Lies That Bind by Maggie Barbieri

laughing.
    “It’s someone’s finger, Detective Larsson,” Jo said, put out. “Is this really a good time for your comedic stylings?”
    He grew somber, chagrined. “That’s a good point, Jo.” He inserted the baggie into an evidence bag and went through the kitchen again, looking for other body parts or any kind of evidence that might help him figure out who the finger might belong to. “So, be on the lookout for any customers who are missing a pinkie,” he said, examining the digit in the bag more closely.
    “Please, Chris, I’m begging you,” Maeve said. “Please, please keep this out of The Day Timer and the police blotter.” So far, he had done that with the break-in and the assault; she was hoping he could keep up his good track record.
    He looked down at her, the big, handsome Swedish guy with the gallows humor, and smiled, understanding her concern. The guy whose nose looked like it had been broken more than once, bringing to mind Jack’s friend Jimmy Moriarty and his own damaged proboscis, and the kind blue eyes that belied what he did for a living. He had a face that looked like it belonged behind an old-time butcher counter in the Bronx, with the giant hands to match, not of a small-town cop who probably had to look stern more than he was comfortable doing. The smile that broke out on his face every time he saw Maeve couldn’t just be related to her, she thought, but it did make her wonder.
    Jimmy Moriarty coming to mind, Maeve made a mental note to track him down, see what he knew, if anything, about Evelyn. If Jack hadn’t told her anything, why would she think he’d tell Jimmy? Worth a shot, though. Those old cops really stuck together. “Blue wall of silence” and all.
    “The last thing I need is for The Comfort Zone to become a place where dismembered body parts go to hide,” Maeve went on. “And owners get assaulted. If this ends up in the blotter, I’m dead,” she said. “And if the Health Department gets wind of it, well, it would be over for sure.” Her planned two-week closure for the holidays would be more like a six-month hiatus, and that would be a very bad thing.
    “Dead,” Jo repeated solemnly. “Over.”
    “Maeve, I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, before heading toward the back door. “If I had to go somewhere else for my muffin, I’d be very sad.”
    “Does this have something to do with the break-in?” Maeve asked.
    Chris shrugged. “You’ve got to give me time to investigate further.”
    “Can I stay here and bake?” she asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Jo, her hands together in prayer, beseeching Chris to close them down.
    He leaned out the back door and consulted with some of the guys he had brought along. “We’ve got everything we need,” he said. “It’s not like we do DNA sampling at the station or even do fingerprinting. We’re Farringville, Maeve. It’s usually small-town stuff,” he said. “I think McCloskey out there is aroused at the thought of what we may get to do in relation to this. Cop-wise, that is.”
    “TMI, Chris,” Maeve said. She knew that the sight of that finger, long and with the nail bitten to the quick, would stay with her for a long time. As would the question of to whom it might belong.
    “Sorry,” Larsson said, lingering for a moment. He had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, making jokes when they weren’t required. Still, Maeve found that a little endearing.
    Jo shuddered as she left the kitchen, returning to the safety of the front of the store, which Chris had deemed devoid of any additional body parts. Maeve could hear her talking to herself while she cleaned up, muttering about her job, fingers, Ziploc baggies that held things they shouldn’t.
    “Thanks for coming so quickly, Chris,” Maeve said. She handed him a blueberry muffin from a tin on the counter. “These were made pre-finger discovery, so it’s up to you as to whether or not to eat it.”
    “Listen, I know