The Lies That Bind

by Kate Carlisle

  But Alice figured it out first. “Oh, my God, is that Layla? Oh, no. Brooklyn, is she breathing?”

  “She looks dead,” Whitney said flatly, and put her arm around Alice.

  “She is,” Mitchell murmured.

  “Layla’s dead?” somebody asked.

  “If only,” Cynthia muttered, then looked around and realized nobody was kidding. “Wait. Really?”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell said.

  “Oh, my God.” In a heartbeat, Cynthia switched hats. “Brooklyn, I’m a board member. I should supervise this activity.”

  Supervise this activity? What was she, a playground guard? And I noticed she still hadn’t shown an ounce of sympathy for the dead woman. Not that I blamed her, really, but things were getting weird.

  I gave Mitchell a pleading look. “They can’t come down the hall. It’s a crime scene.”

  “I’ll keep them back.” He started walking toward the group, then stopped and turned. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I know that,” I muttered, watching him jog away. Maybe he didn’t realize I was an old hand at murder scenes and knew all the rules. I even followed them, usually.

  I leaned over to study the book on the floor by Layla and felt chills skitter down my spine. It was my Oliver Twist, the one I’d refurbished for her. The one I’d regretted giving her the first night of classes. The one she’d blatantly lied about. The one for which she’d given me so much grief.

  I rubbed my hands together to warm up, but it wasn’t working. I was freezing.

  “Brooklyn, are you okay?” Alice called out from down the hall. I could tell she was crying, but despite her own sense of loss, she was worried about me.

  I gave her a grateful smile. “Not really, but thanks.”

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, I’ll stay here until the police come.” I don’t know why, but I felt an obligation of sorts. As the first person on the scene, I would protect the area until I could pass the duty on to the police.

  “I feel so useless,” Alice said, sniffling as she looked around. “Is there something we can do? Brooklyn, do you need a blanket or some water?”

  “We could go outside and wait for the police,” Gina said.

  “It’s too cold,” Whitney whined.

  “It’s better than standing around.” Gina grabbed her friend and they ran off.

  Dale, one of my quietest students, appeared at the end of the hall. “Is somebody hurt?”

  I looked up as Kylie said, “Where have you been?”

  “I was working on my pages. What happened?”

  “The center director’s dead,” Kylie whispered.

  I was glad she hadn’t said Layla’s name. I kidded myself that it sounded less personal, more clinical, to keep it semi-anonymous.

  The students’ conversation stopped as Naomi pushed through the crowd and headed down the hall toward me. I met her halfway and tried to stop her.

  “Oh, not again,” she said in dismay. “I leave the place for twenty minutes and somebody gets attacked again? It’s not Minka, is it?”

  “No, it’s not Minka.” She tried to brush past me and I grabbed her. “Naomi, stay back.”

  “Then who-” She screamed then, loud enough to pierce my eardrum. I guess she figured it out.

  I pulled her close in a forced hug. She struggled to get away.

  “Let me go. I need to-”

  “No, you can’t go near her.”

  “Let go of me, damn it. She’s my aunt, my family. I don’t-”

  I shook her. “This is a crime scene. We’ve called the police.”

  “Why? She’s not-”

  “Naomi,” I said bleakly.

  “No!”

  “I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around her.

  “No, no,” she moaned. “It’s not true.”

  “I’m sorry. Layla’s dead.”

  She sagged against me. “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

  Hell, Layla Fontaine, artistic director, mover and shaker and bitch royale, wasn’t just dead. She’d been murdered. Coldly, brutally, and audaciously. Someone had walked into BABA as bold as could be and shot her in the chest while at least twenty people worked in rooms nearby. Everyone in the building had to have heard the gunshot, so it wasn’t like the killer was trying to be stealthy. No, he-or she-had used a gun, drawing almost instant attention to his deed.

  Was her killer really so arrogant? Or just pissed off? Or desperate? Or insane? Did he really think he’d get away with it? Looking around and not finding any obvious killer types waving guns in the air, I saw clearly that, so far, someone was indeed getting away with it.

  Had Layla and the assailant argued about the Oliver Twist? Was it a buyer who discovered Layla’s lie about it being a first edition? Had he thrown the book at her, then shot her in cold blood when she laughed in his face?

