Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  Clarence sidled up to his friend and squinted in Charlie’s direction. “It’s gotta be the eyes.”

  “No, I think it’s the baby beard he’s trying to grow.” Wilbur nodded. “Don’t girls like that Grizzly Adams look?”

  “He ain’t no Grizz—”

  “Okay, boys, that’s enough hazing for now.” Aunt B giggled and put a hand on Ducky’s arm. “Let my nephew eat his cobbler while it’s warm.”

  “Until next time.” Wilbur held out his hand.

  Charlie shook it, and then Clarence’s. He still had no idea what was happening. Hazing?

  A round of goodbyes sent the three men out the door, with Ducky giving Charlie one final withering look before Lane locked the door behind them.

  “What was that?” Charlie exhaled. “The Rubies? Duke?”

  “Don’t forget Grizzly Adams,” Lane added.

  Was she smirking?

  “Would you like some coffee?” Aunt B asked. “Or milk?”

  “Milk, please.” Charlie slid onto the vacated stool in front of his aunt and picked up a spoon. “Can someone please explain what just happened.”

  “I’ll get it,” Lane offered, reaching for a glass. Her blouse skimmed the waistline of her jeans just enough so that some skin peeked—

  “The Duke”—Charlie’s aunt stepped in front of him, cutting off his view, while heat filled his face at the sight of her inquisitive expression—“is John Wayne. The Rubies are a group of seniors, women, at the church. And Grizzly Adams—”

  “I know who Grizzly Adams is.” Charlie ate a bite of the cobbler—it was delicious. And so was the second and the third.

  “Still want milk with your”—Lane leaned across the counter and peeked into Charlie’s bowl, bringing with her a sweet, soapy fragrance—“last bite?”

  He smiled. “Please.”

  Lane pulled back and offered him the glass of milk, which he finished in one gulp.

  “You are eating, right?” Aunt B raised her eyebrows. “I told your mom you were, but the way you scarfed that cobbler—”

  “I’m eating. I finished that meatloaf, which was delicious by the way.” Charlie leaned back. “But I limit my intake of butter and sugar.”

  “There’s peaches in there too.” Aunt B swatted a hand at him. She let out a sigh and leaned against the counter. “It’s good to have you here, Charlie.”

  “Um, I’m gonna go start the dough for tomorrow.” Lane hitched her thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Oh, no, dear.” Aunt B moved toward the kitchen. “I need to do it because I, um”—her gaze crossed to Charlie and then back to Lane—“I have this special thing I saw on TV that I want to try.”

  Lane frowned and whispered something to his aunt, who then whispered something back. They did know he was sitting right there, right? A second later, Lane’s shoulders drooped and his aunt marched into the kitchen—triumphant.

  “More milk?” Lane picked up his glass and the empty bowl.

  “I’m okay, thank you.” Charlie studied her as she placed the dirty dishes in a plastic bin when his eyes caught a glimpse of the gold ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Married. How had he missed that detail earlier? The cobbler felt heavy in his stomach. “It’s late. I should probably go.”

  “Okay.” When Lane turned, he saw the photo on the counter. A family of three—Lane, a man, and a little boy who was the perfect combination of the smiling faces holding him. Lane glanced back at the photo and then up to him. “I, um, got your message from earlier. About the statement.”

  Charlie straightened. He moved here to prove himself and he had a job to do. Lane was reminding him of that. “Right. Yes, ma’am. About the events from today.”

  Lane flinched. “Lane, please.”

  “I know it must be difficult to think about, but we really need the facts to be fresh in your mind. Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow?”

  “Um, yeah, sure.” Lane bit her bottom lip. “I do have an event tomorrow afternoon, but you can stop by in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow then.” Charlie stood. “I’ll just tell my aunt good night.”

  “Right.”

  “Have a good night, Mrs. Kent.”

  FOUR

  CHARLIE TAPPED THE MICROPHONE and listened as a thud broke the hushed air outside the sheriff’s station. He stepped back and gave a nod to Sheriff Huggins. “It’s ready.”

