Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (8 page)

A week later, as I turned down the heat on a pan of macaroni, Harper called.

“I’m in the lobby. We need to talk. Can I come up?” she asked.

“Is it safe to talk up here?”

“I have some questions about your childhood and would like to talk to your unofficially although you’re welcome to call your attorney.”

Momentarily shaken I asked, “What do you need to know?”

“A little more about you and Mickey as kids.”

I invited her to lunch, and called Michelle to let her know if she had time she could join us. My attorney was unavailable and urged me to wait. Instead, I told her I wanted to cooperate as often as possible and agreed to call her later.

Harper watched me drain and then rinse the macaroni before stirring in the powdered cheese. Holding the blue box she said, “Wow, going all out, huh?”

“Sort of. This was Mickey’s favorite lunch. I fixed it for him and my sister a lot. We all loved it. That and canned pasta with hotdogs with a side of cheese curls.”

“Don’t you sort of miss the bread that smelled a little bit like plastic and came out of those white bags with the polka-dots?”

“Yeah. Two pieces with bologna and mayonnaise.” I said.

“And fried SPAM sandwiches.”

“Now that was some good eating.”

As I put the sticky orange pasta in two bowls, I smiled.

Harper asked, “What are you thinking?”

“In my memory, I could hear my sister giggling at Mickey while he made fart sounds with his hand and armpit.”

“Easily entertained, huh?” Harper said with a grin.

I served our lunch with grape juice in the Lyons’ crystal goblets.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Sort of. As kids we pretended our juice was wine and we were pirates reliving a conquest of some kind or another. We made toasts to each other and raised our wooden and tinfoil swords in victory. Mickey even had an eye patch and a beat-up stuffed parrot he carried on his shoulder. I want to honor his memory.”

Harper and I sat down. Before we took out first bite, I held up my goblet of juice and toasted the memory of my friend. “To Mickey. You didn’t die a pirate my friend, but you did die a hero. I just know it.”

“Why pirates?” Harper asked, taking a bite.

“Because they sailed the ocean blue and could go anywhere anytime they wanted. And they were never afraid.”

“They also stabbed people,” she said.

“They did, but I didn’t stab my friend,” I answered, looking straight into her eyes.

We stared at each other for a moment and I finally said, “I honestly love this stuff.” Then I filled my mouth full of the yellow-orange main course.

Harper nodded. “Me too, but if I ate like I did as a kid, I’d need triple-bypass surgery.”

My mouth was full again, and a response wasn’t required beyond the goofy smile I felt smudged across my lips.

“I have something I want you to see and now seems appropriate.”

She set a small photo album on the table. “We found this in Mickey’s things. I need to keep it in evidence, but I was hoping you’d tell me about these photos.”

The green plastic cover had the stamp from the drug store in our town. “Mickey and I both got one of these at what they used to call a Crazy-daze sale. The stores all put their marked down merchandise on the sidewalks; and some of the businesses offered cheap, but to us, cool stuff for free. Mrs. Dawson helped us fill them with pictures she took of us. Somewhere along the way, I lost mine.”

Opening the cover, I grinned at two first graders who had lost their front teeth the same Christmas. “I remember when this was taken. Mickey and I squinted while trying to smile as big as we could at his mom. She said she loved our toothless grins and taught us how to sing all we wanted for Christmas were our two front teeth, which of course wasn’t true. I was dreaming about Barbie dolls and he wanted race cars and a track.”

Shoving my empty bowl to the side, I began the verbal walk down memory lane for her.

The second picture was of three kids and an old lady in front of an aqua and white trailer.

“Mickey lived in the trailer two doors down from ours. He had a really cool mom and no dad. His mom worked a lot so this lady, Mrs. Dawson, watched him. When things got messy at my house, we met in the middle at hers. She bought windmill cookies for us. They were the best. Mrs. D. put rouge on her cheeks in bright pink circles and always wore flowered dresses and aprons. Her hair was starting to gray. She wore perfume she called ‘toilet water’ and since it was yellow . . . you know what Mickey thought. She was the only person in our neighborhood who didn’t smoke and always had time for kids. We adored her.”

