Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (6 page)

The next morning, I left the apartment early with the drawings carefully tucked into my bag. It felt like an omelet kind of morning. Eventually, I was going to need a new wardrobe. My size four clothes were a little on the tight side, and I was more than filling out my a-cup bra.

Pulling into the Perkins just off France Avenue and I-494, my mouth started to water. What was it about eggs, ham, vegetables, and cheese with dark, rich, black, hot coffee that gave me such a homey feeling?

I asked to sit in a full-sized booth because the art book I intended to study was large. When the waitress served my food, I was set. Then an art moment arrived.

To my left sat four women who were probably around Ma’s age. It was evident they knew each other well. They could finish each other’s sentences without appearing rude. One said, “Do you remember when we tried ice fishing?” The memory had been shared many times, and yet as each retold their own portion of it none of them were bored or tried to hurry the other story along. As I watched them, I noticed when one of them added coffee to her own cup she also topped off the rest of them as well. They’d been doing life together for a long time.

I took my little sketch book out of my bag and a couple of pencils. The women’s voices were rich, their smiles engaging, but it was their hands that captured my attention. Wrapped around their mugs, resting on each other’s arms at different times, or moving through the air while talking, I saw not only the ravages of age, arthritis, and hard work, but a deep beauty I hoped I could capture.

Certain I wouldn’t have time to do the drawing justice, I did something that would have caused Alan terrible embarrassment but brought me great pleasure; I introduced myself, told them I was an artist, and asked if I could take a couple of pictures of their hands. I ended up quickly snapping a couple dozen.

The vibrant redhead asked if I’d be willing to send her a copy if one of them turned out. I asked them all to write their contact information down on the back of the sketch I’d started. I looked at their names. Tia Hernandez, Ruby Gunnarson, Fern McKenna, Jubilee Carter, and Lin Smith.

I returned to my table and tried not to eavesdrop, but our close quarters allowed me to hear them anyway.

Fern’s phone rang and she said to her friends, “It’s Mitchell.” The others nodded and were quiet. “Hello son,” she said with such joy, my heart ached. She listened for a moment and then said, “Thank you for letting me know you’re involved in the case. It’s nice to know before I hear it on the news.” She nodded again in listening mode. “I’m with the ladies now. We will pray for you. You know we all love you.” She grinned and said, “Good-bye for now. We’ll see you this weekend.”

She turned her focus back to her friends and said, “He’s the ME on the case of the murdered guy in the elevator. It will be officially announced on the news tonight. He wants us to keep this quiet, but he believes in time the evidence will prove the woman suspected of the killing is innocent. He doesn’t want us to worry, but he’s pretty sure there’s a killer on the loose in St. Paul. He’d appreciate our prayers.”

Ruby said, “That’s our cue, girls. Let’s go.”

I was glad my ponytail and glasses hid my identity from them. I hadn’t disguised myself on purpose. My contacts had been bothering my eyes, so I’d taken them out and put on my back-ups—inexpensive magnifiers from the drugstore with leopard patterned frames that sat halfway down my nose.

When the ladies got up, Tia slipped me her business card and invited me to lunch at her restaurant, Tia’s Casa located on Main Street in Oak River. I promised to stop in when I was in town.

I continued to sketch while I ate the best omelet I’d ever tasted. Food and art are a delicious combination. Adding the fact that, although it was a secret, the handsome ME was on my side, made it even better.

Later, I drove across the highway to the Mall of America, where I picked up a couple of magazines at Barnes & Noble and then window-shopped for a while. Tired and ready for a break, I stopped in at the third-floor Caribou snuggled nicely into an out-of-the-way corner. With a grande dark roast, I settled in to look at the pictures in the photography magazines I’d purchased and to write ideas in my new Moleskine journal. As I wrote the date, time, and place across the first page I added the life-changing words:
In this tiny corner is a quiet contentment I have not known since Jillian left.

A searing pain wrenched its way across my heart, followed by a flood of warmth that reminded me of the way I felt when my granny held my hand as a little girl. Except for my sister and daughter, she was the only one whose touch was tender, kind, selfless, and safe. In that transitioning moment, it felt like Granny was holding my wounded heart in her gentle embrace. Thinking about her, I felt a knot-like lump in my throat. As I sipped my coffee, I remembered something she’d said to me the last time I saw her. I was five, and she was in the hospital dying.

