All Lies Read online

  All Lies

  By Andrew Cunningham

  Copyright © 2015 Andrew Cunningham

  All Rights Reserved

  Books by Andrew Cunningham

  Wisdom Spring

  All Lies

  Eden Rising Trilogy

  Eden Rising

  Eden Lost

  Eden's Legacy (Due December 2015)

  Arthur Macarthur Series of Children's Mysteries (as A.R. Cunningham)

  The Mysterious Stranger

  The Ghost Car

  The Creeping Sludge

  Prisoner in the Sky

  The Ride of Doom

  Acknowledgements

  I couldn't do any of these books without the constant love and support from my wife, Charlotte. Thank you! Thank you as well, to my mother for her encouragement and enthusiasm after reading the early drafts of All Lies.

  To my father, from whom I inherited my love of mysteries.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Author's Note

  Wisdom Spring by Andrew Cunningham

  About the Author

  Prologue

  "I come from a long line of idiots…"

  Those were his last words. I was tempted to have them inscribed on his headstone, because, in fact, he wasn't wrong. My family did have an abnormally high incidence of stupidity running through its genes. As far back as I could determine, my ancestors—the men, to be specific—were known for their questionable actions, actions that usually left them dead.

  That worried me of course, as I was the next in line. An idiot-in-waiting, I suppose.

  I would love to know what the rest of that sentence was going to be. Maybe "I come from a long line of idiots … but thank God you're normal," or "… and it's up to you, son, to change the pattern." Sadly, it was probably more along the lines of "… and the future doesn't look any brighter."

  It wasn't a lack of intelligence by any means. As far as I know, my ancestors all had the normal allotment of brains. There was a politician, a scientist, and even a minister mixed in somewhere down the line. My recently deceased father had been a university professor.

  No, it had nothing to do with intelligence. Sometimes it was simply a wrong-place, wrong-time issue. More often though, it was a case of being confronted with an either/or decision and always making the wrong choice, usually out of greed.

  Early examples of my boneheaded ancestors—all on my father's side of the family—included a relative in the mid-1800s in England who made a bet that he could sneak into Windsor Castle and meet Queen Victoria. Two things went wrong: 1) The queen wasn't there; and 2) Having accomplished the unlikely feat of scaling one of the castle walls, he tripped on some steps, fell, and landed on his head. He died a few hours later. I doubt if you will find any official mention of the incident in Windsor Castle logs of the time. Too humorous for the log books.

  Another example was a relative in the British Army during the Zulu uprising in South Africa in 1879. He somehow got it into his head that he could make some money sneaking away from camp at night with rifles that he would sell to mercenaries who traded with the Zulus. That venture lasted one night. The Zulus got their rifles. He was never seen again.

  Among the more recent examples was my great-grandfather, who lived in New York in the 1920s and '30s. Rumor had it that he worked for some local low-life mobster making deliveries of illegal booze, then went to South America for a while before getting kicked out. Who gets kicked out of a continent? Anyway, he somehow managed to survive those activities, despite some close calls with the police. However, in early 1935, some barrels came loose during a delivery and my great-grandfather was crushed to death. Ironically, since Prohibition had many ended months before, what had once been a dangerous smuggling operation had now become a legitimate and safe delivery job. Timing.

  His son, my grandfather, was a bombardier on a B-24 during World War II. During a mission over Germany, a bomb came loose in the bomb bay, so he went to check on it. The story was that the navigator went with him. He turned his head for just a moment and my grandfather was gone. Nobody knows exactly what happened—a wrong step, a slip—but the bomb bay doors opened and my grandfather and the loose bomb became part of the German landscape.

  And then there was my father. A still-desirable man of seventy when he died, he had risen through the ranks of academia to become the head of the history department at a small, prestigious college. Being handsome and influential, my father was inundated with female students (and I would imagine some males, as well) offering sex for passing grades. Once again a member of my family was faced with a decision. Once again the wrong choice was made. My mother caught wind of it many years ago and left with me—their only child—in tow. We didn't leave town though, and I was able to see my father on a semi-regular basis. In his later years he wasn't slowing down any and seemed to be leading a good life, despite his sleazy behavior. That is, until he compounded his bad decision with an even worse one. One of the students he slept with was married. Her outraged husband put three bullets into my father in the parking lot of the college as he was getting into his car.

  He lasted a few days, drifting in and out of consciousness, before finally succumbing. But not before reminding me that I came from a long-standing tradition of fine decision-making.

  And it was altogether possible that I had just joined its hallowed ranks.

