Lies That Bind (15 page)

Heather was stringing lights around the tree; a box of ornaments, some from Maeve’s childhood home, were at her feet. “It’s a Fraser fir. Dad said it’s your favorite.”

“Dad’s right,” Maeve said, approaching the tree. She reached out and fingered one of the branches, the smell of a freshly cut tree hitting her nose. “It’s beautiful. When did you get it?”

“Earlier,” Heather said. “We wanted to get it for you so that you didn’t have to put it on your list.”

Maeve was a list-maker. The task “get the tree” was on several lists that she had created in the past week, and was likely to have made it onto several more before it actually was crossed off. “Thanks. It’s beautiful,” she repeated, still in awe that it was in her house, in the stand, and being decorated. She had checked Facebook on her phone while waiting for the group to start and knew that there was a party at Andy Broder’s house that night, his parents having left for the Napa Valley to celebrate Mr. Broder’s fiftieth. Andy was planning a party complete with multiple kegs, a band, and “all night partying, dudes!” something Maeve had intimated to Heather wasn’t an option for her.

She was surprised that the girl had obeyed. Something was afoot and Maeve wasn’t sure what it was.

“So, you stayed in tonight?” she asked, fingering one of the tree’s supple branches.

Heather continued to stare at the tree. “Yeah. Nothing going on. Nobody’s around.”

“Really?” Maeve asked.

“Really,” said Heather, a kid who hadn’t missed a Farringville party since her freshman year, despite Maeve’s vigilance. “How was the group?” Heather asked, her attention focused on a strand of tangled lights, anything but look at her mother.

Maeve was glad that Heather’s back was to her. “It was good,” she said, swiping a hand across her eyes. “Lots of very nice people. Lots of sad stories.”

“And all the people there? Their relatives are missing?” Heather asked.

“It seems that way,” Maeve said, flashing on Mrs. Alderson and her never-ending stash of hope. “I didn’t hear everyone’s stories.”

“Did you tell yours?” Heather asked, untangling the lights and burying them deep into the tree for a multi-hued effect that Maeve had never attempted.

“I did,” Maeve said, settling on the couch. “At least what I know.”

Heather continued stringing the lights and when they were done, she turned to her mother. “Rebecca says hi.”

“She called?”

“Yes. I told her Daddy was picking her up when she finished her finals.”

Before she went upstairs, Heather asked about the store. “Have you heard anything from the police about who broke in? You know, the day of Grandpa’s funeral?”

She hadn’t heard a thing on that, or the finger investigation. “No. Not a big deal,” she said. “Lost some flour but it could have been worse.” Maeve walked around the tree, surveying the ornaments that Heather had hung. “Why? Have you heard anything? Anyone at school say anything that would help the police maybe?” Anyone down a finger suddenly?

Any goodwill that resided between them evaporated. “God, you are so suspicious. Why would you even say that?” She hung her last ornament and stormed off.

“Good night!” Maeve called after her, right before the bedroom door slammed shut, effectively ending the conversation. Maeve didn’t let it dampen her mood, though; the tree was beautiful and it was straight, so she had that.

She went up to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes, sitting on the edge of her bed and making a list of things to do the next day:

Go through the last boxes from Jack’s apartment.

Wash Rebecca’s sheets.

Go to the grocery store.

Deposit insurance check in the bank.

She picked up the envelope on her nightstand and opened it, needing to sign the check before she deposited it first thing in the morning when the bank opened.

There was one problem: the envelope was empty.

CHAPTER 25

“How many
bûches de Nöel
have you taken orders for?” Maeve asked.

Jo looked at the slip in her hand. “Five.” She arched her back, pressing a hand into the bottom of her spine. “Is that really how you say it?”

“What have you been saying?” Maeve asked, rearranging the cookie packages in the shelf by the door.

“Bucks day knoll. I always forget how to say it. I do it phonetically.”

That was one way to handle it.

