by Leslie Meier
The derelict bungalow was so unwelcoming, and the caws of the crows so harsh, that Lucy almost decided not to stop but to go right on home. Appearances were deceiving, she reminded herself. Dylan and Moira couldn’t be blamed for Old Dan’s slovenliness; indeed, on closer inspection, she saw the windows had recently been washed, as had the curtains, and the brass doorknob polished. A brand-new welcome mat had even been laid on the rotting porch. Somewhat reassured, she got out of her car, mounted the sagging steps to the porch, and knocked on the door.
At the sound, the crows rose from the tree and flapped around, making a terrific racket with their caws. Watching from the shelter of the porch, Lucy couldn’t decide which was worse: their noisy squawks or their silent, brooding watchfulness when they settled back onto their roosts. She liked birds well enough. She even set out a bird feeder in winter and enjoyed watching the chickadees and nuthatches and cardinals, which were regular visitors. She even liked blue jays, admiring their bright blue feathers and cocky attitude, but she didn’t like crows. They were too smart, too aggressive, and altogether too nasty, with their habit of snatching other birds’ helpless hatchlings from their nests and gobbling them up.
Getting no answer from inside, Lucy tapped again on the glass pane in the door, then cupped her hands around her eyes and peered in. This time the crows remained quiet, but she could see their reflections in the glass, their dark, beaky shapes silhouetted against the bright sky. Now that they had settled down and stopped cawing, she became aware of an eerie wailing sound. Pressing her hands tighter against the glass, Lucy strained to see inside the house. As her eyes adjusted, she finally was able to make out a kneeling figure. It was Moira kneeling over Dylan, who was lying flat on the floor, keening as she had at Old Dan’s funeral.
Lucy tried the knob and discovered the door was unlocked, so she let herself in and rushed to Moira’s side, where she quickly assessed the situation. Dylan was sprawled on his back, apparently felled by a blow to his forehead. There was an enormous amount of blood, but Lucy was encouraged when she felt Dylan’s wrist and found a weak, fluttering pulse.
“He’s alive, Moira. We have to get help.”
Moira didn’t react but kept on keening, rocking back and forth over her husband.
Lucy pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. Reassured that help was on the way, she turned to Moira, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “What happened, Moira?” she shouted. “Tell me what happened.”
Moira didn’t respond; she just kept on rocking and wailing, apparently in a state of shock. Lucy doubted she even knew she was there.
The wail of the siren as the ambulance came tearing down the driveway and the arrival of the EMTs shattered the spell, and Moira suddenly snapped out of her trance.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod,” she shrieked. “Leave him be.”
“Moira, they’ve come to help,” said Lucy. “He’s alive.”
“He is?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Yes. See. They’re putting an oxygen mask on him to help him breathe. He’s breathing. He’s bleeding. That’s a good sign.”
“Blood! Blood!” she shrieked, tossing her head back and throwing up her hands. “So much blood!”
Lucy was losing patience with Lady Macbeth, or whomever Moira was playing, but the EMTs were unmoved by her dramatics. “Head wounds bleed a lot,” said one, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone to Moira. “Are you his wife?”
“That I am, and what a terrible thing it was to find him like this,” said, Moira, clasping her hands together as if in prayer.
The EMT continued. “His vital signs are pretty strong, but we won’t know what’s what until we get him to the hospital and they do a CAT scan. Do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?”
“I’ll drive her,” volunteered Lucy. “That way she’ll have a ride home.”
With that, they hoisted the still-unconscious Dylan onto a stretcher and wheeled him out of the house to the ambulance. Lucy found Moira’s cloak hanging from a hook beside the door and draped it over her shoulders, then led her by the arm out of the house to the car. As she was starting the car, she remembered Deirdre. The little girl couldn’t be in the house, could she?
“Where’s Deirdre?” she asked Moira.
“With Dave Reilly. She loves helping him paint the scenery.”
