Once Upon a Lie (13 page)

The doctor looked a little shocked, then broke into a smile. “Okay, Ms. Weinstein. Come back in a week. How’s that?”

Jo slid off the bed and slowly straightened up. “That’s better,” she said.

Maeve gave the doctor a sympathetic smile behind Jo’s back, shrugging slightly. She noted that he was still chuckling to himself as they left the ER bay.

The hospital was a hotbed of activity on this Saturday afternoon. In the next room was an elderly man accompanied by a much younger woman, presumably his granddaughter. Jo, her tongue loosened by the painkillers she had been given prior to the first stitch to her head, hooked a thumb in the old man’s direction as they exited the emergency room. “See that old guy? They gave him a catheter,” she said.

Maeve looked over at the man, sleeping peacefully, his granddaughter flipping through a magazine.

Jo walked through the door that Maeve held open for her. “While he was awake.” She put a hand to her head. “Get me the hell out of here. This place is the worst.”

Maeve didn’t tell her that it could have been much worse. Her own visit to a city emergency room when she was seven, her arm broken, was forever etched in her mind. That was the first time Jack had been accused of something he hadn’t done (and would never do), explaining that his daughter, in the care of her cousin, had fallen off a swing. She was clumsy. An ER in a suburban hospital in a wealthy county paled in comparison with the one at the formerly named Misericordia Hospital, a place she had been taken by one of Jack’s police officer colleagues after an “accident” on the playground. You wanted hell? That place made hell look like the Botanical Gardens.

Maeve pulled up in front of the fence that surrounded the little cottage that Jo lived in, a few steps away from the larger house where a mutual friend of theirs lived with her husband and four daughters. When Jo had had nowhere to turn, Maria had offered the cottage, a supposedly short-term solution that was now in its sixth month. Jo put her hand on the door handle, starting to get out, but changed her mind.

“I’m coming in with you,” Maeve said. The weight of what had happened was dawning anew on her, and she felt completely responsible for her friend’s injury.

Jo protested, but only slightly, letting Maeve help her out of the passenger side of the Prius and hold her hand as they navigated the uneven bluestone treads that marked the way to the one-bedroom cottage. In the distance, over a beautifully manicured expanse of lawn, lay the Hudson, the sun sparkling on its surface. Maeve could see why Jo had lingered; what would be better than this little clapboard-sided cottage with its spectacular view?

Inside wasn’t as charming as outside, but it was cozy. Maeve had been here only once—when Jo had moved in—and was surprised to see that not much had changed. Obviously, Jo had considered the situation temporary as well, and a testament to that—two unopened moving boxes—was pushed against the far wall under a big picture window that allowed her to take in the view every day. Jo had come away from the divorce with a large sectional sofa and her grandmother’s bed frame, but not much else. She seemed to have filled in the gaps with finds at flea markets and antique stores; even though it was cheaper stuff than she had acquired when she was married and had a bit more disposable income, she had managed to pull together an eclectic look that spoke of her reverence for the past.

In the cottage, Jo caught sight of herself in a large mirror hanging by the door and gasped. She lowered her head, raised her eyes, and took off the bandage against Maeve’s protestations, taking in the shaved patch at the top of her scalp, pink, raw, and held together with thick black stitches. “Shit.” She quickly covered it again.

Maeve led her to the sofa and pulled over a large trunk, the one that served as the coffee table. She placed a pillow on it and told Jo to put her feet up. “Do you want tea? Ice water?” Maeve asked, going into the galley kitchen. “I think you can probably take another pill now so you can get some rest.”

“It was a gun, wasn’t it?” Jo asked from the other room.

In the split second she had to respond, Maeve considered lying, then realized that there was no point. Jo could sense a lie a mile away, which was how she knew, with barely a clue, that Eric had been cheating. “It was,” Maeve finally said, almost relieved that the truth was out. She didn’t know how Jo knew it was a gun and didn’t want to ask. The sooner this conversation could come to an end, the better.

“Jack’s?” Jo asked. “Or yours?”

“Jack’s,” Maeve said. “I don’t know where to put it. I had to take it away when I moved him, and I haven’t been able to think of a safe place to stow it.”

