by Lisa Alber
Annie’s footsteps followed. They sounded deflated. Nathan picked up a tall, slim vase with a tuliped lip. He’d used the last of his lichen glaze to imbue the vase with its rich green hue. Like spring, that color. Which reminded him that he’d forgotten to buy magnesium carbonate to make more glaze. “Please, take it. I insist. Please.”
Annie’s reaction surprised him. “Shame on you, devaluing yourself that way.”
Money. He hadn’t thought about it in a serious fashion since Susannah died. “Take it or leave it, either way.”
“If I were a dog owner, I’d say you weren’t well socialized when you were young.” Annie smiled as she picked up the vase and cradled it in her arms. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. Don’t mind my mouth. It’s hard to let go of old patterns.”
Nathan understood about old patterns. The mobile gripped in his hand slipped. He wiped his hands on his jeans and swiped a glance at the time again. After a few more minutes of chat, he steered them outside. The air helped ease the queasiness that had settled over him. This was the first time he’d forgotten to cover the birdcage before a guest arrived.
“Most people are interested in the firing process,” he said. “I can show you that now if you’d like.”
“I’d like, indeed.”
The firing shed took up most of the space in the minuscule yard that backed up to a gentle hillside undulating into the next gentle hillside. Zoe had carved out a spot for herself in a corner. One stool, but its presence oppressed him. He didn’t like her out here when the kiln was going. He needed focus to transfer the molten pots to aluminum rubbish bins for the last stage of firing.
Nathan had given the raku firing talk so often he could spout it without thinking. Today he spoke faster than usual. Annie interrupted with pertinent questions along the way. She wasn’t going to let him hurry her along. In her own way she was as strong-willed as Zoe.
“Why is raku a low-fire technique?” she said. “What does that mean?”
Nathan nodded toward the giant silver-colored gas kiln in the corner of the shed. “It refers to the temperature up to which I fire the clay. The key to raku is removing the pots from the kiln when they reach their maximum temperature. You don’t wait for them to cool.”
“That must be dangerous.”
“I wear protective gear and pull the pots out with tongs.” He lifted the lid off one of the bins to reveal a brick pedestal and lots of soot and ash. “I transfer the pots into these bins and cover them. They are so hot they ignite the combustible items—like leaves—I’ve put in the bins. I’m forcing the pots to cool rapidly, which stresses the glaze, causing it to crackle. The smoke from the burning leaves soaks into the cracks.”
“Craquelure,” Annie said, sounding proud of herself.
“Yes.” Nathan tapped the lid back down on the rubbish bin. “The smoke also has an interesting effect on the glazes, which is why raku is known for its metallic sheen.”
“Your pieces are lovely.”
“That’s all they are. Their only function is beauty.”
Annie held out the vase that Nathan had gifted her, admiring it. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m not sure.”
She cocked her head at him, looking interested. He supposed it did sound odd. Here he was, a potter who created vases that leaked, that existed only to be praised, and that he wasn’t convinced deserved a place in the world.
On the other side of the house, the front door slammed, startling Nathan. He stepped away from Annie. “My daughter is home.”
“Dad?” came Zoe’s voice. “’Allo? Oh! Why, hello.”
The air crackled like his glazes when Zoe stepped into the yard. Nathan rubbed at his side. It had begun aching a few weeks ago.
“This is brilliant.” Zoe wrapped an arm around him and squeezed. “Glad to meet one of your lady friends for a change.”
“A studio visit, that’s all,” Nathan said. “Giving the tour.”
Zoe beamed; she positively radiated good cheer. Nathan grabbed the vase from Annie, murmuring that he should package it up.
“Oh, you bought it, wonderful,” Zoe said.
Nathan sneaked another peek at his watch. “You’re back early. I thought you’d be at Liam’s for hours.”
“He was in fine form today,” Zoe said. “Besides, I need to change. See here, I got blood on my dress.”
Nathan winced against a softening around the edges of his vision. The cotton batting that surrounded Nathan most of the time began buzzing, all around him a loud buzz that radiated from the base of his skull. He touched his fingertips to the tabletop to steady himself.
