The Liar

14

Shelby sat in the tiny office holding the Coke Tansy had pushed on her with both hands. She didn’t think she could actually swallow.

O. C. Hardigan had been sheriff for as long as she could remember. He’d always scared her a little, but she figured that was the badge more than the man. Not that she’d ever been in any trouble—any real trouble. He’d gone full gray since she’d left the Ridge, so his buzz cut looked like a shorn-off Brillo Pad. His square-jawed face was fleshier than it had been, and he carried a more generous paunch.

He smelled of peppermint over tobacco.

She knew he was being gentle with her, and appreciated it.

He’d said Forrest had given him a full report on her encounter with the victim—he called the woman “the victim”—but had Shelby go through it all again.

“And you’d never seen her, been contacted by her, talked to her before this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“And your . . . The man you knew as Richard Foxworth, he never mentioned anyone named Natalie Sinclair or Madeline Proctor?”

“No, sir, not that I remember.”

“And this private investigator—this Ted Privet. He never said her name to you?”

“No, Sheriff, I’m sure of that.”

“How about this Mickey O’Hara she talked about?”

“I never heard about him before, either. Not until she talked about him.”

“All righty, then. What time was it would you say when you saw her tonight?”

“I think it had to be about ten-thirty. Maybe ten twenty-five. I was more than halfway through the third set, and I started right about ten. She was all the way in the back, the far right corner.” She held her hand up to demonstrate. “My right, that is. I didn’t see her before that, but the light’s dim back there.”

She made herself take a drink. “After I saw her, she got up. Not in a hurry. It was like, all right, now you’ve seen me, now I made my point and I can go. She had a martini glass, but I don’t know who was working that table. It had to be at least fifteen more minutes before I finished the set and could tell Forrest. Might’ve been a few minutes more, but no more than twenty. I had four songs left after the one I was doing when I saw her. And the talk between songs, well, I keep that short. So fifteen minutes, likely no more than seventeen.”

“Did you see anyone follow her out?”

“I didn’t, but I was looking for Forrest once she got up and started out. I wasn’t watching the door.”

“I bet you saw a lot of familiar faces in the crowd tonight.”

“I did. It was so nice to see everyone.” She thought of Arlo. “Mostly.”

“A lot of unfamiliar ones, too.”

“Tansy did a lot of marketing. She had flyers all over. I heard we had a lot of people in tonight who’re staying at the hotel and the lodge and so on, even campers who came in tonight. Something new, you know?”

“Wish I could’ve been here myself. We’re going to make a point of it, the wife and me, next time. Now, did anybody strike you, Shelby? Somebody who just didn’t look right?”

“I didn’t notice. Arlo Kattery was here with the two he always hung around with, but they left at the start of the second set.”

“Arlo’s mostly for Shady’s, or one of the roadhouses.”

“He didn’t do anything but sit, have a few beers, then go on. I’m just thinking of him because he never looked right to me.”

“Never has been.”

“I guess for most of it I was pulling on the familiar faces more, and the couples. A lot of the songs I did tonight, well, they’re romantic, so I played to that. It couldn’t have been anybody from the Ridge, Sheriff. Nobody even knew her.”

He patted her hand. “Don’t you worry now. We’ll figure it out. If you think of anything else, anything at all, you tell me about it. Or you tell Forrest if that’s easier for you.”

“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to think about any of it.”

Out in the restaurant, Griff had done about all he could do. He’d helped organize people so the deputies could take statements, or just names. He’d helped Derrick serve out coffee, soft drinks, water, as another deputy interviewed the staff in the kitchen.

He’d gone out once for air, had seen the police lights around the BMW, and timed it inadvertently so that he watched them loading the bagged body into the coroner’s wagon.

An experience, he decided, he’d be happy never to repeat.

The second time he made rounds with coffee, Forrest pulled him aside.

“Shelby’s going to be out in a minute or so. I need to keep my hands in this thing here. I’m trusting you with my sister, Griff, because I can.”

