Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  “The year I turned thirty,” Sydney whispered.

  “Indeed. Again, I proved a coward. Instead of coming to you, I lied to myself and decided you’d be far more comforted if I posed as your birth mother, assuring you that you’d been loved from the moment you were conceived.” She glared at her husband. “And I asked the attorneys to estimate the total value of the Fitzgerald estate. I had them write a check for a quarter of the value. You are a Fitzgerald, after all. My only grandchild. You are entitled to the same legacy that our three children will…” Her voice trembled. Sydney wondered if that was the moment she realized she no longer had three living offspring. “Would have received.” She hesitated. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, Sydney? Can you believe me when I tell you there’s not an hour since I learned of your existence that I haven’t loved you?”

  A vision of her parents, Joe and Nancy Richardson, came rushing into her consciousness. They were in the kitchen. The three of them were dancing. “Jailhouse Rock” was her father’s favorite song. The aroma of her mother’s meatloaf wafted in the background as she laughed at her parents trying to teach her the Twist.

  “I’ve had a wonderful life,” she told Elaina. She stood and stepped away, laying a hand on Leslie’s shoulder as she passed to stand next to the towering man with the flowing gray hair.

  “She was a child,” Sydney told him. “A child. If this is an example of the cruelty you exhibit protecting the Fitzgerald name, I will make it a point to thank God every single day that I’ve never had to bear it.”

  Ted Fitzgerald kept his gaze focused on some unseen object in the distance.

  “Look at me!” Sydney ordered. “Look at your granddaughter! Look at the woman you left fatherless when you directed Barney to send Charles to kill my dad!”

  “What?” Elaina stuttered several steps back, as though reacting to a hard slap across her elegant face. “What are you saying, Sydney?”

  But it was Leslie who answered. “That’s why Charles apologized to you, isn’t it? He said Barney told him Joe had information that could ruin the family. Your father didn’t know only about Barney killing Susalynne…”

  “Barney did what?” Elaina cried. “Who is Susalynne?”

  “The thirteen-year-old your son murdered.” Leslie was now keenly alert. Her voice offered no sympathy. “The girl whose murder my husband covered up. You knew about it all, didn’t you, Father?” She huffed a humorless laugh. “Here’s one for you, Daddy Dear. Your precious son…the one you wished would have taken over Prairie Construction…the chosen child…he was using your adored company to launder money for the Chicago mob. How’s that?”

  “What’s going on?” Elaina looked about, as though searching for answers written somewhere on the wall. “Ted, what is she saying?”

  “You can prove nothing,” Ted Fitzgerald finally spoke. “Charles was despondent. Suicidal. Over what, we’ll never be sure. Barney stepped in to save him. And Charles shot him dead.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Leslie screamed. “You knew all about it. You’ve known about everything all along!”

  “They’re dead,” Fitzgerald intoned. “There’s nothing we can do about that. My son had his weaknesses. I ensured Charles kept him safe.”

  “They stole!” Leslie wept. “They killed!”

  “They had their reasons!” Fitzgerald raged. “They were, each of them, inadequate. But I applaud their loyalty to the family name.”

  “Two detectives know what happened, Father! Sydney knows! As do I!”

  “No one will believe the rantings of a grieving widow. Survivors of suicide often make excuses for their loved one’s frailties.” For the first time, Fitzgerald turned to look at Sydney. “As relates to you and your friends, if you proceed with your version of what happened, I will make it my sworn mission to destroy you.”

  Ian Moran stood. He smoothed a hand over his suit jacket and turned toward the man who’d been his symbiotic companion for decades.

  “You’ll destroy no one, Ted.” Moran’s stance held none of its customary confidence. He looked at each woman independently before speaking. “I’m so sorry. Had I known the man Ted had become, I would have done what I could to stop him.” He turned back to face Fitzgerald. “But I know now. And I’ll answer any question the authorities decide to ask me. Truthfully, honestly, and completely. And, Ted, if you’re thinking about threatening me…” Moran heaved a weary sigh. “Even the Chicago mob knows better than to do that.”

  Fitzgerald held Moran’s gaze for several ugly seconds. Sydney watched the look in his eyes turn from furious defiance to disgusted acceptance. Then he turned and stomped out of the room. The tapping of his walking stick across the entry’s flagstone, followed by the opening and closing of the massive front door signaled his defeat.

  The three stunned souls remaining in Leslie’s perfectly appointed living room were silent. Leslie recoiled when her mother reached out to comfort her. Elaina looked away, out the window and over the manicured grounds. But even the glories of Lake Mendota couldn’t erase the agony on her face. Sydney turned to Moran.

  “Ask the question you need answered now, Sydney,” he urged.

  Like tumblers in a lock, snippets of conversations she’d had with Barney, Leslie, and Charles over the past few weeks finally fell into place. Her hands trembled as she comprehended their significance. Her voice trembled as she raised her eyes…as blue as the priest’s next to her…and gave words to her realization.

  “You’re my father.”

