Lie in Plain Sight (3 page)

After a quick conference with her patient, Judy returned to the call. “She's walking distance from school, and she said she's going to go straight home to bed. Just let me know if that's okay, and let her mother know as well, if you don't mind?”

“Are you sure? Do you think it's okay to let her leave? Trish should be back shortly,” Maeve said.

Judy laughed. “She's almost eighteen, Maeve. I could keep her here, but then she'd have to sleep in the office all day. She's almost technically an adult. I think it's okay.”

Maeve mulled that over, wondering what she should do, what someone else might do if the situation were reversed and it was Heather. Would she be comfortable letting Heather go home on her own? Last year, definitely not. This year? Probably. “I guess it's okay,” Maeve said, going back into the front of the store. It was filled with both happy and unhappy customers, Donna Fitzpatrick leading the charge on the latter. “Yes, go ahead and send her home.”

“You'll let Trish know?”

“I'll let Trish know,” Maeve said before hanging up. She needed more help than just Trish could offer and was relieved when Jo came out of the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand, her toddler on her hip. Maeve pulled an apron out of the box beneath the counter and handed it to Jo. “You're a sight for sore eyes. Can you give me fifteen minutes until we get done with the rush?”

Jo looked at the coffee in her hand, the squirming baby in her arms. “You're kidding, right?” She readjusted the baby, hoisting him higher on her slim waist. “This was a social call.”

“Not kidding. Can you put him in the stroller and give me a hand? Fifteen minutes. I promise.” Before Jo could protest, Maeve pushed her gently through the swinging doors and started waiting on one hungry customer at a time. Jo joined her, and even with Donna Fitzpatrick quizzing Jo on the various shades of pink and testing her on salmon versus hot pink, they managed to empty the store in less than fifteen minutes with two minutes to spare.

The baby, despite the noise and raucous laughter of the railroad guys, had fallen asleep in his stroller, his thumb hanging limply between his lips. He was named after Maeve's father, a secret she had to keep; Jo's devoutly Jewish mother thought that he had been named after a deceased relative.

After they cleared the store of customers, Maeve and Jo took seats across from each other at one of the café tables where customers sat who wanted to eat in. Jo lifted the lid from her coffee cup and took a long sip. “Oh, hiya, Evelyn,” Jo said, noticing Maeve's sister behind the quiche case. She was shorter than Maeve by a few inches, a tiny sprite of a woman.

“Hi, Jo,” Evelyn said. “I love your baby,” she said, as she did every time she saw Jo and her son.

“Thanks,” Jo said. “How are things at home?”

Maeve appreciated that Jo treated Evelyn like anyone else, not falling into the trap of speaking loudly and slowly to the woman. She was challenged, yes, but not deaf. Evelyn smiled, happy to be part of the conversation. “My friend Debbie is going to a wedding this weekend! She's wearing a sparkly dress!”

“That's fantastic!” Jo said, keeping up the conversation until it was clear that Evelyn was done talking about Debbie and her dress.

Maeve took in the dark circles under her friend's eyes. “Baby not sleeping again?” she asked.

“It's been a rough week,” Jo said. “Just when it seems like we'll get a solid eight hours, he starts with the feeding-every-hour bullshit.” She clapped her hands over her mouth when Evelyn admonished her for cursing.

“You know what I say, right?” Maeve asked.

“Yes. Let him cry.” Jo had heard Maeve's thoughts on getting a baby to sleep a thousand times, or so it seemed. “I just can't do it.”

Maeve understood. She had been much more agreeable about feeding Rebecca all night, her first, than Heather, her second. Maybe that was why Heather was such a crab all the time. Too much crying and not enough breastfeeding as a baby. Maeve knew one thing: It was always the mother's fault, no matter what happened, no matter that Cal had been the biggest “let her cry” proponent in the house. No one would ever know that because to the outside world, he was a doting father, along with being a cheating husband, two things that hadn't changed.

Jo looked over at the baby. “He's a good baby, though. Don't get the wrong idea.”

“I know he is, Jo,” Maeve said. She hoped she could get a few minutes with Jo; between the baby taking up all of Jo's time and the business taking up all of hers, they rarely had more than a few minutes to catch up.