“I’ll look out for her.”

“I know you will. She pushed Emma Kate to go home, and that’s likely for the best. She’ll get out of here quicker without another female to stroke her and ask for details. Get her home.”

“You can count on it.”

“I know I can. Coroner’ll know for certain once he digs the bullet out of her, but eyeballing, he figures a .25.”

“Do you know who she is yet? Real name?”

Distracted, Forrest shook his head. “We’ve got her prints now. I’ll be running them myself tonight. There’s Shelby now. Give me a second with her, then get her out. She argues, carry her out.”

“If I do, don’t shoot me.”

“Not this time.” Forrest walked over, took Shelby by the shoulders as he studied her face, then just drew her in, held her.

Whatever he said had her shaking her head, again and again, as she burrowed into him. Then she sagged a little, shrugged. When Forrest let her go she started toward Griff.

He met her halfway.

“Forrest says you need to drive me home. I’m sorry he’s being so fussy.”

“Whatever Forrest says, I’m driving you home. Men aren’t fussy—that’s a girlie word. We’re logical and protective.”

“Sounds fussy to me, but thank you.”

“Let’s go.”

“I should find Tansy first, or Derrick, or—”

“They’re busy.” He didn’t go as far as carrying her, but he took her hand, pulled her firmly away from the building and the hard lights. “We’ll take your van.”

“How are you going to get home if—”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll need the van. I’ll drive.” He held out his hand for the keys.

“All right. My brain’s too rattled to argue. Nobody knew her around here. People around here don’t just walk up to a strange woman and shoot her in the head, for God’s sake.”

“Which should tell you whoever did isn’t from around here.”

She looked up at him with considerable relief. “That’s what I said to the sheriff.”

“She brought trouble with her, Shelby. That’s how it reads to me.”

“It has to be that O’Hara person.” The one, Shelby remembered, the brunette had warned her about. “She said he was in prison, but she lied about her own name, so who knows what else she lied about. If it was him, and if she was telling the truth about Richard, about all those millions, it’s not safe to be around me.”

“A lot of ifs there. I’ll add some.” He shot her a glance, sorrier than he could say that the sparkle she’d emitted when she sang had dulled. “If this O’Hara’s around and did this, and if he thinks maybe you know something about those millions, it would be pretty stupid to hurt you.”

He waited until she got in the van, then settled behind the wheel.

“And if he’s such a badass, why didn’t she drive away, get the gun in her purse. Why just sit there?”

“I don’t know.” She let her head drop back on the seat. “I thought things couldn’t get crazier. After Richard died and the roof caved in, I thought, This is as bad as it can get. Then it got worse. Then I thought, All right now, that’s as bad as it gets and we’ll work our way through it. Then she came here and it’s worse again. And now this.”

“You’ve had a streak of bad luck.”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“Luck changes. Yours already has.” At an easy speed, he followed the wind of the road. “You sold the house, you’re carving away the debt. You packed the house tonight and had them in the palm of your hand.”

“You think so?”

“I was in the house,” he said. “And you’ve got a date with me coming. I’m a damn good catch.”

She didn’t think she had a smile in her, but he found it for her. “Are you?”

“Damn right. Just ask my mother. Hell, ask yours.”

“You don’t lack in the confidence department, do you, Griffin?”

“I know who I am,” he told her as he pulled up at her house.

“How the hell are you getting home?” She pushed fingers against that headache spot between her eyes. “I didn’t even think. You can take the van, and I could get Daddy to drive me over and pick it up in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He got out, came around. She’d opened the door before he got to it, but he took her hand when she got out.

“You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

“It’s just one of the many things that make me such a good catch.”

The door opened as they came up the walk.

“Oh, baby girl.”

“I’m all right, Mama.”

“Of course you are. Come on in here, Griffin.” Ada Mae scooped Shelby up in a hug. “Your granny and grandpa came by, told us everything. Forrest, is he still over there?”

“Yeah, he’s still there.”

