Fifteen Years of Lies

by Ann Minnett

  "Not yet." Lark looked out the narrow window at the conference hall. "We may need some help."

  "I'm here when you're both ready to talk." Cheryl was the most amazing woman—calm and deliberate in a crisis but a whirlwind when time to act. Cheryl and Alice, although extremely different, stood rock solid. Lark wanted to be like them when she grew up.

  "In the meantime," Cheryl relaxed a little. "Here are the newsletter updates for the website, if you please." She handed over a thumb drive with the file and a handwritten page of new donors to add to their Honor Page.

  "This won't take any time," Lark said. "I'll help sort in the storage room, too."

  "We always need that." As Lark got up to leave, Cheryl added, "You and Dee come see me soon. I want to help if I can."

  Lark used a computer in a locked closet to quickly add updates to Sister House's simple website. That done, she sorted dirty clothing for hours and wondered why people failed to wash the garments before donating them. She felt dirty handling them. But the solitary task gave her time to think.

  Mason and Zane had backed off, as had Nora and Kirk. Dee remained a loose cannon who threatened to confess everything. She wouldn’t talk willingly to Cheryl—Lark might have to drag her to Sister House in person, anything to keep Dee from confessing to police. Lark wouldn't let her take the blame. They needed Cheryl, and they needed an attorney—Alice.

  She left at noon, grabbed a burrito, and ate half of it on the way to Dee's salon. She found her friend sitting quietly in the break room by herself.

  "I've been thinking," Lark said and sat, too.

  "It's been killer this morning." Dee paled. "Busy, I mean. I'm taking a breather."

  "I talked to Cheryl." Dee looked at Lark for the first time. "She said you told her about Missouri."

  "A long time ago."

  "Does she know about Rob?"

  Dee's gaze dropped to the comb in her hand. She flinched as if surprised to see it there.

  "Dee, I have to talk to somebody about what happened, but I won't do it without you. And I won't let you take all the blame."

  "I'm cracking up." Red streaks covered Dee’s arms where her nails had clawed at itchy skin.

  "Let's talk to Cheryl before you go to the police." Lark touched Dee's forearm lightly. "And we'll need a lawyer." Dee said nothing. "I'll finish moving the t-shirt shop around four this afternoon. Why don't I pick you up, and we'll go talk to Cheryl together?"

  "Yes. Of course, you're right,” Dee said. She stood and walked out of the room, and Lark wanted to cry.

  The rain fell more insistently as Lark crossed over to her condo to pick up the mail. Checking her phone, she had ten minutes to be on time for the one o'clock appointment. Her mailbox contained catalogs and a Green Sheet. She jammed the mail into her bag and ran back across the street to her car.

  Just thinking about talking to Cheryl relieved Lark’s worry. She and Dee simply needed to get their stories straight and decide how much they'd reveal to their wise friend.

  * * *

  A thin windowed envelope from DNAnalytics, Inc. fell out of a Sundance Catalog when Lark dumped her bag of cleaning paraphernalia in her kitchen sink around three-thirty. Dee's car hadn't moved from the salon, assuring Lark a few minutes to clean herself up and change clothes. She rehearsed several versions of a plea for Dee not to act too hastily and grew almost confident.

  The envelope changed everything.

  In all the drama, she had forgotten the DNA test. Her hands trembled, tearing the flap. She nervously glanced out her front window as she fumbled to see Dee's red Corolla speed away from the stop sign, turning south on First Street. Toward the police department. Lark was terrified that Dee would act without her, although when had she ever not ridden Lark's coattails? Unfair, perhaps, but true.

  She jammed the flimsy envelope into her much lighter bag and ran out front to her car. She could guess Dee’s destination and had time to head her off. The major stoplight intersection in town trapped Lark between two huge pickups. Scared and worried and becoming more furious by the second, Lark felt around in her bag for the envelope. She slid a finger under the half-torn flap as the light turned green. Steering with her left knee, she opened the single piece of trifold paper.

  Rob's DNA offered no match to Zane's. Rob was not her son's father.

  He was a rapist, but not Zane’s sperm donor.

