Liar, Liar

by Lisa Jackson

  Let it shine! Let it shine! Let it shine!

  She’d woken up with a start, her heart pounding a million beats a minute, the dream fading as she’d realized she was in her bedroom, it was morning, and she still didn’t know if her mother was dead or alive.

  “Coffee,” she said as she stretched. She got out of bed and unlocked her door, and Romeo shot into her room, scaring a yelp out of her. “Lots of coffee,” she added dryly.

  The nightmare fading, she spent thirty minutes running through the shower, dressing in jeans and a sweater, and twisting her hair into a messy bun. She’d never been much into makeup, so a dash of lip gloss and a touch of mascara did the job. She grabbed Greta’s copy of I’m Not Me and was down the stairs to the main kitchen, where coffee was brewing, gurgling in a glass pot and filling the air with the warm scent of rich java.

  Greta was already up, dressed in slacks, a sweater, and vest, her own makeup and earrings in place. She had her iPad open and was working on the New York Times crossword puzzle, which was part of her daily early-morning routine.

  “Good morning,” she said without looking up as she clicked in the answers.

  “Morning.” Remmi dropped the book on the table next to Greta’s iPad and noticed the coffeepot had sputtered to a stop, the glass carafe full of dark brew. “Coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  Remmi poured two cups, while Beverly, one of the three women who took care of the house and Greta’s needs, swept through from the laundry area downstairs. She snatched a couple of wet towels from the counter. “Anything else you need washed today?”

  “The sheets?” Greta asked.

  “Already through the wash and in the dryer,” Beverly said. “New sheets on.” She was tall and lithe, fifty-something, with a quick smile, dark eyes, and reddish hair that was cut short and starting to gray. “Towels are next, so I’m talking about load numero dos!” She held up two fingers, proud of herself as she was trying to learn Spanish.

  Greta played along. “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” Beverly started for the stairs, but Remmi held her up.

  “Hey. Either of you know if a neighbor has a new car?”

  Shrugging, Beverly said, “Nuh-uh,” as Greta shook her head and asked, “Why?”

  “Just curious. I saw a black or maybe navy SUV parked out front. Never seen it before.”

  “Maybe guests,” Greta said. “Of the neighbors. Or the kids of the Olsens, there on the corner.” She wagged a finger toward the kitchen window over the sink. “Their children are in college now—hard to believe, I know. In high school, they were always coming and going in different cars, parking overnight, a real nuisance for some of us who think street parking belongs to us. Now, one of the kids, the middle daughter, I think, is at Chico State, and always popping in unexpectedly. Has a boyfriend here, you know; the parents do not approve, but it’s only about a three-hour drive, less if you’re under twenty-one and hurrying back to meet a boy, I suppose.”

  The buzzer went off again. “Better go, don’t want wrinkles,” Beverly said before disappearing into the hallway leading to the stairs to the basement, where the washer and dryer were located.

  “Did you read this?” Greta asked, tapping the cover of I’m Not Me as Remmi handed her one of the mugs. She took a sip. “Ahhh. That’s better.” With a smile, she finished the last word of the puzzle, then glanced up at Remmi.

  “Yeah, I finished it.”

  “Accurate?”

  “It meshes with what I heard from Aunt Vera, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that much. She didn’t talk about Mom if she could avoid it, and I didn’t press her. Didn’t want to talk to her. From what I understand, they never got along, never had that sister bond.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “They never seemed to get over that sibling rivalry and . . . well, all in all, Vera just didn’t like Mom much.”

  Didn’t like didn’t quite touch Vera’s feelings for her younger sibling. Though she’d never said she out and out hated Didi, Vera had carried a deep resentment for her brighter, prettier, and more popular sister, Remmi had realized. Vera clearly placed herself as the “responsible one” or the “good girl,” both terms she’d repeated often when asked about her family. Vera’s stellar grades had earned her a scholarship, and she’d been the first person in the family to graduate from college, despite the fact that she’d married Milo at twenty and had two children. Meanwhile, Edwina—“Edie” or “Didi,” depending upon whom you asked—had bagged out of Missouri and headed for California without once looking back, while Billy had enlisted in the army.

