dressed in her normal uniform; jeans, a white blouse, and a black leather jacket. Her red hair was cut in a funky wedge, and her lipstick was a rich shade of copper. Nothing about her screamed cop, although everything about her said tough, loud and clear.

She intimidated me. From the startled look on Lloyd’s face, I thought he might be feeling something similar.

We rode the elevator down to the basement in silence. The box was still there, dust laden with a cobweb stretched across the top. The tiny strands were covered in fine gray particles as well. It had been abandoned long ago by its eight-legged creator.

Harper called the FBI. “Newman, I think I’ve got what you guys are looking for.” She went on to describe the box. “She’s with me. You can ask her when you get here. If you guys are going to be in charge of this case, you’re going to have to start talking to her. I understand, but if she didn’t kill your guy, she might be able to help you find out who did. I know what it’s like to lose one of your own, but don’t let your need for justice mess up your chances of getting it. No, we’ll be right here staring at it. I’ll let building security know you’re on your way and to send you down.”

When she slid her cell phone into her jacket pocket, I said, “Sounds like he doesn’t like me already.”

“The dead guy was an FBI agent. If you were a suspect in one of my detective’s deaths, I wouldn’t either. How would you feel about someone implicated in the death of one of your students?”

I nodded. I understood better than she knew. When Gus started looking at my little sister in
that
way, I suspected he was up to evil, and learned I was capable of greater hate. I’d give the FBI guy a break.

A few minutes later, Lloyd came back down with an FBI agent and a tech. Harper introduced us.

“Special Agent, Newman, this is Olivia Morgan. Ms. Morgan, this is the FBI who will likely be heading up this investigation once the dust settles.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“It would help us all out if you two would play nice.”

I ended the stare-down by glancing at Harper. Agent Newman scared me, and he knew it.

In a quiet show of support, Lloyd came over and stood beside me. “The Lyons family and Ms. Morgan have asked me to stay as an observer,” he told the officers.

“Just stay out of the way,” Newman said. He instructed the woman with him to photograph the box from several angles while he put on a pair of gloves. “Looks like this hasn’t been touched in a while.”

After the photographer was done, Newman snagged the cobweb and picked up the box. “Looks like a captain’s chest to me. Bag it,” he instructed.

“You’re not going to look at it here?” I asked.

“No, I’m not. Our people will help me with that later. Since it belongs to the Lyons family, I will notify them we have it. Have you ever seen this box before?”

“No. I haven’t spent a lot of time down here.”

“I don’t suppose you have.” His sarcasm irked me.

“Agent Newman, I know you have good reason not to like me, but if you think I killed the guy in the elevator, you are wrong.”

His smirk more than irked me.

“You and I are on the same side,” I added. “I want you to find the killer as much as you do.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered.

“Finding the real killer will get all of you off my back. Believe me, I want that.”

He turned to Harper and said, “This area is now off-limits to everyone, including the Lyons’ family and staff. I will notify Mr. Lyons.”

Looking at me, he continued, “This is no longer a police investigation, although we’re working with them. In the future, call me at this number before you call Harper and then Lloyd. In case you have any more ‘intruders’ put me on your speed dial.” His next instructions were for Lloyd. “The Lyons family tells me you are not only the head of building security, but also of Ms. Morgan’s safety. There is a chain of command, and I’m at the top of it. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Lloyd’s response was sarcastic.

I sighed. Testosterone seemed to fill the space between them. A peeing contest was the last thing we needed.

Newman noticed and he said, “You two don’t have to like it, but it would be in your best interest to cooperate. I’m sure Mr. Lyons would agree. Here’s my card. It might be a good idea to enter the number into your cell phone contacts,” he instructed.

He acted like Lloyd was a technical doofus. I knew better. I’d seen all his gadgets from a distance. Lloyd accepted the card in silence.

I, on the other hand, sighed dramatically and said, “Fine.”

Newman said to Harper, “I will call you every step of the way. You are welcome to every shred of evidence we find or any other crime scene we investigate.”

One again he turned his gaze to me. “Don’t forget to call me first.”

“So if I’m in any danger, you’re my 911.”

That brought him up short. “No. If you believe you are in imminent danger, call emergency assistance. We’re done here.”

Before we left the basement, Newman had a few private words with Harper. I wished I could read lips. When they were done he said, “Let’s go.”

He got the last word. I was getting really tired of that from the men in my life. When the elevator doors opened, Newman and his team left without a word. Courtesy wasn’t his strong point. Curious about the detective and not ready to go back to the apartment, I asked Harper, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? There’s a Caribou around the corner.”

“Sounds great,” she said.

* * *

Sitting with our hot brews in our hands, I waited as nervous as I used to get giving a book report in sixth grade. Just getting to the table had been an experience. First, I dropped my change, then my chocolate-covered coffee bean rolled off the cup lid, and finally, I burned my tongue on the first sip. I silently considered becoming a nun and wondered if there were any convents for atheists.

“The report says you don’t know the guy in the elevator,” Harper said.

“Yes. I mean no, I don’t know him.” I lowered my eyes, embarrassed by my verbal fumble.

“Then why did he have this in his pocket?” she asked, showing me my name and address scribbled on a piece of notebook paper.

“I have no idea. Does Newman know you have that?”

“Yes. He gave this to me to show you. Although you two are going to have to talk, he has decided I’ll handle questioning you for now. He has a lot of rules, but only one involves you directly: if you have new information, call him first, and then me. Do not break this rule.”

She took a sip of coffee and then said, “The victim also had this photo of you,” she said as she placed another plastic bag on the table.

“It looks like he printed that off of the school’s website.”

“That’s right, but it proves he was looking for you. Are you sure you have no idea why?” she pressed.

“None.”

“Where did you live before you moved to St. Paul?”

