Liquid Lies Part 1

Liquid Lies.

Lois Lavrisa.

Acknowledgments.

Any story starts with an idea and then grows from there. Along the way many people helped and supported me as I turned my idea into a finished book. First and foremost, thanks go out to my husband Tom and our children: Sean, Melanie, Tiffany and Ryan.

To my many writer friends who reviewed, edited and critiqued drafts including those in the Savannah Pen & Ink Writers group, The Annual Women's Writers' Retreat gorgeous gals and the Rebel Writers Group- Pat, Nancy, Donna, Tom, Charles, Melissa, Jan and Deirdre. And to all of my friends who listened to me while I plotted out my stories and talked about characters (as though they were real), thank you for letting me bend your ear. Also, thank you to my editor, "The Edit Dude", and my cover designer, Kate Sterling.

For providing fresh hot coffee, and a great environment in which to write- a huge that you to the Sentient Bean on Forsyth Park and Cutters Point in Sandfly. Police Sergeant Bobby von Loewenfeldt graciously volunteering to go over page by page of my ma.n.u.script- fact checking all police procedurals. Your a.s.sistance and expertise were invaluable.

Thanks to Boy Scout Troop 57 in Savannah, GA, for keeping my husband and sons entertained, thereby allowing me time to write.

And last but not least a special thank you to Chip and Wendy, who invited my family for summer weekends at their gorgeous Wisconsin lake home. Being at their lovely home gave me inspiration for the setting and location of the fict.i.tious town in Liquid Lies. Thank you.

However, my biggest grat.i.tude is extended to you, my readers. Without you my stories would never be given life. Thank you, enjoy.

About the Author.

Lois Lavrisa writes Mystery with a Twist. Her first mystery LIQUID LIES, an Amazon bestseller and Amazon Hot New Release, is set in an affluent lake town in Wisconsin. Fast paced with twists and turns around every corner, it'll keep you guessing until the end.

Her women's fiction, HARMONY HILL asks the question, "What would you do if you found out that your life was a lie?" HARMONY HILL will be available late 2012. Her short story "Picture not Perfect" is in a young adult anthology called ETERNAL SPRING which was released with great reviews in April 2012. Another short story "Turnabout Twist": is included in The WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Summer Fling Edition. In 2012 she will write short stories for two additional anthologies.

She's working on a cozy mystery series, THE CHUBBY CHICKS CLUB about sa.s.sy southern sleuths, set in Savannah, Georgia. THE CHUBBY CHICKS CLUB is a rag tag group of friends (not all chubby nor all chicks) who find themselves investigating a friend's mysterious death, with time running out for them to find the killer before the killer finds them. THE CHUBBY CHICKS CLUB, book one, should be completed next year.

She's been married to her aeros.p.a.ce husband Tom for over 21 years and they have four children - two boys and two girls. She's a member of several writing organizations including: Mystery Writers of America (MWA), Romance Writers of America (RWA) and Sisters in Crime (SIC). Currently, she's serving as vice president of the Low Country RWA. For the past six years she's been a member of the Savannah Pen & Ink writers group. She's written for a local newspaper, a magazine, numerous newsletters and posts weekly on a blog. Additionally, Lois has worked as an adjunct instructor and a technical writer.

If you want to contact her, please go to www.loislavrisa.com, www.liquidlies.com, www.facebook.com/authorloislavrisa, www.thechubbychicksclub.com, www.facebook.com/loislavrisa, twitter.com/loislavrisa or www.goodreads.com/loislavrisa.

Dedication.

To my husband Tom, who always believed in my dreams, even when I did not. For knowing that I was the one for him the first night we met, and who patiently waited three years for me to figure out that he was the one for me.

Chapter One.

One night. Two best friends. Two tickets to a sold out concert. One joint. Two bottles of wine. One perfect eighteenth birthday celebration and a memorable last night together.

Or so we thought.

"See? My auto repair cla.s.s was a much better elective than your cla.s.sic French art cla.s.s," I teased Francesca. She held an umbrella over me while I finished putting a full-size spare tire on her red BMW. The buzz from the wine and pot had worn off long ago. At one o'clock in the morning I wanted to be home in bed, not out here. The neon red light flashed and reflected off the rear window 24 Hour Truck Stop & Diner. I added, "Where would that get us now?"