  Lark tailgated a slow-moving pickup for blocks until she turned right, left, right, and arrived at the municipal building housing city police. Dee's red car was not parked in the small lot. Lark waited with the engine on. Could her shortcut have made this much difference in time? Lark waited two more minutes and circled the parking lot. She phoned Dee on the chance that her friend might answer, and she did.

  "Where are you?" Lark scanned all cross streets. "Did you change your mind?"

  "Hardly."

  "Then tell me, where are you?"

  "On my way to Kalispell."

  "The Sheriff's office?"

  "Yes." Dee's car made a lot of road noise in the background. "Rob's cabin was in county jurisdiction."

  "Wait for me!" Lark threw her phone into the passenger seat and sped toward the highway.

  She caught up with Dee in front of the Flathead County Courthouse. Dee carried a bright purple shoulder bag, and stomped past barricades toward the glass doors. Lark swerved her car into a loading zone twenty feet away.

  She hopped out of the car and shouted, "Dee, wait."

  "I've made up my mind." Dee backed toward the building. "I have it figured out."

  "Rob isn’t Zane's father." Lark waved the DNA paper. "I sent off samples last week after… you know. Dee, he’s not the father. He lied to us."

  Dee's stricken eyes stared through Lark. "You mean I shot and killed an innocent man?"

  Lark had been so relieved at the DNA results, she hadn't considered the ramifications. But why? How did that help? What did it prove?

  "No! He had the earring. He was one of the rapists. He raped you. But you can't go in there without a lawyer or advocate or someone."

  "I'm going in. Don't try to stop me."

  "Oh, Dee. This isn't right."

  Dee's hands shook so hard reaching for the door handle, her fingers slipped off. She whimpered.

  "Wait," Lark said. "I'll move my car and go in with you."

  Dee sat on a stone bench in the shade, as though this outcome suited her. Lark spread her hands and arms in front of her, indicating stay there.

  Dee gripped her purse with both hands like a frightened old woman. She’d wait.

  Lark zipped into a close parking space across the street. She scanned her phone contacts and called Alice's cell phone. No answer. She left a message to come to the sheriff's department because she and Dee were about to confess to murder and arson.

  She joined Dee on the bench under the sheriff's portico, the stone surface chilled Lark's butt through her tight jeans. Still, she lingered to plead with Dee to wait for Alice or to reconsider all together.

  Dee wasn't swayed. She said, "They're bound to find traces of the body soon, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life waiting for that shoe to drop. I've waited my whole life for the people I love to clean up my messes." Dee inhaled deeply, more at peace than she had seemed in weeks.

  "I can't let you take all the blame."

  "But I want to." Dee gripped Lark’s cold hand. "I can finally do something for you and Zane. Think of it as a gift."

  Lark squeezed her friend's fingers and released them. "You know, it doesn't work that way. I thought a lot about what Zane said the other night. Last night? Whenever the hell it was. It’s no gift to see you take the blame." Truth to tell, she lacked the will to fight on. "Look what our lies did to him—the absolute last person we wanted to harm."

  Dee's lined face softened. "We were driven by fear. It's time to stop."

  "I want to talk to Zane before we go in. Give me one minute." Lark took out her phone and stepped to the curb.

/>   When Zane answered, she asked, "Are you still at work?"

  "About an hour left." His abrupt tone made clear he was busy.

  "Dee and I are at the sheriff's office in Kalispell. She wants to confess."

  Zane sighed into the phone.

  "I can't let her go in there alone." Lark's voice quivered. "We've done terrible things to you, all in love, but the worst was hiding the truth from you." She composed herself because she had no time for tears. "I apologize from the bottom of my heart for what we put you through."

  Zane mumbled, "I should have stayed away from him."

  "Sure, but how could you? I'd have done the same under those circumstances." She gained confidence about their plan. "Nope. We’re to blame for all of it, but I wanted you to know..." Her thoughts drifted in the silence between them. "We won't mention you or Mason. She and I did this. It’s completely our fault."

  "I'm sorry, Mom."

  "Me too, Boss. I'll call or have Alice call you when we know something."

  "Do you want me to—?"