Maeve didn’t have time to worry about Jo’s pronunciation of store inventory. She walked around the front of the store rearranging the tables and pushing the chairs in, thinking about the empty envelope on her nightstand at home. The night before, when she discovered the check from Jack’s insurance missing, she had torn her bedroom apart, even wondering if the draft from the window next to her bed had picked the check up and blown it to a far corner of the house. Would she ever find it? She had enlisted Heather’s help but she had proven to be not much help at all, bowing out after five minutes of searching the dust-bunny-riddled underside of Maeve’s bed and helping to pull the nightstand away from the wall.

It was gone. Maeve called Cal and left him a message, asking if they could put a stop on it, even though she was sure that it was somewhere in the house. It had to be.

It was times like these she started to worry. Was she destined for the same fate as her father, though far earlier in her life? She shuddered to think that and shook it off, that feeling that she was losing her mind, one insurance check at a time.

She went behind the counter and rearranged some cakes in the case, turning one so that the design on top of the cake was in better view, repositioning another so that it caught someone’s eye immediately when they walked in.

In the kitchen, she put the finishing touches on a cookie platter, tying the ribbon around the cellophane and displaying it prominently on top of the cake case. She hoped it would attract a buyer, someone who had forgotten to buy the baked goods they had promised to bring to the office Christmas party maybe, and she would be rid of it before long, pocketing the forty bucks that it would bring. She hung her apron by the back door and went through the process of locking up; Jo had left earlier to get a few holiday gifts, promising Maeve that she would “love!” what Jo had picked out for her.

Maeve could only imagine what that might be. Last time she checked, they didn’t sell units of sleep at the local Brookstone, and really, that’s all she needed.

To sleep. To rest. But not to dream. Her dreams were not pleasant and filled with candy-coated clouds and unicorns; they were darker and deeper and defied interpretation.

She turned the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
, set the alarm, and went into the back parking lot. The car was cold, the windshield covered with a film that would take a few minutes to defrost. It had been a nice December, high forties mostly, unseasonably warm, but cold as the sun went down. Maeve thought about Jack and his dismissal of any facts having to do with global warming; the nice weather would be all the proof he needed that climate change was made up by the Democrats, something he protested often and loudly.

Maeve blew on her hands while she waited, scrolling through the messages on her phone. There was a text from Chris Larsson, something that warmed her more than the air blowing from the vents in the car. He missed her. He didn’t know if he could wait until after the holidays to see her. Maeve wasn’t used to this; this kind of attention, this care for her and her feelings, was new. She liked it.

She smiled. This one was a keeper.

Eventually, as it always did, her mind drifted to her father and their relationship. She sat there, watching frost disintegrate from the windshield and revealing a small envelope tucked under the passenger-side wiper blade. She jumped out and grabbed it, the outside a little damp from the moisture on the glass, opening it under the light of the streetlight that sat at the edge of the parking lot. Inside was a short note from Margie Haggerty. An address. And a name: Hartwell.

She didn’t have Margie’s phone number, didn’t want it, even though it would have come in handy at that moment. She stared at the name and the note, and wondered if Margie was telling the truth. If this person knew something about her sister. If, as Margie claimed, they had worked at Mansfield around the same time that Evelyn Conlon had been a resident.

If this was true, then Maeve didn’t need Margie Haggerty anymore. She would get the answers herself.

Her focus had shifted. While the back of her head still bore a small lump, a reminder of the break-in at the store and all of its attendant nastiness, her mind was centered on finding Evelyn Conlon. She could be single-minded like this, her attention taken up by one thing, one task. It was what made her a good baker, a smart businessperson.

But she had to keep herself in check, because one slip and that single-mindedness could get her into trouble, sending her down roads she didn’t want to explore. She knew that from experience

CHAPTER 26

It was Senior Citizen Day at the grocery store, something Maeve forgot every week. It wasn’t until she spied the idling Buena del Sol minivan parked in front and found the produce section packed with seniors that she remembered. The store was very good to their senior population, giving them a 10 percent discount on their entire purchase every week, but maneuvering through the aisles on that day proved difficult for the younger set.

