by Lisa Alber
… I can’t get Danny’s look out of my head when he picked up the children tonight, like he didn’t know me anymore, like I wasn’t worth knowing anymore, and maybe I’m not.
Danny flipped the diary pages back to the previous week. And there, indeed, screamed Ellen’s words confirming Malcolm’s alibi for the night of Toby Grealy’s murder. Danny still couldn’t fathom why Malcolm had offered up the alibi unless it was to humiliate Danny. He hadn’t prioritized finding the phantom graffiti artist, true, but surely Malcolm understood that vandalism didn’t rate as high as murder.
No, the alibi had to be a good old-fashioned diversionary tactic. Most likely to distract Danny from prying into Malcolm’s relationship with McIlvoy.
Whatever the reason, if that was the game they were playing now, then he, Danny, owed Malcolm the next jab. The thought comforted Danny, gave him something to think about as he continued reading the diary passage.
… he dared to pawn me off with a pair of earrings. I could care less about parting gifts. I wanted closure, an apology, an explanation, something, after the way he’d dumped my sorry arse after weeks of fawning over me. Malcolm’s all about being the big man, but in private he’s an insidious little whisperer, seeping into you like the bloody fog, and before you know it your clothes are off yet once again.
I’m still not sure what I did to deserve his contempt toward the end of the night. Dare to slap him so his bloody contact lens fell out? He didn’t like that at all. Slapped a hand over his eye and refused to put on his specs. He’s after being the vainest man I’ve ever met.
My poor ego. What fool was I.
Danny’s mobile vibrated. He grabbed it out of his pocket, and glancing toward the corridor, whispered hello. He wasn’t supposed to be using it on the ward.
O’Neil spoke fast and hushed without greeting him. “Something came back about our mysterious John McIlvoy, after all. Hold a sec.”
Danny closed the diary and tucked it back into his pocket. He placed his hand on Ellen’s and promised himself that he’d return with a novel to read aloud to her and her favorite lavender sheet spray.
O’Neil returned to the phone. “You there?”
“What about McIlvoy?” Danny said.
“Dead as last spring’s lambs.”
FORTY
AT 4:00 P.M., LIAM said goodbye to his last love-starved festival participant for the afternoon, and Merrit tried not to appear too relieved. A pall had fallen over the plaza, what with the seeping fog, the increased Garda presence, and the whispers of serial killer faeries.
Her lungs spasmed, that unsubtle warning that the anxiety she’d struggled with since childhood was building up.
“I could use a drink before dinner,” she said.
“Agreed.”
Merrit was too busy maneuvering Liam across the plaza to check his expression, but his voice sounded beat. The day had dragged, both of them preoccupied with Ellen and Gemma.
“I can’t get the graffiti out of my head,” she said. “The slag on my car doesn’t seem to fit. If there’s a pattern, shouldn’t the graffiti have been on Ellen’s car instead—or Dermot’s car, for that matter?”
Liam paused before opening the door to Alan’s pub. “In someone’s mind you connect—to something.”
There went her lungs again. She forced herself to inhale deep into her diaphragm.
Alan’s pub echoed the grey pall outdoors. He’d lit a fire but most of the wall sconces remained dark. A few candles dotted the tables. Crazy shadows flickered over the walls and though a few customers had started to find their way inside, the room was nowhere as boisterous as usual. That said, Seamus and many of the crows sat in their usual spot near the taps while Alan stooped over Bijou spread-eagled on the floor in front of the fireplace. He stood and approached when he saw them.
“How’s Bijou?” Liam said.
“Sore. She needs more rest before I take her out again.” Alan rubbed his shoulder. “To search for Gemma.”
“I’d like to help if I can,” Merrit said.
“You just missed Danny. He picked up Dermot and left, no explanation. He’d come from the hospital.”
“How is Ellen?” Liam said.
By way of answer, Alan shook his head. Several locals acknowledged Liam with waves. Merrit repeated her offer to help Alan.
“I’d rather you didn’t come along. No offense intended.”
