Maeve made a grand show of pretending to forget. “Loretto?” she said, wondering how Jo thought it was okay that she was loading the beverage case while Jo took a break, coffee and all, not a thought given to helping her supposed boss.
“Was it Lorenzo?” Jo asked, leaning in close to the paper, her arms folded under her chest. “Says here that the police were called to the house. ‘Domestic dispute.’”
Maeve hesitated and then continued putting cans of seltzer into the refrigerated case. “Really?” she said. “When?”
Jo scanned the paper. “Last Saturday night.”
Maeve dropped a can of soda on the floor and watched it roll under the counter. “Last Saturday?”
Jo looked up from the paper, unconcerned about the can rolling around by her feet. “Yeah. Why?”
Maeve decided to go with the truth insofar as it wouldn’t indict her entirely. “I saw him at Mookie’s. I was picking up some wings.”
“And what? He didn’t look like he was going to go home and beat the stuffing out of his wife?” Jo asked.
“Is that what it says?” Maeve asked, returning to the mindless task of stocking the soda case, her mind on Mrs. Lorenzo and the poor little girl who lived in that house.
“In so many words,” Jo said. “Blah blah blah, police called, wife refused to file a complaint…”
“Then who called the police?”
“Neighbor.” Jo folded up the paper. “Funny. Guy didn’t look like an abuser.”
Maeve’s grip tightened around the can in her hand. “And what does an abuser look like?”
Jo straightened up, tossing the paper into a recycling bin by the kitchen door. If Maeve’s tone had come through in her question, Jo hadn’t picked up on it. “I don’t know. Sinister? Evil? That guy was just your garden-variety schlub as far as I could tell.”
Maeve slammed the case shut and picked up the empty carton on the floor. “See, that’s the thing, Jo. They look just like the people we love,” she said. And sometimes, she wanted to add, they start out as people we love absolutely before they turn on us. Jo had been through enough, though, and Maeve didn’t need to remind her that sometimes we were wrong when choosing whom to love.
Jo’s apron was off and she was halfway through the kitchen door when she asked if they were all through for the day, her assumption being that they were.
“Go ahead,” Maeve said. “I’ll lock up.”
Jo hesitated, her back turned. “Eric’s getting married.”
Maeve wasn’t sure what the appropriate response should be, so she stayed silent.
“Yeah. Married. To the woman he was texting the whole time I was in the hospital. After my surgery. During my chemo. The one he moved into my house last week.”
“I’m sorry, Jo.”
She let out a rueful laugh. “Don’t be sorry. I’ve got Doug, king of the Dockers. And maybe you can open up my head again and I can get a second date with Dr. Newman.” She rested a hand on her head. “She’s pretty and she has big boobs.”
“They always do, Jo.” Maeve surveyed the sodas, stacked neatly, in the refrigerator. “When is he getting married?”
“A couple of Saturdays from now,” she said. “I went to get my bike out of the garage and saw a discarded invitation in the mail. They’re apparently doing an outdoorsy sort of thing in the backyard with a tent and shit.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m praying for rain or snow.”
“Find out when it is and we’ll go away,” Maeve said, wondering, the instant it came out of her mouth, how she would make that happen. With only one other employee besides herself, taking that employee away would mean that the store would be closed for the better part of two days.
Jo waved the suggestion off. “And close the store? That’s not going to happen. We’ll stay here and work, and maybe when the day is done, you’ll come over and we’ll smoke the other joints, if I haven’t smoked them by then.”
“How about a cheap bottle of Chardonnay?” Maeve suggested. “The big bottle? The one with the kangaroo on the front?”
“You’re on,” Jo said. “We’ll tie one on. Should be great,” she said, disappearing behind the kitchen door. Maeve heard the back door slam shut behind her. Jo had a date with Doug and needed sufficient time to primp, according to her.
She wondered why Jo had waited the entire day to tell her about Eric’s marriage but didn’t spend a lot of time on it; Jo did things her own way and in her own time. Maeve unearthed the paper from the recycling bin and turned to the blotter, knowing that at best, the details would be sketchy, and at worst, nonexistent. As she scanned the feature, glossing over the numerous rabid raccoon sightings, she determined that it was somewhere in between. The most interesting part, however, was that the neighbor who had phoned in the complaint was none other than Marcy Gerson, the mom whose presence at soccer games one could not ignore, her cheering so intense that Maeve always opted for a bleacher seat as far away as possible from the loudest woman she had ever encountered. Reading the blotter, though, she had a newfound respect for her even if she knew Marcy would probably sue the editor of the paper for printing her name. At least she was trying to let someone know what was going on in the house. That, or the disturbance had kept her awake, something that would not be tolerated in a suburban neighborhood.
Tomorrow’s game was home after a spate of away matches. Maeve knew where she’d be sitting.
Maeve locked the front door of the store and went into the kitchen. The presence of someone other than Jo brought her up short.
Rodney Poole was sitting at the end of the table, close to the back door, her purse right next to his left elbow. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Your co-worker let me in. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
She stayed at the far end of the table. “You weren’t trying, but you were,” she said. “Rude, that is.” She threw her apron toward her purse, the balled-up fabric falling right on top of it, just where she wanted it to land. “I thought we were done with this,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow and she wondered what she had seen in him that night when they had been fake speed dating. “This?”