Annie opened her mouth to comment, but Zoe barreled on. “Not to worry. It’s not my blood. Bijou stepped on a shard of glass.” She pulled it out of her jacket pocket. “But she’s as good as new now.”
She dropped the shard on the table near Nathan’s hand. He jerked away, his stomach rising, and made it to the sink in the nick of time to throw up.
“Blimey, Dad, I didn’t know you had issues with the sight of blood,” Zoe said.
“That surprises you?” he retorted and immediately regretted it. “Not always,” he amended.
He sank onto the stool that Zoe set down beside him. Annie picked up the unpackaged vase, reassuring him that she’d be careful and that she’d enjoyed the studio tour.
“I’ll walk out with you, shall I?” Zoe kissed Nathan’s cheek. “I’ll change fast and be off again, too. We need more coffee. You be good.”
It took all of Nathan’s effort to nod. Yes, be gone. When her voice had faded into the house along with Annie’s, he stood, set the stool back in its spot in the corner of the shed, and sank down onto the floor instead.
eleven
Danny had picked the wrong time to chat with Elder Joe’s cohorts at the Plough. The din of a pounding hammer disrupted their afternoon pints, and they shifted and squirmed on their bar stools, calling out to Alan to quit with his bloody renovations already. Even Bijou had abandoned her pillow in favor of blocking the front door.
Alan stood on a ladder in front of a newly painted wall. Gemma, his girlfriend, motioned Alan to shift a nail a few inches to the left. At her nod, he pounded it in, raising his voice above the clamor to ask Gemma where the sleán—or turf cutter—had gotten to; did they send it to the restorer?
Alan waved his hammer at Danny. “Don’t be leaving before I ask you a question.”
Joe Junior and a couple of other regulars—Mackey and Mickey—grumbled their hellos when Danny sat down.
“You here official-like,” Joe Junior yelled over the hammer thuds, “or unofficial-like?”
“Sorry to say, official.”
Danny knew how to play the game. As long as he didn’t lord his position over them, they’d see fit to talk to him. One whiff of superiority and they’d tell him to feck off.
They waited in silence while Danny ordered his pint. As soon as the junior barman set it down, the men raised their pints. “God rest him, a saint among drinkers,” said Mackey.
“Sláinte.”
Danny sipped his Guinness and set the pint down. He waited for the pause between hammer blows. “What have you heard?”
“Someone killed Elder Joe in his own home,” Mickey said. “Gutted, I am.”
“Pure madness,” Mackey added. “Blood everywhere. A sea of blood.”
They were off then, the three of them bellowing over each other when Alan’s pounding started up again. Lamenting the demise of Irish culture and declaring that this was what came of letting go of the old language and letting in the violence from the States through television and movies.
“And the Internet, don’t ye be forgetting that!” shouted Mackey.
Alan glanced at them from his position mounting a pitchfork onto the wall. Its sharp prongs could do some damage, but nothing like EJ experienced.
“Tell me about Elder Joe,” Danny said.
Mackey’s red nose twitched. “How do you mean?”
�
��You’ve sat here with him for the last two decades. Tell me about him.”
Mackey shook his head with a puzzled expression, as if Danny had asked the question in Latin.
“He’s just Elder Joe,” Mickey said.
“You mean to tell me that in all these years he hasn’t talked about his family or his work or his pet cat?”
“He has a cat? First I’ve heard of that,” Mickey said. “Didn’t strike me as a cat person.”
Danny swallowed down a hefty mouthful of the black stuff. “Right, let’s put it this way. Why do you think someone would kill Elder Joe? I’m taking ideas.”
Mackey gurgled into his pint and came up guffawing. “That’d be easier than a Saturday night tart. He was a right old bastard, that one.”
“Can you be more specific?” Danny said. “What about his business?”
Again, the puzzled look. “You mean the lodgers?” Mackey said.
Lodgers. Is that what he called them?
“EJ rented rooms out of his house,” Mackey said. “He has a huge house for one old codger. The family home.” He shook his head. “One of the big families around here until a few generations back—before you were born, anyhow. Three generations of Macys lived in that house. Full of children and baking wives.”