“You’d better call him and ask him to keep her,” advised Lucy. “Do you need my cell phone?”
“No, I have one,” said Moira, hesitating a moment before opening it. Dave Reilly’s number was the first in the address book.
Once again, Lucy found herself sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the waiting area at the emergency room. This was getting to be a bad habit, she thought, casting a glance at Moira. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, anxiously awaiting the doctor’s report on her husband’s condition. Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t playacting but tried not to pursue that train of thought. Instead, she asked her about Old Dan. It seemed too much of a coincidence that one brother was attacked so soon after the other’s violent death.
“I would never have guessed your husband and Old Dan were brothers,” said Lucy. “They seem so different. Were they close?”
Moira shrugged. “Well, Daniel moved to America some time ago.”
“But now with cheap long distance and e-mail, it’s easy to keep in touch.”
“I suppose they did. I never paid much attention. Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking of doing a story on far-flung families for the paper,” said Lucy, who hadn’t really been intending to do any such thing but, now that she’d thought of it, was thinking it was a pretty good idea, after all.
“Daniel was quite a bit older than Dylan,” said Moira. “He’d already emigrated before Dylan was born.”
“But they were partners in the Bilge?”
“There was a bit of money when their mother died. I think that’s what it was. Daniel offered to sell Dylan a half interest in the business for his share of the inheritance. It seemed like a good deal for us.”
“Did they have any enemies?” asked Lucy.
“Old Dan must have,” said Moira. “But everybody loves my Dylan.”
“Not quite everybody,” said Lucy. “Somebody disliked him enough to conk him on the head.”
Moira narrowed her eyes, and Lucy wondered if she had an idea who might have attacked her husband, but if she did, she kept the thought to herself. Lucy was about to question her when the door swung open and Doc Ryder appeared. “Lucy!” he exclaimed. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“No kidding,” said Lucy. “I came with Moira, Dylan’s wife.”
“I’m Doctor Ryder,” he said, taking Moira’s hand. “I just examined your husband.”
“Will he be all right?” asked Moira, clinging to his hand and whispering.
Doc Ryder covered her hand, now holding it with both of his. Lucy felt like groaning. You’d think a doctor would be able to resist Moira’s charms.
“I wish I had better news for you,” he said.
Moira gasped.
“Now, now,” he continued quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. He’s a strong man, and he’s holding his own. He has at least a fifty-fifty chance of a full recovery. Maybe more. I’ve spoken to the best brain man in the state, and we’re going to transfer your husband to University Hospital, where they have a lot more experience with head injuries.” He paused, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this in forty years of practice. The stone that hit him is lodged in the wound.”
“It’s still there?” asked Lucy, incredulous.
Doc Ryder nodded. “I didn’t dare touch it. This is one for the experts.”
Moira, who had gone quite pale, sat down and crossed herself. “May the saints preserve us,” she said, clasping her hands together and looking over her shoulders. “Evil forces are at work here.”
Lucy grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Mo
ira, if you know what this is about, you need to tell the police.”
Moira shook her head. “The police can’t do anything. My poor Dylan is in a fight for his soul, just like King Conor.”
“Who’s he?” asked Lucy.
“King Conor Mac Nessa? A saint. He was hit in the head, just like my Dylan, and the doctors left the projectile in place, fearing it would be fatal to remove it. So there it stayed, and King Conor was fine until one dark day, when the Druid priests came and told him they had seen visions of a truly good man crucified on a cross of wood. It was Christ, you see. And the tale so horrified King Conor that his head exploded and he died.”
“Well, never fear. There’s no danger of that happening to your husband,” said Doc Ryder in a disapproving tone. “We’re keeping him under anesthesia.”
“King Conor was a handsome man, just like my husband,” said Moira. “Will my Dylan be disfigured?”
“That’s the least of his worries right now,” said the doctor, bluntly. Then, remembering his bedside manner, he added, “It’s amazing what these plastic surgeons can do nowadays.”