“Good. Don’t you worry about Callie. I checked on her five minutes ago, and she’s sound asleep. Why don’t I make you something to eat?”

“I couldn’t, Mama.”

“Let me look at the girl.” Clayton stepped up, tipped up Shelby’s face. “You’re pale and you’re tired.”

“I guess I am.”

“If you can’t sleep, I’ll give you a little something. But you give it a try first.”

“I will. I guess I’ll go on up. Daddy, Griff left his truck back at the bar and grill so he could bring me home. Thank you, Griff.” She turned, touched her lips to his cheek.

“I’m going to see you settled and tucked in.” Ada Mae put an arm around Shelby’s waist. “Thank you, Griff, for seeing to my baby girl. You’re a good boy.”

“But am I a good catch?”

At Shelby’s tired laugh, Ada Mae gave a puzzled smile. “Best in the whole pool. Come on now, my baby.”

Clayton waited until they were up the stairs. “You got time for a beer and some details, Griff?”

“If you’d make that a Coke or ginger ale, I’ve got time. I plan to bunk on your couch there anyway.”

“I can get you back to your truck.”

“I’d feel better bunking right here tonight. I don’t think there’s going to be any trouble, but I’d feel better right here.”

“All right, then. We’ll have a Coke and a talk. Then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

An hour later, Griff stretched out on the couch—a pretty comfortable couch. God knew he’d slept on a lot worse. He stared up at the ceiling awhile, thinking of Shelby, letting some of the songs she’d sung that night replay in his head.

At some point he’d let the whole business play around, like the songs, in his head. It’s how he solved most problems. Let all the pieces roll around, try fitting some together, taking them apart again until a picture formed.

Right now the only clear picture was Shelby.

She was in plenty of trouble, no doubt about it. Maybe he couldn’t resist a damsel in distress. Not that he’d use that term out loud. Besides, if a woman liked the term, if she was the sort who just wanted to sit around doing nothing while he rescued her, well, she’d bore the crap out of him in short order. And that would be right before she irritated him so he never wanted to deal with her again.

So it probably wasn’t the damsel-in-distress thing, now that he thought about it. Turn that around into a smart, strong woman who just needed some help. Add in the way she looked, the way she sounded. The way she was.

He’d be a moron if he didn’t want the whole package.

He was no moron.

He let his eyes close, ordered his mind to go drifting. Drifting, he dropped, slept light and restless until, on the edge of dreams, he heard something that brought him to full alert again.

An old house settling? he asked himself as he strained to hear.

No. That was creaking boards and footsteps. He slid off the couch, moved quietly in the direction of the sound. And, braced to attack, slapped on the lights.

Shelby clamped a hand over her own mouth to muffle the scream.

“Sorry! Jesus, sorry,” Griff began.

She waved her free hand, shook her head, then leaned back against the wall. Slowly, she dropped her other hand. “Well, what’s another ten years? What are you doing here?”

“I’m bunking on the living room couch.”

“Oh.” Now she dragged her fingers through her hair in a way that made all those wild curls go just a bit madder—and tightened every muscle in his body. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to make some tea or something.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want some tea or something?” On a thoughtful frown, she cocked her head. “Do you want some scrambled eggs?”

“Oh yeah.”

He followed her back to the kitchen. She wore cotton pajama bottoms—bright blue with yellow flowers all over them—and a yellow T-shirt.

He could’ve lapped her up like ice cream.

She put the kettle on, got out a skillet.

“I can’t turn my mind off,” she began. “But if I asked Daddy for a sleeping pill, Mama’d start fussing again.”

“They love you a lot.”

“I’m lucky they do.” She put a pat of butter in the skillet, let it melt while she beat some eggs. “I thought when the woman told me all those things this morning, the client of that detective was probably the person they all stole from.”

“It’s a good guess.”

“Now I wonder, was this woman the client? Did he find me, follow me here, all of that, for her? She said no when I asked her, but she’s—she was—a liar. So maybe she had him follow me so she could come and push me for something I don’t know.”