  Chapter 1

  She wasn't my first online dating match, but she was certainly the strangest. And it wasn't like I hadn't had some weird ones. There was the exhibitionist. She could have been a lot of fun, but when she whipped off her shirt in the seats behind home plate at Fenway Park for everyone viewing the game on TV to see (with me sitting next to her), I decided that she might be a little over the top. Then there was the Voodoo priestess. Well, not really a priestess, but she was into Voodoo dolls and made sure to mention that she had a doll for each guy who dumped her. I called it quits after the first date, and then tried to convince myself that having to see my chiropractor three times a week for the next two months was simply a coincidence.

  This one wasn't overtly odd. She just left me unsettled. She seemed to know things about me. She asked the "right" questions, almost as if she was searching for something. It was like she had part of a story and was trying to complete the picture—which, as I came to find out, was exactly the case. What made her different from the rest of my online disasters was that I couldn't just chalk her up to a "well, that was weird" kind of experience. No, this woman actually changed the course of my life. Because of her, I discovered that everything I thought I knew about my family was wrong. There was a whole history I was unaware of. And at times I wished it had stayed that way, because the multitude of sins of my ancestors had come home to roost—right on my shoulder
s.

  *****

  I suppose when you reach your late-thirties and you haven't been married, you start to panic a bit. After all, guys have biological clocks too. I wasn't into the bar scene and I had one of those jobs that didn't put me into contact with a lot of new people. I wasn't religious, so church get-togethers were completely foreign to me. Everyone always wants to give advice to single people. Usually it is some form of "You've got to get out more. Go to shows, or art exhibits. Meet people." Those comments are usually made by people already entrenched in a relationship. But in reality, it's just not that easy, and once you come to the conclusion that none of your friends are going to introduce you to someone, you begin to evaluate your options. Which usually leads to online dating.

  There is nothing intrinsically wrong with online dating sites. You hear about the occasional tragedies, but those occurred from the old-style newspaper personal ads as well. If someone is sick, they will use whatever means are at their disposal. You also hear about the success stories of online dating, although not as much. They're not as newsworthy, so they usually show up in the ads for the site. But for most people online dating is just an endless series of unfulfilling matches. Always hopeful, they switch from one site to another, but the result is the same. Occasionally they will get tired and decide to give it up, and then another site will come along offering a new unique approach, guaranteed to help them find their soul-mate. The "three months for the price of one" deal is the clincher, and the cycle begins anew.

  For me, it was Wottacatch.com. I had tried all of the sites that ask you a million questions and then email you someone "exactly" suited to you. Wottacatch.com was different. It was a throwback to the first dating sites, the ones that just showed your picture with some self-composed asinine bio that you considered funny or sexy, but really wasn't. I didn't want a computer making the match for me. I liked looking at all the pictures and imagining myself with some of the women. On the other hand, being a little balding—and self-conscious about it—made me question whether I wanted my picture out there for all to see. Other than my hair shortage though, I really wasn't all that bad looking: almost six feet tall and not overweight—not that I would be a poster boy for a gym ad though. My only distinguishing characteristic, I suppose, was a slightly crooked nose, the result of being on the wrong side of a door that was flung open when the lunch bell rang one day during high school. Part of my family tradition of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I know now that Izzy finding me wasn't an accident, but that was the impression she had to put out. She never wanted me to suspect that there was an ulterior motive. How she knew that I'd be on Wottacatch.com is beyond me. But I guess when you are a stalker, you have your ways. She wasn't really a stalker in the traditional sense though, because she had a very real reason for finding me. She thought I had answers. I had none.

  Izzy—short for Isobel—contacted me through my mailbox on Wottacatch.com. I hadn't run across her in my searches, but that was because I limited my search for matches to within 50 miles of my apartment in Boston. Izzy was from Chicago. I'd had women contact me from afar before, but I always ignored those messages. I figured that someone making contact from hundreds or thousands of miles away was either really desperate or a little "off" in the head. Izzy's message, however, seemed logical. She was moving to Boston and would be in town scouting for apartments. She saw my profile and liked what she saw. What man is able to say no to that? We had a little correspondence after her initial contact, a few emails back and forth, and agreed to meet at Au Bon Pain in Copley Place on a Saturday.

  I can't say that there was anything in our initial correspondence that took my breath away. Even the small picture in her profile didn't exactly wow me. She was not unattractive in any sense, just not my type. She had the sharp features of someone who had led a hard life. She looked to be a smoker, although her profile listed her as a non-smoker. She was a couple of years older than me—not a deal-breaker. I was willing to give it a try. If we clicked over croissant sandwiches, then we could make a more substantial date. It had to be Saturday or Sunday for me, as my job was very unforgiving when it came to taking time off during the week.

