Beside her, Rebecca was still protesting being pressed into service as a driver but Maeve ignored her, her thoughts on childish spending sprees and just what exactly she would say to Margie Haggerty, trying to keep her more murderous thoughts at bay.
CHAPTER 46
Rebecca had come late to the driving thing and had gotten her license only a month before going to college, and that newness of skill showed when Maeve directed her into the IHOP parking lot on Broadway, right across from the funeral home where she had been several times as a child, Jack’s devotion to wake-going with his young daughter being something of an oddity, she had learned years later. She thought everyone went to wakes every week with their father, paying respects to people she barely knew but who seemed grateful at the Conlon family’s attendance at whatever “viewing” was taking place that particular day.
Rebecca eased the car, with a great deal of moaning and gasping, into a tight space between a minivan and a brand-new Lexus.
“Good job!” Maeve said. “See? That wasn’t hard.” At least it’s not as hard as I’m going to come down on you when you finally tell me what happened to all of your money.
Rebecca brushed her dark hair off her face. “It was really hard.” She handed the keys to her mother. “I’m not driving home.”
In the backseat, Heather was listening to music, oblivious to her sister’s attempts at navigating city streets. “You want pancakes?” Maeve asked. “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be but you can get pancakes if you want.”
Heather pulled her earbuds from her ears, suddenly able to hear what was being said. “I could go for some pancakes,” she said.
That was Rebecca’s cue to take the opposite stance. What had just seconds ago seemed like a great idea had lost its luster in the wake of her sister’s wishes. “I don’t want pancakes.”
Yes, siblings know … how to drive each other crazy. She needed no further proof than her own spawn, packed tight into the little Prius with her.
Maeve shoved twenty dollars into her older daughter’s hand. “Have coffee then.”
Something in her tone alerted Rebecca to the fact that this conversation was over, the great pancake debate done for the day. She eyed her mother warily. If siblings knew, daughters knew even more, and were especially aware of when their mothers had been pushed to the limit.
Maeve pointed to a spot across the street. “I’ll be right there, in that building next to the funeral home. If you need me, call me.” She opened the car door. “I won’t be long.”
Maeve wiggled out from between her car and the Lexus, careful not to let her door hit the other car, and walked across the street to a storefront next to the funeral home. Margie’s business was on the second floor, over a bodega, just like Poole had said. Maeve wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but the small office with the glass-fronted door looked like it hadn’t seen much traffic in a while. It was cluttered and small. The sign on the door said MARGARET HAGGERTY, ATTORNEY, and below that Hablamos Español!
Inside, a desk for a receptionist sat empty, a thin film of dust on the top indicating that it hadn’t been used in a while. Behind a partition, Maeve could hear Margie discussing a case with someone in fluent Spanish. Maeve’s Spanish wasn’t halting but whatever Margie was discussing with her client seemed to have to do with a fall from a ladder. Maeve looked at the out-of-date magazines on an Ikea coffee table in the waiting area; she had had the same one until the bolts fell out and the top almost broke one of her toes. She wondered if the string of expletives she had used at the time would sound as dramatic in Swedish as it had in English and decided that it probably wouldn’t.
The client brushed past Maeve in the tight office; she was a compact Hispanic lady who appeared to have been crying vigorously, a wad of paper towels pressed to her eyes. Margie peered from around the corner of the partition and blanched when she saw Maeve, quite a feat considering her pale, Irish complexion. She had looked the same way—guilty—the day Maeve had “lost” her key.
“Maeve.” She gripped the side of the partition, white-knuckled.
“Margie.” Maeve didn’t have time for pleasantries. “So Regina Hartwell is your aunt. On your father’s side, is it?” She walked back to the door to the office and turned the deadbolt above the doorknob. “Why didn’t you tell me that? And what else aren’t you telling me?”
