by Alber, Lisa
“Since you’re here,” Danny said to Liam, “let’s you and I have a round off the record. I’ll send around a couple of men early tomorrow morning to get your official statement.”
The two of them sat on stools at the kitchen island, inhaling chocolate fumes and drinking more whiskey while Kevin listened and tidied up.
“What did you think of Merrit?” Danny said to Liam.
“She seemed ill-at-ease, that’s all, especially after she knocked over the presents. You can imagine Mrs. O’Brien in her element, making a scene when obviously the lass wanted to go unnoticed. She left soon enough after that with Lonnie yelling after her.”
“Anything else?” Danny said.
“Lonnie came and went a fair bit. You’d best be sure I was trying to keep an eye on him after last year. I had a good view from the raised platform the band usually plays on. He had Ivan off in a corner for a bollocking.”
“What time was this?”
“Just before Merrit fled the scene. The party had spilled onto the lane in front of the pub, and plenty of tourists had gathered around too. The usual gawkers. I’ve nothing more to add except that I drove—note this please—I drove Kevin home around one. I don’t need bloody chauffeuring.”
Kevin grunted on his way out of the kitchen. “So you say.”
“I do say,” Liam called after him.
A minute later, Kevin returned carrying a gift wrapped with silver paper.
Liam grinned upon seeing the present. To Danny he said, “I’d say we’re done. You have more than enough to start with.”
“That your honed instincts talking?” Danny said.
Liam winked and tapped his temple. “Still in good working order. This will be an interesting festival, you watch. Everyone enjoys a scandal.”
Kevin snorted. “That’s putting it lightly.”
Liam took his time untying the ribbon and pulling apart the paper edges. His right hand fumbled. The second and third finger knuckles shone with scar tissue, whereas his other hand was oddly youthful. Danny had seen him use those hands—even the misshapen one—to excellent effect during the festival when he rested fingers on a nervous widow’s arm or tapped a blustering drunk on the shoulder.
“This is brilliant work.” Liam held up a bowl hand-turned from a solid chunk of reddish wood. “You made it down to an eighth-inch thickness. Light, isn’t it?”
Liam handed the bowl to Danny. The wood gleamed. Black lines in the wood added the illusion of cracks, giving the bowl a fragile appearance.
“It’s made from a type of conifer that’s extinct in Ireland,” Kevin said. “Over a thousand years ago a tree or two fell into a peat bog up Galway a ways. The black lines show where the boggy material seeped into the wood.”
Kevin’s brown eyes looked darker than ever as he waited for a response. He rarely scavenged for compliments. Danny sensed that Lonnie’s death had shaken him more than he’d let on. “You ought to get your work into galleries, Kev. You’ve got the touch with wood.”
Kevin returned to the oven and pulled out the cake pans. “Oh-ay, maybe someday.”
Danny rubbed a jagged black line near the lip of the bowl, regretting that he hadn’t recorded his conversation with Liam. There was already a crack where a memory of something Liam had said should have lingered.
Julia Chase’s notebook
I, in my new persona as festival participant, had forsaken my peasant skirt for a slip dress and my hair band for a chignon. I even wore lipstick and a bra. That evening Liam wore a crepe blouse with a wide neckline that split over his shoulders. I happened to be standing next to a dapper fellow who grunted with derision. “I wouldn’t trust my happiness to a man who wears women’s blouses and moccasin boots,” he said.
This reporter had stumbled upon the only skeptic in the village. I felt it my duty to persuade this man to give matchmaking a try, if only for the fun of tracking the outcome.
(Not sure about including Andrew McCallum even though he is interesting for an opposing point of view. He said he’s just passing through on holiday.)
Let’s see.
The skeptic, Andrew McCallum, a thirty-eight-year-old businessman with sandy features, said he’d never found the time to marry. He has a reserved but attentive manner and the taut stance of a man used to controlling his circumstances. He didn’t appear comfortable with Liam’s newfangled take on an ages-old tradition. He said he preferred courtship and women who tended the home. Further prompting from me elicited a confession: he was supposed to have left days ago, but the festival atmosphere was “surprisingly engaging” despite Liam the Matchmaker.