“You moved him awhile ago,” Jo said.

Maeve waited a beat, staring at her hands growing cold under the water running from the tap.

“So where’s it been since then?”

“I had it at home, but I want to get it out of there,” she said. That was almost true. She walked into the living room and handed Jo a glass of water. “You want a pill now or do you want to wait?”

“Will it make me forget everything that’s happened today?” she asked.

Maeve gave her a little smile and shrugged. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Then give me a pill,” Jo said.

They sat in silence for a while, and when it appeared that Jo would soon be drifting off to sleep, Maeve unearthed an old quilt from the bedroom upstairs and covered her with it. “Don’t come back to work until you’re ready,” she said, spreading the quilt over Jo’s long body.

“I won’t.” Her eyes closed, and she let out a loud yawn. “What will you do without me?” she asked, only half-kidding.

“I think I’ll manage,” Maeve said, quickly adding, “But only barely.” She loved her friend and the company she provided in the store, but they both knew her skills as a counter person and part-time baker were a little lacking.

“As soon as I can think straight, I’ll come back,” Jo said, drifting off.

Maeve washed a few dishes in the sink and took inventory of what was in Jo’s refrigerator, something that didn’t take too long; she didn’t have much. Since the bakery was unexpectedly closed for the day, she figured she’d take advantage of the extra time and stock Jo’s pantry. Maybe she would swing by Buena del Sol and pick up Jack while she was at it; the old man loved wandering the aisles at the local supermarket, hectoring Maeve to buy him things that were definitely on his list of banned food items, like cheap domestic beer and crappy prepackaged cakes and sweets. The beer she could understand, but the Devil Dogs and Yodels were another story. With the stuff she turned out at the bakery, she couldn’t comprehend why he would want mass-produced items, but there you had it; the guy had a taste for crap and there was nothing she could do about that.

Jo was muttering in the living room, her ramblings the product of a head wound accompanied by some excellent opioids. “Maybe you could kill Eric for me,” she said, able to articulate her hatred for her ex-husband more than any other thought in her head. “Yeah, kill him. While you still have the gun.”

Maeve opened her mouth to speak but didn’t say anything in response. It wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.

CHAPTER 17

After she left Jo, did a quick grocery shop without Jack, and returned to her friend’s to put some items away, Maeve picked the girls up at home and brought them to Cal’s. Maeve usually dropped the girls off and drove away, not wanting to spend any more time in the presence of her ex, his new wife, his third child, or the splendor that was the 1920s stone Tudor that Maeve had always worshipped from afar. She’d spent years hoping that one day she might know someone who lived there and that they would invite her in and give her a tour along with a glass of Chardonnay. Be careful what you wish for, the old adage went, and in this case it was entirely apropos. She had gotten the tour, but not the Chardonnay, and the whole experience had left her more than a little bereft. She had nearly been brought to tears when she saw the original and gorgeously maintained white subway tile in the bathroom that surrounded a cast-iron claw-foot tub situated in the perfect spot for a panoramic view of the river. Then there was the fireplace in the master bedroom, one of six in the entire house. She tried not to dwell on the fact that Cal slept in that bedroom with someone other than her, someone she had thought was a co-conspirator in the game of life but who had turned the tables on her and upended everything she knew about her world.

Heather, seated in the front seat after a heated negotiation with her sister, stormed off the minute Maeve stopped the car, slamming the door as hard as she could to make sure everyone within a hundred feet knew how angry she was at being grounded, this time for a new offense: a zero in math. Maeve looked in the rearview mirror and gave Rebecca a weak smile.

“She’s such a bitch,” Rebecca said in an uncharacteristic display of profane honesty.

Maeve bit back a response; she couldn’t let on that she agreed with her oldest. It was days like this when she thought that she was lucky—as was Jack—that she had been an only child. “Good luck on the lit test on Monday,” she said.

“Thanks,” Rebecca said, leaning over the seat and giving her mother a hug from behind. “It’s Chaucer. What could I possibly forget?” she asked. “It’s only the hardest thing I’ve ever studied.”

