The Liar (3 page)

She hated it more now, knowing she’d made love with him in that bed after he’d made love with other women, in other beds.

As her belly twisted she realized she needed to go to the doctor herself. She needed to be sure he hadn’t passed anything on to her. Don’t think now, she told herself. Just make the appointment tomorrow, and don’t think now.

She went to his closet—one nearly as big as the whole of the bedroom she’d had back in Rendezvous Ridge, back home.

Some of the suits had barely been worn, she thought. Armani, Versace, Cucinelli. Richard had leaned toward Italian designers for suits. And shoes, she thought, taking a pair of black Ferragamo loafers off the shoe shelf, turning them over to study the soles.

Barely scuffed.

Moving through, she opened a cupboard, took out suit bags.

She’d take as many as she could manage to the consignment shop in the morning.

“Should have done it already,” she muttered.

But first there’d been shock and grief, then the lawyers, the accountants, the government agent.

She went through the pockets of a gray pinstripe to be certain they were empty, transferred it to the bag. Five a bag, she calculated. Four bags for the suits, then another five—maybe six—for jackets and coats. Then shirts, casual pants.

The mindless work kept her calm; the gradual clearing of space lightened her heart, a little.

She hesitated when she got to the dark bronze leather jacket. He’d favored it, had looked so good in the aviator style and the rich color. It was, she knew, one of the few gifts she’d given him that he’d really liked.

She stroked one of the sleeves, buttery soft, supple, and nearly gave in to the sentiment to set it aside, keep it, at least for a while.

Then she thought of the doctor’s receipt and dug ruthlessly through the pockets.

Empty, of course, he’d been careful to empty his pockets every night, toss any loose change in the glass dish on his dresser. Phone in the charger, keys in the dish by the front door or hung in the cabinet in his office. Never left anything in pockets to weigh them down, spoil the line, be forgotten.

But as she gave the pockets a squeeze—a habit she’d picked up from her mother on washing day—she felt something. She checked the pocket again, found it empty. Pushed her fingers in again, turned the pocket inside out.

A little hole in the lining, she noted. Yes, he had favored the jacket.

She carried the jacket back into the bedroom, got her manicure scissors out of her kit. Carefully, she widened the hole, telling herself she’d stitch it up later, before she bagged it for sale.

Slipping her fingers in the opening, she drew out a key.

Not a door key, she thought, turning it in the light. Not a car key. A bank box.

But what bank? And what was in it? Why have a bank box when he had a safe right in his office?

She should probably tell the lawyers, she thought. But she wasn’t going to. For all she knew, he had a ledger in there listing all the women he’d slept with in the past five years, and she’d had enough humiliation.

She’d find the bank, and the box, and see for herself.

They could take the house, the furniture, the cars—the stocks, bonds, money that hadn’t been nearly what Richard had told her. They could take the art, the jewelry, the chinchilla jacket he’d given her for their first—and last—Christmas in Pennsylvania.

But she’d hold on to what was left of her pride.

•   •   •

S
HE WOKE FROM SHIVERY
, disturbing dreams to the insistent tugging on her hand.

“Mama, Mama, Mama. Wake up!”

“What?” She didn’t even open her eyes, just reached down, pulled her little girl onto the bed with her. Snuggled right in.

“Morning time.” Callie sang it. “Fifi’s hungry.”

“Mm.” Fifi, Callie’s desperately beloved stuffed dog, always woke hungry. “Okay.” But she snuggled another minute.

At some point she’d stretched out, fully clothed, on top of the bed, pulled the black cashmere throw over herself and dropped off. She’d never convince Callie—or Fifi—to cuddle up for another hour, but she could stall for a few minutes.

“Your hair smells so good,” Shelby murmured.

“Callie’s hair. Mama’s hair.”

Shelby smiled at the tug on hers. “Just the same.”

The deep golden red had passed down from her mother’s side. From the MacNee side. As had the nearly unmanageable curls, which—as Richard preferred the sleek and smooth—she’d had blown out and straightened every week.

“Callie’s eyes. Mama’s eyes.”

Callie pulled Shelby’s eye open with her fingers—the same deep blue eyes that read almost purple in some lights.