“Who is the other little girl?”

“My sister.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of her when I moved away.”

The next two pages held those little pictures that came in a school photo package. One was Mickey, and the other was me. My pigtails were uneven, and I had a black eye.

“Where’d you get the shiner?” Harper asked.

“My father. It was the only time he hit me where it showed.”

I flipped to the next page. It was a baseball card Mickey loved—Kirby Puckett. On the page next to it was a picture of the two of us with a Minnesota Twins pennant flag.

“That’s the only professional baseball game I’ve seen live. Mrs. D. got tickets somehow and took us. We rode the city bus. She bought us each a hotdog and a coke, and we shared a box of popcorn. The Twins won, and I felt like they’d done it just for us and we were their good luck charm. On the way home, we raced to the last seat on the bus, and we sat with Mrs. D. in the middle of us. We fell asleep with our heads resting on her generous, but extremely comfortable thighs. I hadn’t slept that good in a long time. It was one of the best days of my life. Ever.”

There was a picture of the tree house we built in Mrs. Dawson’s side lot, the two of us on our bikes, and one of me sitting on the back steps of our trailer, wearing a pair of black-framed sunglasses I thought made me look like a movie star.

I was fine until the last picture. It was of Mickey, me, and a mutt. I burst into sloppy tears—the kind that ran hot down my cheeks and caused my nose to run almost immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Harper asked.

“That’s Tootsie. She was the best dog in the whole world. She showed up in the park one day and Mrs. Dawson adopted her. I don’t know what breed she was, but she was brown and looked like a tootsie roll.”

“What happened to her?”

“Gus killed her.” I said.

“How?”

“He hit her with a piece of wood.” I whispered, sorrow hitting harder with each word.

“Why?”

“Because I’d been bad.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to make him stop hitting my mom.”

“He was abusive and no one knew.”

“He was worse than that. He was evil,” I whispered. “I know people knew, but they did nothing. It’s like that for a lot of kids.”

Her next question shocked me out of the almost robot-like trance I’d slipped into—that mental place where it felt like I was wrapped in a thick, almost suffocating fog, and everything sounded monotone with a bit of an echo.

“Do you want to talk about the fire?” she asked.

“No! Why?” I asked slamming the little album shut. “What does all of this have to do with anything? I wasn’t there. I can’t tell you anything about it.” My voice sounded raw, and the saliva in my mouth tasted like metal – the way it always does when I’m afraid.

“Probably nothing, but since Mickey had it in his pocket the day he was killed, I thought it might be significant.”

Shaking with anger, I cleared the table.

“I need to head back to the station. Olivia, I’m sorry I upset you, but if I’m going to find Mickey’s killer, I have to know everything I can about him and you.”

“I know, but I don’t have to like it.”

“Agreed,” she said.

“When you’re done with his things, can I have them?”

“You’ll have to ask his mother.”

Shock tingled along my hairline and over my scalp. “She’s still alive?”

“Yes. And so is Mrs. Dawson. They’d both like to see you.”

“Where do they live?”

“Oak River. So does your mother.”

“Does Ma live alone?”

“No. Your sister lives with her. They’d all like to see you.”

“That is not going to happen, Harper,” I said.

“So you’re not going to Mickey’s memorial service?”

“As Mickey would say, ‘No way in H-E double toothpicks!” I heard a hysterical giggle in the room and knew it came from me.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her shapely eyebrows raised.

“Yes, although I’d like you to go now, please.”

I heard the door click shut just before more red hot tears hit my cheeks. “Mickey, wherever you are, you’re just going to have to understand,” I said knowing that if the dead could hear, he’d forgive me.

Harper called me from the town that haunted my memories.

“Olivia, we need to talk. I just left Mickey’s funeral, which was nice by the way, and something has come up.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. The press is going to run with what I have to say so I’ll tell you now. We have solid information that you’re the only beneficiary to Mickey’s estate. He didn’t live like a rich man, but there’s a one million dollar life insurance policy, a house, and some personal property.”

“What? Why?” My legs felt funny, and I sat down hard on the couch.

