Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  “No, sir.” Charlie wouldn’t tell him that Aunt Byrdie had purposely put low-fat muffins in the bag. “Alright, Frost, what do you have?”

  Frost started typing and a second later the three screens on the desk came alive. “Agent Padello was able to get me the video feed of the surveillance cameras outside Ms. Benedict’s gallery—”

  “Annika Benedict gave us access to her security footage?” Charlie could see the sour look on the sheriff’s face. He was probably thinking the same thing—Frost went through one of his special ways.

  Frost let out a “yeah right” laugh. “No. But we didn’t need her permission because this footage came from a nearby business and the city cameras.” He looked at Charlie and the sheriff, a smile playing at his lips. “Smart, right?”

  “Very smart,” Sheriff Huggins said before he swallowed the last bite of his muffin. “Now that my blood pressure is good and high, why don’t you tell us what you found?”

  “Right.” Frost pushed up his glasses. “So, I thought since we found something in the video at the storage unit, maybe I’d find something outside the gallery. Here’s footage taken on Wednesday afternoon from the alleyway behind the gallery.”

  After a few keystrokes, one of the screens played a video of Sydney rushing out of the alleyway, carrying a rectangular object. Her movements hurried, she looked over her shoulder before walking into the street and out of range of the video.

  “Do we have more? Where does she go?” Charlie sat at the edge of his seat. Seeing the teenager living, breathing . . . did she know that less than twenty-four hours later she’d be dead? “What was she carrying? A painting?”

  “Do any of the videos show where she goes next?”

  Frost rotated in his chair and shook his head. “Once she crosses Bull Street and heads into the park, the sun’s glare blocks her movements.”

  Charlie pressed back into his chair. Frustrated. Tired. Angry. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If this was good news, it was going to be a very long day.

  “Is there footage of Sydney leaving the gallery?” Sheriff Huggins asked.

  “Not directly, sir. The cameras in that alleyway were positioned to catch footage of the businesses who owned them, but based off what she was wearing we can see she’s coming from that direction.”

  “So, she was probably carrying a painting.”

  “That’s the good news.” Frost’s voice picked up. “After Lynch spotted the name of the gallery in that photo, I thought maybe if I”—Frost hit a few keys to manipulate the image on the screen until it grew larger and larger—“focused on what we could see, we’d find a clue.”

  “An address.” It was blurry, but Charlie could make out what appeared to be an address label on the package Sydney was holding.

  Before either Charlie or Sheriff Huggins could ask, Frost was already typing again. “Tax records show the home belongs to Seth and Callista Hollins of Chicago, Illinois. A second home currently occupied by their only son, Savannah socialite and playboy extraordinaire, Floyd Hollins.”

  “You got that from the tax records?”

  “Social media, my dear Watson. I thought by now you’d understand the method to my madness.” Frost’s voice became nasally. “His profile on the LINKUP website says he likes rugby, polo, and women who are hot. Spelled h-a-u-t-e.” Frost turned to Charlie. “But pronounced hote. It means ‘fashionably elegant’ or ‘high class.’”

  Sheriff Huggins and Charlie exchanged amused expressions before the sheriff asked, “And LINKUP is?”

  “Dating website, and no, I don’t have a profile,” Frost added quickly.

  Charlie believed him. “Does Floyd’s profile say anything about him being an art connoisseur?”

  “No.” Frost scratched at the cowlick in his hair. “Unless you consider posters with women who—”

  “That’s not what he means.” Sheriff Huggins adjusted his gun belt.

  Frost typed and a second later a profile page for Floyd Hollins popped up on one of the screens.

  His wavy blond hair curled over a tanned forehead and his teeth were unnaturally white. The kid stood in front of a massive boat—no, yacht—wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped and plaid shorts. Frost didn’t seem far off on his assumption of status. The profile picture stunk of money and privilege.

