Lies That Bind (Maeve Conlon Novels Book 2)

by Maggie Barbieri

“Can we find out who cashed it? Where?” she asked.

  “I’m working on that,” he said, showing an initiative that she found refreshing.

  “Okay. And one more thing,” she said, Cal cutting her off.

  “Yes. Rebecca. I’m leaving this afternoon. I didn’t forget,” he said, his tone petulant, as if his track record was impeccable where it came to the girls.

  After he left, she ran through the possibilities for where the check had gone, and kept coming back to Heather’s grungy boyfriend. They had a lot to discuss when she got home, even though delving into the topic would be painful. Maybe Heather would see now why Maeve wasn’t so enthusiastic about her choice in men. While scrolling through a funny text from Chris Larsson she thought about the latest developments in her life.

  Christmas at Cal and Gabriela’s.

  Three grand gone missing.

  A sister who may or may not still be alive.

  A boyfriend?

  She wasn’t sure what order to put that list in.

  One day, one thing, at a time, she concluded.

  CHAPTER 28

  Maeve drove up to the mall later that night to pick up a few Christmas presents for the girls. There were the special socks that you could only get at the Gap for Heather and an iPad case that Rebecca “had to have!” or else she would die, or something equally dire. She was bone tired but she wanted to get this errand out of the way and crossed off her list.

  Rebecca had come home earlier and gone straight to her room after a brief conversation with her mother. Maeve tried to fill her in on Evelyn and how she was doing her best to find her but Rebecca was only half listening, seeming to have swapped her gentler personality with the more difficult one of her younger sister. She was “exhausted,” school having used up every ounce of energy she had. She was too tired to empty the dishwasher, even, something that Maeve wondered about. Just how much energy did it take to put dishes from the appliance into the cabinets?

  A lot, apparently. Rebecca was still in her room when Maeve left.

  Washing some pots at the sink after Rebecca had disappeared, she watched Heather out of the corner of her eye, devouring the meatloaf that Maeve had made at the store and brought home.

  “How was school?” Maeve had asked.

  “Great,” Heather said, more cheerful about the subject than was necessary.

  “Really?”

  Heather had known where this was going. “I was there, I went to class, I have finished my homework. I haven’t left the house in days.” And with that, she had eaten the last of the meatloaf.

  “Why is that? Why don’t you leave the house anymore, except to go to school?” Maeve asked.

  “Homework,” she said. “Any more questions?”

  Just one. Maeve didn’t push it by asking about Tommy specifically. “You know I had a check in my room and now it’s gone. Do you happen to know where it went?” She would give her one more chance. She watched Heather’s face for any sign that she knew, didn’t know, or was lying. The girl’s expression gave nothing away. She looked her mother dead in the eye. If she was lying, she was damn good at it.

  “I don’t. How much was it for?” Heather asked.

  “Three thousand dollars,” Maeve said, looking away. She had lost this staring contest, Heather never breaking eye contact.

  Cal had called earlier to say he had nothing to report on the case of the missing check, not who cashed it, not where it had been cashed, and Maeve had had no opportunity—or inclination, really—to have the conversation with Heather about why Tommy may have taken it. She had called the bank and confirmed that it hadn’t been cashed through her personal accounts nor any of the store’s accounts.

  On the way back from the mall, Maeve rehashed the conversation, thinking of any verbal or physical tic that might have indicated that Heather had had something to do with the check’s disappearance, but there had been none. As she drove through the village, taking in the lights in the store windows and the greenery that lined the streets in large pots, the thought that her father wouldn’t be with her this year deflated her completely. She hadn’t done anything this year to get the store ready for the holidays; it was all she could do to keep the cases filled with the treats that people came to expect from her and The Comfort Zone, to keep ample stock of Jo’s old linguistic nemesis, the bûches de Nöel. She passed the local restaurant that Chris Larsson had originally suggested for their first date, its large windows revealing happy diners at every table, a warm glow coming from inside the main dining room, twinkling lights visible in the bar. She headed down toward the river and hung a right, on her way home finally after an inordinately long day, the only kind she seemed to have anymore, her energy gone, her spirit for anything having vanished.