  My imagination had taken flight and I had to reel it back in. But as long as Layla had to die, that would be the motive I would want the killer to have.

  I continued to hold Naomi in my arms as she cried and moaned. I understood what she was going through. Besides being her employer, Layla was her aunt. It wasn’t easy to find a loved one lying dead in a pool of blood.

  I’d been there, done that. It sucked.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” Minka yelled from the door of her classroom. Her voice carried all the way across the building. And down the street and over the bridge and into Richmond County. Her clunky boots stomped across the gallery.

  “Oh, God, don’t let that cow come over here,” Naomi whispered.

  “I won’t.” Even in this grim circumstance, it made me smile to know I wasn’t alone in my low opinion of Minka.

  Over Naomi’s shoulder, I watched Mitchell stop Minka from advancing down the hall. She stared daggers at me and I met her squinty gaze levelly. She started to say something; then her mouth slammed shut. And for that brief moment, I could see what she was thinking. She was thinking she’d gotten off easy with the gash across her head instead of a bullet hole in her chest. She was alive, not dead and lying in a pool of blood.

  The sudden vulnerability I saw in her eyes made me look away. I never ever, ever wanted to think of Minka as weak or helpless. It would take all the fun out of hating her.

  “Stay back, please,” Mitchell said, stretching his arm across the hall entrance to block her.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she said, with a contemptuous curl of her lip.

  Ah, there was the Minka we all loved to hate.

  Mitchell simply waited her out, not taking his eyes off her for a second. After a long standoff, Minka huffed. “Fine, whatever. Jerk wad.”

  As she flounced back down the hall, I looked at Mitchell and sighed. “Sorry about that, but thanks.”

  “No problem. She’s a peach. What else can I do to help?”

  “Can you take Naomi to the lounge? She needs to sit down.”

  “No,” Naomi protested. “I’m not leaving her.”

  “You’ve had a bad shock, Naomi,” I said. “You need to sit down or you’ll pass out. I promise I’ll watch her until the police arrive.”

  “But she’d want me to stay with her.”

  “You’re probably right.” Layla had always loved bossing Naomi around. Still, she was a dead weight in my arms so I gave her an affectionate squeeze and said, “You’re so thoughtful to consider what Layla would want, but I’m more concerned about you right now.”

  She sniffled, then began to sob. I traded glances with Mitchell, who immediately stepped forward and took hold of Naomi.

  “You can come with me,” he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. Before he led her away, he turned and said to me, “Police should be here any minute. I got Ned to stand guard at the other entrance to this hall.”

  “What other entrance?”

  He pointed to Layla’s office. “That office has a separate entrance leading to
another hall that curves around to the back of the building. I had to run to the men’s room the first night and got lost coming back. I followed the hall around and ended up in there.”

  I hadn’t noticed a second doorway the other night when I brought Layla the book. Probably because I was so distracted by her sleazy scheme to pass the Oliver Twist off as a first edition.

  I thought of Ned on the other side of the door. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but even though I trusted Mitchell’s instincts, I wondered if we could trust Ned.

  Mitchell led Naomi away, and within seconds Tom Hardesty lumbered up, out of breath. “I was outside. It’s cold. What’s going on? Mitchell said you might need some help.”

  “He did? Well, maybe you could-”

  “Wait. Who is that?” Tom peered around me to stare at the body. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He shook his head. “No, it’s not. No. No. No.” His voice grew louder and more high-pitched and I scanned the hall looking for help.

  Finally, I had to shout over him, “Tom, shut up.”

  “But she’s… oh, God. She’s dead.”

  “Yeah, we all got that,” I said loudly. “Where were you when the memo went out?” I probably shouldn’t have talked that way to a board member but he was such a twit. Seriously, Mitchell had sent this guy to help me and now he was having a panic attack? I’d lost any last drop of sympathy I might have had for him.

  He didn’t seem to notice my acerbic response, just shook his head and whispered, “I was outside making a phone call.”

  “Guess you missed all the excitement.”

  “She can’t be dead,” Tom whimpered, and tried to move closer.

  I sidestepped to block him.

  “Noooooo,” Tom moaned.

  I’d reached the end of my rope. “Tom, shut the hell up.”

  Without warning, he fell to his knees and tried to reach for Layla’s hand.

  “No!” I slapped his hand away just in time. “Crime scene. Get out of here.”