“Just the same,” Shelby began, then winced when Callie poked at her eye.

“Red.”

“I bet. What does Fifi want for breakfast?” Five more minutes, Callie thought. Just five.

“Fifi wants . . . candy!”

The utter glee in her daughter’s voice had Shelby opening her bloodshot blue eyes. “Is that so, Fifi?” Shelby turned the plush, cheerful face on the pink poodle in her direction. “Not a chance.”

She rolled Callie over, tickled her ribs and, despite the headache, reveled in the joyful squeals.

“Breakfast it is.” She scooped Callie up. “Then we’ve got places to go, my little fairy queen, and people to see.”

“Marta? Is Marta coming?”

“No, baby.” She thought of the nanny Richard had insisted on. “Remember how I told you Marta can’t come anymore?”

“Like Daddy,” Callie said as Shelby carried her downstairs.

“Not exactly. But I’m going to fix us a fabulous breakfast. You know what’s almost as good as candy for breakfast?”

“Cake!”

Shelby laughed. “Close. Pancakes. Puppy dog pancakes.”

With a giggle, Callie laid her head on Shelby’s shoulder. “I love Mama.”

“I love Callie,” Shelby replied, and promised herself she’d do whatever she had to do to give Callie a good, secure life.

•   •   •

A
FTER BREAKFAST
, she helped her daughter dress, bundled them both up. She’d enjoyed the snow at Christmas, had barely noticed it in January, after Richard’s accident.

But now it was March, and she was thoroughly sick of it, and the bitter air that showed no sign of thawing. But it was warm enough in the garage to settle Callie into her car seat, to haul all the heavy garment bags into the sleek-lined SUV she probably wouldn’t have much longer.

She’d need to find enough money to buy a secondhand car. A good, safe, child-friendly car. A minivan, she thought, as she backed out of the garage.

She drove carefully. The roads here had been well plowed, but winter did its damage however exclusive the neighborhood, and there were potholes.

She didn’t know anyone here. The winter had been so harsh, so cold, her circumstances so overwhelming, she’d stayed in more than going out. And Callie caught that nasty cold. The cold, Shelby remembered, that had kept them home when Richard took the trip to South Carolina. The trip that was supposed to be a family winter break.

They would’ve been with him on the boat, and hearing her daughter chattering to Fifi, it didn’t bear thinking about. Instead she concentrated on negotiating traffic, and finding the consignment shop.

She transferred Callie to her stroller and, cursing the biting wind, dragged the top three bags out of the car. As she fought to open the shop door, keep the bags from sliding and block Callie from the worst of the wind, a woman pulled open the door.

“Oh, wow! Let me give you a hand.”

“Thank you. They’re a little heavy so I should—”

“I’ve got them. Macey! Treasure trove.”

Another woman—this one very pregnant—stepped out from a back room. “Good morning. Well, hello, cutie,” she said to Callie.

“You got a baby in your tummy.”

“Yes, I do.” Laying a hand over it, Macey smiled at Shelby. “Welcome to Second Chances. Do you have some things for us to consider?”

“I do.” A quick glance around showed Shelby racks and shelves of clothes and accessories. And a very tiny area dedicated to men’s clothes.

Her hopes sank.

“I haven’t had a chance to come in before, so I wasn’t sure what you . . . Most of what I brought in are suits. Men’s suits and shirts and jackets.”

“We don’t get nearly enough menswear.” The woman who’d let her in tapped the garment bags she’d laid on a wide counter. “Is it all right to take a look?”

“Yes, please.”

“You’re not from around here,” Macey commented.

“Oh, no. I guess not.”

“Are you visiting?”

“We— I live here in Villanova right now, just since December, but—”

“Oh my goodness! These are gorgeous suits. Pristine condition so far, Macey.”

“Size, Cheryl?”

“Forty-two Regular. And there must be twenty of them.”

“Twenty-two,” Shelby said, and linked her fingers together. “I have more in the car.”

“More?” both women said together.

“Shoes—men’s size ten. And coats and jackets, and . . . My husband—”

“Daddy’s clothes!” Callie announced when Cheryl hung another suit on a holding rack. “Don’t touch Daddy’s clothes with sticky hands.”