“That’s a relief,” said Moira, with a sigh.
“Would you like to see him before we move him?” asked the doctor.
Before Moira could answer, Dave Reilly came through the door, holding little Deirdre by the hand. At the same time, a couple of uniformed cops who Lucy had seen at the house exited from the elevator, carrying paper cups of coffee from the hospital cafeteria.
Jumping to her feet, Moira ran across the waiting room and snatched her daughter from Dave, dramatically clasping her to her bosom. Finding her rather heavier than she’d expected, she dropped her and, raising her arm and pointing at Dave, screamed, “Murtherer! You tried to kill my husband!”
All eyes—the cops’, Doc Ryder’s, Lucy’s, Deirdre’s, even those of the women at the admissions desk—were on Dave, who stood frozen in place, with a puzzled expression on his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Don’t pretend!” shrieked Moira, shaking off Deirdre, who was attempting to hug her. “You were jealous! Admit it. You knew he’d never let me go, so you killed him!”
“He’s not dead,” reminded Doc Ryder.
“You’re crazy,” said Dave, addressing Moira.
“Look, buddy,” said one of the cops, “mebbe we better have a little talk.”
Chapter Fifteen
“She’s crazy,” protested Dave. “I don’t even know what she’s talking about.”
“Let go of my child, you murtherer!” shrieked Moira.
Clearly terrified by all the screaming, Deirdre clung tightly to Dave’s hand. He bent down and whispered in her ear, urging her to go to her mother, but she only stepped closer to him. This enraged Moira even more, and she flew at the child, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away from Dave. The tug-of-war continued, with Deirdre hanging on to Dave and Moira pulling her other arm, until she finally succeeded in yanking her free. She then enfolded the mute child in her arms and began to sob dramatically into her hair.
“My precious! I dread to think what might have happened!” cried Moira.
The cops looked at each other, seemingly unsure what to do. They were saved from having to take action by the arrival of Detective Horowitz, who huddled with the two officers, questioning them and glancing in turn at Moira, Dave, little Deirdre, and finally, Lucy.
“Come with me,” said Horowitz, pointing at Lucy. “You two, and the child, can take a seat,” he continued, speaking to Dave and Moira. “And don’t get any ideas about leaving, because these two fine officers have orders to keep you here until I tell them otherwise.”
Dave settled down, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his hands, but Moira protested at the top of her voice. “This is outrageous,” she screamed. “You can’t expect me to stay here with the man who murthered my husband!”
“He’s still alive,” Horowitz reminded her. Then he took Lucy’s elbow and steered her down the hallway. “Is she always like this?” he asked under his breath.
“She’s an actress,” said Lucy. “She has a flair for the dramatic.”
“But not for calling nine-one-one when she finds her husband unconscious and bleeding?” he asked.
“I think she really thought he was dead,” said Lucy. “She was wailing and cradling him in her arms when I found them.”
“I think the lady doth protest a bit too much,” said Horowitz. “What’s the deal with the longhaired guy?”
“Dave Reilly? He’s the leading man in the church show, Finian’s Rainbow. Moira, of course, is the lead female. They’re lovers onstage, and it’s pretty clear Moira would like to take the affair offstage, too, but I don’t know if Dave is all that interested. He plays in a rock band. He can pretty much have any girl he wants—and they’re a lot younger than Moira.”
“Meow,” said Horowitz, a twinkle in his eye. “Do I detect a bit of cattiness?”
Lucy felt her cheeks warming. “I wish I’d never gotten involved with that woman, or her little kid. She’s convinced my Zoe that fairies and leprechauns and I don’t know what all lurk under every tree. We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since they arrived.”
Horowitz scratched his chin. “So why exactly did you go to their house this morning?”
