Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  “Gotta watch out for boxes,” Charlie teased. “They’ll jump out and grab you.”

  Lane’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Seriously? At this point it probably looked like she was throwing herself at him. She disentangled herself from his grip, struggling to ignore the woodsy scent of his skin and the way the entire scenario made her feel less stable now than she had when she was falling.

  Charlie bent down and picked up the box from the floor. He gave it a little shake. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

  “I hope not.” Lane took it from him. “My sister would kill me if something happened to the art pieces.”

  “Art?” Charlie quirked an eyebrow.

  “I’ll go get started on icing those rolls.” Ms. Byrdie gave a less-than-subtle wink in Lane’s direction before ducking into the kitchen.

  “Coffee. You need coffee with those cinnamon rolls.” Lane moved toward the counter, taking extra care to watch her footing. Really—what was wrong with her lately? It was like some cliché Hallmark movie scene where the lovestruck girl falls into the arms of the handsome boy. Sheesh. Charlie was definitely handsome, but she wasn’t lovestruck—was she?

  When she was safely behind the counter, Lane began filling a travel coffee urn. “I’m a little low on decaf, but if you have time I can brew another pot.”

  “I bring decaf back and it’s likely I’ll never have a weekend off.” Charlie was still next to the boxes. He lifted one and read the mailing label. “You collect art?”

  “No.” Lane withdrew a bag and began filling it with creamers and packets of sugar. “Those are donations for an upcoming fund-raiser.”

  “Any of it local?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe. You like art?”

  Charlie returned to the counter and shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.”

  Lane needed to check on the cinnamon rolls, but Ms. Byrdie was already stepping out of the kitchen with two boxes in her hands.

  “These should bring some joy to the station.”

  “I know my morning’s already better.” Charlie passed a quick glance in Lane’s direction. “But I better get these back there before any riots break out.”

  “Have a good day, honey.” Ms. Byrdie nodded. “Tell Huggy he’s not allowed to eat any of those.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lane busied herself with a towel, but from the corner of her eye she watched Charlie get into his truck and drive away.

  Ms. Byrdie’s violet eyes sparkled. “Seems you two keep bumping into each other—literally.”

  Lane groaned. “He told you about the drinks?”

  “He might’ve mentioned that little incident.” Ms. Byrdie’s gentle laughter filled the space between them. “You’ve made quite an impression on him.”

  “I can only imagine the impression I’ve left on him.” Her thoughts went back to those seconds on the bridge. “He hasn’t exactly caught me at my best.”

  “Honey, we can only be who God created us to be. Mess and all.”

  If anyone else brought up God, Lane dismissed them, but Ms. Byrdie never pushed the subject. Her faith came out in gentle displays of kindness and love. She had taken care of Lane and all the other kids at school who needed a loving mentor. How many kids had she saved?

  A tinge of jealousy lapped at Lane’s heart. Why couldn’t she have a faith like Ms. Byrdie’s? Would it have helped save Mathias? Would it have prevented depression from rotting her from the inside out? Lane sucked in a sharp breath. There were so many days when she wanted to give up. Believed the fight wasn’t worth it.

  “I’m so grateful for you and Sheriff Huggins. I wouldn’t be here—” Lane choked on the lump in her throat.

  “Honey, it’s hard. I know.” Ms. Byrdie pulled her into a strong embrace. “You know you’re not meant to go it alone. Huggy and I are on your side. God too.”

  Lane bit her lip. She didn’t need to hide anything from Ms. Byrdie. The woman already knew her secrets and loved her despite them. Was that a shared family trait too?

  After a few seconds, Ms. Byrdie released Lane but held her gaze. “If there’s one thing I know about God—he’s a God of second chances. And sometimes second chances come tall and in a uniform.”

  A second chance? With Charlie? What would that look like—or feel like? Was it possible? A spark of hope lit inside her chest but was smothered instantly as one thought played through Lane’s mind. Charlie didn’t know the truth and if he did . . . would he believe she was worthy of a second chance?

