Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  “Hang on, Nappa.” Megan turned to Doreen. “Pardon me?”

  “Reeds are packed in saturated foam brick, like from floral shops.”

  “Who is that?” Nappa asked.

  “I’m in Brooklyn, let me call you back.” She flipped her cell closed.

  “I received a shipment yesterday, let me show you.” Doreen went into the back of the store and returned with an opened carton from Dublin. “See?” She showed Megan the moistened brick. “Same as a typical floral arrangement sent to ya.”

  Megan recalled all too well the number of recent sympathy arrangements sent to her and Brendan acknowledging their father’s death. “Yes, I see.”

  She rang Nappa back. “Did the lab say if they came from the same bunch of reeds? The cross from the doorway and the cross from the card?”

  “Couldn’t tell, but they said if we want a more extensive workup, it could be sent to a university out of state. They could run more tests.”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “Something about checking the pollen grains from the plant. It could identify the region they came from,” Nappa said.

  “At this point, go for it.”

  “It’ll take some time, but it’s worth a shot. Unless, like your computer friend, you have another friend, a botanist perhaps?”

  “Any botanists I know deal with a certain other kind of plant.”

  “Information I don’t need, McGinn,” said the ex-Narcotics officer before ending the call.

  “Here’s the list, darlin’. ” Doreen handed Megan a paper of over twenty distributors based in Ireland.

  “I didn’t realize there were so many.”

  “And that’s not even half of them—those are only the ones I order from. I go to trade shows in New York and New Jersey. They’re always coming out with new things, so I like to use different distributors. It keeps the inventory fresh.”

  Megan looked at the names and phone numbers on the list. “What time is it in Ireland right now?”

  “They’re five hours ahead, so a bit after nine in the evening. You might better wait until tomorrow, if calling them is what you’re needing. Can I wrap those for you?” she asked.

  Megan had picked out a pair of silver earrings for Maureen and a Donegal tweed cap for Uncle Mike.

  “Actually, yes. Gifts for Maureen and Mike.”

  “What, nothing for yourself, luv?”

  Megan looked around the jewelry case. She already had a Claddagh ring, and still, in her mind, owned a cross necklace.

  “Darlin’, you asked so much about Saint Bridget, why don’t you take that bracelet?”

  A delicate silver bracelet had Saint Bridget’s cross at the center of the clasp. Megan picked it up to check the price.

  “I’ll give it to you at cost, sweetheart.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Doreen removed the price tag from the bracelet before fastening it to Megan’s wrist. She smiled. “Now you have Saint Bridget on your side, my dear.”

  _____

  As soon as Megan knocked on the Murphys’ front door, she could hear the mayhem inside. Kids laughing, dogs barking, and at least two different people yelling, “Someone’s at the door!”

  Aunt Maureen greeted her with a grandchild on one hip and another tugging at her from behind. She had a warm, welcoming smile on her face until she took a look at Megan’s. “Meggie, what happened?” She gently touched Megan’s chin, turning her face side to side.

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “Come in here. We have a large group tonight: two out of the four boys and their entire crews—including the dogs.”

  A Jack Russell named Conan and a black Labrador named Daisy bombarded Megan with licks and tail wags as she entered. “Hey, guys.” In a momentary lapse Megan bent over to pet the dogs, shooting currents of pain through her back muscles.

  Aunt Maureen noticed her wince. “What else is wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine, just pulled a muscle.”

  “The hell you did. Patrick, come take a look at Megan,” Maureen yelled into the kitchen. Patrick was her second-eldest son, named after Megan’s father, and he was also a doctor interning in orthopedics.

  “Hey, Megs. Shit!” Patrick gave Megan a hug and a light peck on the cheek. He was the younger-looking version of Uncle Mike, only he now surpassed his father in height and not one gray strand could be found in the mop of black hair on his head. But the two men still shared the same warm smile.

  “Patrick, the language,” Aunt Maureen scolded. “Meggie’s hurt her back, take a look.”

