by Ann Minnett
Fifteen Years of Lies
By Ann Minnett
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to an actual person, living or dead, place, or thing is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017
Ann Minnett
The Lucas Group
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Fifteen Years of Lies
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also Available by Ann Minnett:
CHAPTER 1
Two police cruisers pulled away from the lakeside mansion, leaving an insurance agent’s car alone on the circular drive. Lark reached for a cigarette but thought better of it, shifted into second gear, and lurched to the right and around back to the servant’s entrance.
In the service vestibule, Lark kicked off her boots and dropped her bag inside the laundry room door. Upstairs in the kitchen, Jan Hensen and husband Jack vied for the agent’s attention. She padded toward the stairs, stocking feet sinking into the rec room’s plush carpet. She dreaded going up there.
Who's the first person suspected of theft? The housekeeper, that's who.
She climbed the steps slowly, without a sound. The ruckus had moved from the kitchen to the den that overlooked Whitefish Lake. Lark followed their voices and peeked around the corner. Agent Tom Clark held a camera, listening and polite, while Jan gripped his sleeve and implored, “Will we ever get them back?”
Jack Hensen, heavier than Lark remembered him, stood behind the grand piano and surveyed his boathouse and dock surrounded by lake ice. Lark rarely ran into the rich husband who traveled for his Alberta-based oil company, but she knew his waist size—forty-six, that he drank Wild Turkey, and that he cut his toenails in the comfort of his leather recliner, leaving shards piled on his side table. His athletic past played out in trophies, statues, and plaques displayed in his study. They were a bitch to dust.
Lark hung back in the doorway, grateful to be ignored for the moment. She scanned the familiar room. A bent bracket for the flat screen TV dangled from a wall. The thief had shattered the glass door of Jack’s display cabinet and ripped the antique guns from their mounts. Furniture lay upended. The thief took easy-to-pawn items. Larks eyes darted to the mantel where jewel-encrusted crossed swords once held the prized position in the room. Gone. A moment of guilt flooded her for being happy she’d never have to polish those ornate monstrosities again.
The two men trailed nebbish Jan around the vast room as she pointed out missing artifacts and digital equipment. She blew her nose into a wadded tissue, stuffed it up her sleeve, and kept talking. Jack’s fists balled in his pockets, a bundle of rage ready to unleash.
When the trio came close to Lark, she stepped forward and said, "Jan, can I start cleaning?"
Jan looked haggard, approaching Lark with open arms for a hug.
Lark braced herself for the contact.
"Look what they did," Jan said, melting into an embrace like a child seeking comfort from a parent. Lark patted her client's pillowed shoulder while mashed against the flabby loose breasts under her shirt. “I’m so glad you could come at the last minute. It’s been just awful.”
"Morning, Lark." Tom smiled warmly then returned to business. They graduated from Whitefish High School together seventeen years ago. "Don't go into the living room yet—"
"They stabbed our furniture,” Jan whined in disbelief.
“I’m so sorry.” Lark meant it.
"—I still need to take photos there and in here." Tom turned abruptly to snap photos of the den.
"I'll start downstairs then." Lark’s knees shook, her stomach knotted. But why so nervous? No one accused her of this break-in. She located the vacuum cleaner in the mudroom downstairs where she’d left it last Wednesday, along with buckets and the cloths she had laundered and folded. She vacuumed the rec room, under the pool table and around the bar and bar shelves that rivaled McCord's Tavern downtown. No doubt she’d been the last person in this part of the house.
Easy maintenance, easy money.
Not for the first time did she wonder what Jan did all day. Lark scoured the bar sink, ticking off Jan's possible diversions. Let’s see, a knitting basket usually sat beside Jan's chair in the now wrecked den. She attended yoga classes. She bragged about her cooking but rarely left evidence in the kitchen. Had Jan aged out of paddle boarding in summer and skiing in winter? Hers seemed like a cushy life, except for the occasional burglary.
Lark pondered the burdens of wealth. Possessions. Keeping up with stuff.
Enough of this. Lark loved her simple life. She thanked God for providing what she needed and not everything she wanted. Always in hindsight and often at the time, life flowed a bit better when her wants remained unfulfilled.
“There will be enough money,” she reminded herself.
* * *
Three hours later Lark said, "Jan, I have to leave. Should I come back for the regular Wednesday appointment this week?"
"Yeah, you'd better." Jan touched the damp walls where Lark had wiped away sticky remains of soft drinks and textured layers of the custom plaster as well. The thief or thieves had been destructive. "The police promised to dust the gun case and all of Jack's stuff in the den, you know, for prints. So that area will be a mess when they finish on Tuesday."
Jan’s body sagged. Would Lark age that significantly in twenty years? They both had scrubbed and straightened what they could, that is when Jan wasn't reminding Jack where to find the downstairs thermostat, or explaining her file system for house documents, or listing names of people with routine access to their home. Across the afternoon Lark had come to understand that Jack was the one she should wonder about. What in the hell did he do at home since Jan made his life a breeze?
Jan hugged Lark again.