"But CiCi, if your life depended on your knowledge of Claude Monet or Paul Cezanne." Francesca wiggled the umbrella, splashing me with water drops. "You'd be dead."

"I doubt an answer on French artists would ever be a deal breaker in a life or death situation." I ducked out from under the umbrella and put the jack and flat tire in her trunk. "Or in any situation for that matter."

"It could be. You never know." She moved next to me. "Anyway, my senior apt.i.tude test said I was artistic and should do something that involves travel. I'm just saying that, while I'm traveling to all the museums in Europe with my aunt, one day someone might offer me a million Euros to answer an art question, you never know."

"Yeah, sure. Those tests aren't always accurate anyway. Mine said I should be in law enforcement." I smiled. "But then again, if I was a cop, I could get your sorry a.s.s out of jail. Which, by the way, I'm surprised you haven't been in yet." She looked like an angel, but all the years I knew her, she acted more naughty than nice. Yet, she had a childlike innocence to her mischief. It was never boring being around her.

"Ha ha. You're lucky to have me in your life. I add excitement. Danger."

"Don't know what I'd do without you."

"You won't have to, because you're going to tell me that you've changed your mind and you're moving to Paris with me."

"Two problems with that. One, I don't have the money to go to Paris, and two, I'm already enrolled at the University for the fall semester." Then I held my hand to my heart. "And of course, there's Ken."

"Okay, by the way that was three."

"Fine, three reasons I can't go with you."

"It's your lucky day, I have all the solutions to those problems. Firstly, my aunt Vivian is absolutely loaded; her hubby left her with a small fortune. So she'll take care of both of us. Second, drop out of college. Problems solved." She closed her eyes as she held her hand to her forehead. "Thirdly...Wait. I can see your future. You're dumping your high school sweetheart. Another image is coming to me. I see a gorgeous Parisian man feeding you endless bowls of pasta."

I held up my grime covered hands. "Oh great psychic one, can you tell me what I'm going to do now?"

"Scratch your a.s.s," Francesca said.

I laughed as I lunged at her with my soiled hands. She screamed and dodged my attempt to wipe my hands on her jacket.

As we made our way over the potholed gravel parking lot to a wooden sign that read Restrooms, we pa.s.sed a handful of cars. I noticed a few semi trucks parked in the back. At the gas tanks, a solitary car was filling up as we entered a door that read Ladies.

On our exit, the cool night air blasted us. It was August 31st, and the slight chill in the air announced that Wisconsin autumn was in full swing. We both put on gloves and zipped up our jackets. A burly man wearing a shabby black leather jacket emerged from the men's side. A lone light bulb dangling overhead illuminated his tanned face framed with graying on his temples. He smiled at us. Wrinkles set in around his mouth and eyes. Late forties, I thought.

"Well, h.e.l.lo ladies," he stepped in front of us. He pointed to a semi truck several yards away, "You looking for some fun?"

Francesca flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. At five foot ten, she stood eye to eye with the man. "What kind of fun are you talking about?"

"I've got some cold beer in my truck if you're interested in a nightcap," he said.

"We're just leaving." I jumped in.

Why was she flirting with this guy? It didn't surprise me that he was flirting with her. I was accustomed to being in her shadow whenever Francesca was around. At five six, with a slim boyish body and shoulder length brunette hair, I felt average to the core. Unmistakably overshadowed by Francesca's stunning appearance. But Ken thought I was beautiful, and said so the day I met him when he almost knocked me down getting to cla.s.s. We first met when he was a senior and I was a freshman. We've been together ever since.

I jabbed her in the side. "Let's go."

"Not before I have a drink." Francesca glided her statuesque figure over next to him and trailed her slender hand over the collar of his tattered jacket. "What the h.e.l.l. It's my birthday."

He lifted an eyebrow. A smile crept over his face, "Follow me, gorgeous."

I grabbed Francesca's arm. "What are you doing?"

"Excuse us for a second," Francesca said to the man as she pulled me a few feet away from him. "CiCi, chill out. It's an adventure."

"Oh so that's what this is called? Adventure, insanity. Same thing," I said.

"Trust me."

"Really? What could go wrong going with a stranger to his lair?" I could think of a million things and they all were trouble.

"C'mon, nothing will happen. We're tough. To quote from Hugo 'we're more strong than time.' Translation, we're invincible." She smiled. "Plus it'll be fun."