  I was the customer service manager for a mail-order house based in Boston. The job was even less sexy than the title indicated. I worked an average of ten hours a day, Monday through Friday. Twelve hours wasn't out of the question. And I was on salary, so overtime pay was not an option. While I supposedly had an hour for lunch, that was a joke. Combine long hours with low pay and you get a pretty disgruntled worker. Depressed is more the word. I really had no time to job hunt, and even if I could find the time to scour career sites online, when would I interview? I couldn't quit and I couldn't look for a job. Basically, I was stuck, and they knew it. Perfect for them.

  I arrived at Copley Place a few minutes early, but she was already waiting. We recognized each other from the pictures and introduced ourselves, giving the obligatory, but awkward initial hug of online acquaintances meeting for the first time. I had already pegged this as a one-time meet, and then we would both drift back into cyberspace to try someone else.

  As we hugged, I caught a whiff of old cigarette smoke. Her first lie.

  "Nice to finally meet you, Izzy," I said, not really knowing what else to say. I wasn't so sure that was even the truth.

  "And nice to meet you, Del." We sat at the small table. I predicted five minutes of small-talk before going up to order. "I've already told you that Izzy is short for Isobel," she began. "What's Del short for?"

  The part I hated. "Try Delmore."

  She seemed to be trying hard not to laugh. It was all an act though. Little did I know at the time that she already knew my full name.

  "Delmore Honeycutt. I have no idea how drunk my parents were when they named me. So how is the apartment hunting coming?"

  "I just got into town last night, so I really haven't had a chance to look yet," she answered. "Boston sure is a confusing town, though."

  "That it is. But you get used to it. Once you learn the 'T'—that's the subway—you're golden. Doesn't take long."

  The five-minute mark had arrived.

  "Should we go up and order something?" I asked.

  We left our jackets on our seats and went up to place our orders. I let her go ahead of me—part politeness, partly so I could observe her more closely. I can't speak for the women who do online dating, but I think I have men like me pretty well pegged. No matter what we say in our online profiles, no matter how romantic we sound, it really all comes down to sex. Granted, most of us would give anything to be in a meaningful relationship, but the reality is that we can't wait to see our date naked. Maybe it's because we know that the likelihood of anything long-term resulting from online dating is slim at best, so we are willing to settle for a good roll in the sack. As such, our standards are pretty low. Sad, I know, but the truth.

  And that's why this one was so confusing. She wasn't all that bad looking—nice body, and shoulder-length hazel hair that hadn't seen coloring too many times. I could even get beyond the hard facial features. With someone else, I could have probably put up with the hint of cigarette smoke. But the fact was, I had absolutely no interest in going to bed with her.

  We sat back down at the table. I had a turkey and cheese on a croissant, and she had chosen some kind of tropical salad.

  "So tell me about yourself," I said.

  "Well, you know some of it already from my profile," she answered in between bites. "I'm an RN. I grew up in Chicago, went to school there, and was working at a hospital in the city. I was tired of it and needed a change. I applied to hospitals in different parts of the country, was made a few offers, and settled on Mass General here in Boston. My parents are deceased and I have a sister I haven't spoken to in almost ten years who lives in New York, I think. I had nothing to hold me back, so I figured, what the heck. What about you?"

  One of the shorter life histories I had heard—by a good hour. I hadn't even
made it halfway through my sandwich. So I started on my story—growing up in a small town in western Mass, no brothers or sisters, the sad demise of my father, and the fact that my mother still lived out there and whom I visited on a regular basis.

  And this is where it took the weird turn. I started to talk about my hellish job, but I could see she wasn't paying attention. Granted, my job was boring, but I didn't usually lose them quite that fast. She interrupted me as I took a breath.

  "No grandparents?" she asked.

  "Uh, no. They'd be about a hundred years old now, at least."

  "Tell me about them."

  "Okay," I said slowly. I told her what I could remember about my mother's parents, which wasn't much. They weren't very interesting people. But that's not what she was waiting for.

  "And your father's parents?"

  "My grandmother died right after I was born. I don’t really know much about her. My grandfather was a little more interesting." So I told her the story of him falling out of the plane.

  "Wow, that's fascinating," she said, showing more enthusiasm than the story deserved. "What did your father say about him?

  "Not much. He was less than two when his father died."

  "Was he left any of your grandfather's personal effects or mementos?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. I haven't gone through my father's stuff. I haven't cleaned out his house yet." Was she trying to decide if I was worth robbing? "Why are you so curious about my grandfather?"

  She backed off a bit. "I guess because my grandparents all came from small Midwestern towns and never did anything with their lives. To be a flyer during World War II must have been exhilarating."

  "Not so much for my grandfather, I would think."

  "True. But haven't you ever been curious about him? Wasn't your father?"

  "Not really. And if my father was, he never mentioned it. You have to understand, he never knew his father, so there was no one other than his mother to ask questions of. I'm sure she told him some things, but if you don't have the connection yourself, there's only so far you can go."