The Liar

by Nora Roberts

  “Can you tell us where you were on April thirteenth of that year?”

  “I . . . No. I’m sorry, I don’t know. That was over three years ago.”

  “Think about it,” Forrest said easily, though his hand stayed light on her thigh. “That was just a couple days before Easter. It was Good Friday.”

  “Oh. Easter, and Callie would have been nearly a year old. I got her an outfit, a bonnet and everything. I took her for photographs that Friday. I have them in her album. They had props—little chicks and stuffed bunnies. Baskets and colored eggs. I sent copies to Mama, and to Granny.”

  “I remember those pictures.”

  “That was Friday afternoon. I don’t remember what time, exactly. It was at this place called Kidography. It was such a clever name. I remember because I took Callie back for other pictures, the photographer—her name was Tate . . . Tate—oh God—Tate Mitchell. I’m sure of it, I’m sure that’s the right name. And after, that first time on the Friday before Easter, I changed Callie into play clothes and took her for ice cream as a treat. I’d bribed her with that, told her if she was a good girl I’d take her for ice cream—even that young she knew the word ‘ice cream.’ We went to Morelli’s.”

  “Best ice cream in Atlanta,” Landry said.

  “You’ve been there? Callie loved going there. We went to Morelli’s, and I let her spoil her dinner. I remember that, I remember thinking, Oh well, she’s not going to want a good dinner now, so it had to be late afternoon.”

  “What about that evening, that night?” Boxwood prompted.

  “Let me think.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Let me try to go back and see it. There was traffic—I remember that—and how Callie fell asleep in the car. I was worried, a little, that I wouldn’t get home before Richard. He didn’t like if he didn’t know where I was. I thought about texting him, but I didn’t. He didn’t like me to call or text him when he was working.”

  Lowering her hands, she took a settling breath. “We got home, I think it must have been around six or so. Charlene—she did some cooking and light housekeeping for us—but she had the long weekend off. So Charlene wasn’t there, and I was glad to have the condo to myself. I liked Charlene fine, I don’t mean to say I didn’t like her.”

  “But the place was quiet, just you and your daughter.”

  She nodded at Landry. “Yes, that’s it. Callie was a little cranky, what with the photos, the ice cream, the nap in the car, but I settled her down with Fifi—her stuffed dog—and some blocks. She liked these blocks that made noise. I hurried to put dinner together. I swear I can’t remember what I fixed, but I had it together by seven or seven-thirty, and I was relieved. But he was late. Richard. I put it in the warmer, and I got Callie her meal, coaxed her to eat a little, and she did since I’d waited until she’d worked off that ice cream. I gave her a bath, and read her a story, and put her to bed.

  “I did text Richard then, just to say his dinner was in the refrigerator, and if I was in bed already, he could heat it up. I was angry, I guess, but tired, too.”

  She rubbed at her temple, rubbed and rubbed as she tried to see it all again.

  “I went to bed not long after Callie was down. I never heard him come in. I saw him in the morning. I looked in, and saw he’d slept in the guest room.”

  It seemed so personal, where he’d slept, she had to fight off a blush.

  “He, ah, used the guest room sometimes if he got in late. I fixed breakfast for Callie, and I put eggs on to boil. We’d dye eggs for Easter later that day. He didn’t get up till close to noon, and he was in a fine mood. I remember that, too, clear now, as he was in such a fine mood, all jokey and excited. He made Callie laugh, I remember. I guess he could see I was a little put out, and he said something—I don’t remember what because he always had some excuse. Late meetings, couldn’t get away. Whatever it was, then he . . .”

  Trailing off, she gripped her hands together, tight, tight. “Oh God, the hair clip. He said, here was a little something for Easter, and he gave me the clip. He said I should go fix my hair, and get Callie dressed up. He was taking his ladies out for lunch. He hardly ever wanted to take Callie anywhere, and she was so happy about it, I set being put out aside. I did exactly what he wanted. I’d gotten used to doing what he wanted. The hair clip.” She pressed her lips together. “He’d stolen it, then he gave it to me, like you give a Milk-Bone to a dog.”

  She took a long breath. “I guess you can check on the time of the photos and all, but I can’t prove the rest. Somebody probably saw me come in with Callie, but I don’t see why they’d remember after so much time. And no one was home. If you think I was with Richard, if you think I was part of what he did, I can’t prove I wasn’t.”

  “That’s a lot of detail on a day that long ago,” Boxwood pointed out.

  “It was Callie’s first Easter, and the first professional photographs. I’d wanted a family photo done, after she was born, but Richard never had time. So this was special. She—Tate—she took one of the two of us, and I sent it to my parents, special. She’d taken her bonnet off—Callie—and her hair’d gone everywhere, like mine would. I hadn’t gotten to the salon to have mine straightened the way Richard liked it. It’s a favorite photograph of mine.”

  She rose, took it from the mantel. “This is the one we had taken that Friday before Easter.”

