Sweet Little Lies

by Bianca Sloane

  “Wow,” she whispered as she examined her face from different angles, checking for streaks and irregularities. It was perfect. No one would think she was Kelly Ross, former supermodel. She put on two t-shirts before pulling on a long sleeved black jersey cotton shirt, careful that the sleeves reached the bottom of her wrists. She stepped into a pair of dark jeans and cinched them at the waist with the cheap plastic belt they’d come with. She pulled on a pair of white socks and shoved her feet into some canvas tennis shoes she’d run a razor over and smeared with makeup in an attempt to make them look a little lived in. Following the motto Mark’s secretary, Portia, seemed to live by, she’d bought all the clothes about two sizes too big to disguise her thin frame. Kelly took one last look in the mirror, stunned at the transformation. She really had no idea who this person was.

  Shaking herself back to the present, she scurried around the room, making sure she’d removed all evidence of having been there. She scooped up the plastic bag containing her clothes and ponytail and all the hair dye evidence. She sheathed her hands in yellow rubber gloves before she scoured the tub with some Ajax and a scrub sponge she’d bought to make sure there were no traces of black dye in the tub. She took the towels she’d used and dumped those in the plastic bag as well. She did a quick touchup job on her hands and face before taking one final look around, satisfied she had everything. She gathered up her purse and keys and slowly opened the door of the room.

  Escape…

  It was still dark outside, and hardly anyone was out on the street. Kelly jogged over to her car and got in. She’d dump everything once she got where she was going. She’d looked in the phonebook the night before and found there was a Kinko’s in the Marriott on Higgins Road. She pulled into the parking lot, ran inside the lobby, and found it. She logged onto a computer, called up the American Airlines Web site and, using her AMEX, purchased a ticket for New York, leaving that morning at seven-fifteen. She then called up the Continental site and purchased a ticket for Miami, leaving at eight-twelve. A United flight to L.A. was leaving at nine and, because she liked round numbers, she bought a fourth ticket from Delta to San Francisco leaving at ten-thirty. She printed out the four itineraries and left, tossing the plastic bag in a trashcan in the lobby.

  She got back in her car, hopped on the Kennedy, and started driving alongside the Blue Line. Rush hour was just starting, and Kelly kept glancing at the clock in the dash, her nerves stretched as taut as guitar strings. Finally, she exited, parking in a residential neighborhood near the Harlem station. She opened the glove compartment and threw the phone inside before she grabbed her purse and the large canvas tote she’d bought to schlep all her Wal-Mart purchases in, along with all of the financial papers she’d retrieved from Mark’s office.

  Clutching her bags, she sprinted to the station, purchased an El card, and made her way down to the platform to wait for the train to take her to O’Hare. She arrived and blended in with all the other early morning travelers. She walked briskly to terminal three where American was located. She went to the ticket kiosk and checked in for the first flight. Kelly proceeded to three more terminals and checked in for three more flights. No TSA agent came running over to pull her off to the side, no alarms went off, no airline ticket agent came over to detain her.

  Her luck held.

  By the time the police figured out those ticket purchases were bogus, she’d be long gone.

  She hoped.

  Kelly ran outside and caught a cab for Union Station. She paid cash for a train ticket to New Orleans leaving at eight-thirty. She walked right by several cops, and none of them paid her any attention. She grabbed a muffin to nibble on, then went to the bathroom where she stayed in a stall right up until it was time for her to board the train. The train was running express to New Orleans and was supposed to arrive late afternoon, early evening. She’d purchased a club car berth and locked the door. Exhausted, she watched the scenery of the country whiz by her at a dizzying pace, not really seeing any of it. Kelly chewed on her newly short nails and thought to herself how relieved she would be when this was all over.

  Tricked Again…

  “Damn!”