  "Do not come down here," Lark shouted. "We have people who can help us. We're going to be fine." She realized the truth of it. "Love you." She disconnected the call.

  Dee wrapped her arm around Lark's waist. "You did good." Dee hugged her and took a step toward the automatic door.

  "Before we go in there," Lark said. "I have to tell you something important. Rob might not have been dead when I set the fire. You shot him, but I may have killed him."

  CHAPTER 28

  Wednesday was Sam Sorensted's Saturday. It did not make him happy to be called into the office on his evening off. The sheriff had personally called to inform him of the puzzling confessions to murder and arson because Sam knew the alleged victim.

  Sam hurried through the delicious dinner at Fusion 406, Kalispell's fancy new restaurant and his son's employer. With regrets and growing curiosity, he declined dessert, stuck his head into the kitchen to wave goodbye to Kyle, and drove five blocks to the courthouse.

  Chewed toothpick in mouth, Sam opened the door expecting to find two conspiracy theorist nut cases. (He had said as much to the Sheriff.) With luck, he'd be free to ski Big Mountain on Thursday.

  He didn't expect to see Lark Horne seated in Interview #1. He looked through the one-way window into Interview #2 across the hall. A woman sat with clenched hands at the table, notable for her short black hair with a red streak. Back in Interview #1, Lark rubbed her temples and her whole body sagged in the plastic chair.

  Detective Christy Fain pushed back from her desk and stood as Sam entered the bullpen. "Hey, Sam," she said and shook his hand like they hadn't seen each other Monday afternoon when he clocked out. "Thanks for coming in on your day off."

  "My pleasure,” he said sarcastically. “What's this about murder and arson?"

  "It's weird." Christy stepped back to her desk to fetch a file. "We separated them right away, but they're each telling a consistent, if not bizarre, story."

  "Like what?"

  "Like confessing to a shooting and murder where there's no body, for one. And then I recognized the name of their alleged victim." She paused dramatically. “Rob Whalen.”

  "The Whalen case?" he asked, sidestepping to his own desk for his notes.

  "Right." Fain followed him, still reading from the open file. "Shooter’s name's Diedre Bennett—goes by Dee. She's in Interview #2."

  Sam nodded.

  "The other, Larkspur Horne…"

  "Larkspur?" he interrupted, smiling. "Yep, I talked to Lark a couple days ago." He flipped pages in his notebook. "She said she barely knew Rob Whalen. Her son said they went out."

  "Well, now she says she burned him up and may have burned him alive." Plain-spoken Fain rarely sensationalized. She was all business on the job with above-reproach professionalism, but even she lifted her eyebrows explaining the grisly confession. "Takes all kinds."

  “And when was this supposed to have happened?”

  Fain glanced at her notes. “Last Wednesday evening. At his home on Star Meadow Road.”

  The story didn't jibe with the woman he met on Monday. "Have you told them anything?"

  Fain shook her head. "Not a thing. Sheriff thought we'd better listen first to what they had to say. You investigated his gun shot, right?”

  “Right. He claimed to have shot himself, but he’s hinky.”

  “And the fire? What came of that?”

  “Whalen told me he fell asleep.” Sorensted circled his long arms as if to describe the scene. “The stove popped embers, and let’s see.” He checked his notebook. “Right. A box of bullets was set off in the blaze.”

  “A likely story,” Fain said, tossing her own notes back onto her desk. “But if they assaulted him as they claim, why did he accept the blame?”

  Sam pondered her question. “They obviously did not kill Rob Whalen last Wednesday. I talked to him Thursday morning at the hospital, being treated for a gunshot wound. And I gave him a warning on Saturday for threatening folks at the animal shelter. From there, he was admitted into KRMC for two days for treatment of the same wound. He maintained his story throughout.”

  “Clearly,” Fain said, “those women think he’s dead. Unless they’re fucking with us, and they don’t impress me as the type.”

  "Okay." He hitched his belt. "Did either give you a motive?"

  “Here’s where it gets interesting.” Fain lay a folder open on her desk, turning pages. "Diedre Bennett was raped by three men. She and Ms. Horne think Whalen was the rapist." She ran her finger down the page and added, "That is, one of the rapists."