  “Yesterday afternoon a body was discovered near the Ogeechee River—”

  “Have you identified the body?” a nice-looking reporter with long blonde hair cut in. Her gaze was sharp and focused on Sheriff Huggins.

  “That’s what we’re hoping the citizens of Walton can help us with.” Sheriff Huggins gripped the podium with both hands. Alone, his presence demanded attention, but coupled with the dreadful truth he was sharing, there was little chance anyone would turn away. “Right now, we’re looking for help in identifying the victim—”

  “Has this been declared a homicide investigation?” The question came from an older man in a white linen suit reminiscent of something he imagined Mark Twain would wear. An affiliate lanyard for the Walton Gazette hung around his neck.

  “We’re still investigating initial reports from the medical examiner, but it appears we’re dealing with a homicide,” Sheriff Huggins confirmed, heaviness in his tone.

  “Do you have any suspects or does the killer still remain at large?” This question came from a beefy man in a mustard-yellow sport coat that should’ve disappeared with disco decades ago.

  “A killer?” An older woman gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. A wave of murmuring rippled through the crowd.

  Last night the deputies waited for someone to call in a missing persons report, but almost twenty hours later the body was still a Jane Doe. Sheriff Huggins hoped a small press conference would give them a lead, but it only seemed to be stirring up questions they couldn’t answer.

  Charlie shifted under the unpleasant morning humidity and the expressions of those standing in front of him. They were expressing more than shock—it was almost disbelief that something like this could happen in their town. Even the church bells ringing in the distance seemed to be crying foul.

  That’s the way it is in small towns, isn’t it? Everyone knows everyone or at least has heard of someone. People greet you on the street, offer you directions freely, and if you were inclined to sit a few minutes, they’d share some of the town gossip. Was that why they were here? Or maybe it was the harsh reality that in a tight-knit community like Walton, the young girl left to die in the muddy marsh could’ve been their daughter, sister, or friend.

  Was that what stole the color from Lane Kent’s soft features? Charlie’s nerves buzzed at the notion he’d be getting those answers from her later today. He ground his molars. He’d do good to remember the woman—the witness—was married.

  Married. The word—the thought—had chased Charlie out of the Way Station Café last night but lingered at the back of his mind into the early morning hours. If Lane was married, then where was her husband? Would he know that his young, beautiful wife stood at the brink of despair . . . no. Charlie wrestled the thoughts out of his mind. He had no right to let those kinds of questions consume his thoughts. Assumptions. That’s what they were. He didn’t know anything about Mrs. Lane Kent or the man she was married to. And no matter what he thought he recognized in her eyes, his attention needed to be on the investigation.

  Charlie scanned the crowd. It didn’t take a criminal mind to wonder if the killer was among them. His eyes landed on one of the men he had met at the Way Station Café the night before. Wilbur. His arm was wrapped around the shoulder of a silver-haired woman he tucked protectively into his side. The simple gesture opened up something inside Charlie’s chest.

  “Can you tell us who discovered the body?”

  The reporter’s question brought Charlie’s attention back to his job. Where it should be. Expectant eyes waited for an answer.


  “That information will not be released.” Sheriff Huggins tucked his thumbs into his gun belt and rocked back on his heels. The extra skin around his jaw flexed in frustration. “Folks, we’re going to make this investigation as transparent as possible, but remember that tragedies like this can rip apart communities. Please respect the process, and as soon as we have new information we’ll let you know.”

  Charlie fell in step next to Sheriff Huggins. The reporters’ shouts for more answers landed on deaf ears as the two men walked into the station.

  The distress outside permeated the brick building. The silence of the station was somber and reflected the devastation each person was facing over the news. They had a body. Jane Doe. And from first appearances, her death appeared to be a homicide. Her gruesome wounds told the painful story of her last minutes on earth. If the reactions of Charlie’s peers were any indication of how the town would react, he knew this murder had the power to change Walton forever.

  “We will handle this case professionally and expediently.” Sheriff Huggins paused and turned to address the grim atmosphere in his station. “Deputy Lynch and Deputy Frost will be working on this case directly, but I expect each of you to work diligently in light of the long road ahead of us.”

