Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  Charlie leaned forward. The name on the account was Saint Denis. The cover photo was of a redbrick wall lined with paintings in bold strokes of greens and blues. In the corner was a smaller black-and-white image of a woman who was not Sydney Donovan but the iconic Audrey Hepburn. “Who is Saint Denis?”

  “Not just a who”—Frost adjusted his glasses again as he resumed typing—“but also a location.”

  “A location?”

  “A cathedral in Paris, France.” Frost pulled up a screen filled with information and photos of an old gothic church. “Saint Denis was decapitated. There’s a story that he picked his head up and carried it six miles. Look.”

  Sure enough, there was a photo of a stone statue with wings holding a head in its hands. “Does this have something to do with Sydney?”

  “I’ve traced the account back to her.”

  “Legally?”

  “Mostly.” Frost returned to the Facebook page. “It’s a private account, so I can’t show you anything more than what’s been made public until I talk with the FBI. There’s an album here, but it’s mostly photos of art. Paintings.”

  Charlie watched Frost scroll through the album. Each click displayed the bold colors of painting after painting. Why would Sydney Donovan have a private Facebook account full of pictures of art? Was she an artist? He didn’t remember seeing anything in her room to indicate a love of art. No painting supplies. No books on art. No posters of abstract paintings beside the photos of Hollywood hunks taped over her bed.

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “I tried enlarging the photos, but as far as I can tell there’s no signature. At least not that I can see,” Frost said.

  Charlie blew out a frustrated breath. An account tracing back to Sydney Donovan with pictures of art meant what? She was a budding artist? A hidden artist? Did her parents know?

  “Wait, stop. Go back.” Charlie squinted at the screen. “Click on that.”

  “You want to like the picture?” Frost’s glasses slipped down his nose as he frowned.

  “No. I want to see who liked it.”

  When Frost clicked the button, only one name appeared and caused him to snort. “Art D. Healer.”

  “Click on the name.”

  Frost obeyed and another screen opened up. “It’s private.”

  “And you can’t see who it belongs to?”

  “I can try.” Frost grabbed a second laptop from the desk next to him. Stickers covered the back of it. He typed a bunch of ones and zeroes Charlie couldn’t follow. A few minutes later Frost pulled his hands back from the keyboard. “The only name that comes up is Art D. Healer. I’ve got some friends who—”

  “No.” Charlie roughed his chin. “We have to do this legally. We’ll call Agent Padello. He might be able to help.”

  “The FBI will have to help, because I doubt Art D. Healer is a real person. I mean, come on. How lame is that?” Frost leaned back in his chair. “No imagination.”

  “May I?”

  Frost slid his chair back and grabbed a sandwich out of the bag.

  While Frost munched on his cold lunch, Charlie clicked through the photos again.

  “Heard the autopsy report was gruesome,” Frost said through a mouthful of food.

  “I guess that depends on what one considers gruesome.”

  Frost’s chewing stopped.

  “It wasn’t pleasant.” And it wasn’t, but Charlie’s opinion of gruesome had been formed on the battlefield.

  “You probably saw a lot of death in the war.”

  “More than I’d like.” Charlie paused on a picture. It was different from the rest. Not a close-up of a painting like the others. This one was taken outside, looking into the storefront of a gallery. He looked closer. “Ever hear of Ainsley’s Antiques?”

  “No.”

  “Google it. Find out where it’s located.”

  “Are you looking for antiques?” Frost licked his fingers and was about to wipe his mouth across the back of his sleeve when he looked up and saw Charlie watching him.

  “No, but we might be closer to finding out why Sydney has a Facebook page of art.”

  Frost grabbed a napkin before leaning in. “What? How?”

  “Look at the reflection in the window.” Charlie focused on the lettering above Sydney’s head. “The gallery in this picture is nearby Ainsley’s Antiques and maybe someone at that gallery knows about Sydney’s secret love of art.”

  “Oh, man. I can’t believe you caught that.” Frost pushed up his glasses. After a quick computer search, a smile appeared on his face. “Bohemian Signature Gallery is located by Ainsley’s. It’s in Savannah.”

