by Lisa Alber
“Seamus!” She nudged him in the arm with the poker. “You had to know someone would be here with her. What were you thinking?”
He raised a bloodshot gaze toward her. His face crumpled. “My son.”
He curled into a ball on the bed, mumbling something about not caring anymore.
Merrit grabbed her mobile off the dresser. “I need to call the guards now.”
“I know what you’re thinking, lassie, and you don’t know the half of it. You don’t know anything.” He curled tighter into himself and buried his hands between clenched thighs. “All I wanted was to ensure Brendan’s future.”
Seamus’s attempt at a smile was nothing but a ghastly effigy. “In for a step, in for a mile to hell.”
FIFTY-THREE
BY THE TIME MALCOLM arrived home after his fancy date, Danny had finished the Calvados and let his senses relax into a mellow swirl of impressions and half thoughts. It helped that the alcohol had diluted his anger. Without the excess emotion, he thought things might make sense. But they didn’t. He’d have to go with his instinct when it came to talking to Malcolm.
Malcolm appeared with welcome smile prepared. He wore a slim blue suit and a mauve tie with a faint sheen of silver threads sewn into the weave. His woo-the-lassies tie, no doubt. A little bold but sensitive at the same time. He was like a standard poodle, showy and sociable.
“McIlvoy warned you I was here,” Danny said. “Nice of him.”
Malcolm checked his watch and glanced around the place. His gaze landed on the empty Calvados bottle. “Danny, Danny, Danny, is this perverse payback for my liaison with Ellen? I might have to get you fired. You know that, don’t you?”
“I admit to a perverse pleasure in breaking into your place, so let’s call it even for shagging my wife. I do have some bad news, though.”
Humming a little, Malcolm slid the jacket from his shoulders. “Honestly, Ellen and I had a fine friendship through the auction fundraising committee. I didn’t realize I was leading her on. But then she began showing up at my place.” He held the jacket up, gave it a shake, and laid it carefully on the kitchen countertop. “I swear, sometimes I think I ought to check my charm at the door. Gets me in trouble I’m sad to say.”
Danny counted to three and exhaled. “Women can be tricky. I feel for you.”
With gentle tugs Malcolm loosened his tie and drew it from around his neck. He held it up so the two ends dangled at exactly the same length, gave it a shake as he had the jacket, and folded it in half before laying it on top of his jacket. “Versace. Silk. Available in Dublin, but then you don’t get there often, do you?”
“Too true,” Danny said. “But then I don’t have a good income from a jewelry business, do I?”
Malcolm wagged a playful finger in Danny’s face. “Now, now. I’ll fix us tea. A nice green tea sent over from Harrods of London.”
Danny transferred himself to a bistro-style table that sat opposite the sink. Despite himself, the more he observed of Malcolm, the more fascinated he became. It was a special breed of fascination tinged with loathing.
“There now.” Malcolm set a tea tray on the table and slid into place across from Danny. He poured hot water into loose-leaf tea strainers that perched on their teacups. “Milk, sugar, lemon?”
“I’m fine without,” Danny said. “You’re not the least bit curious about the bad tidings I bring?”
Malcolm stirred milk into his tea. “You’d be a likeable fella if you weren’t so tedious.”
“Related to Firebird Designs, I’m afraid.”
Danny made a show of rifling through his pockets. He placed the opal necklace that he’d borrowed from Nathan alongside the matching earrings that Merrit had retrieved from Gemma’s jacket pocket. “As you can imagine, I didn’t notice the workmanship on the earrings when I found them in my wife’s jewelry box. So kind of you to give them to her, I’m sure. But I wonder at anyone breaking up a set like this.”
The teacup tinged against its plate as Malcolm set it down. His hand crept toward the necklace. Danny slapped it away. “Now, now, I may be an unimaginative member of the Gardaí, but even I know a good story when I hear one. And there’s no use telling me these aren’t a set, a special set made for Siobhan McNamara, because we’ve got corroboration and all that boring Garda shite.”
