Lie in Plain Sight

by Maggie Barbieri

  “Founders Day. Do you remember I said I’d have a party the day before for the crew?”

  No. “Of course.”

  “Can I place my order now, or would you prefer that I come in tomorrow?”

  She looked around for a piece of paper, Heather’s envelope sticking out from between the cookbooks, reminding her that she had to think of what to do with that information. “Now is fine,” she said. Founders Day was this Sunday, and she hadn’t given a thought to what she would make or, even more of a worry, how she would make it in time. Jo was going to have to do double duty, and she wouldn’t like that. She didn’t even enjoy doing single duty, although her latest stint at the bakery was far more productive than her last. Maybe motherhood had changed her.

  “Got that?” Kurt asked.

  “I’ve got it,” Maeve said. “Thanks so much for your business, Kurt.”

  “You sound a little off, Maeve. Is everything okay, or am I being too personal?”

  “Not being personal at all, Kurt,” she said, resisting the urge to both cry and tell him everything—how she felt responsible for Taylor’s disappearance, how one of her daughters hated her and wanted nothing to do with her, how she had killed one man and had a hand in another man’s death yet felt nothing inside when she thought of both those instances. “Just teenage drama.” That was the understatement of the year.

  “She’s a nice girl, Maeve.”

  “Who?”

  “Heather. A lovely girl. You’ve done a very nice job there.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I lost a daughter, Maeve. Car accident. And not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and wonder what she’d be like now. Now that I know Heather, I wonder if she’d be as wonderful as your girl.”

  “Heather Callahan?” Maeve asked, wondering if she had stepped through a portal into a different world where people thought that her recalcitrant and moody daughter was a “lovely girl” she had done a “nice job” raising. “You must be thinking of Rebecca.”

  “No, I’m thinking of Heather, Maeve,” Kurt said, letting out a little laugh.

  “How do you know her? From the store?”

  “No,” he said. “From Mark. They’re spending time together, Maeve, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  CHAPTER 38

  She would deny it. Maeve was sure of that, so there was really no reason at all to try to talk to Heather about this new relationship. She had denied dating Jesse Connors and would deny even knowing Mark Messer.

  “Therapy,” Maeve said, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice and the word spoken. Therapy wasn’t something her people did. They drank. They raged. They stewed. And eventually, when all of that was done, they swept whatever it was under the carpet, never to speak of it again.

  When she had a moment to think, a second to look into it, they were going to therapy. She’d have to prepare herself mentally for what she would hear from her daughter, but it had to be done. There was no way out of this situation unless they had someone to listen to them both, mediate the conflict.

  It would be a last-ditch effort, one she loathed the thought of, but something she would have to do.

  The next day at the store, she texted Cal to make sure that Heather had moved in and stayed there, as she said she would, something he confirmed with one word.

  Yes.

  So they weren’t speaking either, she guessed, Cal in a snit about whatever it was that was troubling him currently. Alone in the store, she sat at the counter in the kitchen, waiting for the scones to bake, and wrote out a list of things she would need to do for what she thought was the most ridiculous event ever to be scheduled in Farringville: Founders Day.

  Sure the village was old, and yes, the immigrants who had settled here had found a delightful little tract of land right beside the Hudson River, but what was the town celebrating exactly? That it was a bedroom community that gave rise to a bunch of new, giant homes that didn’t fit in with the old-world grandeur of the east side of the village? That the taxes were making it so people like Maeve wouldn’t have a chance in hell of staying here once she was retired, if she could ever do that? That the threat of bigger stores—the Starbucks and the Smashburgers and the Whole Foods—that threatened to encroach on the real estate would put people like her out of business in no time? That the one major business that had allowed people to live comfortably had been sold by its owner, leaving its former employees to scramble and find work elsewhere?

  She laid her head on the counter. Settle down, she told herself. She was spiraling out of control mentally, and she knew that feeling. It wasn’t a good one.

  Jo was early that morning, showing up not long after the morning rush. “You look like death warmed over.”

  “How so?” Maeve asked. “How warm exactly?”

  Jo eyed her from across the kitchen. “Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.”

  “Heather moved out.”

  “To Cal’s?

  “Yes, to Cal’s. She’s too young to get a hotel room, Jo,” Maeve said, hoping to laugh it off but sounding bitter and resentful.

  Jo walked past her into the store. “I think I’ll just leave you alone for a while. I think you need to stay here. Customers don’t enjoy crabby bakers.”

  She took Jo’s advice and stayed in the kitchen. After making batter for four dozen cupcakes, some of which she would freeze in anticipation of the weekend’s festivities, she went online and reread the story about the girl who had gone missing in Prideville the year before, noting, when the story came up, the similarities between Caroline Jerman’s case and Taylor’s.

  She was seventeen.

  She had long, dark hair.

  She had played soccer.

  She had left work to take the five-minute walk home, disappearing somewhere between the Rite Aid on Route 3 and her house.

  Maeve slammed her computer shut and pulled open the door between the kitchen and the front of the store. “Can you hold down the fort?” she asked Jo.

  “Yes,” Jo said, gesturing to the empty space. “I think I can handle servicing no customers.”

