The Liar

by Nora Roberts

  out of the bedroom. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Uh-huh. When’s Sunday afternoon?”

  “Just a few days away.”

  “Don’t you look pretty!” Ada Mae exclaimed. “Doesn’t your mama look pretty, Callie?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s going on a date with Griff, and we’re going to take him on a date for a picnic on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Why, that sounds like the best time. I don’t know if the bubble maker your granddaddy’s setting up in the backyard’s going to be as much fun as all that.”

  “Bubble maker?”

  “Why don’t you go out and see?”

  “I’m going to make bubbles, Mama. Bye.” She kissed Shelby’s cheek, wiggled down and took off like a rocket, calling for her grandfather.

  “I sure appreciate you watching her again, Mama.”

  “We love every minute of it. I think your daddy’s as excited about bubbles as she is. You have a good time tonight. You got a condom in your purse?”

  “Oh, Mama.”

  Ada Mae just pulled one out of her pants pocket. “In case. You put this in your purse, and I’ll have one less thing to worry about.”

  “Mama, I’m just going to see his house and have dinner.”

  “Things happen, and a smart woman’s prepared when they do. Be a smart woman now, Shelby.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I won’t be late.”

  “You stay as long as you want.”

  With the condom tucked in her purse, Shelby started out. She’d just opened the van door when Forrest pulled up.

  “Where are you off to in a yellow dress?”

  “I’m just having dinner with Griff.”

  “Where?”

  She rolled her eyes. “At his house because I want to see it, and I’ll be late if you’re going to give me the third degree.”

  “He’ll wait. The sheriff cleared me to let you know. Richard wasn’t Jake Brimley, either.”

  Her pulse jumped. She actually felt the leap in her throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Jake Brimley, with the Social Security number he used, died at the age of three in 2001. Richard created the identification, or paid to have it created.”

  “You mean . . . he used that name, but he wasn’t that person?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who was he then? God’s sake, how many names can one man have?”

  “I can’t say—I don’t know,” Forrest corrected. “We’re working on it. I’ll do what I can to find out, Shelby. I figure you’d want to know, one way or the other.”

  “I would. I don’t know how I can put it all away until I know. Did you find anything else out about the murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, we had someone come in today. She was in the parking lot—in the backseat of a car with another individual. An individual not her husband. While they were busy doing things that put a layer of steam on the windows, she heard a loud pop. The timing’s right for it to be the shot. She surfaced from her activities long enough to notice someone get into a car, drive off just a few seconds later.”

  “God, she saw the killer?”

  “Not really. She thinks male, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses at the time, so didn’t get a good look. We wouldn’t have that much if her conscience hadn’t gotten over on her guilt. What we’ve got is probably male, getting into a dark car, possibly an SUV. No make, model or license, but she thinks black or dark blue, and shiny. Struck her like a new car, but she can’t say for certain.”

  “What about the man she was with? Didn’t he see anything?”

  “I didn’t say she was with a man.”

  “Oh.”

  “Which is part of her problem with coming forward. We’ll just say the other individual was very busy below window level at the time, and didn’t see anything.”

  “All right. And Harlow?”

  “Nothing there yet. You be careful driving over there to Griff’s, Shelby. Text me when you get there.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Forrest.”

  “If you don’t want me calling when you might be . . . busy, text me when you get there. I’m going to see if I can mooch leftovers.”

  “They’re out back,” she called out as he strolled toward the house. “Daddy’s got Callie a bubble maker.”

  “Yeah? I believe I’ll get me a beer and get in on that. Text me.”

  16

  She stopped at the head of the short lane that led back to the old Tripplehorn place, freshened her lip gloss, took a critical look in the visor mirror.

  All right, no more dark circles, and not all the color in her face came from the little pot of cream blush her grandmother had urged her to sample.

  Her hair, windblown as it was, added a casual touch. Wasn’t it best to stay casual? she asked herself.

  And took a breath.

  She hadn’t been on a date—a real one, and whatever she’d said, this was a bona fide date—since she’d flown off to Vegas with Richard, to get married.

  Or so she’d believed.

  She’d dated plenty before that, of course, she reminded herself, through high school and into college. But it was all so vague and blurry with the enormity of the in between the then and now.