"See you at nine on Wednesday." Lark hopped downstairs to retrieve her jacket and boots. She sat on a low bench designed for removing and putting on shoes, pausing to clench and open her rough hands. While she massaged in hand cream, she surveyed the sparkling laundry room. The dryer thumped rhythmically, rolling plush rose-colored towels from the master bath that she would fluff and fold on Wednesday.
Her phone pinged. A text, from Zane checking in as directed.
Home
She pecked with an index fingertip:
Break-in @ Hensens. Mess! Class then 1 hr @ Howard’s then home.
She’d be late for her four o’clock class at the college, if she made it at all. She started to put her phone away when this came through:
What did they say
Huh? She hated communicating with him like this. She typed:
Call Roma Bros take-out. I'll be late.
K… R they pissed?
What? Her fifteen-year-old barely spoke to her in person but went on and on in texts. She didn't have time for it. She typed:
Homework! Pizza. Save me some.
She
pulled out of the Hensens’ heated driveway onto icy Wisconsin Avenue with every intention of driving to Kalispell for her American Government class, a requirement for her associate’s degree. She lacked twelve credits—twelve damn credits—before pursuing her original love of journalism at the University of Montana in Missoula. She’d finish this spring semester, but her work schedule and family almost seemed to want her to fail.
Like now. Class this morning. Back in Whitefish to help Jan when Lark thought she’d have time to study. Class again this afternoon. A final office to clean before going home.
She felt like crying.
“Screw government,” she said and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, watching an ember float onto her thigh and burn a hole in her tights. Dammit! She hated smoking. She cracked the passenger window and kept the cigarette out of sight at her side, further hating herself for hiding it. Living in this small town, every last person knew her business—everyone but tourists. She avoided them.
Lark’s old Outback eased into Flathead Interior’s plowed parking lot in waning light. She got out and scooted across the treacherous ice to raise the hatch and retrieve her cleaning gear.
Linda Howard stepped outside and shouted, “I’ll leave it unlocked for you.”
Lark waved and slammed the hatch shut. She brushed grime from her cherished bumper stickers. Montana Native, proclaimed the peeling sticker next to a rainbow Peace sign. It's Still Big Mountain was centered below them. The newest addition to her collection stated: Tofu Never Screams. Lark should have been a hippie like her parents.
Streetlights switched on as Lark pulled into her condo's back carport an hour later. She balanced her backpack crammed with unopened books, heavy purse, and cleaning rags as she tramped through eight inches of crusty snow to her back door. So much for the fifty-five dollar HOA dues she paid each month. Her meth-addicted property manager would receive another email tonight. Shovel the damn walkways!
Inside the kitchen door, two wedges of Meat Lovers pizza hardened in the open box on the island. Zane's music blared from his room. Naturally, he hadn't ordered vegetarian for her or cleaned up after himself. After a long day that started at 5:00 a.m., she snapped. She pounded on Zane’s door with one hand and shoved it open with the other. He hunched at his open window, smoking a joint and giggling into his phone. Plaid boxers protected him from winter's draft.
An antique sword lay on his unmade bed.
Alarm fueled Lark's lunge for the sword. She fumbled with the hilt, tangled in dirty bedding. The top sheet ripped cleanly to the hemmed edge when she jerked it away.
Zane flicked the joint out the window and fanned the pungent smoke clinging to him. His movements stayed remarkably contained, contemplative, despite pounding guitars and heavy pulsating base.
The gleaming sword point clunked to the floor at Lark's side like a fancy damn cane. "What the hell, Zane?"
He cranked the casement window closed. "Let me have it, Mom." She read his lips in the din.
"Like hell," she said, clutching the hilt with both hands, and dragging the tip across the cheap carpet as she backed away. A line in the sand. He sauntered toward her. Thunderous music pounded bricks at her temples, blocking her thoughts. Both hands leveled the blade at his navel like an old-world umbilical connecting them. Her threat for him to keep his distance—a farce—and they both knew it.
Zane swatted at the thick blade, and the axis of their lives shifted. Teenage intimidation overcame parental discipline and the illusion of control.
She screamed above the din, "What have you done?"
His nub-bitten nails unpeeled her fingers from the grip. It felt warm, the hilt, when she first grabbed it. Zane had been handling it, playing before she came home. Had she raised a man-child who lived in some damn fantasy world?
His mirthless grin spread slowly, synchronized with back-pedaling as if through deep snow. He tilted the sword, point down, into the corner of his small closet, in line with his Little Leaguer aluminum bat.
He snugged the door closed.
"What else do you have in there?" Lark reached past him, but Zane hooked his arm around her waist, spinning her onto his unmade bed. It stunk of dirty feet. Zane wouldn't let her touch his stuff, not even to wash his sheets.
She slapped his arm. "Let me up!"
His spidery fingers pinned her shoulder to the bed while her body flailed. Somehow, he grabbed both of her hands in one of his, rendering her helpless. His slow-motion power amazed her. Worse was his sad expression, as if he really didn't want to manhandle her, but she forced him. Sweat popped over his lip with the effort of subduing her, but his shaggy hair swayed in time to the relentless music that pounded in her chest.
She coughed. His grip burned her wrists.
"You’re hurting me."
