The Liar

by Nora Roberts

  “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 d
ownstairs 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.

  15

  Shelby stood by the counter in Emma Kate’s trim little kitchen and watched her friend slide a lasagna casserole into the oven. She didn’t have long, but wanted to squeeze through the small window of time to see Emma Kate and her apartment.

  “I’m going to get laid good and proper tonight.” With a wicked grin, Emma Kate set the timer on the oven. “Spinach lasagna’s Matt’s favorite, and I picked up a nice wine on the way home from the clinic. Anything with spinach might not be my idea of a romantic dinner for two, but it sure is his. I’ll reap the benefits.”

  “It’s nice what you have with him. I can see how well you fit together. And I really like your place here.”

  “I do, too.”

  Turning from the stove, she could see through the doorway—Matt had taken off the door and stored it—to the old butcher block table he’d refinished, and where they’d have their romantic spinach lasagna.

  “Of course, when Matt and Griff sit around, it’s how they’d take out this wall here, or do such and that with the backsplash. I guess one of these days I’m going to let Matt have his way with