  “What’s in Savannah?” Sheriff Huggins stepped into the room, his large frame dominating what remained of the cramped space.

  “Deputy Frost found a private Facebook account linked to Sydney Donovan.” Charlie lifted his eyebrows so Frost could continue. “He’s got some serious computer skills.”

  “That he does.” Sheriff Huggins patted the young deputy on the back. “Show me what you got.”

  The new lead sent a glimmer of hope pulsing throughout the station. Charlie planned to drive into Savannah tomorrow to meet with Annika Benedict, the owner of the Bohemian Signature Gallery.

  “I have a sleeping bag in my trunk.”

  Charlie looked up from his notes to find Deputy Cecilia Benningfield staring down at him. “What?”

  “Your shift ended two hours ago. I have my grandson’s sleeping bag in my car if you’re planning on being here all night.”

  Benningfield was kindly regarded as the den mother of the station. She came in early to make sure coffee was made and kept it hot all day long, and she never forgot a birthday.

  “No, that’s okay. I didn’t realize the time.”

  “Sheriff is a stickler about overtime . . .” Benningfield’s benevolent face creased in thought. “I suppose he’d allow it now, under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, I don’t need the overtime.” He glanced down at his notes again. “Just making sure I’m not missing anything.”

  “Don’t worry. In all my years here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a new deputy as eager as you.”

  “What about Frost?”

  “Ha!” Benningfield’s laughter echoed in the quiet station. “That boy’s eager all right, but it’s just youthful pride. You’re out to prove something. But remember, this is a job like any other. At the end of the day, you gotta go home to somebody. Hopefully, in your case, a nice young lady.”

  Charlie couldn’t stop his thoughts from going to Lane. What it would be like to go home to her and Noah after a long night. Benningfield was smiling at him like she could read his thoughts. He cleared his throat. “No. No girl. Just an insane dog who probably thinks I’m AWOL and has taken over the house.”

  “A dog is as good a reason as any to call it a day, but I hope you’ll find as great a purpose to invest your time in out there as you do in here.”

  Deputy Benningfield’s remarks followed Charlie from the office. Inhaling a deep breath of the country air, he watched streaks of orange melt into soft peach across the sky as the sun began to set. A greater purpose? That’s what he’d come to Walton to find, right? And what greater purpose was there than finding out who killed Sydney Donovan? Even his dad would have to agree that bringing a killer to justice was a purpose worthy of leaving the Marines.

  But first he needed to rescue his home from the Terror Terrier.

  Charlie found Bane rebounding between the front and back doors. By the time Charlie changed out of his uniform, the dog was certifiably manic. “Okay, bud. Leash first.”

  Bane’s harness did nothing to stop him from dashing between Charlie’s legs and lunging out the door as soon as it opened. “Bane!”

  The dog jerked to a stop, tightening the entangled leash wrapped around Charlie’s lower extremities and pitching him forward. Letting go of the leash was the only way he could prevent the inevitable, and like Houdini, Bane whipp
ed around, pulling the loosened leash until it was free and he was gone.

  Ugh. That dog. Charlie heaved out a sigh and started for the street in search of his headache.

  “I believe he belongs to you?”

  Charlie turned to find Lane walking toward him, Noah smiling at her side. Bane was in her hands, tail wagging, tongue dripping. Charlie swore the dog was smiling at him.

  “Not unless you want him?”

  “Momma—”

  “No.” Lane shot Charlie a look that could only be understood to mean don’t you dare. “This is Charlie’s dog and he’d be very sad without him.”

  “Right.” Charlie took Bane and made sure he had a grip on his leash before setting him down. “I was just taking him for a walk . . . would you want to join me?”

  “Actually, we—”

  “We’re getting ice cream. Do you like ice cream?”

  “Ice cream is my favorite.” Charlie smiled at the exuberant little boy pulling his mother’s hand.

  “Mine too! You can come with us.”

