Lie in Plain Sight (29 page)

“I know that now.”

“Did you tell the police?” Maeve asked. “Chris?”

“I told them about that last day, what Taylor told me. But nothing else. It would just get too big, make us both seem guilty of something we didn't do.”

Yet. Something they hadn't done yet.

A couple of tables away, a group of young mothers sat, some with babies in strollers, others with toddlers playing in the sandbox in the playground. Maeve could hear snippets of their conversation, the complaints about lack of sleep, the picky eaters they had birthed, the absence of help from their working husbands. The long days. The baths and the meals and the boredom of being home all day with kids.

Little children, little problems, Maeve wanted to say. She looked back at Heather, and in her face she could see the girl she once was, the “dark gypsy,” as Jack used to call her, brooding and silent but the one who laughed the loudest when her mother tickled her and kissed her the longest at bedtime. “Oh, honey,” Maeve said. “You're in over your head.”

Heather looked at her phone. “I have to get back to class. What should I do?”

Maeve thought for a moment. “Don't do anything. Let me think.” They both stood. “Come here,” she said, and Heather accepted the hug, wrapping her own arms around her smaller mother and holding her tight. “We'll figure this out,” Maeve said. “I promise.”

“You sound sure about that.”

Heather didn't know what she was capable of and Maeve wasn't going to tell her. She changed the subject to something more innocuous.

“How is soccer?” Maeve asked. “Does your joining the team have anything to do with this?”

“Yes and no,” Heather said.

“That's specific.”

“Taylor asked me to join, so I did it as a goof.”

“When did you become friends with Taylor?”

Heather shrugged.

“And soccer?”

“And what?”

“Do you like it?”

Heather shrugged. “It's okay.

“And Coach Barnham?”

“What about him?”

“What's he like?”

“Sometimes nice, sometimes an asshole. Plays favorites. What does Rebecca say?”

Maeve tossed their trash in the bin. “Pretty much the same.”

“He's super upset about Taylor.”

“Really?” Maeve asked.

“Calls her a special girl.”

Maeve froze by the garbage can and wondered: innocuous platitude or something more sinister? There was only one way to find out.

She watched Heather walk away, and instead of taking her own advice—
don't do anything … let me think
—she got into her car and pulled out of the parking lot, a new destination on her mind.

 

CHAPTER 39

She drove to the other side of town, going back to where it all started, where she had first pulled the thread from the mysterious spool and gotten nowhere, back to David Barnham's manly cabin in the woods.

It's him, she thought, and her palms started itching, letting her know that she was missing her gun. She wished she had it, but that ship had sailed; no more weapons for her. She had promised herself that she would straighten out, be a person who didn't opt for shooting when threats would suffice. She didn't know what she was going to do when she got to Barnham's house, but everything was pointing to the soccer coach's involvement in Taylor's disappearance.

It's you, she thought, as she pulled up silently on the street that fronted the cabin, climbing out of her car and walking through the dense woods, wondering where Cosmo might be stashed for the day. He seemed perfectly nice, as animals went, but boy, did she hate dogs. The pickup wasn't in the driveway, and as she approached the house, peeking in a living room window, there was no sign of the dog, no barking, no movement inside.

She walked around to the back and put her hand on the screen door. There was no turning back; she was in the muck of this thing and wanted to see it end, one way or another. She took a deep breath and tried the back door, finding the handle turning easily in her sweaty palm. In the kitchen, a half-empty pot of coffee sat on the counter, two mugs beside it, a plate with the remnants of an egg sandwich on the other side.

The house smelled of pine and something else, something that she recognized as dog. Dog hair covered the cushions that protected rush-seated pine chairs, and a fine layer of dust collected by the baseboards, mixed together with what could only be strands of Cosmo's hair. There were strands of medium-length brunette hair as well, one here, another there, suggesting the presence of the cop Suzanne Carstairs had mentioned the first time she had been at Maeve's bakery, when Maeve was convinced that she had seen Barnham testing the depth of Laurel Lake. She picked up a hair that had become suspended on the rung of one of the chairs, turning it over in her fingers, noticing its gloss, its beautiful texture. Her own hair wasn't like that; dirty blond, it was dry and flyaway, somewhere between curly and frizzy, and always in a state of messiness. This hair in her hand was the hair of someone who took care of herself, who liked to be pampered and groomed. She dropped it on the floor to become one with the dog hair and the dust.

