Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (9 page)

After two bowls of cereal and another nightmare, I was up and in the shower before the sun came out. My jeans were a little harder to zip, and I knew it was almost time to give up my new eating habits. I wasn’t just consuming the cereals I’d loved as a kid; I was adding sugar to each pre-sweetened bowl of artificially flavored and dyed crunchy goodness.

Sometime in the night, the idea of living in Mickey’s house arrived and felt right. My friend wanted me to have it, and by accepting his generosity, I’d be able to move out of the apartment sooner than later. The possibility energized me, and I decided to go furniture shopping soon. I’d need a bed, table, and comfortable chair. I was deep into drawing the rooms and adding furniture when Lloyd called to say Harper was on her way up.

When I let her in, she said, “I stopped by to give you this.” She handed me the photo I’d asked for that once sat by Mickey’s chair. The cheap metal frame was tarnished and dented in one spot.

I hugged it.

“The FBI took out several boxes of his stuff and his computers. He kept written journals too, and according to his recent entries, we know you hadn’t been in contact with him,” Harper said.

“Is that the proof Newman needed?” I asked.

“For now,” she said. “Did you go to the cemetery?”

“No. I’m not ready,” I said.

She put her hands in her pants pockets in true Harper style and said, “We’re never ready.”

She turned and opened the door to leave. “It’s your choice, but until you do, your future will be tarnished by whatever it is you’re afraid of.”

Her words hung in the air like an unfinished song waiting for the final chords. I shut the door behind her without a response.

The phone rang. When I answered it, Michelle said, “Hi Olivia. Alan and I were talking about your upcoming move, and he’d like to know if you’ve started looking.”

The question irritated me. “Alan said I have time, and it looks like it might be awhile before I make a decision.”

“Have you considered moving into Mickey Olson’s house?” she pushed.

“I have. The house needs a lot of work, and we both know it’s in the custody of the FBI until they decide it’s not. I need time to figure it all out, and I’d rather Alan didn’t know I’ve considered moving into Mickey’s house.” I said.

“That’s understandable. I told him I’d ask.”

“Harper was just here,” I said, determined to change the subject.

“What did she want?” Michelle asked, her voice switching to attorney-mode.

“She brought me the photograph I asked for and advised me to go to the cemetery.”

“Are you going?”

“Why is this such a big deal?” I asked as I switched into drama-queen mode.

“I guess we both want you to have a measure of closure.”

“And I’ll find that in a cemetery?” I demanded.

“No, but you might find it in honoring your friend’s memory.”

She was good.

“What part of the cemetery is he buried in?” I asked.

As I pulled off the gravel road and onto the grassy driveway, I saw two elderly ladies walking to an old Lincoln Continental. They held hands and looked so worn down by life I wondered where they got the energy to take the next step. They stopped, looked back, and hugged each other as they cried.

When they got in the car, the driver pushed on the gas, and a plume of smoke came out of the tailpipe. An irreverent thought crossed my mind in a voice that sounded like Mickey, “Hey look, Ollie, two old birds in a boat!”

Only Mickey and Pete called me Ollie. Suddenly the childhood nickname meant more to me than any other.

As their car pulled away, I parked mine in their spot and waited for the courage to get out. I’d brought him daisies.

I stood beside the mound of over-turned earth, not sure what to do. A wreath with drooping flowers lay across the top. Big clumps of clay-like dirt were nestled in here and there. I had the urge to separate them and pat the earth smoothly over my friend. The grounds keeper here was far less efficient than Deacon.

“Ms. Morgan?” a man said from behind me. I turned and there stood one of the Twin Cities’ most famous reporters. He’d retired and only did what they called “investigative” stories now. His eyes and voice were professionally kind. When he held out his hand, I refused the friendly gesture.

“You followed me here?”

“Sort of. We were on our way here to take a picture of your friend’s house and to see what we could find out about him from the locals. I saw you pass us and told the van driver to follow you.”

“Why?”

“There’s a story here, and I’d like to tell it.”

“You won’t get your story from me. Please leave.” My finger nails bit into the palms of my hands, and I felt the words grind out between my tightly clenched teeth. “This is a private moment, and I’m not going to share it with you or anyone else.”

