by Alber, Lisa
Instead, adoption. Given the way her mom had described Liam in her notebook, Merrit had assumed that back in the ’70s he wasn’t the fatherly sort. Yet, apparently he was. A nervous worm threaded itself around her lungs. Careful, she told herself. She mustn’t clutch at emotional straws or succumb to the fear that she was unanchored in the world.
“I wager some of these gifts are beyond appropriate,” Mrs. O’Brien said, rousing Merrit from her unwelcome thoughts. “Last year Liam received a gift certificate for a massage, and you know what that means. Oh, there’s Lonnie.”
Merrit’s heart stuttered to a halt, and then pounded harder than ever. Lonnie hovered near Liam, and with a grin pointed in Merrit’s direction. Liam straightened and sought her out through the crowd. Merrit ducked against the wall. A mini-earthquake spread among the presents. She grabbed the closest pile and waited until the lopsided table legs stabilized.
“Careful.” Mrs. O’Brien’s smile of pride never left Lonnie. “He’s got a way with him, a truly delightful young man. Why, he’s waving you over.”
“Excuse me,” Merrit said.
“Go on then. Meet Liam.”
Like hell she would. Not like this. And Lonnie knew it. She’d given him the money out of her wallet to ensure he didn’t pull this stunt. She tried to squeeze her way between the old gents to her left and Mrs. O’Brien in front her. A raised floorboard caught her heel, and she stumbled against the gift table. The gift piles swayed. Her lungs started their inexorable squeeze.
Merrit became aware of eyes flickering over her from all directions. She wasn’t as invisible as she’d hoped, and it didn’t help that Lonnie was waving her toward Liam. The worm around her lungs tightened. She was an intruder, and she never should have let Lonnie goad her into coming.
With Mrs. O’Brien barring her way, Merrit backed up against the wall again. There was nothing for it but to crawl under the gift table and get out fast before Lonnie yelled across the room, or, worse yet, forcibly dragged her to Liam. Before she could make her escape, a wall nail caught her dress and she yanked her arm so hard her elbow knocked into the gifts. Her tumbler let go a waterfall of amber liquid as it sailed to the floor. Dozens of gifts followed in a perfect arc of shimmering wrapping paper. She dropped to the ground but too late to save the glass from shattering against floorboards and a dozen gifts from landing in the whiskey and shards. A secondary crack followed as the last present landed on the floor. An amber stain soaked into wrapping-paper clown faces.
“I told you to be careful,” Mrs. O’Brien said, her voice like a bullhorn. “Didn’t I tell her?”
Merrit sat back on her haunches. There went her anonymity —such as it was—with the arrival of whoops and catcalls from the crowd.
“I’m so sorry.” She held up the clown gift and heard an ominous clunk. “I’ll pay for this. Tell”—she glanced at the card—“tell Patty O’Reardon I’ll buy a new one. Will you tell her that?”
While Mrs. O’Brien sputtered, Merrit drew on the spirit of her mom to grant her enough poise to exit without further mishap. She crawled under the table, and grabbed at a jovial drunk’s arm to pull herself up on the other side. Ducking and weaving through the crowd, she bumped into Ivan, who managed to appear both pissed off and fretful as he fought his own way through the crowd.
Lonnie’s voice carried over the party chaos. “Merrit!”
“Why is Lonnie doing this?” Merrit gasped. “You must know.”
“Maybe something annoyed him,” Ivan said, “and now he takes it out on you. This is my experience.”
“You tell him we’re going to talk. Tomorrow bright and early. I’ll come by the café.”
Before leaving, she couldn’t resist tiptoeing for a last view of Liam as she pulled on the door against the crowd’s collective weight. Between the heads and shoulders, she caught sight of him tracking her with an intensity not meant for public settings.
He knew her.
He knew her, no dismissing the fact. Her lungs reignited at the thought that this humiliated retreat was her biological father’s first impression of her. Gulping against the knot in her throat, she wedged herself through the door and into blessedly cool air.