“I know his daughter is up in Galway,” Danny said. “The next of kin, but she refuses to travel down here to see to his affairs. Any idea why?”
“You’d have to ask her,” Joe Junior said. “She gave up on him years ago.”
“We haven’t found any other family members. No one else you’ve heard of ?”
“Dunno, quite.” Mackey stared into a middle distance with bleary eyes. “Yet another family with too many girl daughters and unmarried sons.”
“I find it hard to believe that you know nothing personal about Elder Joe,” Danny said. “If he was as much of a bastard as you say, he’d have had enemies, full stop.”
Joe Junior snorted.
“Did he mention anything unusual of late? New lodgers?” That question earned Danny three head shakes. “How about this—when did you last see him?”
Joe Junior spoke up. “Last Friday night. He went fishing that afternoon with Nathan. You know Nathan.”
“I do.” Nathan Tate, the potter with a damaged way about him that attracted women.
“Nathan, now,” Mackey said, “he might be the one knowing more about EJ, seeing as how he lodged with EJ for a while. I’d say the two of them were decent friends, all in all. At least, here in the pub, they’d chat.”
“That’s helpful. What about Elder Joe’s other lodgers?”
“What about them?” Mackey said. “Just something he did. He didn’t pay it no mind.”
Which was too obvious, given Cecil’s state. Danny swallowed another mouthful of beer. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re bloody useless when it comes to helping me find Elder Joe’s killer.”
Head wags all around. “About the size of it,” Joe Junior said, “but if we think of anything we’ll ask Alan to ring you.”
“Helpful of you.”
As Danny stepped away, Mackey took ownership of the half-full pint he’d left behind on the bar. Alan intercepted Danny halfway toward the door. He rubbed his bad shoulder, a holdover from his hurling days. “What do you know about a lass named Zoe, daughter to Nathan?”
“Nathan, eh? What about him?”
“More to do with the daughter,” Alan said. “An hour ago I picked up Bijou from Liam’s house and received an earful about his daughter fixing a cut on Bijou’s paw. There’s a scar on her paw, all right, but I’d never noticed it before. We got to wondering—”
“We?” Danny didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re not turning into a meddler, are you? Merrit’s a bad influence.”
“Cool your ever-mighty jets.” Alan lowered his voice. “It’s only this—Zoe will be helping out with Liam’s care. You heard his cancer is back?”
Danny nodded, curt, not wanting to delve into it.
“There’s something off about Zoe,” Alan said. “That’s my interpretation, anyhow.”
Danny considered Alan. Except for his sometimes fiery half-French temperament, Alan was a hard one to read. That said, he had one tell: the way he rubbed his shoulder when he was bothered by more than a muscle ache.
“Go on then,” Danny said.
The junior barman called out a clogged toilet. Alan swore under his breath. “Merde. In a nutshell, Zoe fancies herself a healer. Liam, and by association Merrit, has taken an interest. You might want to check in on Liam, see how he fares.”
Alan strode away after dropping that oversized hint about Danny’s fractured relationship with Liam. Danny had considered Liam a father figure until the events that followed Merrit’s arrival estranged Danny from him, all but ended Danny’s marriage, and caused Liam’s son Kevin to take off for Christ only knew where. A bloody mess all around. After that murder investigation, Danny had preferred to keep his distance, especially after Merrit moved in with Liam.
It seemed he was about to venture over the threshold of Liam’s house for the first time in a year and a half. However, he had a funny feeling it wasn’t Liam who needed the talking to.
twelve
Wednesday, 17-Mar
Yesterday I visited Nathan in his studio.
Fact: Nathan almost jumped out of his skin when his front door slammed. A deer in the headlights, wanting to flee but caught tight.
Fact: Nathan didn’t appear capable of returning his daughter’s affection.
Fact: Nathan gets sick at the sight of a few drops of dried blood.