  By that time the rest of the Murphy clan in attendance had come into the living room to greet Megan: Patrick’s wife, Moira; Kyle, the youngest Murphy brother; his wife, Veronica; and countless Murphy grandchildren.

  Megan loved a full house, just not the medical attention. “Turn around, Meganator,” Patrick demanded, “let me take a look.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Patrick, take her in the kitchen. I’m going to put a video on for the kids until dinner is ready.” Aunt Maureen received an enthusiastic response from the children, if not more so from the adults. The dogs, however, followed the scent of the roast cooking and joined the gathering in the kitchen.

  Uncle Mike was checking on the roast when everyone crowded into the chef’s quarters. “Genius at work, people. I need my space.”

  “Dad, Megs is here.”

  He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel, staring at Professor Bauer’s handiwork. “So she is.”

  Megan handed him the bag of gifts. “This is for you, and this is for Aunt Maureen. As for all of you other Murphys, you’re going to have to wait until Christmas!”

  “That’ll wait. Patrick, look at Meggie’s back,” Aunt Maureen ordered.

  “I’m fine. Really.” Megan’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Moira passed Megan a glass of red wine. “Drink up. You’ll need it with this group tonight.”

  “C’mon, strip for me,” Patrick joked.

  “Patrick!” Maureen swatted his shoulder.

  “Okay, I give up.” Megan took her jacket off. “Patrick, I’m telling you I’m fine, but take a gander anyway.”

  Patrick raised her shirt up.

  When Maureen saw her son’s concerned look, she moved closer to see for herself. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

  Of course, this led to every adult in the room inspecting Megan’s posterior region.

  “I had a rather impromptu altercation with a suspect.” She skirted having to tell the whole story.

  Patrick felt around the bruise. “Does this hurt?”

  “Only when you touch it.”

  “What about here?” he asked. He pressed hard into the bottom of the bruised area.

  “If you push any harder, I’m going to turn you from a Patrick into a Patricia.”

  “Please do, three kids are enough,” Moira chimed in.

  “You should really get some X-rays, and a few tests,” Patrick said.

  Uncle Mike was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Do you want me to set up an appointment?” Patrick asked.

  “Let me give it a few days. I promise, if it doesn’t feel better, I will call you for some tests. Fair enough?” she asked.

  “Hey, you’re the baby sister I never had. I’m just trying to watch your back.” Patrick messed Megan’s hair. “Get it? Watch your back.”

  “Your bedside manner sucks, but thanks anyway.”

  Uncle Mike spoke up then. “Megan and I are going into my study. Help your mother with the rest of dinner.” He moved to the doorway and motioned Megan to follow.

  In the study, Uncle Mike took out a bottle of whiskey and poured them each a shot. “Did this happen before or after your apartment was broken into? Before or a
fter you started your vacation?”

  “How did you know about that?” She thought to herself how stupid a question it was as soon as it left her lips. Though not on the force anymore, Uncle Mike had eyes and ears everywhere in the department.

  “Drink.” He handed Megan the glass. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Bruised but not broken. It looks worse than what it is. Promise.”

  “Sit. Talk.” Winning friends and influencing people were clearly not high on Uncle Mike’s list during this conversation.

  Megan went into full disclosure of every aspect of the case, from the moment she first arrived on the crime scene to an hour ago at the Irish gift store. Uncle Mike listened intently, though she could tell he badly wanted to interrupt and give Megan the riot act for not immediately acting the first time the unsub reached to her out via cell.

  “So, there you have it.” She finished her drink.

  “That’s not all of it.”

  “What? Yes, it is. I’ve told you everything.”

  “Everything but the fact that you’re on leave and still working the case.” He threw back the remaining whiskey in his glass.

  “It’s nothing you or dad wouldn’t do, and you know it,” Megan said with a level of certainty that could not be argued with, even by her father’s best friend.

