Fatal Lies ( Lies Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Read online

  Fatal Lies

  “Lies” Mystery Series #2

  By Andrew Cunningham

  Copyright © 2016 Andrew Cunningham

  All Rights Reserved

  Books by Andrew Cunningham

  Thrillers

  Wisdom Spring

  Deadly Shore

  “Lies” Mystery Series

  All Lies

  Fatal Lies

  Eden Rising Trilogy

  Eden Rising

  Eden Lost

  Eden's Legacy

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

  The Mysterious Stranger

  The Ghost Car

  The Creeping Sludge

  The Sky Prisoner

  The Ride of Doom

  To Charlotte … my light

  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

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  All Lies by Andrew Cunningham

  Prologue

  She had led a hard life. It showed in her sallow complexion, stringy hair, and sunken eyes. Her heavy body was shapeless, fat hanging sloppily over the belt of her oversized jeans. But she didn't care. She cared about very little these days. She was one year free, having been released from prison not because of any stellar behavior, but because it was overcrowded and someone had to go.

  Life hadn't always been hard, but she never spoke of it. Ever. She entered prison at the age of thirty-five—old for a first-timer. She was smarter than most of her fellow inmates, which didn't help her at first. She was subjected to the same cruelty given to every newbie. Eventually, her intelligence won out and she rose in the ranks until she joined the power circle in the cellblock. When she was unexpectedly released, it was with mixed feelings. While her dream of once again seeing the wide open sky was finally realized, she no longer had a role. The adjustment to freedom wasn't easy, but she eventually settled into a comfortable pattern.

  She pulled the bag out of the last of the trash cans, tied it, and threw it in the corner with the others. She was there alone. The last customer, who had been lingering over a cup of cold coffee, had been chased out an hour before. The two waitresses and the owner scooted out right after the customer had gone, leaving her to clean up. But she didn't mind. She preferred to be alone.

  The diner was in the middle of nowhere, a couple of miles outside a half-empty town, and it was the only eating establishment that was open late into the night. She didn't know anyone there, and they in turn knew nothing about her. She had taken the job as a cook a week after her release. They liked her cooking and she liked the anonymity. She found a small mobile home in a run-down trailer park for a reasonable rent. She knew her neighbors to say hello to, but it never went any further than that. That was just fine with her. Now fifty-six, she was already playing out the string. She'd keep this job as long as she could and then move on to someplace equally remote.

  The only person from her life before prison who knew where she was now living was a daughter she hadn't seen in twenty years, not since the daughter was eight. There was no love toward her emanating from the daughter. It might have had something to do with the fact that she went to prison for killing her husband, her daughter's father. They never communicated when she was in prison. She felt it was better that way. When she was released, she contacted her daughter, and now they texted occasionally, but only when they had to.

  Her daughter seemed to be doing well enough. She had a couple of kids, was divorced and living an average life up in Wisconsin.

  She opened the back door and threw the bags of garbage outside, then she looked around the small kitchen to make sure everything was turned off. She had cleaned up pretty well. She could have left it all for the morning cook, but he was a nice old guy with a gimpy leg. Besides, she had all the time in the world. There were no commitments in her life.

  She turned out the lights and locked the door, then carried two of the garbage bags to the dumpster. On her way to get the two remaining bags, she was hit hard in the back. She fell to the ground, and as she tried to get up, she was hit again, and then a third time. A moment later it dawned on her—she had been stabbed. Now the pain set in, and it was excruciating.

  She felt the blade enter her a fourth time and finally she cried out. But the blows kept coming and she could feel the life flowing out of her. She no longer felt the blade. She no longer felt much of anything, except, oddly enough, contentment. She knew she was dying and it was a relief. The private hatred that had consumed her for so long would die with her. She had left the details of her hell in a secret place for one person, in case that person wanted to pursue it, but she was tired of it, and she welcomed death. She was weary … so weary.

  Finally. It was over.

  Chapter 1

  "I'm no writer."

  I sat back from the computer screen in frustration and closed my eyes.

  "No argument there."

  I smelled the strawberries—the scent I loved so much—before I saw her. Sabrina leaned over my shoulder, wisps of her long red hair brushing against my cheek. As usual, I found myself getting excited simply by her presence. I turned my head slightly and caught her smile, with the ever-so-slightly crooked front tooth that turned a beautiful smile into a spectacular one.

  "I'm just kidding," she said.

  "I'm not. I suck."

  "You don't suck, Del. You're doing fine. All you need to do is write down what happened. When you're done, I'll add all the important things like commas, verbs and adjectives—stuff like that."

  "You're making fun of me."

