The Liar

She jumped when the doorbell rang. The book man was a solid fifteen minutes early, time she’d counted on to put coffee and cookies out in the library.

She rushed down, hoping he didn’t ring again. Callie slept light at naptime.

She opened the door to a man younger and better looking than she’d expected—which went to show, she supposed, about assumptions.

“Mr. Lauderdale, you’re timely.”

“Ms. Foxworth.” Smoothly, he held out a hand to clasp hers.

“Come in out of the cold. I’ll never get used to northern winters.”

“You haven’t been in the area long.”

“No, just long enough to go through a winter. Let me take your coat.”

“I appreciate that.”

He had a strong-looking stocky build, a square-jawed face, cool hazel eyes. Nothing, she thought, like the thin, older, bespectacled bookworm of her imagination.

“Donna—Ms. Tinesdale—said you might be interested in the books I have.” She hung the sturdy peacoat in the foyer closet. “Why don’t I take you right into the library so you can have a look?”

“You have an impressive home.”

“It’s big, anyway,” she said as she led him back, past a sitting room with a grand piano nobody played, a lounge area with a pool table she still had to sell, and to the library.

It would’ve been her favorite room, next to Callie’s, if she could have made it cozier, warmer. But for now she had the fire going, had taken down the heavy drapes—also in the to-sell pile—so the winter sun, what there was of it, could leak through the windows.

The furniture here, the leather sofa in what she thought of as lemon-pie yellow and the dark brown chairs, the too-shiny tables would all be gone by the end of the week.

She hoped the cases full of leather-bound books no one had ever read would be gone, too.

“Like I told you on the phone, I’ll be moving before much longer, so I’m inclined to sell the books. I’ve already packed up the ones I want myself, but these—well, to tell you the truth, my husband bought them because he thought they looked good in the room.”

“They look impressive, like the house.”

“I guess they do. I’m more interested in what’s in a book than how it looks in a cabinet, I guess. If you’d like to take a look at them, I can make coffee.”

He wandered over, took out a book at random. “Faust.”

“I read how a lot of people buy books this way, by the foot? To decorate.”

She wanted to clutch her hands together, had to order herself to relax. She should be used to this by now, she thought, it shouldn’t still make her nervous.

“I guess I think it’d be nicer—more appealing to the eye, to my eye,” she corrected, “if they weren’t all the same. The bindings, the height. And I guess I have to say, I wouldn’t be one to curl up in front of the fire and read Faust.”

“You’re not alone in that.” He slipped the book back in place and turned those cool eyes on her. “Ms. Foxworth, I’m not Lauderdale. My name’s Ted Privet.”

“Oh, did Mr. Lauderdale send you to take a look?”

“I’m not a book dealer, I’m a private investigator. I spoke to you on the phone a couple nights ago. I asked about David Matherson.”

She took a step back. Heels or not, she could and would outrun him. Get him outside, away from Callie.

“And I told you, you had the wrong number. You need to go now. I’m expecting someone any minute.”

“I only need a minute.” With a smile, he lifted his hands as if to show her he was harmless. “I’m just doing my job, Ms. Foxworth. I tracked David Matherson to this area, and my information . . . I’ve got a photo.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, holding his other hand out and up in a gesture of peace. “If you’d just take a look. Do you know this man?”

Her heart hammered. She’d let a stranger into the house. She’d gotten careless, having so many people going in and out, and she’d let him in. With her baby sleeping upstairs.

“You let me think you were someone else.” She put a whip in her voice, hope it stung. “Is that how you do your job?”

“Yeah, actually. Some of the time.”

“I don’t much like you or your job.” She snatched the photo out of his hand. Stared at it.

She’d known it would be Richard, but seeing him—the movie-star smile, the brown eyes with hints of gold—hit hard. His hair was darker, and he wore a trim goatee she thought made him look older, just like the identification from the bank box. But it was Richard.

The man in the photo had been her husband. Her husband had been a liar.

What was she?

“This is a picture of my late husband, Richard.”

“Seven months ago, this man—going by the name of David Matherson—swindled a woman in Atlanta out of fifty thousand dollars.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any David Matherson. My husband was Richard Foxworth.”

“Two months before that, David Matherson swindled a small group of investors in Jacksonville, Florida, out of twice that. I could go back, go on, including a major burglary in Miami about five years ago. Twenty-eight million in rare stamps and jewelry.”