  “She sure looks like her mama,” Landry commented.

  “When it comes to Callie,” Forrest put in, “Shelby remembers.”

  “I guess that’s true. Especially the firsts.” She set the photo on the mantel again, sat back beside Forrest.

  “Oh!” Struck, she came half off the sofa before Forrest nudged her back again. “I wrote it in her baby book. I wrote about the photographs, and put one of them in there. I can get it.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, for now, Ms. Pomeroy.”

  “It’s not easy to admit you were stupid,” she said carefully, “that you were duped. I never knew he was stealing, he was cheating people, and I was living in that fancy condo, I had all those clothes, and someone to help with the work because he stole and he cheated. I can’t go back and change it. Should I get the hair clip? I know just where it is. You could give it back to whoever he stole it from.”

  “We believe he stole the hair clip, one of the watches you sold, and other items valued at approximately sixty-five thousand dollars from Amanda Lucern Bryce, of Buckhead. Her daughter found her on Saturday afternoon, April 14, 2012.”

  “Found her?”

  “She’d fallen—or been pushed—down the stairs of her home. Her neck was broken in the fall.”

  The blood drained out of Shelby’s face as she stared at Boxwood. “She’s dead? She was killed? Richard . . . He was in such a good mood. He made Callie laugh. I’m sorry, I need a minute.” She rose abruptly on legs that shook. “Excuse me.”

  She rushed to the powder room, just leaned over the sink. Her stomach pitched and roiled, but she wouldn’t be sick. She would not be sick.

  She would fight that off. She only had to breathe. Only had to take a few minutes and breathe, then she could deal with what came next.

  “Shelby.” Forrest rapped on the door.

  “I just need a minute.”

  “I’m coming in.”

  “I need a damn minute,” she snapped when he opened the door, then she just walked into his arms. “Oh God, oh God, Forrest. He took us out to lunch. He left that woman lying there, the one he stole from, and he came home and went to bed. Then he took us out to lunch. He ordered champagne. He was celebrating. He was celebrating, and he’d left that woman lying there for her daughter to find.”

  “I know it. I know it, Shelby.” He stroked her hair, swayed with her a little. “One day it would’ve been you. I know that, too.”

  “How could I have not seen what he was?”

  “You didn’t. And you’re not the only one who didn’t. Nobody thinks you were part of this.”

  �
�You’re my brother, of course you don’t think so.”

  “Nobody,” he repeated, and drew her back to look in her eyes. “They have to do what they do. You’re going to look at pictures of stolen articles, of people he stole from. You’ll tell them whatever you know. That’s all you can do so that’s what you’ll do.”

  “I want to help. The clothes on my back, Forrest, the clothes I put on my baby. It makes me sick knowing where they came from.”

  “Tell me where the hair clip is. I’ll get it.”

  “The top right drawer of the vanity in the bathroom I share with Callie. I have a box in there. All my hair clips are in it. It’s mother-of-pearl with little blue and white stones. I thought it was fake, Forrest. I never thought—it’s a hair clip, so I never gave it a thought.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to talk to them anymore now, I’ll tell them you’re done.”

  “No, I want to tell them whatever I know. Whatever I know I didn’t know. I’ll go back in now.”

  “When you’ve had enough, you just say.”

  “I want it over.”

  She went back, and once again Landry stood.

  “I’m sorry,” she began.

  “Don’t apologize. We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Pomeroy.”

  She sat, picked up the tea. Too much of the ice had melted, but it was cool enough, and wet enough. “Did he kill other people? Do you know?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “He was never violent with me or Callie. If he had been . . . that would have been different. He didn’t pay much mind to her at all, and less and less to me. He’d say things, cruel things sometimes, to me, but he was never violent.”

  Carefully, she set the glass down again. “I never saw what he was. If I had I would never have let him near my baby. I hope you can believe that. Callie’s going to be home in about an hour. If we’re not done, I need us to go somewhere else, or wait until tomorrow. I don’t want her to hear any of this. She just turned four.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “If you could give me another date. If I could figure out something around it, a holiday or a doctor’s appointment, something that sticks out, I might be able to tell you what I was doing. What he was doing. I don’t know what else I can do to help. I want to help.”

  “Let’s stick with Atlanta for now, work forward.” Landry nodded at Boxwood.

  “August eighth, same year,” Boxwood said.

  “My daddy’s birthday is August ninth, and Forrest was born on August fifth. We always had a double birthday party, the Saturday or Sunday closest. I wanted to come. I hadn’t been home in a while, and I wanted Callie to visit her family. Richard said no. We had a charity gala to attend on that Saturday, and I couldn’t go running off to Daddy. I was his wife, and expected to attend, and act like I belonged. It was at the Ritz-Carlton, in Buckhead.”

  “Saturday, August eighth, 2012, six figures’ worth of jewelry and rare stamps were stolen from the home of Ira and Gloria Hamburg. They had attended a gala at the Ritz that night.”