“That’s right, baby. Ah, you see,” Shelby began, looking for the right way to explain. Callie solved it for her.

“My daddy went to heaven.”

“I’m so sorry.” One hand on her belly, Macey reached out, touched Callie’s arm.

“Heaven’s pretty,” Callie told them. “Angels live there.”

“That’s absolutely right.” Macey glanced at Cheryl, nodded. “Why don’t you go out, get the rest?” she told Shelby. “You can leave— What’s your name, cutie?”

“Callie Rose Foxworth. This is Fifi.”

“Hello, Fifi. We’ll watch Callie and Fifi while you bring the rest in.”

“If you’re sure . . .” She hesitated, then asked herself why two women—one of them about seven months along—would run off with Callie in the time it took her to get to the car and back. “I’ll only be a minute. Callie, you be good. Mama’s just getting something out of the car.”

•   •   •

T
HEY WERE NICE
, Shelby thought later as she drove off to try local banks. People were usually nice if you gave them the chance to be. They’d taken everything, and she knew they’d taken more than maybe they might have but Callie had charmed them.

“You’re my lucky charm, Callie Rose.”

Callie grinned around the straw of her juice box, but kept her eyes glued to the backseat DVD screen and her ten millionth viewing of
Shrek
.

S
ix banks later, Shelby decided the luck may have run out for the day. And her baby needed lunch and a nap.

Once she had Callie fed, washed and tucked in—and the tucking-in part always took twice as long as she hoped—she geared up to face the answering machine and the voice mail on her cell phone.

She’d worked out payment plans with the credit card companies, and felt they’d been as decent as she could expect. She’d done the same with the IRS. The mortgage lender had agreed to a short sale, and one of the messages was from the realtor wanting to set up the first showings.

She could’ve used a nap herself, but there was a lot she could get done in the hour—if God was kind—Callie slept.

Because it made the most sense, she used Richard’s office. She’d closed up most of the rooms in the big house, cut the heat back wherever she could. She wished for a fire, glanced at the black and silver gas insert under the black marble mantel. The one thing she’d enjoyed in the overwhelming house was being able to have a fire—the warmth and cheer of it—at the flick of a switch.

But that flick cost money, and she wouldn’t spend it just to have gas flames when the sweater and thick socks kept her warm enough. She got out the list she’d made—what had to be done—called the realtor back, agreed to the open house on Saturday and Sunday.

She’d take Callie off somewhere, get them both out and leave that business to the realtor. Meanwhile, she dug out the name of the company the lawyers had given her that might buy the furniture so she could avoid repossession.

If she couldn’t sell it in a swoop, or at least a good chunk of it, she’d try doing pieces online—if she ever had access to a computer again.

If she couldn’t get enough, she’d have to face the humiliation of having it repossessed.

She didn’t think the neighborhood ran to yard sales, and it was too damn cold anyway.

Then she returned the calls from her mother, her grandmother, her sister-in-law—and asked them to tell the aunts and cousins who’d also called that she was fine, Callie was fine. She was just real busy getting everything in order.

She couldn’t tell them, not all of it, not yet. They knew some, of course, and some was all she could share right that minute. Talking about it made her angry and weepy, and she had too much to do.

To keep busy, she went up to the bedroom, sorted through her jewelry. Her engagement ring, the diamond earrings Richard had given her for her twenty-first birthday. The emerald pendant he’d given her when Callie was born. Other pieces, other gifts. His watches—six of them—and his army of cuff links.

She made a careful list, as she had with the clothes she’d taken to the consignment shop. She bagged the jewelry with their appraisals and insurance information, then used her phone to search for a jewelry store, as local as she could manage, that bought as well as sold.

With the boxes she’d picked up while they’d been out, she began packing up what she considered hers, and important to her. Photographs, gifts to her from family. The realtor had advised her to “depersonalize” the house, so Shelby would do just that.

When Callie woke from her nap, Shelby kept her entertained by giving her little tasks. As she packed, she cleaned. No more housekeeping staff to scrub and polish the endless miles of tile, of hardwood, of chrome, of glass.