  The power of positive thinking. Or just complete denial. Maeve wasn’t sure which it was when it came to Jo’s passionate devotion to Doug and the choices he made.

  Maeve hadn’t had a hankering for wings and a glass of wine in a long time but when she saw a very familiar Ford Taurus sitting outside of Mickey’s, the local tavern around the corner from her house, her mouth suddenly watered for the taste of hot sauce and cheap Chardonnay.

  Jo’s husband Doug drove a very specific kind of car, the kind of car that no self-respecting middle-aged guy would drive: a bottle-green Ford Taurus station wagon. Maeve gave Jo unrelenting grief about the car, the polar opposite of something that Jo would consider “cool,” but Jo defended her husband’s choice of vehicle, saying that it was “practical” and would be “helpful once the baby was born.”

  She found Doug sitting at the bar, chatting amiably with a blonde whose black roots were evidence of a delay in getting to CVS for a box of hair dye. The tenor of their chat also spoke to his familiarity with a local denizen that Maeve wouldn’t have expected Doug—he of the self-described “crazy work schedule”—to have. There was a seat on his right, putting him in the middle of his friend on the left and Maeve on the right, once she sat down. Really, she looked like more than a friend and the thought of that made Maeve see red.

  “Doug! Hi,” she said, sliding onto the stool at the corner of the bar. Maeve wondered how he survived as a detective; one look at her and his cheeks turned red, his eyes wide at her appearance. Guilty as charged, she thought. She couldn’t imagine him interviewing anyone, trying to deceive a suspect into telling the truth. He could barely hold her gaze as she alternately stared at him and then at the woman, who she recognized as the manager of the local Dunkin’ Donuts. “Tammy, is it?” she said, leaning across Doug and extending her hand.

  “Tamara,” the woman said, staying put.

  Maeve glared at her. “Nice to see you, Tamara.” She looked at Doug. “And you? How are you?” she asked.

  He stared into his beer.

  “Could you excuse us, Tamara?” Maeve said. “Doug and I have some important business to discuss.”

  Tamara looked as if she were searching her pickled brain for a snappy retort but when she couldn’t come up with anything better than “Bitch, please,” she sidled off in a haze of cheap perfume and misplaced indignation.

  The bartender, someone Maeve had known for years, took her order, leaving her to think about what she wanted to say to Jo’s husband. The guilt was written all over his face, but guilt for what, she wasn’t sure. Being out? Chatting up Tamara? Something worse? She cut to the chase. “Tell me you’re not stupid enough to be carrying on with someone who a) hangs out here and b) lives in your own town?” Maeve asked. There was a “c”; she just didn’t know it, her mind clouded with an angry film. “Who works at Dunkin’ Donuts?” Oh, there it was: c.

  He looked at the Brooklyn Lager sign hanging above the bar for far longer than was necessary. “No, I’m not that stupid,” he said, but he wasn’t very convincing. He reached down and smoothed the front of his ubiquitous Dockers khakis, the only kind of pants that Maeve had ever seen him wear. He and Jo had honeymooned in Bermuda; had he worn Dockers there the whole time as well? Her
guess was that he had.

  “Then what are you doing here? And why am I taking your wife to birth class, and to buy cribs and diapers and onesies? What exactly are you doing?”

  He continued to stare at the sign. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Maeve’s drink arrived and she drank half of it before she spoke again. “This is a fine time for a midlife crisis, Doug.”

  “It’s not a midlife crisis, Maeve,” he said.

  “Then what is it?” she asked, downing the rest of her wine and signaling for another. She lived around the corner; if she had to, she’d leave the car, walk down the hill, and get it in the morning.