  Moran’s nod was slow. His face was marked with sorrow.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  Sydney felt herself falling into an abyss. Deeper, deeper, and deeper still. She couldn’t calculate how long it took before she regained command of her body. When she did, she shook her head.

  “She was fourteen. You were…forty?”

  “Forty-three.” Moran’s voice quivered. “But I loved her. With all my heart and soul. Cecilia was a gift from God.”

  Elaina uttered a prolonged no. This time, it was Leslie who moved to comfort her mother.

  “Fitzgerald knew,” Sydney told Moran.

  The priest nodded. “No one else did. We thought it was better for all concerned.”

  She replayed his words several times in her mind as she stared at her birth father, struggling to imagine under what condition it would be better for a used and abused child to be separated from everything familiar to her. How could it be better for Cecilia to live her entire life walled off, imagining she’d committed a sin so grievous she needed to sacrifice her world in order to live in a state of perpetual supplication?

  Finally, Sydney looked around the room, absorbing the devastation.

  Then, echoing the actions of her grandfather, she left the house without uttering a word.

  Chapter 56

  Sydney knelt beside the chair where her mother sat stunned. It was in this very kitchen where Sydney ate her meals, grumbled over algebra, pieced together jigsaws, and decorated Christmas cookies. In this room, she’d giggled with her parents, shared Rice Krispies Treats with Ronnie, filled out college applications. And today, it was the room that hosted mother and daughter as Sydney explained all that she’d learned in the past thirty-two hours.

  “He killed Dad?” Nancy repeated.

  “Dad had pieced it together,” Sydney told her. “He knew the Fitzgeralds were my birth family.”

  “But why kill him? We could have dealt with that. We could have dealt with anything.”

  “Ted Fitzgerald was terrified of the humiliation. I think Dad got lured to that warehouse.”

  “He told me he’d gotten a call,” Nancy whispered. “That morning. He was meeting someone who said he had information about a case he was working.”

  “Susalynne McFeeney. The call probably came from Barney. Charles was waiting. Three
bullets later, any threat to the precious Fitzgerald reputation was gone.”

  Nancy nodded, but Sydney knew it was automatic. There was no way either of them would ever be able to comprehend the senseless loss of Joe Richardson. The women wrapped their arms around each other and rocked.

  “What will we do now?” Nancy asked when Sydney pulled away.

  Sydney thought about what she now knew about the circumstances of her birth. She thought about Ted Fitzgerald and Ian Moran. Leslie Arbeit and Elaina Fitzgerald.

  She thought about the young girl who was her birth mother, alone and ashamed.

  Then she thought for a long time about her father. Her real father: Joe Richardson.

  Tend Sydney. Those were the last words Horst said her father repeated over and over as he lay dying.

  You weren’t saying that at all, were you, Dad? You were trying to tell Horst. Ted…Sydney. Ted…Sydney. You were letting him know you’d made the connection.

  She sent her love out into the universe, hoping that wherever her father was, he could feel how much she missed him. How much she loved him for all he’d done for her.

  And then her thoughts turned again to someone else.

  “Mom?” she asked. “I’m tired. How about you?”

  Nancy shook her head. “I don’t know what I am, girly girl. Numb. How’s that?”

  “Would a change of scenery help?”

  Nancy looked at her through grieving eyes. “What are you thinking?”

  Sydney took a deep breath, reached out, and squeezed her mother’s hand.

  “Ireland. How about you and I take a trip to Ireland?”

  This book is for my Wednesday ladies…The Smarties who’ve gathered once a week for twelve years. We’ve been through way too much sadness. Lost too many people. Here’s hoping this book brings us a spot of fun. May The Smarties who remain have many more long years of soup-of-the-day and soulful conversations.

  Acknowledgments

  Victoria Skurnick! Kate Miciak! Together, they form Team Incredible! They (Victoria is my agent and Kate is my editor) will ALWAYS be first on my gratitude list. Not only are they terrific women: funny, intelligent, generous, and down-to-earth; they are the dream team when it comes to professional guidance. I owe you my dreams. Mere words would never be sufficient to thank you. And this book would not be possible without my buddies Suzanne and Kate. They are always at the ready. When I was desperate to the point of illness, I called them. “I’m stuck! I don’t know where this story is going and I don’t see a way out of this hole!” They responded, without hesitation, with an offer to meet that very evening with wine, a reassuring ear, and patience as we spent hours reformulating the plot. Gracias, mis amigas.

  I also want to give a shout-out to my readers. You’ve stayed with me as I began a new series. I thank you for your support, your reviews, and your willingness to share your lives.

  BY T. E. WOODS

  The Fixer

  The Red Hot Fix

  The Unforgivable Fix

  Fixed in Blood

  Fixed in Fear

  Dead End Fix

  Hush Money

  The Wrong Sister

  Bad Girl

  Private Lies

  About the Author

  T. E. WOODS is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, follow her:

  tewoodswrites.com

  Facebook.com/​TEWoodsWrites

  Twitter: @tewoodswrites

  teriwoods2014@gmail.com

  Every great mystery needs an Alibi

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