Cavanaugh or Death

by Marie Ferrarella

  Davis sighed, upbraiding himself for not looking through the peephole before opening the door. Confusion always seemed to enter a room whenever Moira walked in.

  “Who are you talking about and what are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded, his voice going up in volume with each question.

  Since he wasn’t closing his door, Moira did. “I’m talking about this Mrs. McBride who doesn’t seem to keep her door or windows closed, despite your instructions to the contrary. As for what I’m doing here—” she turned around to face him, making sure she kept her eyes strictly on his face and not on the incredible six-pack she had only, up until now, suspected was there beneath the conservative-looking suits he wore on the job “—I came to give you a ride to the church.”

  “I don’t need a ride,” he informed her with what he thought was finality.

  It wasn’t.

  “Sure you do,” Moira countered.

  “Okay, let me put it this way—I don’t want a ride,” he amended.

  “Ah, now that I believe. Now get dressed.” Both sentences were equally cheerful. “Uncle Brian made sure we had the whole church to ourselves—he’s been friends with Father Gannon since they were in fifth grade together—but parking is tricky and I want to make sure we don’t have to walk too far.” She glanced down at the glittering four-inch heels she was wearing. “These shoes are new and I haven’t broken them in yet.”

  Her smile widened as she could feel his resistance growing. “And if you’re in need of a little pep talk to convince you that attending this function is a good idea—” she took her cell phone out of her purse and held it aloft “—I’ve got Uncle Brian on speed dial. He can deliver the closing argument if I haven’t managed to win you over yet.”

  Davis bit off a few choice words that rose to his lips. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re one hell of a colossal pain?”

  “Not in so many words, but I’m pretty good at reading body language.” She smiled broadly at him. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been called worse.”

  He glared at her. Arguing with her wasn’t going to get him anywhere and he obviously couldn’t seem to intimidate her.

  “I haven’t showered yet,” he retorted.

  Moira gestured toward the rear of the apartment where she assumed that his bedroom and bathroom were located. “Go right ahead.”

  She watched him march out of the living room and then heard what she took to be the bedroom door slam. Just to be certain, she took a few steps in that direction until she could see the closed door for herself.

  “I don’t know why you’re fighting this so hard. You’re going to have a good time.” She said it as if it was a foregone conclusion.

  Because he was feeling perverse as well as cornered, Davis shouted, “I never have a good time,” through the closed door.

  “You will this time,” he heard her say and he could have sworn he heard a smile in her voice.

  The woman was really starting to drive him crazy.

  Because he’d been about to take a shower before Moira had turned up and pounded on his door, disrupting his Saturday and blowing up all his well-laid plans of escape, Davis showered.

  He dressed for the same reason, except a little more formally than he’d initially intended.

  As he walked out of his bedroom fifteen minutes later, he found himself wishing for news of another gravesite disturbance at one of the two cemeteries—anything to get him out of attending this formal thing with Moira and her family—or, in other words, half the Aurora police department.

  But both his cell and his landline were perversely silent. No one was calling.

  Small wonder, he thought. Anyone who could have placed the call to him was probably at the church right now.

  The next moment his dark, surly mood lightened by several degrees as he was greeted by the compelling, savory aroma of deep, rich coffee.

  Curiosity—not to mention his saliva glands—got the best of him and lured him into his minuscule kitchen.

  The coffee aroma grew stronger and more tempting with each step he took.

  Entering the kitchen, the first thing he saw was a coffeemaker on the counter beside the sink. He frowned at it.

  He didn’t own a coffeemaker.

  “Where did that come from?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the appliance that had just finished making its percolating sounds.

  “I brought it from my place,” Moira told him cheerfully as she pressed a large mug filled almost to the brim with shimmering black liquid, as dark as any storm at sea, into his hand. She’d brought both items, as well as the coffee itself, with her and had fetched them from her car while he was in the shower. “Music is supposed to soothe the savage beast, but in this case, I figured coffee might be better.”

  “Breast,” Davis corrected her just before he took a long swig of the coffee she offered. Swallowing, he looked at Moira and saw the quizzical expression on her face. He guessed what was behind it. “The word is breast, not beast.”

  Her grin was annoying and beguiling at the same time, making him wonder if perhaps she’d slipped something into the coffee she was offering so readily. It was either that, he judged, or close proximity to her was causing him to quickly lose his mind.

  “Again, in your case,” Moira told him, “I think my first choice—beast—works better.”

  Davis drained the mug, thinking that the stiff, hot brew might help him cope with her.

  Setting the empty mug down on the counter, he finally had a chance to take in the rest of the kitchen. In the time he had taken to shower and dress, Moira had not only made the coffee, but she’d washed the dishes in the sink and straightened up the rest of the small area.

  Was she just neurotically domestic or trying to prove herself indispensable to him?

  He didn’t like either choice.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he told her, grumbling. There was nothing wrong with the kitchen to begin with. Clutter suited his needs. He could see where everything was instead of having to hunt for it.