“Yes, this. My father. Sean’s murder. The whole thing.” She put her hands on the counter to steady herself. “It’s over. You don’t have a suspect in my eighty-year-old father, so you need to look elsewhere.”
He took that all in, his expression never changing.
“And speed dating, Detective? What in God’s name was that all about?” she asked.
“Your cousin was a complex man,” he said, really not an answer to her question.
“That’s one way of putting it,” she said.
“And there’s more to this story than you’re letting on,” he said. “But I just can’t figure out what it is.”
“And there’s more to your story than you’re letting on,” she countered.
“I told you before. There is a connection between your cousin and someone who participated in speed dating. That’s all I can say.” He pulled out his notebook. “Now. Why don’t we spend a little bit of time talking about your relationship with your cousin?” he asked.
“We were not close,” she said slowly so that there was no way he could misinterpret her intention. “He was older and doing his own thing for the whole time my father and I lived in the neighborhood.”
“You were neighbors, correct?”
“Yes. We were neighbors. That’s it. We were not close,” she repeated. Slow your breath, she told herself, modulate your voice; don’t give anything away. “You know who you should talk to, Detective?” she asked. “His wife. The one who probably didn’t know that he was speed dating, if that’s what was going on. Or the one who knew what he was doing and wanted to kill him for it.” She was on a roll. “Or maybe one of his business partners. Surely there’s someone there with an ax to grind.”
Rather than look annoyed, as she thought he should have, Poole looked amused. “Thank you,” he said, jotting some notes down in hi
s notebook. “Those are avenues we never would have thought of. What was the first one again? Interview the wife?”
She smiled in spite of the fact that she was sitting with a homicide detective, a man who was within arm’s reach of the gun in her purse. “Would you like a cupcake, Detective?” she asked, figuring that in the time it took her to plate a cupcake, she would be able to regain her emotional equilibrium.
“Sure,” he said, taking out his wallet.
“It’s on me,” she said, going back out to the front of the store, plating two chocolate cupcakes, and bringing them back into the kitchen. “I don’t have any coffee left,” she said, watching him slowly take the wrapper from the cake, an action that reminded her of how flirtatious he had been at the speed-dating event and how a little shiver of excitement had traveled up her spine at hearing his description of a date. Even though she felt as though her childhood had made her better at reading people, she wondered if she had misread him, if she had missed the signs that he had just been toying with her. She didn’t think so, but that playfulness, that familiarity, was long gone; their relationship now centered around murder, cupcakes, and the occasional cup of coffee.
“Your father told us that he hated Sean. That once he beat Sean so hard that he broke his nose?”
Maeve stopped what she was doing, then put the cupcake that she had been unwrapping for herself onto the table and pushed it away. “I didn’t know that,” she said quietly, and it was the truth. “Did he tell you that?”
Rodney nodded, the information not deterring him from taking a big bite of what had seemed to become his favorite dessert.
“Did he say why?”
“He says he can’t remember.”
“He probably can’t.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said, and finished his cupcake. “Boy, I wish you still had some coffee.”
She smiled slightly, feeling a little sick to her stomach. “Where does this leave us, Detective?”
“I’m not so sure on that one, either,” he said, getting up. Again, she was struck by his solitary performance, his solo investigation into Sean’s death. His partner had made just that one appearance, that one time. She wondered what that meant, if anything at all.
Detective Poole had taken an interest in her, and she wasn’t sure what was at the heart of that interest. Either way, professional or personal, it was starting to make her uncomfortable.
CHAPTER 30
Doug of the Dockers seemed to be ingratiating himself with Jo. Maeve wasn’t sure what he had done, but after their third official date—the visits to Jo’s while she was recuperating did not really count in Maeve’s or her friend’s mind—Jo’s emotions seemed to take a very positive turn when it came to the man who was doing everything in his power to make her like him.
Maeve was trying to get out of the store, on her way to Rebecca’s soccer game; she didn’t want to be late. Although she knew there would be a wide berth around Marcy Gerson and the sound of her perpetual screaming, she wanted to make sure she could sidle up to her unimpeded by other mothers in the stands. Cal would also try to get there, but he was always late, always bogged down with the menial tasks that every woman in town did with grace and ease but which seemed to present obstacles for him that were almost insurmountable now that he had an infant again.
Jo was still recounting the story of the date, something she had started at eight o’clock in the morning but which didn’t have a natural or linear trajectory, work continually getting in the way of a straight retelling. Maeve had lost the thread of the story, not really sure where they were but knowing she would have to leave without hearing the end. “Cut to the chase, Jo,” she said, stripping off her apron and finger combing her hair, then applying lip gloss using her favorite reflective surface, the toaster, to make sure it looked okay. “I’ve got to get to Rebecca’s game.” In the store, she heard the bell over the door jingle, indicating a new customer. She looked pointedly at Jo.