  Hanson slammed down his phone. Kelly Ross was playing games with him, and he didn’t like when people played games with him. She’d purchased four plane tickets to four corners of the country and had checked in for all four flights, but not a single ticket agent had stopped her. They’d scoured every parking lot and garage at the airport for her car and nothing. They had staked out every gate for every flight she’d purchased a ticket for, and she never showed up. Hanson kicked his desk chair, boiling inside. This was absolute bullshit. He was more determined than ever to catch her.

  It had now become a matter of personal pride.

  Two Days Later…

  The media continued to follow the Monroe case at a breathless pace. Roy had been getting so many phone calls, he’d finally turned off his phone. He was still trying to get used to the idea of this Geneva woman. Part of him was kind of pissed off at Mark; he’d given Roy all kinds of shit for getting his girlfriend pregnant and turns out he’d done much worse. At least he’d only married one woman at a time. Roy knew he’d forgive Mark in time, but he still needed to process all that he’d learned about the big brother he’d worshipped and idolized for so many years.

  Candice had called Roy, and together they planned a small memorial service. It had been an awkward conversation, considering the circumstances. Nonetheless, the two managed to muddle through and put the service together. Roy made the decision to have Mark cremated and would scatter his ashes in Lake Michigan. He’d done so quietly the morning of the memorial service, taking a few moments alone to remember all the good times he and Mark had shared and to reflect upon what had happened to him.

  Donna Dean had offered to host mourners and have refreshments at her home, citing how much she adored Mark and wanted to do it. Roy and his fiancée, Carla, made their way to the Near North Side church where the service was being held and were stunned when they arrived. It was like a who’s who of Chicago’s movers and shakers. CEOs, millionaire athletes, newscasters who were friends of Mark’s…the list went on. Finally, when everyone was seated, Donna stood up to speak.

  “I want to thank everyone for coming today. Mark meant so much to all of us, and I think we are all trying to grasp that he’s gone.” Donna swallowed and looked over at the blown-up headshot from the Bell, Banks, and Crawford marketing department of Mark rising majestically over the mourners. She wiped a tear from her eye and began to speak once more.

  “Before we begin, I wanted to share a story about the first time I met Mark—”

  Before Donna could continue, the front door of the building blew open to reveal Geneva. Everyone began to murmur as they realized who she was. Geneva licked her lips and smiled to herself, clearly relishing the stir she was creating. She was decked out in a form-fitting, knee-length, black sequined cocktail dress and a spray of peacock feathers was tucked into her purple hairpiece. She tottered forward on purple stiletto heels, throwing an extra bump and grind into her step, as she knew all eyes were on her. Her black stockings made a noisy swish as her massive thighs rubbed against each other.

  Donna Dean, a woman not too many people tangled with, set a hard stare on Geneva.

  “This is a private service. You’ll have to leave,” she said in her most authoritative and dismissive tone.

  Geneva smiled. “Excuse me, but this is the memorial service for Mark Monroe, isn’t it?” She looked around and gave a dramatic wave of her hand. “Well, last time I checked, I was his wife—and mother of his child—so I can’t understand why I wasn’t extended a personal invitation, why I had to read about this in the newspaper.”

  Donna signaled to the security guards at the back of the church. “I’m sure you don’t want to embarrass yourself anymore than you have or continue to tarnish Mark’s image, so please, do everyone a favor and leave now.”

  The two husky security
guards were making their advance towards Geneva when she whipped around and spotted the Ross family sitting in a pew in the back.

  “Oh, no y’all didn’t,” she said, pointing at Candice. “No, you did not let that heifah’s family up in here and didn’t invite me? After that bitch killed my husband?” Geneva began to walk toward the Rosses when the beefy guards grabbed Geneva and tried to restrain her. She struggled against their grip, her rage still directed in the Ross’ direction. Roy stood up and called out Geneva’s name. She stopped and turned to look at Roy, who stepped out into the aisle and walked toward her.

  “Mark?” she whispered.

  Roy shook his head. “No, I’m Roy, Mark’s brother.”

  “Oh, damn, y’all look like twins.”

