Lies That Bind (5 page)

“So you don’t believe her?” Jo asked.

She didn’t know what to believe, but she would never confess that.

This time, Jo didn’t telegraph the hug that was coming. She grabbed Maeve in an embrace, her belly keeping enough distance between them so that Maeve didn’t feel trapped. “He was a good guy, your dad.”

“I know.”

“He never would have kept something like that from you.”

“I hope not.”

“Unless he had a good reason.”

“There is no good reason.”

Maeve broke away and finished the pots in the sink, if only to let Jo know that the conversation was over. As she washed and scrubbed, the front of her shirt becoming wet, she thought about it. Jack Conlon never would have kept something like that from me, she said to herself, agreeing with Jo.

Unless he felt he had to.

CHAPTER 8

The pots done, Maeve and Jo went into the front of the store to finish closing. Jo took out the day’s newspapers and put them in the recycling bin by the back door and Maeve locked the front door. Jo found Maeve in the front of the store wiping down the counters, even though Jo professed to have done it earlier.

Jo picked up the ringing store phone. “The Comfort Zone,” she said. She handed it to Maeve. “Chris Larsson,” she said.

“Chris, hi,” Maeve said, handing Jo the paper towels and glass cleaner she had been using and pointing animatedly to the front of the cake case where some kid had generously left the perfect imprint of a small, dirty hand for them.

“Maeve, I just wanted to let you know that Sebastian DuClos has an alibi for the day you were assaulted.”

She waited, interested to hear what his alibi might be.

“An AA meeting. He has thirty witnesses to say that he was there.”

“Convenient,” Maeve said. “Aren’t they all supposed to remain anonymous?”

“The leader did come forward and vouch for Mr. DuClos,” Chris said. “I probably shouldn’t have told you but your number-one suspect has fallen off the list.”

“Then look for some kid named Billy,” she said.

“Billy?” he asked. “Billy what?”

“Billy, I have no idea,” she said. “He’s DuClos’s assistant or associate or something like that.”

“Okay.”

“I forgot about him the other day. But I guess garlic can transfer from one person to another, right?”

“Now I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Okay. Billy. Billy who works for DuClos.”

“You aren’t buying that.”

“I just don’t know why your landlord or one of his associates might break into your store, hit you, and leave with nothing, but if it helps, I’ll track down this Billy kid.”

She hung up the phone, stripped off her apron, and hung it by the kitchen door. “I have to go do some work at Dad’s apartment and then I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Six thirty?” she asked.

“Yep,” Jo said. “I’ll lock up.”

In the kitchen, Heather was standing by the sink, her hands on her hips. “Hey!” Maeve said. “To what do I owe this honor?” For a brief moment, she thought that maybe Heather had escaped from the dark thoughts that seemed to feed her perpetual consternation and had decided to help Maeve clean out Jack’s apartment. Heather had never remarked on the fact that Maeve hadn’t come out of her room for an entire day and Maeve hoped the girl had chalked that up to her mother’s grief; she couldn’t bear to think that Heather would ignore her otherwise. She processed all of this while she wondered why Heather was holding a long-handled spoon in her hand and staring into space.

She seemed as surprised to see her mother as Maeve was to see her. “Hi. Where are you going?”

“Grandpa’s,” Maeve said, looking on her desk for her car key. “Do you want to come? And what’s with the spoon?”

“It was on the floor,” Heather said. “I was just putting it in the sink.”

“Do you want a ride home?” Maeve asked. “And why are you here again?” she asked, remembering that she had never gotten an answer.

“I need eighty dollars,” she said. “To pay for my yearbook.”

Maeve looked at the clock. “Can it wait until I get home tonight?” she asked. “And are yearbooks really eighty dollars?”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to give me the money,” Heather said, walking toward the door.

Here we go. Let the games begin. “I’ll give it to you tonight,” Maeve said, punching in the alarm numbers before closing the back door and walking into the back parking lot.

By the time she got to her car, Heather was ahead of her, starting for home.

“Could I get even one day, a bereavement day, really, to grieve my father’s death?” she called after Heather, whose ubiquitous headphones canceled out the sound of Maeve’s voice. “To not be reminded of how I’m failing you as a mother? Please?”