  And somewhere along the way, Aunt Vera had found religion and had dedicated her life to God and the church.

  Remmi only wanted to forget the two years she’d spent as an unwanted member of the Gibbs family, but bits and pieces of her miserable life kept coming to the fore, even now, years later. How Aunt Vera seemed hell-bent to beat some Christianity into all of her family. When her husband, Milo, was in town, she’d drag him to church, along with Jensen and Harley. Though Milo might have suffered through the long sermons and even gotten closer to God, Remmi hadn’t, nor had her sons, both hellions who liked to “party” and were always trying to hit on Remmi.

  She hadn’t been able to wait to leave the little bungalow in Walnut Creek. The second she’d turned eighteen, she’d been out the door. Her quick and final exit had only been possible due to scholarships, grants, student loans, and the money she’d saved working at the Burger Den while in high school. Everyone in the Gibbs family had known she’d been putting her money aside. What they hadn’t divined was that the amount had been significantly embellished by the remains of Didi’s stash, the money she’d left in Las Vegas after meeting with the guy in the desert.

  Remmi had managed to hide the money, and she’d been careful, dividing it into two hiding places. Yes, there was twice the chance of it being found, but half the chance of the Gibbs family ending up with all of it. If they did uncover it, they would think they’d found her entire treasure trove, though she’d silently prayed that her ill-gotten nest egg would be safe.

  She’d tucked half of the money into an envelope she’d hidden in the lining of her rolling suitcase, behind the pocket she’d filled with tampons, just to make sure no one would bother it. They hadn’t. The other half she’d slipped into a manila envelope she’d taped to the back of a heavy cabinet on the back porch. The old cupboard was used for storage; it held tools and paint cans, even old pieces of tile for replacement, and it was rarely touched, if ever. Dust covered everything on the shelves, and cobwebs draped over the upper corners.

  Then, because she knew her sticky-fingered cousins would be looking, she’d seeded a few of the bills in obvious places, which included her purse and underwear drawer. Sure enough, over time that money—nearly a hundred and fifty dollars—had disappeared, stolen, no doubt, by Jensen and/or Harley. The thought of those two disgusting human beings pawing through her panties caused her stomach to churn, but at least they’d thought they’d gotten one over on her.

  So . . . fine.

  They knew she worked and had cash lying around, even though she had opened checking and savings accounts. She’d hoped they would think she would only leave it in the two obvious places, and when she’d had a hissy fit when twenty dollars went missing, she’d proclaimed that from that point on, she’d keep all her money in the bank. That act had been as much for Aunt Vera and Uncle Milo’s benefit as it was their sons’; hopefully, they, too, would think all of her money was in one place. Despite all her professed piety, Vera had never thought twice about “borrowing” from Remmi. She either really believed she was going to replace the money or, more probably, rationalized it as her due for taking care of her missing sister’s kid. Pious and God-fearing or not, Vera’s soul was tinged by a little bit of greed and a whole lot of resentment. She liked nice things, and though Milo provided for the family, she still had to pinch pennies once in a while but couldn’t face the daily
routine of a job, not when she had the house, her children, Didi’s teenager, and her church duties to boot. No, no, no, a job outside the home just wouldn’t fit into her already overburdened schedule.

  So Remmi had hidden the money, then nearly had a stroke when Uncle Milo had returned from one of his weekly sales trips and decided to fix a few of the shingles on the roof. Aunt Vera had convinced him to paint the fascia board while he was at it, so he’d burrowed around in the cabinet on the porch, searching for enough paint and only a few inches from nearly five thousand dollars.

  Remmi’s heart had been in her throat, her palms sweaty, but she’d pretended disinterest as she’d carried groceries in from the car for Aunt Vera, who also was nosing around the cabinet.