Just then, a matron in sweater set and pearls took her leave of Liam, and Liam eyed Andrew. For the sake of this story, dear reader, I pushed him forward. “Your turn,” I said.
• 16 •
On the first day of the matchmaking festival, Merrit sprawled on her unmade sofa bed and flipped through her mom’s notes once again. Unfortunately, the yellowed pages that started off so earnestly led to nothing but certitude that Merrit needed the other half of the story from Liam the Matchmaker.
Merrit rolled onto her back and stared at a ceiling crack. An image of her mom sailing over a tricky liverpool jump on Red Hot Glory, her champion Danish Warmblood, flitted through Merrit’s head. Poised as always atop Glory’s arching path, above polished hooves, tucked-up forelegs, and gleaming equine flanks, the same way she was poised as always in her everyday life, seemingly without a care in the world. Julia Chase McCallum had kept Merrit’s life upright. The crumbling started after her death, when Merrit heard words whispered along school hallways (suicide suicide suicide) and realized with crushing distress that she’d never truly known her mom.
The day her mom died, Glory had landed the jump without faltering. Julia flipped a braid thick as nautical rope over her shoulder and aimed a smile at Merrit, who perched on the arena fence, sulking because she hadn’t gotten a chance to ride. Her mom beckoned Merrit to climb on for the trek back to the stable. Sweaty saddle leather mingled with coconut-scented sunscreen as Julia’s arm tightened like a seatbelt around Merrit’s waist. Her mom had been clingier than usual, brushing Merrit’s hair away from her face and kissing her nose. And Merrit had been the purest of adolescent horrors. Wanting none of it. Brimming for a fight.
Her mom’s car crash later that day was an accident, it had to be—right? Otherwise, what could have compelled her to seek a definitive end to her troubles? What choice, if any, did she veer into on a smooth and wide road with the sun shining and her BMW humming to perfection? And, what part did Merrit, the bad daughter, play in upsetting the fragile balance her mom had maintained?
For years, these questions hadn’t mattered. For years, Merrit had fought despair, anxiety, and anger—yes, anger—because her mom had left her alone with Andrew. For years, her only question had been: why did you abandon me?
As ever, Merrit’s chest constricted when she remembered those harrowing months after her mom’s death. She wasn’t prepared for her body to turn into an alien creature; a creature with pimples, breasts, underarm hair, body odor, and, worst of all, excess blood; a creature that required too much maintenance. Without her mom, the simplest task—choosing a deodorant—overwhelmed and enraged her. Her mom was to blame for everything, including her traitorous body. Merrit had to live with the corrosive resentment, which only increased her guilt about her mom’s death.
Banging from the first floor startled Merrit from her unwelcome reverie. She swallowed hard, telling herself that she had new questions now. More important questions. She wasn’t that little girl anymore.
She slid off the bed, listening. After a pause, the thumps continued, and the thumps meant Mrs. Sheedy. The woman insisted on banging a broom handle against her ceiling rather than trek up the back steps to issue her landlady warnings: don’t forget to turn off the porch light before sleep; don’t use the outlet in the bathroom because it shorts the circuits; don’t forget to set out the rubbish for Tuesd
ay pickups.
Merrit sidestepped her suitcase, which was now pulling double duty as a dirty clothes hamper. Next to the fridge, a swinging door hid an unused dumbwaiter chute. Merrit batted the frayed pull rope out of her way and stuck her head into the echoing space. The pounding continued, but rather than call down, Merrit eavesdropped on the conversation in Mrs. Sheedy’s kitchen.
“I don’t have time—” said a man.
A woman’s voice snapped something Merrit couldn’t make out.
“She doesn’t answer.” Merrit recognized Mrs. Sheedy’s voice easily enough. “She should answer. I know she’s up there. There’s no need for you to climb those stairs.”
The man mumbled something, and then a head protruded into the square of light that marked the chute’s opening on the first floor. “Miss Chase?” the man called before he noticed her above him. In a lower voice, he continued, “Could you come downstairs, please?”
Detective Sergeant Ahern. Or Danny, as Marcus had called him. Officer of the law and honorary member of Liam’s family.
