Widow's Secrets

by Shelley Shepard Gray

Officer Olson was writing notes with one hand and holding a piece of bacon with the other when she approached again. “More coffee?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” While she poured, he slid a white business card toward her. “Ms. Mann, here’s my contact information. You need to call and set up our next meeting. Soon. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to stop by here again.”

  That sounded like a threat. Years ago she might have called him on that. Might have even told him that she had rights. That she didn’t have to put up with him badgering her. But she was a different person than she’d been all those years ago. Therefore, all she did was pick up his card, turn around and hope that he’d leave really soon.

  * * *

  As Kent Olson watched Liana Mann slip his card into the side pocket of her polyester dress, he wondered when she would give in and call. And she would call; he was sure of that. She didn’t like him being at her place of work; she’d made no secret about that.

  He wondered why his presence here had bothered her so much. Was it because she had secrets she didn’t want anyone here finding out about? Or had it been his bringing up Billy? She’d visibly tensed every time he’d said her husband’s name. Or did her discomfort have more to do with his occupation? A lot of folks simply didn’t like cops.

  When he got back to the station, he was going to have to look again at the officers’ reports from their visits with Liana. Not everyone was as kind to widows as they should be, and it seemed as if Grune and Evans had been especially callous.

  Taking another sip of the surprisingly decent coffee, Kent reminded himself that there was another possibility—and that was that Liana didn’t like him. Thinking back to how he’d acted, appearing out of nowhere, demanding that she talk even though she was in the middle of her workday, Kent realized Liana probably had a lot of reasons to want to avoid him. He’d been heavy-handed, cool and unsympathetic.

  Again.

  Those traits hadn’t been the main reason for his being taken out of the detective pool and put into cold cases, but like his lieutenant had said, it hadn’t helped.

  After pulling out his wallet, he left enough money to pay for his breakfast and give Liana a decent tip. It wasn’t a bribe, but maybe she wouldn’t add cheap to his list of faults.

  Back in his car he turned left, then carefully passed a horse and buggy. After pausing to admire a line of clothes fluttering in the spring breeze, he eased out on Highway 32 and headed west toward Anderson. Within twenty minutes the fields surrounding him gave way to retail stores and fast-food joints. Ten minutes after that he was back in the heart of the affluent suburb of Cincinnati. Pulling into a parking space at the station, he noticed that his dad’s black Lincoln SUV was in its parking place near the entrance.

  His father, Lieutenant Detective Richard Olson, was one of the most celebrated members of the police force. He was just one year from retirement, and now carried around cruise and resort brochures on Sunday afternoons. He and Kent’s mom—who had just quit her own career in law—now spent hours dreaming about trips they were finally going to take and all the sleep they were finally going to get.

  Kent was happy for them. He really was. Both of his parents had worked long hours and built successful, respected careers. They deserved to take as many vacations as they could—especially if it would give them some distance from him and the disappointment he’d just brought to the family name.

  Striding toward the building, Kent focused once again on Liana Mann. She was brown-haired, blue-eyed, and had really pretty creamy skin. She looked as wholesome as the Amish women he’d spied walking with their children on the side of the road.

  But unlike those Amish women, he was sure that Liana wasn’t as innocent as she looked. He was sure that she knew more about her husband’s death than she’d let on. He had to find a way to get her to talk to him. He knew there was more to Liana Mann than met the eye, and he intended to learn what she was hiding.

  And he’d also recoup a little bit of the respect he’d lost...and hopefully get back into the detective pool and out of the basement’s cold-case room.

  As far as he was concerned, that couldn’t happen fast enough.

  Chapter Two

  One week later

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you to appear at the show, Li? Not even for an hour?” Serena asked.

  Serena’s voice was as cultured and wheedling as Liana had ever heard it. But instead of making her nervous like it used to, now it only made her laugh. Serena Ketels owned Gallery One in downtown Cincinnati and was the reason Liana sold her large paintings for two and three thousand dollars each instead of two or three hundred.

  Serena had given Liana financial stability...but that didn’t mean the polished twenty-eight-year-old was going to get her to stand in the middle of the art gallery on display like one of her paintings.

  “You know I don’t want to put on a show. Even the thought of speaking to a bunch of your fancy clients makes me break out in a cold sweat.”

  “What if you only have to talk about your work? You don’t have to stand around and sip wine or anything like that.”

  Like she’d ever done that in her life. “Serena, no offense, but you know I’ve never even been to a cocktail party before. I have no idea what to wear to one. And besides, what would I even say about my work, anyway? You know I don’t have any training. I just paint.”

  “Liana, you are self-taught and gifted. You express your unique outlook on life through your mastery in oils and acrylics.”

  “Oh, brother.” No, what she did was paint because it made her happy. End of story.

  “No, listen.” Serena started talking faster, the way she did when she had a plan and was anxious to put it into action. “I think you should talk about your feelings when you paint, Li. My clients would love hearing about that. I would love hearing about that.”

