Lies That Bind (Maeve Conlon Novels Book 2)

by Maggie Barbieri

  Stacy Morgenthal wasn’t exactly in a league with Margie and Dolores Haggerty, but Maeve kept that to herself. “You’d kill her for that?”

  “You bet,” Jo said, taking her place on her yoga mat, lowering herself to the floor with Maeve’s help. “My temple was liberal with scheduling, so I had my bat mitzvah on the next available date, which turned out to be one of those ‘storms of the centuries.’ You know, when you get so much snow that everything is closed down? Well, not Seasons, the catering hall. They were open and wouldn’t refund my parents’ money. It was me, Rabbi Decker, Cantor Bernard, and my Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Milton from Massapequa. They never missed anything.” She shook her head. “Good times.”

  “DJ?”

  “Nope. He never showed. We were eating challah out of the freezer for weeks.”

  Everyone had their breaking point, Maeve thought. Jo’s seemed to require little more than an excess of challah and a thinly attended bat mitzvah, and she thanked the universe for that as she counted Jo’s breaths. Not everyone could harbor the sometimes murderous thoughts that ran through her mind.

  She dropped Jo off a little after nine, spying Doug’s car in the driveway as she rounded the corner. As she drove away, she wondered why he was home and why Maeve was at the birth class for his child. She needed another task to complete, another responsibility, like she needed another hole in her head.

  The store was her main responsibility, the girls notwithstanding. She drove by The Comfort Zone just to make sure that everything looked as it should. There was one car in the front parking lot and when she pulled up, the driver drove away. The windows were tinted so she couldn’t see inside, couldn’t tell how many people were in there. More to the point, she wondered what they were doing there at this time of night, in an empty parking lot in front of a bank of empty stores. She pulled into the back parking lot to make sure that the store was safe, as she left it.

  It was, with the exception of one light, the one over the kitchen sink, casting a glow over the back parking lot. She pulled into her usual spot and got out her keys, walking toward the back door.

  It was locked.

  And when she opened the door and went to the alarm keypad, it was set. She had been preoccupied the last few days; she had left a light on. She couldn’t remember doing that. She did remember, though, that the large thumbprint, pressed into a little spray of flour on the butcher-block counter, had not been there earlier. Why hadn’t she noticed the make of the car that had been in the front of the store? An approximate year? She was distracted, she knew that. She hoped she wasn’t losing her edge.

  She riffled through a stack of papers on her desk, finding Sebastian DuClos’s card on top of a pile of invoices. Instinctively, she touched the bump at the back of her head. He answered on the first ring, not happy to hear from his tenant. “I’m sorry, Mr. DuClos, but I was wondering if you had been in the store tonight?” she asked. “Or any other night?”

  “Why would I come to the store, Maeve?”

  Not really an answer, but definitive enough so that she believed he hadn’t left the confines of his large Arts and Crafts manse in a woodsy part of town that was home to the richer denizens of Farringville. “I’m just wondering. There was a light on and I…”

  But she was speaking to dead air, DuClos’s interest in the conversation nonexistent. She took one last look at the fingerprint before leaning over and blowing the flour granules into the air.

  CHAPTER 10

  How many pairs of khakis could one man own?

  Seventeen.

  That was the number of pairs of pants that Maeve counted in the box that she put together for the local Goodwill store. She didn’t know why she felt the need to get rid of everything so quickly, but making sure that Jack’s things were inventoried and then sent off to good homes was her number-one priority.

  That, and looking through everything to find proof that Dolores Donovan was wrong.

  It had been eight days since he had died, and although part of her felt like it was too early to be doing something like this, she did it anyway. Without thinking about what a box of khakis might mean, whose they were, she put the box into the trunk of her Prius and was about to drive away when Heather appeared on the front porch.

  “Mom, wait!” she called, in her hands a black jacket that Maeve didn’t remember buying or the girls owning.

  Maeve rolled down the window. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a jacket. I think it was Grandpa’s,” she said, stuffing it into the space between Maeve and the steering wheel.