She worked quickly, looking through drawers in the kitchen, finding the usual things one would find in the proverbial junk drawer, something every house had: a corkscrew with a cork firmly embedded in it, a few slotted spoons, a whisk, some rubber bands, an Allen wrench. In another drawer were some ratty dish towels and Ziploc bags—lots of Ziploc bags—that had been used, washed out, and put away for another day. The third drawer housed some papers, which Maeve riffled through quickly. The water bill. A small phone book. An envelope that held a thick sheaf of papers and bore the insignia of the U.S. Marshals Service.

A photo of the team, and some other photos of individual girls. Before she could figure out if Taylor was one of the solo subjects—or, almost worse to consider, Heather—she froze.

Next to her ear, she heard the click of a gun, a bullet sliding into its chamber. “You should have asked which cop when you were told that he was sleeping with someone on the Farringville force.”

Maeve tried not to let the fear show. She was usually the one holding the gun. “Yes. I should have, Chief Carstairs.”

“Want to tell me what's going on here, Maeve?” Suzanne Carstairs asked, a plush robe cinched tightly around her waist, her glossy hair a little disheveled.

Before Maeve even knew what was happening, she was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, her hands cuffed behind her back, something she really didn't think was necessary. The Chief had other ideas. Namely, that Maeve was guilty of breaking and entering and was, most likely, nuts. Who knew what she was capable of? That was the look etched on the chief's face, a woman who could produce handcuffs with alacrity, despite being in a robe and nothing else, if the expanse of bare leg was any indication. “Well…”

“And don't lie, Maeve. I can spot a liar a mile away.”

“Interesting. Your boyfriend lied to you about being at Laurel Lake, yet you chose to believe him.” Maeve held the chief's gaze. “Or you weren't here. One or the other.”

Carstairs chose to ignore Maeve's taunt. “Start at the beginning.”

“You know everything that I know. There's another missing girl, and she's a dead ringer for Taylor Dvorak. She played soccer.”

“Oh, so we're back to that? Soccer?” Carstairs shook her head. “So we have a girl who has long brown hair and played soccer, so David Barnham killed them both?”

“Is Taylor dead?” Maeve asked. “Is that other girl dead? Do you know?”

Carstairs grimaced, realizing her mistake. “We don't know. I misspoke.”

“He appeared out of nowhere, your boyfriend, and he has close relationships with some of the girls.”

“He's a coach, Maeve. That's his job. And he's been here for several years. You know that.”

“So why is he here? To have parties? To invite girls over to his house?”

Suzanne put the gun in her lap. “You've been spending way too much time in front of your oven, bakery girl. David Barnham is a soccer coach, plain and simple. And what makes him a good soccer coach is that he has rapport with his athletes.”

“He's a good soccer coach?” Maeve asked. “Really?”

Suzanne smiled. “Well, you've got a point there.” She pushed a crumb from the edge of the table onto the floor. “And let me tell you, none of those girls are complaining about having attention from their hot coach.”

“That's how you think of him? As a hot coach?”

“If the cleats fit…” She trailed off, laughing at her own joke. “Really, Maeve. Do you think I'd be dating a guy who was acting inappropriately toward high school girls? Do I look like I need to go that low?” she asked, sweeping a hand over her body. “Trust me. If he were up to no good, I'd kill him.”

If Maeve's hands hadn't been cuffed, she would have tucked in the shirt that had ridden up over the waistband of her jeans, exposing a swath of flabby midsection. Instead, she looked at a spot over the chief's head rather than take in her toned and enviable physique. She remembered the chief patting her midsection, suggesting she didn't exercise. Nothing could be further from the truth unless she lived on a steady diet of coffee and cigarettes, which was entirely possible.