  Charlie straightened as he stole a glance around the room. If anyone disapproved of his being assigned to the case, the faces of those in the room didn’t show it. Even Deputy Wilson gave a chin tilt—was it approval?

  “For those unaware, Deputy Lynch is a former Marine MP. He brings a wealth of information and, more importantly, distance. An asset I’m sure y’all will find necessary.” Sheriff Huggins’s gray eyes took on a steely gaze as he looked each person in the eyes. His features hardened. The lines set deeper. His tone became more assertive. “What happened to that little girl”—he cleared his throat—“it’s personal. That truth is going to send a shock wave through our community.”

  It had been thirty years since Walton had a murder. How would the town react to the death of one of their children? What kind of person was the young woman found in the mud? The town’s sweetheart or a rabble-rouser? Did it matter? No one deserved to die the way she had.

  Sheriff Huggins finished giving instructions to the deputies and requested that those able to work overtime sign up with Deputy Hodges. The only sound in the room was the deputies returning to their work. Chair legs scraping against the oak floors, the shuffling of papers—normal sounds no longer reflecting normalcy.

  “Sir?” Deputy Benningfield, an older lady with short salt-and-pepper hair who Charlie recognized as the one who had helped him with his paperwork, tapped Sheriff Huggins on the shoulder. Her expression was transparent. “We just got a call about a missing girl.”

  “Who?”

  “Trevor and Amanda Donovan.” The deputy tucked her chin. “Their daughter, Sydney.”

  A few hours later, Charlie massaged his temples as he looked over his notes one final time to make sure he hadn’t missed a single detail from his and Sheriff Huggins’s conversation with the Donovans. Right now, the sheriff was escorting the distraught parents to the Savannah County Morgue to identify the body of Jane Doe.

  Charlie’s gut clenched. As a Marine, he knew when to trust his intuition and right now it told him Jane Doe would soon have a name. Sydney Donovan. He stared at a picture of a young girl with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes. Seventeen. Ambitious. Bright. And also, according to her parents, was supposed to return home today from a sleepover with her best friend—Charlie checked the list of names he had collected—Jolene Carson. However, according to a neighbor, Jolene Carson and her mother had left town early this morning for a college tour up in South Carolina and so far hadn’t answered any of Charlie’s calls.

  The phone on his desk rang. “Deputy Lynch.”

  “Lynch, it’s Sheriff Huggins. Have you been by to get that statement from Lane Kent?”

  “Not yet, sir.” Charlie worked to keep his tone neutral. He didn’t care for the way hearing her name sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins—the same way it had when he found out she lived and worked in the café behind his home. She’s married. Charlie gritted his teeth. Why did he have to keep reminding himself? “I’m meeting her today.”

  “Make sure you ask about her camera. She usually takes it with her when she hikes. Get a copy of the pictures. Maybe she caught something on them.” The sheriff sounded rattled. Why wouldn’t he be? He held himself as Walton’s guardian. Did he believe this murder was his failure? “Oh, and find out if she saw anything or anyone out there.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, ignoring the uptick in his pulse. Isn’t that what she had told him she was doing? Taking pictures? But Lane wasn’t holding her camera when he saw her on the bridge. She was barely holding on to the railing. Charlie’s fears had gone into overdrive when he had approached her, afraid he’d scare her and she’d let go. The thought unsettled him almost as much as finding out what had really sent Lane to the ledge of the bridge yesterday.

  And what would’ve happened if he hadn’t found her?

  “Charlie.” Sheriff Huggins’s voice drew Charlie back to their conversation. “Son, I don’t know the reasons you left the Marines, but you’ll tell me if you . . . are having issues?”

  “I can take a statement, sir.” Charlie shifted in his seat, his ears burning. Was this his boss talking or his uncle? The weighted concern felt foreign and it scared him. Did the sheriff have doubts about his ability? Or the choice Charlie had made to leave the Marines and move to Walton? His own father certainly had doubts about his decision. “I’ve handled criminal investigations, including a couple of murder cases, but if you’d feel more comfortable with Deputy Wilson taking the case, I have no problem stepping aside.”