  "Kind of." She smiled again. Every time she did that, it took my breath away. The more she smiled, the closer I got to oxygen deprivation. "Seriously though, we each have our role. You have a good memory and are really organized and can get the story down step by step as it happened. Then I'll take it from there and try to turn it into something publishable."

  "Try? The country's hottest mystery writer is going to try? That's an understatement."

  She blushed. Until I met Sabrina, I had never noticed anyone blush before. But she was so uncomfortable with her new-found fame, blushing was a common occurrence. With her red hair and pale skin, a blush was quite a sight.

  The project we were working on was the story of our connected families, and how a crime committed over eighty years earlier by my great-grandfather, and another crime a few years later by her grandfather, had set us on a collision course with each other. Our search for the truth about our families turned out to
be the most exciting—and terrifying—time of my life. The result? At the ripe old age of almost forty, I had found the love of my life, was able to quit my unbearable job, and had been offered—technically Sabrina, the famous mystery author, had been offered—a seven-figure advance for the story. She told her publisher she would only do it if she could write it with me. Honestly, she could have written it with Yogi Bear for all they cared. As long as it had her name on the cover, they knew they would rake in the money. They quickly agreed, and so here I was, wondering if Yogi could have, in fact, done a better job than I was doing.

  Sabrina and I were living in my late father's house in western Massachusetts. For Sabrina, who had trouble being around people—resulting in very few author events and her quickly being labeled the J.D. Salinger of the mystery world—living here was heaven. Of course, she had another reason for wanting to stay in the background. Ever since the story of her life was revealed, mostly the six years she had spent in prison for killing her abusive husband, that was all people wanted to talk about. Her distrust of the public, always acute, was now at an all-time high.

  Very few people knew where she lived, and my snotty neighbors, most of whom were self-important university professors, weren't about to spread the news. They liked their privacy, too. When Sabrina had to go out of town for meetings with her publisher or agent, I'd head back to East Boston, where I still kept my apartment. Actually, thanks to the over-the-top publisher advance, I now owned the building and let my two tenants live there rent-free. Sometimes Sabrina and I would both go there for a few days. Sabrina had developed a nice friendship with Mo, the radical lesbian martial artist/second-grade teacher who lived on the first floor.

  "How do you do it?" I asked. "How do you keep coming up with stories that people go wild about?" She had just released her fifth book a few weeks earlier, and it had been at the top of most bestseller lists ever since.

  "I just throw a bunch of words together and see what comes out. Sort of like the 'infinite number of monkeys on an infinite number of typewriters' sort of thing."

  I just looked at her.

  She sighed. Joking wasn't going to work. She had to do some self-examination, something she wasn't good at.

  "Honestly? I don't really know. I've loved mysteries since I was a kid and read my first Nancy Drew book. Things interest me. Sometimes I'll just see someone on the street and think, 'What if…?' What if they were running from something; what would it be? What if they had just murdered someone? Why? What's their story? But until I met you and we had our adventure together, it had always been armchair stuff—strictly imagination. That's why I'm so excited about this book. It's nonfiction, it really happened, and it was just as exciting as anything I could have dreamed up."

  I couldn't argue with her there. But before I could continue my cross-examination, Sabrina's cell phone rang.

  She picked it up off the table, looked at the number displayed, and frowned. "Don't know who it is."

  At this point, most people would just answer it anyway, figuring it to be a sales call or a wrong number. Not Sabrina. The only people who called that number—besides me—were her agent, her editor, several publicists, and my East Boston neighbor Mo. Being overly suspicious of the intentions of people [read: paranoid], understandably born from six years in prison dealing with people who had only their own interests at heart, a strange number showing up on her phone was enough to put her on edge.

  "Let it go to voicemail," I suggested.

  "You answer it," she said, and handed me the phone.

  I shrugged, hit "answer," and said, "Hello?"

  It was a woman, young. Sounded like she was in her mid-twenties. She hesitated.

  "Can I speak to Sabrina, please." She sounded scared. Even so, I wanted to correct her and say "May I speak…" The pitfalls of living with a writer.

  "Can I say who's calling?" Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

  "Um, she doesn't know me, but it's important that I talk to her."

  "Can you give me a hint?"

  She hung up.

  I looked at Sabrina. "No hint."

  I was just setting it down on the table when it rang again. The same number. I looked at Sabrina and answered it again.

  "Hi."

  "I'm sorry I hung up. I'm nervous and just a little scared."

  I decided it was time to put her at ease a bit.

  "Are you a fan?"

  "Uh, no. Should I be?"

  "She’s an author, but I guess you don’t know that. Are you selling something?"

  "No. This is hard enough. Would you let me try to get it out?"

  "Sorry."