Even though I knew the hard questions would come, now that they’d arrived, they were worse than I thought they’d be.

“Oak River.”

“Any relatives there who can verify who you are?” her interrogation continued while my coffee got cold.

“Maybe my ma if she’s still alive.” I knew calling her “Ma” made me sound like a Minnesota redneck, but that’s who she was to me.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Why do you need to know? I haven’t seen her in ten years.”

“I just do.”

“Mary Smith.”

“Is Morgan your real last name?”

“It is now. I had it legally changed when I moved here.”

“Why is that?” she asked, her pen poised over her notebook.

I sat there staring at the checkerboard design on the table, feeling my coffee go even colder in the cup. I detest cold coffee, so I pushed it away.

“Morgan was my middle name, and my mother’s maiden name. With a past like mine, a background check using my original last name would have meant no job as a teacher at a prestigious art and music school.”

“Who helped you change it?” she asked.

“Alan Lyons. He’s been my mentor since I came here.”

“Your mentor?” She said it in the way people say stuff when they already know, but want the person to admit it.

“That’s what he called it,” I said as shame rose up in my heart like a flash of heat lightning in a midnight summer sky.

“So, you changed it to Morgan from?”

“Smith.”

“Smith?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“Olivia Morgan Smith.” I rattled off my old address, phone number, date of birth, and social security number.

“Any trouble I should know about?”

“No shoplifting, speeding tickets, or bad grades. If you want a list of my teachers, I’ll compile that for you.”

“Did you work?”

“Sure. Back in Oak River, I babysat, bagged groceries, cleaned houses, and was a companion to a nice old lady or two. Here in St. Paul, I put myself through college by running my own business.”

“Did you pay your taxes?”

“Yes. My company was listed with the state of Minnesota. I had a Tax ID Number, and paid all the required taxes. I’ll get the paperwork for you if you’d like. I also have references from every one of the homes I worked in. Some of them were very wealthy and influential people whose names you would know.”

“Did you take anything that didn’t belong to you?” she asked, leaning forward.

“No. Not even as a kid with big needs. I was what some call white trash, and I was determined to escape the stigma. With that goal front and center, I wasn’t even tempted.” I said with conviction, knowing a long-ago murder was the stain that could ruin it all.

“The name of the man in the elevator is Mickey Olson. Does that mean anything to you?”

I looked into her eyes, stunned to hear his name. It had been so long. I felt dizzy, and a lump that felt like I had a golf ball lodged in my throat made talking difficult, but I said, “Yeah, I knew him. He was my best friend when I lived in Oak River.”

“But you didn’t recognize him the other day?”

“The guy on the elevator was Mickey?” I felt a little faint.

She nodded.

“No. When I knew him, Mickey didn’t have those scars on his face. As a kid, other than a few freckles, his skin was clear. He didn’t even have pimples.”

“You didn’t talk to him the day he died?”

“No. I haven’t talked to him since I left Oak River,” I said, staring down so hard the table started to blur.

“Seems like he might have been here to see you. Any idea why?” she persisted.

“None. When I left that life, I left the people in it. All of them.”

“Did you know there was a fire in your house the day after you left?”

“No!” My sister? Ma?” I grabbed my cup as if it could keep me from losing it all together.

“Olson got your mother out. Your father died in the fire. The newspaper clippings in Olson’s hotel room indicated your sister was living with a neighbor at the time of the fire. Olson went back in for Gus Smith. Doctors thought he wasn’t going to live, but he did.”

“How did Mickey die?”

“He was stabbed.”

“It’s so wrong Mickey is dead,” I said wiping tears away with my fingers.

“And your father?”

“I never cared much for him,” I said watching my fingers twist a paper napkin. To avoid talking about Gus, I changed the subject by asking, “I don’t understand what Mickey was doing in the elevator. No one from back there knows where I am.”

“Olivia, finding you was the easy part. Your picture is in newspaper archives with your students and cancer fundraising. If he knew your middle name, all he needed was access to a computer. Plus, he was FBI and those guys have resources. The thing we need to figure out is why he died and who killed him,” Harper said.

That truth made me sad because it meant Ma and Pete could have found me and chose not to.

“Do you think Mickey died because of me?” I asked my voice and body shaking.

“It’s possible, but we don’t know why.”

I had to be sure. “So the old man died in the fire? You’re positive?” The question caused a shiver to run up my spine and over my scalp.

She nodded. “He hurt you bad, huh?”

Her phone rang and she listened before saying, “I’m with her now. We’ll be right down.”

“That was my partner. They found the murder weapon. It’s a butcher knife with the Lyons’ crest on the handle. Would you mind coming down to the station with me to identify it?”

“Why not ask one of the family members to do that?”

“There’s only one set of prints on it, and they’re yours.”

“How do you know that?” The second I asked, I knew; when I’d been hired by the school, they’d required I give them my fingerprints for a criminal background check.

She didn’t answer, but asked, “Do you want to call a lawyer?”

“Do I need one?” I asked as another shiver rippled its way upward on my spine.

“I don’t know, do you? I’m not going to arrest you without more evidence. It will look better to the DAif you cooperate.”

“Where did they find the knife?”

Her answer stunned me. “In his gut.”

Her cell phone rang again. “Harper here. I’m with her now, Mr. Lyons. Would you like to speak with her?”

She handed her cell phone to me.

“Alan?”

“You are on speaker phone with Michelle and me. Are you uncomfortable answering the detective’s questions without an attorney?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Any time that changes, call Justine, and I’ll send ours over. Do the best you can without incriminating yourself or embarrassing my family.”

“You think I did this?” I asked as bile rose in my throat. I swallowed hard waiting for his answer.

“Well, he was in the elevator when you got on and the knife has your prints on it; you have to admit it looks bad.”