The Liar (35 page)

She didn’t have to put up with that.

She marched out of the laundry room—and oh, she intended to have a few choice words for her mama because if this didn’t smack of an Ada Mae setup so she’d have time alone with her mama’s choice of the man of her daughter’s dreams, she didn’t know Ada Mae Donahue Pomeroy.

And she damn well did.

Frustratingly, she’d been too slow or Griff had been too quick, because she heard his truck drive off before she made it to the front door.

That was fine, she told herself, pacing back and forth, then stomping up the stairs. That was likely for the best. She’d just get herself calm again before she said her piece. Whatever that piece might be.

Because her cheeks felt hot, she went into the bathroom, splashed cool water on her face. Her brain still felt hot, but that would simmer down, too.

She’d made him seriously angry, and she’d never seen him seriously angry.

Because they’d only been seeing each other a couple of months, she reminded herself. She’d been right to slow things down; she’d been right to take a step or two back.

Then she pressed her face into the towel.

He’d said he was in love with her. And that just filled her up and emptied her out again. It made her want to shake, it made her want to weep. It made her want to hold onto him as if her life depended on it.

She couldn’t think about that now, just couldn’t. She was too worked up to think about that. And he was too mad to think straight anyway.

She’d go for a walk, that’s what she’d do. Go for a walk and clear her hot head. And she’d talk to Emma Kate. She really needed to talk to Emma Kate.

She started downstairs again, a little desperate to get out of the house. When she saw the front door open, she all but ran.

“Now you listen,” she began, then stopped dead when she saw Forrest, and the two black-suited men behind him.

“Somebody got your red up,” he said easily. And since he’d seen Griff’s truck heading into town from this direction, he could deduce who’d gotten her red up.

“I was just . . . going for a walk.”

“That’s going to have to wait. What we have here is the FBI special agents Boxwood and Landry. They need a conversation.”

“Oh. All right. I—”

“Could use something cold,” Forrest continued.

“Of course. Y’all go ahead and sit down. I’ll be right back.”

He’d sent her off to give her a chance to compose herself, so she did her best to follow through. It had to be bad, she thought while she filled glasses with ice and tea, added out of habit sprigs of her mother’s mint. It had to be bad to bring the FBI to the house. She set the glasses on a tray, added the little pale blue napkins, started to get out a plate for the frosted cookies her mother served to unexpected company.

The FBI wasn’t company, she thought, and picked up the tray as it was.

She heard Forrest talking, something about white-water rafting and how his brother Clay would give them a hell of a ride if they had time for one.

The tall agent rose when she came in, took the tray from her.

“Appreciate it,” he said, and she heard Georgia in his voice.

Tall, she noted, lean to the point of gangly, dark skin and eyes, and dark hair cropped close to the scalp.

He set the tray down, held out a hand. “Special Agent Martin Landry. My partner Special Agent Roland Boxwood. We appreciate you speaking with us.”

“It’s about Richard. It has to be about Richard.” She looked from Landry to the other agent.

Boxwood had more girth, more muscle. He was as light as Landry was dark, with Scandinavian blond hair, blue-ice eyes.

“Sit down, Shelby.” Forrest took her hand, drew her down on the couch with him. “Our federal friends here flew in from Atlanta today.”

“Atlanta,” she murmured.

“They’ve given me the go-ahead to bring you up to date.” He gave her leg a quick rub. “I sent what you put together, what Griff put together, what I put together. I boiled that all down and sent it to the police in Miami, in Atlanta, in Philadelphia—and so on. And as the so-ons made a lot of sending, I sent the boiled-down to the FBI.”

“You said you were . . . you said that’s what you’d do.”

“That’s right. Now, their boss sent these agents down to talk to you directly.”

When she nodded, Landry leaned forward. “Ms. Foxworth—”

“I wasn’t ever, I only thought . . . It’s Pomeroy. Please.”

“Ms. Pomeroy, you sold some watches last February. To Easterfield on Liberty, in Philadelphia.”

“Yes. Richard had several watches, so I . . .” She closed her eyes. “They were stolen, weren’t they? I should’ve known, I should’ve realized. The man who helped me, at the store, he wouldn’t have known. He was just helping me. I’ll pay back the money. I don’t . . .” She didn’t have the money. Even if she wiped out the savings she’d kept—the house fund—she didn’t have enough. “If I could have a little time, I’ll pay back the money.”

“Don’t worry about that, Shelby.”

Fiercely, she shook her head at Forrest. “He stole them, and I sold them. I used the money. It’s not right.”

“There are other items.” Boxwood spoke. He had a gravelly voice that struck Shelby as threatening. “Cuff links, earrings, an antique hair clip.”

“I have the hair clip! I didn’t think it was worth anything, so I didn’t try to sell it. I’ll get it.”

“Just sit, Shelby.” Forrest pressed a hand on her leg. “Just sit for now.”

“All of these items—the ones you sold in Pennsylvania,” Boxwood continued, “match items reported stolen in burglaries in the Atlanta area from May of 2011 to September of 2014.”

“More than one,” she said softly. “More than one burglary.”

“Numerous other items were reported stolen from these cases. We’d like you to look at photographs.”

“Yes, I’ll look. Of course. We didn’t move to Atlanta until the fall of 2011. We didn’t live there in May, but . . . He took trips. I don’t know . . .”

“You lived there in April of 2012,” Boxwood added.

“Yes. We lived there.”

“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.”