Maeve leaned in close, and the chief's hand closed around her gun again. “Tell me the truth. Was he here that morning?”

Suzanne used the gun to point at Maeve's hands. “What is it about this situation that gives you the idea that you can ask the questions?”

Maeve looked down. “Sorry.”

“Now why don't you tell me a few things? First, what's going on with your daughter and Jesse Connors? And where did she go the other night?”

“Nothing is going on with my daughter and Jesse Connors. As for the other night, I wish I could tell you that, but I can't.”

“Or won't?”

“Can't.”

Carstairs eyed her, carefully crossing one leg over the other. Maeve was right: She was naked beneath the robe. “Okay. So let's try this. Why are you here again?”

Maeve was resolute, something she hoped was written on her face, despite the fact that her insides felt like overcooked spaghetti noodles. “I think your boyfriend knows something about Taylor's disappearance.”

“Because of the kayaking,” Carstairs said, sighing. She was tiring of the conversation, and Maeve wasn't sure she could convince her that something was amiss.

“Because of the kayaking. And the girls. The parties. He has a fondness for Taylor that I'm not sure is entirely pure. But mainly the kayaking.”

“Oh, we're back to that.”

“I know what I saw.”

“And I know what I saw.” The chief stood up. “This is exhausting.
You,
” she said, pointing the gun lazily at Maeve, “are exhausting.”

On the counter, a cell phone rang, and the chief picked it up. “Hi … Not sure,” she said to the person on the other end. “What do you want me to do?” She listened intently. “Got it.” She put the phone down and started for the hallway. “So, I'm going to get dressed, and then you and I are going to go down to the station.”

“Why?” Maeve asked.

The chief looked at her, a bemused smile on her lips. “Because that was, as you refer to him, my boyfriend, and he wants to press charges.” She let the smile grow wide. “Ever been to jail, Maeve?”

 

CHAPTER 40

They were in the car when Jo let out the feeling she had been holding in since arriving at the Farringville police station an hour earlier. “Maeve Conlon! You are out on bail!” She banged the steering wheel, scaring the baby in the backseat, the kid setting up a howl. Jo reached back and patted his knee until he calmed down. “Seriously. I thought I'd be the first one in jail. Not you.”

Maeve learned that the wheels of justice turned quickly in Farringville. She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. Chris hadn't been in the station when she was brought in in handcuffs, nor had he arrived when she had been booked. So either he was working a case or he had been warned:
Your girlfriend is here. The one who is making you fat. Don't come in.

Jo had been the first person she thought to call. She could only imagine the histrionics, the knight riding in on his white horse, if Cal had been the one to come get her. She would never live it down. She had already lost emotional and almost physical custody of Heather; a rap sheet would seal the deal permanently.

“Just take me home,” Maeve said when she had the energy to get the words out.

Jo maneuvered the car out of the parking lot. If Maeve hadn't been in such a terrible state of mind, she would have enjoyed the spectacular river view that greeted them as they headed away from the station and toward her house. “Breaking and entering, huh?” Jo asked as they rounded the corner toward the main drag. “What exactly were you doing?”

“I guess I let myself into the guy's house, and that was not a very good decision on my part.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “What the hell?”

“I wish I could tell you, Jo, but it just sounds ridiculous. The whole thing.”

“Something tells me your boyfriend isn't going to be pleased when he finds out he's dating a felon.”

“Well, I hope it's not a felony. That won't be good.”

“Maybe the guy whose house you broke into will decide not to press charges.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“Don't matter, girlfriend.” Jo waited at a red light, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “This is about Taylor, right?”

“Right.”

Jo looked over at Maeve, her lips pursed. “You going a little crazy, friend?”

“Crazy?”

“Yeah. Crazy. As in, you don't sleep enough and you work too hard and you're starting to see things where they don't exist?”