The Rules for Lying Read online

Pike shook hands with the Chief and then touched Esther lightly on the shoulder. “Time for us to go, my dear.” She flinched.

  Pike escorted her to the Grimaldi’s car. Esther felt her way inside and sat placidly in the backseat. As Pike drove from the yard, I pressed flat against the building. Esther turned her head. Blind eyes stared directly into mine. Her lips mouthed, Help me.

  I ran directly to the basement of Little Angels, certain the one place I always felt safe and in control would comfort me now. It didn’t. Esther couldn’t possibly have known I was at the store. Her pleading look must have been my imagination.

  Like I imagined the fire and Pike’s glowing eyes?

  Esther’s life wasn’t my business. She was better off with a rich doctor.

  Rich isn’t everything.

  I kicked at the wall in frustration. I was nobody…nothing. I was worse than nothing. I didn’t have a real name. No one would believe me. What help could a penniless orphan give? The sensible thing to do was run away and leave Esther to her fate.

  My fingers balled into tight fists. I could at least warn Esther her new guardian was a dangerous man. Pike had mentioned attending the funeral and that was no lie. With Esther at his side he would play the perfect dutiful relative. Somehow I’d get word with her alone, but that was all Peter Nobody Whistler could do.

  First, I had to convince Mrs. Hart to let me attend the funeral. She was in the parlor, sitting with an enigmatic expression on her face. I got the funny feeling she waited for me.

  “I’d like to come with you to the Grimaldi’s funeral tomorrow to pay my respects.”

  “Would you?” she noted coolly.

  Her reaction was confusing. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s the right thing to do.”

  Mrs. Hart’s face flushed with anger. “How would you know the right thing to do?” She pointed to the fireplace. My clothing from the night before sat in a spoiled heap on the hearth. “Mrs. Murphy brought me a cutting from her new rose bush. Imagine my surprise when I went outside to dig and found those buried in the yard.” Her eyes held a mixture of anger and pain. “I thought I knew you, Peter. I really did.”

  My face went white. I was in deep water now. “I didn’t do anything, I swear. Pike started the fire to murder the Grimaldi’s. I was there. I saw him. I tried to help, but the flames spread too fast.”

  “Oh, come,” she scoffed. “Blaming the fire on an imaginary man. Do you think I’m a fool?”

  Mrs. Hart would tell the cops. I’d be hunted like an animal. In panic, I grabbed her wrist. “You have to believe me. A man was here last night. His name was Dr. Pike. You showed him the carriage house.”

  “Liar!” She struggled to get free. “I never…I wouldn’t…”

  “Listen to me.” I grabbed her other wrist and held tight. My hands shook as if charged with an electric current. A shudder ran though Mrs. Hart. Energy deep inside me reached out and slammed into an invisible barrier around her. She tried to pull away. With all the force I could muster, I shouted, “Pike is a liar!”

  Our gazes locked and the charge exploded. For the second time I heard the mysterious click and felt something unexplainable shift into place. I dropped her hands and stared in shock at my stinging palms.

  Mrs. Hart collapsed in the chair, weak and confused, “A man…in a fedora.”

  I jumped at the words. “You remember him now.”

  She stared blankly at her hands. “Yes…no…I-I’m not sure.”

  “He’s evil, Mrs. Hart. He wants Esther. The Grimaldi’s signed her guardianship over to him for money, and then he killed them.”

  “Enough, Peter.”

  “I have to go the funeral and warn Esther.”

  “I said, enough.” She struck a match from the box on the mantel and tossed it into the hearth. The clothing caught fire immediately. “We have no need to discuss this again. I-I believe you had nothing to do with the Grimaldi’s deaths.”

  “And the funeral?”

  She ran a shaky hand through her hair. “We’ll go. To pay one’s respects is the proper thing to do, of course. Now, leave me alone.”

  “Dr. Pike—”

  “Go.”

  I knew the tone. The discussion was closed. At the threshold I glanced back. Mrs. Hart sat frozen in the chair staring at the flames.