  “Like in Florida,” Shelby added. “Jewelry and stamps. It must’ve been like a . . . specialty of his.”

  “You could say that.” Landry sat back. “Tell us about that evening.”

  25

  She’d known the Hamburgs, a little, had attended a dinner party in their home. Richard had played golf with Ira Hamburg a few times, and she and Richard had hosted them at the country club. They’d socialized at other galas or fund-raisers now and then.

  It wasn’t hard to remember some of the details of that particular night as she’d pictured her family here, in this house, celebrating birthdays—and had missed them.

  She remembered Richard bringing her a glass of champagne at one point and telling her, impatiently, to mingle, for God’s sake, and stop sulking. He was going outside for a bit to have a cigar and talk some business with a couple of potential clients.

  She couldn’t say how long she’d mingled, wandered, put bids on a couple of items in the silent auction as he’d instructed her to do. It could’ve been as much as an hour, she supposed.

  “He was in a good mood when he found me—said he’d been hunting for me, and why didn’t we go check on our bids before the auction closed. I thought he’d gotten some business because he was in a better mood, and then he put a big bid on this wine package.”

  “The Hamburgs live less than a mile from the hotel,” Boxwood pointed out.

  “I know it.”

  They asked her about other nights, days, times. Some she could remember, others were lost in a fog. From the photographs, she recognized cuff links, the diamond studs, a three-strand diamond and emerald bracelet Richard had given her once, then accused her of losing when it disappeared from her jewelry box.

  Forrest lingered after the FBI stepped out.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, no, I’m all right. Mama will be back with Callie soon. Just . . . do they believe me? Don’t answer as my brother, but as a police officer.”

  “They believe you. They played a version of good cop/bad cop with Boxwood trying to trip you up here and there, giving you the hard eye. But they both believed you. You were helpful, Shelby. The best thing now is to put it aside. Let the FBI do what they do.”

  “I sold stolen property.”

  “You didn’t know it was stolen, had no reason to think it had been. We’ll work that out.”

  “How could I not see—how can they believe I didn’t know? I swear, if I didn’t know I didn’t know, I wouldn’t believe me.”

  “The BTK killer had a wife and raised two children, lived in a community, went to church. None of them knew what he was. Some people wear masks well, Shelby, know how to compartmentalize beyond what’s normal.”

  “He wasn’t right, was he? I mean, Richard couldn’t have been right inside to be able to do all he did.”

  “The police officer’s telling you he was a sociopath, and a shrink would likely have a lot of fancy terms for what he was. But no, he wasn’t right. That’s done—you’re never going back to that. You’re going to have to deal with some of it, but mostly? You need to look at the here and now, and the future.”

  “I’ve been trying to. What was just won’t let go. I keep finding out more.”

  “You’re a Pomeroy with MacNee in your blood. You’ll stand up to it. You call me, you hear, if you need me.”

  “I will. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t been with me today.”

  “That’s just one more thing you never have to worry about again.”

  Shelby thought if the whole of the Ridge didn’t know about the FBI, then they soon would. So she told her parents everything as soon as she could.

  The very next morning before the first customer came into the salon, she told her grandmother and the rest of the staff.

  “I thought y’all should know.”

  “Ada Mae called me last night, told me all this,” Viola began. “I’ll tell you what I told her. None of this is your fault, not a bit. And we can look at that storm as the right hand of God making sure you and Callie were well rid of the son of a bitch.”

  “I’d rather he wasn’t dead,” Shelby said after a minute. “I’d rather he was alive so I could tell him what I think of him. I hate that he died believing I was nothing. I hate that he died knowing I never had an inkling what he’d done.”

  “My sister’s ex kept a woman over in Sweetwater for six years,” Vonnie piped up. “Had an apartment there with her and everything. None of us knew a thing about it—and that man went to the Lutheran church every Sunday he was in town. Coached Little League and belonged to the Elks Club. Lydia might never have known if the woman in Sweetwater hadn’t called her up and told her all of it after she found out Lorne had taken up with a third woman.”

  Vonnie shrugged. “I guess it’s not the same thing, but I’m just saying, we all thought the world of Lorne until we knew to think different.”
r />   “Thank you, Vonnie. I’m sorry for your sister, but I guess that makes me feel better.”

  “We don’t always know somebody the way we think we know them.” Crystal readied her station for her first appointment. “My good friend Bernadette’s cousin down in Fayetteville? Why, her husband embezzled twelve thousand dollars from her daddy’s hardware business before they found out. Bernadette’s cousin stayed with him after, too. And if you ask me, anybody who’d steal from family isn’t worth spit.”

  “Hell, that ain’t nothing.” Lorilee fisted her hands on her hips. “I almost married Lucas John Babbott—y’all remember. About ten years back I was ready to walk down the aisle with that man. Something just said, Don’t do it, Lorilee, so I didn’t, but it was close. And I found out he’d inherited his granddaddy’s cabin over by Elkmont. You know what he was doing in it? That man was cooking