“His mother says it’s because you were the love of his life.”

The pause must have lasted more than a couple of seconds because Harper asked, “Olivia, are you there?”

“Yes. I just have no words.”

“This is good for your bottom line, but bad for you in light of the murder. It could be seen as motive.”

“But I didn’t know.”

“Can you prove that?” she asked.

“What kind of proof do you need?”

“Maybe we’ll find it when we go through his house. The FBI has a search warrant and they are already on the scene. These joint investigations are always tense. Newman has asked me to be your direct liaison because we’ve already established a connection, but I have to warn you, this man has the tenacity of a bulldog. And he’s still sure you’re guilty.”

“Great.”

“Yeah. So I called Michelle. She should be trying to get in touch with you any minute. She’s coming to Mickey’s house in case anything turns up. I think it would be good if you were there as well in case Newman wants to ask you something directly.”

I told her I’d do what Michelle thought was best and soon found myself seated in the back of my lawyer’s limo.

An eager young agent allowed Michelle and me to enter the house. He used his cell phone and with a grin on his face and in his voice told Newman that we’d arrived. He listened, lost the smile, and said, “Yes, sir
.
I’ll bring them in.”

As soon I was inside I knew I was going to have to keep my emotions in check. Newman and his team would be watching my responses, looking for guilt.

It was a small two-story built in the 1930s. I tried not to react as I took mental photographs of Mickey’s home to think about later. There was a screened-in front porch, a wooden front door with beveled glass, and it was likely around 2000 square feet. His living room held a single recliner, a small flat screen TV, an oak bookcase overflowing with comic books, James Patterson thrillers, and notebooks full of Mickey’s hand-drawn comics.

Standing in the middle of the room, I said, “This is more than he had as a kid.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harper.

“The trailer he lived in was really a pull-behind camper. He slept in the bunk above his mom’s bed in the back. On hot summer nights she’d fold down the kitchen table for him.”

“What about in the winter?” Newman asked, startling me. I hadn’t seen him standing in the kitchen door way.

“One of the families his mom cleaned house for had a huge heated garage that also had electricity. They let her park the trailer there in the winter time. They had horses, cows, and a bunch of kids. Sometimes, they’d come and get my sister and me and we’d go sledding. They had extra snow pants, boots, and mittens for us. Their mom rubbed our cheeks with petroleum jelly to keep them from chapping too much. She’s the one who taught us to make snow angels. Mickey loved winter.”

It’s likely I’d have rambled on except I looked up. There on the only end table Mickey owned was a framed picture of me and him on our bikes. Tootsie was sitting in the basket of mine.

“Oh! I love this picture. Is there any way I can have it?” I asked.

“Eventually, but right now, it’s in the custody of the FBI.” Harper said.

“That picture is the most important item in this house.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, and looked into the tiny kitchen where there was a small table with one empty chair, and peeked into his bedroom with a single bed and the old dresser he had in his room as a kid. All the while, the young agent kept his eye on me.

Stepping back into the living room, I saw Harper standing back taking in the big picture. Michelle, whose gaze was focused on the photo of two misfit kids and a stray dog, stood beside her. For the moment, Newman was out of sight.

I heard one of the investigators holler, “We’ve got a bunch of stuff up here!”

Harper signaled for us to stay put and she followed the agents up the narrow stairway.

While they rummaged through my friend’s personal belongings, I picked up one of his notebooks. He’d drawn a story about a pig who was also a man. It was disturbing stuff. I didn’t see much before another agent asked for it.

When they came back down, Newman stood in the middle of the living room and said, “My guys are packing up his papers. There are years of case notes, personal journals, and photographs.”

He took a deep breath, looked at me and continued, “It’s all old except for new pictures of you. Looks like he was following you around.

“We also found his life insurance policy. It’s official,” he said. “You are the sole beneficiary of one million dollars. Here’s the insurance agent’s number. His will was open and in one of the files. I will have his attorney contact you, but he left his entire estate to you, Ms. Morgan. We have also checked out his bank account, and there’s a substantial balance. I have no idea when it will all be released to you.”