“From what I remember, no one in Chaucer has real names. So if you forget any characters, just make one up.” She leaned into her daughter’s hug. “For instance, I would be the Baker. And you’d be the Good Student.”

Rebecca pulled her backpack to her chest and slid across the seat. “And Heather?”

Maeve laughed. “I think we’ve already established that.”

“The Bitchy Sister?”

Maeve touched her daughter’s hair. “You said it, not me.”

She blew a kiss as Rebecca walked up the sidewalk, then prepared to drive away; but Cal, running down the sidewalk toward her, made her hesitate. He had seen her see him, and that made her stop. Although he had broken the vows of their marriage, she would never want him to think her rude.

She rolled down the passenger-side window. “Remember. No party,” she said, knowing he needed a reminder or three that Heather was grounded again. There were parties every weekend in Farringville, and Maeve’s goal was to keep Heather away from as many as she could.

He brushed that off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I got another call,” he said. “Detective Poole?”

At the mention of his name, her blood ran cold and she couldn’t figure out why. Was it that she didn’t need a detective in her life right now—or ever—or was it the exceptional role-playing that they had both done at the speed-dating event, making it seem that Detective Poole was someone who was interested in her beyond the details of the case? She tried not to look unnerved, but she had known Cal a long time and if he was good at one thing, it was reading her face. He gave her a quizzical look, so she rearranged her features into something approximating neutral concern, thinking that this turn of events couldn’t be good for Jack. Or her. “And?”

“And they want to talk to Jack again,” Cal said, looking disappointed at his inability to dispatch this pesky problem regarding his former father-in-law. He splayed his hands on the car door, looking down. “I’m sorry, Maeve.”

“They can’t really think he had anything to do with this, can they?” she asked.

“They can,” he said. From inside the house came the sound of a wailing baby or a second wife; Maeve couldn’t tell.

“Can’t they tell that Jack couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with anything like this?” she asked.

“He could have, Maeve.” Cal looked suitably nervous, and that brought Maeve no comfort at all.

“How could they?” She rested her head on the steering wheel. “He can’t even remember what night book club is.”

“Really? Do you really think he forgets all of those details?” Cal asked, not unkindly.

“What are you suggesting?” she asked. “That he’s faking?”

He looked back at the house and then at her. “I have to go,” he said, straightening up and walking back to the house, her question unanswered. Since he had retired, he had taken to wearing Bermuda shorts every day, and today was no exception, even though the weather was getting colder. As he walked away, the tail of his polo shirt falling past his backside, she saw a glimmer of the guy she had first met, the one who was funny and nice and destined for great things, at least in his own mind. He was the one she had fallen in love with; the one who would never hurt her, or so she had told herself.

She gripped the steering wheel for a few minutes, watching her knuckles turn white, wondering how easy it would be to find the one man Jack knew who had a car and sometimes even drove it. Maybe she could find Moriarty without finding Jack so that she could get some answers to some increasingly troubling questions. She looked at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was a half hour before dinner would commence at Buena del Sol so the possibility existed that she could find him and get some answers. The day-old pumpkin bread in the backseat, taken from the store and that Maeve had planned eat for dinner, would be just the thing she needed to grease the wheels and get the old man talking. Because if there was one thing that she had learned from her visits to Jack at Buena del Sol and meeting his cronies, those guys loved them some good sweets since most of them were on a strict diet that denied them even the hint of sugar.

She knew it would be fruitless to call ahead. She didn’t have a phone number for the old guy, and if her memory served, his problem was slurred speech—as well as a few missing teeth—and not dementia; but the speech issue, in and of itself, presented problems with a phone call. Armed with the pumpkin bread, tied with her trademark raffia, she made her way into the facility, noting with relief that Doreen, the simian-loving concierge, was gone for the evening. In her place was an officious-looking little woman with a name tag that said “Joy,” a name that completely contradicted the look of disgust on her face at Maeve’s approach.

“I would like to visit with Mr. Moriarty,” Maeve said as politely as she could, hoping not to incur the wrath of the erroneously named Joy. Joy’s hair was the color of a red plastic Solo cup with patches of white where she had missed with the dye, her eyebrows a shade somewhere between lavender and eggplant.