Crooked Little Lies

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  The reply caused Lauren to frown. Annie held her breath.

  “I understand your policy of not handing out personal information, but in this case, I wonder if you can make an exception. The young man who’s missing was seen getting into her car.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, actually I am with the police. I suppose we could get a court order.” Lauren shrugged at Annie, making a face that seemed to say Whatever it takes.

  Annie smiled, mouthing, Yes!

  And when Lauren wheeled her chair around, picked up a pen and began writing, Annie went to look over her shoulder, watching as Lauren wrote down a name: Charlotte Meany and an address, and next to that she wrote a number, seventy-eight. Charlotte Meany’s age? Annie was guessing. Meany, she thought, looking at the M. Ms. M.

  Lauren added another number, a phone number this time, and finding Annie’s gaze again, she grinned, thanking her contact profusely. Annie nearly laughed out loud, hearing Lauren use the words civic duty and helpfulness in an ongoing police investigation.

  “I’ll probably be arrested,” she said, ending the call, “but we got it!” She held her note out to Annie.

  “You really think it’s her?” Annie studied the details.

  “Janie, the girl I spoke to, knows the lady and her dog. They’re neighbors, if you can believe the luck. Charlotte lives about a half mile down the road from her, and her dog’s named Blue Sky. She even knows who Bo is. She’s seen him with Charlotte a few times.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Lauren said she wasn’t, and when she pointed out that Meany started with the initial M, the same initial Bo included in his last-known text message, Annie said, “It could be a coincidence.”

  “Maybe, but we won’t know until we talk to her.” Lauren took her car keys from her purse and pulled it onto her shoulder. “Shall we go?”

  “Now?” Annie was unsure, not about going to see Charlotte Meany but about going with Lauren. Who wasn’t her mother no matter how much she reminded Annie of her mother. Who wasn’t anyone Annie knew at all. Who only hours ago had seemed very unstable.

  “Something tells me we’re better off not to give her any warning.”

  Annie didn’t say anything.

  “You aren’t thinking we should tell the police, are you? They never took this lead seriously before, why would they now?”

  “Let me tell Madeleine and Carol where we’re going.” Maybe it was stupid to go along with Lauren, but the lead she’d found was all Annie had.

  Cedar Cliff was northeast of Hardys Walk and small at less than half the size, and while the interstate bisected the heart of Hardys Walk, Cedar Cliff was miles from the highway, tucked into a pocket of the piney woods like a half-forgotten souvenir.

  “We could be in the middle of nowhere,” Annie said after they’d gone several miles in silence down a narrow, gravel-edged ranch road. Bare-branched trees overhead cast bony shadows that danced like throngs of skeletons on the pavement. The effect was eerie, isolating.

  Lauren said if Annie thought this was nowhere, she ought to see the farm.

  “You have a farm?” Annie asked.

  “My sister and I inherited it from our grandparents. It’s not far from here, actually, but talk about the boonies. It makes Cedar Cliff look like Houston. Well, not quite.” She smiled. “We’re trying to clear the place out now so we can sell it. It’s so remote, not much to do.” She paused, then added, “We’ll miss it. At least I will. Tara, too.”

  They drove another few miles before Annie mentioned Bo, that he might have gone to California to see his mother.

  Lauren glanced at Annie in consternation. “That’s so far. What makes you think he would attempt a trip like that?”

  Annie told Lauren what she’d found out, beginning with the phone message from Constance McMurray and her revelation that Bo’s mother was alive. “Even my own mother knew, and it’s hard for me to believe because I thought we told each other everything.”

  “She might have been trying to protect you and Bo.”

  “That’s what JT said, but having things out in the open, in the light of day—telling the truth, no matter how hard it is—” Annie broke off, picking at her thumbnail, feeling some combination of hurt and confusion along with the warmth of Lauren’s concern, her presence—that seemed so normal and ordinary. So motherly. “It’s what my mom preached,” Annie said, “but I guess it’s not what she lived by. She didn’t walk her talk.”