I’d crept into the room behind Ma, and Granny said, “Please put her up here.” Ma balked for a moment, but then the nearly gone old woman in the bed said, “I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

Ma put me on the bed and left the room as if disgusted by the sight of her mother and me together.

Granny held me to her side, with my back away from the door in case Ma lingered nearby and whispered into my ear, “You are the second most beautiful child I’ve ever held. The first was your mother. She’s not who I’d hoped she would be, but a long time ago she was as innocent and lovely as you are now. Forgive her if you can, and remember you were loved by me. The only one I have loved more than I love you and your mother is Jesus.”

We stayed curled together for a few minutes, and then she said, “I’m going now, Olivia.”

In that moment, everything in her went still. She was cold by the time the nurse took me from her. I walked out of her room with her love warming the broken parts of my heart. Her words did their magic every time I let them.

That day was no different. I didn’t believe the Jesus part, but her faith was part of who Granny was, so I let that part of the memory linger too.

“Miss Morgan?”

I jumped back into the present, and looked up into the faces of four of my students. Kelsey, Nick, Stephanie, and Jordan stood by my table holding cups of their favorite Caribou beverages in their hands. “Can we join you?” Kelsey asked.

“Of course,” My delight at seeing them could not be contained.

After pushing tables together and gathering up enough chairs, they caught me up on their lives, and when they asked me what was new with me, I showed them my starter sketch of the women’s hands. Soon, they were showing me their recent work as well.

Kelsey asked someone from another table to take our picture, and then she asked me where she should email it. When I admitted I didn’t have a personal email account, that my laptop had stopped working, and I was in the market for a new phone, they escorted me to the Apple Store in the mall.

They left me in the capable hands of another former student. Patrick helped me choose a laptop, and an iPhone. Before I left his expertise, I had software purchased and loaded, had opened an email account, and had entered several of my former students’ contact information into the address book of my new cell phone.

When I called Kelsey to let her know where to send the picture, she whooped from excitement that I had finally stepped into the current decade. She told me to check my email on my phone in a couple of seconds. Patrick helped me open the picture of the five of us and then set it as the picture I’d see whenever I started my laptop. I asked a customer to use my camera to take a picture of Patrick and me, and he put that one on the screen of my phone. I pulled out detective Harper’s business card and had Patrick walk me through adding a contact on my own.

“You know her?”

“I do,” I answered cautiously.

“She’s really famous. I think she came from New York or L. A., but you know that since she’s your friend.”

I wondered if any of them had seen the news and decided it was unlikely. Most of my students thought anything that didn’t enhance their creativity was a waste of time. I knew my reprieve would be short because news like murder had a way of getting to everyone.

Then he launched into another lesson that involved Google, Twitter, and Facebook apps. I didn’t have the courage to tell him I had no idea what he was talking about.

Instead, I asked him what he was doing artistically. He mentioned graphic arts, software programs, and then showed me a dragon he’d drawn on his computer. I expected the creature to fly off the screen with a piercing scream. I’d known Patrick was talented, but this was stunning.

“She’s a female dragon, isn’t she?” I asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“She has the look of a threatened mother in her eyes.”

“You’re right, but how did you get that from one glance?”

“I think my heart looked like her when cancer took my daughter.”

He looked down, “I remember when you brought her to school. She was beautiful.”

“She was. I’m grateful you got to meet her. Jillian thought you were very cool. Tell me about your dragon,” I said.

“Her name is Maia. It means brave warrior.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. This is part of a series we're doing for a graphic novel. Patina's doing the writing and I'm doing the art.

I remembered the beautiful girl who’d chosen a new name that matched the tarnish found on metals. Her dad was a congressman, and she dyed her hair copper and then added patina highlights, so she would be excused from family campaign photos.

As I was leaving, Patrick said, “Ms. Morgan, I’ll send you a tweet to get you started and a couple of links about hashtags.

“Sure,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice my deer-in-the-headlights look. He’d tweet me? I had no idea what that meant, but decided I’d Google it later. Evidently, that was where everyone did their research.

In the car, I took a moment to catch my breath before leaving the parking lot and heading into traffic. My daughter was gone, and no one could replace her, but I had kids in my life who wanted to be with me, and that made me richer than Alan ever could.

