Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery (4 page)

Liam Donellan’s journal

The journalist didn’t like my answer to her question, “What makes you so good?” At the time I shunned notions of “good” because they implied the existence of opposing concepts like bad, evil, and sin—which no matchmaker ought to consider for they’re the death of empathy. After all, I, as matchmaker, can’t pick the people who come to me with hopes of happiness. I’ve matched all manner of unsavory characters without judgment for they’re in need of love too.

She had an empathy of her own, this journalist, which was why I allowed her to question me in the first place. It was true that I didn’t think of myself as something so prosaically Catholic as “good.” Even then, I believed good people—people like you, my son—fared poorly in life. They’re too vulnerable to disillusionment, which is an unsuitable trait for a successful matchmaker.

In the end, disillusionment breeds resentment, which is a kind of hatred. A matchmaker must not hate his petitioners. This above all is taboo. However, I waged battle against this truism once, a long time ago. I thought I was superior enough to feel the fester without effect. There were no winners. In fact, the fallout continues, and when the toxic results of my life finally settle, and when you raise your head to take in the new view, I can only hope you won’t detest me.

• 5 •

At Patsy’s, the restaurant across the street from Internet Café, Kate Meehan sat in a window seat with a cup of tea. She eyed the sandwiches on her neighbors’ plates: cucumber with parsley, egg salad with sprouts, two-layer ham salad—all in various shapes of heart, clover, diamond, and circle, all with the crusts trimmed off. Next would come the deviled ham toasts and broiled cheese breads, the scones and currant brioches served with lemon curd and apple butter. And finally, the festive petit four tea cakes and strawberry meringues and peach sorbets.

It was enough to make her wretch. Really, who were these people?

Your average demanding consumers, that’s what. She understood that much from her own business dealings. She also understood the shenanigans required of all small business owners, and she smiled as she eavesdropped on Patsy, who advertised her
official English-style high tea
with a sidewalk placard. “Our lemon curd is identical to that Queen Victoria herself enjoyed. The recipe came into my family through marriage. The head chef at the time married my cousin’s great-grandmother. In fact, most of our recipes hail from Queen Victoria’s royal kitchen.”

Verbal vomit, Kate had long ago noted, was the inexpert liar’s downfall. The opposite case—communicating just enough—was an art form. And the reason she was here in Lisfenora, when all was said.

Kate reached into her bra cup and pulled out the letter that had arrived back in July. What an exasperating day that had been. She’d been out of her mind with boredom, about to succumb to yet another bout of tepid sex with that fledgling porn queen, Becky Thatch, who refused to change her name to Elle Lure upon Kate’s advice, and who insisted she wasn’t queer. Not that Becky’s sexuality mattered to Kate. Some relationships deserved cultivation, and some cultivation methods were more titillating than others. However, that day Kate had decided she was finished with Becky. Kate remembered the exact thought going through her head when the letter drifted through the slot.
If I have to explain to her one more time how the webcam works, I will poke my eyes out.

She’d somehow become the diva of web porn, and along with the crush of website design work came the inevitable hand-holding of women too daft to know they couldn’t aim the computer monitors at their beds like video cameras.

Kate fingered the letter now cradled in her palm. With a little ingenuity, she might find herself waving bye-bye to website design altogether. That cunt—that surprisingly resourceful cunt—Lonnie O’Brien might have sniffed out her profession and other bits from her laptop yesterday, but this letter’s contents were all hers. She pushed the teacup toward the table’s edge and smoothed out the stationery. The writing paper didn’t fit the tone of the letter, as if the sender had grabbed the first sheet he’d come across. Subsequent research indicated that this was probably true. Kate rubbed a pink-tinted, scalloped edge. As usual, she perused one particular paragraph.

I’m sure you long to know why you ended up in an orphanage. For the answers, seek Liam Donellan of Lisfenora, County Clare. As an infant you had the oddest eyes.

No details there, so either a liar she’d take lessons from or a truth-teller with an ax of hate to grind. She leaned toward truth-teller because of that last sentence. Just the detail she needed to take the letter seriously. She’d been tempted to respond,
I still have those eyes
. Five simple words to show her for a kindred spirit. Unfortunately, by the time she figured out how to make contact, her window of opportunity had closed.

So here she was, in infuriatingly small Lisfenora with its second-rate village church and puffed-up sense of importance, contending with the likes of Lonnie. Despite his superior knowledge about the complication named Merrit Chase, Kate resented his intrusion into her private affairs, especially because she had no one to blame but herself. Her laptop’s security firewall was a good one—not easily decrypted—so imagine her surprise when Lonnie insisted they chat in private about money matters. So much for underestimating the locals, especially bumbling little Ivan.

