Maeve’s head was down, her pencil tallying the number of items she had sold, when she felt a small, gloved hand touch hers. She looked up and saw blond curls sticking out from under a pink hood and a gap-toothed smile on the face of the girl in question, indicating that Tiffany Lorenzo was happier than she had ever seen her, despite the fact that she was now fatherless. Maeve gave her a big smile in return, looking at Tina Lorenzo at the same time, the baby in her arms. “Well, look who it is,” Maeve said, pulling out a cupcake, one with Tiffany-blue frosting, from under the glass-domed tray and raising an eyebrow at Tina, asking for permission to give the little girl her favorite kind of treat.
Tina nodded slightly. Her face wore the expression of someone unused to her surroundings. Maybe now that she didn’t live in fear, she felt somewhat unmoored. Maeve knew the feeling well. It was one that she had felt every day for a year after Sean left for college, waiting for the other shoe to drop but not knowing when that might be, when he might return to the area and commence his constant abuse of her. In Tina’s case, that wasn’t a factor. Her husband was gone for good, and as long as she worked out whatever problems had brought her to a certain kind of man in the first place, she would be fine. The other shoe would never drop.
Maeve handed Tiffany the cupcake and watched her eyes light up.
“This one is my favorite,” the little girl said, taking off a glove and placing it on the table so she could unwrap the cupcake. “My daddy is gone,” she said suddenly.
Maeve was glad it was dark, because she hadn’t expected this statement, nor had she expected her face to flush dark red at the mention of him, the heat creeping up from under the collar of her mock turtleneck fleece and up to her hairline. “I’m sorry,” was all she could manage to get out, her voice trapped in her throat with the sobs she had refused to let out earlier.
“Thank you,” Tina said, smiling slightly. Tiffany, biting into her cupcake, had already moved on once she had given Maeve that information. It seemed Tina wanted to look a little more jubilant but held that emotion inside. Instead, she went with a hopeful expression, one that manifested itself with a little light that had entered her once dim eyes.
Tiffany waved her arm in front of Maeve’s face. “And look! I don’t have my cast anymore.”
Maeve instinctively went to the place where her arm had been broken, rubbing it unconsciously. “Look at that,” she said. She handed Tiffany her glove. “Now you can be a big helper and make sure your mommy doesn’t have to do all of the cooking tomorrow.”
The little girl giggled. “I don’t know how to cook,” she said.
Tina pulled the baby’s hat down over her ears. “I heard about what happened to your father. I’m so sorry. He is a very nice man,” she said. After Maeve thanked her for her concern, she added, “We’ve both been through a lot.”
Maeve struggled for composure, but she was exhausted and it was cold and the things that she had been holding inside threatened to spill out. In spite of using every ounce of self-control that she had, a single tear slipped out of her right eye and traveled down her face before she could reach up and swipe at it. She looked to see if Tiffany was watching, but her attention was on the cupcake and the care it took not to get any of the swirly blue frosting onto her jacket. She offered her baby sister a pinkie covered with icing, which the younger child gobbled up.
“I’ll keep your father in my prayers,” Tina said.
All Maeve could do was nod. She looked around and noted that the crowd was thinning, the cold and dark getting to the customers as well as the vendors. Only a few cars remained in the parking lot, and it didn’t look as though any more would be coming in. She waited until the people at the next tent were out of earshot to ask Tina the question that had haunted her since the day they had met at the grocery store. “When you said it was ‘complicated,’ what did you mean by that?” she asked.
Tina looked at her sadly and searched for an answer. “I guess it meant that I knew it was bad, but that I knew I would never leave,” she said, pulling the baby close. “That I had two babies. I guess that’s what it meant.” She studied Maeve’s face. “How did you know?”
Maeve wondered how Tina knew that she knew, but there it was; they were sisters united by a bond they didn’t want to share. “You always know,” she said. “You’ll know when you see it, too.”
Tina stood for a few seconds, and in that silence the bond between them grew deeper, even though Maeve knew that she would have to keep her distance. She had gotten lucky with Lorenzo—he had never followed up on his threat to file harassment charges against her—but forging a relationship with Tina and her daughter, the one who reminded Jack so much of a young Maeve, would be reckless. As much as she wanted to follow this woman’s progress and get in her way if she ever again went down a road that proved dangerous for her and her children, she had to stay away, keeping their relationship professional, friendly, and, most of all, casual and impersonal. Same as it ever was, as the song went.
Tiffany finished her cupcake and asked her mother if they could buy pickles. Tina leaned in before they moved on and gave Maeve a quick hug. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said. “Thanks for the cupcake.” She put her hand on her daughter’s head. “What do you say, Tiffany?”
“Thanks for the cupcake,” the girl responded dutifully in that singsong monotone that children often employed when they were reciting something they were told to say. They walked off together, Tiffany giving Maeve a backward glance and a smile that nearly broke her heart.