I decided to try out my new phone and called Harper. When she answered, I said, “Hi Harper, this is Olivia Morgan. I have a new cell phone number, and I thought you should have it.”

“That’s a good idea. I’m glad you thought of it.”

“Why?”

“Well the number won’t be accessible to very many people from your recent past, and for right now that could be important.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We need to talk. Can you come back to the station?”

“Now?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s up?”

“Olivia, I want to believe you are innocent, but we need to talk. Newman is on his way here too. I know he makes you uncomfortable so you might want to call your attorney.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can be. I’m at the Mall of America.”

“Will you be calling a lawyer?”

“No. I don’t have one, and I want to know who killed Mickey as much as they do. I have nothing to hide.”

When an officer escorted me to Harper’s office, I was surprised to find Michelle Lyons waiting for me.

She rose from the chair like a goddess, all fluid grace and beauty.

Harper said, “I thought you weren’t calling your lawyer.”

“I didn’t. Michelle what are you doing here?”

“Someone alerted Alan that there was news about the case, and he asked me to contact one of his lawyers. It’s likely you don’t know this, but I’m a criminal attorney. Alan has never let me practice, but I assure you all my credentials are in order. My experience is in the background, but I’ve worked successfully on several high profile cases in this state. I’d like your case to be my first public case.”

“Why”

“I believe you’re innocent.”

“I’m guilty of being your husband’s mistress for the last ten years. Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“It could complicate things, but for right now, I’m on your side, and it looks like I’m all you’ve got.

She had me there, and I had an attorney.

The DA told us that all of the evidence that lead to me was circumstantial. She explained that unless that changed, I was a person of interest and nothing more.

“It would be a good idea if you let agent Newman or detective Harper know if you plan on leaving town,” she said slipping some paperwork into her briefcase.

“That won’t be a problem,” I assured her.

The news should have been a relief, but I was unsettled by Newman’s unwavering stare, and the fact that I would remain under his determined scrutiny.

On the way home from the station, I stopped by to talk to Jillian.

I wasn’t quite to the grave when Deacon buzzed over with my chair. After putting it in place for me, he rested his hand on my shoulder.

“Hi, Deacon, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry about your friend, Missy,” he said quietly.

“How did you know?”

“You haven’t seen the news?”

I shook my head.

“There was just a press conference. That lady DA, some detectives, the ME, and the FBI held a joint press conference. A reporter says he saw you leaving the building and is already casting you as a potential suspect in the case. He’s a good news man, but in this story, these days it’s all about the headlines. Seems out of character for him, but I guess you never know.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

“Just that the murdered FBI agent had been a childhood friend of yours. The red-headed detective also said you and your lawyer were working with the police and FBI to solve the case.”

“Did the ME have anything to say?” I knew I was being way too curious, but wanted to know.

“No, he was quiet. I think he was there to give the group more clout. Those people sure do use a lot of initials,” Deacon said.

“Do you know anything about the ME?” I asked.

“He sometimes comes to the funerals of the people whose bodies he’s explored. He seems to understand that caring doesn’t end when someone dies. I’ve seen him attend the services of the homeless folks who have no one. Last time I saw him, he was the only one there except for the grave diggers. Seems to me that makes him a man with integrity.”

“So, he’d be a good guy to have on my side?”

“Yes. I’d say so.”

At that moment, the scruffy guy from before drove by on another golf cart.

“What’s he doing here?” The words sounded harsh in the hushed air of the cemetery.

“He’s been hanging out, sleeping by the stones, so I put him to work. The committee gave me permission to hire him for a few hours each week. He’s a different fellow, but does what I ask him.”

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“The lady at the shelter owed me a favor. He’s got a room there for now.”

“You’re a good man, Deacon.”

The older man shook his head and said, “He makes me jumpy in my soul. This is my way of keeping an eye on him. You get back to your visit. I’ll talk to you next time.”

Looking back at Jillian’s headstone, I nearly screamed. A single red rose rested on the top, and a note fluttered in the breeze.

Taking deep breaths, I hit Newman’s number on my cell phone. He said he’d be right over. Then I called Michelle. “I’m at Jillian’s grave. Please call Harper and come. There’s another rose and note.”

I watched the velvet red petals as if I expected them to evaporate until I heard their voices coming up the hill behind me.

“Well, Baby, here comes my posse,” I whispered.