"A concert is fun. Being out here in the middle of flipping nowhere is not." I emphasized by shaking my hands around. "And quoting from a French poet is not helpful. How about this quote, 'Distrust and caution are the parents of security,' Ben Franklin. Let's listen to Ben and go home. No more adventures tonight."

"It gets my adrenaline going." She tapped my arm.

"Take up jogging. That'll rev you up," I added, tapping her back. Francesca always sought out danger, while I was the incessant voice of reason.

"This is our last night together. I mean even Ken knew we had to make this night spectacular- right? He bought us the concert tickets and everything. So c'mon. Live a little? I know you hate anything that shakes up your safe little world. But please, for me?" She put her head on my shoulder.

It had been thoughtful of Ken to get us the concert tickets. And I know how tight money is for him. He's in college, and soon off to medical school, and even with scholarships, there is still a lot he has to pay for. But he also knew how much Francesca meant to me, and that she's moving tomorrow and this would be our last night together for a long time.

"What haven't I done for you?" I sighed.

"Is that a yes? What can happen, right? I mean we can always leave."

"One beer? But we go right after." I patted her back, "You're spoiled rotten."

She squealed. "I knew you'd give in, you always do."

"Call me a sucker."

"Sucker." Francesca hugged me.

We walked to the trucker who had just stubbed out a cigarette. He gave us a thumbs up. "You gals ready?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

We followed him to the back lot. Several big rigs were parked, engines growling, on a large expanse of gravel.

The trucker opened the door to his silver cab. The driver's side of the cab had a license sticker from California and an airbrushed design depicting a scantily clad woman sitting astride a horse, with the words 'Born to be Wild' written above. Alongside was an airbrushed picture of a boy and a dog with the caption 'Man's best friend.'

Francesca pushed me toward the door. "Do you mind getting in first, 'cause I want to sit in the middle?"

I climbed the two metal grated steps into the cab. When I hitched up my leg, my jacket caught on the door. I tugged it loose but it tore. Francesca followed as I scooted to the window on the pa.s.senger side of the cab. The trucker got in last and slammed the heavy door closed. I tried to evaluate the damage to my silver windbreaker. A piece of the fabric had been torn off.

"Here's a couple cold ones. Since you two have gloves on, I'll open them for you," the trucker said as he popped the lids and handed a beer to both Francesca and me. We both took a swig. I'd rather have had hot chocolate.

The inside of the s.p.a.cious sleeper cab was warm and smelled of motor oil, cigarettes and Fritos. Fast food wrappers and crushed soda cans littered the floor. On the driver's side visor, above the grimy windshield, were stickers of naked men and women having s.e.x. Only the men were grinning.

As I situated myself, I kicked something on the floor. I looked down and saw what looked like a long steel rod. Or gun barrel.

I began to sweat. Bile bubbled up from my stomach. Every cell in my body stood at full alert.

Leaning toward Francesca, I whispered, "I think there's a gun or something."

"Where?" Francesca asked.

I pointed down by my feet, and in a low voice said, "There."

Francesca frowned. "I don't think it's a gun."

The trucker started the engine. He cleared his throat and looked over at us.

"This whole thing is giving me the creeps," I said. "Let's get out of here."

"Not yet." Francesca squeezed my hand. "Trust me."

The trucker said, "Here Blondie, scoot over by me. I'll show you how to toot the horn."

Francesca giggled and leaned in close to the trucker. "This?"

"Here let me help you." The trucker reached his arm around Francesca and tugged her close to him.

Francesca pulled the horn. "Happy birthday to me!" She pulled again.

"So how old are you Blondie?" the trucker asked.

"Eighteen tonight," She said as she pointed to a b.u.t.ton I had given her that read 'Eighteen going on twenty-one.' She wore it on the lapel of her jacket. She took it off and showed him the b.u.t.ton.

"Legal huh?" He put the b.u.t.ton on the dash.

"Not being legal has never stopped me," Francesca added.

"You're a wild little thing aren't you?" he added.

"No, she's a good Catholic girl. We made our first communion together," I added, hoping that throwing that in there would take away his thoughts of her being wild. Briefly, I thought of Father O'Doul at our first communion, and also how kind he had been to me my aunt Estelle over the years. He often called to check on us, or he would stop by to drop off a new cookbook or recipe for Estelle.

Francesca laughed. "Yes, I'm the Virgin Mary herself." She pulled the horn again.