  He finally turned and looked at her, leaning in close. “I’m not sure I can go through with this.” He sighed, and in that sigh lay a thousand indications of his dissatisfaction and woe.

  It was all she could do not to reach out and grab him by the neck, strangling the life from his body while everyone in Mickey’s watched. She hadn’t meant to telegraph her intent, but it must have been clear; he backed away from her, his eyes growing wide.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t?”

  “No,” he said.

  “A whining man is not attractive, Doug,” Maeve said. “Tamara would have let you know that if I didn’t have the opportunity to first.”

  “It all happened so fast,” he said. “I was married and having a baby before I really even thought about it.”

  “And you were powerless to stop it?”

  He looked at her, his eyebrows arched. “Have you met Jo?” He stared back into his beer. “She’s like a whirlwind.”

  But in a good way, Maeve thought. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you, you ungrateful snot. Maeve asked the bartender for the wings to go; the girls would find them in the refrigerator and eat them, regardless of the hour.

  “Don’t tell Jo,” he said. He hung his head. “It’s just a phase. I think.”

  Maeve thought about that. “Okay,” she said. “But on two conditions.”

  “What?”

  “First, you get involved. You go to birth class. You set up that goddamned crib and make the nursery all pretty.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And if I call you and say I need your help, you’ll help me.”

  He looked suitably alarmed. “What kind of help?”

  Had she just blackmailed a cop? Or just an immature man-baby who didn’t realize what his responsibilities were? Whichever, she felt not a whit of guilt. “Any kind of help,” she said, realizing that being able to have him do some of the things she couldn’t, from an investigative standpoint, would be most helpful. She didn’t know if she’d ever need his help, but wasn’t it nice to have him in her own back pocket? “Now settle up and get home to your wife. You have birth class tomorrow tonight,” she said. “Seven o’clock.”

  He nodded, perking up when he remembered he had something to ask her. “Heard you had a finger in your refrigerator.”

  She clasped a hand across his mouth. “Not one more word.”

  “Okay!” he said when she finally removed her hand. “I just wanted to tell you that finger removal,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper when she shot him a threatening look, “is very specific to certain kinds of pursuits.” She waited while he drank his beer. “Drugs. Mob stuff. We see that a lot in certain types of cases.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “But I don’t know what it has to do with me. The store.”

  He turned his body so that no one in the vicinity could hear what he was saying. “Your landlord? Sebastian DuClos?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me put it this way,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Pay your rent on time.”

  “I always do.”

  “Good,” he said, turning back around.

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “I know stuff, Maeve. I get around,” he said cryptically. When she didn’t buy that explanation, he elaborated. “I did some research at work. He’s connected. Just saying.” He asked for his check. “Why do you think I’ve been going to Dunkin’ Donuts?” he asked.

  “Lame excuse, Doug. Very lame.” But interesting development. She wasn’t surprised. Now that she knew that DuClos was growing pot in his basement, nothing would surprise her about his pursuits.

  She and Doug had nothing left to discuss so she left him holding the tab for her wine and her wings, leaving almost a full glass of white on the bar. She hadn’t said the one thing that she really wanted to say: if you leave her, I will kill you.

  Poor guy looked scared enough as it was when she threatened him one last time before she left. No need to push him over the edge.

  CHAPTER 29

  Maeve had been told at the first meeting that the support group held a Christmas party every year, and she’d volunteered to bring the desserts. It was planned for the Monday before Christmas so that the group had a chance to be together one last time before the holiday. Before Maeve went to the Y, she put the address that Margie had given her into her GPS and took a detour, leaving Jo to close the store.

  The address that Margie had given her was in Rhineview, due south and west of Mansfield and a bit closer to the support group at the YMCA. The town of Rhineview, where the house was located, had neither a view of the Rhine nor any view at all, for that matter. Maeve drove through the town, finding that the village looked like an artist’s colony and a place where rich New York City dwellers bought cut-rate “character homes,” as they were now called, from down-on-their-heels locals and either tore them down to build a new, brilliant McMansion, or subjected them to a six-figure restoration complete with professional kitchen. She had looked at a Web site for the town prior to making the trip and found that it boasted a lively bar scene and great restaurants.

