Lies That Bind (25 page)

“I will let you know if I think of anything,” she said, thinking that his help would consist of comforting her when she was scared, soothing her jangled nerves when she was losing it. He seemed more concerned about her sister than the finger in her refrigerator, and something about that made her like him even more.

On her way home, she wondered how Jo would feel if she knew that Maeve, scared and alone, had gone on a booty call.

She’d never believe it.

Before she left him, while she was picking up her clothes from around the room, she asked him about the break-in, Sebastian DuClos, breaking the mood that had been established by her drop-in. There was nothing to report on any front, DuClos having gone on some extended holiday; Billy’s whereabouts known but not a cause for concern, according to Chris; the break-in still unsolved.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you think I’m the worst detective in Farringville? Or beyond?”

She was so focused on finding Evelyn that she didn’t really care anymore, and told him so.

The next morning at home, after a few hours of restless sleep, she got up, the queasy feeling in her gut and the pain behind her eyes not deterring her from getting ready to get back in her car and head north. She knew if she asked, Chris would go with her, but this was a solo job. She worked alone.

In Heather’s room, she could hear the girls talking to each other, deep in conversation, their voices low, the subject of their conversation unknown to her. She leaned against the wall of her bathroom, the one that divided the two rooms, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Why they weren’t texting each other from the comfort of their respective bedrooms, like they usually did, she didn’t know. All she knew was that they weren’t fighting. After the night she had had, she didn’t think she could take much more of that.

After going to Dunkin’ Donuts and being served by the delicious Tamara—don’t think she didn’t watch every single item that was put in her coffee—Maeve settled in for the drive to Rhineview.

“So if she’s alive, she has a guardian?” Maeve said as she pulled onto 9 North, thankful for the Bluetooth that Cal had insisted she install in the car when she bought it. Little did he know at the time that her chat with him now about lost sisters, guardianship, and the law would be facilitated by the device. She knew the answer but wanted confirmation from a professional, a onetime lawyer. She merged onto the highway just as Doug exited in all of his Taurean glory, his overnight shift completed. She watched in her rearview as he drove straight past the strip mall that housed the Dunkin’ Donuts and toward his home.

That’s right, Doug. Keep going. Your wife will make you some coffee at home.

“Correct,” Cal said, interrupting her reverie about Doug, his old-man car, and his adoring wife, the one who needed him now more than ever.

And here we go again, she thought. In his voice, she heard what she had been thinking but didn’t want confirmation on: now that Jack was dead, Evelyn’s guardian—unless it was the state—would likely come forward and let Maeve know about her sister. Where she was. How she lived. If she was happy.

“Well, then how do we find out if she’s a ward of the state?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Cal said. “Petition the state?”

“Can we do that?”

“You’re going to need a law guardian, someone who specializes in stuff like this.” The sigh was barely perceptible on the other end but she heard it. Apparently, his patience with this search was wearing thin. He had organic, pureed baby food to make and eco-friendly chemicals that needed to be sprayed on the glistening marble countertops in the Tudor. He didn’t have a lot of extra time to help Maeve.

As with most things, the time had come when Cal had lost interest in this particular venture, even though it had only been a day before when he had shown enthusiasm for this missing persons case. Why the change? It could have been a host of factors, issues that had shown themselves during their marriage and then after. Interest in something else, like a new piece of technology. An admonishment from his new wife that he was focusing too much on his old one. An ailing baby. A home-improvement project that he didn’t have the chops to start, let alone finish. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. He had promised his help and she was going to get it, one way or another.

“One more thing,” she said. “Winston Alderson?”

“No death certificate,” he said. “Not that I could find online, anyway.”

She tried to keep her voice steady. “His mother passed away last night.”

“What? How?”

“Hit-and-run accident,” Maeve said, not believing the words she was saying; it had been no accident, “in the parking lot of the Y. She died pretty much instantly.”

“How did you find out?”

“I was there.”

