by Lisa Alber
“That’s a helpful fact,” Danny said, “but I need you to quit meddling in Dermot and Gemma’s affairs.”
“Why?” Merrit said. “They came to us—or rather to Liam.”
“How about because their affairs are Garda business, not yours.” Danny addressed Liam. “Do you remember buying Merrit’s necklace from McIlvoy? Any insights into the man would be welcome at this point.”
Something else was going on related to McIlvoy, Merrit realized, something that had Danny jumpy. She could see it in the way his gaze kept twitching toward a bird that flew back and forth under the eave.
“I remember the man well enough,” Liam said, “but I have no idea what he was called or what became of him. He lived out of his van like a bloody traveller. We’re sure he’s the same man who married Siobhan McNamara?”
“According to Gemma, yes,” Merrit said.
Liam ruminated aloud about the jewelry maker who appeared each year for the festival, with his long hair and paisley shirts. This was the 1970s, after all.
“How old would he be now?” Danny said.
“Late fifties?”
“And twenty years later, when Gemma’s mom arrived for the festival he was still living out of his van? That’s a long time to be on the road.”
“I don’t have a clear memory of him after the early 1970s. The further back in time, the clearer my vision.”
“I can ask Gemma if she remembers a van,” Merrit said.
Danny leaned forward, his voice unequivocal and stern. “You need to stop. Right now.”
“Oh, is that right?” Merrit clenched her hands together on her lap. “I’ve taken an interest in Gemma, and I mean to help her. There’s something about her, struggling with her anxieties the way she does. Anyhow, it’s something I can do.”
She didn’t need to remind him about her panic attacks. Comprehension flickered before he looked out the window again. “My mom used to say that bad luck came like the Morrigan triple goddess—in threes. True to the old ways or not, I don’t know, but she also used to say the Morrigan was a purveyor of death, and once she took root there’d be more to come.”
He shifted forward to the edge of his chair, close enough that Merrit smelled mint on his breath. “Back to the graffiti. I didn’t come over to talk to you about the McNamaras. Something’s still undone, and that something could pertain to the graffiti on your car. So far, three public declarations, and so far, two people confirmed dead. I need to know what you might have to do with these events.”
Danny’s grim certainty settled over Merrit like a caul that she pictured enshrouding the Morrigan, or Grey Man, or both together, the best of friends spreading death in their wakes.
“If Gemma hadn’t ripped off my necklace, I wouldn’t know anything except through the newspaper and gossip like everyone else.”
“Still, there’s no ignoring the graffiti pattern. Malcolm’s shop, where Brendan worked. A grass field, where the victims died. And before everything, your car. The only thing that comes to mind is that you work with Liam, whom Dermot accused of killing his mother.”
“That seems a bit hazy.”
“Indeed.” His unsettled gaze followed another bird in flight. He stood, checking his watch. “Do me a favor and stick to matchmaking.”
His abrupt leave-taking left Merrit so deflated that she longed to join Gemma on the dog pillow. The pub’s chatter and clink pressed at her from all sides. In her corner, Gemma’s usual stillness showed signs of wear. She twitched about on the pillow, causing Bijou to sit up.
“Would you mind if I took a couple hours off right now?” Merrit said.
“I keep telling you I’m fine.” Liam gazed out the window at Danny’s disappearing form. “The boyo’s perturbed. You mark him, Merrit—whatever he’s sensing is close by. Take care with yourself.”
“I will.”
“And I’ll not forget you never explained what’s troubling you.”
“I’ll figure it out.” She squeezed his hand goodbye and approached Gemma. “Want to come along on another errand? I’ve got some questions about paint.”
THIRTY-TWO
MALCOLM’S NEW SHOP GIRL blinked back and forth between Danny and O’Neil. She wore a dozen sparkly clips in her hair and a confused expression. Merrit had looked much the same by the time Danny had left the pub. If scaring her kept her from meddling further, all the better. He couldn’t outstep his uneasiness even as he’d gathered up O’Neil and headed to Malcolm’s shop to follow up on Merrit’s helpful fact about Firebird Designs. Every bird flutter brought Toby Grealy back to mind, blinking up at him, pleading with him to see the connections. But which connections?