  Lauren didn’t respond for so long that Annie thought she wouldn’t, but then she said, “It’s easy to say the words, to say what you should or shouldn’t do, or the way you should be or not . . .”

  It sounded as if Lauren was speaking in more than generalities. “JT said they went back and forth.” Annie offered this in the face of her silence.

  “Well, it’s difficult when a parent is unstable, especially if drugs are involved.”

  Something sharp and raw in Lauren’s tone drew Annie’s glance, raised the rate of her pulse.

  The canned voice of the GPS announced the need for a left turn, and Lauren did as instructed even as she said, “Can this be right?”

  They bumped along a rutted single lane that was more serpentine path through a heavy mixed growth of oaks, towering pines, sweet gums, the occasional oak or redbud, and bright-berried yaupons. Annie was glad they weren’t in her old BMW.

  Lauren said, “Let’s hope Charlotte Meany isn’t waiting for us with a shotgun.”

  Annie’s laugh was strained. It was Texas after all, where folks had strong ideas about their right to bear arms, especially in the boonies. They’d shoot their gun at somebody for no more reason than the look in their eye. They’d shoot their gun to celebrate good news or just because they felt like it, and sometimes that thoughtless shooting killed somebody.

  The house came into view, a small white bungalow with a deep, columned porch across the front. It looked old but well maintained.

  “That’s the car I saw Bo getting into,” Lauren said. “I remember the license plate.”

  Annie looked at the carport, at the black Lincoln parked there. The specialty tag was adorned with a spray of bluebonnets, the Texas state flower. She traded a glance with Lauren, excitement and trepidation brimming in the air between them.

  It was her, the woman Lauren had seen. Annie knew it the instant Charlotte Meany opened the front door in answer to Lauren’s knock. Not because of the older woman’s white, white hair that was swept into the exact French twist Lauren had described nor even because of the blue-eyed dog that stood beside her, a tail-wagging but otherwise quiet companion. No. Annie knew this was the woman because of the sharp intake of Lauren’s breath.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, I think you certainly may,” Lauren said. “You’re Charlotte Meany, is that right?”

  The woman gave a tentative nod, as if she wasn’t sure of her identity, or maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted to own it. In fact, she looked bewildered, even a little frightened, but Annie only registered these details subliminally.

  “You know my brother, Bo Laughlin, don’t you.” Annie wasn’t asking. “You know he’s disappeared, that the police are looking for him.”

  “You aren’t friends of my daughter’s?” Charlotte looked from Annie to Lauren. “She didn’t send you?”

  Lauren said no. “We came to ask you about Bo.”

  “You’d better come in, then,” Charlotte Meany said, and she was grave, very grave, in a way that made Annie’s heart slide hard against her ribs.

  Charlotte opened the screen door.

  The dog stepped out.

  “Hey,” Lauren said, smiling down at him.

  “This is Blue Sky,” Charlotte said. “Sky for short. Go on, boy, it’s all right,” she told him, and they watched him go down the steps, out into the yard. Annie t
hought how she would like to follow him; she thought how much Bo would have liked him.

  She and Lauren followed Charlotte into a small front room that was cluttered with furniture: a silk-upholstered love seat was pushed against one wall, and an assortment of chairs was clustered around a low table of some vintage style Annie couldn’t name. But she thought the chairs were French. There were so many that she decided, as she picked her way among them, Charlotte must collect them. All of them were old; some had arms and some didn’t, but all were gracefully made, with turned legs and touches of gilt paint gone chippy with age. Most were cushioned in needlepoint bouquets of faded flowers. It wasn’t a look Annie would have for herself, but she could admire it. She sat gingerly on the edge of the love seat.

  “I was just going to make myself a cup of tea,” Charlotte said. “Would you like some?”

  “Where is my brother?” Annie said. “What have you done with him?”

  “What? Nothing. I’ve done nothing with him.” Charlotte looked alarmed; she darted a glance at Lauren.