“Oh, Maeve.” In his voice was the sympathy she had been looking for, letting her know that he was back with her on this and would help her until the truth was revealed. “This might take a while,” he said, “but we’ll figure it out.”

But Maeve only had a few days left until the store opened and more to do when it came to finding her sister. She was going back to the house in Rhineview to talk to Regina Hartwell, getting the information she needed if it was the last thing she ever did. She had texted Margie a few times to see if she could cajole her into revealing the rest of what she knew—Maeve was certain she did know more than she was letting on—but the radio silence from her former neighbor was deafening. Margie was done helping, too, it would seem, and Maeve hadn’t had the time to hunt her down in person.

Jack had always said she was stubborn, “just like your mother, God rest her soul.” Maeve preferred to think of it as “tenacious.” The word “stubborn” held so many negative connotations, and her tenacity, she felt, was what let her be successful at the things she excelled at—culinary school and motherhood, specifically—although the latter provided many opportunities for self-doubt.

She found the little cutout at the side of the road and waited. She didn’t know if Regina Hartwell was home but she did know that she needed to collect her thoughts, think about what else she could do or say to compel the woman to talk. All of her efforts so far had been met with a stone wall.

Stubbornness.

She sank in her car seat, her warm sigh misting over the cold windshield.

A car raced past her on the road, not the Rambler, going very fast and kicking up a spray of rocks as it rounded the bend not far from where she sat. Maeve sat up a little straighter. She had driven this road from end to end and there was but one house—the falling-down house where Regina Hartwell lived—so anyone who passed her would be going there. Or was hopelessly lost. Maeve started the Prius and, keeping a safe distance, trailed the car directly to the Hartwell house.

The car pulled into the driveway; the Rambler was absent from its usual little parking pad. The man who got out of the car wasn’t hesitant at all; he had been here before. He was tall and thin, on the older side, wearing an overcoat over creased suit pants. A tie peeked out where the coat was unbuttoned. He looked surprised to see her, and behind his smile, Maeve could see the wheels turning inside his head.

It was Michael Donner, the man who had been at the support group the night before.

“Hi.” She stuck out her hand, acting more confident than she felt. “Maeve Conlon. You were at the support group last night.”

He took her hand in his gloved one, hesitating with his introduction and greeting. Turns out the latter didn’t exist. “Michael Donner.”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Hartwell. Are you a relative?”

He was smiling but it wasn’t quite right. “Yes. Brother-in-law. By marriage.”

“Right.” She pulled her hood over her head. Unseasonably warm, it was starting to rain. “So you knew her husband?”

“Yes. James.”

“He died, yes?” Maeve asked.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “And who are you, Miss…?”

“Conlon. Maeve Conlon. From the support group last night,” she said, looking at his face to see if the name rang a bell, if there was any recognition. Did he know the name? His craggy, lined face gave nothing away if he did. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. She told him her story. “I’m looking for my sister. She lived at Mansfield. I was told that Mrs. Hartwell might have some information with regard to my search.” She sounded stilted, not herself. How many times had she told this story? It was hard to remember. For something she had only learned a few weeks earlier, it was now part of her history, even if the words sounded unnatural coming out of her mouth.

“Well, I don’t know if we … she … can help you. It’s been a long time since Regina worked at Mansfield.” He turned toward the house. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“She’s not home,” Maeve said. “Her car’s not here.”

“I know,” he said. “I can see that.”

“Social visit?” Maeve asked.

“Pardon me?”

“Social visit or work?” Maeve asked, keeping a smile plastered on her face. See? I’m not threatening at all. Not nosy. Couldn’t care less as to why you’re here but hope you’ll tell me. “I think my sister is one of the Mansfield Missing. I want to find her.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I doubt Regina can either.”

“Really? Nothing? Any suggestions as to where I start? Please?” she said, sounding a bit more plaintive than she intended. It was clear he had no intention of helping her, even if he could.

But he didn’t respond, bidding her a hasty good-bye and signaling that their conversation was over.

