Lie in Plain Sight (30 page)

Maeve turned toward the window and looked out at the street outside. The world was normal and lovely, with people walking and talking, the coffee shop abuzz with the after-school crowd, the local restaurants gearing up for the dinner rush. She
was
going a little crazy, but she would never admit it. She felt as if she couldn't walk among these people because of the baggage she carried with her, and in that moment, that realization made her sad.

“I've seen you like this before,” Jo said.

Maeve didn't respond.
You have?
she wanted to ask but couldn't, knowing where this was going.
And what was that like?
she wanted to know but didn't ask.

“You get crazy. You get obsessed. And it's good for no one,” Jo said, driving through the light, hanging a right at the traffic circle. “Especially you.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Maeve asked, exhaustion covering her like a warm blanket. She knew she'd be home in a few minutes, but she wanted to stay in this car for a long time so she could fall asleep to the hum of the engine, the sound of the baby sucking his thumb contentedly in the backseat.

The house was empty when they arrived, as Maeve knew it would be. “Want me to come in?” Jo asked, looking up at the old Colonial, the emptiness of it telegraphing out to the street.

“No,” Maeve said, wondering if she had the strength to make it from the car to the front door. She was embarrassed—humiliated, really—and didn't know if she'd recover from this one. The entire Farringville Police Department would know that Chris Larsson's girlfriend, the Cupcake Lady to many in town, had let herself into someone's house, gone through his personal things, and been arrested by his girlfriend, a woman who just happened to be the village's police chief. It was going to be in the local paper's police blotter for sure, and she would never live this down, no matter how many perfectly constructed, Thulian-crossed-with-salmon-frosted cupcakes she made, no matter how many Comfort Zone quiches were sold that bailed out a husband who was supposed to make dinner on a certain night for a certain overworked wife. She looked at Jo.

Jo reached across the space between the two seats. “Come here,” she said, gathering her best friend into her arms and waiting for the inevitable onslaught of sobs that should have accompanied a trip to jail. A normal person would cry.

But there were no tears, because Maeve knew she wasn't normal. Maeve laid her head on Jo's shoulder and stayed there for a few seconds before breaking away. “Thank you. I'll give you the money tomorrow. Is that okay?”

Jo pulled back. “Sure. Tomorrow is fine.”

Jo's face gave away what she felt inside: Maeve was losing it, and she was bearing witness to that. Maeve rearranged her features into an expression that approximated something normal, something with which Jo would be familiar, and smiled. “I'm fine, Jo. Don't worry. I'm done with this.”

“With Taylor? With what has happened?”

“With everything,” Maeve said. “It's not my fault.”

“It was never your fault,” Jo said. “There's no reason on God's green earth why you should feel responsible. Now that witch Judy Wilkerson? That's another story.”

Maeve hadn't thought about her in a while. “Yes. She has a lot of explaining to do.”

“Her little punk-ass grandson can build as many schools in Mississippi as he wants, but he'll still be the kid who rear-ended Doug's car and then denied the whole thing.”

“What?” Maeve said, sitting up. “Her grandson?”

“Yes. Tommy or Todd or Timmy Morehead.”

“Tim Morehead.”

“Whatever. Kid looked Doug straight in the face and said he hadn't backed into him in the grocery store parking lot when Doug saw the whole thing.” Jo looked back at the baby. “Not that the big dent doesn't give the Taurus a little street cred, but what kind of kid lies to a cop's face?”

“I don't know,” Maeve said, thinking of Judy Wilkerson and her ability to lie without blinking. Must be a family trait.

“Had a friend with him who lied, too.”

“Preppy?”

Jo looked at her. “Yeah. The Connors Kid.”

Jo slumped in her seat, changing the subject back to what was rapidly becoming Maeve's least favorite: her own state of mind. “I hate seeing you like this. You're not responsible for everyone, Maeve.”

Maeve was defiant. “I know that.”

“I don't think you do.”