  “Noah.” Lane’s voice rose.

  “That’s okay.” Charlie read her reaction loud and clear. He should go. A tickle of attraction was beginning to cloud his judgment. Or maybe it was a lust for some human companionship? Didn’t matter. He needed to go home. Study the case. He didn’t have time for ice cream. “I should really take Bane on his walk.”

  “He can go with us,” Noah pleaded. And like Bane understood the little boy’s plight, the dog sat obediently next to him and lifted a paw.

  “Well, with those faces, how can we resist?” Lane’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and she ruffled Noah’s hair. “We’re walking to Sandie’s. A couple of blocks away.”

  Soft auburn hair fell over her forehead, but he could still see her eyes. They seemed to be searching. Maybe for a way out of the uncertain invitation.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” Noah answered. Lane nodded.

  Two blocks, two cups of butter pecan, and a cone of rocky road later, the three of them sat around a small iron table in front of Sandie’s Ice Cream Shoppe. The day’s heat hung around, even with the sun gone, and was doing a number to Noah’s frozen treat. Most of it was dripping down the side of his hand.

  “You should’ve let me pay for the ice cream. Make up for what I did to your uniform.”

  “And miss out on the cinnamon roll offer?” Charlie raised his eyebrows. “There’d be riots if I didn’t show up with those cinnamon rolls.”

  “Did you know my daddy was an Army soldier?” Noah said as he licked the melting ice cream.

  “Noah, it’s not polite to talk while your mouth is full.”

  “My mouth’s not full, Momma. My hands are.” He held up a sticky hand covered in ice cream.

  Charlie couldn’t help laughing and for a fraction of a second he noticed the curves of a smile lift the edges of Lane’s lips, but before he could linger on them too long she turned and grabbed for some napkins.

  “Your husband, is he deployed?”

  The second the words fell from his mouth, he regretted them. Darkness seemed to shroud her features for a moment until the emotion vanished almost as quickly as the ice cream was melting. Deployment was hard on families. He knew better.

  “No. He died two years ago.” Lane finished wiping Noah’s hands.

  He’d been a fool not to figure it out before. Noah wore his father’s dog tags and referred to him in the past tense, and she always changed the subject to avoid talking about him. An ache settled in Charlie’s chest. Another casualty. Another family left behind.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She frowned, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  That was an odd response. “No, but we should all bear the burden of responsibility for the sacrifice made by your husband. For that I’m grateful, and I’m sorry for your and Noah’s loss.”

  Lane’s eyes flashed under thick, dark lashes. “I think that’s enough ice cream for the night. Can you tell the deputy thank you for joining us?”

  “What’s a deputy?” Noah tilted his head.

  “It’s a police officer.” Lane took the soupy mess from Noah’s hands and pitched it into the nearest trash can.

  The little boy wrinkled his nose and brought his finger up to his chin in deep concentration. His eyes grew wide. “But you’re not wearing your policeman uniform.”

  “I’m not working right now.” Charlie smiled at the little boy, admiring him. “But I have this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet and showed Noah his badge.

  “Don’t touch that,” Lane said as Noah reached for it. “I don’t think the deputy wants sticky ice cream fingers all over his shiny badge.”

  “Charlie.”

  Confusion pinched the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

  “He can call me Charlie.”

  “If I wash my hands, then can I touch it?”

  “Noah, it’s getting late.” Lane glanced at her son.

  “Can I walk Bane back to our house?”

  Lane seemed tense. Maybe she really didn’t want to be here with him? His stomach knotted. He finished the last of his ice cream and tossed his trash. “It’s alright with me. Bane actually seems calmer around Noah, but I’ll hold the leash too.”

  “Please, Momma.”

  If Lane could resist Noah’s pleading eyes, she was a lot stronger than he’d ever be. A single outing for ice cream and Charlie was already willing to give Noah anything and everything the little boy wanted.

  Lane chewed on her bottom lip for a second before answering, “Okay, sure.”

  Charlie couldn’t tell who was more excited—Bane or Noah.

