Sweet Little Lies

by Bianca Sloane

  Just one of the many ways she’d thought she was keeping her marriage hot.

  A tear dropped from her eye as she noticed their wedding portrait in the silver frame in the right-hand corner. They’d had their pictures done in black and white, lending a more romantic feel to the photos. She was wearing a strapless A-line dress and a tiara, the chiffon veil spilling out of the top and down to her knees; Mark wore a navy blue morning suit. They’d just been pronounced man and wife and were making their way back down the aisle, facing each other and laughing as they walked. It was a beautiful wedding, and Kelly couldn’t remember a happier day than that one. Mark had always made her happy.

  Damn…the night they’d met. She and Shelia had gone to a photo exhibit for the protégé of an old photographer friend of Kelly’s. She hadn’t even wanted to go, since she’d just come back from a two-week business trip to L.A. and just wanted to crawl into bed for thirty consecutive hours. But Eduardo really wanted the guy to have a good showing, and he was a good friend, so Kelly gave in and said she would go. She’d called Shelia and asked her to come with her to make an appearance, pose for a few pictures, and then they’d leave. They were leaning against the bar, each sipping a glass of Chardonnay, when Mark walked in with some cha-cha on his arm. It was so corny, but their eyes met from across the room and Kelly bent over to Shelia and said that even though she didn’t do one-night stands, for him, she’d make an exception. Shelia sized up Mark and said if she wasn’t married, she’d snatch him up. Kelly continued to sip her wine and waited for Mark to make his move, as she knew he would. He asked what she did and just to play with him a little, convinced she’d never see him again, told him she did a little modeling. She had to stop herself from laughing over the way his eyes lit up over what he thought was his incredible luck at walking in with one model and going home with another. Within twenty minutes, the cha-cha was fending for herself, Shelia was getting her own cab, and Kelly and Mark were heading to her place. The next morning, in the light of day, he looked at her, nonplussed and more than a little suspicious, and asked again what she did. She only offered him a coy smile, and then he laughed and said, “You’ve done more than just ‘a little modeling,’ wouldn’t you say?”

  And that had been it. Nine months later, they’d gotten married in a posh ceremony at the Drake. Professionally, she still went by Kelly Ross, but personally, she went by Monroe. It had always given her a little thrill though when people referred to her as Mrs. Monroe.

  Kelly snapped out of her reverie and set about taking care of the business at hand. She started opening drawers in the desk, searching through the files but finding nothing other than stuff about his clients. Frustrated, Kelly tapped her nail against the desk when she turned to look at the computer. She flipped it on, wanting to look at his email, but the whole computer was password-protected, and after ten tries she gave up and shut it off. Kelly then looked across the room at the massive black and white framed print of the city’s skyline on the wall opposite her.

  The safe.

  She’d forgotten all about the safe.

  Will Always Come To Light…

  Rummaging through her purse, Kelly pulled out her wallet and searched until she found the combination tucked in the pocket behind her checkbook. She took out the dingy blue piece of paper and unfolded it. Mark kept copies of all of their joint financial papers there and had given Kelly the combination, although she’d never once used it herself, letting Mark maintain it.

  Maybe he counted on the fact that I never used it. Maybe there’s a clue in there.

  She stood up, walked across the room, and unhooked the frame from the wall, laying it gently against the couch. Shifting her attention between the safe and the combination, Kelly’s fingers nimbly turned the knob. Praying that she’d gotten the number of turns right, she crossed her fingers and turned the lever.

  Bingo.

  She opened the safe door, grabbed the numerous accordion folders, and spread everything out on the coffee table. She sat down on the couch and began to sift through the paperwork stacked in front of her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Their life insurance policies, the deed to the condo, the titles for their cars, assorted joint investments they had, Mark’s individual investments. She used to tell him they should get a safety deposit box for all this stuff, but he would just laugh and say he was lazy, that it was easier to keep everything at the office where he could get to it if he was in a hurry.

  She kept sorting through everything. She knew about all of this. This didn’t tell her anything. She sighed abruptly, determined there had to be something there. She continued to shuffle through the papers, looking for something, anything. Nothing. She flopped back on the couch, frustrated.

  “Might as well put all this back,” she murmured to herself as she stared at the pile of papers that held no answers.

  She gathered up a handful of papers and tried to stuff them back into the accordion folder. She did it with such force, she ripped the side and some of the papers came spilling out.

  “Goddamn it,” she mumbled, annoyed. She walked back over to Mark’s desk in search of a folder to house all those papers. She remembered a stack of empty file folders in the back of one drawer and pulled some out. As she did, her finger brushed up against something. Frowning, she leaned down to inspect it.

  It was a key, taped inside the drawer. She scraped off the tape and pulled it out. She held it up, fascinated by what it might fit. It was tiny, so it wouldn’t be to a house. Maybe he had gotten a safety deposit box after all. Or…Kelly peered around her shoulder to the other framed print hanging on the wall immediately to her right. She stood up, walked over, and hoisted the picture off the wall.

  Another safe, and this one had a key lock.

  Kelly slipped the key into the lock.

  It fit.