Merrit nodded, but she felt the sting nevertheless. Alan led Liam to an empty barstool beside Malcolm. Malcolm held his brandy snifter as usual and beamed around the room before greeting her with a wave toward her necklace.
“It’s a miracle how well expert craftsmanship holds up over the years, isn’t it?” he said.
Out of the silence rose desperate laughter, cracked, hysterical. Seamus tottered toward them.
“Malcolm, you grand pretender. I hope you rot in hell with your precious jewelry and your precious shop.”
He swayed and grabbed Nathan Tate’s arm to steady himself. His distressed mirth couldn’t have been more shocking than if he’d started tearing out his hair.
Malcolm swirled his brandy. “Ah well, we can forgive Seamus in the realm of his sorrow. I’m nothing if not sensitive to others’ pain. In fact, I was thinking that in honor of my former employee, Brendan, I’d offer a sale, entice people in with a memorial sign.”
Seamus stared at Malcolm. Gobsmacked was the slang word that popped into Merrit’s head. Utterly gobsmacked. She dug her hand into her oversized shoulder bag and grasped her inhaler. The various tensions around the room closed in on her like one of her panic attacks.
“A tasteful sign,” Malcolm continued. “I don’t mind saying that I have sound design instincts. I could—”
A pint glass crashed against the floorboards at Malcolm’s feet. Guinness splattered onto his linen trousers and he shut up properly then. Slow and considering, he blinked down at spots of beer.
“Best get home to clean yourself, you preening sack of shite,” Seamus said.
This wasn’t going well. Everyone on edge, the claustrophobic greyness of the past week pressing in on them. Merrit breathed against her clutching lungs and entwined her arm through Seamus’s. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Maybe I can walk with you—”
“Get off me, you.” He stepped away and jerked his arm up to loosen her grip. Bei To Arlene Joyce Alber, my mother,
Who inspired my love of books and reading.
In memory of her memory. ng taller than she, and drunk, and none too coordinated, his elbow caught her square in the mouth.
She stumbled back, eyes watering with the sudden jab of pain in her lip.
“You don’t belong here, you fool girl.” Sweat trickled out of Seamus’s hairline. “You’re no better than Malcolm, swanning around the village like royalty. Do you think we don’t know that Ellen’s in the hospital because of you? You broke up their marriage—we all know it.”
Merrit tasted blood. Her lower lip tingled, ready to swell. Liam pushed his way toward her, trying to get Seamus to shut up, but Seamus seemed determined to strike out at the closest target.
“If Danny had been at home where he was supposed to be,” he said, “Ellen would be okay, so don’t you be trying to placate me.”
Merrit patted her chest against tension gathering around her lungs. “I wasn’t—”
“Listen to me, girly, you aren’t one of us, and you’ll never be one of us.”
All around Merrit, the other pub-goers stood transfixed. “That may be true,” she said, “but you’re mistaken if you think I care about that.”
“Oh, you care, all right,” Seamus said. “Your desperation practically drips off you.”
Shaking, Merrit turned away from the staring Lisfenorans and tourists while Seamus’s words continued to sting her like open-palmed slaps. She pulled the inhaler out of her purse and shot the mist into her lungs. She did care. Of course she did.
“You’re like Malcolm here,” Seamus said, “another grand
pretender. You two belong together.” He waved his arm. “Liam, you old scoundrel, give Merrit and Malcolm a try. They’d be perfect for each other.”
“We’ll accept your apology tomorrow,” Liam said. “Someone get Seamus the hell out of here. Time for him to grieve at home.”
Merrit’s heart rate slowed and her breath eased. She wanted to slink away, but she held her ground against the pitying smiles. There was no way she’d let anyone chase her away from the pub, or Ireland, for that matter. If she left, it would be her own decision.
Alan strode around the bar and made a grab for Seamus, but he shifted away. “This isn’t about my grief. This is about family—”
Malcolm placed a hand on Seamus’s shoulder. “I must say, you do have a point about family. Family can be so difficult at times.”
Merrit tilted her head to catch Malcolm’s lowered voice. He spoke like a confidant, his voice as susurrating as wind through leaves.