“Of course these are Firebird. That goes without saying,” Malcolm said. “I’d vouch for them myself, but as to anything else—”
“McIlvoy must have panicked after he killed Siobhan because he didn’t take the time to grab her earrings as well as the necklace. That was quite the sorry mistake on his part, wasn’t it? Imagine, years later, they appear on a boy named Toby Grealy—McIlvoy’s own son. And no mistaking it this time. They were stolen off him well and good.”
“I wouldn’t say John was the panicky type,” Malcolm said, “and, anyhow, you’re farting in the wind with your conjectures. But entertaining, I must say.”
“Oh, I’m sure. The bad news for Firebird Designs is that now we have to investigate the business. In depth, you see. Who knows what we’ll find?”
“This is preposterous.”
“Indeed. Preposterous that our lost boy’s mother’s earrings went from his earlobes to my wife’s jewelry box. You gave these tainted things to Ellen, so that gets me wondering how the devil you got them.” He raised his hand. “I know it. You were with my wife the night Toby Grealy died, and I’ll be the first to admit that my imagination hasn’t plumbed that oddity yet.”
“Because there’s no oddity about it.”
“Then there’s this necklace, found on the itinerant Sean Tate, Nathan’s father.”
Malcolm sniffed and sipped. “Nathan. He’s not one of us.”
And you are? Danny didn’t say.
“Planting the necklace on Sean Tate was a handy way to unload a piece of incriminating evidence in the Siobhan McNamara murder case.”
Malcolm reacted by cocking his head like an inquisitive—what?—cocker spaniel? Danny wondered what it would take to bring out his inner pit bull.
“Altruistic of you to befriend Sean Tate on behalf of McIlvoy. Whether you or McIlvoy, we know—”
“Please don’t talk about us as if we’re interchangeable.” Malcolm shuddered. “You can’t imagine how that irks me.”
Danny paused. “I imagine so, because you’re the real brains behind the operation, aren’t you?” He was feeling his way in, trying to get at the heart of Malcolm. “What you’d love most of all is your picture on the artist’s statement in your shop.”
“And why not?” Malcolm said. “I’m the face of the brand, after all.”
“You like to deflate others and inflate yourself, don’t you? That’s not a healthy recipe for seeing reality clearly.”
Malcolm’s lips thinned, sharp as ice chips. “You talk to me about reality, when you’re sitting here telling ridiculous stories to take your mind off your almost-dead wife. But if it helps you cope, who’s to say what’s healthy and what’s not healthy?”
Danny steadied himself by squeezing his knees. “We have a theory about why you faked McIlvoy’s death. We call it the Golden Goose Theory.”
Malcolm merely raised his eyebrows and checked the water level in the teapot.
“You help protect McIlvoy in return for a greater share in the business. I imagine your share has grown over the years. You’re a persuasive fellow when you want to be.”
“That’s the closest you’ve come to an astute thought since I arrived.” Malcolm gazed down at his fingernails and gave them a quick buff against his trousers. “But still, there you sit looking like you know what’s what. But how could you? You don’t know how I’ve languished under his name. I’m the proper figurehead, but you can’t just go changing a brand, not one as well-respected as Firebird. I’m after maintaining its brand integrity, and that’s meant living with McIlvoy—”
“I didn’t realize Firebird maintained brand integrity.”
“You doubt me?”
“Seems to me Firebird is Firebird. That’s the brand. Not McIlvoy, not you.” Danny set his teacup aside. “Who gives a fat cow’s arse about you?”
Malcolm swung out of his chair and shoved his empty teacup into the sink. He flushed. “I’m the brand. Me, Malcolm Lynch, and my designs, yes, my designs, will see their way to the best shops in Dublin, and from there—”
Here we go, Danny thought. “Like I said, rather full of yourself then.”
Malcolm picked up the teacup again. He smoothed his index finger around its rim. “There now. No harm done. I wager you don’t know the difference between bone china and fine china. This set is antique bone china from Royal Ascot. Hand painted. And look what you almost made me do, break one of my pieces. You don’t know how to handle fine collectibles, do you?”
Now it was Danny’s turn to cock his head. This episode of the Malcolm Show had just turned bizarre.