  Cradling my throbbing hands, I stumbled into the kitchen, jerked open the ice box, and pressed my palms flat against a block of ice. The pain dwindled, but a heavy weight settled on my shoulders. I was bone-weary as if pounding a sledgehammer all day long. My appetite disappeared with the burned clothes, so I shuffled off to my room. The parlor was empty. Mrs. Hart must have gone upstairs, too. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was blanketed by crushing fatigue. The next thing I heard was a sharp rap on the door.

  Mrs. Hart called, “Peter, hurry or we’ll be late for the funeral.”

  Sunlight streamed through the window. After throwing on a clean shirt and pants, I shrugged into a jacket, and ran a comb through my hair. Mrs. Hart waited at the front door. She gave me the once over, smoothed a wanton lock off my forehead, and then nodded to herself. “You’ll do.”

  Mrs. Murphy waited for Mrs. Hart on the stoop. Lagging behind the two women, my impatience mounted. I needed a word alone with Mrs. Hart. What did she remember now? Pike didn’t know I lived at Little Angels. Would Mrs. Hart squeal? The thought of those yellow eyes searching for me over the coffins of his victims kept me edgy.

  Despite the name, the Eternal Slumber Mortuary was wide awake and hopping. Nothing brings people out like a funeral. Pike stood in a receiving line graciously accepting condolences from the townsfolk. Esther was next to him, pale skin even more colorless in a little black dress. She cocked her head and turned blind eyes in my direction.

  “Esther,” I whispered, although I knew she couldn’t hear me. “You’re in danger.”

  She shifted on her feet as if marking my warning. Pike immediately laid a firm hand on her shoulder. To all other eyes, a comforting fatherly gesture, but my skin crawled.

  Mrs. Hart approached Pike and extended her hand. The doctor bent his head and murmured something in her ear. I’d have given all my paltry possessions to know what passed between them.

  Esther announced, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Mrs. Hart immediately volunteered as escort. Pike’s eyes narrowed as she guided Esther through the crowd. He obviously didn’t like the idea of the girl leaving his side.

  I shot from the reception area and down the hall. My hand paused on the doorknob to the ladies room. More than any other place on the planet, inside was no man’s land. Not only was I bound to get a stern reproof from Mrs. Hart, but I was also fair game for any other woman inside. For the moment, the corridor was clear. With a nervous swallow, I entered and quickly shut the door.

  Mrs. Hart wasn’t happy. “Peter Whistler, get out at once.”

  “But—”

  “I said go.”

  “No.” Esther’s small voice cut through the argument. Her arms flailed, making contact with Mrs. Hart’s dress. She clenched the material in a balled fist. “Please, help. Don’t let Dr. Pike have me.”

  Taken aback by the girl’s emotional outburst, Mrs. Hart patted her kindly. “Esther, it’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she wailed. “Something is bad about him. I don’t want to see his eyes.”

  “You can’t see anyone’s eyes,” I snapped, momentarily irritated by her dumb statement. “You’re blind.”

  “Enough, Peter.” Mrs. Hart attempted to loosen Esther’s grip, but the girl clung like a hungry tick. “Esther,” she grunted, tugging hard. “He’s your guardian. I know change is difficult, but the Grimaldi’s wished—”

  “Esther?” Pike knocked at the door.

  My chance for a long talk disappeared. “The Grimaldi’s sold her to Pike the night of the fire,” I blurted in a rush. “I watched everything from the window. After they signed over the guardianship papers, he gave them a big wad of ca
sh and then burned the house down.”

  Anxiety flitted across Mrs. Hart’s face as she pried Esther loose.

  “Please,” Esther begged, and then turned her blind eyes toward me. “Please, Peter.”

  Pike’s patience reached the limit. “Esther—time to go.” The handle turned.

  I flattened against the wall as the door swung open. Run…I silently willed. Esther couldn’t, of course. Escape was impossible. A blind girl was at the mercy of the people around her. Through the crack, I watched Pike take her hand in a firm grip.

  My stomach knotted up. The shepherd had turned the lamb over to the slaughterhouse. Whatever the doctor planned was beyond my power to stop.

  I’m sorry, Esther. I tried.

  “Are you leaving today, Dr. Pike?” inquired Mrs. Hart in a congenial tone.

  “Yes, directly after the burial. Business calls me immediately to New York.” His words burned like an open sore. I wanted to scream every syllable from of his mouth was a dirty stinking lie.

  “Meeting you has been such a pleasure. Do have a safe trip.”