  He took a deep breath. “Look, Geneva, I’m sure you loved my brother very much, and you know he wouldn’t want you doing any of this. If you leave now, there won’t be any trouble. Please…do it for Mark.”

  She was silent, seeming to contemplate what he was saying. She sniffed.

  “Fine, but only because you and I are family.”

  Roy gave a tight smile and a slight nod. “I think that would be best.” He leaned toward her and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I scattered Mark’s ashes in Lake Michigan…if you want to say goodbye.”

  Geneva looked at Roy for a moment before she straightened up and smiled. “I think I will.” She turned to walk out, the security guards following close behind. Once again, she spotted the Ross family and stopped in front of them, sizing them up. She worked up a wallop of spit in her mouth and flung it in Candice’s direction. The phlegmy wad landed on the collar of her tasteful black suit.

  “Oh,” Candice uttered, shocked.

  Harry Ross lunged for Geneva, and Stacy Ross yanked at her father’s arm. Geneva let out a huge laugh, and the crowd began to titter once more. A sports anchor from one of the local stations was sitting in front of the Rosses and offered Candice his handkerchief. The two security guards hustled Geneva outside just as a police car pulled up.

  “Ma’am, you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace,” the young officer said as he began to pull out his handcuffs.

  “Stop it!” Geneva yelled. “Let go of me! I was just trying to go to my husband’s memorial service!”

  The two cops made eye contact with the security guards, who shook their heads and made a slicing motion across their necks. She was shoved into the back of the patrol car, screaming the entire time.

  •

  No one had seen Hanson slip into the back of the church for the service. He had to shake his head and chuckle a bit over Geneva’s little performance; it was all so predictable.

  It took ten minutes for everyone to calm down and return to their seats so the service could resume. Hanson decided to stand just outside the door and listen. After Kelly’s little stunt to throw him off her trail, he thought she might show up, but nothing.

  People told some very funny, very touching stories about Mark Monroe. Almost made Hanson wish he’d known the guy—except for that bigamist and con artist thing. He walked out just as the service was ending and headed back to the station.

  Two Days Earlier…

  Kelly stretched and shook her head to wake herself up. The train had pulled into New Orleans. She pulled out her compact and touched up the makeup she’d put on that morning, frowning at herself, still in awe over this strange new woman staring back at her. She grabbed her purse and canvas bag before she opened the door and stepped out into the passageway of the train to make her way outside. Even though it was evening, the humidity hung low and hot in the Big Easy, and Kelly instantly felt a trickle of sweat scamper down her back. She walked over to the station attendant obscured beneath a bushy beard and scraggly eyebrows and encased behind a dirty plastic partition.

  “Excuse me, do you know where I could get a cab?”

  Grizzly Adams pushed a business card toward her. “Them’s cabs on there. Payphone’s over there,” he said, pointing to a lone payphone at the end of the platform.

  Kelly smiled at him. “Thank you.”

  She swung the tote over her shoulder and walked toward the payphone.

  “People still use payphones?” she mumbled to herself as she searched the bottom of her purse for some change. She picked up the handset, and it almost slipped out of her hand, it was so greasy. Grimacing as though she’d swallowed a lemon, Kelly wiped her hand on her pants and inserted the coins she’d found in her purse. She ordered a cab and then went over to a bench to wait. She leaned back against the smooth concrete wall and looked around for the cab. Surprisingly, in all her travels, Kelly had never been to New Orleans. There was still no sign of her cab, and she let out a deep and tired sigh. About fifteen minutes passed before she saw a yellow cab round the corner and head her way.

  “Finally,” she said, longing for the availability of cabs in Chicago. She looked down with a sheepish smile on her face as she thought of her city. Her town. Her home. She’d lived all over the world and yet people were always somewhat surprised that she had moved back to Chicago. She would always give a small, knowing smile and reply, “It’s home.”

  She stood and signaled for the driver to stop. She jogged over, opened the door, and slid in.

  “Hi,” she said, affecting a slight Southern accent. “I just moved here from Texas, and I need a cheap motel room. Can you recommend somethin’ in the Quarter?”

