Lies That Bind (17 page)

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 getting 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.

In the parking lot, she ran into a few of the women she had met that first week: Lorraine Mackin, Judy McDermott, Ann Marie Cardona. The three women peered into the hatch of Maeve’s Prius and marveled at the assortment of miniature baked goods, all displayed on gold rounds and covered with red and green cellophane, waiting to be brought into the Y.

Lorraine stepped back. “You’re the real deal, huh?” she said admiringly.

“I’d like to think so,” Maeve said, handing each woman a tray of desserts. In the lobby, the Christmas tree greeted them, some of its lights now burned out, the garland hanging limply. Ann Marie stayed behind to fix it, giving the tray she was carrying to Maeve.

It was a potluck supper, something that Maeve found a little off-putting and actually struck a little fear in her heart. She was bound by Health Department rules at The Comfort Zone but every home kitchen was a complete free-for-all in terms of cleanliness; she had learned that the hard way after seeing a friend open a can of tuna with the same opener she had used to open a can of cat food. There had also been the Great Stomach Flu the previous Thanksgiving that had felled her and Heather, sparing Jo, thankfully, after she had drunk some way-past-its-prime eggnog at a Christmas party in town. She eyed the buffet table warily, spying the requisite Swedish meatballs, old school but making a comeback; a crock of something that appeared to be short ribs; a frozen pizza cut up into bite-sized triangles. She made a move toward the basket of crackers next to the cheese platter and took a few in a napkin. They would have to do. She wasn’t going anywhere near the rest of the fare.

Mrs. Alderson wheeled over and took a spot by the punch bowl. “Hello, Maeve, my fair Irish lass.”

Maeve gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Francine. How are you today?”

“I’m good,” she said, pushing her walker toward Maeve. “This time of year makes me sad but I’m trying hard not to let it get me down.” She smiled sadly. “Really, how many Christmases do I have left? Might as well make them happy ones.”

“Do you have other children?” Maeve asked. “Family?”

“Just my dog, Prince Philip,” she said. “He’s enough, though.” She pulled a photo album out of the pocket of her sweater and handed it to Maeve. “Here he is in all of his Labrador glory.”

Maeve politely flipped through the photo album and remarked on Prince Philip’s handsome face and physique. She handed the photo album back to Francine. “He’s beautiful.”

“Best dog I’ve ever had. And I’m old. I’ve had more than a few,” she said, laughing. “Winston will love him when they get to meet.”

“If it’s not too personal, Francine, can I ask you what you’re doing to find Winston?” Maeve asked.

“I go to the support group,” she said. “People have very good ideas about finding our loved ones. And I am working with a private investigation group, but so far, there hasn’t been too much to report.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I find that the comfort I get here, as well as the information about what has worked and what hasn’t, is far more helpful than anything else,” she said.

Maeve pondered that. She wondered what kind of PI firm was taking this woman’s money and for how long but didn’t think it right to ask.

Maeve watched Francine make her way along the buffet table, the tennis balls on the bottom of her walker wheels making her journey a silent one. She wondered how a woman so old, and with a search for her son the only thing she really had left beside an old dog with a graying face, could be so happy. So lighthearted.

She wondered. Could that be her someday, too?

Lorraine approached her. “Hmmm. Frozen pizza. I’m not going to judge but that doesn’t seem like it took a lot of effort.”

Maeve leaned in conspiratorially. “I already went there in my mind but didn’t want to say it out loud.”

Lorraine picked up a square of cheese and examined it on all four sides before popping it into her mouth. “Any new developments on your sister?” she asked. “Finding her?”

Maeve decided to keep Margie’s information to herself. Many people at the support group had been on a search, and with only two members finding their loved one—one dead and one in a group home in Canada—she didn’t want to gloat that she had a little information. “Not really. I’m closed for two weeks after Christmas so I’m going to pick up the search in earnest then. You?”

Lorraine, her piercing blue eyes looking at a spot over Maeve’s head, shook her head. “I stopped a long time ago,” she said, which surprised Maeve; she thought everyone here who was missing someone was still actively searching, hunting. “Every clue led to a dead end. Every private investigator who could help me ended up being a zero.” She reached out and grabbed Maeve’s hand, the one not holding a napkin full of crackers. “Don’t get your hopes up, Maeve. I hate to say that, but it’s true. It’s like some of these people just vanished into thin air. And those who didn’t probably wished they had. I just come here to find out if anyone has had any luck. Found their family member.”

Maeve felt a steely resolve creep up her spine. No one told her something was a lost cause, ever. Jack had always said that if he wanted to get her to do something, he just had to tell her that she couldn’t. That was all it took. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I just don’t want you to get your heart broken,” Lorraine said. “Like I did.”

I won’t, Maeve thought but didn’t say. First of all, my heart is already broken.

And second, if she’s out there, I’ll find her.

Back home, in her bedroom, she took off her clothes and put on a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt, leaning over to set her alarm, even though she awoke at the same time every morning, alarm or not. Her fingers brushed across the various items on her nightstand, coming into contact with a manila envelope that hadn’t been there before. She was almost too tired to comprehend what was in there but handling money every day made her fingers fly through the bills.

The stack totaled three thousand dollars, all in twenties.

CHAPTER 31

Christmas dawned bright and cold. Before she went to the store, giving herself a late open—nine o’clock—she and the girls opened presents and had breakfast. She watched both of them carefully for any signs of guilt or discomfort that might accompany their having stolen, cashed, and then replaced the money from a check that had been on her nightstand, but there was nothing. Before she went downstairs to begin the present opening, she tucked the wad of cash between her mattress and the box spring, as far into the middle as she could reach, smoothing down the comforter when she was done.

This incident would make an interesting blotter entry in the Farringville paper:

Parker Avenue resident reported that some time while she was at work, someone absconded from her house with a check in the amount of three thousand dollars. Check was subsequently cashed and the money was returned to her. The police are not investigating.