Behind her, the baby gurgled in agreement with his mother, and something about hearing his little voice in the backseat softened her, making her think back to the time when she was in the driver's seat and one of her babies was in the back. “Thanks, Jo. I'll pay you back tomorrow,” Maeve said again before getting out of the car. “And thanks for everything.” She got out and stood on the sidewalk, the car door still open. “I love you, you know. I just wanted to tell you that. In case I didn't get the chance again.”

“Why wouldn't you get the chance?” Jo asked.

Before Jo could ask any more questions, Maeve slammed the car door and went inside, closing the door to her house and herself off to the world outside.

She had barely reached the second floor when she heard a knock. She started talking to Jo before she reached the door. “I really just want to be alone,” she said, flinging it open to find Charles Connors standing on the other side, his expression telling her that this wasn't a social call.

 

CHAPTER 41

She didn't let him in, letting him stew on the other side of the door, the screen between them. “What do you want?” she asked, her antipathy toward him greater now that she knew Trish's side of the story.

“It was bad enough that Taylor's disappearance announced to the world that I was her father, and a negligent one at that, but now the police are spending a bit more time with me and my family than I would like,” he said, a man used to getting his own way, making things happen on his terms.

“Maybe they are asking you questions so that they can find your child, Mr. Connors.”

“A child that you were too busy to help,” he said.

Knowing what she knew now, Maeve was less inclined to absorb that emotional blow. Of all of the people at fault, she was way down on the list. The man in front of her held a spot at least five or six rungs above her on that ladder. “Why are you here, Mr. Connors?” she asked.

“You and your daughter are causing trouble for my family, and I won't tolerate it,” he said.

Maeve smiled. He had underestimated her and would regret it if this went any further. “Or what, Mr. Connors?” she asked. “You'll bring the full force of your team of minions upon me?” She opened the door to the porch and stepped outside. “Here's one thing you should know about me and my daughter: Unlike you or your son or your nephew or whoever he is to you, we tell the truth. No matter what the cost.” And while that wasn't necessarily true, it had the intended effect of knocking the wind out of his sails a bit, his furious blinking a sign of that.

“He's my son. I don't know why you can't understand that.”

“Adopted.”

“Yes, adopted.”

“While you had a daughter in the same town whose paternity you would never acknowledge. I've always said that this town has a lot of secrets, but that one takes the cake,” Maeve said. “No pun intended.”

“Whatever it is you think you know about my family, Ms. Conlon, is likely far off base,” he said. “Jesse is the child my wife and I could never have together.”

“And Taylor?”

“She was not.” He turned, attempting to leave, his mission of intimidation, of getting Maeve to back off, not having been at all effective. “Please leave my family alone, Ms. Conlon. That's all I ask.”

Maeve followed him down the porch steps. “I just don't understand it,” she said. “How you could leave that girl.”

He turned back to face her again. “I have a wife I love. I made a mistake. It's as simple as that. I set the girl up for life. And Trish ruined that.”

“The surgeries. Taylor's illness. That's why Trish doesn't have any money.”

He let out a laugh, more of a bark, really. “Is that what she told you? That the baby was sick?”

Maeve felt a little queasy, not sure who she was supposed to believe, who she could trust. “Yes.”

“She blew through the money I gave her and then more money that I gave her later. She has a problem. Gambling,” he said. “As insidious as drugs, as bad as alcohol, although there's some of that, too.”

“Why should I believe you?” Maeve asked. On the sidewalk, she stepped aside to let a neighbor and her dog pass, the neighbor giving Charles Connors the side eye. Maeve didn't have many visitors, and certainly none as handsome and imposing as the man standing next to her.

He didn't respond directly. “Taylor will get a trust at age twenty-one, when she is an adult and on her own.” He looked up at the sky. “God willing.”

“But you wouldn't pay for her to go to college.”

“Yes, I would,” Connors said. “I would, and I told Trish that. The extortion was her idea. There was no way I wasn't going to get that girl out of this town and away from her mother.”