  “I know I have a can of that paint somewhere,” Milo had grumbled as he’d sorted through the various cans, looking at the labels or popping off the tops with a screwdriver so he could view the color. “I put it right here.” Milo scratched at three days’ worth of stubble on his chin. Tall and lean, weathered from years working on his father’s Missouri farm, he had sharp, deep-set eyes guarded by bushy eyebrows. His brown hair was kept military-short, and at home he favored battered jeans, cowboy boots, and T-shirts. On the road, he dressed in slacks and a sports coat and sold farm machinery throughout the western United States—mostly in the contiguous Pacific-rimmed states, but sometimes into Idaho, Montana, and even Alaska.

  Staring at the paint cupboard, Vera had scowled and fingered her necklace. “Could it have fallen off the shelf and rolled somewhere?”

  “Did we have an earthquake when I was gone?” he snapped.

  “No, but . . .”

  “Probably those damned kids messin’ around.” He straightened, eyeing the surroundings of the porch, while Remmi tried not to freak out. She was probably lumped into the “those damned kids” mix with her cousins. Trying to appear uninterested, she passed her aunt and uncle, who were both seriously studying the cabinet and had only breathed again when the missing paint can was discovered hiding behind a larger one and the cabinet was once again left alone.

  That had been a close call.

  * * *

  On the night before her eighteenth birthday, Remmi sneaked out of “her” room, had removed the envelope from the back of the cabinet, thought it felt thin and, in the darkness, peered inside. Her heart had dropped as she’d quickly reached into the manila packet and felt nothing but air. Empty. Her stash stolen. Damn! Tears burned in her eyes, and she felt bitter disappointment that quickly turned to rage.

  Five thousand dollars. Gone.

  She thought she might throw up and stepped through the screen door to the dry backyard and stared up at the sliver of the moon as a bat darted past, nearly invisible in the night, the whisper of his wings audible over the sound of a train on faraway tracks.

  The thought of staying another second was out of the question, and the money she’d hidden in her suitcase was still there. She could make it. She’d just have to rethink what she was planning, tighten her belt.

  So who had stolen her money?

  As a warm breeze ruffled her hair, she thought back to the past few weeks. Hadn’t it been about a month ago when Jensen, turning sixteen, had put new wheels on the old truck Uncle Milo had bought for him? And he’d somehow outfitted the same truck with a “sick” stereo system with speakers that could be heard from two blocks away.

  She remembered his father asking Jensen how he’d paid for the stereo, tires, and rims. Jensen hadn’t missed a beat, reporting that he’d worked for a friend’s dad in a winery, had been paid under the table, and he got a “great” deal on the equipment. Uncle Milo hadn’t questioned him again.

  But there was something in the way Jensen told the story, how his gaze slid away from his father to land on Remmi, that suggested he was lying. At the time, Remmi had thought he was just avoiding his father’s uncompromising stare. Now she realized Jensen had been silently gloating, knowing she’d hidden the money, happy that he had one over on her.

  “Prick,” she’d whispered between clenched teeth as the bat swooped by again. Her fingers had curled into fists, and she wanted to wring Jensen’s thick male neck and wipe that knowing smirk off his face. Lying thief!

  It was all she could do not to run into the room he shared with Harley and confront him. But he’d just lie. And no one would believe her, even with the evidence of the shiny mag wheels on his beater of a car. And then there would be all sorts of questions about how she’d gotten the money and if she had any more. And Jensen would just end up silently laughing at her. She thought of keying his damned car, slashing those huge monster tires, but she didn’t want to do anything to mess up her escape, so she slowly counted to ten as the bat’s wings whirred, then kept going to twenty, then thirty, and finally stopped at seventy-five.

  Jensen wasn’t worth the trouble.

  With the money that was left in her suitcase and bank account, she’d departed the Gibbses’ home and never returned. She’d left a note explaining that she was an adult and was leaving and that she would let Aunt Vera know when she’d settled somewhere. That was a lie, as it turned out, for she never bothered to contact any of them again.

  She’d once overheard Vera say, in a conversation with her friend, Rebecca, the minister’s wife, that Remmi was “an ungrateful wretch.” Vera had been in a foul mood that day, and Remmi hadn’t done a good enough job with the laundry. She had just scolded Remmi, and Remmi had told her, “Oh, bite me!” which hadn’t endeared her to the family.