  "My mother gave me this number a few months ago and told me that if anything bad ever happened to her, I should call it and speak to Sabrina Spencer."

  "And what's your mother's name?"

  "Daisy. Daisy Leduc."

  Sabrina had her ear close to the phone and could hear much of what the woman was saying. When she heard the name Daisy, she motioned for me to give her the phone. I happily relinquished it.

  "This is Sabrina. Is Daisy okay?" She had moved away a few steps, so I couldn't hear the response. But I didn't need to. I saw her eyes filling up with tears.

  "When? How? What did the police say?" She listened patiently, the tears now running down her cheeks. "I don't understand. What package? Why me?"

  She was no longer crying. Now she just looked puzzled.

  "Okay, I'll come. What's your address?" I handed her a notepad and pen. After writing down the information, she said, "I'll give you a call before I get there. Don't worry, we'll figure this out. Okay, you too. Bye."

  She turned to me, the tears having been replaced with a look of excitement. The mystery writer in her must have been activated.

  "Want to go to Wisconsin with me?"

  Chapter 2

  A word about Sabrina's years in prison. When she first told me about her time behind bars, I had a hard time believing it. She had none of the hard features of someone who had spent an extended stay as a guest of the state. During her first year there it looked as if things would head in that direction, as the abuse by the guards and by her fellow inmates was unbearable. But when it was learned that she could write—and write well—her skills were suddenly in great demand by both her cellmates and by many of the guards. She quickly became untouchable and could exchange her services for the services of others. Those services included facials, haircuts, manicures and pedicures, and other forms of pampering. The guards brought in creams and gels, as well as writing supplies and a laptop (less the Internet connection) and printer for her writing.

  She developed long-lasting friendships and some unbreakable bonds. When she changed her name to Sabrina Spencer upon her release and became well-known for her books, inmates and guards alike kept her past an inviolate secret. She had once told me about Terri, the powerful head honcho inmate who was responsible for changing her life behind bars, once Terri discovered Sabrina's value—in particular, her value to Terri, helping her write to men on the outside. It was Terri who put out the word that Sabrina was not to be touched by either the other inmates or by the guards. However, Sabrina had never mentioned Daisy, who, as it turned out, was Terri's second-in command.

  "I guess the reason I never said anything about her, was that I knew very little about her," said Sabrina, after getting my enthusiastic agreement to accompany her to Wisconsin. My enthusiasm was two-fold: obviously, any chance to travel with Sabrina was met with elation on my part, but I had to admit that getting away from the drudgery of writing the book filled me with a tremendous relief.

  "She was a little odd. I don't mean mentally or emotionally odd, like so many of the others there. Her strangeness was in the fact that she didn't seem to belong there. She was intelligent, well-read, and seemed educated."

  "Sounds like a carbon copy of you."

  "We did develop a friendship, but we weren't as close as you might think. Despite some similarities, there were also some vast d
ifferences. I said she didn't seem to belong there, and yet, she did. She almost seemed happy to be there—well, as happy as anyone in prison could be. But there was another difference. It was the hate. There was a hatred directed toward someone in her past. She never talked about it to anyone, as far as I know, but it was eating at her. She had led a hard life, not unusual for someone in prison. But hers was different. I just don't know how or why."

  "Maybe Wisconsin is where you find out."

  "Maybe." She had turned thoughtful, so I gave her some space. But it didn't last long. "I didn't even know she had gotten out."

  "Would you have looked her up? You seemed upset when you learned she'd died."

  "I was momentarily sad, but more like surprised. And no, I wouldn't have looked her up. She wasn't the kind who would have appreciated it, and we would’ve have had nothing to say to each other. As I said, we weren't close."

  "And yet, you're willing to go to Wisconsin."

  "I am. There's a mystery there, and hey, I'm a mystery author. It’s what I do."

  “I heard you mention a package.”

  “Daisy’s daughter said that her mother had sent her a small package that included a sealed envelope with the instructions that she should contact me if something should happen to her and to give me the envelope. She says it feels like it contains a key.”

  “How did she get your cell phone number?”

  “There was one other person who had it. Terri. When I got successful, I sent it to her and told her that if she ever needed something, to call me.”

  “Like, ‘Get me out of here?’”

  “No. Terri was in for life. She knew it and wasn’t going to go through the charade of trying to get out. I owed her a lot and I just wanted her to know that I was there for her. She’s never called me.”

  “So she gave it to Daisy?”

  “I imagine so. She probably gave it to Daisy when she was getting out, figuring Daisy might need the help someday.”

  I called to arrange the airline tickets, hotel, and car rental, and then we packed carry-on bags. We doubted we’d be there much longer than a day. Suitcases would be an unnecessary burden.