“Why didn’t you say hello to his mother and yours?” he asked with the precision of an archer.

“How do you know who they were? Have you talked to them?”

My fingertips tingled, bile burned in my stomach, and I shivered as goose bumps danced up my spine.
That old woman was Ma?

“I have.”

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“No problem, Ms. Morgan.” He left, his step determined, almost like a march.

Sitting on the dry ground beside Mickey’s mound—he’d have loved that— I talked to my old friend.

“Hi, Mickey. I can’t believe it! Those old birds in the boat were our moms. They’re so old and fragile looking. They remind me of my faded jeans with patches holding them together. Remember those? At first we were so embarrassed by our poverty and the teasing we took at school, we almost cried. Then your mom told us that in her day, only the really ‘in’ kids dressed like us – she called them hippies. From that moment on, we were cool whether the other kids thought so or not.

A robin sang in a nearby pine tree.

“They found your journals. Knowing you, they know all about your heart and life by now. You always had to release the words inside you. I’m glad you kept drawing cartoons, although the one I saw reminded me a lot of that book we read and talked about in the fort—
Animal Farm
. It looked like you made it into some kind of graphic novel. The pig-guy looked just like Gus.”

The truth hit so hard it took my breath away. “You knew what he did to me. The pig-guy
is
Gus. You knew I was ruined, and you still loved me? How can that be? When did you know?”

Again, the robin filled the silence where on another day Mickey would have responded. Big, hot tears raced over my lids and down my cheeks. I dug the tissues I’d brought with me out of my purse and blew my nose.

Although we had no time left, it felt like we had all the time in the world. So I told him about Alan, Jillian, my students, Harper, Michelle, and I apologized for not knowing him in the elevator.

“They told me you were badly burned after going into the fire looking for Gus. Even though he was really bad, you went back for him. That’s who you were. They also said you loved me the way a man loves a woman. I’m sorry Mickey—really sorry. I didn’t know you loved me except as a friend. Feeling
that
way about you never crossed my mind even after our kiss. I didn’t even know about the fire. I’m sad and angry that you’re dead. Who would kill someone as good as you? I’d try to help, but your friend, Newman, is on the case. He will find whoever did this to you. I missed you after I left home, but now I’m lonely for you. Before I knew you were out there; now I know you’re not.

“Have you met Jillian yet? I hope if there is more to life than this one that you two find each other.

“They gave me the picture you kept by your chair. I miss Tootsie so much. Those bikes were old when we got them. Remember hiding from Gus under the old train trestle? We rode out there and hid our bikes under that pile of brush. I held my breath when he walked the tracks above us, threatening to kill me. I wished he’d fall into the water below and die. You promised me it would be okay someday. I’m sorry. I didn’t believe you. Life would not be okay as long as he was alive. I didn’t tell you everything he did to me or what he told me he was going to do to Pete. I’m really sorry you got hurt trying to save him. He wasn’t worth it.

“Do you know who started the fire? I went to the fort before I left. Did you ever find the note I left for you? I wonder what happened to all the stuff we hid under that big old rock. Remember when we found that huge flat sandstone boulder in the field? You said we could dig out the earth under it and you started in right away with an old shovel. Then, you and that old guy who worked at the gas station brought in those old beams you found by the railroad tracks to reinforce the rock roof. You swore him to secrecy somehow. Then you figured out how to get the smoke from our fires to go out without suffocating us. What were we thinking? It was like a huge badger’s den or an underground version of the Flintstones’ house.”

A steady stream of tears rolled down my cheeks and into my mouth as I kept talking.

“I was told you left me your whole estate. Why did you pick me? Newman is not happy about it. Maybe someday they’ll give me back your journals, and I’ll know you as well as they do. You were my best bud ever, Mickey. I didn’t start the fire, but I did something and Gus died. I wish I’d called you. You would have stopped me. Did you find out about that somehow? Were you coming to warn me or arrest me? Either way, I’m so proud you were my friend and honored you loved me.”

I looked into my lap and realized I’d pulled the petals off of every single daisy I’d brought my friend. “You loved me and I loved you not. At least not that way. I’m sorry.”