“We may have a bit of a media problem. The news about your windfall has been leaked to the press by an anonymous source. It’s possible one of the reporters hounding Mickey’s mother weaseled the information out of her. We’d appreciate it if you don’t comment publically for now.” Newman stared hard at me.

“I haven’t talked to the press. If they contact me, what do you want me to say?” I asked.

Michelle interrupted my conversation with Newman. “Let them know you have ‘no comment’ and direct them to me.”

I wanted to be calm, but instead I burst into tears and said, “I don’t understand any of this. What about his mom? She deserves all of this.”

“It’s common knowledge around town that he took care of her financially years ago. When I talked to her, she was more than happy to brag about how good her son had been to her,” Newman said. “We’ll know more when my team sorts through all his stuff. He was pretty organized.”

“How can that be? I didn’t think cops or FBI agents made that kind of money,” I said, wishing I didn’t need to blow my nose badly. Harper handed me a tissue.

“Mickey knew how to invest. If the guy bought a stock, it went his way. As you can see, he was also on the thrifty side. He also bought and sold old cars. The guy always made a profit,” Newman said, his voice full of admiration.

“That sounds like Mickey. You should have seen his baseball card collection. He kept every card in pristine condition. Even as a kid he knew which cards to keep and which ones to trade.”

“You know about the collection?” Newman asked with an eyebrow raised as if surprised.

“The one he had as a kid. We’d sometimes get an extra nickel, or when we’d saved up enough pennies we found on the ground, we’d go to the store and split it up. I’d get as much pink bubble gum as I could and he’d get baseball cards. He loved the Twins but collected other ones too. I wonder what ever happened to those old things.”

“We found them. The collection has grown a bit since you were kids.”

I smiled and said, “I’m glad.”

The FBI guy frowned and said, “I bet you are. They’re worth a bundle. When they’re released to you, you’ll want to get them insured.”

“Really? They’re baseball cards. How valuable can they be?”

“Very, but maybe you won’t need to worry about them if you go to jail for murdering him.”

“I didn’t kill him, Newman,” I said as I slid my hands in my pockets hoping he wouldn’t see them shaking.

“He talked about you. He was always saying, ‘She’s something!’”

“He talked about me at work?” I asked puzzled that Newman knew so much about my friend.

“No. But sometimes we’d go out for a burger or to a Twins game together. We had some good times,” Newman said quietly.

“I had no idea.”

“He was right. You’re something else,” Newman said with a sneer before he walked away.

The sudden tone change scared me as much as Mickey’s death. This was a lawman on a mission. I hadn’t killed his friend and mine, but there was Gus. There was always Gus.

When Michelle said it was time to go, I followed her without a comment. Harper stuffed a handful of fresh tissues in my hand.

Before she instructed the driver, Michelle asked me, “Do you want to visit Mickey’s grave?”

“No. I’m not ready yet.” I knew I’d be back, but I’d come alone.

“I suppose you’ll want to list the house as soon as the FBI releases it,” Michelle said.

“It’s a cozy place,” I said. “And, Mickey wanted me to have it. I think I’ll hang onto it for awhile.”

On the way back to St Paul, in the hushed interior of the limo, I fell asleep watching the wife of my ex-lover take notes on how to keep me from being charged with murder.

As the ebony velvet of sleep took me prisoner, I dreamed about pink bubblegum, sticky summer skin, the smell of wet dog, and a dug-out fort in the field where Mickey and I shared secrets, dreams, and our first and last clumsy kiss. But in the blurry dream the bubblegum got caught in my throat, the kiss was given to me by a ghost-like adult Mickey, his scarred face morphing into a skull, and the field around us was on fire and there was no way out.

I woke up crying and far more tired than I’d been when I fell asleep.

“Bad dream?” Michelle asked.

I nodded and tried to stop the tears. This was almost worse than drooling in my sleep and her seeing it.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” I said.

I told her about the dream, and then my stomach growled.

“Do you want to stop and get something to eat?”

“No thanks.” I had an unopened box of Trix and a fresh half gallon of milk waiting for me at home. I kept that part to myself.