The Liar

“HER LEGAL NAME was Melinda Warren.” Forrest stood in what had once been Shelby’s bedroom and watched Griff sand the seams on drywall. “Age thirty-one, born Springbrook, Illinois. Did time for fraud, so that much was true. And that was her first real stint, though she did some time in juvie once upon a time, got pulled in here and there on suspicion—theft, fraud, forgery. Nothing stuck until this last one. And married sure enough to one Jake Brimley, in Las Vegas, about seven years back. No divorce on record.”

“And you’re sure Jake Brimley was Richard Foxworth?”

“Working on that. The coroner was right about the slug—.25 caliber. Contact shot. Something like that, it’d rattle around in her skull like a marble in a pan.”

“Nice.” Still sanding, Griff glanced around. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Well, you found her, so I’m respecting your vested interest.”

“You’re a funny guy, Pomeroy.”

“I’ve got knees being slapped all over the county. Other than respecting your vested interest, I came by here to tell Shelby, but she and everybody else is someplace else. You’re the only one here.”

“I am now,” Griff confirmed. “Matt’s out getting supplies for what we’ll be doing here Monday. Plus, I’m better at drywall work than he is. He’s not very patient at it.”

“And you are.”

Griff adjusted the Baltimore Orioles fielder’s cap he wore to help keep the dust out of his eyes. “It just takes time, and sooner or later it’s smooth as glass. Shelby’s at the salon,” he added. “Your mother took Callie to the flower place to buy some plants for something she’s calling a fairy garden. Her friend Suzannah’s coming by with Chelsea later so the girls can dig in the dirt. Your father’s at the clinic.”

Forrest took a slug from the bottle of Mountain Dew he carried. “You’re well informed about my family, Griffin.”

“I slept on the couch downstairs last night.”

Forrest nodded. “Another reason I’m telling you all this. If I’m not looking out for my family, I know you are. It’s appreciated.”

“They matter.” Griff ran his fingers down the seam and, satisfied, moved to the next.

“I had time this morning to speak to Clay about all this, and other things. We’re wondering, as brothers might, if you’re just looking to bang our sister.”

“Jesus, Forrest.” And Griff beat his head lightly against the wall.

“It’s a reasonable question.”

“Not when I’m standing here with a sanding block and you’ve got a gun.”

“I won’t shoot you. This time.”

Griff glanced back, measured his friend’s easy smile. “Comforting. I’m looking to spend some time with your sister and see what happens next. My impression is the dead fake husband messed her mind up pretty good in the area you’re concerned about.”

“I’m not surprised to hear it. I’m going to get back to work.”

“What about the other guy? This O’Hara?”

Forrest smiled again. “And there’s the final reason I’m telling you all this. You keep up. Name’s not O’Hara. James—Jimmy—Harlow. He went down with the brunette, a harder knock. According to the tune she sang at the time, they’d been working a con on a rich widow name of Lydia Redd Montville. Big—real big—money there on her own side and her dead husband’s. Foxworth—we’ll just stick with that for now—romanced her. He had bona fides said he was a wealthy entrepreneur with interests in art and import/export.”

He took another swig from his bottle, gestured with it. “The brunette posed as his assistant, Harlow as his security. They worked the mark for two months or so, defrauded her out of close to a million. But they wanted more. She was known for her jewelry, and her late husband for his stamp collection. Had a vault full of both of them. According to the brunette, this was going to be their big score. Retirement time.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

“Widow’s son started asking too many questions on the deals Foxworth aimed her toward, so they decided to get it done, get out. Things went wrong.”

“Things always do on the last score, right? You’re jinxing it right off the jump.”

“Seems like it. The widow was supposed to be away for few days at a spa thing—which turned out to be she was having a little tune-up. Plastic surgery.”

“Because she had a younger lover, and didn’t want to tell him she was getting nipped and tucked.”

“It plays true. So they’re in her big house, getting into the vault. Going to clean her out and book it. The son brings her home, where she plans to sit out the bruises, I expect. And they’re red-handed in the cookie jar.”

“Some cookies.”

“It appears either Foxworth or Harlow shoots the son, the brunette comes out of the bedroom, knocks the widow out—she claims to keep Harlow from shooting her, too, though he claims it was Foxworth doing the shooting.”

“Rats ratting on rats. Duplicity,” Griff decided. “It’s a suitable word of the day.”

“That’s a fine one.”

“What happened next?”

“What happened next is—and both Warren and Harlow agree on this end of it—Foxworth grabs the bag they’d put the jewelry and stamps in, and they scat, leaving the son and widow a bloody mess.”