The Liar

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.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with a manager. I’m Mrs. Richard Foxworth, and I have a power of attorney here. I lost my husband last December.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. I believe he had a safe-deposit box in this bank. I have the key here, and the power of attorney.”

Much quicker than fumbling around, she’d learned, telling bored bank people she’d found the key, didn’t know what it went to.

“Mrs. Babbington’s in her office, and should be able to help you. Straight across, to the left.”

“Thanks.” She went across, found the office, knocked on the open glass door. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. They said I should speak to you about getting into my husband’s safe-deposit box.”

She walked straight in—something else she’d learned—sat with Callie on her lap.

“I have the power of attorney here, and the key. I’m Mrs. Richard Foxworth.”

“Let me check on this. You have such pretty red hair,” she said to Callie.

“Mama’s.” Callie reached up to grab a hank of Shelby’s.

“Yes, just like your mother’s. You’re not listed on Mr. Foxworth’s box.”

“I— I’m sorry?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a signature card for you.”

“He has a box here?”

“Yes. Even with the POA, it would be best if Mr. Foxworth came in personally. He could add you on.”

“He—he can’t. He was—”

“Daddy had to go to heaven.”

“Oh.” Babbington’s face radiated sympathy. “I’m very sorry.”

“Angels sing in heaven. Mama, Fifi wants to go home now.”

“Soon, baby. He— Richard— There was an accident. He was in a boat, and there was a squall. In December. December twenty-eighth. I have the documentation. They don’t issue a death certificate when they can’t find . . .”

“I understand. I need to see your paperwork, Mrs. Foxworth. And some photo ID.”

“I brought my marriage license, too. Just so you’d have everything. And the police report on when it happened. And these letters from the lawyers.” Shelby handed it all over, held her breath.

“You could get a court order for access.”

“Is that what I should do? I could ask Richard’s lawyers—well, my lawyers now, I guess, to do that.”

“Give me a moment here.”

Babbington read over the paperwork while Callie shifted restlessly in Shelby’s lap. “I want my tea party, Mama. You said. I want my tea party.”

“That’s what we’ll do, soon as we’re done here. We’ll have a princess tea party. You should think about what dolls you’re going to invite.”

Callie began to list them off, and Shelby realized the nerves of waiting gave her a sudden and urgent need to pee.

“The POA’s in order, as is the rest of your documentation. I’ll show you to the box.”

“Now?”

“If you’d rather come back another time—”

“No, no, I appreciate it so much.” So much that she felt breathless and a little giddy. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I should do.”

“I’ll walk you through it. I’ll need your signature. Just let me print this out. It sounds like you’ll have a lot of guests at your tea party,” she said to Callie as she worked. “I have a granddaughter about your age. She loves tea parties.”

“She can come.”

“I bet she’d love to, but she lives in Richmond, Virginia, and that’s pretty far away. If you’d sign this, Mrs. Foxworth.”

She could barely read it the way her thoughts were racing around in her head.

Babbington used a swipe card and a passcode, accessed a kind of vault where the walls were filled with numbered drawers. Number 512.

“I’m going to step out, give you some privacy. If you need any help, just let me know.”

“Thank you very much. Am I allowed to take what’s in it?”

“You’re authorized. Take your time,” she added, and drew a curtain to block off the room.

“Well, I have to say holy . . . s-h-i-t.” She set the big bag she used for Callie’s things and her own, and Richard’s attaché, on a table, then, clutching her daughter, stepped to the box.

“Too tight, Mama!”

“Sorry, sorry. God, I’m nervous. It’s probably just a bunch of papers he didn’t want in the house. It’s probably nothing. It may even be empty.”

So open it, for God’s sake, she ordered herself.

With an unsteady hand, she slid the key into the lock, turned it. Even jumped a little when it clicked open.

“Here we go. Doesn’t matter if it’s empty. The important thing is I found it. On my own. I did it myself. I’ve got to set you down a minute, baby. You stay right here, you stay right here with me.”

She set Callie on the floor, pulled out the box, put it on the table.

Then simply stared.

“Oh God. Holy shit.”

“Shit, Mama!”