Julia Chase’s notebook
I’m unsure how to proceed with this article. It’s well enough to write about the Burren, Cliffs of Moher, Aran Islands—highlights for the intrepid traveler—but Ramsey insists on his additional 750 words aimed at a wider audience. A fluff piece, he said. Human interest. So the matchmaking festival it is, and Liam the Lionesque, it is. Unfortunately, the more I ragtag with Liam, the harder this piece is to write. So much for objectivity. I’m a disgrace to my fellow travel writers.
However, that said, I think I’ve come up with a workable angle. Since I’m not distanced anyhow, I might as well insert myself into the story. I’ll be my own experiment. Ethical or not, I’ll let Liam match me—and apologies later to the man stuck without a bride. I can’t think how else to write this piece because every time I meet with Liam, the article is the last thing on my mind—the way his long arms snake out of his cape, all small wrists and prominent veins and hands ready to grab mine.
• 8 •
The morning after Liam’s party, Merrit stumbled her way from the sofa bed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She opened her eyes to view her sorry reflection in the mirror. She was her mom’s daughter for sure—at least with the greenish-hazel eyes and chin dimple—but try as she might, she couldn’t tell whether she resembled the matchmaker. And, oh damn, the party last night. Dropping her head, she bumped it repeatedly against the mirror. No, no, no. Now she’d be the visitor who sat with the outcast drunk and destroyed birthday gifts.
Worse yet, Liam himself, the way he’d spied her out through the crowd, still sporting a good-natured smile, but also with a squint as if he were analyzing her fitness for daughterhood. Her hopes sank just thinking about it. Now she needed a less excruciating way to introduce herself to him than waiting around on the plaza until he caught sight of her. The possibility that he’d pass her over for one of the lovelorn made her queasy.
But, first things first: Lonnie and his grubby little machinations. He’d better tell her what he’d said to Liam last night.
Too tired to care how she looked, she grabbed the black party dress that she’d dropped on the floor before falling into bed, dressed, and left the flat. Downstairs, she eased past her landlady’s side door and stepped into the narrow lane—more like an alley—that ran parallel to the noncoastal one block away. The cobblestoned lane smelled dank, and shadows held on against the coming day. Merrit paused, feeling eyes on her back. She glanced around, but the alley remained silent and still.
She peered left, toward the plaza, searching for but not seeing Marcus on his usual bench. A quick detour before heading to Internet Café was in order. She trotted out of the alley and into the plaza. In the fuzzy orange light cast by a rising sun, Lisfenora resembled a fairy tale village the way the storefronts shifted from canary yellow to purple to teal depending on the owners’ tastes. Pretty soon, the failte welcome mats would appear, and, if not for drivers trying to maneuver around each other in the narrow lanes, Merrit might imagine herself back in the late nineteenth century when bonnets and gartered socks were all the rage.
Given her paranoid mood, the plaza was more like it: open and transparently cheerful. Even so, Merrit turned back to sight down the length of the alley and its double row of closed doors. Must have been her landlady, Mrs. Sheedy, spying on her comings and goings through lace curtains. As usual. The woman was almost as bad as Mrs. O’Brien.
On the far side of the plaza, Merrit found Marcus sprawled over the length of a bench with half the contents of an overturned flask soaked into his trousers. “Wake up,” Merrit said. “You’d better go to—wherever you usually go to sleep. Marcus?” She poked his arm. “Are you OK? Wake up.”
He didn’t move. Not a twitch.
Alarmed, she leaned closer. “Marcus,�
�� she said into his ear.
Marcus jerked awake with a sharp cry. His hands fumbled into the air, and then, seeing Merrit, he lapsed back into grumbles. “Sweet Mary and Jaysus fecking Christ, have you gone mental?”
“Maybe so, but Jaysus F. Christ yourself—I thought you’d gone and died on me. Here, sit up.”
Marcus pushed himself up with a groan. With shaking hands, he patted down his hair and tucked his shirt into his soggy trousers. He felt under himself for the flask and tsked sadly when it came up empty. “Good craic, the party?”
“Hellish, more like,” Merrit said. “And Lonnie only made it worse as you can imagine.”
Marcus’s stomach growled.
