Read Online Lies That Bind by Maggie Barbieri - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Barbieri
Tags: United States, Literary, Literature & Fiction, Women Sleuths, Crime, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, cozy, Literary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Culinary
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daughter except that he worked for DuClos and her relationship to Sebastian was a tenuous one, garlic breath aside. Something about the guy had always given her the creeps. “It’s the middle of the day, Jo. Heather would be at school.”
“Just reporting what went on here,” Jo said. “Now I’m worried.”
“Don’t worry,” Maeve said even though she could feel her own heart pounding. She dug Chris Larsson’s card out of her bag and called him, his phone going straight to voicemail. “Now this Billy person is looking for Heather,” she said, trying to keep her voice modulated but having no success. “There’s another reason to find him and talk to him.” She heard how she sounded. “Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.” She took a few deep breaths and brought her voice back to a low timbre. “And thank you.”
Maeve hung up and started driving, making a mental note to ask Heather who the mysterious Billy was, beyond Sebastian DuClos’s henchman. Eventually, she found herself in her old Bronx neighborhood, the place she had been headed all along without really knowing, driving slowly down every street, letting the memories in. Maeve had never called Margie back, not wanting to know what she had to say. But Dolores? She was a different story.
Although Margie had never done anything else to make Maeve not trust her, the memory of her missing key colored her thoughts and opinions of the younger girl always. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Mrs. Haggerty screaming at her daughters in a way that Maeve hoped she never did to her own. Margie was her usual target. She was stupid and lazy and a host of other unattractive adjectives that Maeve could only imagine had seeped into her brain and made her think that she was actually all of those things. It would take a lot of work, she imagined, to convince yourself otherwise if all you were fed on a daily basis was a steady diet of disparagement.
Maeve had Jack and he thought she walked on water, as he often used to say when he thought she wasn’t listening. Dolores and Margie’s experience hadn’t been the same; she tried to cut the girls some slack for that, going so far as to stick up for Margie once at school when an older boy had knocked her down and stepped on her lunch. Margie had wanted to be Maeve’s friend then, and Maeve suspected now, but that ship had sailed and while she would visit the neighborhood again, she would never revisit the fractured relationship she had with those girls.
Dolores Donovan still lived in the same part of the Bronx, but had moved to an exclusive enclave a few blocks south of where they had all grown up. As Jack used to like to say, “That girl stepped in shit and hit the big time,” mixing his metaphors as always. Maeve had known what he meant, though.
Something like that. To Maeve’s thinking, she had sold her soul to the devil for a seven-thousand-square-foot home and a Mercedes M-Class. That bargain, it seemed, included marrying Sean Donovan.
She pulled up in front of their old house, hers and Jack’s, a semi-detached brick dwelling with a small patch of scrubby grass in front of it that Jack had tried desperately to turn into something approximating a lush green lawn. Not much had changed since she left almost three decades earlier, going off to school, never to return. The front door still held the lion’s head knocker and the transom still showed a crack in the glass that had been there for as long as she could remember. Someone had replaced the brass numbers on the front of the house, opting instead for press-and-stick markers to let someone know that they were at Eighty-Five-Twenty-Three. That was an interesting change, Maeve thought; the brass numbers had been there since the house was first built in the twenties. Stolen, was her guess.
It seemed like a hundred years since she had last lived here.
While she sat there, she pulled out her phone and did a search on the Gaelic name
“Just reporting what went on here,” Jo said. “Now I’m worried.”
“Don’t worry,” Maeve said even though she could feel her own heart pounding. She dug Chris Larsson’s card out of her bag and called him, his phone going straight to voicemail. “Now this Billy person is looking for Heather,” she said, trying to keep her voice modulated but having no success. “There’s another reason to find him and talk to him.” She heard how she sounded. “Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.” She took a few deep breaths and brought her voice back to a low timbre. “And thank you.”
Maeve hung up and started driving, making a mental note to ask Heather who the mysterious Billy was, beyond Sebastian DuClos’s henchman. Eventually, she found herself in her old Bronx neighborhood, the place she had been headed all along without really knowing, driving slowly down every street, letting the memories in. Maeve had never called Margie back, not wanting to know what she had to say. But Dolores? She was a different story.
Although Margie had never done anything else to make Maeve not trust her, the memory of her missing key colored her thoughts and opinions of the younger girl always. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Mrs. Haggerty screaming at her daughters in a way that Maeve hoped she never did to her own. Margie was her usual target. She was stupid and lazy and a host of other unattractive adjectives that Maeve could only imagine had seeped into her brain and made her think that she was actually all of those things. It would take a lot of work, she imagined, to convince yourself otherwise if all you were fed on a daily basis was a steady diet of disparagement.
Maeve had Jack and he thought she walked on water, as he often used to say when he thought she wasn’t listening. Dolores and Margie’s experience hadn’t been the same; she tried to cut the girls some slack for that, going so far as to stick up for Margie once at school when an older boy had knocked her down and stepped on her lunch. Margie had wanted to be Maeve’s friend then, and Maeve suspected now, but that ship had sailed and while she would visit the neighborhood again, she would never revisit the fractured relationship she had with those girls.
Dolores Donovan still lived in the same part of the Bronx, but had moved to an exclusive enclave a few blocks south of where they had all grown up. As Jack used to like to say, “That girl stepped in shit and hit the big time,” mixing his metaphors as always. Maeve had known what he meant, though.
Something like that. To Maeve’s thinking, she had sold her soul to the devil for a seven-thousand-square-foot home and a Mercedes M-Class. That bargain, it seemed, included marrying Sean Donovan.
She pulled up in front of their old house, hers and Jack’s, a semi-detached brick dwelling with a small patch of scrubby grass in front of it that Jack had tried desperately to turn into something approximating a lush green lawn. Not much had changed since she left almost three decades earlier, going off to school, never to return. The front door still held the lion’s head knocker and the transom still showed a crack in the glass that had been there for as long as she could remember. Someone had replaced the brass numbers on the front of the house, opting instead for press-and-stick markers to let someone know that they were at Eighty-Five-Twenty-Three. That was an interesting change, Maeve thought; the brass numbers had been there since the house was first built in the twenties. Stolen, was her guess.
It seemed like a hundred years since she had last lived here.
While she sat there, she pulled out her phone and did a search on the Gaelic name
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