  “Frost, I want you to contact Agent Padello and see if you can get the financial records of Mr. Floyd Hollins, particularly those connected to art purchases.” Sheriff Huggins stood. “If he’s purchased Sydney’s art before, maybe Ms. Benedict will be more helpful since she won’t be divulging any private client information.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lynch, how about you and I take a drive into Savannah and see if Mr. Hollins can teach us a thing or two about art.”

  Charlie nodded as he rose from the chair. “Great job, Frost.” He gripped the young man’s shoulders like an older brother and felt some meat on his bones. “You’ve been working out?”

  Frost’s face turned the color of ketchup. “A little.”

  “If you ever need a workout buddy, let me know.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. But for now, you just keep giving that brain of yours a workout.”

  In the hall, Sheriff Huggins was waiting for Charlie. “You know, that kid looks up to you.”

  “He’s a good deputy, sir. Truth be told, we’d be a lot further behind in this investigation without him . . . or his brain.”

  The sheriff let out a low laugh as they walked through the station. Charlie could see Lane wasn’t the only one his uncle poured out fatherly affection on. He gave it freely to anyone who needed it and doled it out in whatever form necessary. For Frost, it was mentorship and guidance. For Lane . . . protection.

  Who was the man who had come into the café and asked about Lane’s husband and Noah? Charlie didn’t doubt Lane had seen him in town, but why was he here? Surely, Lane would’ve recognized him if he was a local. Was he the same man she had seen outside her home? Charlie’s gut said he probably was, but were the man’s intentions criminal? And what was the focus—the value of those donations or was it something more?

  The image of Miguel striking Lane—even though he did it accidentally—flashed in his mind. Why was she so protective of the disheveled man? How well did Lane really know him?

  “Do you know a man named Miguel?”

  “Miguel?” Sheriff Huggins slowed. “Why?”

  Had his aunt not told him what happened? “Last night he showed up at the Way Station Café. He was agitated . . . he hit Lane.”

  Sheriff Huggins’s jaw flexed. “Byrdie told me it was an accident.”

  “Lane said it was, but does that matter? He might’ve been drunk or on drugs or—”

  “He’s a veteran.” Sheriff Huggins let that sit between them a few seconds. “He’s a few years younger than I am. Went to Vietnam with the rest of us and came back like most of them. He’s got issues the military understands a lot better now than they did then, but he’s mostly harmless.”

  Harmless? “The bruise on Lane’s cheek might say otherwise. I can’t tell you how many investigations I had to look into where PTSD mixed with alcohol or drugs created the perfect storm. I’m concerned Miguel could hurt someone else.”

  Sheriff Huggins stopped outside the steps of the sheriff’s station. “We live in a small town, Charlie. Under most circumstances, that’s a good thing. Neighbors look out for one another, but you know that old saying ‘sticks and stones’? Well, words can be deadly.” Sheriff Huggins heaved a sigh. “Miguel’s been sober for more than two decades, but I’ll stop by his place and check on him.”

  “Thank you, sir, but . . .” Charlie stared in the direction of the Way Station. His eyes lingered on the men passing by as though he could guess if they were the one bringing fear into Lane’s life. “Someone has been harassing Lane. Showing up at the Way Station after hours. Peeking into her windows. Her alarm went off this morning, and I’m just concerned—”<
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  “Your aunt called me this morning and told me.” Sheriff Huggins wiped at his forehead, which was already glistening with sweat. “Lane’s coming in later to give you a description of the man, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s get that and go from there.”

  The conversation was over. Whatever the sheriff was thinking behind his crystal-clear eyes, he was keeping it hidden from Charlie. His uncle warned him not to hurt Lane, and Charlie wasn’t going to allow anyone else to hurt her either. Whatever it took—he’d protect her.

  EIGHTEEN

  “MOMMA, WHO ARE we taking muffins to?”

  “A friend, buddy.” Lane helped Noah out of the car and grabbed the basket of fresh muffins. She caught a glimpse of her bruised and swollen cheek in the mirror. A tingle danced its way down her spine. It was an accident, but it also wasn’t like Miguel. His absence and odd behavior had her worried. “Ready?”