“You could have sued for custody.”

He smiled, patronizing her. “You think you have all of the answers, don't you?” He put his hands in the pockets of his checkered golf pants and looked up at the sky, dotted with cumulus clouds. “What is that you said? People are telling lies about you?” He put a hand on her shoulder. “We have that in common.” He started for his car, idling at the curb.

“Nothing you've done makes sense,” Maeve said.

“I'm sure there are a few things you've done, Ms. Conlon, that no one but yourself would understand.”

He waited for her to respond, but she didn't, couldn't. He was right, but there was no way she would let him know that.

“I think you know something. You or your son,” she said. “Your wife.”

His response came quickly. “My wife knows nothing.”

“I think you all do.”

“Think what you want. The truth is usually farther from your grasp than you think.” He opened the car door. “Just leave us alone.”

 

CHAPTER 42

The next morning, Maeve opened the store and set about getting ready for Founders Day, which was coming up sooner than she would have liked, making more batches of cupcakes than she had ever made in one day. Jo handled the front of the store with ease, checking on Maeve periodically but understanding that her role that day was strictly retail. Maeve could hear her bantering with customers and upselling them on items they hadn't known they wanted when they walked into the store. Maybe she was getting the hang of this bakery thing after all.

Jo brought a piece of quiche in at lunchtime and put it in the microwave, placing it in front of Maeve when it was hot. “Eat,” she said.

“I'm not hungry,” she said. “And I hate Founders Day.”

Jo leaned against the desk and folded her arms across her chest. “Any word from Chris?”

Maeve shook her head, focusing on the bowl of frosting in front of her.

“Well…”

“Well, nothing,” Maeve said, interrupting Jo midthought. “I screwed up. I embarrassed myself and him. If I never heard from him again, I wouldn't be surprised.” She thought about Rodney's words in relation to his own dissolving relationship.
There's no good part with me.
She was starting to feel the same way about herself.

“Need help back here?” Jo asked.

“No,” Maeve said, icing her fiftieth cupcake of the day. It was beautiful, just like the forty-nine others she had iced before this one.

“Make sure you eat,” Jo said, going back into the store.

Maeve didn't have an appetite. She picked at the quiche before dumping it into the garbage pail and pulled out a stool, sitting and regarding what she had accomplished in the short time she had had in the kitchen that morning.

“Pretty impressive.”

She hadn't heard Chris Larsson come through the back door, nor the noisy screen slamming behind him. As always, he'd taken care to come in and not disturb her. She looked at him, at a loss for what to say.

He held up a hand. “Don't say anything.”

“There's nothing to say,” she said. “Except that I'm sorry.”

He looked flustered, not ready to hear that she was at fault, his expression suggesting that he had expected defiance, defensiveness. “Well, okay.” He put his hands in his pockets, looking around the kitchen. “Do I want to know what this is about?” he asked. “Why you felt the need to break into the coach's house, go through his drawers?”

“I didn't break in. The back door was unlocked.”

He looked up at the ceiling, exasperated. “Maeve, you know better than that. You know what you did was wrong.”

“Taylor. I want to find her.” Although she willed herself not to cry, it was too much to keep in. A tear slid down her cheek, landing on her apron.

“We all want to find her,” he said, his voice cracking. “It's all I think about. I don't sleep. And when I do catch a few minutes, I see her face. She is someone's daughter.”

“That's all I think about, too.”

“Why do you think you can do what we can't?” he asked, and written on her face, she knew, was the doubt she had about him and what he was capable of. How she knew that he would never find Taylor Dvorak, that she was his needle in a haystack, one he would never locate. She watched his body go slack, his face showing sadness because the woman he loved felt he was incapable of greatness, of doing the one thing that needed to be done. “Worse than the arrest, and worse than thinking that you've been out there on your own, possibly messing up our case, is the fact that when you look at me, all I see is doubt.”