Margie backed up until she was at her desk. Maeve came around the partition and surveyed the workspace, which she found dark, messy, and completely unprofessional. No wonder Margie was helping workers with comp cases in a down-on-its-heels neighborhood. Maeve couldn’t imagine anyone less desperate than a day laborer in this area would want Margie’s services. This was no high-level law firm with lots of cases. This was one woman trying to scratch out a living after being disgraced in her former career. “Is it just you here? Really fancy, Margie,” Maeve said. It looked like a one-woman operation, but Maeve wanted to make sure some partner wasn’t out to lunch or getting pancakes for themselves across the street.
“Just me,” Margie said, unable to hold Maeve’s gaze. Had she had a brain in her head, she should have lied and said that there was someone else, someone who would be back soon, but it was clear to Maeve that Margie didn’t find her nearly as threatening as she should.
Maeve sat down on an old thrift-store chair. “So, Regina Hartwell. Spill it.”
When it was clear to Margie that Maeve wasn’t going anywhere, she started to talk. “Yes. Regina Hartwell is my aunt. My father’s sister. She lives in Rhineview. Always has.”
“And worked at Mansfield.”
Margie swallowed. “Yes.”
Jesus, that was easy. Maeve wondered what else she could ask. Just where was Jimmy Hoffa? And did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone? Who was Deep Throat? “What happened after the place closed?” Maeve asked. Someone was knocking on the glass in the front door, the pane sounding as if it were going to shatter.
“I’ll be right there!” Margie called. She looked back at Maeve. “She lived in Rhineview. We rarely saw her. She was a foster mother to some kids. Developmentally challenged.”
“Legally?” Maeve asked. “As in, she adopted them? There were records?”
Margie looked confused. “Of course,” she said definitively. She thought for a moment. “I think so,” she added, now not so sure.
Maeve thought about the children who went missing after the place closed, of her friends at the support group. “How many?”
“I don’t know. I was young the last time we went up there,” Margie said. “Maeve, I really don’t remember. I was little. My father and Regina stopped talking before he died. I didn’t see her very much.”
“I’ve been up there. She won’t talk to me.”
“Did you tell her I sent you?” Margie asked.
“Yes. Yes, I did. Should I not have?” Maeve said, getting a little tingle of pleasure when she saw Margie’s concerned expression, her fear.
Margie shook her head. “No. There’s no love lost between our families.”
The Haggertys had a way like that. “What else aren’t you telling me, Margie? And why didn’t you tell me that Regina Hartwell was your aunt?”
“I’ve told you everything.” Margie pushed a coffee cup out of the way and pulled a sheet of paper off a pile on the desk. “And I didn’t tell you because I figured you would find out eventually. I didn’t actually think it was relevant.”
“Are you an idiot?” Maeve asked. She was starting to think that that might be the case. “It is entirely relevant.”
“You don’t like me. I know that.”
“And why would that be, Margie?” Maeve asked. “What could you have possibly done to make me not like you?” The knocking at the door was in time to the beating of Maeve’s heart.
“I don’t know, Maeve.” She looked terrified. “I have no idea.”
“No idea.”
Margie held firm, something, a memory, giving her more resolve than she had had when Maeve walked
in. “Nothing.”
The frustration that Maeve felt at getting nowhere with Margie was growing exponentially until it felt like another entity in the room.
Margie handed Maeve the piece of paper. “I can help you, if you want. Find other things out. Here’s my fee sheet,” she said, “which lists my hourly rates and expenses. I can help you on the legal side of things, if you need me to.”
Maeve held the sheet of paper in her hand, a buzzing beginning in her ears that made her head hurt. “You want me to hire you?” she said.
“I can help you.”
The knocking, which had paused to give the knocker a chance to rub his or her sore knuckles, started again. Combined with the buzzing in her head, it made Maeve feel as if she were going to punch a hole in the wall. Instead, to release some of the rage that felt as if it were bubbling just beneath her skin, she swept her arm across the desk and watched in wonder as everything crashed to the floor, a cup of cold coffee splattering all over the far wall.