  “I think a cup of tea would be lovely,” Lauren said soothingly, keeping her glance on Charlotte. “If it’s no trouble. It was a bit of a drive up here from Hardys Walk. I was just telling Annie on our way that my grandparents’ farm isn’t far.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte answered. “Whereabouts is it?”

  Annie understood what Lauren was doing, making small talk, but she longed to run through this house, to throw her glance against every wall, fling open every closet door.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” Charlotte left through an arched doorway that Annie assumed led to the kitchen. “Make yourselves at home,” she called over her shoulder.

  Lauren settled between the gilt arms of one of the small parlor chairs and looked meaningfully at Annie, commanding her attention, her silence. They could hear Charlotte moving around, the soft clink of cutlery and china, a brief shriek from the kettle before it was lifted from the burner. Now there was the gurgle of water as it was poured into a teapot.

  When Charlotte reappeared in the doorway, Lauren rose quickly to retrieve the tray she carried.

  “If you’ll just set it there.” Charlotte indicated the low table in front of Annie’s knees.

  Lauren did as she asked. “Would you like me to pour?”

  “No, dear. I can do it.” Charlotte settled into another of the gilt-armed chairs, one that was adjacent to Lauren’s. “I’m old, not helpless nor hapless. Not that you mean to imply that,” she added, cutting off Lauren’s protest.

  There was a suggestion of apology in Charlotte’s tone of voice, but Annie caught a bitter note, too, as if Charlotte had been regularly saddled with those very labels and had grown tired of it.

  “It’s almost too beautiful to touch.” Lauren was looking at the tray.

  Feasting her eyes, Annie thought. It was a beautiful presentation, laden with delicate cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and creamer, and what Annie thought was a pink Depression-glass plate arrayed with perhaps a dozen crisp-edged cookies. There were even cloth napkins, tiny embroidered squares edged in a fine webbing of lace.

  Lauren was clearly enchanted by the sight. From the look of her, she was as filled with delight as any child at a party, and in that moment, Annie, unreasonably, ridiculously, almost hated her.

  Charlotte thanked Lauren, and they went on like two old hens at a gabfest, talking about china, German, Bavarian, French, oohing and aahing over its artistry, and when they got around to discussing the beauty and intricacy of table linen, Lauren unfolded her napkin and examined it as if it were a freshly unearthed and exceedingly fragile treasure.

  “Have a cookie, dear.” Charlotte Meany held out the plate for Annie.

  “Where is my brother?” she asked, and this time, she minded her tone, keeping it soft.

  Lauren set down her cup. “I did see you with Bo last Friday, I believe,” she said gently to Charlotte. “Am I right? Wasn’t it you I saw driving the car he got into, the one parked under the carport outside?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes, briefly revealing lids that were shaded in pale lavender and as lined and translucent as worn tissue. She set down her cup with a sigh. “I know I should have called the police, but in my defense, I really don’t know anything helpful.”

  “My brother was in your car. You took him somewhere, and you didn’t think you should tell the police?” Panic made Annie sound disbelieving and harsh. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

  “Where did you take him?” Lauren asked, and by contrast, her tone was calm and deliberately kind, and Annie knew the reason why, yet it only further provoked her. An urge to scream at both women seared her brain, and she clenched her teeth against it.

  You can snare more bees with honey than you can with vinegar. Annie’s mother’s voice drifted through her brain.

  “We bought sandwiches and went to Hermann Park and had a picnic. Afterward, we walked Sky around and then went to the library.”

  “In Houston?”

  “Yes. As long as it’s not too hot or too cold, Sky doesn’t mind staying in the car. Bo loves going down there to that library. There are so many books, and he likes to count them. He likes to ride the elevator, too. Sometimes we find a quiet corner and read aloud to each other—poetry, mostly.”

  Annie listened to Charlotte in amazement. “He texted me he was there with you. He called you Ms. M.”