By the seafood case, she spotted Mr. Moriarty, picking out some salmon for his dinner. Jimmy Moriarty, for all of his bluster, was a soft touch and wasn’t beyond bursting into tears at the sight of his old friend’s daughter. She didn’t want to catch him by surprise so she wheeled her cart around the prepackaged seafood and approached him at the case after he had spied her in the distance.

“Hi, Mr. Moriarty,” she said as she went in for a hug. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Did you get my message?”

He didn’t respond directly to her question. “How many times do I need to tell you to call me Jimmy, Maeve?” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. That was a lie. She could barely hold it together in front of this physical reminder of her father. The happiness she had felt earlier had melted away, this gruff guy making her remember why inside, deep down, she felt so sad. She smiled and the effort almost made her wince instead. “How are you? Ready for the holidays?”

“I am,” he said. “Going to the daughter’s house in New Jersey. Infernal place, that state, what with all the tolls and the traffic.”

“Well, please stop by the store before you go and let me give you something to take with you,” she said. “You were such a good friend to my father. It’s the least I can do.”

A shadow crossed his face, an emotional darkening. “Why, thanks, Maeve. That would be nice,” he said softly, a bit of his bluster making a hasty exit.

Maeve didn’t know when she would see him again, so she went for broke. “Mr.— I mean, Jimmy, this is going to sound strange, but did my father ever mention anyone named Evelyn? Another daughter he may have had?”

The man turned quickly at the sound of the seafood counter guy asking him to pick out the salmon steak that he wanted. He studied the case intently, Maeve unable to see his face. “What about the third from the top?” he said. “Love salmon,” he said, when he turned back to Maeve. “I think it’s part of our makeup, you know? Irish? Salmon?”

She didn’t know what that meant. She waited to hear an answer to her question.

“No, Maeve. He never mentioned anyone.” Moriarty took the plastic-wrapped salmon from the guy behind the counter. “Talked about your mother a lot. Always talked about you. ‘The most perfect girl in the world,’ he used to say.” He smiled sadly. “Wasn’t a lot going on up here the last few years,” he said, pointing to his own head, “but we were still great friends. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d find another brother from the Job in Buena del Sol. Especially someone I hadn’t seen…” He stopped, reaching out and grabbing Maeve’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Bye, honey. Be good.”

“I try,” she said.

She watched him walk away, only coming out of her funk when an elderly lady hit her from behind with her cart. Maeve stumbled into the case that held bags of clams, sticking her hand deep into a pile of shaved ice. She pulled it out, shaking ice chips to the ground.

“Be careful, dear,” the old woman said. “Someone could get hurt.”

Maeve kept her eyes trained on the old cop, her dad’s dear friend. Someone could get hurt. And someone was lying.

CHAPTER 27

“Hakuna matata!” Jo said brightly as she handed a large stack of cake boxes, all tied together, to a well-dressed woman Maeve had never seen in the store before.

After the woman left, and Maeve watched her drive away from her perch on a stool by the window, she turned to Jo. “Hakuna matata?” she asked, placing a stack of orders in a neat pile beside her calculator. “‘Happy holidays’ would suffice, you know.”

“I guess,” Jo said, sliding the door of the refrigerated case shut. “It’s just so boring.”

“Boring is fine,” Maeve said, jumping off the stool. “Boring is good. We like boring.”

“
You
like boring.”

Maeve did. She had had enough excitement to last a lifetime. “Let’s start the close,” she said, picking up the orders and bringing them into the kitchen. Like every year, she wondered how she would get it done, and she knew from experience not to sweat it too much. It always got done. There might be a few sleepless nights and a few solitary evenings of baking after Jo left the store, but she always got it done.

The back door opened, letting in a gust of frigid air, and Cal walked in, his hipster glasses fogging up in the warm kitchen. He took them off and rubbed them against his shirt. “Hey, baker lady,” he said, using a name he used to call her but had stopped using after the divorce. “How are things in cupcake world?”

“Is that your indication that you’re looking for a freebie?” Maeve asked. Jo walked in with a tray of cupcakes, as if on cue. “Take your pick.”