  “You ready?” Charlie looked in on Deputy Frost. The young man’s shoulders were hunched over the keyboard in front of him. His skin looked pastier than usual and he’d lost a bit of the charge he’d first had at the beginning of the investigation. Charlie figured a field trip might bring some color and life back to Frost’s bearing.

  “Yes.” Frost pushed out of his chair so fast it slid into the table behind him. “Do I need my jacket? Oh, I have to get my hat.” He patted the holster on his hip and looked like he was running through a checklist in his mind.

  “It’s a thousand degrees outside, so you won’t need your jacket, but you will need your hat.” There’s the pep. Charlie smiled. Sheriff Huggins had offered to go with him to talk with the gallery owner in Savannah, but Charlie had suggested it would be a good chance for Frost to gain some experience . . . and some sun.

  It took Frost a full five minutes to stop squinting once they stepped out of the station. His posture straightened the farther they drove toward Savannah, but a little twitch in his hand made Charlie pause. Was he nervous or excited?

  “What made you become a deputy, Frost?”

  The young man shrugged. “Chicks dig a man in uniform.”

  Charlie gawked until Frost crumbled into a fit of hysterics for so long that he couldn’t help but join. “For the chicks, huh?”

  “Well, it worked for you.” Frost’s eyebrows danced above his glasses. “You’ve been in town what, a few weeks, and already half the town is all googly-eyed for you. Even my sister.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “Please tell me she’s not the one who keeps calling the office and then hanging up when I pick up the phone?” Frost laughed and shook his head. Charlie relaxed a little. The only person he hoped was googly-eyed for him was Lane Kent, and she seemed content to make him guess what those green eyes of hers were saying—or hiding. “How’d you get into computers?”

  “I wasn’t a popular kid. Got picked on. Mom bought me a computer from a pawnshop and I spent a lot of time in my room. Taught myself how to use it. I figured I’d always be able to find a job if I could master the computer.”

  Frost was humble and proving himself to be a man, albeit a young man, of character.

  “When I was in high school, your aunt told me there are universities where I could study computer science, so I researched it.” Frost snorted. “MIT. Stanford. I’d have a better chance of getting Jennifer Aniston to be my girlfriend than getting into one of those schools.” Another snort.

  Jennifer Aniston? Charlie imagined a poster from Friends tacked up on Frost’s bedroom wall. He seriously needed to update his crushes.

  “Anyway, I kept searching and found a site. DEFCON Hacking Conference.” Frost’s lips slipped into a sly grin. “Pretty cool name, huh?”

  “Very cool.” And highly suspicious.

  “They hold a competition every year in Las Vegas. Well, I couldn’t afford to go, but I . . .” Frost shifted in his seat. “I sort of cheated my way into the contest.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I started following this guy on Facebook. He was going and we started chatting. I end up hacking into his computer and then mirrored his system so I could see exactly what he was seeing.”

  “You mirrored his system?” It was like Frost was the Bobby Fischer of computer hacking.

  “Yeah, remotely. Anyway, it caused a huge problem. The judges caught the anomaly and thought he was cheating. He wasn’t. I was just overridi
ng his system.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got caught.” Frost shrugged. “A couple of government agencies came to town. They really do drive sedans with tinted windows. Just like in the movies.”

  The whole thing sounded like it could’ve been in a movie. “Did you get in trouble?”

  “No. That’s the best part. They wanted me to come work for them after I graduated high school. CIA wanted me to go to college first. They offered to pay, but the schools were out of state. I couldn’t leave my mom and sister.”

  “So, you stayed here and became a deputy?”

  “Yep. Went to college at Anderson and Sheriff Huggins said a few years working here would give me the experience I’d need to work for the Feds.” Frost wiggled his fingers like he was typing on the air. “Magic fingers.”

  “Does anyone else know you’re a genius?”

  Deep red melted Frost’s freckles into a blotchy blush. He pushed up his glasses. “Besides the sheriff, you’re the only person to ever ask.”