  “He’s licking my fingers.” Noah giggled.

  “I think he likes you.” Charlie watched his dog’s pace slow to match the little boy walking him. Kid’s best friend. Maybe he could convince Lane to let Noah help him walk Bane every day. Or at least play with him. A good excuse to see more of them.

  The chirping of crickets serenaded them home and Charlie couldn’t deny the desire burning in his heart for more of this. This is what he longed for. Summer nights walking with a beautiful woman and their kids. And dog. The thought made him smile and he stole a glance at Lane. She was watching Noah and Bane. Charlie would do anything to know what she was thinking, but the walk to his house came to an end too quickly.

  Lane took the leash from Noah’s hand. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

  “Thanks for inviting me.” Charlie searched her face for any indication that her emotions matched his, but nightfall obscured the answer. “I can walk you to your house—”

  “We’ll be alright. Good night, Charlie.”

  “Good night, Charlie.” Noah echoed. “Good night, Bane.”

  Charlie watched mom and son walk until they rounded the corner heading to their street. Bane barked after them.

  “Yeah, I know, Bane.”

  What did he know? Lane was a widow. She was protective of Noah. He also knew that ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest for the woman who still wore a piece of her heart on her finger was going to be impossible.

  EIGHT

  LANE ICED THE TENTH BATCH of cinnamon rolls. Setting down the spatula dripping with cream cheese frosting, she picked up her third cup of coffee. Sleep had evaded her again last night, but this time it was because of her neighbor whose name she couldn’t seem to get off the tip of her tongue. Charlie.

  Ms. Byrdie popped her head around the corner. “Gail Evans just called and asked if it was too late to order a dozen rolls for the PTA meeting.”

  “On top of the three she already ordered?”

  “Mm-hmm. She said those women practically licked their plates.”

  Lane wiped the back of her hand against her brow. “Yeah, I’ll box this batch for her and I’ve got another two dozen in the oven that should hopefully cover us for the rest of the morning.”

  “I t
hink you could sell these rolls and nothing else and live happily ever after.”

  Happily ever after. The words stung even though the woman delivering them hadn’t meant them to be hurtful. Purchasing the Way Station Café had been Ms. Byrdie’s idea—a way Lane could make use of her sleepless nights. When Ms. Byrdie explained the way she’d been serving the community through Friday Night Club, Lane found it to be an easy decision. And the café kept her busy. And busy meant Lane didn’t have to think about her past. Or her guilt. Or her broken happily ever after.

  Lane grabbed the bag of sugar. “I think this town has an insatiable sweet tooth.”

  “It is the South, shugah.” Ms. Byrdie winked and then disappeared back to the front.

  An hour and a half later, Lane placed the last pinwheels of dough and cinnamon sugar onto a tray before pulling a hot batch of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and setting them on a rack to cool. She cleaned up the bowls, put away the remaining ingredients, marked down what they’d need from their supplier, and was about to head upstairs when she heard his voice. The cadence of his words set her heart marching in her chest.

  “I could smell these two blocks away.”

  Lane edged her way down the hallway and peeked around the corner of the kitchen. The man could wear a uniform, that was for sure. She sighed and his name escaped her lips. “Charlie.”

  “Morning, Lane.” His lips slipped into a smile. “Someone said these cinnamon rolls are the best thing in Walton.”

  “Charlie’s here to pick up the last batch of cinnamon rolls. We’re officially sold out.” Ms. Byrdie looked at her watch. “Less than two hours. I think that’s a record. Right, Lane?”

  Had he heard her whisper his name? She stepped out of the hallway and toward the counter, hoping it looked like she meant to come this way and wasn’t just called out for hiding. He was watching her with those eyes, those big blue eyes that felt like an ocean she could easily drift away in. Lane shook her head. “Uh, yeah, I think so. I’m just going to go start icing those.”

  She was about to turn when the toe of her shoe caught the edge of an auction item box, sending it and her careening forward. Lane cringed knowing she was going down, when a pair of strong arms slipped under her right before impact.