  Sam's turn to raise his eyebrows. "When was this?" He couldn't recall any recent incident like that.

  "Fifteen, sixteen years ago, out of state." Christy Fain said, rapping on her desktop. "She and the Horne woman were friends at the time."

  Stymied, Sam tried to make sense of the elaborate back story and double confessions to unreported crimes. What the hell?

  "Before we muck our way through the backstory details," Fain said, "let's take them out to Whalen's place to walk us through their story."

  Sam scanned a page of notes for Rob’s phone number and punched it into his desk phone. No answer. No voicemail greeting and no option to leave a message.

  "Whalen’s not answering. He may be long gone. Until we know for sure, let’s keep them in the dark about what we know."

  "You're not telling them he’s alive?" she asked.

  "Not yet. They know something we don't." Sam clipped his badge to his dress shirt pocket. "You got a cruiser?"

  Fain grabbed her coat. "Give me a minute. You round up the ladies, and I'll meet you in the north lot."

  Sometimes Sam forgot that Fain outranked him. "Yes ma'am."

  "That's enough, Sorensted," she said, but she smiled in leaving.

  Sam introduced himself to Dee Bennett and said, “Your friend is in Interview #1. Let's go get her."

  Dee asked, "Are you arresting us now?"

  "No." He ushered her across the hall. Lark leapt out of her chair when they entered. Her eyes flashed in recognition when she saw him, and he suffered a pang of regret at the fear in her expression.

  "Hello, Ms. Horne. I'm surprised to see you here under these circumstances." He was disappointed she wore jeans. He remembered her long lanky legs. No elaborate tattoo on display this evening. "Detective Fain says you two have confessed to serious crimes." He left it at that.

  The two women stood side by side and linked arms. The guilty usually acted like tough punks, but these two appeared terrified of him. He hated that.

  Then Lark Horne straightened a little taller. "Do we need to repeat everything for you?" admired her regained dignity.

  "No," he said. "Detective Fain will fill me in, but there are discrepancies in your confessions." He waited, but it only made them more fearful, so he relented and told them. "To start with, we don't have a body."

  "Not even parts of one?" Lark asked, trembling.

  He shook
his head. "No body parts," he said and stifled a laugh. What were these women up to? "You say you left Rob Whalen in his home?"

  Lark nodded, wide-eyed.

  "No body."

  The women looked at each other, calculating wordlessly.

  "We're going to drive up there and let you two show us exactly what happened on Wednesday evening and what occurred the next day."

  "The next day? Thursday?" The dark-haired woman finally stirred. "It was all over before Thursday. We weren't there."

  "The facts don’t line up," he said. Sam Sorensted opened the door into the hallway. "Ladies, grab your coats. We're going for a ride."

  Lark blurted, "You haven't read us our rights."

  "That's because we haven't arrested you."

  "We want a lawyer," Lark said, dragging her feet. "Alice should be here any moment."

  "I'll keep that in mind if we arrest you." He directed them down the hall and to the right toward the safety door where Detective Fain warmed up the cruiser.

  He overheard Dee say, "I think I might throw up."

  She wouldn't be the first to vomit in the back seat of a cruiser, but he hoped she didn't. He tucked the file Fain had shown him under his arm, already dreading the long ride as Fain’s passenger. She was known to stop on a dime and skid around corners.

  Commotion down the admitting hall drew his attention. Christy Fain led a gray-haired couple, too self-assured to be other than lawyers. Fain's mouth pulled down, mugging for Sam’s eyes only. Lawyers, for sure.

  "Deputy Sorensted," Fain said flatly, "meet Alice and Chet Stanhope, attorneys for Ms. Horne and Ms. Bennett." When she passed, she added, "I guess we won't be taking that jaunt this evening."

  Sam recognized both attorneys—pains in the ass, reputation-wise. But that described the department's relationship with most defense attorneys.

  Alice Stanhope whispered to Lark, tapped her arm reassuringly, and approached Sam. He bent slightly to hear what she had to say. "What are the charges against my client?"

  "No charges yet," Fain answered for him. "They've confessed to homicide and arson."

  Alice Stanhope’s crepe-like eyelids flew open. "And?"