But Heather was gone, around the corner and up the street. Maeve passed her on the way to the assisted-living facility, trudging back to the house with thoughts of murdering her mother on her mind if the expression on her face was any indication. Maeve kept driving. Hopefully whatever punishment Heather meted out to her mother would be swift and painless.

Maeve pulled into a spot as close to the entrance of Jack’s former home, Buena del Sol, as she could. Buena del Sol was neither “good” nor “sunny” but it was a lovely facility even if her father had hated it. In his last days, it was clear that his time in the apartment was growing short and that he would have to be moved into the full-care part of the facility; Maeve was glad he died before she had to make that decision. She had put it off for as long as she could.

The apartment still smelled of him. Even with one good hand and a failing mind, he found time in his morning toilette to put on a half a bottle of cologne—Old Spice—every day. The door handles, the phone receiver, everything he had touched still smelled of the stuff. Maeve stood in the middle of the living room and sniffed deeply. Sure, she could buy a bottle at the CVS and smell it any time she wanted, but smelling it in an environment that he had recently occupied? Those chances were going to disappear as quickly as she could clean out the space, and the sooner the better as far as Mimi Devereaux and Stanley Cummerbund were concerned.

She started in the bedroom, where Jack’s double bed was made up as if he were living in an army barracks, Angelle’s military precision evident in the tuck of the sheets, the hang of the bedspread. Maeve went through the bedroom slowly. Jo had offered to help clean out the place but would she know to grab the handkerchief that was in his top drawer, the one with the lipstick print—the last surviving link to his wife, Maeve’s mother—and give it to Maeve? Would she keep his uniform from the police department, not knowing that Maeve had no interest in retaining that remnant of his professional life in one of her overstuffed closets? His clothes still hung in neat rows in his own closet; a glass of water, half-drunk, sat on the nightstand almost like he would come back to finish it.

She sat on the edge of the bed finally and looked around the room. One deep, shaky breath suppressed the sobs that threatened her handle on her emotions. There was her photo—the one that was taken when she graduated from high school—sitting on his dresser. Next to that was his watch, a memento Maeve wanted to keep, an old Timex that really did survive the years and a lot of carelessness on his part. Maeve picked up the phone on the nightstand and breathed deeply; there it was again, that smell. A pair of socks were folded and sat on the floor next to his shoes, the cordovan leather of his loafers gleaming as usual. Maeve made a mental note to slip Angelle an extra hundred dollars in a heartfelt thank-you note; even though her father had been ill in body and spirit, she had helped him retain his dignity, helping him shave and comb his hair every day and letting himself be seen as the man he still was in his own faulty memory: Jack Conlon, the strongest man in the world, dapper and handsome, a bon vivant who was proud of his daughter and who thought she was perfect.

She missed him already, so deeply; it was like an ache in her gut that resembled a sustained hunger pang.

She got up and pulled some boxes down from the shelf in the closet. In the first one were Jack’s high school yearbooks from Cardinal Spellman, photos of the day he was appointed to the New York City police department. A small wedding album, black-and-white photos on every page, their existence speaking to a happier time, one that gave no clue to the pain that was on the way.

The second box was more of the same, though it held more evidence of the trajectory of Maeve’s life. Her communion dress, yellowed and brittle, felt odd in her hands, as did the crown and veil that she had apparently worn that day as well. There was another photo album, just her through the years; why
did
she get that perm in 1984? She smiled as she turned some of the photos and relics over in her hands, taking time to remember when things were good and when he knew who she was every minute of every day. When she didn’t have to identify herself for fear that he had forgotten who she was.

Little Mavy. The most perfect girl in the world.

There was nothing in his things to suggest that there had ever been another person in their family. “Your sister.” Dolores was mistaken. She was drunk. She had been thinking about someone else. Jack Conlon had one girl and he loved her more than anything.

CHAPTER 9

“And breathe … ten, nine, eight…”

Maeve sat against the wall in the birth class center at the local hospital, Jo positioned with her back to Maeve’s front, her eyes closing as the instructor counted down. When she got to “one!” Maeve’s eyes flew open, her head smacking against the wall as she was jolted awake.

Jo ceased her rhythmic breathing and turned to Maeve. “Thanks for doing this. We just never know what Doug’s schedule is going to be like and I don’t want to be caught with my pants down.”