“One errand,” she said, “and then I’ll take us to breakfast.”
Marcus muttered, shaking his head. “Could have sworn to a full dinner last night. Or maybe not, because we all know I’m not to be trusted, not even in thought. Even so, I’ll take my gin-soaked vagueness, thank you very much. And maybe a bloody fecking pint for breakfast too.”
“What’s up with you? You seem more out of it than usual.” She perused him with fresh concern. “Your shoes are untied.”
He lifted his feet to view his graffiti’d green and yellow sneakers. “So they are.”
Merrit cast about behind the bench. “Did someone take your afghan?”
“The afghan was on my lap. Cozy it was.” Marcus’s face crumpled. “Oh Christ, but then what? Such is the steaming load of shite that is my life.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said despite her disappointment. “I’m sure the afghan will turn up. Wait here while I tell off that Lonnie once and for all.”
***
Back in the alley, Merrit counted doors, passing her lodgings as she went. Fifth door down, this would be Internet Café’s back entrance.
The door was the tiniest bit ajar, which was odd even by Lisfenora’s safe standards. Merrit hesitated with fist raised against the shop’s door. No way was Lonnie at work this early in the morning. Ivan had to be up and about then. She nudged the door open to see a shabby storage area. Stacked packages of printer paper leaned against one another, covered in dust, and a bathroom exuded a musty funk. A yellow tabby sidled through an inner door that must lead to the storefront. The little fellow mewed and brushed her legs. Merrit picked him up.
She carried the purring cat through the storage area and into the shop. Perhaps she could relay a message through Ivan to Lonnie. Something along the lines of, Stop talking to Liam about me, or else.
Or else what? She wasn’t sure, but it was better than nothing at this point.
A squeal, or perhaps a moan, issued from Lonnie’s office. Merrit froze. A moment later the rat-a-tatting of computer keys ceased and oaths in Ivan’s native Russian took over. Merrit smiled. The minion up to no good in the boss’s office. Now he’d see how much he liked having his personal life threatened with exposure.
On tiptoes, she stepped past computers and around the service counter behind which Ivan usually sat. Thankfully, the window blinds were drawn. No one could see her as she stepped toward one of two doorways marked “For Employees Only,” only to freeze again, this time in the office doorway with the cat pressed against her chest. She knew death when she saw it. There was no mistaking its particular brand of stillness. Death had sucked the energy out of Lonnie’s body, leaving it as bereft of life as a hologram.
• 9 •
Merrit stood frozen for what seemed like forever while the cat squirmed against her clenched grip. In front of the desk, Lonnie lay on an Oriental rug that was too plush for what amounted to a converted storeroom. Scattered euro notes surrounded him, and for the first time since Merrit had the misfortune to meet him, his hair was natural in disarray rather than artfully arranged. He was almost a pretty picture in his cream linen suit. Except for the knife sticking out of his chest, of course. And the crimson stain around the wound. Even Lonnie didn’t deserve that much bad karma coming back at him.
A fly buzzed, and Merrit knew it was only a matter of minutes before it landed on Lonnie to lay a few hundred eggs. She swallowed against stuffiness that hinted at the telltale and sweet beginnings of decomposition, and eased back a step. Ivan continued tapping away at the speed of desperation. Thankfully, the giant flat-screen monitor blocked his view of Merrit. Holding her breath, she eased back another step. To her dismay, the cat chose exactly that moment to thrust itself out of her arms.
“Blin!” Ivan shot up. “I see you. No, do not hide.”
Merrit ran, but not fast enough. Ivan grabbed her in the murky storefront where darkened computer monitors yawned at them. Merrit yanked her arm, but as small as Ivan was, he was still bigger than she. “Let me go,” she said. “I’ll scream, I swear I will.”
“How did you get inside?”
“The back door. Were you too drunk to lock it last night?”
Ivan pushed Merrit aside and sprinted toward the back door. Merrit grappled with the closed window blinds in search of the front door.
“You will not leave,” Ivan said, grabbing her from behind once again.