“Never mind,” he said to the hapless girl. “We can find our way upstairs on our own.”
“But Malcolm’s after telling me that I’m not allowed to let anyone up to his flat,” she said. “That’s a way to get me arse canned.”
“Ah, but then we’re the guards,” O’Neil said. “You can’t be expecting us to obey Malcolm’s rules.”
The girl wavered, then shrugged. “Right then. Good luck to you.”
Danny led the way to the back of the shop, where Waterford crystal gleamed within glass cases. “You’re so full of shite your skin’ll turn brown.”
“Aw, now, don’t be jealous because I’ve got a way with the lassies.”
In the back corner of the shop a door opened onto a corridor with a rear exit and a staircase at the opposite end. Danny led O’Neil along a Turkish runner in bright greens and yellows. Shop sounds faded, allowing them to hear footsteps creaking overhead. A door opened and murmuring voices approached.
“And now,” Malcolm said, “we have nothing but equality between us. We all know this makes for a fit and lasting friendship.”
Whoever he spoke to responded and two sets of feet descended the stairs. Malcolm appeared first. Seamus stepped down behind him.
“Danny!” Malcolm said. “Today’s the day for guests, I must say. Before I know it my new girl will be letting anyone through unannounced. I train them with care, you know, and these young pups never fail to take advantage of my good nature.”
Seamus clenched his jaw in response to Malcolm’s remark. In the last twenty-four hours Seamus had aged a decade. Deep creases divided his forehead and punctuated his mouth. He hadn’t shaved and a sickly yellow film coated his skin. By comparison, Malcolm looked like he’d emerged from a germ-free bubble, bright-eyed and wrinkle-free.
Danny addressed Seamus. “Can you excuse Malcolm and us?”
Seamus steadied himself and pushed through them without acknowledging Danny or saying goodbye to Malcolm. He stank of mildew, like damp clothes left in the washer for days.
“Odd,” O’Neil said. “Him with no questions about our progress.”
“He can hardly walk, much less talk,” Malcolm said.
“What was that you were saying about equality?” Danny said.
“My goodness, pub politics. He seems to think I’m out to usurp his place as lead crow. Why that should be important at this juncture, I don’t know.” Malcolm clapped his hands together in an isn’t this fun? fashion. “Now how can I help you today? Jewelry for your wife, perhaps?”
“Let’s sit down. Easier for O’Neil here to take notes.”
Without word, Malcolm led the way up to a cozy flat. They entered in the kitchen area with scrubbed hardwood floors and ceramic spice containers lining shelves above the sink. Beyond, the living and bedroom areas overlooked Lisfenora’s main street.
“Nice place,” Danny said.
Malcolm aimed his smile around the flat. With the finesse of a magician demonstrating that his disappearing box was indeed solid, no tricks here, he swung open a second door to display a room crowded with storage shelves, file cabinets, and pristine work counters. “The inner sanctum, where I keep the expensive inventory. The Waterford, the Lenox, the jewelry.” He picked up an etched crystal champagne flute and sighed. “Everyone should surround themselves with
beauty.”
O’Neil motioned Malcolm to be seated.
“I hope you have news on the vandal who defiled my window?” Malcolm directed his question to Danny as he locked up the room behind them.
“Not yet. We have many questions about Friday night, believe me, and we’re hoping you can help us with anything you observed.”
Malcolm pinched at the crease in his dress pants. “About that boy, you mean? It’s amazing how much I manage to retain despite being run ragged by my employees and the general public. He had the most grubby fingernails, for example.” He shuddered. “Encrusted and black.”
O’Neil coughed into his hand. His cough sounded like a smirk.