My theory: PTSD. He exhibits many of the common traits: disconnected, vigilant, jumpy. When I quoted a poem about caged birds, I caught a pained expression flaring from deep within his soul. He has what I’d call a shrine tucked into the corner of his studio. A cage with a ceramic bird inside it—a talisman perhaps.
Also odd, Nathan gave me a vase, and then he let his daughter Zoe assume that I’d paid for it. He doesn’t value his art. It struck me that, likewise, he doesn’t place value on his daughter either. Or, more precisely, on his relationship with his daughter. She, on the other hand, knows her worth.
He may not know it, but he’s lucky his daughter lives with him. Sometimes PTSD sufferers don’t realize how difficult they are to deal with on a daily basis. His daughter has adapted well. She responded to him appropriately: attentive but not smothering, accepting but not submissive.
Fact: I now own a gorgeous, “useless” vase, an empty vessel. Seems fitting somehow.
thirteen
Along Quay Street, Galway City, strands of green pennant flags flapped in the breeze above jaunty tulip and daffodil baskets. Celtic music floated through the air from buskers who had set up outside the Druid Lane wine bar. They played for a healthy crowd that sauntered along the pedestrian thoroughfare. Some of the Americans were already drunk.
Danny and O’Neil sidestepped a sandwich board announcing live music that evening and paused to get their bearings. Róisín Macy’s gift shop was located on this block somewhere. Further along, a few tourists braved the chill in the seating area outside The Quays pub. The pub’s vibrant blue façade reminded Danny of Nathan’s daughter Zoe. Eye-catching but a bit of a spectacle after all that.
Funny that Zoe lived with and doted on her father whereas Róisín disliked her father enough to refuse to drive down from Galway to formally identify his body. Danny hoped his daughter Mandy survived childhood healthy enough to land in the middle between these two extremes.
Beside him, O’Neil pushed back on a drunk who veered into him. “Jumped-up gobshites. St. Patrick’s Day brings them all out.” He led the way toward another cheerful shop front, this one cherry red, that announced Galway Gifts. A bell jingled when they entered the shop. A display table featured gear perfect for St. Patrick’s Day festivities. Two teenage girls jammed giant green Leprechaun hats on their heads and burst into laughter.
A woman with clas
sic ginger coloring sat behind the cash register. A smile lit up her face when she recognized O’Neil. “Look at the sight of you!” She trotted toward them down an aisle jammed with novelty foodstuffs, mugs, and socks—dozens of socks, more socks than Danny thought possible—and grabbed O’Neil in a bear hug. “You bloody wanker.”
O’Neil grinned at Danny from over Róisín’s shoulder. “You see my boss there, full of censure. Hugs unbecoming an officer.”
Róisín stepped away from O’Neil and saluted Danny with an irreverent finger flick. She appeared younger than her years, with ponytail, dimples, and a spray of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Danny could see why O’Neil had liked her once upon a time.
“Moira, the shop’s yours for a few minutes,” she called.
“Right,” someone called back from behind one of the aisles.
A door led to the back of the shop, where a sagging plaid couch stood next to a half-fridge with a coffeemaker on top of it. Róisín waved them toward the couch and dragged a chair to sit in front of them. “You’ll be wanting me on the firing line, I suppose. Have at me, then.”
A giant tortoiseshell cat wandered into the room and settled between Danny and O’Neil. Its purrs rumbled over the hum of the refrigerator.
Róisín raised her eyebrows. “And so?”
“You’re not what the boss expected,” O’Neil said. “Give him a moment to figure out what to make of you.”
“Ay,” she said. “I can’t be helping my cheerfulness. It’s a curse. Find myself in the worst predicaments when I’m supposed to be serious. Not that I don’t have my blue moments, but, yeah, you boot me out into the rain and I’ll see rainbows.”
“What kind of rainbows are you seeing with your dad’s death?” Danny said.
“I’m sick that he died in pain, and I hope you find who killed him.” She no longer smiled, but her open expression didn’t exude sadness either. “I grieved for him years ago when I decided to abandon my role as his daughter.”
The cat’s tail flicked against Danny’s thigh. He scratched under the cat’s ear and earned a toothy yawn. “Why did you do that?”