When I walked back to my car, I noticed Harper’s officer parked a safe distance away and waved at him. Since I hadn’t had any recent strange encounters with the stalker, he was going back to regular duty soon. That made me feel good and bad. He was an intrusion, but also a security blanket against whatever danger seemed to lurk on the edges of my life.

On my way out of town, I drove past the trailer park. It was time to get home, finish off my box of Trix, maybe open up the Captain Crunch, and draw until I fell asleep. When this box of children’s cereal was gone, I’d be out and promised myself I’d get back to eating right.

Or maybe I’d just buy bigger jeans.

Michelle and I sat in an old Victorian mansion-turned-teahouse. When we’d entered, the hostess had shown us to our table, already set for lunch. The china was decorated with delicate blackberries and pink blossoms. One tea pot held a strong English tea and in the other my favorite, Lady Grey.

“All the evidence is circumstantial at best, Olivia,” Michelle said. “But a lot of people have been convicted on less.”

I let the words sink in. It felt like my heart landed in my gut.

“Alan keeps asking me where you’re going to move and when. So far, I’ve held him at bay by telling him you’ve been a little busy. Do I have your permission to tell him your plans? I think if he knows you have a plan, he’ll back off. If you’re still not ready for him to know, I will continue to keep the information confidential.”

“Tell him whatever you think he needs to know. I’m beginning to like the idea of moving into Mickey’s house. I also like that Oak River is located between St. Paul and Rochester. I’d have shopping and dining options not far away.”

“Do you really want to live in a dead man’s house?” she asked.

Her words bounced around in my brain like a super ball gone wild. I could only hope she couldn’t see that in my eyes or body language.

Not ready to go there with her, I said, “It’s a convenient option. I wouldn’t have to look at dozens of houses trying to find one. It’s small and manageable for one, and it could be my transition house—my way out of the apartment while looking for the right place.”

We were served a variety of tiny open-faced sandwiches topped with cucumbers, curled strips of carrot, and halved tomatoes on lovely tasting breads lined with delicious versions of mayonnaise. I took small bites and focused on the delicious combinations of flavors.

For a few minutes we ate in a comfortable silence. Each sandwich was the size of a soda cracker, and tiny bites followed by a sip of tea seemed to be the correct mode of intake.

“I’ve never had a place of my own. A space I could be truly at home. I don’t even know what I want. “Do you think Alan can pull a string or two, with someone powerful—someone with connections inside the FBI? If they release the house sooner than later, I could get started with the renovation and vacate the apartment.”

After taking a sip of her tea, Michelle said, “That might work.”

“Have you ever walked into a place and knew you were home?” I asked.

My lovely lawyer nodded. “I feel that way every time I walk into the foyer of our house. I’ve loved it since Alan carried me over the threshold.”

“How romantic.” The words came out of my mouth far more sarcastic than I’d meant them to, but I wasn’t done. “What did the Dowager think? Neither she nor Alan seem to be romantics.”

My cheeks reddened as I let loose the name I called Alan’s mother in my mind. Plus, I had entered a place I’d never belonged—my ex-lover’s marriage.

Michelle smiled at my slip. “You’re right about them, but Aggie believed strongly in tradition, so to please her, he reluctantly scooped me up and deposited me in the foyer. I’d been there many times, but as a guest, not a high-ranking member of the family, let alone as the new ‘lady of the manor.’”

“Isn’t that still your mother-in-law’s position?”

“I let her pretend sometimes, but deep in her heart she knows better.”

“Who is Aggie?”

“Alan’s nanny. She adores him.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Yes. She’s ninety-five and lives in a care center. I wish he’d go see her more often, but he says he’s too busy. He takes me now and then, and he always goes at Christmas and for her birthday. Now, back to you. You’re
sure
about trying to live in Mickey’s house?”

Suddenly, I was.

“I am. I want to feel the way you do about a place.” A sense of purpose chased away the fears she’d raised. “For the first time in my life, I will have a place that is mine where I feel safe. No abused mother and no drunk father who made nightly visits to my room, no rapist, and no one else’s husband possessing my space. It might not be forever, but it will be a good place to go for right now. It was Mickey’s gift to me, and I want to accept it.”

At that moment, Claire Worthington stopped by to say hello. The hostess stood a discreet distance away, waiting to seat her latest guest.