“No,” Danny said, “this would be this past Friday night or early Saturday morning when Brendan disappeared. Your front windows overlook the street. Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“No, I can’t say that I did. I last saw him at the shop, as I mentioned before. I went to bed early. Weekends are still the workweek for me. If I take a weekend at all, it’s on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but never mind this month. September is never ending, isn’t it? I don’t know how I get through sometimes. I have to eat extra to keep the weight on.” He skimmed his hand down his flat stomach, ending in a happy pat. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help with Brendan. Seamus is inconsolable—”
“So you’re on good terms with him,” Danny said.
Malcolm paused in the midst of picking a minute particle from his jacket. “Were we ever on bad terms?”
“The business about pub politics. You did accuse him of the graffiti on your windows. Plus, your issues with Brendan.”
“By Christ, I’m not about to hold a man’s lazy son against him at a time like this. Time to turn the cheek and offer support. I don’t mind saying that I know how to relegate the past to the past. Start fresh with each day is what I say.”
“Magnanimous of you, I’m sure,” O’Neil said.
With a final particle flick, Malcolm announced that he might like tea, after all. Danny let him natter on about the annual fundraising auction that occurred each September during the festival. Malcolm rather thought his donation of several Aran wool scarves would fetch nice prices. Mrs. O’Brien, self-proclaimed village matriarch and auction organizer, had come to him personally to welcome him to her committee. For a woman with highly attuned organizational skills, Malcolm concluded, she was sadly in need of his guidance.
He sat down with a cup of tea for himself. “You’ll see,” he said, “the auction will fetch more money than ever this year. I haven’t seen your wife at the meetings for weeks now, and I would hate to see her lose her standing in the community. I hope she’s doing well?”
“As you might expect,” Danny said.
“Back to Friday night,” O’Neil said. “What time did you go to bed?”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Danny over a sip of tea. Danny raised his eyebrows right back. Malcolm set the teacup in his saucer and stirred in about three granules of sugar, taking his time. He nodded satisfaction after the second sip.
“Answer the question,” Danny said.
“Friday night, that’s easy enough to remember. I repaired Merrit Chase’s necklace before bed,” he said. “It needed a new clasp. So, let’s say ten. Like I said, I didn’t hear a peep.”
Danny had been waiting for a chance to introduce his true topic of interest. He grabbed it while he could. “Merrit’s necklace is a Firebird Design, correct?”
Malcolm nodded. “No surprise. It’s my best line. I hope to expand it, you know. It deserves a wider audience. It always has, but sometimes the timing isn’t right.”
Danny asked Malcolm whether the name Toby Grealy rang any bells with him.
“Toby. Grealy.” Malcolm shook his head, looking bemused. “Can’t say that I’ve heard that name before.”
“And John McIlvoy?”
“Of course. Whatever could he—”
“Did you know him when he was married to a Siobhan McNamara of Dublin?”
“Our current business relationship began when he moved back to Ireland. He’d been living on the Continent. As far as I’m concerned, anything about him from before then doesn’t exist. I couldn’t care less.”
“Lucrative business relationship then,” O’Neil said.
Malcolm sipped his tea.
“When did he move back?” Danny said.
“1996? Yes, around then.”
“And how did you meet?”
Malcolm sighed and set his teacup aside. “What is this all about, good Danny?”
“We would like to speak to John McIlvoy. Routine questions. His name came up in conjunction with our investigation. Since you sell his work, you must have his contact information. We’ve been unable to find any records for him or even a phone number.”
“That’s because he’s one of those off-grid types.”
“Then an address will be fine.”
Malcolm raised his shoulders and arms in an elaborate shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The return address on his shipments lists a post office box, which is where I send his checks.”
“I’d like his post office box address then.”
“The problem with that,” Malcolm said without a hint of apology, “is that of course I’ll pass on your request to talk to him, and he’ll react as you’d expect. He’ll close the postal box.”