  Her heart pounding, she turned the key and opened the safe’s door. Similar to the other safe, there were stacks of envelopes and folders, which Kelly grabbed and carried over to the coffee table. She shoved the other envelopes aside and plopped this new batch on the table. She opened one and gasped.

  A trust for Mark Monroe, Jr.

  She scanned the page. There was close to a million dollars in the trust, and it looked like there had been consistent deposits made into it for quite some time. The way the money was growing, the kid would be able to buy a college by the time he was eighteen.

  Kelly leaned back against the couch, fighting to understand. A son. Mark had a son. They’d talked about starting a family of their own sometime next year. How…? How could he talk about having a family with her when he already had one? How could he keep something like this from her?

  Kelly threw down the statement and picked up another envelope. She opened it and saw it was another bank statement. Again, there were consistent deposits made for…

  Geneva Monroe.

  Mark didn’t have any sisters.

  Geneva Monroe.

  His parents were only both only children, so a cousin was out.

  Geneva Monroe.

  Mark Monroe.

  Geneva Monroe.

  Mark had married this woman.

  The Search Begins…

  She felt herself choke.

  Pain shot through her stomach like a missile. She doubled over, grunting in pain. Another wife. Married…married to this woman, with a son. Kelly let out a guttural howl, rocked by what she’d discovered. Her breath coming in short bursts, she straightened up and put her hand over her mouth in an effort to keep anything from flying out.

  Geneva Monroe.

  Kelly fought through the tears and picked up another piece of paper. It was a lease for somewhere in…Olympia Fields.

  708. Olympia Fields had a 708 area code.

  Kelly wanted to pass out. She wanted to run back to that no-tell motel and pull the covers over her head until this whole nightmare was over.

  She crumpled up the paper, the tears falling faster now. Mark, Mark, Mark. Married. Married to…that meant h
er marriage to Mark was probably invalid. Kelly sobbed loudly, her whole body convulsing now as she pulled one of the champagne-colored couch pillows over her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, but eventually she forced herself to go through the rest of the papers she found in the safe. Credit card statements, checking and savings accounts, all in the name of Geneva Monroe. It was obvious the other Mrs. Monroe was well taken care of.

  She began to methodically collect papers—the lease for the place in Olympia Fields, the credit card statements, the bank statements for both Mark Monroe Jr., and Geneva Monroe and the deed to their condo, statements for their own accounts—and crammed those into a folder. As she was putting all of the papers she’d found about Geneva and Mark Jr. away, she changed her mind. She didn’t have room in her purse for these, but she’d throw them in the trunk of her car. She didn’t want anyone to find out that information before it was necessary—if at all.

  She looked at her watch. Sam Gordon. Well, she’d already missed that meeting, and she would have to reschedule it for later, because she had to make a trip to Olympia Fields.

  She hastily rearranged the couch pillows and straightened up everything else on Mark’s desk, not wanting anyone to know she’d been there. Satisfied, she walked over to the door and, before she stepped out, looked out to make sure it was empty. She pulled the door shut behind her and began to walk back towards the elevators when the nausea hit. She dropped her purse and all the folders as she sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. She barely made it to one of the gleaming white toilets before she threw up in it. She stood over it, dry heaving. When she was sure she was done, she flushed, ran some cold water over her face, rinsed out her mouth, and took a mint out of the silver bowl on the counter.

  Kelly tottered out of the bathroom and collected her things before she began once again to make her way to the elevators. Her throat was raw, like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. She passed Portia’s desk and then walked backwards a bit before she turned around and stood over it. She grabbed a few Kleenex and then went out to the elevator. Once again, she didn’t have to wait for a car, and she was back into the garage within moments. Shaking, she threw the files from the second safe into her trunk and hopped into her car for the trip out to Olympia Fields.

  And The Questions Continue…

  Shelia Stevens got the knock on the door she’d been dreading all morning. She was standing in her kitchen pouring coffee when it happened. She and her husband, Gary, gave each other an uneasy look before he went to open the door.

  A handsome, young-looking guy with spiky, dirty blond hair was standing outside accompanied by a slightly older, somewhat chunky, auburn-haired woman.

  “Detective Hanson, Chicago PD, this is my partner, Detective Martin. We’d like to speak with Shelia Stevens. Is she home?”

  Gary eyed them suspiciously. “You got some ID?” he asked.

  The pair whipped out badges and flashed them at Gary.

  “Is Mrs. Stevens home?” Hanson repeated as he placed his badge in his jacket pocket.

  “What is this all about?”

  “We’d like to discuss that with Mrs. Stevens,” Didi said.

  By this point, Shelia, who had been standing just behind Gary, rolled her eyes and decided to get this over with. She poked her head over Gary’s shoulder.

  “I’m Mrs. Stevens. Can I help you?”

  “May we come in? Still a little chilly out here, even if it is May,” Hanson said, trying to make a joke.

  He must be good cop, Shelia thought to herself as she took in the stern, somewhat dowdy appearance of his partner. She’d written numerous best-selling suspense novels and had seen enough cops in action to pick up what he was trying to put down.