“Yes, yes,” Malcolm said to Seamus. “We don’t like anyone upsetting the balance, I understand. You know I do. We know that things happen sometimes. You know this better than most.” He paused. “But, Seamus, my dear man, lashing out at Merrit or me or anyone else for your troubles? It’s grubby. Best to take responsibility and let go with what is done.”
Malcolm angled Seamus toward one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace and gave him a little push. Seamus stumbled forward and lowered himself into the chair. A collective breath released and several people approached Merrit.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Just one of those things.”
Malcolm twirled the brandy within his snifter. His voice rose. “There now, all’s well. It’s nothing other than what I do with customers. The art of persuasion I call it.”
“And what did you just sell Seamus?” Nathan said.
“Perspective.” Malcolm held up his snifter. “Alan, what about a round for the crows? On me.”
Alan fetched the crows their drinks and announced that soon he’d be leaving them in the hands of his able junior barman.
“Where are you off to, abandoning us?” Elder Joe called.
“The forestry lands out there past Danny’s house. It struck me that Gemma might make like a fox and find shelter there.”
Merrit still stood beside Liam, her panic attack now nothing more than a blip to everyone but her and Liam. She pressed a napkin against her swelling lip and knew better than to offer her help to Alan again. There was only so much rejection she could take in one day.
“Maybe I can be of help?” Malcolm said to Alan instead. “I have excellent night vision.”
“Oh, that’s too brilliant.” Seamus spoke loudly from his spot near the fireplace. “You’d like to be the center of attention, wouldn’t you? Malcolm here’s the big man! You’ll put a sign up on the shop to let the world know what a hero you are.”
“Grubby. Remember that, my friend,” Malcolm said.
He handed his snifter off to Alan. With a hand-swipe down the front of his suit and a tug at the lapels, he was gone without paying for the last round. The picture of regal affront despite the mottled flush that showed clear through to the back of his neck.
Nathan wandered out of the pub too, saying, “Craic’s over for tonight.” He patted Merrit’s shoulder as he passed, and with that commiserating gesture, Merrit decided it was pointless to stay any longer.
FORTY-ONE
DANNY PULLED INTO THE parking lot of the regional hospital in Galway City. Agitated, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared into the twilight lurking around the edges of the lot. Cigarette glow near the corner of the building caught his attention. As the orange light flared on an inhale from its smoker, he made out scraggly and grey-haired Benjy the Bagger, waiting as they’d planned. Benjy was nothing if not religious about his cigarette breaks.
Danny roused Dermot, who snapped awake with twitchy eyelids. “Where are we?”
“Galway. This is the closest morgue facility to Lisfenora.”
Dermot went rigid. “No, that can’t be. Gemma—”
“Jesus, no,” Danny said. “The guards are still hunting for her.”
“Why are we here then? When you said I could help you, I thought you meant with Gemma.”
“This is related, believe me.”
Benjy had caught sight of them as they exited the car. He ambled over in a cloud of smoke. Danny held out his fingers in a gimme gesture. McIlvoy dead rang like a siren in his head. He’d heard the words from O’Neil but refused to believe them without Dermot’s corroboration.
The cigarette dangled from Benjy’s lips as he spoke. “You owe me for this one, Dan-o.”
“You like me owing you.”
“Fecking straight.” Benjy dropped a folder onto the car’s trunk. “Copies of the morgue photos, but you can’t keep them. I’m glad someone’s looking at these photos. Everyone needs a person to care.”
He shoved the folder toward them and lapsed into a relaxed perch, staring off into space as he lifted and lowered his addiction. His index and middle fingers were stained yellow.
Danny passed a dozen photos to Dermot.
“Who the bloody hell am I looking at?” Dermot said.
“John McIlvoy. You don’t recognize him?”
Dermot shoved the prints back at Danny. “No, no, no, that’s utter bollocks and we both know it. It has to be.” He jerked away from Danny, practically choking on his emotions. “McIlvoy has to be alive, or”—he swallowed—“or, I don’t know what.”