  “That’s not what I want. I need someone who can handle the uncertainty. I believe you’re that person, but you need to be honest with me.” Sheriff Huggins spoke with the authority of a military general prepared for battle. “I don’t want any mistakes.”

  “You have my word, sir. No mistakes.” A foreboding feeling grew in the pit of Charlie’s stomach even as the promise left his lips. He had let his father down. And Tate. Leaving the Marines was supposed to be a decision that brought him peace, but what if his dad was right? He couldn’t let his uncle down, or the citizens of Walton. The pretty face of one in particular came to mind. No. Charlie would do whatever it took to prove he was not the man his father believed him to be—there would be no mistakes.

  “Maybe my sister should be the one running for political office.” Lane blew her bangs off her forehead, maneuvering another rectangular box into a corner. “If I knew how much space these things were going to take up, I’d never have agreed to hold it all.”

  “Meagan does have a way of getting what she wants.” Ms. Byrdie winked. “I can make some room in the pantry closet. We could move some of the smaller ones into there.”

  “That’s okay.” Lane held an oblong box and studied her stack, finding a small space to stick it. “Meagan’s supposed to come by so we can go through and catalog the items for the auction.”

  “Speaking of which, if you and Noah don’t get cleaned up now, you’ll be late.” Ms. Byrdie used the hem of her apron to wipe flour dust from Noah’s face. He giggled. “I’ll finish cleaning down here and lock up.”

  Today, Lane’s father, Judge Raymond Sullivan, and his family would be dedicating the new community center to the city of Walton and it was imperative, her father said, that the whole family be there. Exposure was everything during election season. The right exposure equals votes. The wrong exposure loses them. Lane had heard her father’s mantra her entire life. And nothing won more votes than a strong family. Too bad they were nothing like a strong family.

  That last thought drew Deputy Charlie Lynch’s face to mind. “Why didn’t you tell me about your nephew?”

  Ms. Byrdie stopped wiping Noah’s chin. “I did, honey. A couple of times, actually.”

  “No, I me
an you told me that your nephew was coming, but you didn’t tell me about him.” Lane picked at the corner of a shipping label with her thumbnail. “Not, like, details.”

  “What, that he was handsome?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Lane’s gaze swung up to Ms. Byrdie’s. “He’s older than I expected. Surprised me.”

  “Charlie looks like my daddy. Tall, strong jawline, and the kind of eyes that seem to see right through you.”

  A zing zipped through Lane. She knew exactly what Ms. Byrdie was referring to because she’d seen it firsthand yesterday at the bridge. “Come on, Noah, let’s get ready.”

  A pout found its way to Noah’s little lips. “But I want to mash the rest of the nannas.”

  “You don’t want to poke the Bear, do you?”

  Noah’s eyes grew wide as he swung his head back and forth emphatically, even as a grin tugged at his chubby cheeks. “No way.”

  “Good. Me neither.” And that was the truth, though it wasn’t for the same reasons as her son. After another restless night, the last thing Lane wanted to do was put on a plastic smile in front of the town, but if they were late she’d get a lecture about timeliness. Who was she kidding? There would probably be a lecture no matter what. Lane hung up her apron before she bent down and planted a kiss on Noah’s cheek. “Let’s go get dressed.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lane gave up on trying to do anything with her mess of hair and Noah was MIA. Carefully dodging the LEGO land mines, she made her way down the hall.

  “Noah, we’re going to be la—” Lane stopped at the sight of Noah huddled on the ground, shoulders shaking, his face buried in his hands. Sweeping into the room, Lane dropped to her knees and pulled her little boy into her lap. “Noah, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “I lost my tags.” He sniffled. “You told me to be careful and I lost my tags.”

  “Oh, honey.” Lane pushed the hair from his forehead. “No, you didn’t. They’re on the dresser. See?”

  Noah’s gaze followed hers to the dresser. He slid out of Lane’s hold and scooped up the military dog tags she’d found under his bed and placed on the dresser the night before. Noah admired the pieces of metal like they were gold. He looked up, his eyes still wet. “I’m sorry, Momma.”