Once Upon a Lie by Maggie Barbieri Page A

notebook. “Sean Donovan was your first cousin?”
    “My mother and his father were siblings.”
    “Were you close?”
    At one time, yes, she thought. “No.” She leaned on the countertop. “Is it customary to question family members in a murder investigation?”
    “Depends on the murder investigation,” he said.
    They stared at each other for a few seconds before Maeve reached onto the rack behind her and selected a red velvet cupcake for him. He looked more tired, more spent, than anyone she had ever seen. Behind his brown eyes was something that she could almost put her finger on, almost place, but it eluded her. It wasn’t exactly sadness, but it was close. “Here. You look like you could use a sugar injection. And I’d be happy to pour you fifty cents’ worth of coffee, if you’re interested.”
    “If you pour me a whole cup, I’ll give you the other fifty cents.”
    She pretended to consider that for a moment. “You know what? You seem nice. I think I’ll stake you to a whole cup. It’s on me.” She paused at the door. “Milk? No sugar?”
    “That’s it,” he said, seemingly surprised that she had guessed correctly.
    She left the kitchen and went into the store, gathering her thoughts as she pulled the lever on the coffeepot. Granted, she didn’t know how most murder investigations went, but she had watched enough detective shows on television to know that they didn’t question people without cause. She also knew, and was always surprised, that the people they questioned seemed put out by the intrusion of one or two detectives. She decided that she would play against type and make him comfortable. Unless he was there to find out exactly what went into her oatmeal cookies, there had to be a reason he had driven all the way to Farringville, a good half hour to forty-five minutes from the city, no traffic.
    She snapped a lid onto the coffee cup and took a deep breath before returning to the kitchen. She handed the cup to the detective. “I’m not sure, but I think this may be a dollar twenty-five’s worth.”
    “You’re very generous,” he said, taking the lid off before taking a small sip. Maeve noted that the cupcake was gone, a crumb-filled wrapper all that was left. “Your father and his brother-in-law. Any bad blood?” he asked.
    “We’re Irish, Detective. Define ‘bad blood.’” She crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it into the can behind her; she pushed another cupcake in his direction. “If you mean garden-variety grudge holding, then yes. If you mean something more serious, then, no.”
    She wasn’t sure what he was writing in his notebook, but she didn’t think it was her definition of “bad blood.”
    “And your cousin? Your relationship with him? Your father’s?”
    That was trickier, and she gave herself a few seconds to think. Any longer than that and it would appear that she was trying too hard to put her feelings into words that wouldn’t incriminate her. “Pleasant.”
    He flipped back through his notes. “He was”—flip, flip, flip—“six years older than you?”
    She felt that a studied nonchalance was her best posture in this situation. “I guess that’s right. It’s hard to remember. I have a lot of cousins.” She traced a pattern on the countertop. “Boom, boom, boom. One right after another. I think there are twenty-six of us altogether.”
    “Twenty-seven,” he said, looking down at his notebook. He realized why she had come up with the count. “Right. Twenty-six with the passing of Sean.” He went back to the notebook, not looking at her. “And you?”
    “Only child.”
    He let that go. “Your father. He lives in an assisted-living facility close by?”
    She nodded.
    “Still drives?”
    She laughed. The thought of Jack behind the wheel, not sure of where he was going or how he would get there, would be almost comical to think about if it weren’t so sad. The most tragic day of Jack’s life—a close second to the day his beloved