  “I don’t like being idle,” she told him. “Besides, messy areas interfere with my ability to think clearly.”

  Davis laughed shortly. He’d never had that problem himself.

  “There’s a solution to that,” he told her. “You didn’t have to come in.”

  “Sure, I did,” she contradicted. “I had to come get you.”

  They were on opposite sides of that argument, as well, Davis thought. Nothing good could come of this.

  “Why is it so important to you that I attend this thing?” he asked. “I’ve never been to a Cavanaugh gathering before.”

  And there had been opportunities. On occasion, he’d seen postings on bulletin boards throughout the precinct, inviting anyone who wanted to join in to attend. It seemed to him that the Cavanaughs were always finding a reason to have a party.

  Maybe the Cavanaugh women drove them to drink, he speculated. Moira was having that kind of effect on him.

  “It just is,” she told him quietly, answering his question as best she could. She didn’t want to get into an argument about it, not when she was so close to getting him out the door. So she changed the subject. “Where’s your jacket?” she asked.

  That stopped him in his tracks. “I have to wear a jacket?”

  She heard the protest building in his voice and quickly offered a compromise. “Just to the church. This is kind of a formal thing.”

  Davis mumbled under his breath as he doubled back to his bedroom. He got a matching jacket out of his closet. Yanking it out, the hanger fell to the floor. He left it there.

  “I’m not wearing a tie,” he informed her. There was absolutely no room for argument in his voice.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Moira replied. Stepping back to take a
look at the total package, she pronounced, “You look lovely.” Picking up the clutch purse she’d brought with her, she said, “Let’s go.”

  Davis followed her out, pausing only to lock his door. “Men are not ‘lovely,’” he told her.

  Waiting for him to pocket his key, she turned toward guest parking and led the way to her car. “Right. Sorry. Virile...handsome.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “How’s that?”

  Davis made no answer, not trusting himself to say anything right about now. He just grunted.

  Her hips swayed ever so slightly—and provocatively—beneath the light blue sleeveless sheath she was wearing as she walked to the parking space where she had left her car.

  Against his will, Davis caught himself thinking that the term she had first used for him—“lovely”—best described her.

  It took him more than a minute to dismiss the thought from his brain.

  Chapter 16

  “Wait a minute,” Davis said.

  Against all odds, Moira had happily managed to find a parking spot that wasn’t too far from the church where the newest member of the Cavanaugh was to be christened.

  The moment she had put the parking brake on, Davis had suddenly spoken up like a man who had just had a revelation.

  Moira turned off the engine and faced her less-than-willing passenger.

  “Making a last-ditch attempt to get out of attending this?” she asked. “I give you points for never giving up, but I’d also advise you to save your breath.”

  “I can’t go,” Davis insisted.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said patiently. This was going to be good. “Why not?”

  “Because aren’t guests supposed to bring gifts? I don’t have a gift,” he pointed out. “That means I can’t—and shouldn’t—go.”

  The amused expression on Moira’s face told him that it was a given that she hadn’t expected him to remember to bring one.

  “Not to worry,” she told him. “I’ve got you covered. I brought a gift.”

  “You did,” he noted. “But I didn’t.”

  “It’s from both of us,” she went on as if he hadn’t said anything.

  Was that an intentional reference to some kind of a romantic link between them? Davis wondered suddenly. Just where had that come from? He’d never given her any indication that there was something between them. Okay, so he’d kissed her, but that didn’t mean he was plighting his troth to her.

  “There is no ‘us,’” he told her firmly.

  The look on her face was nothing if not patient, like a teacher trying to get a lesson across to an exceptionally slow child. “We’re partners, there’s an ‘us,’” Moira assured him.

  “We’ve had this discussion before. We’re not partners,” he insisted.

  Weary, Moira closed her eyes and sighed. “And I thought women were supposed to be high maintenance.” She tried to approach the definition of “partner” from a different, neutral direction. “We’re two people riding around in a car together who, for the time being, are occupying the same circle of space. Okay?”

  No, it wasn’t okay. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be pulled, however temporarily, into a domestic scene that even remotely approximated family harmony. It would only remind him of what he’d once had—and what he’d lost. He wanted to forget about everything that had hurt, not relive it.

  He was about to tell her that this was a mistake, that she could go into the church alone and he would just call a cab to take him back to his apartment. But the next second his quickly conceived plan withered and died before it had a real chance to unfold.

  Someone was breaking into the moment, knocking on the window on his side of the vehicle.

  As he turned to see who it was, Moira pressed one of the buttons on the driver’s armrest and the window on his side rolled down, leaving no barriers between Davis and whoever was trying to get his attention.

  The man outside the car had liquid green eyes, dark hair and an infectious grin.

  “Hi, I’m Malloy,” he said to Davis. “And, unfortunately, I’m related to the woman sitting next to you. You two better get a move on. The ceremony’s about to start,” Malloy informed them in a slightly more serious voice. “You don’t want to be late.”