“I’m going,” she said, her sense of urgency when dealing with patrons not matching Maeve’s. Her exclamation when she entered the front of the store was far more jovial than Maeve had ever heard, and it took her a few seconds to process the name that she had heard Jo call out.
Jack.
Jack, Maeve’s nondriving, wandering, ready-to-be-evicted, losing-his-marbles father. Maeve steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation, pushing through the swinging doors into the front of the store.
“Dad,” she said, half question, half statement.
“Mavy!” he said, digging into a piece of cheesecake that Jo had served him. She was pouring him a large cup of coffee and making it to his specifications: lots of cream, even more sugar. “Gorgeous day. Went for a little walk.”
“Four miles is more than a ‘little walk,’ Dad,” she pointed out. She took the cup of coffee from Jo’s hand and poured it down the sink. “No more sugar,” she said.
“I’m a—,” he started.
“Grown man,” she finished. “I know. We’ve been through this.” Jo, sensing a negative turn in the conversation, went back into the kitchen to hide. “We’ve also been through the fact that you should not be leaving the facility without letting someone know.”
“I let Moriarty know,” he said, forking in a huge piece of cheesecake. “He’s someone.”
Maeve wondered how to play this. If she got angry, he would get angry in turn and they would get nowhere. She didn’t have time to get him back to the facility and make the start of the game, so she decided that the easiest thing to do would be to bring him along for the ride. “Dad, I’m going to Rebecca’s game. Do you want to come? We can have dinner after that and then I’ll take you back.” She pulled the plate of cheesecake away from him and tossed it in the garbage.
“I’ll go. I love Rebecca’s games,” he said, and by the way he said it, Maeve was sure that he didn’t know what sport she played but that didn’t matter.
“Let me call Mrs. Harrison first,” she said, concocting her story before she picked up the phone. The gods were with her, and she got Charlene’s voice mail. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Harrison, it’s Maeve Conlon. I realized, with alarm, that I forgot to sign my dad out when I picked him up today, but he’s with me and he’s safe. I’ll have him back after dinner,” she said, keeping an eye on Jack, who gave her a toothy grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Good job,” he said after she hung up. “Where’d you learn to lie like that?”
“Oh, Dad,” she said, leading him through the kitchen to the parking lot, “I’ve had lots of practice.”
On the way over in the car, Jack kept up a running commentary about his fellow “inmates,” as he called them, at Buena del Sol. In her mind, she kept going back to Poole’s assertion that Jack had beaten Sean at one point—she didn’t know when—and wondered what that meant. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her father, but she knew he wouldn’t remember. And even if he thought he did, it might not be for the real reason.
She thought back to a phrase that came out of Watergate—what did he know and when did he know it? She felt certain that at no point during her time in Sean’s care did her father suspect what was happening. She was clumsy. That was the story that everyone told, that everyone believed. Jack worked day and night to keep her comfortable; she knew that, and she loved him for that. But had he finally learned at some point of this horrible aspect of his daughter’s childhood and executed some ham-fisted revenge?
She let it go. It was water under the bridge. And she had to move on.
Marcy Gerson was sitting at the top of the bleachers as always, all the better for the masses to hear her screams of agony and ecstasy during the game. It was times like this, when they had to hoof it somewhere, that Maeve was grateful Jack was as nimble and agile as he was, his illicit walks through the village keeping him robust and healthy. They climbed to the top of the bleachers and settled in next to Marcy, who was surprised to see anyone take a seat near her, let alone Maeve, who often sat by hers
elf until Cal arrived and inserted himself into her personal space.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Marcy said, smoothing down her tailored jeans, the ones that purported to hold everything in while lifting one’s buttocks. Maeve figured she’d have to host a lot more than kids’ birthday parties to afford them; unfortunately, her wholesale business was still in its infancy. “What’s going on, Miss Maeve?” she asked.
Maeve pointed to Jack. “Marcy, do you know my dad, Jack?”
Jack held out his hand. “Enchanté,” he said, ever the gentleman.
Marcy giggled like a schoolgirl; old Jack could still turn on the charm. “Nice to meet you, Jack.” She turned back to Maeve. “What brings you up here in the cheap seats?”
Jack looked at his daughter, sensing that their visit, and their placement, had a purpose. “Yes. What does bring us up to the cheap seats?” He crossed his legs and gave her a wry smile while waiting for her answer.
It astounded Maeve that it never failed: when she needed Jack to be checked out, he was incredibly checked in. She shot him a look that basically told him to shut his pie hole. “Well, I just had to engage in some idle gossip,” Maeve said, going for the truth.
Marcy put a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. “The blotter,” she said. “With the amount of money I give to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association in this town, you’d think they’d have the common courtesy to keep my name out of these things.”
Maeve tried to make a face that reflected both the awe she felt at Marcy’s generosity and the indignation she felt on her behalf for seeing her name in the police blotter. By the look on Jack’s face, she guessed that she had failed miserably at both.
Marcy leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “What goes on over there is beyond crazy.”
Maeve assumed “over there” meant the Lorenzos’, but Marcy was off on another tangent within seconds, this one having to do with the response time of the village PD, men and women, she asserted, who couldn’t get “real police jobs.”
1 Once Upon a Lie Page 17