It was clear that he wasn’t going to move until she left, so she got in her car and drove away slowly, keeping an eye on him in her rearview mirror. He stayed right where he was on the driveway, watching her drive down the road.

At home, she went straight to her computer and searched the name “Michael Donner,” finding that he was exactly who he said he was: a worker in the social services department of the county to the north. Then she tried “James Hartwell.” She hit pay dirt when she got to his obituary from three years prior.

James Hartwell died peacefully at his home in Rhineview on May 13, 2002. Devoted husband of Regina Hartwell (née Haggerty) …

Maeve slammed the computer shut and banged her head on her desk, wondering how she had been so stupid. Why hadn’t she looked up Regina Hartwell before? She picked up her phone, dialing the one person she was now sure would always help her, always be there for her.

Her own personal secret-keeper.

CHAPTER 45

Poole answered her call on the first ring.

“Maeve Conlon,” he said as he always did. Her first name. Her last. Together.

“Rodney.” She was out of breath, the air having been sucked from her lungs at the discovery. “What’s the name of Margie Haggerty’s company?”

He was at work. In the background was the din that accompanied working in a busy squad with too many open cases. Cursing. Yelling. Protests of innocence. Proof of guilt. The odd breakfast order. Bacon and egg on a roll. “I don’t remember,” he said. “Why?”

“It’s too long a story to go into. I need to see her. Where did you say it was?”

“Hold on,” he said. He put the phone down and rummaged around on his desk. “Two thirty-eighth and Broadway, if my knowledge of addresses in that area is correct. Somewhere under the El. Over a bodega.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “What are you going to do, Maeve Conlon? The warrior queen isn’t making a reappearance, is she?”

He knew what she was capable of, so he was right to be concerned.

She slowed her breathing; she couldn’t be this keyed up for an extended period of time. Gather your thoughts, calm down. That’s what she needed to do. “I need to see her,” she said again. “That’s it. We need to talk.” She wasn’t going to call her, give Margie time to make up another story.

Heather wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, Maeve getting a view of her pajama-clad backside as she pushed items around on the shelves, looking for that one thing that would appeal to her as the first thing she put in her mouth that day. She’d never get used to the sleeping habits of teens. How they could sleep so late was beyond her, her internal clock waking her up before dawn. She bent over farther to pull out the bread drawer and knocked the phone from Maeve’s hand.

“Hello?” Maeve said, picking it up. “You still there?”

“Yes.” Someone was screaming the name “Juanita!” over and over, the man’s shrill voice coming through loud and clear. Someone told him to shut it and the place quieted down for a moment. “Be careful, Maeve. You may be a little out of your league here.”

She watched Heather bumble around with the toaster, changing the settings, leaving a knife dangling off the side of the counter. She moved it and gently pushed her daughter out of the way before she hurt herself and burned the house down. “What do you mean?”

“She was a bad cop. Hear she’s a lawyer now. And we know that most of them are bad, too.” He paused, thinking better of adding something. “I don’t know. It just sounds as if you should be done with her.”

“A cop? A lawyer? Last I heard, she went into the Peace Corps,” Maeve said. “She’s had quite a life since I left the neighborhood.”

“She gets around. Recently left her marriage to a very nice woman, too, from what I hear.”

“It’s not like you to gossip, Poole,” she said.

“Just want you to have all of the facts, Maeve Conlon.”

She pushed the handle down on the toaster. Heather went into the powder room and got stuck. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Thank you.”

She jiggled the handle on the powder room door and released her daughter. “I need new boots,” Heather said when she emerged. “Can we go shopping today?”

Maeve’s hesitation gave Heather the opening for a speech she had obviously rehearsed.

“You’re never here. We don’t know where you go and what you do, but we know you leave in the morning and don’t come back for hours. We want to spend time with you,” Heather said.

Maeve wasn’t so sure about that last part but she’d take it. It was more likely that they wanted new boots.