  He collapsed on the floor and curled up like a baby in a womb.

  Stunned by his behavior, I yelled down the hall, “Where’s Cynthia? I need her, now.”

  “I’ll look for her,” Alice cried, eager to be of service.

  I stared at Tom. “Get a grip, man.”

  He began to weep as Cynthia stalked down the hall. “So this is where he disappeared to.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She dropped to her haunches and smacked Tom’s head. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s Layla,” he sobbed. “She’s… oh, my God, she’s…”

  “She’s dead,” Cynthia shot back. “And good riddance.”

  Whoa.

  Tom didn’t seem to notice his wife’s antipathy as he rocked in agony.

  “Jesus H,” Cynthia muttered. She exhaled heavily, then took a deep breath and seemed to gather every last ounce of patience in her body. She patted his back and said in a soothing tone, “Come on, honey. The police will be here any minute. They can’t find you like this.”

  That moved him to stand up. He wobbled once but she grabbed and steadied him.

  He blinked, then gulped and said, “Thanks, honey.”

  She smacked his arm. “We’ll talk about this later. Come on, let’s go.” Then she gripped his shirt to lead him away.

  I had a feeling Tom would get an earful when he arrived home. Maybe that was a good thing. God knows, it seemed their relationship thrived on discipline. As they moved down the hall, I noticed that some of my other students had witnessed the entire scene.

  Kylie grimaced. “This is all too surreal.”

  “Two attacks in one week is more than surreal,” I said.

  Whitney and Gina returned to the group, and Whitney rubbed her arms. “It’s really freezing out there.”

  “Hey, I wonder if the local news will show up,” Gina said.

  “We should call them,” Whitney whispered, and Gina nodded with excitement.

  I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, to be accosted by nosy reporters. All they had to do was link me to Abraham’s murder and the Scotland murders and I’d be known forever more as Bloody Brooklyn-or some equally annoying nickname.

  Brooklyn’s Bloody Bodies “R” Us. Very catchy.

  “Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.

  As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.

  “About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.

  Chapter 8

  As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?

  I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!

  I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”

  He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”

  “No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”

  Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.

  Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.

  Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.

  Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.

  And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?

  Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.

  Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.

  I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.

  And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.

  So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even th
ough I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.

  “Meow.”

  “Hey, Baba,” I said, and leaned down to pick up the cat. He was large and unwieldy, but he seemed to need a comforting touch. I held him in my lap, stroking his soft fur, and wondered what he thought of this odd place he called home. Had he seen anything? Heard anything? Had he looked into the eyes of a killer tonight? If so, he would take his secrets to the grave.

  “Meow.”

  “Yeah, I know, you’ll never tell.”

  The door opened slowly and Alice poked her head in. “Oh, you’re in here. I was worried. Are you okay? Do you mind if I come in?”

  I smiled at her, glad to be distracted from my selfish woes. “Come in and sit down. I’m just hiding in here with the cat. We’re feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  “Pretty kitty.”Alice leaned over and scratched Baba’s ears for a minute. The cat allowed it for a few seconds, then ran off. Alice straightened and pushed her long hair back off her shoulders. “Are you feeling sorry about Layla? Because I feel awful. And I’m so worried. I hate to even think these thoughts while Layla is… well. But I just don’t know how we’re going to go forward. Layla was everything to BABA.”

  She paced the floor, wringing her hands as she spoke a mile a minute.

  “Naomi is a mess,” she said, almost to herself. “The managers are both in a dither, and there’s Ned. He’s an odd Thomas, isn’t he? Well, I just hope nobody expects me to pick up the slack. I’m one step removed from a basket case at the best of times.”

  “Alice,” I interrupted, amused despite the fact that I had the same concerns, “things will work out. Nobody expects you to grab the helm. Everyone here needs time to grieve and regroup.”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “You know what, Brooklyn? I think I should grab the helm. Now is not the time to shrink back, but to move forward. Now is the time to hit the ground running, to ask ourselves, What would Layla do?”

  She began to march back and forth, a little soldier now, shaking her fist with firm resolve. “I can’t give in to the fear. We have a festival to get off the ground. And next month, the print arts program will be launching a new book. There’s already publicity out on that and we’ve got a huge party at the end of the month. No, Layla would want us to proceed full steam ahead. There’s no time for lollygagging, no time indeed.”