  “Where did you find it?” Maeve put it on the seat beside her; in an instant, the car was filled with the scent of Old Spice. Yep; it was Jack’s all right.

  “Front closet. I was looking for my denim jacket and I found it. You’re going to Goodwill, right?” Heather asked.

  “Yes. I have to get there and back before Jo leaves.”

  “Do you know where my denim jacket is?” Heather asked, a hint of accusation in her voice. Maeve had learned that missing items that belonged to her daughters were always a result of something she had done, something she had moved. In actuality, the two of them wouldn’t remember their own heads if they weren’t sitting at the top of their necks. “I’m going out with Tommy.”

  “Ugh,” was out of Maeve’s mouth before she could think. Heather’s crestfallen face told her that she had heard it, too.

  “He’s not that bad,” Heather said.

  “Well, there’s a ringing endorsement.”

  Maeve had heard some choice words about Tommy Brantley the last few years, “dealer” being the most concerning one. She didn’t care if he didn’t take Advanced Placement U.S. History or honors physics but she did care that he might be the village’s connection to all things hallucinogenic; she just couldn’t get the proof she needed, so she had put Jo on the case. “Get your ear to the ground on Tommy Brantley,” Maeve had said. “Ask your sources. Check him out.”

  But Jo hadn’t found out anything beyond the fact that Tommy was the only kid the school had to play goalie for the lacrosse team and that made him a valuable asset. Jo said that she had heard that the school turned a blind eye to any kind of transgression when a state championship, purported to be this year’s goal, was on the line. So he dealt a little weed? Not an issue when a state championship was at stake.

  Was that the way the world worked now? Maeve wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.

  Maeve was smarter than to be the person who forbade Heather from seeing him—no better way to make sure that the two eloped before they became seniors in high school—but she was wary and cautious and didn’t keep her negative feelings to herself as much as she should.

  “My denim jacket?” Heather asked again.

  Maeve decided to have a little fun with her daughter. “Look where you’d least expect to find it,” she said, enjoying the puzzled look on Heather’s face as she drove away. The jacket was on a hook behind the front door, the place where Maeve had hung it yesterday when she found it in a heap on the powder room floor. Never would Heather think to look where the jacket should be, and Maeve envisioned the feverish hunt that would ensue as she drove the short distance to the local strip mall and the donation center.

  Her headache was getting better and a small lump on the back of her head was the only thing to remind her that someone had taken the time to break into the store and assault her. Maybe with time, she’d feel more secure and not feel like she had to keep the back door locked all the time, opening it only when she knew who was back there.

  Lee Costello was a regular morning customer at The Comfort Zone and the manager of the Goodwill store. She was standing behind the counter, cataloging some muffin tins and a host of assorted unmatched wineglasses when Maeve entered.

  “Maeve! Great to see you outside of your store,” Lee said, and seeing the box in Maeve’s hand, ascertained the reason for her visit. “I’m so sorry about your father’s passing,” she said.

  “
Thank you, Lee,” Maeve said, and placed the box on the counter. “I have seventeen pairs of khakis, all size 30/34, and a couple of shirts that are practically new. Can you use them?”

  “It’s Christmastime,” Lee said. “We have a lot of customers looking for gently used dress clothes this time of year.” She looked through the box, examining the clothes. “Perfect, Maeve. Thank you.” She looked up at Maeve and smiled. “They will go to good use. This blazer in particular.”

  As she walked to her car, Maeve expected to feel sadness, the contents of her father’s life rapidly being disbursed or discarded, but she felt happy. His neatly pressed khakis would go to a good home, or several, as would the other things. Lee would be happy to see there was more where those things had come from; Maeve just had to find the time to go through the rest of his belongings.

  Baby steps, she thought.

  She pointed the key fob at the car and unlocked the doors. Behind her, she heard her name. Lee ran toward her, the blazer in her hand, her short legs propelling her across the lot. She was out of breath by the time she reached Maeve, her sprint from the store having given her some color in her cheeks. Several years of a daily chocolate-chip scone and a full-fat latte wasn’t a breakfast routine that lent itself to spontaneous jogs.