Newman bagged the rose and note. Deacon joined us and told the detective the only visitor to the grave was a stately woman. His detailed description convinced me the elder Mrs. Lyons had paid her granddaughter a visit. Every time I looked at Newman, he was looking at me.

Finally, he said to Michelle, “You and Ms. Morgan can leave now. Detective Harper and I will take it from here.”

I reached over and touched Jillian’s stone and said, “Deacon is watching over you, Sweet Girl. I’ll be back when agent Newman says it’s okay. I love you.”

At the car, I turned and blew the grave a kiss. I’d cooperate, but nothing—not even the homeless guy on his electric cart watching with a smirk on his face, a secret stalker, or grumpy FBI guy were going to stop me from giving my daughter wind-carried kisses.

Lloyd was at the front desk, and I asked him to do me a favor. “If there are any more boxes in the storage room that belong to me, could you bring them up? I also need a few empty boxes to pack up Jillian’s room.”

“Sure. Merle should be here any time to relieve me for a while. I’ll go down there and see what I can find.”

By the time Lloyd rang the doorbell, I had changed into my sweats, brushed my hair into a ponytail, and had a pot of blackberry tea steeping.

On a dolly, he had four new empty boxes and two that looked sort of ratty. “If you need more, let me know. Here’s some tape to close them with and a marker to label them.”

As he uploaded the cart, I pointed at the boxes with my name neatly written in capital letters. They were taped shut, but one had a rectangular hole cut into the top.

“What’s this?”

Lloyd looked at his feet as if ashamed. “Mr. Lyons requested I throw away all the mail addressed to you that wasn’t from the school or your bank. There are laws against that, so I put them in this box.”

“I’m pretty sure there are also laws about withholding mail intentionally.”

“I did the best I could, Olivia. Like most people, I need my job.”

“Where are the letters from?”

“Oak River.”

Trying to ignore the goose bumps on my arms, I pointed at the other box and asked, “What’s in this one?”

“I don’t know. It’s the first box he had me put down there for you.”

“When was that?”

“Right after you came to live here.”

I knew then it contained the hand-me-downs I’d collected from my wealthy clients. It was unlikely I’d ever look at them again.

Do you want me to bring up the boxes of things you packed up that belong to the Lyons’?” Lloyd asked.

“No thanks, but I’ll let you know when I’m ready for them,” I said.

After Lloyd left, I drank my honey-sweetened tea, paced the living room, and eyed the boxes from my past. I knew that everything I’d brought with me was in there. I decided to avoid them for the time being.

As much as I dreaded packing Jillian’s treasures, the boxes with my stuff in them reminded me of Deacon’s words. They made me jumpy inside. I tucked them into one of the bigger empties and slid it into Jillian’s room. I’d put the things of hers I wanted to keep on top of them.

The mantle clock chimed eleven as I sealed the last give-away box. Dresses, shoes, stuffed animals, books, games, and puzzles Alan hadn’t taken away from me and the room when she died were all packed and ready to go. I’d washed the sheets, and now took her comforter off the bed. Maybe Deacon would know of a little girl in need who would treasure them the way Jillian had.

I did something I never thought I’d do. I texted Alan.

Would it be okay with you if I give Jillian’s bedroom furniture away? It’s time.

He replied immediately.
You’re right. It is. If you need them hauled, let Lloyd know.

I found a drawer full of the home videos Alan had hidden in her dresser. I’d taken them of her birthdays, Christmas, dancing around the apartment, and playing at the park. I watched them all. Once again, her sweet words, songs, and laughter surrounded me. Suddenly, they were over, and a familiar emptiness wrapped itself around my heart like a gray woolen shroud. I put them in one of the boxes still not sure how I was going to live without her. Even after five years of my heart beating after hers stopped, I didn’t think I could. Then I did.

My stomach snarled. I poured the Lucky Charms I’d had added to my regular grocery delivery into a soup bowl and covered them with milk. I usually preferred Shredded Wheat, but that lonely morning demanded Jillian and my sister’s favorite. Oh, how they would have loved each other.

I held up the bowl and said, “To Jillian and Pete. Cheers.”

Those way-too-sweet marshmallow treats were slightly salted by my tears. I set the empty bowl on the coffee table and closed my eyes. As the sun lightened the morning sky, slumber ambled its way over me, I worried briefly about the dish leaving a milky ring on the surface. My last thought was,
big whoop.