  Maeve didn’t know what she was expecting to find once she got to the exact address; it seemed too easy to think that she would knock at the door and find her sister. She had nothing but her gut to go on, her gut telling her that whoever lived in the ramshackle farmhouse with the dilapidated barn in the back would hold the key to finding Evelyn. The house was depressing-looking, scary even. It had not had the benefit of either a teardown or a wholesale renovation, though, and its owners likely didn’t partake of the fancy bars or the expensive entrees at Chez Marie, the place she passed in town and that looked like it was fully booked on this Monday night in the holiday season.

  At one time, this house in front of her had probably been beautiful, but now it was in need of a paint job, some new risers on the porch steps, and some structural work, if the slight tilt of the roof was any indication. There was no nameplate to let her know who lived there, but her online search of the yellow pages indicated that the landline was registered in the name of J. Hartwell, the same name that Margie had given her. Before she left that evening, she had taken a chance and called the number.

  The phone in the Hartwell house rang fifteen times before someone picked up; there was no answering machine, obviously, and Maeve was ready to hang up when she heard the raspy voice of what seemed to be a two-pack-a-day smoker, at least.

  “Mr. Hartwell?”

  “Dead.”

  Maeve had rehearsed what she would say to whoever answered the phone, but nothing prepared her for the gruffness of this person, someone proclaiming Mr. Hartwell’s status in a single, hoarse word. “Dead.” Maeve steeled herself. “Is this Mrs. Hartwell?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Maeve Conlon. I was given your name by a friend who thinks you may know what happened to my sister, Evelyn Conlon. Margie Haggerty? My sister would be…”

  Nothing implicated the woman more in the story than her abrupt hang-up.

  Maeve was determined to speak to Mrs. Hartwell, if that was even who she was. No one answered the door after Maeve knocked three separate times, each successive rap on the window ge
tting a little more forceful. After standing there in the dark and the cold for longer than she would have liked, a bit of fear creeping up her spine like icy tendrils, she walked the property, trespassing as it were but in her mind daring the woman to call the cops.

  Nothing to see here; show’s over, Jack used to say.

  She was drawn to the barn at the far right side of the house and, keeping in the darkest parts of the yard, some trees covering her progress, she made her way over there and peeked inside. She spied the outline of some boxes, a tractor in one corner, a loft that had probably been used to store hay back in the day. It smelled. It was falling down. In the dark, it looked like a structure that, if she had been watching herself on a large movie screen, would have made Maeve yell, “Don’t go in there!”

  So she didn’t, making her way back to the car, planning to mark time until the support group started.

  This entire place scared her. She didn’t know why.

  She got back in the car and locked the doors, watching the house from a spot across the street, thinking of all the things she had to do to get ready for the holiday, all the baking that would need to happen. She tried to calm her mind. Her thoughts drifted from one mental list to another, her eyes trained on the house. It was a few miles from town and there wasn’t another house in sight. It was remote, off the beaten path. Desolate.

  Occupied.

  Maeve sat up straighter as she saw a light in an upstairs window, not previously illuminated, and a curtain move, as if ruffling in a nonexistent breeze. Someone was in the house, someone who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—answer the door. She pulled her purse closer to her side and waited.

  Behind her, a kaleidoscope of light burst into her consciousness through the rearview mirror.

  Shit, she thought. Cops.

  CHAPTER 30

  Her heart stopped pounding about five miles from the YMCA. A quick story about being lost, and the cops had sent her on her way, even escorting her to the highway so that she wouldn’t get lost again, never knowing that the petite blonde with the platter of cookies in the trunk had a handgun stuffed under the seat that she knew how to use.