Kate sipped her tea. Nothing was happening inside Internet Café, but across the street and down half a block began the plaza, where Merrit sat on a bench with the village dosser. As Kate watched, Merrit rose and drifted in her direction. She had an ethereal quality about her that Kate found annoying, what with her flippy little dress and ballet flats. From afar, she looked inconsequential. So much so that Kate had laughed when Lonnie pointed her out earlier that morning. This was after Kate had all but shoved her first cash installment into the Lonnie fund up his nose.

“Take a closer look sometime,” Lonnie said. “Her clothes are expensive, her teeth and posture perfect, and she takes in more than she gives away.”

Lonnie had revealed keener perception than she’d assumed he possessed.

Now, Kate leaned against the window, intrigued, as Merrit stopped just shy of Internet Café’s threshold and then about-faced to eye the restaurant. She trotted across the street, and Kate, who’d been about to leave, settled back in her chair. Couldn’t be more perfect. There stood the waif pressing a hand against her stomach and reading the menu posted outside. Kate surveyed the filled-to-capacity room.

She signaled Patsy. “More tea, please.”

“Brilliant.” Patsy’s gaze skittered toward Merrit now standing inside the entrance. “Oh, dear.”

“I don’t mind sharing my table.”

While Patsy spoke to Merrit, pointed, shook her head, then nodded, Kate tucked the letter back into her bra, all the while continuing her assessment. Merrit looked like she’d been interrupted somewhere in childhood, that’s what it was, and though her body had morphed, a part of her had remained behind.

“Hi,” Merrit said, “you don’t mind my sitting here?”

Kate leaned forward with chin on elbow on table, but Merrit was preoccupied with the menu. She sat sideways on the seat, fingering a large blue stone that dangled from a chain around her neck, and for several minutes she acted as if Kate didn’t exist, which Kate found more interesting than insulting. Look at her, with no clue she’s got a nasty surprise coming to her. Inform Merrit? Negative. No use giving up the advantage, after all. And why ruin her own fun besides?

After ordering her meal, Merrit turned to Kate with a sudden torso shift. Her hips followed next. Then her gaze like twin gun barrels. Again, fascinating, but hardly enough to intimidate Kate.

“You’re Merrit Chase, aren’t you?” Kate held out her hand. “I saw you in the plaza. I’m Kate Meehan.”

“You know my name?”

“Small place.”

Merrit rolled her eyes, but the attempt at nonchalance revealed rather than hid her discomfort. “So I’ve noticed.”

Kate followed Merrit’s gaze across the street, where Ivan exited Internet Café. She crossed her legs and let her toe tap Merrit’s shin. “That Ivan, such an odd little man, don’t you think?”

“I only know him enough to get my wireless going.”

“Have to keep connected, don’t we? I find it tedious, actually. The simplicity of communicating through email gives people license to blather all day long. It’s a bloody leaky faucet. Drip, drip, drip, all day long.”

“That, and cell phones.” Merrit turned away from the window. “Wouldn’t it be nice to disconnect from our lives for a while?”

Kate couldn’t imagine anything more depressing, but she nodded as Patsy set down coffee, fresh tea, and the traditional sandwich selection. Merrit grabbed up her cup like an addict a syringe. After a long, slow sip she sat back with a sigh.

“I happened to be in Internet Café this morning,” Kate said, “and Lonnie mentioned the matchmaker’s birthday party tonight. You lucky thing, getting to join the fun.”

Merrit raised an eyebrow. Her already direct gaze sharpened further. “Why do you keep looking at my chest?”

Kate almost laughed. There was more to Merrit than the bland and distanced friendliness, to be sure. “Not what you think. I was admiring your necklace.”

Merrit smiled and the movement transformed her face. Her cheeks balled up just enough to fill in the hollows beneath her cheekbones. And fancy that, perfect American teeth.

“It looks old—family heirloom?” Kate said.

The smile disappeared. “My mother’s.”

Her mother’s. Once again, lucky her. Kate felt a surprise jolt of jealousy, which didn’t bother her except that it arrived with an unwanted companion: sorrow. She banished the feeling, but too late. Merrit’s expression softened toward compassion. Kate warned Merrit off with a chilly smile and chastised herself for allowing her thoughts to show.

Merrit responded by biting into her sandwiches without finishing them. First the egg salad, then the cucumber, the watercress, and finally the cheese and tomato. All the while, she fingered the pendant dangling in the hollow between her collarbones. A bluish sheen slid across the surface of the stone when she moved.