Maeve let out a sigh that she hoped no one could hear. “She’ll be fine,” she whispered to herself. “Remember that. That’s all that matters. She’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER 43
When the market closed at seven, Maeve was the last holdout, the only vendor who had stayed until the end, braving the cold and the dark in hopes of clearing her table of bread, pies, and cakes so that she wouldn’t have to transport the unsold items back to the shop. She was close to achieving that goal. By the time the last person had left the parking lot, she had one challah bread and one apple pie with walnuts and raisins in her possession, a little less than thirty dollars’ worth of goods. It had been a fantastic day overall, and she patted the wad of cash in her pocket to make sure it was still there. She’d be able to pay her rent early and put another chunk of change in the bank.
She couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t happier. Her business was doing better than ever. Sean was gone, and another abuser, one who was sure to inflict more and worse torture on his wife and two daughters, was no longer of this world, thanks to her sharp mind and determination. Jack, hopefully, would return to his former self, a little addled, a lot forgetful, but no less loving. Her best friend was falling in love with a guy who seemed solid as a rock and would likely never leave her, if the adoration he displayed for her continued to grow, as Maeve hoped it would. With the business almost booming, money was less of an object. Tomorrow, she would have the day all to herself. It all pointed to a happiness that should have been radiating throughout her being, but all she felt was empty and alone.
It was a feeling she could never shake, even in the midst of her girls, her friends, the people in the village. It was a feeling that came out of Sean’s abuse and the emptiness inside that she always assumed would feel better than what she should be feeling. She was hollow, she decided. She was alone.
She opened the trunk of the Prius and carefully placed the pie and the bread inside, making sure that the pie, in particular, was laid flat. She closed the trunk, surprised to see Rodney Poole standing near the front end of the car, his look inscrutable, his coat looking as if it had been made for someone much larger and who stood much straighter. She put her hands in her overalls pockets to keep her fingers warm.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said. “I hope you don’t need cupcakes for tomorrow. I sold out.”
“Good for you,” he said.
“I’ve got a challah and a pie, though,” she said.
“I’ll take them,” he said, and pulled out his wallet.
She opened the trunk and used the time inside of the back of the car to collect her thoughts, to slow her breathing. When she emerged with the two baked goods, he was right beside her, a ten and a twenty in his hand. They exchanged what each was holding.
“I owe you change,” she said.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. In the dark, his eyes looked even sadder, his face more drawn. “I know this is a little out of the ordinary, but is there anywhere we could go to talk?”
It was out of the ordinary. It was also concerning.
Seeing the look on her face, he held up his hands, surrendering. “Off the record,” he said.
She thought for a moment. “My house?”
He considered that for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Your house.”
She knew that he knew where it was. He was attentive to detail that way.
She made it there before he did, turning on every light in the downstairs of the Colonial before he arrived. She opened the bottle of Cabernet and set out two glasses. She didn’t care if he didn’t want a drink or if it broke some kind of police procedure; she would offer him one nonetheless. He rang the front doorbell a few minutes later, and she stripped out of her Carhartt overalls and down to her leggings before letting him in and taking his coat, which she hung in the hall closet.
He followed her into the kitchen. “Glass of wine?” she asked. “This was given to me after I catered an event at the Longwood Country Club, so I know it’s better than anything I would normally buy.”
He smiled. “I don’t drink.”
“Because you’re still on the clock?”
“Because I’m an alcoholic,” he said, pulling out a chair from underneath the white pine kitchen table. “But you go ahead. There’s nothing I enjoy more than watching someone enjoy a fine Cab. And that’s a fine Cab,” he said, taking the bottle from her and looking at the label. A glimmer of the old Rodney, the one she had met at the speed-dating event, the one who told her—who lied to her—that they would soon share a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, peeked out for a second.
She took the bottle back from him and poured herself a healthy glass, leaning against the counter. “I’ve got seltzer, diet soda, and juice. Pick your poison.”
“I’m good,” he said. Even though it was her house and she should have been inviting him to sit, he was already seated and beckoning her to join him. She pulled up a chair. The only sound as they sat there was the lonely call of a train whistle down by the river and the distant sound of cars traversing the main thoroughfare that headed north.
“Cheese?” she asked. “Crackers?” The silence between them was discomfiting, and it occurred to her that all she really knew how to do was feed people.
And kill them.
“No,” he said. “Thanks.”
She took another sip of her wine and rolled her head around to loosen the tight muscles that came with standing all day in the cold. She put a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed it, feeling the knot that was always there and that would never loosen, no matter what she tried. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Detective,” she said, “but I’m guessing you probably want to get home to start celebrating the holiday with your family.”
“Call me Rodney.”
“Okay. Rodney.” She took in the bags under his eyes and the sad-sack expression that seemed to have gotten progressively sadder the longer she knew him. “I’m alone tomorrow,” she confessed. “Just me and the rest of this wine. I told my ex I was going to the parade so he wouldn’t feel sorry for me, but the truth is I’m staying home. All day. By myself.”