“It was a stupid idea, probably, but I was hoping to convince Moira to tell Zoe that the fairies were make-believe, that they were just storybook characters. I thought if Zoe heard it from the source, instead of her parents, she’d come around and give up all this nonsense and get back to normal.”
“And did she agree?”
“I never got a chance to ask her. She was holding Dylan in her arms and wailing, and I took one look and called for help.”
“Do you have any idea how long he’d been like that?”
“It couldn’t have been too long, because he was still bleeding.” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t even know what time it was when I got there.”
“You didn’t see anybody else?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Not a soul.”
Horowitz nodded. “Not to worry. You’ve been very helpful.” Then he turned, starting to go back down the hall, but Lucy put her hand on his arm, detaining him. “How come you’re being so nice to me?” she asked.
“Well, for once, you’re not playing the amateur detective, and you did the right thing. You called for help.” He grimaced. “You probably saved his life.”
Lucy smiled. “Will I get a medal?”
“Don’t push it,” he growled, marching off down the hall.
Lucy followed, casually taking a seat on the opposite side of the waiting area and hoping no one would notice she was there. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and opened it, pretending to check her messages while she listened in on Horowitz’s conversation with Dave and Moira.
He began by questioning Dave. “Where were you this morning?” he demanded, getting right to the point.
“At home.”
“And where’s that?”
“The new condos on Bumps River Road.” At this, Lucy perked up. The condos were just down the road from Old Dan’s place.
“Oh yeah, the affordable housing?”
Dave nodded. “I entered the lottery and got one.”
“That’s not far from the victim’s home, right?”
Dave nodded.
“Handy, especially if you’re having an affair with the victim’s wife.”
Dave laughed. “Affair? I don’t think so. I was the baby-sitter.”
“Baby-sitter?”
“Moira came banging on my door around nine this morning. Woke me up. I had a gig last night, didn’t get home until three, and then with one thing and another, it must’ve been close to four when I got to bed. So I was sound asleep when she starts pounding on the door and ringing the bell. Said she wanted me to take the kid ’cause she had something she had to do. Then she shoved the kid thro
ugh the door and was gone before I had a chance to say anything.”
“That’s ridic—” sputtered Moira, but she was silenced by a glance from Horowitz.
“So what’d you do then?” he asked Dave.
“I put the TV on for the kid while I took a shower and got dressed. Then I made some coffee and I watched a few cartoons with the kid and then I decided to take her back.” He glanced at Moira. “I was sick and tired of being used like that. But nobody was home when I got there, just a cop who was putting up yellow crime-scene tape. He told me they were at the hospital, so I came here.”
“Okay,” said Horowitz, turning to Moira. “What was the hurry? Why did you take your child to his place? What were you going to do this morning?”
“I had a hair appointment.”
Horowitz hadn’t expected this. “What?”
“You woke me up so you could get a haircut?” demanded Dave.
“Not just a hair appointment, an appointment with Jean-Pierre,” said Moira.
In her corner, Lucy was impressed. It was practically impossible to get an appointment with Jean-Pierre himself, who owned a salon in the fancy new galleria that had been built just a few exits away on the interstate.
“I knew I couldn’t be late, and my usual babysitter had quit, so I really didn’t have any other option, did I?” said Moira.
Lucy had a feeling she was the “usual baby-sitter” Moira was referring to, and she didn’t like it much. The woman had a lot of nerve, referring to her like an employee, when she had simply offered to let Deirdre play with Zoe when it was convenient for both families.
“Your husband couldn’t have stayed with the child?” asked Horowitz.
“Oh no. He’s directing a play, and he couldn’t be distracted.”
“So you left the house around nine?”
“Right. The appointment was at ten, and I’m not familiar with the area, so I wanted to leave plenty of time to get there.”
Horowitz consulted his notebook. “But at some point you went back to the house. How come?”
“I remembered I forgot my credit card, so I went back home to get it, and that’s when”—she dabbed at her eyes and sniffed—“I found my darling husband.”