  I started. Mrs. Hart lied.

  She cradled Esther’s hand between hers, an uncharacteristically warm gesture. “Don’t worry, my dear. Everything will be fine.”

  Pike led Esther away. Mrs. Hart closed the door. Her face wore a mask of goodwill when greeting the doctor, but was now pale and troubled. “Peter, you are right. That man is a liar.”

  I gaped at her. “You remember.”

  She shook her head as if to clear the fog. “He inquired about the carriage house. His eyes…something is strange about his eyes.”

  “They had yellow flames inside.”

  Mrs. Hart shuddered. “Once you see them your mind goes blank. He told me to forget about him. I did.” She fixed me with a searching look. “You made me remember. What did you do?”

  “I-I’m not sure,” I stammered. “I knew every word was a lie. He lied now about leaving.”

  “Yes. He said in the receiving line he needed the carriage house tonight.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Do?” She slumped against the wall in despair. “Peter, what can either of us possibly do against a man with such powers?”

  I had no answer.

  The door flew open. Augusta Edwards, Chauncey’s mother, shoved past Mrs. Hart. “You’re in my way—” She caught sight of me and glowered. “You filthy little beast, what are you doing in here?” Her claw-like fingers gripped my wrist right around the worst burn. I winced and yanked back my arm. She wouldn’t let go and ripped the thin worn cuff half off.

  Mrs. Hart stepped between us. “I’ll handle him.”

  Mrs. Edwards puffed up. “You’re entirely too lenient with the little mongrel. You should hear what my Chauncey has to say. Mark my words.” She wagged her fat finger. “That boy is an abomination, already halfway along the road to eternal damnation.”

  “I sure Chauncey tries his best,” Mrs. Hart murmured, straight-faced.

  “I didn’t mean Chauncey,” Mrs. Edwards sputtered and then pointed at me. “I meant him.”

  “Of course, a natural error. Nevertheless, he’s my responsibility. Come along, Peter.” Mrs. Hart quickly ushered me out the door.

  “You sure told off the old cow,” I said with a grin.

  Her eyes twinkled. “You have no need to insult respectable farm animals, Peter.”

  “Those are burns!”

  Chauncey gawked at the blisters on my wrist exposed by the torn cuff. “I’m going to tell Dad!” The little weasel pushed through the crowd shouting, “Peter Whistler has burns on his arm! He was at the fire!”

  Curious faces swung my way. Mrs. Hart steered me briskly down the hall. The exit led to the driveway where the hearse waited. Angry voices emanated through the open window of the funeral parlor.

  “I’m in a jam now,” I yelped. “The Chief needs to pin the blame on someone. He’ll never believe me about Pike.”

  “Hide,” she hissed. I slid under the hearse as the door flung open and a group of men led by the Chief stormed out.

  “Where’s Whistler?” he demanded. I hugged the ground.

  “He took off. I followed him outside—there he goes!” Mrs. Hart pointed across the street. “Don’t you see him? He’s getting away!” The men’s eyes darted back and forth as they muttered in confusion. “Don’t stand there bleating like a herd of goats,” she snapped. “He’s probably halfway across town by now. Honestly, must I do your job for you?”

  Chief Edwards flushed. “Follow me, men.” He and the posse took off at a run chasing the Invisible Boy.

  Other people filtered from the funeral parlor following the commotion. Mrs. Hart bent over pretending to tie her shoe. “The carriage house,” she whispered. “Midnight.” She straightened up and ordered the gawkers inside using her best no-nonsense tone. Few had the moxie to argue with Mrs. Hart.

  The crowd cleared, but the alarm would spread quickly about the dangerous criminal lurking in the area. Soon, everyone would be on the lookout.

  The hearse was parked next to a small basement window. I scooted over, relieved to see the pane unlocked. The one place cops wouldn’t search was the funeral parlor where they knew I’d already been. Squeezing past the sash, I dropped lightly to the floor. Jars of formaldehyde lined the walls, giving the room a funny chemical smell. With plenty of time to kill, I sat down to wait.

  The soft buzzing of many voices reverberated from above. Half the town had come through to pay respects. Have you ever noticed the one place where lying is completely acceptable is at a funeral? Nobody ever speaks ill of the dead, even if they were lousy human beings. People heaped all sorts of praise on the Grimaldi’s.