  And he was fixing her dinner, which made it a sort of serious date, didn’t it? She made herself think through the enormity, back to the blur. She couldn’t think of a single time a man had fixed her dinner.

  Maybe it didn’t make it serious. Maybe once you got past the high school and college years, it was just something people, adult people, did now and then.

  And she was making far too much of it either way.

  She made the turn, bumped her way down the narrow drive—obviously something he hadn’t bothered to fix yet—then just stopped the car again and looked.

  She’d always loved the charm of the old place, the way it tucked into the green, spread a bit toward a sheltered stream.

  She only found it more charming now.

  He’d cleaned up the exterior, and what a difference. She thought he’d likely power-washed the old stone—repointed it, too, so it stood in various shades of brown and gold on its roll of a rise among the trees.

  And he put in spanking new windows, added a set of doors in place of the broken windows on what she assumed must be the master bedroom due to the addition of a covered porch with bronze-colored iron rails.

  He’d left most of the wonderful old trees, the maples and oaks, their green deepening toward that deep summer shade, and put in a couple of dogwoods, bloomed off now and still tenderly green. Clearing out the scrub and weeds along the foundation had to have been hard, sweaty, even miserable work. Whatever time he’d put in had paid off as young azaleas and rhododendrons swept color at the stone’s skirts, while older ones, wild ones, splashed more back in the green shadows.

  He was doing some sort of terracing on the far side, following the rise of the land with partially finished stone walls that mimicked the tones of the house. She imagined it finished, and filled with native shrubs and flowers.

  Too charmed to be nervous now, she left her van beside his truck, gathered the potted mountain laurel she’d picked up as a host gift and walked to the wide front porch.

  She admired the set of Adirondack chairs painted deep forest green, the rough wood table—a stump he must’ve planed down and sealed—between them. Even as she raised a hand to knock, he opened the door.

  “Heard you drive up.”

  “I’m already in love with the place. It must’ve taken you a lot of sweaty days to reclaim the land around the house, all that old scrub and the briars.”

  “Sort of hated to kill the briars. They added a little ‘Sleeping Beauty’ to the place. You look great.”

  He looked pretty great himself, freshly shaven, from the looks of it, with a shirt of softly faded blue rolled up to his elbows.

  He took her hand to draw her in.

  “I’m glad to see you’re not averse to plants, so you should be a
ble to find a spot for these.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just—”

  “Oh my God.”

  The shock in her tone had him looking frantically for something like one of the monstrously huge wolf spiders he’d spent weeks banishing from the house.

  But when she pulled free, turned a circle, her smile simply glowed. “This is wonderful. Griffin, this is wonderful!”

  He’d opened up walls so what had been a dark, narrow hallway was a wide foyer that spilled naturally into a front room with a fireplace he’d refaced in native stone. The early evening light flowed through the uncurtained windows onto a gleaming deep-toned oak floor.

  “I don’t use this space much yet, so I just tossed an old couch and a couple chairs into it. Haven’t figured out what color to paint it, so . . . I haven’t.”

  “It’s about the space,” she said, and wandered it. “I peeked in the old windows so many times, even broke in once on a dare and walked all through. Are these the original floors?”

  “Yeah.” Every square foot of them pleased him. “They took some work, but original’s best if you can keep it. I used original trim where I could, copied it where I couldn’t.”

  “And the ceiling medallion. I had dreams about that for weeks after I came in. The little faces around the circle.”

  “Nice and spooky. I haven’t found the right light to go there.” Like Shelby, he looked up at the plaster medallion. “It has to hit me.”

  “It should look old. There shouldn’t be anything in here that looks shiny and new. Well, the kitchen and bathrooms, that’s one thing, but the rest . . . And I’m telling you your business when you obviously know just what to do. I want to see it all.”

  “I haven’t gotten to all of it yet. Some spaces I’d start, realize I wasn’t in the right mood. Keep going and you end up doing something wrong, or at least half-assed.”

  He should paint this room a warm, rich gold—not bright and not too dark, but like warm, rich old gold. And leave the windows undraped to show off the gorgeous trim, and . . .

  And she had to stop decorating it for him in her head.

  “You’re not doing all this yourself, are you?”