“Even though I’m the true soul of Firebird Designs,” Malcolm continued, “I’ve had to live under McIlvoy’s endless presence. It’s all me, it’s always been me. My initiative. My business acumen. Even my design ideas. Some of us have a greater purpose. But how could you possibly understand that?”
In a moment of clarity, Danny understood the crux of the man. This wasn’t his overactive imagination creating stories out of sparrows either. Malcolm loathed McIlvoy. How it must chafe not being able to preen and fawn with the credit of Firebird Designs.
And then Nathan Tate’s father happened along, who looked similar to a picture on an identification card.
“How long had you been on the prowl for some poor bastard to die as John McIlvoy? I imagine that could take years. You needed to find someone the same height and coloring. Someone no one would miss. The Golden Goose Theory isn’t quite correct, is it? It’s not so much about protecting McIlvoy as about getting rid of him permanently.” Danny leaned back, thinking it through. “A fake death to camouflage a real death later?”
Rather than an inquisitive spaniel, Danny thought he glimpsed something more fierce going on alert as Malcolm stood.
“Would you like some ladyfingers?” Malcolm excused himself and stepped the two steps to the refrigerator to fetch a pink bakery box. “Lovely, these. I discovered this bakery in Ennis not two months ago and have been talking it up. In fact, I helped triple their business. The Clare Challenger reviewed them last week—a smashing review, I might add. I don’t eat many sweets as you might have guessed, but my palate never lies.”
A brriing caused Malcolm to jump toward his mobile sitting on the counter. He grimaced when he realized that the sound wasn’t coming from his phone, but from Danny’s pocket instead.
“Sir,” O’Neil said when Danny answered, “a couple of officers are picking up Seamus at Fox Cottage. He attacked Gemma, but Merrit got him under control. Merrit’s coming to the station too. No one seems to be hurt.”
Danny kept his voice casual. “She’s an anxious one, is our Mandy.”
O’Neil picked up on Danny’s subterfuge, saying, “You’re not after doing something stupid, are you?”
“Perhaps so. You settle a hot water bottle against her stomach and she’ll fall back asleep right as rain.”
O’Neil got the hint and rang off.
“No hassle,” Danny said into empty air. “You didn’t wake me. Right. Cheers.”
Danny clicked off. He stared into the pink bakery box where a dozen perfect confections coated with powdered sugar beckoned him to indulge. Bloody hell. Seamus? Something loosened itself from deep inside his brain, but he didn’t have time to think it through. He’d have to wing it to get under Malcolm’s slippery suit of skin. Somehow. Talking about John McIlvoy wouldn’t do it.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d better wash my hands before I eat.”
Malcolm nodded his agreement and waved Danny toward the bathroom. “The guest soap is to the right.”
A bloody guest soap. God, how he wanted to see the bastard squirm.
Inside the bathroom, Danny ran the water and texted O’Neil. Without waiting for a response, Danny wetted the guest soap, mussed the hand towel, and returned to Malcolm.
Sitting down, he picked up a ladyfinger and pointed it up at Malcolm. “Did you know that Ellen kept a journal?”
FIFTY-FOUR
ALAN ALWAYS FELT MOST restless during this quietest time of the day, beyond the height of night but well before light peeked over the eastern horizon. He stood in Fox Cottage watching through the window as Merrit drove toward the Garda station. The guards had already left with Seamus. Merrit had chosen to follow them and had called him to watch Gemma. She liked to be involved, that one. Maybe she would make a good matchmaker in the end.
He dropped his hand to Bijou’s head. “Good girl.”
She wagged her tail in response to his voice. She was dopey from the painkillers but otherwise her usual self.
He raised a window sash to inhale quietude. Gemma’s presence was loud behind him with her abundant curls tangled in all directions and spine erect against the sofa back. She wore an ancient U2 concert t-shirt, child’s size by the looks of it, and a pair of Dermot’s boxers, making her look more childlike than ever.
If she’d been aware and reactive, moving her hands in that graceful way of hers, he’d have found the whole tangled, half-naked mess of her arousing. While she was still catatonic, thinking that felt like a taboo, so he banished it from his mind.
Telling Bijou to stay, he approached Gemma. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was still a stalker, watching her while she was unaware of him. One would think he’d feel comfortable with that, but he twitched with embarrassment. For her, for him.