  Mike sat forward. “I’m not going to waste my breath arguing the truth with you. You hear me, and you hear me good. You keep eyes open, front, back, sideways. You stay armed every second until this is seen through. Got it?”

  “Dad, Megan, dinner!” Patrick yelled from the dining room.

  Megan nodded. “I promise.” She squeezed his hand. “I love ya, Uncle Mike.”

  He welled up and pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket. “Just stay alive. Get in there, I’ll be in in a minute.”

  _____

  A few hours later, the dining room looked as though a holiday feast had been enjoyed instead of a casual family dinner. The adults sat around the table drinking coffee and finishing off dessert, while the kids were experiencing food comas watching the end of the movie in the living room.

  “So, Megs.” Kyle threw a dinner roll across the table. “Saw you on the news this week.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She returned the sentiment by throwing the roll back.

  “I have to say, that partner of yours, Nappa, is so hot,” Veronica chimed in.

  “Definite eye candy,” Moira added. The Murphy husbands moaned at their wives’ observations of Megan’s partner.

  “I’ll let him know you feel that way,” she joked.

  “We all think you should date him,” Maureen said.

  “Here we go!” Megan laughed.

  “Okay, if that doesn’t work for you, I tell you what,” Moira suggested. “My girlfriend joined this Internet dating service. It’s really been a great experience, and it’s geared toward Irish New Yorkers.”

  “That’s it, I’m outta here!” Megan started to get up from the table. “It’s been lovely, just great seeing everyone, but unfortunately Manhattan calls.”

  The goodbyes took longer than the meal. Uncle Mike walked Megan out to the porch and gave her a gentler hug than normal. “Watch your back, kiddo. No pun intended.”

  “I will. Hey, you’ve been awfully quiet this evening. Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep, and call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

  “You’re on my speed dial.” Megan gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the cap. It looks good on you.”

  Uncle Mike smiled. “I know.”

  thirty-nine

  Insomnia had become Megan’s only bedtime partner since the McAllister case entered her life. She lay in bed hours after leaving the Murphys’ house watching television, flicking from one channel to the next. Programming at that hour consisted of one infomercial after another. Megan watched as space-age technology shrank clothes down into zippered plastic bags. Then came the must-have, a set of kitchen knives that could slice anything in half, from a tomato to a Chevrolet. Of course, there had to be one self-help guru pushing his “Think positive thoughts, heal your inner child, eat a lot of salmon, and oh, by the way, none of this can be accomplished without buying my Guide To A Better Life Kit for three easy installments of $29.95 as long as you order right now” pitch.

  She checked the clock next to her bed. Forty-five minutes until the gym opened. Working out was the last thing on her mind, but she thought a light swim followed by a sauna might loosen the muscles in her back. Megan sat cross-legged and placed her laptop on a pillow in front of her. It had been a few days since the last time she checked her personal email. She logged in and was bombarded with countless spam mail that she quickly deleted: offers for Viagra, personalized astrological charts, low mortgage loans, to name a few. Her personal inbox had far less mail. There were two emails from her brother. One had an attachment and she clicked on that first, assuming there would be pictures of her niece and nephew. The email said, “Megs, is this a carbon copy of your Kiddie Kampus photo, or what?” Kiddie Kampus was the preschool Megan and Brendan had attended. She got up to find the photo to compare the two. The 5x7 picture was near the front of one of the many photo albums she’d yet to complete. In the photo, Megan wore a black and red-checkered wool dress with a white, puffy-sleeve shirt underneath. She leaned on her elbows with one pudgy hand cupped under her equally plump chin, while the other rested in front of her. She held her picture up next to the one of her niece on the screen and smiled at the remarkable similarities. Both had long eyelashes and shared the same dimpled smile.

  Megan tapped the photo as her memory returned to the day it was taken. She doubted her brother had as difficult of a time getting his daughter to wear a dress as Rose had with Megan that chaotic morning.