  “Does he like muffins?” Noah’s cherub face looked up at her.

  “I hope so.”

  “I like muffins.” Noah’s eyes grew wide. “Does he like dinosaurs?”

  She looked down at the drawing Noah had made earlier. “I think he’ll like yours,” she said as she slipped the drawing into the basket.

  Noah smiled proudly and looked up at the tall trees towering over them. “Does he live in the woods?”

  “Sort of.”

  Lane had been lucky to find Miguel’s home. Harley’s directions were vague and the house had no discernible features that could be seen from the road. Not even a mailbox marked the property. If someone wasn’t looking for the small inlet between mile markers 17 and 18, they’d miss it. Even she had passed it a couple of times. The copse of trees hid Miguel’s home and any sign that life existed behind nature’s wall.

  The house’s secluded location made her wonder how Miguel made it into town since she’d never seen him drive. Of course, they were only two miles or so outside of Walton, so it was possible he walked. And he was in good shape.

  Noah slipped his hand into hers. Together they walked along the small manmade path of crushed leaves and snapped twigs. Birds, locusts, and the chattering of squirrels were the only noises penetrating the silence.

  The memory of finding Sydney sent another chill running along her shoulders. She hadn’t been this deep into the trees since that day. How far were they from where she found the body? Lane peeked down at her son. Maybe bringing Noah was a bad idea.

  A few yards in, a large barn came into view. Then she saw a house. The rusted tin roof and lopsided patio covered in pine needles gave the impression no one lived there. Concern for Miguel pushed her forward. Or maybe it was because Noah was with her. She rolled her eyes at the irony. So much of her strength came from the almost five-year-old little boy walking next to her. It wasn’t a fair burden.

  “Mommy,” Noah whispered as he maneuvered himself behind her leg and tightened his grip over her hand, “your friend’s house is scary.”

  “It’s just old, buddy.” Lane forced herself to shrug off her own absurd fear. She stepped onto a rickety step and knocked on the door. A spiderweb swayed overhead.

  “Is he here?” Noah’s small voice squeaked.

  “I don’t know.” The basket of fresh muffins wouldn’t fare very well if she left it on the porch. Maybe he wasn’t home. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”

  “He’s not sleeping.” Noah wrinkled his nose and squinted. “The sun is out.”

  “I know, but sometimes people sleep during the day because they work at night.”

  “You work at night, huh, Momma?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Lane knocked again. There was a thump. She craned her neck to get closer to the door.

  “Miguel, it’s Lane from the Way Station Café. I brought you some muffins.” She held her breath. There was another thump. She waited.

  The knotted pinewood door creaked open and Miguel’s dark eyes loomed in the darkness. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I, um.” Lane licked her lips. The thought that coming out here with Noah wasn’t a good idea crossed her mind again. She understood enough about PTSD to know it could lead to unpredictability, but was it enough to ignore the pain in Miguel’s eyes? She lifted the basket. “I made these for you.”

  The door opened wider, revealing Miguel, and the pungent odor she smelled last night wafted over her. His hair was still wild and the jeans and gray shirt he wore were covered in dirt. “What is it?”

  “Muffins. I hope you like blueberries.” Lane held out the basket to him and he slowly took it from her. There was a tremor in his hands, which was almost unnoticeable because of the bloodied scabs covering the deep gashes across his palms. “After last night—”

  “I did that.” His eyes zeroed in on her face.

  Lane had tried to use makeup to cover up the bruising, which made her look like she’d lost a round with Laila Ali, but the look of guilt on Miguel’s face made her feel bad for showing up there. “It’s okay, Miguel. It was an accident. I know you didn’t mean to do it.”

  Miguel was silent for several seconds. “Who’s that?”

  Lane followed Miguel’s gaze to Noah, who was peeking up from behind her. “This is my son, Noah. You’ve seen him at the café before, haven’t you?”

  The hard lines around Miguel’s eyes softened. He stepped onto the porch and Noah pressed his body into her leg. Her son wasn’t normally shy, but with the bristly faced man in dirty clothes moving toward him, she didn’t blame Noah for cowering.