She made dinner, ate what she could. She dealt with bath time, story time, bedtime, then packed more, hauled boxes to the garage. Exhausted, she treated herself to a hot bath in the soaking tub with its soothing jets, then crawled into bed with her pad, intending to write out the next day’s agenda.

And fell asleep with the lights on.

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT MORNING
she headed out again, with Callie and Fifi and
Shrek
, and Richard’s leather attaché case holding her jewelry and its paperwork, his watches and cuff links. She tried three more banks, widening her area, then, reminding herself that she had no room for pride, parked in front of the jewelry store.

She dealt with a three-year-old cranky at having her movie interrupted again, and bribed Callie into submission with the promise of a new DVD.

Telling herself it was business, just dollars and cents, she pushed Callie into the shop.

Everything shone, and seemed as hushed as a church between services. She wanted to turn around and go, just go, but made herself move forward to the woman wearing a sharp black suit and tasteful gold earrings.

“Excuse me, I’d like to talk to someone about selling some jewelry.”

“You can speak to anyone here. Selling jewelry is what we do.”

“No, ma’am, I mean to say I’m selling. I’d like to sell some pieces. It says you buy jewelry, too.”

“Of course.” The woman’s eye was as sharp as the suit, and carved Shelby down, top to toe.

Maybe she wasn’t looking her best, Shelby thought. Maybe she hadn’t been able to camouflage the dark circles under her eyes, but if there was one thing her granny had taught her, it was that when a customer came into your place, you treated them with respect.

Shelby stiffened a spine that wanted to buckle, kept her eyes direct. “Is there someone I should speak to, or would you rather I take my business somewhere else?”

“Do you have the original receipts for the pieces you’re interested in selling?”

“No, I don’t, not for all, as some were gifts. But I have the appraisals and the insurance papers. Do I look like a thief, one hauling her daughter around fancy jewelry stores trying to sell stolen merchandise?”

She felt a scene rising up in her, a dam ready to burst and flood hot and wild over everything in its path. Perhaps the clerk sensed it as she stepped back.

“One moment, please.”

“Mama, I wanna go home.”

“Oh, baby, so do I. We will. We’ll go home soon.”

“May I help you?”

The man who stepped up looked like somebody’s dignified grandfather, the sort in a Hollywood movie about rich people who’d been rich forever.

“Yes, sir, I hope so. It says you buy jewelry, and I have some jewelry I need to sell.”

“Of course. Why don’t we go over here? You can sit down, and I’ll take a look.”

“Thank you.”

She struggled to keep that spine straight as she crossed the shop to an ornate desk. He pulled out a chair for her, and the gesture made her want to blubber like a fool.

“I have some pieces my—my husband gave me. I have the appraisals and all that, the paperwork.” She fumbled open the attaché, took out pouches and jewelry boxes, the manila envelope holding the appraisals. “I— He— We—” She broke off, closed her eyes, drew a couple of breaths. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Foxworth. I’m Shelby Foxworth.”

“Wilson Brown.” He took her offered hand, shook it gently. “Why don’t you show me what you have, Mrs. Foxworth?”

She decided to go with the biggest straight off, and opened the pouch that held her engagement ring.

He set it on a velvet cloth, and as he took out a jeweler’s loupe, she opened the envelope.

“It says here it’s three and a half carats, emerald cut, a D grade—that’s supposed to be good, from what I read. And with six side stones in a platinum setting. Is that right?”

He looked up from the loupe. “Mrs. Foxworth, I’m afraid this is a man-made diamond.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a lab diamond, as are the side stones.”

She put her hands under the desk so he couldn’t see them shake. “That means it’s fake.”

“It simply means it was created in a lab. It’s a very nice example of a man-made diamond.”

Callie began to whine. Shelby heard the sound through the throbbing in her head, automatically dug in her bag, pulled out the toy phone. “You call Granny, baby, tell her what you’ve been up to. It means,” she continued, “this isn’t a D-grade diamond, and this ring isn’t worth what it says here on this paper? It isn’t worth a hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars?”

“No, my dear, it’s not.” His voice was as gentle as a pat, and made it worse. “I can give you the names of other appraisers, so you can ask for other opinions.”