Evelyn asked Maeve if she could have a muffin. “Sure, honey. Eat it in the kitchen, okay?” she said. She watched her sister go into the kitchen and then turned back to Jo. “So, what's going on? Besides Jack, the sleepless wonder over there?”

Jo had dirt. Gossip. The straight skinny. Maeve could tell by the way her face brightened at the thought of spilling some juicy tidbit about someone in Farringville, most likely someone Maeve didn't know, knew tangentially, or didn't care about at all. Still, it gave Jo a thrill to be in possession of village intel, and Maeve was happy to hear it, if only to offer a diversion from the occasional drudgery of the bakery.

“Want to hear this one?” Jo asked, amping up the drama. “This is a good one. Better than you'll hear from anyone else.”

Maeve hadn't seen Jo this excited about a juicy, gossipy morsel in a long time. And who didn't love a good piece of gossip? Maeve had to admit that she did and felt just the slightest pang of guilt over it, barely enough to notice. “Sure. What is it?” Maeve asked, looking at the clock over the counter. Trish had been gone for over an hour, and the delivery was only on the other side of town. Maeve wondered where she was and, again, if this precipitous hire had been a mistake, a few days into it.

“Cal.”

“Cal Callahan?” Maeve asked. The hair on the back of her neck prickled at the thought that the gossip she so eagerly awaited was about her and her ex.

“One and only. Your ex-husband. The father of your children. Cad-about-town Cal Callahan.”

“What about him?” Maeve asked. They had been careful. He'd had every reason to be at her house that night. He had walked in without hiding and left the same way. There was no way that anyone could know that they had had a tryst, if that's even what you called sleeping with your ex-husband, the one who had run away from you only to come running back like a dog that finds his home after being lost for years.

“Affair.”

Maeve was nothing if not a good liar with a great poker face. Those two things had served her well. “Really? Any idea who it might be?”

Jo narrowed her eyes, studying Maeve's face. “That's it? That's all you've got? I thought you'd be thrilled to hear this news, or at least disgusted. One or the other.”

Maeve shrugged. “He's a big boy. He can do what he wants. And I don't really care.” She shrugged again for good measure. Clearly she was losing her touch, not having the proper reaction to the situation.

“That's it? ‘He's a big boy'?” Jo narrowed her eyes. “What gives?”

“Nothing gives. I don't care.”

“You don't care.”

“Nope.”

“Not even a little schadenfreude? Some satisfaction in the fact that he's cheating on Miss Gorgeous? The Brazilian knockout?”

Maeve started to sweat. She didn't want to have this conversation. Jo needed to drop it.

It took her a few seconds, but Jo eventually figured it out, standing and knocking over her bar stool, the metal clanging when it hit the floor and jarring the baby awake. “
J'accuse!
” Jo said, pointing her finger at Maeve, a smile spreading across her face. “It's you.” Jo leaned over and picked up the chair, replacing it gently in front of the table while glancing over at the baby, who was asleep again. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“No,” Maeve said. “I will.” And I think I'm okay with that, she thought.

“You are the worst liar,” Jo said.

No, I'm not, Maeve thought. If you knew some of the things I've done and lied about, we wouldn't be friends.

Through the small window in the door that separated the kitchen from the front of the store, Maeve saw Trish standing by the door, then turning quickly to talk to Evelyn when she saw her boss. Maeve stood. “Listen, it was one time. It was a mistake.” She held one finger up, letting Trish know she'd be right in. “I'd hardly call it an affair.”

“You don't seem terribly guilty about this.”

“I'm not,” Maeve said, feeling the same way she had when it was over: satisfied. Content. A little reckless.

Happy? The score had been settled, one that had remained one-sided since Gabriela had upended her life all those years ago.

“We're not done,” Jo said, following her into the kitchen.

Maeve turned. “Yes. We are.”

Trish was peeling off a wad of bills and counting them. “A hundred and sixty, right, Maeve?” she asked, putting the money in a stack beside a mixing bowl. “Artun says that the banana bread was dry last week.”