  Rumrunners?

  Nonsense.

  Liars and chiselers?

  Absurd.

  Sold a little girl to a monster with flaming eyes?

  Tut, tut.

  The murmur upstairs finally died away as townsfolk headed home. Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside the window. “No, we haven’t caught Whistler, yet,” grunted Chief Edwards, “but we will. The boy has no money, no connections, and nowhere to run. I’ve got men searching the roads along with people inside the train station and bus depot.”

  I inhaled sharply at the glimpse of the bottom of a black duster.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done,” said Pike.

  “Yup, once we catch him, he’ll talk. Don’t worry. Whistler will spill everything he knows about the fire.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Pike’s voice dropped low. “Catching Whistler alive is a waste of time. The boy is obviously guilty.”

  The lie hit hard and fast. “Whistler is guilty,” echoed the chief.

  “The guilty should be punished.”

  “Should be punished.”

  A flash of yellow light danced across the window pane. The lie whipped out and captured the Chief. “You don’t need to hear what Peter Whistler has to say,” murmured Pike. “He’s dangerous. Your men must shoot to kill.”

  “Shoot to kill,” muttered Chief Edwards. The yellow light vanished. His voice lost the mindless repetition and became forceful. “I’m sorry to say, Dr. Pike, the situation is desperate. I don’t need Whistler’s statement. The boy is obviously deranged. I’m instructing my men to shoot to kill. We can’t chance he’ll murder again.”

  “You’ve made a wise decision, Chief. The citizenry must be protected.”

  At that moment, the funeral director arrived holding Esther’s hand. The time had come to transport the bodies to the cemetery for burial. Esther glanced once in my direction as if she knew I was there. After a brief shuffle of footsteps and several loud thuds, the caskets were loaded. An engine started and the hearse drove off.

  I leaned against the wall. The building was quiet. The only sound in the dark cellar was the wild thumping of my heart. I was in dutch now; fingered as a killer and marked to be shot on sight.

  The day crept by. I kept track of time by marking the to
wn clock chime the hour. At six p.m., the hearse returned. The funeral parlor staff meandered around upstairs for a while, before the building fell silent again. When the clock finally tolled eleven, I hoisted myself out the window.

  Chief Edwards earned his paycheck. Squad cars prowled the roads while groups of armed men with flashlights combed the alleys, but nobody knew every shortcut and hidden byway in New Brunswick better than me. I made my way to Little Angels and hid behind a tree across the street. All the windows were dark, the curtains drawn. The temptation to slip through the front door was great, but the parlor light shone inside Mrs. Murphy’s. The old biddy perched at the front window, a perfect vantage point to keep watch all night.

  If Mrs. Murphy intended to waste her time spying in the front, then the safest way to the carriage house was through her backyard. Easing past the rose bushes, I heard a suspicious growl.

  “Honey Bun…shhh…..it’s me.” The little terrier yipped with recognition. “Shush,” I ordered. “Keep quiet.” She shivered in the chilly air and nudged my hand for food. I gave her a sympathetic scratch. “Did old lady Murphy assign you guard duty to protect her from the deranged arsonist? Sorry, the deranged arsonist has nothing to eat. By the way, I was framed.” Honey Bun snorted as if in disbelief before trotting away. Geez…even dogs didn’t trust my innocence.

  The town clock chimed twelve times. As I slipped inside the carriage house, the kitchen door of Little Angels creaked. The light briefly illuminated silhouettes of three figures. Pike, Esther, and Mrs. Hart were on the way.

  I needed a hiding place, but other than some old wooden orange crates stuffed in a corner, the building was empty. I eyeballed the shadowy rafters. The ceiling wasn’t too high. I stacked the crates and climbed onto a crossbeam. With a grunt I hauled my feet to the top, but a toe caught the edge of a crate and toppled over the shaky pile. Trapped on the support beam, I pressed flat and waited.

  The door opened. Pike strode to the center of the room near my position. Mrs. Hart followed holding Esther by the hand. I didn’t dare a breath as the horrific yellow gleam from Pike’s eyes played around the gloomy interior.

  “As you can see,” she assured him, “the carriage house is empty.”