“You’re not lying to me. I know you’re not lying to me.” But Richard had, over and over and over. She wouldn’t break down, she told herself. Not now, not here. “Would you look at the rest, Mr. Brown, tell me if they’re fake, too?”

“Of course.”

The diamond earrings were real, and that was all. She’d liked them because they were pretty, and they were simple. Just studs that didn’t make her feel awkward in the wearing.

But she’d prized the emerald pendant because he’d given it to her the day they brought Callie home from the hospital. And it was as false as he’d been.

“I can give you five thousand for the diamond studs, if you’d still like to sell them.”

“Yes, thank you. That’d be just fine. Can you tell me where I should take the rest? Is it best to go to a pawnshop? Do you know of a good one? I don’t want to take Callie into someplace that’s . . . you know what I mean. Sketchy. And maybe, if you don’t mind, you could give me an idea what it’s all really worth.”

He sat back, studied her. “The engagement ring is good work, and as I said, a good example of a lab diamond. I could give you eight hundred for it.”

Shelby studied him in turn as she pulled off the matching wedding ring. “How much for the set?”

She didn’t break down, and she walked out with $15,600—Richard’s cuff links weren’t fake, and had given her what she thought of as a bonus. Fifteen thousand six hundred was more than she’d had. Not enough to pay off debts, but more than she’d had.

And he’d given her the name of another shop that would look at Richard’s watches.

She stretched her luck with Callie, tried two more banks, then gave it up for another day.

Callie picked a
My Little Pony
DVD, and Shelby bought herself a laptop and a couple of flash drives. An investment, she justified. A tool she needed to keep everything straight.

Business, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t think of the fake jewelry as another betrayal, but as something that gave her some breathing room.

She spent naptime creating a spreadsheet, entered the jewelry, the payment for it. Canceled the insurance policy—and that would help her expenses.

The utilities on the big house, even with rooms closed off, were a killer, but the money from the jewelry would help there.

She remembered the wine cellar Richard had been so proud of, hauled the laptop down and began to catalog the bottles.

Somebody would buy them.

And what the hell, she’d splurge on a bottle for herself, have a glass with her dinner. She selected a bottle of pinot grigio—she’d learned a little about wines in the last four and a half years, and at least knew what she liked. She thought it would go just fine with chicken and dumplings—a Callie favorite.

By the time the day was done, she felt more in control. Especially when she found five thousand dollars tucked into one of the cashmere socks in Richard’s drawer.

Twenty thousand now in the fund for cleaning up the mess and starting over.

Lying in bed, she studied the key.

“Where do you fit, and what will I find? I’m not giving up.”

She could maybe hire a private detective. It would likely take a good chunk of that cleaning-up fund, but might be the sensible thing to do.

She’d give it a few more days, try some banks closer to the city. Maybe go into the city.

The next day she added thirty-five thousand on the sale of Richard’s collection of watches, and two thousand three hundred more for his golf clubs, skis and tennis racket. It so boosted her mood that she took Callie for pizza between banks.

Maybe she could afford that detective now—maybe that’s what she’d do. But she needed to buy a minivan, and her research told her that purchase would take a deep chunk of her fifty-eight thousand. Plus, it was only right she use some of that to bump up the payments on the credit cards.

She’d work on selling the wine, that’s what she’d do, and hire the detective that way. For now, she’d just check one more bank on the way home.

Rather than haul out the stroller, she propped Callie on her hip.

Callie got that look in her eye—half stubborn, half sulky. “Don’t want to, Mama.”

“Me either, but this is the last one. Then we’re going to go home and play dress-up tea party. You and me, baby.”

“I wanna be the princess.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

She carried her now giggling daughter into the bank.

Shelby knew the routine now, walked to the shortest line to wait her turn.

She couldn’t keep hauling Callie around this way, every day, disrupting routine, in and out of the car. Hell, she felt pretty damn stubborn and sulky herself, and she wasn’t three and a half years old.

She’d make this the last one after all. The very last altogether, and start seriously researching private investigators.

The furniture would sell, and the wine would sell. It was time for optimism instead of constant worry.

She shifted Callie on her hip, approached the teller, who glanced at her over the tops of red-framed cheaters.