by Lisa Alber
“Stumbling into my home dead drunk?” Danny retorted. “Mad, with children in the house. And here you are ossified once again.”
“I can explain.” Dermot sucked in his cheeks. His next words came in a cloud of beer breath. “I saw the newspaper last night. Your victim, the boy in the police sketch. I can identify him.”
NINETEEN
“SEE?” MERRIT SAID.
Detective Officer O’Neil perused her driver’s side door. In the States, vandalism like this didn’t rate a house call, so she was glad to see him pull out his mobile to snap some pictures. Afterwards, he pressed a few buttons and held his mobile up alongside the slag. On the tiny monitor, Merrit caught a glimpse of a shop window with limp dick arrayed in big, sloppy magenta letters. The same color paint, no doubt about it, and the same loopy letter l.
“I’m not the only one then,” she said.
“You sound relieved.”
“Maybe I am.” Merrit hadn’t realized how paranoid she’d become. “But this makes it even more weird, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure. No offense to you, but I wasn’t worried about your grievance, only now we’ve got Malcolm in the mix, and he’s a right local citizen—a right mouthy local citizen.”
“What? I don’t count?”
“Not entirely.” O’Neil smiled to lessen the sting.
He was a handsome guy. Like most Americans, Merrit was fussy about good teeth, which he had—but she suspected that he was highly aware of what he could get away with because of his looks.
He scraped paint into a little plastic bag. “Any idea what you could have in common with Malcolm?”
“You mean besides rubbing some mysterious person the wrong way?”
O’Neil grinned. “Ay, that wouldn’t be hard. Could be anyone. Wouldn’t take much—look at a person sideways like.”
Before Merrit could think of a witty comeback, O’Neil was on the move, trotting back to his car. “Twisted day. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” He paused beside his open door. “Where were you and Liam last night?”
“In the Thistle and Burr, matchmaking as usual. Why?”
“I assume you know by now that Brendan Nagel is missing.” She nodded. “Did you see him? Hear anything about him?”
“Sorry, no.”
With a wave, O’Neil accelerated away, leaving Merrit to ponder Seamus Nagel, who’d been so proud of his boy and ready for a wife. Unsettled, Merrit taped a large garbage bag over the graffiti to preserve it for a few more days.
Leaning against the car, she breathed in the moist scent of all things green. She imagined moss and peat on the breeze, and let the gentle touch of Ireland soothe her nerves. Beyond Liam’s plot of land, the hills rolled away from her, losing themselves in a peaceful mist like a faerie-tale place.
Her disquiet wasn’t just about Brendan’s disappearance, she realized. Even if O’Neil had been joking, she should have stuck up for herself. So why hadn’t she? She had as much right to protection against vandals as Malcolm did.
With a last look at the lovely land, she walked to Liam’s car for the return drive to the plaza and the festival.
TWENTY
ALAN SAT IN THE vet’s waiting area. Owners of arthritic retrievers and yowling cats came and went according to their regularly scheduled appointments. For some reason, Gemma’s presence calmed Alan even though the fact of it—her, here, with him, alone—still struck him as odd. Not because he took issue with her presence but because of the way Dermot had foisted her off on him earlier that morning. He hadn’t expected to see Dermot in the pub again so soon. He’d arrived at opening with Gemma in tow and a look of pained resolution on his face.
Straight away, Dermot had started sucking down a breakfast pint. With bloodshot blinks aimed at a row of whiskey optics opposite his barstool, he’d announced his intention to see to some personal business later in the morning, and asked Alan whether he minded Gemma’s presence for a few hours. When Alan mentioned going to the vet, Dermot said, “Brilliant. Take her along. Gemma, you want to go, right?”
Gemma signed something, and it was obvious from her expression that she questioned his “personal business” and why she was excluded. He’d brushed her off with a universal enough flick of his fingers.
Now, Alan watched this strange woman’s hand stroke over Bijou’s gargoyle face, kneading the folds of skin with her thin and expressive fingers. A prick of jealousy surprised him at the sight of her hands smoothing themselves over Bijou’s fur. He imagined they communicated a secret sign language he didn’t know how to translate. He didn’t want to go there, but he felt the first stirrings of the watchfulness that he’d sunk into with Camille back in France. Yet another pathetic tale of unrequited love, but with a twist, and oh what a twist that had been—as swift and painful as the kick to the ribs that had landed on his dog.