“Gemma?” he said. “Do you know I’m here?”
Her gaze remained fixed in space and her expression vacant.
He fetched orange juice with a straw and stooped in front of her. She sucked when he touched the straw to her lips, went lax when it dropped away. It was eerie, like a machine, obedient yet unresponsive at the same time.
Behind him, Bijou inched toward the sofa. The big gulumph thought she was being stealthy, but her heavy breathing gave her away.
“Bijou, stay.” Bijou poked the back of his neck with her wet nose. “Bijou,” he warned in a louder voice.
Gemma rocked forward the tiniest bit. Toward Bijou. At least, Alan could have sworn she did.
“That’s right, Gemma, Bijou is here too.”
He placed a hand under hers and signaled to Bijou. Good dog, come. Good dog, come. It didn’t matter that Bijou couldn’t see the movements. What mattered was that somewhere in her brain Gemma register that her canine friend was nearby.
Bijou sidled up beside Alan and plopped her head on Gemma’s lap. Her tail thumped harder than ever and she drooled with excitement. Her head canted to the side with ears perked as she gazed at Gemma like she was a doggy savior.
Alan knew his dog’s body language. She was now waiting on a game. So much stillness from one of her humans meant that next there’d be wild movement and tumbling playtime. She woofed in response to the suspense of the wait.
Alan hesitated, unsure whether eighty pounds of keyed-up dog colliding into 110 pounds of immobilized woman was a good idea. On the other hand, given that Gemma preferred animals to people—one of her best qualities, in fact—there might be nothing better than mounds of fur and slobbery tongue to awaken her.
“This might be a go,” he said to Bijou, who whined in response.
Alan maneuvered himself so that he sat next to Gemma.
“Time to try,” Alan said. “Bijou, go!”
Two seconds later, the force of Bijou’s joy toppled Gemma sideways against Alan. The dog head-butted her, licking her legs, pawing her arms. When she didn’t receive a response, her tail sagged. She aimed a whine at Alan.
“It’s okay, girl,” Alan said. “Go on, play.”
Alan watched, amazed as Bijou nestled against Gemma’s supine form so that she was half on top of her. With a whine
that Alan swore sounded distraught, she started licking Gemma. Her arm, her chest, her neck, her face. That great tongue of hers lolled over Gemma’s chin, mouth, cheeks, nose, even her eyes, which Gemma shut automatically.
Gemma’s nostrils flared.
“Careful,” Alan murmured. “I don’t think she can breathe.”
Bijou placed one paw over Gemma’s shoulder and covered her face with even more slobber.
Gemma’s chest hitched up, trying to gain purchase against Bijou’s weight.
Alan grabbed Bijou’s collar, but he hesitated. He was witness to a small, extraordinary event, here, now, that defied logic but that somehow made all the sense in the world: his dog knew what she was doing. Alan believed this without question.
Bijou continued licking. Gemma’s mouth popped open on an inhalation. Bijou’s tongue lapped over her nostrils, her lips, drowning Gemma in saliva.
Alan’s hand hovered, primed to pull Bijou away. Gemma’s struggles increased as her body sought more oxygen. Alan’s pulse accelerated, fearful, hopeful, undone. His chest ached with tension.
Gemma’s face turned red with exertion. Alan positioned both hands around Bijou’s collar and just as he was about to give up the delusion about his wise dog, he saw consciousness like a torch beam rising out of Gemma’s soul. In three rapid blinks, she was gasping and squirming beneath Bijou. Bijou backed off with chest heaving as much as Gemma’s.
“Holy mother,” Alan breathed.
His beast couldn’t track worth a damn, but licking, ay, licking enough to suffocate, she could manage. He couldn’t think of what to say other than doggy words, but then, if there was anyone who’d understand, it was Gemma.
“Good dog, Bijou. Good, good dog. Best dog ever.”
Gemma’s gaze traveled over the ceiling. After a long moment, her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a big O. Before Alan had a chance to react, she’d scrabbled over the back of the couch and run to the closest door, opened it to see a closet, slammed it, and run on until she reached the front door. She shot out of the house, heedless of her bare feet.