“Claire! It is wonderful to see you. Would you join us?” Michelle’s gladness proved irresistible. Claire sat down between us, and the hostess brought her a matching place setting and a small plate of sandwiches.

Watching the two friends get caught up on what was new in their lives, I thought Claire looked different. Still beautiful, but some of her radiance seemed to have dimmed. Losing Dr. Jack had been hard on her. He’d died last year when a drunk driver hit his car head-on. I’d been so wrapped up in me the night of the fundraiser, I hadn’t noticed.

She reached over and touched my hand and asked, “How are you, my dear?”

“Other than being a suspect in a murder investigation, I’m good.”

“We know you didn’t do it. They’ll find the guilty person soon. What’s new with you besides that?”

I told her about Mickey’s gift of the house and my decision to live there.

“It’s really a cozy house,” Michelle said. “With Olivia’s artistic talent, she can transform it.”

“This sounds wonderful. What kind of furniture do you like best?”

“Well, I have to wait. It isn’t fully mine yet.”

“That’s okay. Let’s dream for a while.”

I was up for some of that. “It’s a small three-bedroom house. It has great woodwork that looks a little bit like walnut. There are two corner hutches built into the dining room. The old glass is pitted, and I love it. The kitchen is tiny, but has that ‘just right’ feel to it. The downstairs bedroom would make a wonderful studio. I’ve been sketching out the way I’d like the rooms to look.”

While I described the simple design, she smiled and said, “I know just the woman who can assist you with these ideas and the others that will pop into your head in the coming weeks.”

Michelle’s cell phone rang, and she excused herself to take the call in one of the old-fashioned wooden telephone booths that lined one wall. There she could talk on her phone without interrupting the quiet and personal atmosphere of the dining room.

Claire took a sip of tea and then asked, “I’m delighted to know you’re drawing again.”

My stomach somersaulted the way it used to when I got caught doing something wrong.

“Oh yes, I knew your secret. I am a visiting angel and often visited Jillian in the hospital. She was very proud of your talent and showed me the small book you created for her to keep under her pillow. What did you call it?” she asked.

“Sweet Dreams to You From Me.”

“Yes, that’s it. I remember a main character named Jillian who was the Dream Catcher Princess, a contented looking moon, smiling stars, and three teddy bears that spoke only to the princess, and kept all of her secrets. The sketches were beautiful and so were the words. Jillian shared it with everyone who came to see her when you weren’t there. At first I didn’t understand why it had to be hidden from her daddy, so I asked her. She told me he wanted you to teach art, but not to do it.”

“Did others know that?” I asked, my heart awash in shame. If the napkin in my lap had been paper instead of linen, it would have been a pile of confetti.

“Perhaps, but she swore us to secrecy. No one she told would have broken her confidence. I assume he never knew about the book.”

I nodded and took a sip of lukewarm tea. I let the honey-sweetened goodness soothe the lump in my throat. My daughter knew. That truth slid over the wound in my heart, easing some of the searing pain that had lived there for so long.

“Besides your house sketches, are you working on anything else?”

“I have more sketches started, and hope to do a little painting.”

“Photography too?”

“Jillian confided in you a lot.” The sting of jealousy rose up in my heart.

“She was so proud of you and wanted us to watch over you for her. We promised her we’d pray for you. That satisfied your little one. She loved you so much.”

The kind words eased their way over my envy the way white paint washes over black. Although it didn’t cover it completely, the dove gray result was comforting.

“Would you show me your work sometime? Perhaps after you get settled into your new home? I’m part of the art tour for this part of the state. I’ve been to Oak River many times. Did you know they have a lovely gallery there?” she asked.

I hadn’t, and to hide my ignorance, I asked, “You’re really welcoming me into your world? Even with a potential murder charge in my present and my former mistress status marring my recent past?”

“Olivia, you did not kill that man. I know it in my bones. And your romantic relationships are not something I’d hold against you.”

“But you’re religious, like Jillian was.” I wondered how a sophisticated woman would hang her heart on myths.

“Like your daughter, I am a believer, and I’ve received the forgiveness of Jesus; but know this—I am far from perfect. When I came to Him, He had a lot to forgive.”

Her God-talk stung me inside like the times I’d get a sliver deep in my finger from the old teeter-totter in the trailer park.