He grimaced, and Gemma, who’d just glanced up at him, ducked her head. A blush seeped into her cheeks, and she dragged fingers through her hair. When she let go, the curls popped right back into place. Camille, on the other hand, had worn her hair short, in a modish pixie cut, and her hands had been almost masculine in their sturdiness. She’d brush at her hair with a smile that issued a dare: Come get me. Later, Camille’s raking hand had communicated her contempt for him and his romantic notions. “What did you think?” she’d said. “That we’d get married and live happily ever after?”
Since then, he hadn’t let himself fall into the love trap again. He didn’t like himself when he fell in love, not that it mattered in this case. Gemma was too traumatized and too vulnerable. It felt sleazy somehow. He felt sleazy.
“Bijou needs the loo,” he said. “Back in a minute.”
Outside, Alan inhaled a breeze laden with the coming winter, a chill just this side of the shivers, a hint of decaying leaves and sheep wool. Low-slung clouds drifted under a grey globe of a sky. For the first time in days, he could see the horizon blending its greenish haze into the sky.
Behind him, the door opened. Bijou rose from her pee crouch and wagged her tail. He turned to see Gemma beckoning Bijou toward her. Bijou understood a dozen hand signals. On the ride over, Gemma had grown animated when he’d mentioned what he called doggy sign language, or DSL. While she practiced, she’d even smiled enough to show a dimple. Alan had caught his breath at this, his first sighting of her with self-consciousness all but forgotten. Her contented shine brought out the caramel hues in her skin and eyes.
Gemma signaled come, and Bijou approached without hesitation.
“Some loyalty.” Alan caught Gemma’s quick smile as she turned away. “And you hear too well, by the way,” he said.
She signalled something back at him before pointing toward the reception desk, where the tech assistant, Lizzie, stood.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “We had a no-show but all you’ve got is me today. Dr. Evans is that swamped. Let’s see you in then, Mr. Bressard.” She peered down at Bijou. “Poor dear. Been in an accident, has she?”
“If you call a brush up against a man’s boot an accident.”
“People. Like to make me weep sometimes.”
They entered a room with a sliding door at the far end. The place was as airy and cavernous as an indoor riding ring, and in its center sat an enormous x-ray contraption. The stainless steel table stood in its vertical position, ready for a horse to be shackled to it. Lizzie pushed a button and the slab shifted into a tabletop position with a well-oiled whirr of hydraulic cogs.
Lizzie gestured beyond Alan, puzzled. “Your friend?”
Friend? Not quite, but Alan returned to the hallway where Gemma hovered, looking sheepish as she stuffed a piece of paper into her pocket. She stood before a bulletin board filled with community notices and flushed so scarlet that Alan decided not to comment.
“You want to watch?” he said.
Gemma waited for him to enter ahead of her. Once inside the room, she positioned herself against the wall next to the door, staring aro
und the room with evident fascination.
With Lizzie’s help, Alan lifted Bijou onto the table. Lizzie strapped Bijou down and maneuvered the x-ray apparatus into position, then shooed them into a glass cubicle. She fiddled with a few knobs, made adjustments, and then pressed a button. A pristine image appeared on the computer monitor.
“Wow,” Alan said. “High-tech.”
“Gotta be. Racehorse owners are picky that way, and they’re the backbone of our business. We’re the only facility like this for three counties.”
“Ay, my local vet said as much.”
Alan noticed Gemma shining again as she gazed at the machinery and monitors, but he refrained from addressing her for fear that she’d retreat.
Lizzie pointed out hairline fractures in two of Bijou’s ribs. “Not much different from cracked ribs on humans,” she said, “and the patient care is the same: don’t overexert, get lots of rest, and alleviate the inflammation. Also, I’ll have Dr. Evans sign over a prescription for painkillers.” Back in the x-ray room, she lowered her face into Bijou’s. “Stoic thing, but you’ll feel better soon.”