“Moonstones enhance intuition,” Merrit said after another coffee gulp. “At least, that’s what my mom always said. She was intuitive. She used to say I was too.”

“Too easy. I’m sure the necklace meant something more to her. That’s the way these things work, isn’t it? I’m not big on symbolism and sentimentality myself, but I notice that most people love that kind of thing.”

“I’ll bet you’re all for what’s modern and new anyhow.” There went Merrit’s twitching eyebrow again. “A minimalist.”

Kate allowed herself a sociable laugh. Why, if the situation were different, Kate might actually like this Merrit. Kate hadn’t suffered through one boring moment, which was unusual.

Patsy cleared away the sandwich plate and deposited a silver tray piled high with tea cakes. Merrit snapped her teeth shut over a pastel green confection and chewed fast. She nodded toward the cake tray, but Kate shook her head.

“You’ll have to tell me how the party is tonight,” Kate said. “From what I hear, the matchmaker was quite the predator back in the day. A right asshole always surrounded by his pride of females, hence the nickname Liam the Lion.”

Merrit dropped the cake she was holding onto the tray. Behind the twin-barrel gaze, Kate spied pain, a soulful crackle from a buried place Merrit couldn’t quite hide. Aha, got you.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” Merrit said.

Kate pointed, and Merrit edged her way toward the far end of the room. Daft, letting Kate’s comment get to her like that. She’d be five minutes in the bathroom at least, so under cover of a passing group of middle-aged fatties, Kate grabbed Merrit’s forgotten bag from the opposite seat back. Holy hell, for a tidy thing she kept a filthy purse. Every kind of tourist pamphlet, yarn, knitting needles, gum wrappers, a notepad that Kate wished she had time to read, wadded Kleenex, a few scuffed aspirins, crumbs. In a side pocket, passport and money, just so. Deep into the other side pocket—she caught sight of Merrit with composure back in place. By the time Merrit returned, Kate was swinging her own purse over her shoulder.

“You should take care,” she said. “You forgot your purse.”

“Who’s going to snatch it with you sitting there? Thanks for watching it.” Merrit picked up her bag. “By the way, he was called
Liam the Lion
because he had a huge head of red-gold hair.”

Smiling, Kate let her have the last word. Once outside and with polite goodbyes out of the way, Kate trailed behind Merrit. Instead of returning to the village dosser, Merrit veered left alongside the plaza, then left again into an alley that ran parallel to the noncoastal. Kate kept her distance and watched Merrit turn into one of the row houses. The reassuring press of paper against her breast reminded her of the letter’s last line.
P.S. Watch for a woman named Merrit. She’s your half-sister. She’s sure to arrive in time for the matchmaking festival.

Kate wasn’t a woman to dwell on facts she couldn’t control, but a sister for feck’s sake? She needed a sister like she needed Lonnie’s prying little bugger nose sniffing after her.

A most disgusting predicament. Sharing didn’t come easily to her.

• 6 •

The evening of Liam’s birthday party, Ivan contemplated himself under fluorescent lights. His hair couldn’t be tamed, his mother used to say. This was back in Minsk, in the days when he wore the frizzy mass long and backed into a ponytail. Too bad, his mother also said, he had the face of a man who
could
be tamed. A spineless face.

In the mirror, he watched his face crumple, first the sagging lips, then the slack cheeks, then the droopy eyelids. The contortion highlighted incipient wrinkles around his mouth. He didn’t believe Connie when she said he’d age well. No going to pudge for you, she said. Then that laugh of hers, amazed that he should be interested in a fat old cow like her.

Ivan dabbed on aftershave. Little did Connie know he’d bought the scent because of—and for—her the very day he’d become aware of her apart from her pack of churchy do-gooders. On that first truly warm day in June, Connie had jutted her chin in a stubborn stand against Mrs. O’Brien’s endless bullying about
plaza
beautification
, and he found himself helping Connie down a ladder. She held his hand a moment longer than necessary and sniffed the air. “Lovely cologne.” A furtive glance at Mrs. O’Brien, who stood nearby, another hand squeeze, and then she was gone. He had immediately returned to the pharmacy and bought the aftershave he’d sampled while buying a sweet for lunch.

Ivan smoothed down his hair with gel, grimaced, and stepped out of the bathroom. He’d never admit it to Connie, but buying that aftershave had set him back a week’s worth of lunches. In letters home, he mentioned his
flat
above Internet Café. He described the back alley that dropped him off at the plaza opposite the O’Brien statue and his
business partner’s
father’s hotel. In reality, he lived in a storage area. He heated soup and water for tea on a camp stove. He showered in the moldy stall in the downstairs bathroom. He stored his perishables in the shop’s half fridge, also downstairs.