“Is this about Lonnie?” Merrit said. “I don’t have anything to add to my statement. Like I told your officer, I left the party early, and Lonnie appeared to be into the festivities for the long haul.”
Danny’s voice remained neutral. “Come on down, please.”
Best to get this over with. She had nothing to worry about, she told herself. She hadn’t lied to the cops. Not exactly anyhow. Merrit hurried down the back stairs and along the narrow passage Mrs. Sheedy shared with the Plough’s rear entrance. In her haste, Merrit bumped against the garbage can her landlady kept chained to the wall so that the pub staff wouldn’t use it. The lid rattled beneath its lock, announcing her entrance into Mrs. Sheedy’s kitchen. Danny leaned against a counter littered with the makings for a cabbage-something. He stood well over six feet but had the melted look of someone who’d lost weight in rapid fashion. She recognized this look, of course, from Andrew, but she sensed that Danny’s illness was not of a physical nature. The weary film over his eyes didn’t hide a lively snap just below the surface.
Next to Danny, Mrs. O’Brien stood with legs spread and fists on hips as if she were the police officer in charge. Merrit smiled to hide her confusion. “You rang?” she said.
Mrs. O’Brien’s chin jutted in Danny’s direction while chubby Mrs. Sheedy, who huffed when she did climb the back stairs, stood with a tea tray poised between Mrs. O’Brien and Danny. If Mrs. Sheedy’s blinks were Morse code, they’d be signaling, God, help me remember every word.
Mrs. O’Brien pulled in her gut and smoothed down an elaborate black dress. Her eyes were swollen but otherwise she hid her grief well. “Merrit was my son’s date. I insist that she must know something. Surely she saw that Kevin Donellan coming and going.”
Danny nodded toward Merrit. “Did you see that Kevin Donellan coming and going?”
“Everyone knows I left the party early. What could I have seen?”
“You were there long enough,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “And need I remind everyone about Marcus lurching about, and who knows what he was up to? Scaring the tourists at the very least.”
“I didn’t see him lurching about when I got outside,” Merrit said.
“I suggest that you leave the questioning to the Garda, Mrs. O’Brien,” Danny said. “Rest assured that we haven’t forgotten Merrit Chase as a person of interest. Or Ivan for that matter. We must look at everyone, not just Kevin.”
“Don’t brush me off with your official-sounding nonsense, young man. Need I remind you that without my husband’s good say you’d have been sacked months ago? Do you think we haven’t noticed your dereliction of duties to our community, and that”—hand on chest, her voice thickened—“your utter drunkenness at Liam’s party may have caused my Lonnie’s death?”
The woman barreled on with suppressed emotion quivering her voice. “And while we’re on it, you should have seen Marcus off to a facility long before now. His presence threatens our tourist trade, and I’d say you’ve let that wife of yours run you down to nothing besides.”
“Leave Ellen out of this,” Danny said, his voice stiff. “She does nothing but help you with your charitable church efforts.”
“Do you know why she volunteers for every menial task that comes along?” Mrs. O’Brien took her time reaching for the tea that Mrs. Sheedy still proffered. “Because she tries to curry my favor on your behalf. She knows where the pull is in our family. Something needs to be done with Marcus, and as I see it, he’s your responsibility.”
Silence yawned between them while Danny set his full teacup in the sink. Merrit stepped toward the door. Despite being summoned, she had once again intruded where she didn’t belong. Mrs. O’Brien had no right to ambush Danny that way, especially in front of an outsider. It wasn’t right. Clamping her mouth shut, Merrit released herself back into sunlight and tourists’ footsteps before she said something she’d regret. It wouldn’t do to call Mrs. O’Brien a fat-cow bully who’d raised a slimy-bastard bully for a son. The last thing Merrit needed was Mrs. O’Brien swiveling her judgmental eye toward her.
Mrs. Sheedy didn’t bother to lower her voice as Merrit pulled the door shut. “You mark me, there’s something queer about that one, slinking out like that.”
***
The festival was set to start after lunch, which meant that the plaza was already too crowded and too loud for Marcus’s liking, not that he minded the older ladies who eyed him as they ambled past his bench, mistaking him for a worthy man.