“That’s another good guess, but if you’re wondering did he kill her? Why would he?”

“I can’t come up with something for that except maybe she double-crossed him somewhere. He talked about finder’s fees on this theft I didn’t believe with Forrest. I mean, I didn’t believe Richard had stolen all that.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I believe it now, and I think she and Richard were good at that sort of thing. Stealing and double-crossing. Or maybe they were lovers—the woman and the detective—and she betrayed him.”

“I don’t think so.”

Frowning again, she popped some bread in the toaster. “Why not?”

“I think if you add in love or sex, or both, it’s—murder—it’s more personal. You’ve got to fight first, right?”

She considered that. “I guess I would.”

“Most would,” Griff decided. “You’ve got to want to tell the other person what they did to you. You want, I’d think, some physical contact. This struck me as pretty damn cold.”

“You really found her?”

“Forrest was looking left, I was looking right. That’s all.”

“You stayed so calm. At least it seems you did. You looked calm when you came back in. I couldn’t tell anything was wrong by the way you looked. I think most people would’ve panicked.”

“I try to avoid panic because it leads to chaos, which leads to accidents. You get hurt that way. That happened to me when I was seventeen, climbing back out of Annie Roebuck’s bedroom window.”

“Climbing out?”

His smile was quick and crooked. “Climbing in was a breeze.”

“Was she expecting you?”

“Oh yeah. She was the focus of my hormonal obsession for six and a half crazed and blissful months, and I was hers. We went at it like rabbits on crack—and the fact that her parents were asleep right across the hall only enhanced the insanity. Until the night we were lying there momentarily in our postcoital coma and she reached over for her bottle of water, knocked over the lamp. It crashed like a bomb.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-fucking-oh,” he concurred. “We hear her father call her name. I’m scrambling up, trying to get into my pants, my heart’s a jackhammer, I’m sweating bullets. Yeah, you laugh,” he said when she did. “At the time it was a nightmare of Elm Street proportions. Annie’s calling back, telling him she’s all right, just knocked something over, and hissing at me to get out, get out, get out, she can’t remember if she locked the door. So I’m out the window half dressed, panicked, and I lose my footing.”

“Another uh-oh.”

“And a big ouch with it. I fell mostly in the azaleas, but still managed to break my wrist. I see the pain, like this bright white light, as I’m tearing ass for cover. If I hadn’t panicked, I’d’ve climbed on down as smooth as I had every other time, and wouldn’t have had to fake falling on my way to the john once I got home so my father could take me to the ER and have my wrist set.”

She set a plate of eggs with a side of toast in front of him. And had to quell the oddest urge to just wrap around him and snuggle as she did with Callie.

“I really hope you didn’t make all that up just to take my mind off things.”

“I didn’t have to, but I’d hoped it would take your mind off things.”

“What became of Annie?”

“She became a newscaster. Worked local for a while in Baltimore. She’s in New York now. We e-mail now and again. She got married a couple summers back. Nice guy.” He sampled the eggs. “Good eggs.”

“Scrambled eggs always taste best at three in the morning. Was she your first? Annie?”

“Well, ah—”

“No, don’t answer that. I put you on the spot. My first was when I was just shy of seventeen. It was his first, too. July Parker.”

“July?”

“Born on the first of the month. He was a sweet boy, and we fumbled our way through it.”

With the smile her eyes went a little blurry as she looked back. “It was sweet, like July, in its way, but it didn’t tempt me to repeat it all again, not till the summer before college. That wasn’t so much better, and he wasn’t so sweet as July. I decided to concentrate on my singing, the band, college. Then Richard just bowled me over, and that was that.”

“What happened to July?”

“He’s a park ranger. Lives in Pigeon Forge now. Mama tells me bits and pieces. He’s not married yet, but he’s with a nice girl. I expect you’re considering having sex with me at some point.”

He didn’t lose his balance on the segue. “It’s more planning on it.”