A light sparked in his dark brown eyes. He released her and stood quickly. He rubbed his thighs.
Lark covered her sore shoulder, too late in protecting. Angry and in shock, she scooted up the mattress to Zane's scratched headboard.
Zane continued to rub his bare thighs, pinking the skin. Eyes twinkled and an affable smile pulled his chapped lips apart. "Don't come in here again." Screeching guitar and drums mostly drowned his words.
Anger overcame her surprise at his behavior. She sprang off the bed toward the horrible speakers. She twisted the volume knob to off, breaking it in her hand.
He did nothing.
She threw his iPod against the wall.
He laughed. "I got another one."
Come to think about it, Lark couldn't recall where he'd gotten that one.
"You broke into the Hensens'."
He said nothing, but his fuzzy lip curled, showing the braces on his upper teeth.
"You've jeopardized everything I've worked for—my reputation and our livelihood."
Her rage must have softened his heart because he approached with arms extended. "Come on, Mom. No big deal."
She cowered as he came for her. Cowering from her own unpredictable son. Her arms drew into her chest. She whimpered. More confused than afraid. Did she really think he'd hit her?
Zane enveloped her with lanky arms, squeezed hard, and lifted her off the floor. Her runny nose dripped onto his chest.
"It's okay, Mom."
Her ear to his chest, his words rumbled. The vibration made her sad.
"They're rich. They have insurance."
She remained ramrod in his arms but oddly comforted by his embrace. "Why would you steal a sword?"
"They'll never miss it." He set her down, rubbed her back in looping circles the way she did him as a little boy. "We left the jewelry and shit."
"We?"
"Forget I said that." Zane locked her in a tighter embrace and lifted her once again. "It's better you don't know." He walked her out of his room to the dining table and sat her down. He tugged at the sleeves of her jacket, easing it off her shoulders. Zane assumed complete physical control.
"Bet you're hungry," he said. The microwave started.
Stupefied by his dominance, she allowed him to pretend nothing had happened, but the aroma of warming sausage pizza nauseated her. Ding. Two pieces of sausage pizza on a paper towel appeared on the table under her bowed head.
"Do you pay attention to me at all?" She hadn't eaten meat—the flesh of any creature with a mama—since Zane was a toddler.
"I picked the sausage off," he said, opening the refrigerator. "What do you want to drink?"
His calm demeanor struck her as bizarre. Five minutes earlier, he had restrained her. Now he wanted to please her. She glanced over the bar counter at his bare chest as he busied in the kitchen. He came around the corner with a glass of iced tea for her. He looked so young. He is so young, she thought. But who is he? He placed the full glass beside the pizza, bringing the unmistakable odor of marijuana on his body to the table.
She couldn’t bear another moment in his presence. "I'm going out."
Zane didn't miss a beat. "Can I have your pizza?"
>
She nodded yes, but he had already tilted his head and crammed half a slice into his gaping mouth.
Jacket. Hat. Purse. She double-checked for car keys, a recent precaution since Zane's joy-ride in early fall. She tossed the ring of customer keys into the hall tree drawer, thought again, and dropped them into her bag, too. It weighed at least ten pounds. She wondered what else she naively left him to exploit.
"Keep the noise down," she said. "Better yet…" Lark stomped into the deafening bedroom and yanked the speakers off the shelf, snapping wires into dead silence. The ringing in her ears blared louder than the terrible music had.
She slammed the front door on her way out. She lit a cigarette and decided to walk the three blocks to McCord’s.
Furious and distracted, she slipped on rippled ice and fell to one knee. The cigarette went flying and her already ruined tights ripped. She screamed, “That does it!” attracting the attention of two men in the VFW parking lot. She waved them off and stomped on, now with tears running down her cheeks.
Lark loved her native Montana, especially their corner of the gorgeous state. She loved the cold and the deep, enduring snowfalls but hated the damn ice. No matter your age or fitness, whether you shuffled like a granny or leapt like a ballerina, the damn ice leveled all comers.
Her knee was bleeding. She should go back and change her clothes. Put a Band-Aid on her scraped knee and put on non-skid boots. But after her dramatic exit, she couldn’t go back home. She hobbled toward the thrift store’s porch and lit another cigarette. The first had smashed into the snow during her fall.
Lark blew out a mixture of cigarette smoke and frozen breath. She thought about her family. What would they have done? They were hippies, hard-working poor folks with regard for honesty but relaxed standards about drugs. Hence the name Larkspur, Lark for short. Hence her exotic birth in a tepee illegally erected by her father and uncle on the Flathead Indian Reservation near St Ignatius. Ancient tribal belief (her family descended from German immigrant farmers in Iowa) held that what the mother witnessed following birth would become the name of her child.
After a night’s labor, Patty Horne beheld no Prancing Horse, Running Wolf or Morning Star. Lark's mother first saw the spiked plant loaded with small purple flowers, and was too tired to seek out a more poetic object. It could have been worse. The correct name for Larkspur, Delphinium, would have been a cross to bear. People asked her how her younger brother got the name Skyrocket—the common name for Scarlet Gilia, a spiky red plant found everywhere in the west. And poor Lupine, Lulu for short, the baby of the family.