  “There aren’t many young folks who are as respectful as Bo,” Charlotte said.

  “Afterward, where did you go?” Lauren asked.

  “We came here. I brought him here.” Charlotte looked only at Lauren, almost as if the sight of Annie caused her pain, and she seemed afraid now, more than she had before. “It’s our usual routine. One Friday a month, I pick him up in Hardys Walk, at the little store. We go to the library afterward, usually there in Hardys Walk. Then we have lunch and come here.”

  “Really.” Lauren spoke conversationally, stirring her tea.

  “Bo loves Henry David Thoreau, but I imagine you know that.” Charlotte glanced now at Annie and away. “I love Thoreau, too. Bo can quote whole passages.”

  “You said you brought him here last Friday? And then what did you do?” Lauren lifted her cup as if there were all the time in the world to wait for Charlotte’s answer.

  When there wasn’t. When as far as Annie was concerned they were out of time. “How long have you known him? How long has this been going on, that you pick him up and take him places? Why do you? What is he to you?” The questions shot off her tongue, sounding like accusations, making Charlotte blink.

  Making her head wobble on her neck.

  On a level deeper than emotion, Annie knew she was wrong to attack Charlotte; she knew the old woman felt threatened and confused by her, and she regretted it, but there wasn’t time for regret, either. “Please, please, tell me what you know.”

  Charlotte poked at her hair, her fingers trembling over the cusp of her ear, then to the tortoiseshell comb that fastened her French twist. “We met at the library there in Hardys Walk a few months ago and got to talking. I asked him what he did for a living, and he said he didn’t do much, that he wanted to work, but not very many people would hire him. When I asked why, he said it was because they thought he was crazy, a—a psycho. That was the word he used. It broke my heart, that sweet boy—”

  “I can imagine,” Lauren said, and she sat easily with the ensuing pause.

  Somehow Annie managed to keep still, too, gripping her elbows in her opposite fists, thinking of people’s cruelty, how it hurt Bo, in ways most people couldn’t imagine and didn’t care about. Only Madeleine had ever taken a chance and offered him a real job.

  “I was so upset for him, and once I got home, all I could think about was how I could help him, and I decided I would ask him to work for me, doing little jobs, like weeding the flower gardens and such.�
�� Charlotte stopped; she fiddled with her napkin. “I understand how he feels. It isn’t the same, but when you get old, people haven’t any patience or compassion if you’re forgetful or if you get confused or repeat yourself. Even one’s own family . . .” She trailed off. “I’m sorry. What was I saying?”

  “That you brought Bo here last Friday,” Lauren reminded her softly.

  “I paid him.” Charlotte sounded almost defensive. “Ten dollars an hour. He was worth every penny, too. He’s a hard worker, a bit skittish maybe, but he always gets the job done, and he was regular. As regular as rain in April.”

  “What work did you have for him?”

  The look Lauren shot Annie belied her conversational tone. She was wound as tightly as Annie. She just wasn’t letting Charlotte see it.

  “He was going to replace a board on the porch that’s rotting. My daughter says I’m clumsy enough without—But you don’t want to hear about her.” Charlotte grimaced as if she didn’t want to hear about her daughter, either. “Anyway, last Friday, Bo was different. He was fine at first, at the library talking and laughing like always, but after he gathered all the tools and the lumber he needed to do the work, something changed. He couldn’t settle. He kept pacing. He kept saying he needed to go to the bus station, that he needed to get to California. He wanted me to take him. To the bus, I mean. He said his mother was ill and—”

  “Did you? Did you take him to the bus station?” Annie bent forward.

  “No, dear. That’s just the thing. I said I would. Of course, I wanted to help. I told him to wait by the car, I would get my keys, but when I went outside, he was gone. I called and called for him. I even walked to the end of the drive. It’s such a long way. Well, you know. You drove up here. I was so worn out, I nearly couldn’t make it back.”

  “You don’t know where he went?” Lauren asked.