“Well, now you have the outline of my experience in that area. Fumbling—sweetly. Disappointment, and Richard. And with Richard none of it was real. None of it was true.”

“It’s no problem, Red. I’ll show you the ropes.”

She laughed. “You do swagger.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re a swaggering man, Griffin, walking and talking.” She finished her eggs, took her plate to the sink to rinse. “If I ever work my way up to your plan, I can’t promise it’ll be good, or there’ll be any postcoital comas, but it’ll be true. That counts for something. ’Night.”

“Good night.”

And he sat a long while in the quiet kitchen wishing Richard Foxworth hadn’t gone out in that boat. Wishing he’d at least lived through the squall so they’d have a chance to face each other.

So he could kick the bastard’s ass.

• • •

“HER LEGAL NAME was Melinda Warren.” Forrest stood in what had once been Shelby’s bedroom and watched Griff sand the seams on drywall. “Age thirty-one, born Springbrook, Illinois. Did time for fraud, so that much was true. And that was her first real stint, though she did some time in juvie once upon a time, got pulled in here and there on suspicion—theft, fraud, forgery. Nothing stuck until this last one. And married sure enough to one Jake Brimley, in Las Vegas, about seven years back. No divorce on record.”

“And you’re sure Jake Brimley was Richard Foxworth?”

“Working on that. The coroner was right about the slug—.25 caliber. Contact shot. Something like that, it’d rattle around in her skull like a marble in a pan.”

“Nice.” Still sanding, Griff glanced around. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Well, you found her, so I’m respecting your vested interest.”

“You’re a funny guy, Pomeroy.”

“I’ve got knees being slapped all over the county. Other than respecting your vested interest, I came by here to tell Shelby, but she and everybody else is someplace else. You’re the only one here.”

“I am now,” Griff confirmed. “Matt’s out getting supplies for what we’ll be doing here Monday. Plus, I’m better at drywall work than he is. He’s not very patient at it.”

“And you are.”

Griff adjusted the Baltimore Orioles fielder’s cap he wore to help keep the dust out of his eyes. “It just takes time, and sooner or later it’s smooth as glass. Shelby’s at the salon,” he added. “Your mother took Callie to the flower place to buy some plants for something she’s calling a fairy garden. Her friend Suzannah’s coming by with Chelsea later so the girls can dig in the dirt. Your father’s at the clinic.”

Forrest took a slug from the bottle of Mountain Dew he carried. “You’re well informed about my family, Griffin.”

“I slept on the couch downstairs last night.”

Forrest nodded. “Another reason I’m telling you all this. If I’m not looking out for my family, I know you are. It’s appreciated.”

“They matter.” Griff ran his fingers down the seam and, satisfied, moved to the next.

“I had time this morning to speak to Clay about all this, and other things. We’re wondering, as brothers might, if you’re just looking to bang our sister.”

“Jesus, Forrest.” And Griff beat his head lightly against the wall.

“It’s a reasonable question.”

“Not when I’m standing here with a sanding block and you’ve got a gun.”

“I won’t shoot you. This time.”

Griff glanced back, measured his friend’s easy smile. “Comforting. I’m looking to spend some time with your sister and see what happens next. My impression is the dead fake husband messed her mind up pretty good in the area you’re concerned about.”

“I’m not surprised to hear it. I’m going to get back to work.”

“What about the other guy? This O’Hara?”

Forrest smiled again. “And there’s the final reason I’m telling you all this. You keep up. Name’s not O’Hara. James—Jimmy—Harlow. He went down with the brunette, a harder knock. According to the tune she sang at the time, they’d been working a con on a rich widow name of Lydia Redd Montville. Big—real big—money there on her own side and her dead husband’s. Foxworth—we’ll just stick with that for now—romanced her. He had bona fides said he was a wealthy entrepreneur with interests in art and import/export.”