  Another time, she remembered Aunt Vera confiding again to Rebecca that her niece was “a poor, misguided thing,” which had made Remmi’s blood boil, considering the fact that her loser cousins were, for all intents and purposes, juvenile delinquents whose grades were always hovering just above failure. Nonetheless, Vera, whose voice had been low, a conspiring whisper, had added meanly, “Well, you know, what can I tell you? Remmi’s mother, you know, Edwina? Or Didi Storm?” Remmi had been in the other room, but in her mind’s eye she could see Vera making air quotes around her mother’s name. Angry, she almost rounded the corner to confront her, but before she completely worked up her nerve, she heard Vera go on. “You already know Edie was a loose woman, God rest her soul, and, of course, the apple never falls far from the tree.”

  Meaning Remmi—who hadn’t even really started dating at the time. She’d felt her blood pressure rise, and her hands had curled into fists.

  “Thank goodness, my parents never really knew, though, of course, I’m sure they suspected. She did have that child without a husband, never named him, either. It about killed Mom and Dad. They were God-fearing Christians, let me tell you, and they would have been mortified, absolutely mortified if they knew half the things Edie did when she got to California and Vegas. There’s a reason they call it Sin City, you know, and Edie was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.”

  “You’re a saint for taking her in,” Rebecca had responded.

  “Well, it was the Christian thing to do. You would have done the same.”

  Remmi had taken one step toward the kitchen when she heard the screen door bang against its frame, and then Milo’s voice filled the kitchen. “Hey, there, good-lookin’!”

  “Oh, dear. Milo! I didn’t expect you ’til tomorrow or Friday,” Vera had cried, startled.

  “Got the deal done early. It came together slick as can be. Three combines and five—count ’em, five—tractors to a dealer in Boise!” He sounded excited, and when Remmi gave up eavesdropping and walked into the kitchen, he was swinging his wife off her feet near the table where an open Bible and lesson plans were spread next to the salt, pepper, and napkin holder. Rebecca, whom Remmi called Mrs. Weber, was still seated, a glass of iced tea in one hand, her expression one of surprise as Uncle Milo set his wife onto the floor and Vera, rosy-cheeked, fanned herself with one hand.

  He’d even tossed a rare smile Remmi’s way, then winked at his wife. “Big bonus for this one.” Cocking his head, he’d
added, “Tell ya what: Dress up. Let’s go out for dinner tonight! Just you and me. Remmi can be in charge of the boys.”

  Oh, sure. Like they would do anything she suggested.

  But Aunt Vera looked almost girlish for a second. “Okay!” she’d agreed, and Mrs. Weber had found her large bag and stuffed the lesson plans into it.

  “You two have fun,” she’d said and bustled away.

  The moment had passed for Remmi to mention her own upbringing and defend her mother, so she let it slide, but she never forgot the conversation.

  Never.

  CHAPTER 18

  “So what have we got on Karen Upgarde?” Settler asked from behind the wheel of one of the department’s Crown Vics as she and Martinez drove to the Montmort Tower. The morning was gray and gloomy, clouds low enough to wisp around the higher buildings, the upper stories of the tower itself seeming to disappear. They parked on the street, as the valet was confused about what to do with a police vehicle and the hotel management did not want any signs of police presence on the premises. The brass had agreed, and Martinez found a spot within one block and nosed the Crown Vic into it.

  “Nothing much more than we knew last night,” he’d told her as they climbed out, the chill of the day seeping through her raincoat. Threading their way through pedestrians hurrying in the opposite direction, they found a coffee shop adjacent to the Montmort. Though it was early November, the windows facing the street had been decorated with tiny Christmas lights. Inside, the small establishment smelled of roasted coffee. Settler and Martinez stepped into a line of customers that curved around small café tables, where a few patrons were sipping from steaming cups while reading their handheld devices. One older man actually had a newspaper spread in front of him, while a millennial with a man bun and thick-framed glasses worked a laptop in the corner. Christmas music played as background to the conversation, rattling silverware, and a hissing espresso machine. The “to order” line moved quickly, and within minutes, they were seated at a table in the back, near the hall to the restrooms, Martinez, as always with his back to the wall, watching the front windows and glass door.