“Everyone's a critic,” Jo said. “And a word to the wise, Trish: Try to soften the blow before you deliver news like that. This one here,” she said, jerking a thumb in Maeve's direction, “will be up all night recalculating the ingredients, and you won't get a moment of peace until she gets it right.”

Trish nodded. “Got it.”

Maeve put the money in her apron pocket. “Trish, Judy Wilkerson from the high school called and said Taylor wasn't feeling well. She went home.”

Trish pulled an apron on over her head. “Home?”

“Yes. Home. I wasn't aware that I was your emergency contact, but Judy said that if I gave my permission, Taylor could go home. She wanted to get some rest because she had a migraine.” Maeve grabbed the mixing bowl from the counter and threw that in the sink along with the growing collection of pots and pans.

“She's not there,” Trish said. “That's why I'm a few minutes late. I stopped by the house to feed my dog. Taylor's not there.”

Maeve looked at the clock. It had been over a half hour since Judy had called. Trish lived within a five-minute walk of the high school; a lot of kids in Farringville did, since the high school was in a central location. “Maybe she stopped to get lunch on the way?”

Trish punched some numbers into her phone. “Straight to voice mail,” she said. She tried another number. “There's no one home, either.” She looked at Maeve, a look of panic on her face. “She's not there. She's not home.”

 

CHAPTER 4

In Farringville, everyone in the village knew that the lead detective and the bakery owner were dating. Both Maeve and Chris Larsson had tried to keep it under wraps, but now that it was out there, it was a bit of a relief. Still, they attempted to keep it strictly professional and aboveboard when they were in her place of business. Neither ever expected that his business would intersect with hers, though. Maeve sat at the high counter in the kitchen and relayed her conversation with Judy Wilkerson again.

“She said that Taylor had a migraine and would walk home.”

Chris wrote a few notes in his little notepad. “And that was what time?”

Thank God for Donna Fitzpatrick and her daily drop-in. Maeve wondered if the disappearance of a high school student might put Donna's icing quandary into some perspective. Probably not. “Twelve twenty-five. Approximately.”

“And she was going straight home?”

“As far as I know.” Maeve dropped her head to the counter. “How bad is this, Chris?”

His face gave nothing away. In the front of the store, Trish was talking to another officer and trying to figure out potential places that Taylor might go instead of home. Maeve's initial thought was that the girl had lied, that she hadn't had a migraine, that she had gone to meet someone, somewhere, and didn't want anyone to know. Trish's immediate assumption was that she was abducted. Given that their suspicions were on opposite ends of the spectrum, Maeve kept her thoughts to herself.

But Chris wanted to know what she thought. “Ran away? Met someone she wasn't supposed to?” Maeve asked.

Chris closed his notebook and stood, not giving any indication of whether he agreed with Maeve. “I'm going to talk to Trish again,” he said, leaving the kitchen.

Maeve stared at the order board across from where she was sitting, just a piece of corkboard nailed to the wall. She had done the wrong thing, letting Judy send Taylor home. She should have waited for Trish to return. She shouldn't have made that decision for the girl or her mother. Guilt for some things—but not others—took hold of her sometimes and wouldn't let go, shaking her to the core. This was one of those things. She could feel it already.

Uniformed cops had already been all over the village and had even gone to the train station to see if anyone had seen a girl buy a ticket, board a train. There wasn't a lot they could do at this point, her disappearance being barely a few hours old, but something had caught the local police's attention, and they seemed determined to bring this girl home, even if she had just cut school to do a side trip to Old Navy.

While she was waiting for Chris to come back in, Cal burst through the back door with his toddler. The jogging stroller that Devon sat in had probably cost more than the engagement ring Cal had given Maeve a long time ago in another life. “What's going on?” he asked, breathless.

“Did you run here?” Maeve asked.

“Yes. I was out for a jog and saw police cars coming in this direction. When I got closer, I saw that they were here.” He put the brake on the stroller and tore a hunk of bread off a loaf that Maeve had planned to sell, handing it to the toddler, who took a hearty bite, smiling at Maeve through the crumbs. Cal broke off another piece and shoved it in his own mouth. “What happened?”