  Charlie took the exit to Savannah. Long moss dripped from the limbs of the large oak trees shading the old streets. People crowded the sidewalks outside boutiques or gathered on benches in the small parks tucked between Georgian style homes with their tall chimneys standing sentry.

  “You ready to use that brain for some police work?” Charlie pulled into a tight spot in front of the Bohemian Signature Gallery.

  “Oh yeah.”

  After they climbed out of the car, Frost hitched his thumbs into his gun belt and appeared to be assessing the storefront. The building had large colonnades of aged redbrick that framed wide windows displaying several painted canvases in gold-gilded frames.

  “Oh, that’s the antique store from the photo.” Frost’s exuberance grabbed a few curious stares.

  “That magic brain of yours know anything about art?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me either.” Charlie opened the door and a bell jingled, announcing their entrance. “I’m going to ask the owner some questions. If you think of anything or if I forget something, I want you to speak up. Got it?”

  Frost nodded and strolled into the gallery like an Earp brother would stroll into Tombstone. Hiding his grin, Charlie followed him in.

  The interior of the gallery was larger than it appeared from the outside. Temporary walls positioned in the middle of the room held art of varying sizes. Some had wild strokes of bright colors while others depicted scenery or portraits.

  A young man with a small goatee was eyeing them instead of the framed prints he was pretending to look at. Charlie walked over. The wall was covered with black-and-white photos of people sitting on stoops, buildings falling apart, and live oaks bending beneath dark clouds. It reminded him of Lane’s photos.

  “Did you take any of these?”

  Goatee man shook his head. “Nah, man. I’m into oils and acrylics. Metal too if the urge is there.”

  “Cool.” Charlie raised his eyebrows. He had no idea what goatee man meant, so he left him to his musings.

  “Can I help you?” Black heels clicked against the polished wood floor. A tall woman with black hair cut to match the angle of her thin jawline approached.

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Deputy Lynch and this is Deputy Frost. Do you work here?”

  “I’m Annika Benedict, the owner.” It took a second for her dark eyes to do a sweep of them. “How can I help you?”

  “Ms. Benedict, we’re from Walton and would like to ask you a few questions about a case we’re investigating.”

  “An investigation?”

  A bell jingled and two young women entered, causing Frost’s posture to straighten. A flash of something Charlie couldn’t identify passed over Ms. Benedict’s face.

  “We need help identifying an artist.” Charlie pulled out his phone. He’d taken a screenshot of the Facebook page. “These paintings in”—he held up the phone—“this picture were taken outside your gallery.”

  Ms. Benedict pulled on the bright red glasses dangling from her neck and studied the pictures on the phone. “And why do you need to know who the artist is?”

  “Like I said, ma’am, it’s part of an investigation.”

  Frost’s gaze followed the two girls wandering through the gallery. One had hot pink hair and a nose ring. The other carried a large black tube slung across her back and wore a shirt with the initials SCAD on the front. They didn’t look much older than Sydney. Would they have known her?

  “I wish I could help you, but unless I have permission from the artist I’m not at liberty to tell you who they are,” Ms. Benedict answered, removing her glasses.

  “Why not?” Charlie lifted one eyebrow.

  A thin laugh pushed through equally thin lips. “Some artists want to be known. Others wish to live in obscurity, allowing their art to have the spotlight.”

  “I don’t think this artist is going to be worried about the spotlight anymore.” Charlie locked eyes with the dismissive owner. “We believe this artist was murdered.”

  “What?” Ms. Benedict clapped her hand over her mouth. “Killed? How terrible.”

  “So, you know the artist?”

  “I do.” She nodded.

  “Can you confirm the name of the artist?”

  “Sydney. Sydney Donovan.” She clutched her throat. “I . . . I really just can’t believe it.”

  “How long have you known Sydney?” Charlie pulled out his notebook and pen.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say I really knew her. I know her art, of course, but I didn’t have much contact with her.”