  “No.” He took her hand again, started to lead her toward the back of the house. “Matt’s been a slave—will work for beer—when he has the time. Forrest, too. Clay’s pitched in a couple times. My father’s been down, given me a week or two when he can manage it. And my brother. My mom helped clearing the brush, and said I owe her more for that than fourteen hours of labor.

  “Half bath here,” he added when she laughed.

  She poked inside. “Look at that sink. It’s just like an old washbasin on a stand. Like it could’ve been here all along. And that antique bronze finish on the fixtures and the lights goes so well. You’ve got a nice sense, Griff, of color, too. Keeping it warm and natural. The house doesn’t want bold and flashy.

  “What’s this over here?”

  “Tools and materials, mostly.” He thought, What the hell? and opened the old pocket door.

  “Such wonderful high ceilings,” she said, obviously not put off by stacks of tools and lumber, big tubs of drywall mud, and plenty of dust. “And another ceiling medallion. I guess you know they say the original Mr. Tripplehorn was six-feet-six, and built the place to accommodate his size. Does the fireplace work?”

  “Not now. It needs work, and probably a gas insert in here, something that doesn’t look like a gas insert. Refacing the brick, or maybe redoing it in slate or granite. It’s crap and crumbling.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “Maybe a library. It feels like a house like this should have one.”

  Because he saw it in his head, he gestured. “Built-ins flanking the fireplace, a library ladder, that kind of thing. Big leather couch, maybe a stained glass ceiling fixture, if I find the right one. One of these days,” he said with a shrug. “A couple of other rooms down here I’m still thinking about. I didn’t want to open everything up. Open concept’s one thing, losing all the original quirks and charm’s another.”

  “You’ve got the best of both. You could do a pretty sitting room here, or first-floor office, guest room.” She studied another empty room. “It’s such a nice view through the windows there of the trees, and just that little bend of the creek. If you put your office here, you could float the desk in the center of the room so you could see out, but not have your back to the door. Then you could— And there I go again.”

  “You can keep going. It’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I was going to be a singing sensation, but interior design was my fallback. I took a couple classes in college.”

  “Seriously? Why didn’t I know that?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “I’m going to use you. But right now, I’m going to get you some wine.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a glass.” Just one, she thought, with plenty of time to burn off before she got in the van again. “Something smells really good. I didn’t expect you to—”

  She broke off in wonder.

  Everything just opened up. Where she remembered seeing a warren of rooms, a dingy dining room separated by walls and a door from a small and even dingier kitchen, what she’d supposed had been maids’ and cooks’ quarters was now one wonderful space that brought the hills, the trees, the creek inside through a wall of glass doors.

  “I guess I went a little shiny and bold in here.”

  “No, no, not bold. Beautiful. Look at the size of that farm sink. And I love how you glass-fronted so many of the cabinets.”

  “Even if most of them are still empty.”

  “You’ll fill them in time. I’d haunt the flea markets and yard sales, find me some old crockery. Maybe old teapots or cups and display them in those over there. And . . .”

  She stopped herself before she decorated his house from top to bottom.

  “It’s such a nice flow into the dining area here and the, I guess, lounge area there. You could live in this one space. So much counter space. What is this?”

  “Slate.”

  “It’s just perfect, isn’t it? So handsome. My mama would cry for that cooktop. I love the lights, that pale amber tone against the bronze. You designed all this?”

  “I got input from my dad, from Matt, from a couple engineers I know. An architect. When you grow up with a contractor, you tend to make contacts.”

  “Still, it’s your work. It feels like you. Honestly, I’ve never seen a more beautiful kitchen, and one that fits so well into this house. You have all the convenience, but the character’s right here. You could entertain half the Ridge in here. It must be a joy to cook in.”

  “I don’t cook much.” He tugged on his ear. “Your basics mostly. But I figured if I ever had a place, did my own kitchen rehab, I’d go for the gold and see if I could reach it. Kitchen’s the heart of the house.”

  “It is, and this one’s big and beautiful.”

  “You haven’t seen the best part.”

  He handed her a glass of wine, picked up his own, then walked to the wall of doors. When he opened them, they folded back like an accordion, tucked away, and brought the outside in.

  “Oh, that is the best part. That’s fantastic. Warm nights, sunny mornings, you can just leave them open. And for parties.”

  She stepped out, sighed.

  “Still a lot to do out here yet. I’ve barely hit this part of