  “Davis, this is my annoying brother, Malloy. Malloy, this is my work associate,” she said, coming up with a last-minute substitute for the word “partner.”

  “Davis Gilroy.”

  Malloy extended his hand into the car, shaking Davis’s hand. “You have my condolences, Davis,” Moira’s brother told him. “See you inside,” he added just before he withdrew.

  “He seems nice,” Davis murmured for lack of anything better to say.

  “Emphasis on ‘seems,’” Moira responded. And then she grinned. “Oh, he’s okay I guess—as far as annoying people go.”

  “Runs in the family, does it?” he asked, finally getting out of the car.

  “Get a move on,” Moira instructed. “Before we really are late.” She looked at Davis expectantly, her intimation being that she wasn’t about to take a step toward the church until she was certain he was coming with her, as well.

  Davis banked another sigh and fell into place beside her.

  He was here, he might as well attend, he told himself, picking up his pace. Ultimately, going along with this would probably keep things running a little smoother while they were still working the case. He had no doubts that the petite blonde with the king-size family could make life a living hell for him if she set her mind to it.

  The church they were heading toward was named after St. Elizabeth Anne Seton, California’s first canonized saint. Structurally, it was a fairly large church as far as churches went—and the first thing Davis noticed was that it was totally packed. Every pew was filled and there were people of varying ages lining the inside perimeter of the church on both sides. There really was standing room only.

  “Told you we should have gotten here earlier,” Moira whispered to him, guessing at what the man beside her was thinking.

  Davis appeared unfazed and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind standing.”

  Moira pressed her lips together, as if to bite back a few choice words. “Good.”

  Davis didn’t mind standing, but he suddenly realized that she’d said she was wearing new shoes. By the end of the ceremony he figured her feet were going to be aching. Davis caught himself feeling guilty about that and the fact that he did surprised him.

  He was also surprised that he had noticed earlier that Moira and her older brother seemed to share the same grin.

  This wasn’t right.

  He was noticing and taking in far too many details about the woman who was making his life miserable.

  After that, he just stopped thinking and concentrated on listening to what the priest at the front of the altar was saying. Thinking was definitely not something he recommended for himself at this particular moment.

  * * *

  He had—briefly—hoped that attending the actual church ceremony might somehow appease Moira, but this was a baseless fantasy on his part. In the short time they had been together, he had learned that Moira always meant what she said. And in this particular case, that meant that he was stuck attending the postchristening party.

  He consoled himself with the thought that it would undoubtedly be crowded there, as well, and because it would be, no one would pay attention to him or require him to engage in conversation. He was, after all, the outsider.

  But that was where Davis quickly found out he was wrong.

  To begin with, Andrew Cavanaugh’s two-story house was not what he had expected. Its exterior was neither showy nor impressive. But it wasn’t ordinary, either, because it exuded a kind of infectious warmth even before Davis had a chance to
enter the house.

  The very walls seemed welcoming and the impression only grew more so once the front door was opened and he walked inside.

  Davis experienced the uncanny notion that he was being hugged—which was, he told himself, a completely impossible phenomenon—and yet he couldn’t shake it.

  The second Davis stepped inside the foyer, someone was standing there to greet him—presumably “them,” he thought since he was fairly certain no one inside the house knew who he was.

  But the tall, distinguished-looking, silver-haired man focused his attention on him rather than on Moira.

  “Thank you for coming.” The deep baritone voice rumbled sincerely as the man took his hand and shook it heartily. “I’m Andrew Cavanaugh,” the man identified himself. “And we haven’t formally met yet.”

  Davis almost said that they hadn’t met informally, either, but a gut instinct prevented him from saying so out loud. He had the impression that the official family patriarch made a point of knowing everyone who was part of the Aurora police force, despite the fact that he hadn’t been the chief of police there for years.

  “Police chiefs don’t retire or die,” Moira whispered into Davis’s ear. “They just continue into forever.”

  The completely unexpected close contact sent a hot, sizzling arrow zipping down his spine, although Davis did his best not to react in any manner.

  Instead he focused exclusively on Andrew, returning the man’s handshake and telling him, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Andrew laughed. “I don’t know about ‘honor,’ son,” he replied, “but it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m very glad that Moira managed to talk you into coming. There are only two rules here,” Andrew went on to tell his first-time guest. “Eat and enjoy yourself. Moira,” he said, turning to his grandniece, “I leave him in your very capable hands. Oh, and as far as the food goes,” he said, addressing Davis one last time before he went on to his other guests, “if you don’t see what you like—ask.” He smiled encouragingly.

  “You would not believe the size of the man’s auxiliary refrigerator,” Moira told him, guiding Davis toward the rear of the house and the half-acre backyard just beyond the French doors. “The first time I saw it, the stainless-steel door threw me. I thought it was the entrance to another room. But that’s where he keeps all the extra food he uses for the gatherings, large or small.”