  “And you’re sure these are her paintings?”

  “Yes. Follow me.” Ms. Benedict turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery. She stopped in front of a display with varying sizes of painted art pieces. “This”—she pointed to a medium-size picture off to one side—“is one of Sydney’s pieces.”

  Deep reds faded up into lighter shades. The piece was named Burning Dawn.

  Frost pushed up his glasses and leaned close to the painting. Then he pulled back, removed his glasses, and looked again. “There’s no signature.”

  “Not all artists sign their names in the way we expect.” Ms. Benedict stepped forward and drew a line with her finger along a bright red stroke. “If you look closely, you can see her signature.”

  Charlie followed the deep red brushstroke and saw a small curve and then another. Sydney Donovan incorporated her signature into her art. Was it hidden for a reason?

  “It’s quite brilliant, if you ask me. Most want their names recognized, but not Sydney.”

  “Sydney’s parents didn’t know about her painting. According to her school, she’s never taken an art class. Do you know why she would have kept her talent a secret?”

  “I didn’t know Sydney very well. Perhaps she was afraid.”

  “Of what?” Frost spoke up.

  Ms. Benedict frowned. “I don’t know. Most artists are introverts. Displaying their work takes courage. Maybe she couldn’t handle criticism, so she kept her work hidden.”

  “And yet you found it.” Charlie didn’t like the feeling growing in his gut. Ms. Benedict was being helpful without helping. “How did you come to acquire her art?”

  “I don’t recall how I came to acquire Sydney’s art. I must’ve seen something in it that I liked. Still do.” Ms. Benedict ran her hand along the edge of the painted canvas. “It’s a shame this is all I have left.”

  “But you don’t know where you met her?”

  “Deputy, I own an art gallery, a reputable one. I get hundreds of inquiries a week from starving artists wanting a chance to display their work. I might have met her once or twice. But clearly those moments don’t stand out.”

  “If you don’t deal directly with the artist when bringing in new pieces, who does?”

  “It depends. I do try to handle all inquiries, but I’m busy. Often I’ll agree to bring in a piece and allow it to be displayed to see what kind of response I get.”


  “How much does a piece like this sell for?” Frost tapped Sydney’s painting.

  “Why? Are you interested?” A thin smile spread across Ms. Benedict’s face. “The asking price for this piece is twelve hundred dollars.”

  Frost snorted. “You’re serious?”

  Charlie cast a look at Frost that silenced his snickering.

  Ms. Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Very.”

  “Is that customary for a piece like this?” Charlie asked.

  “No. Sydney’s work was the exception.”

  The painting was nice but $1,200? Art was definitely in the eye of the beholder and in the hands of someone with a lot of money to spare.

  “How many pieces of her art have you—”

  “Excuse me.” Ms. Benedict moved past them as the bell above the door jingled.

  A well-dressed man entered and Ms. Benedict greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. She spoke to him a few seconds before pointing toward a small hallway at the back of the gallery. The man held Charlie’s gaze as he walked by, leaving a familiar scent behind.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have an appointment I must keep.” Ms. Benedict raised her hand toward the door.

  “We still have a few more questions.” Charlie wasn’t even close to finished.

  “I want to help, but this is my business and, well, I’m busy.” Ms. Benedict reached across the desk and pulled a business card from the stack. “Here’s my number. Call and set up an appointment.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Charlie took the card. In Afghanistan, if someone had information they’d be kept until it was wrung out of them.

  “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

  Ms. Benedict disappeared down the same hall the man went down and left Charlie and Frost staring after her.

  “I get the feeling she’s not telling us the whole truth.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Charlie pushed out a frustrated sigh. There was nothing they could do about it now. He stuck the card in his pocket. He’d be calling for that appointment. A lot sooner than Ms. Benedict would probably like.

  The two girls who’d come in earlier were sitting on a bench near the door, filling out paperwork. Frost paused. “What does your shirt mean?”