  Liana perched on her windowsill and chuckled. That statement was so Serena. The first time she’d met the gallery owner in person, she’d been flummoxed. Serena was everything Liana was not. She had dark hair, dark eyes and flawless skin and makeup. She wore designer clothes and heels the way other people wore old sweats and flip-flops. And she always spoke to Liana like she was someone special.

  Since Liana absolutely knew she was not, she’d been sure that Serena Ketels was the fakest woman she’d ever met.

  But later, when Serena had stopped by her house to pick up one of Liana’s paintings, they’d started talking. Serena had confided that she was actually from a small town in Indiana and had worked two jobs to pay for her degree in art history. Minutes after that the gallery owner was soon wandering around Liana’s art studio and talking about what a genius she was with color—and eventually declared that she was going to help Liana make a decent living painting.

  Well, that had been what she’d heard. Serena had actually said that she knew people who would spend thousands of dollars for her paintings. Even the idea of such a thing was shocking.

  Returning to the conversation at hand, Liana murmured, “Serena, I don’t think when I paint. I...well, it just comes out from my heart to the canvas.”

  “Talking about heart to canvas is perfect.”

  Ah, no. No, it was not. “You know as well as I do that I never think about anything purposefully. Plus, I’m just a waitress in a small-town diner. Everyone’s going to be disappointed.” Or worse, they’d make her feel uneducated, unkempt and kind of worthless.

  “I won’t let them make you uncomfortable.” Serena’s voice rang with sincerity. “I promise I won’t.”

  “You’re a nice person, Serena. You really are. But believe me. I know what most people are like. They’re still going to think I’m just a hick from a small town, which is what I am. And I’m fine with that. I really am—but that doesn’t mean I want to stand there while strangers put me down.”

  “Liana, I think once people get to meet you, t
hey’re going to be willing to pay even more for your work,” Serena replied in a quiet, firm voice.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I’m looking at Sunset in October right now. It’s...it’s so stark and bold and visceral. I think if you talked about why you titled it that, I could get over ten grand for it.”

  Liana almost spit out her coffee. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. You know I don’t kid about money. You’re an up-and-coming phenomenon. And people are going to love that you’re so modest and country. Please, won’t you help me sell your work? I promise I won’t make you regret it.”

  Everything she was saying sounded too good to be true—from the assured way Serena was speaking about people even showing up, to the care she was going to show Liana, to the insane amount of money she was talking about. It was the stuff dreams were made of.

  But they weren’t hers. “I appreciate everything you’re saying. I really do,” she added softly. “But I just can’t do that right now.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone sounded like it lasted five full minutes, though it was likely barely thirty seconds. Still, it was long enough to make her palms sweat. “All right. I understand.”

  Feeling a bit like she won a battle but also curiously disappointed that she had, Liana thanked her before they at last hung up—just as a knock sounded at her door.

  Foreboding filled her as she headed down the narrow hall to answer it. Sometimes Sol and Martha Yoder, her Amish neighbors, stopped by with a chicken or some vegetables to give her or even for a quick chat. But they were back-door friends.

  No, the only people who knocked on her front door like that were cops. One glance through the peephole confirmed her guess. There was Kent Olson, standing straight and tall.

  Invading her space.

  She was irritated. What was he doing, just showing up at her house like this?

  “Yes?” she asked the minute she opened it.

  “I came to talk, Liana.”

  “We have nothing to talk about. Plus, you’re here uninvited.”

  “I didn’t have much choice since you never called me.”

  She refused to apologize for that. “I didn’t even give you my address. You looked me up. Isn’t that illegal or something?”

  “Come on. You didn’t think I couldn’t find that on file?” His voice sounded almost reasonable. Not snarky at all.

  “You should’ve called first.”

  He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, looking like he had all the time in the world to stand on her front stoop. “I couldn’t risk you blowing me off.”

  She felt her cheeks heat because she would’ve done that. Pretty sure that he was checking out her blush, she mumbled, “This is hard for me.”

  “I know. But Liana, I told you this case was important. I didn’t lie about needing your help.”

  “I might not be able to help you at all.”

  “We won’t know if you won’t let me ask you anything. Sorry, but I’m not going to give up, either. Now, are you going to ever let me in?”

  She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to talk to him when she could be painting. Didn’t want to talk about Billy. Didn’t want to give this man even a moment of her time.

  But it seemed Serena was right. Dreams don’t often come true. Wishes rarely did, either. And then, too, was the nagging suspicion that God wanted her to at least deal with her memories of Billy. She didn’t think it was a coincidence that this officer had suddenly appeared in her life. No, she had a feeling the Lord had brought them together so Liana would finally come to terms with all the memories that continued to surface from her marriage.

  Maybe it was finally time to do His bidding?

  Stepping backward, Liana motioned him forward. “Come on in. We might as well get this over with.”

  Chapter Three

  Kent had been coaching himself about how to act around her all morning. He’d thought of topics that weren’t likely to cause her to get her back up. He’d practiced ways of phrasing the things he’d come to say.