  “Maeve, I’m glad I caught up to you.” Lee held an envelope in her hand. “I found this in the jacket pocket and wanted to make sure I got it back to you. We go through all of our items to make sure that nothing has been left behind.”

  Maeve took the envelope. “Thanks, Lee. This was hiding in one of my closets so I didn’t have a chance to check the pockets.”

  “I don’t know what’s in there but wanted to make sure I got it to you. Thanks, again,” she said, walking away.

  Maeve got into the car and held the envelope in her hands. It was unmarked, the contents stiff.

  Photographs.

  It was only after she watched Lee enter the store, her mind on the complimentary coffee and scone she would offer her for her kindness the next time she saw her, that she opened the envelope. In it were three photos she had never seen, all black-and-white, all dog-eared and creased, and one holy card, the Blessed Mother surrounded by illuminated stars. She remembered bringing that card home in the second grade right after the May crowning when all of the little girls in her parochial school wore white dresses and processed to the statue of Mary in the church, surrounding her with flowers. One special, chosen girl placed a crown on her head; Maeve had never been holy enough for that task, her socks always falling down, her mouth a little too sharp at times. According to Sister Beatrice, she was “sassy,” and her father should be aware of that. Maeve remembered that Jack had been touched that she had given him the card to keep in his wallet; he was a cop and she knew his job was dangerous. Who better to look out for him than the Blessed Mother? He had cried a little bit when he turned it over in his hand and then a little more when he put it in his wallet. She knew now that those kinds of cards were a dime a dozen—you could pick them up at most churches—but she remembered thinking that the rendering of the Blessed Mother on that card was more special and beautiful than any others she had ever seen.

  Maeve looked at the card again. She was beautiful. She looked how Maeve sometimes pictured her mother, even though she knew what her mother really looked like from her memories of her and the pictures that Jack kept around the house to ensure Maeve never forgot her.

  Maeve slid the photos out of the envelope. They were from a time she didn’t remember: The 1964 World’s Fair, her mother looking chic in capri pants and a crisp white blouse; the Jersey shore or a beach on Long Island, her father making like a muscleman, his arms bent like Popeye’s, his head turned to stare at the bulging bicep on his slim arm; her parents with a baby in a christening gown. On the back of that photo was Jack’s handwriting: “St. Margaret’s, 1960. Our girl. Aibhlinn (Evelyn) Rose Conlon.”

  CHAPTER 11

  So there it was: the proof she hadn’t wanted, didn’t need. The photograph to prove that there was a sister whom Maeve had never known, who existed somewhere out there, probably not knowing about Maeve’s existence either.

  The thought of that made her heart hurt just a little bit.

  Although she and Jo joked about the secrets kept in families—Jo’s mother still swore that she went to Florida in 2004 on vacation, not to recuperate from a tummy tuck—Maeve thought she was the only one who had any in her family. She had kept things from Jack, things he would never want to have known, but she never imagined that he was keeping one from her as well.

  There had to be a reason.

  The photograph in her hand, she made the decision to drive south. Before she pulled out of her parking spot, she called Jo, who was disappointed to learn that she would be working a longer day than she had originally planned. “It’s been a little crazy,” Jo said, but that usually meant that three people had come in at once, not that the store had been full of people demanding quiches or scones.

  “Crazy is good,” Maeve said. “Good register day?”

  She heard the bell ring as Jo opened the drawer. “Eh,” she said, confirming for Maeve that her crazy and Jo’s crazy were two different things. “A hundred and forty-eight bucks.”

  “Are we good on sugar? Flour?”

  “We’re good,” Jo said. “No flour fairies have visited us recently.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Oh, but some guy came by looking for Heather.”

  “Guy?” Maeve asked, her antennae going up.