  Without a word, Shelia waved her arm indicating they should come in. As they made their way into the Stevens’ living room, Gary stared them down before leaning against a living room wall to keep watch over the proceedings.

  Shelia lowered her size two, 5’4” frame down onto the living room couch and slid one hand through her long, silky black hair. She picked a fuzz ball from her grey sweatpants as she crossed one leg over the other and jiggled her foot, the early morning sun catching the silvery pink nail polish on her fingers. Hanson pursed his lips as he prepared to question her.

  “Shelia Stevens. My wife is a big fan of your work.”

  “Great,” Shelia said, not sure what kind of response he was trying to evoke from her, so she just stared at him. He cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. Stevens, this won’t take long. We just have a few questions for you about Kelly Ross. I understand you two are good friends?”

  “We’re best friends,” Shelia answered slowly.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “We met for lunch around eleven-thirty yesterday then did a little shopping.”

  Hanson nodded to himself. “What time did you two leave each other?”

  “Probably around three.”

  “How long have you known each other?”

  “Since high school.”

  “Talk all the time?”

  “Isn’t that what best friends do?” Shelia responded.

  “Oh, then you’ve talked to her by now.”

  Shelia hesitated. “Yes,” she responded, drawing the word out a bit.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me where she is?” Hanson grinned.

  “I don’t know where she is. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “When was that? That you talked to her I mean.”

  Shelia shrugged. “Early this morning.”

  “Well, if she didn’t say where she was, did she say where she was going?”

  Shelia narrowed her eyes at Hanson. “Even if she did, I don’t think I’d tell you, do you?”

  Hanson chuckled. “Well, Mrs. Stevens, I don’t think I have to tell you—given your line of work—that it’s a felony to aid and abet a wanted criminal, so my guess is you would tell me so you could keep your own freedom.”

  Shelia gave Hanson a steely stare for a few seconds before she answered. “No. She didn’t tell me where she was going.”

  “Tell me—how would you describe the Monroe marriage?”

  Shelia inhaled. “It was very happy. Very loving. They were very much in love.”

  “Was Mark Monroe having an affair?”

  Shelia pursed her lips. “Yes.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Kelly told me.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did she tell you for how long?”

  “I don’t think she knew how long.”

  “Do you think it’s possible Mrs. Monroe found out about this affair and killed him in a fit of rage?”

  Shelia almost laughed. Now he was trying to provoke her. “I suppose anyone would feel that way if they found out their spouse was messing around. I don’t think that makes Kelly any different from anyone.” She cocked her head to the side. “Are we through here? My coffee’s getting cold.”

  Hanson gave Shelia a wry smile. “Just about. What was Mark Monroe like?”

  Shelia let out a deep sigh. “Outgoing. Fun. Charming. Whip-smart. Would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him too…even if it cost three hundred dollars.”

  “What about Mrs. Monroe?” Didi Martin asked.

  Shelia smiled and leaned closer to the detectives. “Fluent in four languages. Sophisticated. Brilliant. She’s been at the top of every game she’s ever played. Don’t think because she’s a ‘supermodel’ that she’s stupid. She’s razor-sharp.” Shelia leaned back. “Now are we through here?”

  Didi cleared her throat. “For now.”

  Hanson reached into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Here’s my card. Call me if you hear from Mrs. Monroe.”

  Shelia took the card, and Gary escorted them out. He walked back into the living room, and he and Shelia hugged each other.

  “You know you have to call them, right? I mean if she calls
you back?” Gary said.

  “Then I won’t answer the phone.”

  “Uh-huh. Good luck with that.”

  Shelia leaned against her husband’s sturdy frame and sighed. “I just hope Kelly called Sam, because she is in deep shit.”

  Damn…

  It was early, and if he hadn’t gotten up to use the bathroom, he doubted if he would have even heard his cell phone ring. Groaning, he pulled it out of the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging over the back of a chair. It was his wife.

  “Hey, baby,” he answered. “Why you calling me so early? Something wrong?”

  His wife was crying. “Mark. It’s Mark. He’s dead,” she sobbed, her voice breaking.

  He felt like a balloon someone had popped with a pin as he tried to understand the words he’d just heard.

  “What do you mean ‘dead?’ Was he in an accident, what?” He heard his voice become a reedy whistle at that last word.

  “Something about his wife. She’s wanted for questioning. They think it was her.”

  He sat down on the bed and held his head in his hand. “Damn!” he yelled out. “Damn!” He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “I’m stuck here for the next couple of days. I can’t do anything until I get back.”

  “Just be careful. Please. Who knows what might happen.”

  He sighed, knowing his wife was right. “Yeah…yeah, I know. Alright. Just keep me posted if you hear anything else.”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He turned his phone off, feeling sick to his stomach. He doubled over, clutching his mid-section.

  Goddamn.

  Bad News…

  Roy Monroe was enjoying a quiet cup of coffee along with his Sunday paper when he saw it. He set the steaming mug down so suddenly, some of the liquid spilled over the sides, stinging his fingers. He held a paper towel around them as he leaned closer to look at the story on the third page of the Indianapolis Star.