He sat on the first bench along the walkway that led from the O’Brien memorial statue to the noncoastal. His position faced the Plough so he couldn’t miss Merrit’s approach from Mrs. Sheedy’s place. She appeared impossibly young in baggy shorts, tank-top, and plastic thongs. Perhaps it was her eager wave or the heedless way she bumped into roving men with that bag of hers. Either way, she looked the same age as the teenager who collided into her, causing her to wince and limp the rest of the way toward him.
Marcus sipped quick and stored the flask inside his jacket. Now he wished he hadn’t skipped his bath. It was just that bathing had felt a worthless effort after the weekend’s uproar. Lonnie dead. Un-fecking-believable. Or perhaps not.
Merrit approached as fast as her limp allowed, and then she was upon him with flushed cheeks and ragged breaths. “What is it with this place?” Merrit propped her foot on the bench and fingered a reddened toe. “There’s such a thing as too much community.”
“Enough to make you mental.”
“I suppose you saw Mrs. O’Brien arrive.”
Marcus nodded. “And then Danny. Poor sod has to humor her because she loves nothing better than to lodge official complaints.”
Merrit sat beside him and studied him in that strange way of hers—with eyebrow raised like an antennae receiving signals from a divine messenger. “How are you related to Danny anyhow?” she said.
Marcus fumbled for his gin and swallowed long. “Danny is my son-in-law.”
“Son-in-law.” She tapped a finger on his hand. “And Ellen, his wife?
“My daughter.”
“I could have sworn you said you had a daughter dead to you.”
He closed his eyes and tried to slouch out of her commiserating radar. “And so I do.”
“Was it bad, what happened?”
He nodded at the same time a voice intruded with, “Excuse me.”
Ah Kevin, arriving on those silent feet of his. Marcus threw a quick peek at Merrit, who had frozen with her mouth open. He was glad enough to see the end of her probes, well-intentioned though they might be. Kevin was a good-looking young buck and oblivious enough he attracted the lassies all the more for it. Merrit would do well to befriend a man like him, who looked after anyone he let into his world.
Marcus settled himself further into a sprawl with face aimed at the sun. “If you’re looking for Danny, check Old Sheedy’s place.”
“It’s Merrit I’m after,” Kevin said
.
• 17 •
Kevin had the notion Merrit wasn’t reacting well to his presence, which didn’t make sense unless she, like most, wondered if he’d killed off Lonnie. Not that her opinion mattered to him. He’d introduce himself, inform Liam of the fact, and, with luck, satisfy the old troll’s desire to expand Kevin’s social horizons.
Merrit stared up at Kevin, clutching a large blue pendant, and then startled him with, “Did Liam send you to find me?”
“How’s that?”
“Oh. Nothing.” She frowned. “Just that I’m sorry about knocking his presents off the table. Can you tell him that?”
“Of course.” Kevin eased himself down beside her on the bench. “I’m Kevin Donellan, but then it seems you know that already. I was on my way to set up an information booth for the festival when I saw you.”
Merrit sat up straighter. “Oh?”
“In a way, I suppose Liam did send me because he thought you looked a little lost at the party.”
“That was his word, ‘lost’?”
“Indeed.”
Merrit sagged back against the bench. “Oh.”
Odd, this Merrit, taking the word “lost” personally. Most people would be flattered that Liam had noticed them at all. Observing her up close, Kevin noticed how quickly she shuttered herself. Now her smooth expression said nothing but polite interest. How the devil Lonnie had landed her for an evening, Kevin couldn’t fathom. Come to that, perhaps she’d hooked back up with Lonnie after the party. Perhaps she was the last to see him alive. Kevin opened his mouth, about to introduce Lonnie into their conversation, but changed his mind. Danny would sort her out.
He sat back to soak in the plaza hubbub and dozy sun warmth instead. For these brief and welcome minutes, he allowed himself to loll rather than to rush to the information booth, then to the construction site out Doolin way, only to turn around to escort Liam to the festival commencement, wait around, take him home, toil on the Quinlan’s roof for a few hours, and finally, maybe, if he could keep his eyes open, retreat to his woodworking studio.
Another long day ahead of him. Better not to loiter here too long.