“He’s quite mad with it, eh?” Benjy said. “Three, two, one … ”
Dermot ran to the edge of the parking lot and bent over to heave up the contents of his stomach. By the time Danny caught up with him he was crouched against a low wall, head in hands. Dermot raised his head, desolation stripping his expression dry. “You can’t know what this means. I might as well shoot myself now.”
“Take a look at the photos,” Danny said.
Back with Benjy, Dermot swallowed hard and studied the images. “I remember the ugly beard,” he said. “Never understood how my mom could stand it.”
John McIlvoy had worn his life roughly. Besides the beard, his lips were drawn back from a mouth full of decaying teeth. Wrinkles connected the corners of his eyes to his mouth, and oily wisps of hair dangled onto the silvered autopsy table that served as backdrop. A blue tint peeking through half-shut eyes looked like the beginnings of glaucoma veils.
“That McIlvoy?” Danny said.
Dermot browsed through the rest of the photos, which showed McIlvoy in profile. “But he’s skinny.”
“Malnourished more like,” Benjy said.
Dermot shuffled through the images again, worrying their edges with his fingers. “McIlvoy had a belly on him and a double chin. His teeth were okay, as I remember. Nothing special. I don’t remember the eyes. It’s not like I looked too closely at him. I can’t tell for sure. I mean, this could be him.”
“Life on the streets changes a person,” Benjy said.
Danny passed along more photos from the folder. These showed full body views. Dermot shuddered.
Smoke leaked out the sides of Benjy’s mouth when he spoke. “Ay, he’d lived rough for years. That much was evident.”
“Living on the streets,” Dermot repeated. “Not that I care, you understand, but he’d always squeaked by with his jewelry making.”
“Unless Malcolm Lynch, the man who sells McIlvoy’s jewelry, was cheating him at every turn,” Danny said.
“Or he spent all his money on alcohol and drugs. Doesn’t take much to end up on the streets.” Benjy angled a transcript page into the light cast by the hospital. “All this says is ‘self-employed, artist,’ which means nothing. Died three months ago, and the identification we found on him was years out of date, which wasn’t surprising.”
Dermot squinted at yet another photo, this time of an identification card that showed a younger, robust McIlvoy. “It’s a crap picture but, yes, that’s him. I don
’t understand. Toby told us he’d found McIlvoy.”
“Someone lied,” Danny said.
“No, no, that can’t be.” He held out his hand toward Benjy. “Be a gent, pass me that fecking fag.”
Benjy handed over his cigarette and lit up another one for himself. Dermot huffed twice in fast succession. The action seemed to steady him.
Danny rocked back and forth, almost wishing for a cigarette himself. “You never told me how Toby found out that McIlvoy was his father. Is it related to the missing earrings he was wearing—the ones that were stolen off his ears?”
“Ay, indirectly like. It started out silly enough. He wanted a trinket to give to a lass—his first great love, to hear him tell it. He rifled through Aunt Tara’s jewelry box for something she wouldn’t miss. Aunt Tara’s my mom’s sister, and she raised Toby as her own. A conspiracy of silence that ended for Toby when he found the earrings in—what do you call it?—like a keepsake pouch? For mourning? Aunt Tara makes them whenever someone in the family dies.”
“He found Siobhan’s earrings—” Danny prompted.
“Yes, they matched a necklace that McIlvoy had given her when they got married. The earrings were inside the pouch along with a headshot of them from that day. One look at the wedding photo and Toby knew McIlvoy was his father and Siobhan his mother and that his life had been a lie.”
Benjy stirred. His gaze sharpened. “How so?”
“What do you mean?” Dermot asked.
“How did the lad know they were his parents from a photo—resemblance to McIlvoy?”
“Ay, seemed obvious enough to Toby anyhow, and Aunt Tara admitted the truth when he confronted her. Then the next day, Toby made excuses about visiting friends and caught the train to Ennis before landing in Lisfenora.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have the wedding picture on you, would you?” Benjy asked Dermot.
“No. Toby brought it with him, so it’s probably still with his personal belongings.” He glanced at Danny. “Anyone found his things yet?”
“Not yet,” Danny said.