Just when I thought I’d have to say something to stop it, Michelle returned to the table but didn’t sit down. “That was Mother Lyons, and I’ve been asked to return home. It seems she’s not feeling at all well. Olivia, we didn’t get to talk much about your case, but I will call you if something comes up later. Tea is on me today, and I’ve asked them to bring the dessert tray over in a few moments. Please, both of you enjoy something delicious for me.”

I watched her walk through the tearoom, stopping to greet a few people with grace, her beautiful face showing genuine interest in each one.

“She’s so kind,” I said to Claire.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. How many women would be kind to their husband’s ex-mistress and volunteer to defend her if there’s a murder trial?”

“Not many,” she admitted.

“You surprise me too. Most of the rich people I’ve met are like Alan and his mother.”

“Your students are from wealthy families. Were they unkind to you?”

“No, and most of their parents were very nice, but there was the board. What a bunch of status-greedy scoundrels.”

“That sounds prejudiced, Olivia.”

“It probably is. I’m judging all of the wealthy in the world based on my personal experience with a few. I know my past also colors my view. Where I lived, the rich often scolded us poor kids just for living. If something got stolen, it was assumed we did it even when we’d seen their offspring do it. As my friend Mickey would say, ‘If they held their noses any higher, the next rain would drown them.’”

“But doesn’t your recent inheritance put you in a new income bracket?” she asked one eyebrow raised slightly.

“You’re right. It does. So does my recent past if I’m honest. I’d really like to blame Alan. He required that I forget where I came from, and I willing did as he asked. I guess that makes me a bigger snob than anyone I’ve ever met,” I admitted stunned by the truth.

“What do you need for your move?” she asked.

I was grateful for the change in subject. “Furniture and everything it takes to make it my home.”

“Do you have a list?” she asked.

I got my sketch pad out of my over-sized bag and showed her my drawings. On each page, I’d also made a short shopping list of things I’d need for each room.

“There’s a shop called Small Spaces owned by a young woman who specializes in helping people furnish homes and condos that are 2000 square feet or less.”

“I’m not sure what the square footage is, but my guess is it would be close to her maximum.”

“Even if it’s a little bigger, she will be delighted to work with you.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The owner is my daughter.”

A couple of hours later, we entered Small Spaces, and a beautiful woman greeted us. “Mom! It’s great to see you.”

After they hugged, she turned to me and recognition washed over her eyes.

Her mother introduced us and Marissa Erickson offered me her hand as she said, “I’ve seen your picture on the news. My condolences on the loss of your friend.”

She looked like her father, my Jillian’s beloved Doctor Jack. Tall, thick blond hair, sky blue eyes lined in long, dark lashes, and from her mother, the liquid grace of a dancer.

I heard what sounded like toe-nails on the old wood floor and found myself delighted by the arrival of a gray dog with a tightly curled tail. He wagged his way over to Claire. “Hello, Leif!”

When it appeared the dog was headed my way, Marissa said, “Leif, sit.” He did.

Then she asked, “Is it alright if Leif greets you?”

“I’d be delighted.” He decided to stay beside me. While I scratched behind Leif’s ears, I enjoyed his acceptance and the softness of his fur. When he tenderly licked my hand, I wondered if I should get a dog. Mickey’s back yard was fenced. When the dog wagged his tail at me again, my heart soared.

Claire explained the reason for our visit. “Olivia is about to become the owner of a small house in Oak River. Go ahead dear, show Marissa your drawings.”

I worried a little what she might think of my ideas and my talent.

Marissa looked for a long time and finally said, “This house has real potential. I love the porch. Is the screening in good shape?”

“I didn’t look closely, but what I did see looked great.”

“Is the woodwork original?” she asked, not looking up from the pages.

“Yes, and so are the light fixtures, doors, the light switch plates, and the door knobs.” I was starting to get excited.

“You did these drawings?”

“I did.” The question caused a jolt of fear in my stomach.

“They’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Mom, can you get us a cup of coffee?”

Claire smiled at me while Marissa beckoned me to sit in one of four chairs in a friendly nook.

“Let’s start with the room that matters the most to you.”

I told her about the room on the main floor with full-length windows on two walls. She took a few notes on a small tablet.