  “Yeah. Guy. Kid. Billy something or other?” Jo said. “He said he was looking for Heather.”

  “DuClos’s Billy?” Maeve asked.

  “Not a clue what that means,” Jo said. “DuClos has a Billy?”

  “His new associate,” Maeve said. “Remember? Going to be collecting my rent. The guy that came the day my father died. You remember, right?”

  But Jo didn’t, “pregnancy brain” being the most likely reason.

  “He was looking for Heather?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Kind of cute. Light hair.”

  Yep. That was DuClos’s Billy.

  “He was kind of mad, too.” She paused. “Said he’d find her.”

  Maeve felt a frisson of anxiety shoot through her body, something that was quickly replaced by anger. She didn’t know who Billy was or what he wanted with her daughter, but if it happened to be something not good, something not on the scale of acceptable, Billy would find himself in very hot water indeed. She had nothing to suggest that his intentions weren’t pure toward her daughter except that he worked for DuClos and her relationship to Sebastian was a tenuous one, garlic breath aside. Something about the guy had always given her the creeps. “It’s the middle of the day, Jo. Heather would be at school.”

  “Just reporting what went on here,” Jo said. “Now I’m worried.”

  “Don’t worry,” Maeve said even though she could feel her own heart pounding. She dug Chris Larsson’s card out of her bag and called him, his phone going straight to voicemail. “Now this Billy person is looking for Heather,” she said, trying to keep her voice modulated but having no success. “There’s another reason to find him and talk to him.” She heard how she sounded. “Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.” She took a few deep breaths and brought her voice back to a low timbre. “And thank you.”

  Maeve hung up and started driving, making a mental note to ask Heather who the mysterious Billy was, beyond Sebastian DuClos’s henchman. Eventually, she found herself in her old Bronx neighborhood, the place she had been headed all along without really knowing, driving slowly down every street, letting the memories in. Maeve had never called Margie back, not wanting to know what she had to say. But Dolores? She was a different story.

  Although Margie had never done anything else to make Maeve not trust her, the memory of her missing key colored her thoughts and opinions of the younger gi
rl always. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Mrs. Haggerty screaming at her daughters in a way that Maeve hoped she never did to her own. Margie was her usual target. She was stupid and lazy and a host of other unattractive adjectives that Maeve could only imagine had seeped into her brain and made her think that she was actually all of those things. It would take a lot of work, she imagined, to convince yourself otherwise if all you were fed on a daily basis was a steady diet of disparagement.

  Maeve had Jack and he thought she walked on water, as he often used to say when he thought she wasn’t listening. Dolores and Margie’s experience hadn’t been the same; she tried to cut the girls some slack for that, going so far as to stick up for Margie once at school when an older boy had knocked her down and stepped on her lunch. Margie had wanted to be Maeve’s friend then, and Maeve suspected now, but that ship had sailed and while she would visit the neighborhood again, she would never revisit the fractured relationship she had with those girls.

  Dolores Donovan still lived in the same part of the Bronx, but had moved to an exclusive enclave a few blocks south of where they had all grown up. As Jack used to like to say, “That girl stepped in shit and hit the big time,” mixing his metaphors as always. Maeve had known what he meant, though.

  Something like that. To Maeve’s thinking, she had sold her soul to the devil for a seven-thousand-square-foot home and a Mercedes M-Class. That bargain, it seemed, included marrying Sean Donovan.

  She pulled up in front of their old house, hers and Jack’s, a semi-detached brick dwelling with a small patch of scrubby grass in front of it that Jack had tried desperately to turn into something approximating a lush green lawn. Not much had changed since she left almost three decades earlier, going off to school, never to return. The front door still held the lion’s head knocker and the transom still showed a crack in the glass that had been there for as long as she could remember. Someone had replaced the brass numbers on the front of the house, opting instead for press-and-stick markers to let someone know that they were at Eighty-Five-Twenty-Three. That was an interesting change, Maeve thought; the brass numbers had been there since the house was first built in the twenties. Stolen, was her guess.