He took another swig from his bottle, gestured with it. “The brunette posed as his assistant, Harlow as his security. They worked the mark for two months or so, defrauded her out of close to a million. But they wanted more. She was known for her jewelry, and her late husband for his stamp collection. Had a vault full of both of them. According to the brunette, this was going to be their big score. Retirement time.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

“Widow’s son started asking too many questions on the deals Foxworth aimed her toward, so they decided to get it done, get out. Things went wrong.”

“Things always do on the last score, right? You’re jinxing it right off the jump.”

“Seems like it. The widow was supposed to be away for few days at a spa thing—which turned out to be she was having a little tune-up. Plastic surgery.”

“Because she had a younger lover, and didn’t want to tell him she was getting nipped and tucked.”

“It plays true. So they’re in her big house, getting into the vault. Going to clean her out and book it. The son brings her home, where she plans to sit out the bruises, I expect. And they’re red-handed in the cookie jar.”

“Some cookies.”

“It appears either Foxworth or Harlow shoots the son, the brunette comes out of the bedroom, knocks the widow out—she claims to keep Harlow from shooting her, too, though he claims it was Foxworth doing the shooting.”

“Rats ratting on rats. Duplicity,” Griff decided. “It’s a suitable word of the day.”

“That’s a fine one.”

“What happened next?”

“What happened next is—and both Warren and Harlow agree on this end of it—Foxworth grabs the bag they’d put the jewelry and stamps in, and they scat, leaving the son and widow a bloody mess.”

“Panic.” Meticulously, Griff tested the next seam. “It’s a gateway to accidents.”

“The widow comes to, calls an ambulance for the son. It was touch and go there, but he pulled through. Neither of them can say for sure who fired the weapon. It all happened fast, and the son was in a coma for near to three weeks, and never did get anything but spotty memory back of the whole event.”

“What about the bad guys?”

“They split up, with plans to meet at a motel on the way to the Keys where there’s supposed to be a private plane waiting to take them to Saint Kitts.”

“I always wanted to go there. I take it not all the bad guys made it to the tropics.”

“No, they didn’t. The brunette and Harlow show up at the motel. Foxworth didn’t. But the cops did.”

“Because Foxworth tipped them off.”

“Now you’re stepping on my finish. They sure did get an anonymous call from a drop phone, and it’s smart money to bet it was Foxworth.”

Griff snagged the Mountain Dew from Forrest, took a long gulp before handing it back. “Honor among thieves is bullshit.”

“The shittiest bull in the field. To top it, Harlow had a diamond ring in his pocket worth about a hundred grand. Pretty clear Foxworth planted it on him just to sweeten the . . . duplicity.”

“Nice use of the word.”

“I’ve got some skills. He’d done time before, Harlow, but nothing violent. He swears he didn’t shoot anybody, and that the brunette had a clear eye line on who did, but she made the deal first, and they stuck with it. She got four years, he got twenty-five. And Foxworth walked away with millions.”

“That’d piss you off.”

“Wouldn’t it just?”

“But if Harlow’s doing twenty-five years—”

“Should be, but he’s out.”

Slowly, Griff lowered the sanding block. “How the hell did that happen?”

“The prison authorities and the State of Florida wonder the same. He escaped right before Christmas.”

“Happy fucking holidays.” Rolling it around, Griff took off his cap, shook off the dust, settled it on again. “He’s got to be the prime suspect on this murder. Why didn’t you tell me straight off?”

“I wanted to see if you’d get around to asking. I already sent his mug shot to your phone, though all three of them had a hand with disguises. He’s a big guy, formidable.”

“Like Big Bud?”

Tickled, Forrest laughed. “No, I said big. Not massive. You take a look at the picture I sent, and if you see anybody who puts you in mind of it, stay clear and call me.”

“You got that. Forrest, you said he never got busted for violent crimes, but the brunette told Shelby different. That he was violent.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Keep an eye on my sister, Griff.”

“Both of them.”

Forrest started out. “That’s tedious work you’re doing there.”

Griff shrugged. “It’s just work,” he said, and went back to sanding.