They began the hour-long drive back to Lisfenora with Bijou relaxed under the influence of a pain pill. Alan drove without speaking, aware that Gemma had bestowed on him the rare gift of sitting in front with him rather than in the back with Bijou.
TWENTY-ONE
DANNY HELD HIS BREATH against Dermot’s alcoholic stink and led him into the St. Patrick shrine. St. Patrick gazed down at them with kindliness that didn’t inspire Danny to a higher road. He surveyed the central nave, where several groups of tourists stared above the altar at Jesus on the cross. Here and there vigil candles flared in the shadowy, whispery space, highlighting the profiles of penitents praying to their favorite saints within other shrines. The officious Mrs. O’Brien, local matriarch, paused on her way to the front of the church to glare at Danny as if he were to blame for Dermot’s unseemly sniffling and groaning.
A clanking noise brought Danny’s attention back to Dermot. Dermot stood against the far side of the shrine with hand braced against the wall, dropping coins into a wooden box that hung below a sign that read, PLEASE PLACE ALL CANDLE OFFERINGS IN THE SLOT BELOW.
“How many candles do you think you need?”
“All of them and then some.”
Danny escorted Dermot toward the collection of candles that stood in tiered rows in front of dear old St. Patrick in his green robe, with four-leaf clovers and a dying snake at his feet. Dermot lit his first candle. The flame glowed within red votive glass.
“You have information about Lost Boy?” Danny said.
“Toby. That’s his name. Toby Grealy.”
Danny picked up a lit votive and turned it this way and that, watching the flame, letting Lost Boy’s name settle. Toby Grealy. His relief was so palpable it had a taste, sweet and sour at the same time. “And you know his name how?”
“I meant to fetch Toby back to my aunt before he got into trouble. He’s my cousin.” Dermot lit a second candle from the flame of the first. “I don’t understand. How could he have died? How did he die?”
Danny refused to get into the details of Toby’s death until Dermot sobered up. “We’re looking at it as a suspicious death.”
“Suspicious?” Dermot’s hand trembled as he continued lighting candles. “If only—”
“If only what?” Danny said.
“It’s Gemma. She needs help and protection. I’ve let her down.”
Danny leaned in to catch his mumbles.
“Look at me, I’m bloody pathetic. I’ve become a man I don’t know anymore.” Dermot turned to Danny, wobbling a little, and Danny felt the pent-up tension in the hands that clutched at his upper arms, trying to shake him but too drunk to move anything but Danny’s sympathy. “You’ve got to understand.”
“Does any of this have to do with the search for your mother’s murderer?”
“You know about that?”
“Let’s say that people inform me when someone accuses our matchmaker of getting someone killed.”
Dermot’s voice descended into a drunken series of slipping vowels and sliding consonants. “That was my frustration talking. Was just, I don’t know, trying to retrace Toby’s steps to McIlvoy. Liam was supposed to know something. I was sure of it. Sure that Toby would have talked to him first thing, but it seems he didn’t visit Liam at all.”
“And who is McIlvoy?”
“John McIlvoy. Her killer, of course. Toby said he’d all but found him.”
Ah, Danny thought, this explains the mobile conversation Brendan had overheard. Perhaps Toby had found him, after all.
Dermot kicked at nothing. He was starting to cave again, his burst of tension engulfed by grief and perhaps guilt. Danny understood both. When it came to family there was plenty of both to go around.
Dermot waved a hand, almost slapping Danny in the process. “Toby didn’t need to be mucking about in our family’s past. If only he’d talked to me before he left. Anyhow, my aunt was hysterical that he’d actually find that McIlvoy, so I came to fetch him away. Gemma wasn’t supposed to be here. That was the kicker—Gemma is always the kicker—”
Dermot wobbled again. He tried to catch himself with a hand on Danny’s shoulder but missed and landed on the stone floor with a thud and a groan.
“Bloody hell,” Danny said. “That’ll be it for today.”
He beckoned one of the volunteers who worked as docents during the festival. A few minutes later she returned with Fitz. A small crowd gathered around their hushed conference. Fitz agreed to let Dermot sleep off the pints on his couch.