Better that than taking out a gun and shooting Margie in the face or wrapping her hands around her throat, which was her initial inclination. “Margie,” she said slowly. “I’ve got a kid in the car downstairs who probably spent a few grand on shoes and Starbucks, so I’m in no mood for this little dance you seem to want to do today.” Maeve’s mind went to the Frye boots that Rebecca had worn to her grandfather’s funeral, brand new but with that broken-in look that cost a lot of money to achieve.
“Maeve,” Margie started in protest, but stopped when she saw Maeve’s face. “Okay, fine. You’re scaring me a little bit.” Finally, Margie could tell that what she saw in Maeve’s eyes was pure, unadulterated hatred and it was completely terrifying. The bigger woman leaned back, trying to get away.
“I am?” Maeve asked. “I’m scaring you? The Peace Corps volunteer? The former cop?” She pushed the last remaining items off the desk, those that hadn’t tumbled to the floor in the first go-round. “I’m going to be completely honest with you, Margie. I have no one left in the world with the last name Conlon. I have lost my mother, my father, and now a sister I didn’t know I had. You,” she said, putting her finger in the larger woman’s chest, “are toying with me. And,” she started, stopping herself. She wanted to say, “I hurt people who do that,” but instead, she fell silent. The less said, the better.
She had so many questions she wanted to ask Margie, but her judgment was clouded and she couldn’t think straight. Maeve fell silent for a moment, something that seemed to make Margie even more nervous. She fidgeted behind the desk, her clasped hands shaking a bit. The knocking at the office door persisted, punctuating Maeve’s anger in rapid staccato raps.
She tried another tack. “Your sister was the mean girl, Margie. I thought better of you,” she said. “For a while, anyway. But then you stole my key.”
Realization dawned on Margie’s face. She hadn’t thought that Maeve had anything against her, her memories not as indelible as Maeve’s.
Maeve walked away, opening the deadbolt and letting in a frantic black man who took in her wild-eyed expression, the angry flush of her cheeks, and stepped aside. It was only when she was in the stairwell, the pungent smell of bodega food wafting up to greet her, that she realized the black man had been Rodney Poole.
She took a minute to collect her thoughts, settling heavily onto a step in the stairwell. She didn’t like this feeling. It felt portentous, like she had to do something to release what was building inside of her. Something dangerous. Something bad.
She didn’t know how he got out of the building before her or how he did it without passing her on the stairwell, but Poole was waiting for her on the sidewalk, staring blankly at a group of very distressed and vociferous mourners going into the funeral home. The late Tia Blanca was well loved; that was evident. When Maeve burst through the front door onto the street, he waited until a very loud 1 train passed overhead before talking.
“You threaten her?” he asked.
“Yep,” Maeve said. “And I messed up her office.” She laughed; that sounded ridiculous, as if messing up Margie’s office was just retribution for her lies. She looked at the IHOP parking lot across the street and saw that her car was empty, the girls inside the restaurant, most likely diving into the plate of pancakes she had hoped they would, even though they had talked about having dinner later. She took a few deep breaths. “She knows more than she’s telling me, Poole. And it’s pissing me off.”
“You getting that feeling again, Maeve?”
She looked up at him. “That feeling?”
“The one where you want to kill someone?” he asked.
She calmed herself, bringing her breathing back to normal, her heart rate to a reasonable pace. “I don’t know,” she said, which was the truth.
“Be careful,” he said. “Margie Haggerty knows how to use a gun and her way around the streets. I was afraid you’d lose your head. That’s why I came.”
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
He hooked a thumb toward the bodega. “I told the owner to give me a holler when an angry little white woman showed up. Best ten bucks I ever spent.” He shoved his hands into the pocket of his baggy coat. “And you are one little angry white woman.” He reached out and fingered the arm of her parka. “Pink coat is a nice touch, though.” He smiled. “Sounds to me as if she’s not going to be much help to you, so just leave her alone. You can do this on your own.”