Here he lived, a big brain with no money, few friends, no dependable business prospects, and no visa if Lonnie decided to cancel his sponsorship—which would surely occur if the business failed. Even Ivan’s relationship with Connie was doomed because of Lonnie. Lonnie, who cultivated a braid of hair down to his shoulder as if that made up for a receding hairline.

Grabbing his one decent jacket, Ivan almost missed the sound of footsteps fading toward the storefront downstairs. He checked his watch: 7:00 p.m. Lonnie ought to be at the hotel primping for his fake date with Merrit Chase. A fetching woman, true, and more quality than Lonnie deserved, but a little too—he didn’t quite know the word—unblinking?—for his taste.

Ivan knelt and listened with ear to the floor. Lonnie’s computer chimed its start-up medley. Lonnie, working? Hard to believe, but it could be true. Ivan pressed his ear harder against the floorboard. Lonnie’s mobile rang with the old-fashioned telephone sound. A mumbled conversation ensued, and then Lonnie’s voice rose through the floor—“You heard me, another installment tonight”—then fell out of range again.

Would Ivan see a percentage? No, and this injustice was precisely why he needed a spine. He returned to his bed and the stack of crates that served as his nightstand. There, a newspaper clipping that he’d retrieved off the Internet a few days previously waited for the proper timing. His latest investigative haul, little did Lonnie know. Ivan slipped the article between the mattress and box spring, recalling the Chase-McCallum marriage announcement he’d handed over to Lonnie on the onset of Lonnie’s new venture as blackmailer. If not for the announcement’s mention of the Chase family name, Lonnie wouldn’t have cared about Merrit—except to try to shag her, of course.

Ivan admitted, not without regret, that Lonnie’s natural cynicism had led them toward a series of astute research inquiries. As Merrit’s laptop had revealed, her last name did indeed link her to the Chase-McCallum coupling, proving Lonnie correct: her arrival had something to do with the enigmatic matchmaker. Still, to Ivan’s way of thinking, Merrit’s arrival was indeed a spooky coincidence in timing—much to her bad luck.

***

Kevin perused the Plough and Trough while stifling a yawn. Mrs. O’Brien and her band of women had outdone themselves this year. Posters featuring lions—everything from
The Lion King
Disney animation to twilit lion profiles on the Serengeti—plastered the walls. Streamers dangled from the ceiling, and a nasty-looking chocolate cake with licorice whiskers stood in the corner under the front windows.

“Ay, Kev, you were glad you weren’t here for the preparations,” Alan, the pub owner, said. Five pints of Guinness sat beside his elbow, their foam settling down to the perfect level for a topping off.

“I’d have been sick with it for sure, even more than I am now.”

“The black stuff will do you well.”

“Indeed, as it always does.”

Along with Danny Ahern, Alan was one of Kevin’s closest friends. The three of them had swallowed their share of Guinness together since well before cop life and family life sucked the juices from Danny, bar life leeched the color out of Alan, and concerns more intangible weighted Kevin’s shoulders. The sense, for example, that he could no more control his life than he could the clouds overhead. Even this birthday party was out of his hands. Used to be that Liam’s birthdays were cozy yet merry affairs. Kevin had fond memories of standing under Liam’s elbow and basking in secondhand praise while Liam’s friends traipsed in and out of their old cottage. It seemed to Kevin that the whole world had worshipped Liam the way those long-ago nuns from his early childhood had worshipped the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit. Only this worship began and ended with laughter, which made the Church of Liam a religious order Kevin could follow.

Now, the annual party was more gimmick than celebration, all to jumpstart the festival. Kevin had heard talk about making this day, August 30th, an unofficial town holiday. Matchmaker Appreciation Day. Pure bollocks, that. Kevin refused to discuss this cock’s ball of an idea, given that it implied a posthumous tribute to Liam. When the topic came up, all he felt was an overwhelming urge to polish his specs.

“And where’s Liam?” Alan said.

“He wasn’t ready to come in yet. I wager he’s walking around the plaza just to prove he can. Surprised Danny isn’t here yet though.”

“He’ll be along as soon as Ellen stops messing him about. He could use a vacation from his life.”

“Couldn’t we all?”

“Now you’re having me on—unless it’s work, you haven’t stepped foot outside the county in a decade.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

“For shit, you are.” Alan topped off one of the waiting pints, pushed it toward Kevin, and continued on down the bar, filling other drink orders.

Kevin arranged his glasses on the countertop. They reflected hazy light circles cast by the overhead fixtures. He slid his face into his hands for a moment of darkness, not that he wasn’t without these anyhow, but just now, he didn’t want to notice the dripping Guinness tap or the knick in the bar top that he’d left last year. All sights he’d seen too many times.