She struggled, but he had the strength of desperation on his side. He half carried, half pushed her back into the office. She nearly stumbled over Lonnie when he let her go. Blocking the doorway, he surveyed the Oriental rug, the executive desk, the plank shelves that held nothing but old magazines. His skin looked clammy as the underside of a mushroom. “Please to listen to me. I do not care why you come this early.”
Merrit steadied herself and tried to exude confidence. She pointed toward the blinds that protected them from view. Already, a few pedestrian shadows stretched along the slats. “I will scream.”
“If you really thought I did that”—Ivan waved an arm at Lonnie—“you would already be screaming like typical woman. Could be you did this instead, but I do not care about this either because I only want to stay in Ireland.” He rolled his eyes like an overloaded pack ass and pulled at his hair. “We do not have time for this talking. We help each other, yes?”
Ivan returned to Lonnie’s computer to detach a thumb drive from the USB port. Merrit wavered, unclear whether self-preservation meant acquiescing to his request or calling the police. A notion spread through her like a malignant ink stain. Perhaps her arrival and Lonnie’s death weren’t a coincidence. Perhaps death had followed her from California.
“But you’re tampering with evidence,” she said. “I can’t be a part of that.”
“And you are not wanting me to tamper? Lonnie keeps all information you should know. I will be first suspect with the Garda—what you say police—and you will be second unless we minimize damage. My life that I thought could get no worse, just did. You are in same place, yes?”
He rubbed at goose bumps that had risen on his arms. “Stay there. I need sweater,” he said.
***
At the threshold of his workroom, Ivan paused to assess Merrit. Her gaze, usually so witch hazel and wide, had turned inward. Hard to read, her, but she’d inched toward the front door while his back was turned.
“One word about you,” he blurted. “Morphine. So you stay, yes? Or maybe I go to the Garda. I am sure you do not want them looking at you too closely.”
“Did Lonnie know too?” Merrit said.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
In an emotional about-face that startled—and gratified—Ivan, Merrit’s face bloomed red and she patted her chest. She clawed through her oversized purse. Not finding what she looked for, she then exhaled in short huffs into the bag of her hands.
Let her stew on their predicament. Ivan continued into the workroom, chewing on his resentment once again. With Merrit standing there huffing and puffing, he couldn’t even pinch the money scattered around Lonnie’s body like confetti. He deserved compensation for his slave-labor hardships.
Worse still, with the matchmaking festival starting the next day, there would no doubt be extra scrutiny and scandal. And all of it aimed in his direction. Ivan knew
how the system worked, no different in Ireland than in Belarus: tidy over local blemishes, keep the tourists happy and safe, find a scapegoat named Ivan, and boot said Ivan back to Minsk. He wasn’t about to let that happen. Blin, no.
Not seeing his sweater on its usual hook, he grabbed a pair of latex gloves instead. He was already wearing a pair. He returned to Merrit. “Take these. If you did not kill him, and if I did not—”
“The big if,” she wheezed.
“—we have to choose to trust each other, yes? I will not tell about you, and you will do same for me.”
He balled his fists, waiting for her to catch breath enough to scream down the walls. Instead, she pulled in a shaky breath, put on the gloves, and fumbled a yarn ball out of her shoulder bag. With the distanced look of someone floating from the ceiling, she wiped down the door frame she’d grabbed to steady herself.
“When the Garda arrive,” he continued, “explain that you walked in and saw me standing in doorway then you will appear truthful.”
“And by association, you too?”
“Honesty by appearances. In Belarus this takes politicians far.”
“The file. Where is it?”
Back at the computer, his fingers tapped the keyboard. His mind raced, trying to remember if he had erased everything that implicated him in Lonnie’s blackmailing schemes. Damn Merrit for distracting him from his task.
“Hello, Ivan, where are the printouts?” Merrit said. “Lonnie showed me the file. It has to be here somewhere.”
“I do not know where Lonnie stores the hard-copy file. I already looked, but you can try too.”
Too many minutes later, Ivan was ready for the next phase of evidence tampering, and Merrit had given up her search for the file. “Now you help me with computer,” he said. “And then we call the Garda.”