“I can?” she said, letting the self-doubt that she didn’t exhibit in front of anyone else out in front of him. “Hey. Cutting off someone’s finger?”
“That’s what you’re planning?” he asked.
She shook her head, laughed a little. “No. Who cuts people’s fingers off? To send them a message?” she asked, thinking of that little finger in her refrigerator. If anyone would know, it would be him. Chris Larsson, for his attentive wooing of her and his light and sweet personality, didn’t seem to have the chops to figure out its owner, where it had come from.
“Sounds Mob to me. Drugs.” He looked at her. “People who want to send a message without going too deep.”
She knew all of that but had hoped he would know more.
“You got a finger that’s missing, Maeve Conlon?” he asked.
“Found one.”
His face darkened. “Be careful. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I will,” she said. “I always am.”
He smiled, giving her a little nod. “I want you to be careful always. To use your head.” He changed the subject back to the missing woman. “That’s how you’ll find her.” He looked around, seeing who was on the sidewalk and if they were listening to his advice to the small woman in front of him. “You’ll find her, Maeve Conlon. I’m positive.”
He walked away and as she waited for the light to change, she thought about what he had said.
“I’ll find her,” she said out loud to no one and everyone at once.
CHAPTER 47
Maeve was surprised by both how little and how much people told her when she started calling the group homes on the list. Maeve wasn’t surprised to learn that Cal had called the places in the county with the smallest population—Hamilton County—but hadn’t gotten any further. He got credit for looking but hadn’t tried all that hard. She started with Dutchess because it was the county in which Mansfield had been located but it also had the largest number of group homes. No wonder Cal had chosen to start his search north of the town.
The first few calls yielded nothing in terms of real information; two of the places even hung up on her before she got out her initial inquiry. When she reached the sixth place on the list, she got a kindly woman with an accent that spoke to the life she had lived upstate, who sympathized with her plight but explained kindly that no group home director in their right mind would give her the information she needed, because they were bound by strict laws that protected their residents. Earlier that day, Chris Larsson had called and let her know that he had run up
against the same brick wall when he had called a few names on the list.
Maeve knew the rules. She tried to appeal to the woman’s softer side, something that Maeve knew she had; her voice, her inflection said it all. She wanted to help Maeve but couldn’t.
“Those people have been missing a long time,” the woman said. “It’s like they vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Conlon,” she said before hanging up. “I’ll say a prayer that you find your sister.” Before she hung up, she said softly, “She’s not here, honey. I’ve been here a long time. I don’t think she ever was. Or your friend Winston.”
Maeve’s next call was to Doug, who was working. “Maeve, it’s not a great time to talk,” he said. He was out of breath. “I’m on my way to a call.”
“I’ll make it quick,” she said.
“What do you want?”
“Regina Hartwell. Anything?”
“Nothing,” he said, his panting getting louder and more furious. “No parking tickets, no arrests, nothing to suggest she’s anything but an upstanding—”
And the phone went dead.
Maeve wondered if Poole had been with Doug, if he now knew about her loose blackmailing of his partner. She was getting nowhere and she was getting frustrated, two things that didn’t bode well for her mental health.
In the basement, she went through Jack’s things again, tearing through the boxes to see if there was anything else to indicate the existence of a sister, to point her in the right direction, but there was nothing. She could no longer go back to Buena del Sol, Stanley Cummerbund now living in Jack’s apartment.
She called Jimmy Moriarty again, knowing that he wouldn’t return her calls.
There was only one way to handle this and that was by going back to Rhineview. While the girls slept, she assembled all of the things she would likely need, her headlamp and shovel included. Her gun. She put everything in a bag next to her bed so that she would be ready to go when the alarm rang early the next morning.
Lies That Bind (Maeve Conlon Novels Book 2) Page 21