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Jo.
    Unless he felt he had to.

 
    CHAPTER 8
    The pots done, Maeve and Jo went into the front of the store to finish closing. Jo took out the day’s newspapers and put them in the recycling bin by the back door and Maeve locked the front door. Jo found Maeve in the front of the store wiping down the counters, even though Jo professed to have done it earlier.
    Jo picked up the ringing store phone. “The Comfort Zone,” she said. She handed it to Maeve. “Chris Larsson,” she said.
    “Chris, hi,” Maeve said, handing Jo the paper towels and glass cleaner she had been using and pointing animatedly to the front of the cake case where some kid had generously left the perfect imprint of a small, dirty hand for them.
    “Maeve, I just wanted to let you know that Sebastian DuClos has an alibi for the day you were assaulted.”
    She waited, interested to hear what his alibi might be.
    “An AA meeting. He has thirty witnesses to say that he was there.”
    “Convenient,” Maeve said. “Aren’t they all supposed to remain anonymous?”
    “The leader did come forward and vouch for Mr. DuClos,” Chris said. “I probably shouldn’t have told you but your number-one suspect has fallen off the list.”
    “Then look for some kid named Billy,” she said.
    “Billy?” he asked. “Billy what?”
    “Billy, I have no idea,” she said. “He’s DuClos’s assistant or associate or something like that.”
    “Okay.”
    “I forgot about him the other day. But I guess garlic can transfer from one person to another, right?”
    “Now I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Okay. Billy. Billy who works for DuClos.”
    “You aren’t buying that.”
    “I just don’t know why your landlord or one of his associates might break into your store, hit you, and leave with nothing, but if it helps, I’ll track down this Billy kid.”
    She hung up the phone, stripped off her apron, and hung it by the kitchen door. “I have to go do some work at Dad’s apartment and then I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Six thirty?” she asked.
    “Yep,” Jo said. “I’ll lock up.”
    In the kitchen, Heather was standing by the sink, her hands on her hips. “Hey!” Maeve said. “To what do I owe this honor?” For a brief moment, she thought that maybe Heather had escaped from the dark thoughts that seemed to feed her perpetual consternation and had decided to help Maeve clean out Jack’s apartment. Heather had never remarked on the fact that Maeve hadn’t come out of her room for an entire day and Maeve hoped the girl had chalked that up to her mother’s grief; she couldn’t bear to think that Heather would ignore her otherwise. She processed all of this while she wondered why Heather was holding a long-handled spoon in her hand and staring into space.
    She seemed as surprised to see her mother as Maeve was to see her. “Hi. Where are you going?”
    “Grandpa’s,” Maeve said, looking on her desk for her car key. “Do you want to come? And what’s with the spoon?”
    “It was on the floor,” Heather said. “I was just putting it in the sink.”
    “Do you want a ride home?” Maeve asked. “And why are you here again?” she asked, remembering that she had never gotten an answer.
    “I need eighty dollars,” she said. “To pay for my yearbook.”
    Maeve looked at the clock. “Can it wait until I get home tonight?” she asked. “And are yearbooks really eighty dollars?”
    “It’s fine if you don’t want to give me the money,” Heather said, walking toward the door.
    Here we go. Let the games begin. “I’ll give it to you tonight,” Maeve said, punching in the alarm numbers before closing the back door and walking into the back parking lot.
    By the time she got to her car, Heather was ahead of her, starting for home.
    “Could I get even one day, a bereavement day, really, to grieve my father’s death?” she called after Heather, whose ubiquitous