“So don’t let him know,” O’Neil said.
Malcolm continued speaking to Danny as if O’Neil didn’t exist. “I don’t know why you need his address anyhow. You can contact him through his website.”
“Not all the way off-grid, is he?” Danny said.
“Alas, even hermits need a website if they hope to sell their products.” Malcolm fetched his laptop off a side table. “Here, let me show you. I helped him design it, if you must know. Simple but effective, I think.”
The Firebird Designs site appeared on the screen. Close-up shots of his jewelry took up most of the page space. Malcolm clicked a button and the view changed to a contact page. “See? Maybe if you catch him on a good day, he’ll agree to meet you somewhere.”
He laughed, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe this for a second.
“We’ll email him. Meanwhile, we’d still like his post office address.”
Malcolm made a production of navigating to a file and jotting down the address on a slip of paper.
“Don’t alert McIlvoy that we have the address,” Danny said.
Malcolm nodded as he buttoned his suit jacket. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best check on my new girl. How odd that I miss that little plonker Brendan. At least he knew how to handle the register.”
Malcolm opened the door and bowed them out with a sweeping hand gesture. Danny let O’Neil exit ahead of him so that Malcolm wouldn’t catch O’Neil’s mocking eye roll.
“The man’s so shiny everything bounces off him,” O’Neil said as they walked the length of the Turkish rug.
“You’re just peeved because he shined you on. Next time, try using your lady charms on him.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, Sir—sod off.” He grinned as he said it and continued with, “Malcolm must know all about McIlvoy’s past.”
“And he doesn’t seem to care.”
“I’ll wager you Malcolm’s keeping a hefty portion of the sales in return for helping McIlvoy stay off-grid. Quid pro quo.”
“Could be.”
Danny stepped back into the shop with its colorful displays. From this vantage point, the Firebird Designs case appeared center stage, the darling of the store. Malcolm’s golden goose. He always had a gleam in his eye, but upstairs just now the gleam had sharpened when Danny had brought up McIlvoy.
THIRTY-THREE
LIMESTONE TERRACES GAVE WAY to a gentler terrain as Merrit drove south toward Ennis, the County Clare seat. More houses, fewer cows, but the same ancient rock walls undulating along with them. A
fter a year in Ireland, Merrit had gotten the hang of maneuvering on the narrow roads. It was fun, actually, and she never grew tired of the changing landscape, the way sun and cloud and rain and wind continually refreshed the scenery.
Beside her, Gemma was lost in her own world. She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. Fresh black nail polish decorated her fingernails.
It occurred to Merrit that the graffiti had begun after Gemma and Dermot arrived in the village. But that had to be a coincidence. Not everything happened for a reason, and not everything was connected to everything else. Random chaos was part of life too. But then again, maybe it was too coincidental that they’d arrived right before the graffiti began.
Lost in thought, it took a second for Merrit to notice the slip of paper that Gemma held up at eye level near the steering wheel.
I can feel you wanting to talk to me, she’d written.
“That obvious, eh?”
Gemma nodded.
“Danny told me to stay out of your affairs because they’re Garda business. I didn’t think I was interfering with anything …”
She let the thought dangle and Gemma didn’t disappoint.
He’s referring to Lost Boy. Toby. My cousin.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I had no clue.” Once again, she petered off, but this time because she didn’t have the words to console Gemma. After a minute, she admitted this out loud. “And here I am dragging you off to a paint store. We can turn around if you want.”
No. I need the distraction. She hesitated, then jotted again. Why are you helping me?
Merrit opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d been about to say something altruistic—because it was the right thing to do—which was true. However, and this was a big however, there were also her selfish needs.
“Maybe I’m trying to prove myself to the locals. I’d like to be part of the community.” She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, unsatisfied with that answer. “I need to find a reason to stay in Ireland. My own reason apart from being Liam’s daughter. It’s just an accident of birth that I’m supposed to be the next matchmaker.”