“It’s all right,” Fitz said to the gawkers. “One of our own in the depths of grief.”
Dermot roused with a rough shake.
Danny threw one of Dermot’s arms around his shoulders, and on an exhale, stood with Dermot hanging off him. He’d be in a proper sorry state tomorrow. With Fitz’s help, they retreated from St. Patrick’s commiserating gaze and the lit vigil candles, four up and three across in a letter T for Toby.
“I need to be strong for Gemma—always,” Dermot mumbled. “I’m so bloody tired.”
“Lucky you, time for sleep,” Danny said. “We need you sober so you can make a statement.”
“Mmm, no.” Dermot’s head weaved in a figure eight. “Gemma doesn’t know Toby’s gone. She doesn’t know I came to fetch him back. She can’t know until she’s ready. A bit complicated, I hope you understand. I’m supposed to protect her …”
His words trailed off as he slumped against Danny.
Danny didn’t understand a thing, least of all why Dermot would keep Toby’s presence in Lisfenora a secret from Gemma.
At least he knew Lost Boy’s name now. Toby Grealy, far from home, seeking an alleged murderer for some reason. Danny pictured the boy’s deep blue gaze, a gaze already lost to the beyond. He’d tried to communicate his last message with a host of sparrows chorusing above them. Benjy had called them harbingers of death. Perhaps they’d accompanied Toby Grealy on his last journey. Or maybe they were Grey Man’s minions.
With Dermot sleeping it off inside Fitz’s flat, Danny said his goodbyes to Fitz and stepped outside. A grey flutter froze him in mid-step. A sparrow perched on a dangling birdfeeder, its keen black gaze aimed at Danny. It found its song in a fluting chirrup and then went silent.
“Did Toby find a murderer?” Danny asked.
The bird twittered a high-pitched tsip-tsip-tsip and flew away. Danny took that as a yes.
TWENTY-TWO
TALL HEDGEROWS HELD THE mists within their branches. They towered over the drystone walls and scraped the side of Alan’s car. He rolled down the window to catch the stir of wind speaking through the leaves. The scent of murky, mossy green stuff reminded him of autumn in the south of France. Not just any autumn, but the autumn he turned sixteen and fell into an aching, tortured love with his father’s hothouse employee. Sexy Camille with her worker’s hands and practical haircut. World
ly Camille who called him a pretty little schoolboy before seducing him.
Earlier that year, his mother had moved back to her hometown in County Kilkenny, taking Alan’s two younger sisters with her. He’d had no sense of women, of their needs that were too complex for naïve Alan. His mother would have noticed his lovestruck idiocy, would have steered him down a safer path.
Instead, he took to watching Camille from afar when he was supposed to be studying. He’d follow her on his bicycle while she ran errands, as if the act of observing her would allow him to possess her heart. His obsession led him to wear a path through a wall of lavender bushes, back aching, knees muddied, so that he could spy on her in the hothouse.
The hothouse on one particular misted morning had glowed with beckoning warmth. He’d sniffed at the mess of dirt and dew surrounding him and imagined the sweetness that infused the hothouse. The orchids, yes; the begonias, yes; but also intoxicating Camille, who tended the blooms with a tenderness that she never showed him.
Today at the vet, Gemma’s hands stroking Bijou’s ears had reminded him of those moments of longing.
Alan pulled his car onto an embankment. He slid out and inhaled deep, hoping to rid himself of France and the feeling that he was once again stepping into emotional quicksand. This scent was pure Ireland, a land of softer loam and greener greens. Not like France at all, he told himself. But the memories didn’t banish themselves as easily as all that. In fact, they were brighter than reality as Alan continued toward Danny’s house on foot.
He’d dropped Gemma off after the vet appointment, and without thinking about it had turned his car right back around a mile later. Self-loathing was beside the point.
If memory lent the scent of that long-ago pre-dawn the pungency of his undoing, then it also lent Camille a breathtaking beauty. She was all the adolescent clichés: ripe, full-breasted, and flushed, whistling to herself and every once in a while tousling back her hair with dirt-encrusted fingers. He’d known the heady stink of her after the hothouse: fresh dirt and green tea soap and garden chemicals.