He listened as she continued, telling him about her plans for the quiche and how his buying the bread meant she would have to start a new batch from scratch so that she had something to go with the egg dish. After listening for a few minutes, he stopped her. “I was ten the first time.”
She stopped talking, midsentence, and let him continue.
“First, it was roughhousing. Then, it became something else. He was my stepfather. Meaner than a junkyard dog, just like the song said.” He looked down at his hands. “Did you think it was your fault?”
She couldn’t answer. She had turned to stone.
“I thought so. Takes a long time to shake that feeling, if at all,” he said.
She pushed the wine aside, the sight of it making her nauseated.
“So I drank. A little at first. Then, a lot.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “There were some drugs, too. Don’t tell the PD. Or Colletti.” He smiled. “She seems tough and loose, but she’s a Catholic schoolgirl all the way. Very ingrained sense of right and wrong.”
“I don’t know—”
“Yes,” he said. “You do. You know all about it. Remember? You told me.”
She tried not to let anything show on her face, but she knew it was impossible. This man, someone she had met under strange circumstances that had just become even stranger, could see into her soul. Even if she hadn’t told him, he would have known what had happened because it had happened to him, too. Just the way she knew what had happened to Tina Lorenzo and what was going to happen to Tiffany at some point until Maeve did something to stop it.
“I thought if we went after your father, you would crack. But you’re good at acting and even better at lying, and I could never get to you.” He leaned back in the chair again. “I think I’ll take some of that cheese you were offering.”
She stood on shaky legs and walked to the refrigerator, the act of making a simple plate of cheese and crackers with some pear slices in the middle steadying her. Her mind went on autopilot. I’m doing what I know how to do. I’m making food. I’m going to serve a plate of cheese and crackers to this very nice man, the one who understands me better than anyone ever has. The one who knows me better than anyone ever has even though he only met me a little while ago. He’s going to eat the cheese and tell me what he knows and then he’s going to leave. He’s going to let me live my life.
She was sure of that.
She put the plate on the table. “The whitish yellow one is Jarlsberg and the soft one is a St. André brie. Very rich. I hope your gallbladder is working properly,” she said, letting out a little laugh.
He spread some of the brie on a cracker and took a bite. “Rich,” he agreed, before changing gears so rapidly that Maeve wasn’t sure what they were talking about anymore. “It was torture. Every day. Am I right?”
She figured the less she said, the better off she was.
“I couldn’t believe that even after we threatened to throw Jack in jail, you wouldn’t budge. I felt like I was playing the most competitive game of chicken ever,” he said, the admiration for her steely nature evident. “Or the most intense game of chess.”
“My father had nothing to do with this,” she said when she found her voice. It wasn’t the first time Poole had heard her say it, but it was going to be the last.
“You win.”
“I win?”
“Yep,” he said. “You win. I got nothing. I don’t have a gun, I don’t have a witness, and although you have the worst alibi in the world, I still can’t pin it on you even with the long blond hair we found in the car. You’re the only blonde in the family, Maeve. I noticed that at the wake.”
“You were there?” she asked, remembering a couple of cops but not him.
“In the parking lot. Not inside.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. No hair root.”
She didn’t know what that meant, but it was clearly significant. “And speed dating? Why were you there?”
He looked at her, nothing to say.
“Me,” she said.
“We were following you,” Poole said matter-of-factly and without emotion. “Just a hunch on my part.” He chuckled. “I was working with Doug that day. You should have seen his face when you got to the hotel. Speed dating,” he said, laughing again. “Took some fast talking to get us into the queue of
daters but we’re creative like that.”
Unlike Poole, she didn’t find any of it funny at all. Rather, she felt weak at the thought that she had been followed and never knew. She wondered about other times—when they were, where she had been—but she didn’t ask.
“It was always a crime of passion to me,” he said, changing the subject. “This wasn’t a random killing. Too much violence behind the murder. If you know what I mean.”
She did, but she wasn’t going to let on.
He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “I still can’t pin it on you, though,” he said again. “Not that I’d want to even if I could.” He chuckled. “Watching Food Network,” he said, shaking his head at her flimsy alibi.
He was right. She had motive. She had opportunity. But there was nothing he could do to prove that she had done it. And now that he had revealed their bond, the one she had with a countless number of nameless, faceless strangers walking the earth alongside her, he was loath to make her pay.
“Your going to the ash scattering was inspired,” Poole said, obviously an unidentified voyeur at the event she had attended begrudgingly. “Not too many people have the stones to do something like that.”
She didn’t know why she needed to tell him, but she did. It came out in a sob-filled croak that surprised both of them. “He killed my mother. Sean. He hit her with his car and left her to die on the street.”
1 Once Upon a Lie Page 25