“Literally,” Maeve said. She knew why she was there; that was another conversation that she and Jo had on a regular basis but that she still didn’t truly understand. The baby was Doug and Jo’s first and Maeve didn’t comprehend why Doug wasn’t involved in every single activity related to the impending birth. So far, Maeve had helped Jo pick out the crib, find the birth class, and a host of other baby-related tasks that her husband should have been involved in.

Maeve didn’t have a good feeling—about Doug, about his commitment to marriage, his devotion to Jo—but then again, she trusted so few, men in particular, that that wasn’t a surprise. It would take some kind of superman to convince her that he wouldn’t break her friend’s heart. She had been through one long, horrible marriage with Jo, and then a protracted divorce. She didn’t want Jo to go through another one, her emotions still fragile, her psyche still being put back together, day by day, piece by piece. This baby was a miracle, Jo having gotten a donor egg, her chances of having a baby after having gone through chemotherapy a few years earlier almost nil.

“Right. Pants. Have to remember to pack them,” Jo said, and started her breathing again. When she was done with that set of panting breaths, she turned back to Maeve. “I forgot to tell you.” She pointed at her head. “Will I ever get my memory back? It’s like a whole piece of my brain is missing.”

“Yes, you’ll get your memory back,” Maeve said, shifting slightly under her friend’s weight. “What do you need to tell me?” Maeve prayed it wasn’t something to do with a complicated order. As it was, just with the regular inventory demands, she was like the walking dead.

“Margie Haggerty came by the store today.”

Maeve felt her back stiffen and then seize up. She pushed Jo off of her. “Get up. I’m having a muscle spasm.”

She excused herself and exited the room, stretching her back out before bending over to get a drink at the water fountain. She swallowed as much water as she could stand before her stomach started to revolt; she didn’t know what to think about this but something in her suggested she should be angry. Maybe employing the pregnant mother’s breathing strategy was the ticket. She stood by the water fountain, panting until the feeling passed.

A thank-you note for the luncheon would have been enough. An apology would have been better. But Margie Haggerty coming back to Farringville was not good.

Jo came out of the room. She was large and extremely pregnant but she was still in her regular jeans, though they sat way below her belly. One of Doug’s oxford shirts, the sleeves rolled up, coupled with her usual Doc Martens, completed the look. From the back, she didn’t even look pregnant. When Maeve had been with child, she had looked like a beach ball; even her head had been fat, in her memory.

“What’s the matter?” Jo asked. Behind her, couples streamed out of the room, the women stretching their legs, the men checking their phones.

“Margie Haggerty. What did she want?” Maeve asked.

“You,” Jo said. “I told her that you had left for the day and wouldn’t be back until the morning.”

“Did you tell her where I went?”

Jo frowned. “You know me better than that.” She punched Maeve’s shoulder. “I’ve got your back, girl. You know that.”

“Thanks.” Maeve leaned against the wall next to the water fountain and closed her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Jo said. “You do not like those girls.”

“Women. They are women now, Jo.”

“Yes, but they were girls once, and I have a feeling that’s where all of this started.” It finally dawned on Jo. “She was married to Sean Donovan, your dead cousin. The murdered guy.”

Maeve looked away.

Jo had a way with words. “The woman in the too-tight blue suit.”

“Yes, but that’s not it,” Maeve said. “It was a long time ago. Our families weren’t close. The father was a drunk and the mother was just horrible. I tried to stay far, far away from them.”

“Then why did they come to the funeral?” Jo asked.

Maeve shrugged. “That’s what you do.”

“Your people confuse me,” she said. “Sitting shiva is its own kind of dysfunction but at least my people talk about stuff. Try to work it out. Go to therapy.”

“Yeah, not the Irish.” Maybe therapy would have helped her, but she had been raised to think of it as a sign of weakness. “If you’re Irish and you know someone, even tangentially, and they die, you go to their funeral,” Maeve said. “And you especially make sure to hit the after party.” She looked around, marveling at the girth of some of the pregnant women around her. Had she looked like that once? How had she remained erect? “My father and I traveled the tri-state area going to wakes and funerals and eating rubber chicken at post-funeral luncheons. I can’t explain it. It’s just what you … we … did.”