  “Oh sure. There’s the Royale, right off Bourbon Street. Used to be a women’s hotel. I’ll take you over there.”

  The driver pulled off and hurtled down the street toward the French Quarter. “So what brings you to the Big Easy?”

  Kelly smiled. “Oh, just need a new start.”

  “Where in Texas are you from?”

  She thought fast. “Houston. You ever been there?” she asked, praying he hadn’t.

  “Nope. I been to Dallas though. You been to Dallas?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Believe it or not, I sure haven’t.”

  She looked out the window, soaking in what she saw. Night was beginning to fall, and the city of New Orleans was starting to yawn to life. People clad in colorful costumes, the unmistakable strains of zydeco swirling in the air, drag queens, prostitutes, overwhelmed tourists clogging the streets. There was an overall feeling of it being time to get it started. So what if it was only Tuesday?

  Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the motel, and Kelly handed the driver a twenty, telling him to keep the change. She stepped out into the street and ambled inside to get a room. She fanned herself, feeling as though she would dissolve into a puddle under the sweltering heat. She could only imagine what it was like during the day when the sun was out. The clerk slid a key card toward her, and she grabbed it and walked to her room. She locked the door behind her, threw her bag and purse down, flopped on the bed, and looked around.

  Of all the shit holes she’d been staying in the past few days, this one was by far the worst. The muddy brown carpet was splotched with dark black stains whose origins Kelly didn’t even want to guess. The stale stench of cigarette smoke punched the air, and the faded yellow wallpaper with small blue flowers peeled away from the wall as if it were trying to escape. The lone double bed in the room was so hard beneath the swirling green and blue polyester quilt that Kelly checked to make sure it was actually a mattress and not a block of wood. She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. There were a jumble of thoughts spinning around her head, and she was trying to stay still long enough for them to stop so she could focus on what needed to be done.

  She pulled out the folder that she’d been doodling in at the library and opened it to the inside flap. She stared at Mark and Geneva’s names where she’d written them down, shifting her gaze over to the other name. She knew that person held the key to the puzzle of Mark and Geneva and required a personal visit instead of a phone call. She looked at her watch. She hadn’t had anything to eat since the muffin at Union Station, so she decided to venture out and f
ind something. Before she did though, she gave herself a check in the mirror to make sure her makeup wasn’t sliding off. Kelly picked up her purse and, in what had become a habit the past few days, checked the hallway before she stepped outside. She padded softly down the hall and out onto the bustling street.

  It would be easier to get lost in a city like New Orleans. It engulfed you, swallowed you whole, and you went along for the ride. She found a greasy spoon diner and slipped inside. She slurped down the glass of ice-cold water the waitress set down in front of her and thought about Mark. Had he ever come here? Maybe even sat at this same booth? Subconsciously, she ran her hand across the cracked vinyl seat next to her, the sharp, upturned points pricking her fingertips, imagining he was sitting there next to her.

  Before long, the waitress placed a steaming plate of bacon, eggs, and French toast in front of her, and Kelly scarfed it down. She realized it was the first meal she’d had in days that hadn’t been out of a paper bag or plastic wrapper. She wiped her mouth, paid the bill, and slowly walked back to her hotel, drinking in the twinkling lights and fluorescent glow of the city. Her head was filled with thoughts of Mark and of the journey that had brought her here. Kelly felt a tear slide out of the corner of her eye. With a heavy heart, she inserted her key card into the lock on her room door. She turned the deadbolt on the door, let her purse drop to the floor, shuffled over to the bed, and fell into it. She cried herself to sleep that night, images of Mark filling her senses.

  All True…

  The sunlight filtered through the cheap, plastic blinds of Kelly’s roach motel room, waking her up. She rolled over and groaned. She’d fallen asleep in her clothes, and the metal springs from the so-called mattress had bored a hole in her spine. She sat up and tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind. She had a lot to do today. Yawning, she reached her hands up over her head, her mind shifting into high gear.