  Megan was never a girlie-girl. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans, sneakers, and a baseball glove—a tomboy through and through. She had a doll she’d never played with, never played dress-up, and especially never wore dresses … until photo day for her preschool class.

  At first, Rose chased her daughter around the dining room table, waving the dress and pleading for her cooperation. Like a gladiator stomping out the threat of an approaching opponent, Megan was quick, but when Rose was able to grab hold of her ponytail, it became a different match. Megan pulled the drop-to-the-ground move and lay on her back, using her feet to kick her mother away.

  “Megan, you are wearing this dress. Your father and I picked this out especially for you. It’s an important picture!” Rose pleaded.

  “No! I don’t wanna wear that stupid dress!” Megan flailed a last kick up at her mother when she was given the ultimate threat.

  “You put your foot in my face one more time, young lady, and I’m calling your father.”

  Gladiators were never threatened with something like that.

  Rose’s exacting tone didn’t leave any room for debate. “He’ll be very upset with you if I call him with something like this. And I will call him.”

  Megan may have been young, but she wasn’t stupid. Her father didn’t put up with any bullshit from her at five, fifteen, or twenty-five. The threat of him being called at work was enough for her to concede but not, however, without a little bargaining on her behalf. Megan stayed on the floor staring up at her mother as she released a huff and said, “I’ll wear the dumb dress but no shoes, no tights.”

  Rose glared down at her daughter mumbling to herself. She knew that was the best she was going to get out of Megan that morning. She got up from the floor, pulling Megan up with her.

  One hour later they were at the preschool, standing in line with Megan’s other classmates. Megan kept her promise and wore the dress and the white puffy shirt. She even let Rose brush the knots and tangles out of her hair. Rose stayed true to her end of the bargain as well. I
n place of tights and black shoes, she allowed Megan to wear a pair of jeans and purple sneakers under the checkered dress.

  “People are going to think I’m color blind, letting you out of the house like this,” was Rose’s only comment.

  Megan smiled proudly in the photo, more because of her partial victory than anything else.

  “McGinn, you can really be a pain in the ass sometimes,” she said to herself. She smiled, but it was more of a reprimand than witticism.

  Megan started to pack her gym bag, wanting a cigarette now more than a workout, but she stayed the course. The lighting in the women’s locker room, however, was less than kind. Alone, she turned toward the mirror to see the bruising on her back before donning her suit. She examined the marks on her face, momentarily relieved that her father wasn’t alive to have seen her like this.

  Megan patiently sat poolside, waiting for a lane to open. She wasn’t concerned with how long of a wait it would be; she was just relieved not to be the lone swimmer this time. The Blue Hairs, a group of women Megan nicknamed a long time ago, were in the open section enjoying their morning senior water-aerobics class. Megan didn’t give them the nickname because of their age; they wore water caps that had blue, feathery rubber hairs sticking out of them. The women talked more than they moved, but they always seemed to enjoy themselves. The lifeguard noticed Megan right away.

  “Any word on your necklace?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Megan responded. Lengthy conversation was not part of her agenda.

  “Well, with any luck it’ll show up,” he offered.

  “Yep,” she said.

  The swimmer in the end lane finished. There was one woman in queue ahead of Megan, who turned around. “You can take that lane if you want. I’m waiting for the middle one.”

  Megan wasn’t particular on which lane she swam in, so she took the woman up on her offer. Having other gym members around made her ease into her workout more comfortably than the last time she had swam.

  She was so relaxed having other swimmers in the pool that she totally lost track of the number of laps she’d swum. Her shortness of breath indicated she’d accomplished more laps than her previous visit, but it wasn’t until she flipped over and pushed off the wall that it came to a screeching halt. For the first time in her swim, she glanced to her side and was shocked to see no other swimmers beside her in the water. She stopped at the pool’s edge and grabbed the side. She whipped off her goggles and cap, looking around the room anxiously. All the members of the seniors’ water-aerobics class stared over at her.