“Heads up, mate,” Alan said, back again. He retreated to the other end of the bar.

Kevin raised his head to a pleasing world of blurred bottles. The fuzzy edges reminded him of the many times he’d stared at Jesus on the Cross through the spaces between his fingers. One of the hazy light circles in his lenses disappeared and Kevin turned around, unsure who he was expecting, but definitely not Emma.

“New specs?” she said. “Put them on, then, give me the pleasure at least.”

So he did, curious despite himself. She reappeared in focus, and he watched her watch him for a moment before she perched on the stool next to him and let her legs dangle. She hadn’t changed since a year ago, or at least not much. She still preferred dresses with elasticized waists, but now the elastic hung loose over nonexistent curves. She’d cut off her hair too. If she’d hoped to turn herself boyish, she’d failed. Vulnerability suited her.

“Your hair looks nice,” he said.

“This was months ago. Has it been that long? How could it go so long in this place?”

He shook his head even though he did know. He’d made himself scarce since last year’s festival, which was to say since Emma’s rape. A year is nothing, he thought, looking at her, surprised by a fresh wash of regret and self-recrimination.

“I’ve been busy with the business—”

She brushed aside his excuse. “No need.”

Right, no need to wax on about his construction projects, not to mention his pro-bono work. Good works bring you closer to God, so the nuns had proclaimed. He’d like to believe this. But did he have faith that he’d catch a glimpse of the bigger meaning if he volunteered to reshingle the Quinlan’s roof; did he have faith that if not, his actions still had meaning; and again, if not, was it enough to be satisfied with the Quinlan’s gratitude and the lamb roast they’d insist he take home to share with Liam?

And, if not, what then?

“Alan, top me off like the gent you are while I fetch Liam,” he said.

Emma stood. “Don’t you leave. I wasn’t staying anyhow.” She stared down the bar at nothing, or maybe at Alan’s photos of his twice-ugly dog. “I wanted to reconnect, a little, just to—I don’t know—to make sure you’re all right. Today of all days.”

He was already halfway to the door but turned back to catch Emma stealing a hasty gulp from his beer. She wiped her mouth with a hint of her old insouciance. Kevin stepped toward her and brushed a hand through her hair, its wiry feel he remembered. “Lonnie’s sure to be here tonight,” he said.

“And who will that wankstain be squiring this year? Feel for her, I do.”

Kevin expected her residual anger but not what arrived with it, something he couldn’t grasp but that hinted at her self-doubts, her conflicts. And her longing? Or maybe simple disillusionment at the injustice of it all.

Outside, but not fast enough to elude
his
leftover spite, he spied his father on Marcus’s bench. Liam’s chiseled profile appeared younger than Marcus’s until Kevin stepped close enough to once again be startled by Liam’s tissue-paper skin. He sat down next to Liam.

“I was admiring this fine blanket.” Liam nodded toward a blue afghan that covered Marcus’s lap. “Quite nice.”

“And warm too.” Marcus capped his flask and set it aside. With elbow hooked over the back of the bench, he leaned across Liam to capture Kevin in the conversation. “That Merrit Chase, there’s another generous soul like you, Kevin. Made this for me herself, she did.”

Liam’s eyebrows rose in a motion so slow Kevin wondered what he was thinking.

“She’s a tourist,” Marcus continued. “Unmarried, I might add.”

Ah, here we go, Kevin thought. Yet again with trying to marry him off. He tilted out of their conversation. Sometimes he forgot that Liam had a history that stretched beyond Kevin’s existence. Liam had watched Marcus grow up, for example. According to Liam, young Marcus sang in the choir and dreamt of being the next great Irish rocker. Now Marcus was a faded version of his potential best self. But then, Kevin wasn’t far behind.

“Let’s get inside before the crowd gathers,” Kevin said. “You’re welcome to join us, Marcus.”

Marcus raised his head from the dazed smile he’d aimed at the ground. “That Mrs. O’Brien, she’d nip the gin out of me flask before letting me in the door.”

“I’ll send out food,” Liam said.

Marcus reached for his flask. “Oh ay, but I forgot that you can ask Merrit for a blanket of your own if you’d so like. Told me so herself she’ll be at the party escorted by Lonnie the Lovely. You’ll have at saving her, good Kevin, just like your Emma?”

Kevin rounded on Marcus, but Liam held up a hand. “Let’s hear what Marcus means to say. Marcus?”

To Kevin’s irritation, Marcus shrugged and swigged from his flask. “Never mind then. Cheers.”