  No customers. On her way out to the car, Maeve thought about that and how between the hours of eight and two, hardly anyone came in anymore. The railroad guys were regulars, but even their numbers seemed to have dwindled. She had heard once that any press was good press. Bad press, contrary to the prevailing theory, seemed to be hurting her bottom line.

  No customers, she thought again. It didn’t matter. At least not right now. She got into the Prius and headed into the village, the place where the high school kids gathered to have lunch and blow off a little steam before heading back to class. A Mexican takeout place was Heather’s favorite, and although Maeve bristled at the amount of money she spent on the food, she knew it was marginally healthier than the Chinese place or the sandwich places that dotted either side of Main Street.

  Maeve parked in Mathers Park and took the short walk into town, scanning the throngs of kids for a glimpse of Heather. After fifteen minutes, just about ready to give up, she saw her coming out of the Mexican place with a bottle of water in one hand and a bag of food in the other. She was on the other side of the street, by herself, not noticing her mother until Maeve raised a hand and got her attention.

  Maeve could tell that her first inclination was to pretend not to see her mother, but she looked both ways before crossing, as Maeve had taught her a long time ago, darted out into the street after a car passed by, and trotted over. Without pausing, she walked quickly toward the park, Maeve trying to keep up with her long-legged daughter.

  “I know no one wants to be seen with their mother during lunch,” Maeve said when they finally arrived at a picnic table.

  Heather opened the bag of food. “Are you hungry?”

  Maeve inspected its contents. Two tacos, an order of rice and beans, tortilla chips. “Kind of.”

  Heather handed her mother a taco, picking at hers in silence.

  “How did we get here
, Heather?” Maeve asked, her anger dissipated and in its place, bewilderment tinged with sadness.

  Heather shrugged, putting a piece of shredded lettuce in her mouth.

  “I’m hoping we can get back on track.”

  “And what track would that be?” Heather asked. “The one where you’re either nonexistent to me or completely up my ass?”

  “See? This is what I’m talking about,” Maeve said. “We have to be able to have a conversation without employing the nuclear option.”

  In spite of herself, Heather laughed. “What does that even mean?”

  “Nuclear. Bombs. Explosions. Blast off,” Maeve said. “Is that not a term you kids use these days?”

  “No one uses that term, Mom,” Heather said.

  Maeve could see that the fight had gone out of her; her defenses were down clearly. “Heather, what are you doing? In terms of Taylor?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you dating Jesse Connors?” Maeve asked, steeling herself for the answer in the he-said, she-said situation that existed.

  “Not really,” Heather said.

  “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  “I flirted with him a little bit, tried to figure out what he knew.”

  “About what?”

  “About Taylor,” Heather said, as if that was completely obvious.

  “Why did the police tell me that you were dating?” Maeve asked.

  “Why do the police say anything?”

  “Did you tell them you were dating?”

  “Not really.” Heather toyed with the plastic fork that had come in the takeout bag. “I wanted them to talk to Jesse some more. It was the only way I could think of to…”

  “Get him?” Maeve asked. Before Heather could respond, she held up a hand. “I found the note. I found the photos. I kept them. Just how deep into this are you, Heather? And why you?”

  Heather balled up the taco into its foil wrap and pushed it into the bag, her hunger gone. “Why me? Because I like Taylor. I felt sorry for her. She doesn’t really hang out with anyone. And those guys…” She trailed off.

  “What?”

  “They’re awful.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Maeve asked. “Come to me?”

  “She said she was going to disappear for a few days, and then she was really gone. I got scared,” Heather said. “So I thought I’d look for her on my own.”

  “But the Jesse thing…,” Maeve started.

  “Just a hunch. I heard what everyone else heard. I wanted to see if it was true.”

  “And did you ask him?” Maeve asked.

  “I tried. He shut me down.” Heather looked dismayed at the thought, shouldering the responsibility of finding a girl who had been tossed aside by almost every male in her life.

  Inside, Maeve felt her heart break just a little bit. As much as Heather wanted to run from her mother, it was becoming apparent to her that they were more alike than either would admit. She said the words she should have said to herself before the whole thing started, the words that Chris had tried to articulate time and time again. “It’s too much for you, Heather. You’re just one girl. You can’t do this alone.”

  “I know that now.”

  “Did you tell the police?” Maeve asked. “Chris?”

  “I told them about that last day, what Taylor told me. But nothing else. It would just get too big, make us both seem guilty of something we didn’t do.”

  Yet. Something they hadn’t done yet.

  A couple of tables away, a group of young mothers sat, some with babies in strollers, others with toddlers playing in the sandbox in the playground. Maeve could hear snippets of their conversation, the complaints about lack of sleep, the picky eaters they had birthed, the absence of help from their working husbands. The long days. The baths and the meals and the boredom of being home all day with kids.

  Little children, little problems, Maeve wanted to say. She looked back at Heather, and in her face she could see the girl she once was, the “dark gypsy,” as Jack used to call her, brooding and silent but the one who laughed the loudest when her mother tickled her and kissed her the longest at bedtime. “Oh, honey,” Maeve said. “You’re in over your head.”