  But none of that made a difference.

  The moment he’d seen the way she’d been guarding herself against him, he was toast. It was time to finally start conducting himself the way he knew he should, the way his father would be proud of. It was the right thing to do, too. After all, he didn’t want to make her life miserable. He just wanted answers.

  After she closed the door, Liana turned to him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her expression was blank.

  Kent realized he had about five minutes to change her mind about his being there before he lost even this bit of ground.

  So he said the first thing that ran through his mind. “What are you painting?”

  He’d surprised her. She ran a hand through her hair. Blinked. “What?”

  Kent gestured to the front of the thin, baggy T-shirt she was wearing. “You ah, have some purple paint on you.”

  She looked down at herself. “It’s magenta, not purple. And I’m painting a painting.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “Will you show it to me?”

  “Why?” Her eyes were filled with suspicion.

  “Because I can’t draw a stick figure.” He gestured to the bare walls. “And... I don’t see any paintings in here. How come?”

  “I don’t want to be surrounded by my own work.”

  As far as he could tell, Liana didn’t want to be surrounded by much. There were three really fine-looking wooden chairs with ivory cushions on them. Next to each was a small table. There was no coffee table and only a sparsely filled bookshelf on a far wall. A bright rag rug covered the wooden floor. The faint scent of peppermint filled the air. The lights were off, making the room look cooler than it actually was. There was nothing on the walls. Nothing at all.

  “It’s peaceful in here,” he said, surprising himself because he actually meant it.

  She almost smiled. “Thank you. I like this room because it’s so bare and plain.”

  “Where do you paint?”

  “Down the hall.”

  “So?” He raised his eyebrows. “Will you let me see them?”

  “Boy, you’re not going to give up, are you?” Everything in her stance shouted that she had her guard up. He’d never been around an artist before but he had a feeling that she wasn’t the only one to be protective of her work.

  Ironically, her wariness made him feel protective of her. When he’d reviewed his notes, he’d surmised a lot of information that had been carefully phrased. It was obvious, to his eyes at least, that Liana had been put through the wringer by Detective Evans. She’d been considered a suspect for a brief time and had been subjected to some tough questioning.

  The police had also searched her home and talked to her coworkers, her brother and even her Amish neighbors about Liana. More than once she’d dissolved into tears.

  Officer Grune, in particular, had also made notes about the abuse Liana had received from her husband.

  But even after the interrogation, and the waiting, and the uncertainty of having so many questions about her husband remain unanswered, Liana had carried on.

  It was impressive. This pretty gal, so hurt by her brutal husband, was special. Suddenly, he didn’t want to hurt her anymore—or at least not when it came to her inner sanctum.

  “If you really don’t want me to see your paintings, I won’t make you,” he said at last. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the case... I’m just curious. I’ve never met an artist before.”

  “All right. Fine.” She walked down the hall, leading him down the dark passageway. There weren’t any pictures or artwork on the hall’s walls, either. Just fresh white paint. He had the quick opportunity to spy a small bathroom, a bedroom with pink walls and a closed door before they disappeared into the last r
oom.

  And it was like walking into a different world. Where the rest of the house was quiet and contained, this room had two tracks of lights overhead, no curtains on the four windows and an array of large paintings everywhere. The difference was almost blinding.

  In the center of the room was a huge easel, a small table with a palette of paints on it and another table with water, paintbrushes, rags and a couple of pencils. The canvas on the easel had to be at least four feet wide and six feet tall.

  In the middle of it was a wide swath of magenta.

  “There it is,” he murmured.

  “There what is?”

  He looked back at her. She was still in a defensive posture, and there was a bit of wariness in her eyes, too. And maybe curiosity?

  He motioned to the splash of color staining her shirt. “The magenta.” He grinned. “It stood out in your living room. I wanted to see where it came from.” Of course, he’d meant something else, as well. Liana seemed cool, almost plain at first glance, but was carefully hiding a bravery.

  After looking down at her shirt, she rolled her eyes. “Stained clothes come with the territory...but yes, I guess you found the magenta’s source.”

  Honestly, Kent felt like he’d just found a whole lot more than that. This room was amazing and the paintings were so bold, it honestly seemed as if they were talking to him, almost illustrating her life.

  It was a fanciful notion, but he kind of thought that Liana Mann seemed more like this room than the rest of her house. From the outside the place was pleasant but unremarkable. Once he’d come inside the doors, he’d been given some insight about her. The living room was pleasing and calming. Pretty because of its simplicity.

  But now that he’d been allowed to experience this room—it was a revelation. It seemed to illustrate the fire that was hiding inside her. Explosive and bold. Practically daring someone to ignore it.

  And the paintings? He’d never been one to appreciate abstract art like this but there was an element to the paintings that told a story. It affected him in a visceral way. At that moment, he realized that he’d seriously underestimated this woman. She wasn’t just a victim of a loser husband. She wasn’t just a country gal who worked at a diner and hid from the rest of the world.