  “Do you like alligators?” Miguel asked Noah.

  Lane’s eyes darted around. Miguel’s property was close to the Ogeechee waterline, which meant it was probable alligators could be on the property.

  “I like dinosaurs.” Noah’s voice was just above a whisper.

  “Alligators are dinosaurs.”

  “I know that, silly.” Noah stepped out from the protection of Lane’s leg.

  “I have alligators. Do you want to see them?”

  Oh, dear Lord, please don’t let Miguel have a pen of alligators around here. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Are they scary?” Noah was now completely entranced in the conversation about the reptiles.

  “No. Not these ones.” Miguel shut his door and started walking into the wooded area with the basket of muffins still in his hand.

  “Come on, Momma. Let’s go see the alligators.” Noah pulled her hand to follow Miguel.

  If Lane had better judgment, she would politely decline Miguel’s offer to lead her precious son to vicious swamp monsters. Then she would pick up her son and run. But Miguel wouldn’t endanger her son, would he?

  Leaving no time for her to have second thoughts, Noah pulled her around the side of Miguel’s house. Lane’s mouth fell open. Instead of a pen of hungry alligators, she was surprised to find another large barn-like building with a pitched roof and rectangular skylights cut into it. Open double-sliding doors revealed a half dozen or so sculptures carved out of huge chunks of wood.

  “You have alligators in there?” Noah wrinkled his nose in disbelief.

  Miguel pulled the door back farther and the same smell that lingered on him spilled out. A whirring noise echoed from the large fans mounted into the long wall at the back of the barn as they spun to purge the fumes of what Lane figured out was turpentine. Miguel pointed in the direction near the front. Dead branches sprouted from the trunk of an old tree. The exposed roots had been carved into blades of grass and the larger roots had been chiseled and shaped into alligators. The face of one peeked through the reeds. The tail of another wrapped around the base of the trunk and morphed into a full-size alligator.

  “Alligators!” Noah darted toward the sculpture with the boldness only a dinosaur-loving four-year-old could possess.

  “Look, but don’t touch, Noah.” Lane left her son admiring the alligators while she took in the creativity and skill displayed in the other sculptures.

  In
the base of another tree trunk, Miguel had sculpted a large wave cresting over a jetty of rocks. The age rings in the tree added to the appearance of depth. Next to it the trunk was left in a more natural state with its bark still intact. It held an eagle perched above its nest with her wings spread wide. All of it was carved from the same tree trunk. It was incredible.

  “You made this?” She turned to find Miguel standing by the door, the basket of muffins at his feet. He gave her a small nod. “They’re beautiful, Miguel. You’re very talented.”

  “What’s this?” Noah picked up a tool.

  “Noah, don’t touch.” Lane took the tool with a sharp v-shaped edge from her son and placed it next to a stack of painted canvases leaning against a trestle table. “Do you paint too?”

  “Not anymore.” Miguel shifted back and forth and rubbed his arm. Then he stepped a few feet forward and repeated the pattern again. The third time he did it, Lane knew Miguel needed his space.

  “Come on, Noah. It’s time to go.” Lane was grateful he didn’t fuss about their sudden departure. She took hold of his hand and began escorting him out of the studio-barn. “Noah, what do you say?”

  Noah turned to Miguel. “Thank you for showing me your alligators.”

  Miguel nodded. Shifted. And rubbed his arm.

  “You’re a beautiful craftsman. Thank you for showing us your sculptures.”

  “You have a good boy.” Miguel rubbed his arm again and a trail of blood smeared down his arm from a broken scab. “Keep him close.”

  A breeze rustled the foliage and the ugly feeling Lane had the day she found Sydney’s body returned. Her eyes skated the shadows beneath the trees. Was someone out there? Watching?

  “Are you okay, Miguel?”

  “You need to leave.”

  The hardness returned to Miguel’s eyes. Lane wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Miguel’s body stiffen as though he too sensed something. “Come on, Noah. Time to go home.”