  Heather looked at her phone. “I have to get back to class. What should I do?”

  Maeve thought for a moment. “Don’t do anything. Let me think.” They both stood. “Come here,” she said, and Heather accepted the hug, wrapping her own arms around her smaller mother and holding her tight. “We’ll figure this out,” Maeve said. “I promise.”

  “You sound sure about that.”

  Heather didn’t know what she was capable of and Maeve wasn’t going to tell her. She changed the subject to something more innocuous.

  “How is soccer?” Maeve asked. “Does your joining the team have anything to do with this?”

  “Yes and no,” Heather said.

  “That’s specific.”

  “Taylor asked me to join, so I did it as a goof.”

  “When did you become friends with Taylor?”

  Heather shrugged.

  “And soccer?”

  “And what?”

  “Do you like it?”

  Heather shrugged. “It’s okay.

  “And Coach Barnham?”

  “What about him?”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Sometimes nice, sometimes an asshole. Plays favorites. What does Rebecca say?”

  Maeve tossed their trash in the bin. “Pretty much the same.”

  “He’s super upset about Taylor.”

  “Really?” Maeve asked.

  “Calls her a special girl.”

  Maeve froze by the garbage can and wondered: innocuous platitude or something more sinister? There was only one way to find out.

  She watched Heather walk away, and instead of taking her own advice—don’t do anything … let me think—she got into her car and pulled out of the parking lot, a new destination on her mind.

  CHAPTER 39

  She drove to the other side of town, going back to where it all started, where she had first pulled the thread from the mysterious spool and gotten nowhere, back to David Barnham’s manly cabin in the woods.

  It’s him, she thought, and her palms started itching, letting her know that she was missing her gun. She wished she had it, but that ship had sailed; no more weapons for her. She had promised herself that she would straighten out, be a person who didn’t opt for shooting when threats would suffice. She didn’t know what she was going to do when she got to Barnham’s house, but everything was pointing to the soccer coach’s involvement in Taylor’s disappearance.

  It’s you, she thought, as she pulled up silently on the street that fronted the cabin, climbing out of her car and walking through the dense woods, wondering where Cosmo might be stashed for the day. He seemed perfectly nice, as animals went, but boy, did she hate dogs. The pickup wasn’t in the driveway, and as she approached the house, peeking in a living room window, there was no sign of the dog, no barking, no movement inside.

  She walked around to the back and put her hand on the screen door. There was no turning back; she was in the muck of this thing and wanted to see it end, one way or another. She took a deep breath and tried the back door, finding the handle turning easily in her sweaty palm. In the kitchen, a half-empty pot of coffee sat on the counter, two mugs beside it, a plate with the remnants of an egg sandwich on the other side.

  The house smelled of pine and something else, something that she recognized as dog. Dog hair covered the cushions that protected rush-seated pine chairs, and a fine layer of dust collected by the baseboards, mixed together with what could only be strands of Cosmo’s hair. There were strands of medium-length brunette hair as well, one here, another there, suggesting the presence of the cop Suzanne Carstairs had mentioned the first time she had been at Maeve’s bakery, when Maeve was convinced that she had seen Barnham testing the depth of Laurel Lake. She pick
ed up a hair that had become suspended on the rung of one of the chairs, turning it over in her fingers, noticing its gloss, its beautiful texture. Her own hair wasn’t like that; dirty blond, it was dry and flyaway, somewhere between curly and frizzy, and always in a state of messiness. This hair in her hand was the hair of someone who took care of herself, who liked to be pampered and groomed. She dropped it on the floor to become one with the dog hair and the dust.

  She worked quickly, looking through drawers in the kitchen, finding the usual things one would find in the proverbial junk drawer, something every house had: a corkscrew with a cork firmly embedded in it, a few slotted spoons, a whisk, some rubber bands, an Allen wrench. In another drawer were some ratty dish towels and Ziploc bags—lots of Ziploc bags—that had been used, washed out, and put away for another day. The third drawer housed some papers, which Maeve riffled through quickly. The water bill. A small phone book. An envelope that held a thick sheaf of papers and bore the insignia of the U.S. Marshals Service.

  A photo of the team, and some other photos of individual girls. Before she could figure out if Taylor was one of the solo subjects—or, almost worse to consider, Heather—she froze.

  Next to her ear, she heard the click of a gun, a bullet sliding into its chamber. “You should have asked which cop when you were told that he was sleeping with someone on the Farringville force.”

  Maeve tried not to let the fear show. She was usually the one holding the gun. “Yes. I should have, Chief Carstairs.”

  “Want to tell me what’s going on here, Maeve?” Suzanne Carstairs asked, a plush robe cinched tightly around her waist, her glossy hair a little disheveled.

  Before Maeve even knew what was happening, she was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, her hands cuffed behind her back, something she really didn’t think was necessary. The Chief had other ideas. Namely, that Maeve was guilty of breaking and entering and was, most likely, nuts. Who knew what she was capable of? That was the look etched on the chief’s face, a woman who could produce handcuffs with alacrity, despite being in a robe and nothing else, if the expanse of bare leg was any indication. “Well…”