Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery (6 page)

• 9 •

Merrit stood frozen for what seemed like forever while the cat squirmed against her clenched grip. In front of the desk, Lonnie lay on an Oriental rug that was too plush for what amounted to a converted storeroom. Scattered euro notes surrounded him, and for the first time since Merrit had the misfortune to meet him, his hair was natural in disarray rather than artfully arranged. He was almost a pretty picture in his cream linen suit. Except for the knife sticking out of his chest, of course. And the crimson stain around the wound. Even Lonnie didn’t deserve that much bad karma coming back at him.

A fly buzzed, and Merrit knew it was only a matter of minutes before it landed on Lonnie to lay a few hundred eggs. She swallowed against stuffiness that hinted at the telltale and sweet beginnings of decomposition, and eased back a step. Ivan continued tapping away at the speed of desperation. Thankfully, the giant flat-screen monitor blocked his view of Merrit. Holding her breath, she eased back another step. To her dismay, the cat chose exactly that moment to thrust itself out of her arms.

“
Blin
!” Ivan shot up. “I see you. No, do not hide.”

Merrit ran, but not fast enough. Ivan grabbed her in the murky storefront where darkened computer monitors yawned at them. Merrit yanked her arm, but as small as Ivan was, he was still bigger than she. “Let me go,” she said. “I’ll scream, I swear I will.”

“How did you get inside?”

“The back door. Were you too drunk to lock it last night?”

Ivan pushed Merrit aside and sprinted toward the back door. Merrit grappled with the closed window blinds in search of the front door.

“You will not leave,” Ivan said, grabbing her from behind once again.

She struggled, but he had the strength of desperation on his side. He half carried, half pushed her back into the office. She nearly stumbled over Lonnie when he let her go. Blocking the doorway, he surveyed the Oriental rug, the executive desk, the plank shelves that held nothing but old magazines. His skin looked clammy as the underside of a mushroom. “Please to listen to me. I do not care why you come this early.”

Merrit steadied herself and tried to exude confidence. She pointed toward the blinds that protected them from view. Already, a few pedestrian shadows stretched along the slats. “I will scream.”

“If you really thought I did that”—Ivan waved an arm at Lonnie—“you would already be screaming like typical woman. Could be you did this instead, but I do not care about this either because I only want to stay in Ireland.” He rolled his eyes like an overloaded pack ass and pulled at his hair. “We do not have time for this talking. We help each other, yes?”

Ivan returned to Lonnie’s computer to detach a thumb drive from the USB port. Merrit wavered, unclear whether self-preservation meant acquiescing to his request or calling the police. A notion spread through her like a malignant ink stain. Perhaps her arrival and Lonnie’s death weren’t a coincidence. Perhaps death had followed her from California.

“But you’re tampering with evidence,” she said. “I can’t be a part of that.”

“And you are not wanting me to tamper? Lonnie keeps all information you should know. I will be first suspect with the Garda—what you say
police
—and you will be second unless we minimize damage. My life that I thought could get no worse, just did. You are in same place, yes?”

He rubbed at goose bumps that had risen on his arms. “Stay there. I need sweater,” he said.

***

At the threshold of his workroom, Ivan paused to assess Merrit. Her gaze, usually so witch hazel and wide, had turned inward. Hard to read, her, but she’d inched toward the front door while his back was turned.

“One word about you,” he blurted. “Morphine. So you stay, yes? Or maybe
I
go to the Garda. I am sure you do not want them looking at you too closely.”

“Did Lonnie know too?” Merrit said.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

In an emotional about-face that startled—and gratified—Ivan, Merrit’s face bloomed red and she patted her chest. She clawed through her oversized purse. Not finding what she looked for, she then exhaled in short huffs into the bag of her hands.

Let her stew on their predicament. Ivan continued into the workroom, chewing on his resentment once again. With Merrit standing there huffing and puffing, he couldn’t even pinch the money scattered around Lonnie’s body like confetti. He deserved compensation for his slave-labor hardships.

Worse still, with the matchmaking festival starting the next day, there would no doubt be extra scrutiny and scandal. And all of it aimed in his direction. Ivan knew how the system worked, no different in Ireland than in Belarus: tidy over local blemishes, keep the tourists happy and safe, find a scapegoat named Ivan, and boot said Ivan back to Minsk. He wasn’t about to let that happen.
Blin
, no.

Not seeing his sweater on its usual hook, he grabbed a pair of latex gloves instead. He was already wearing a pair. He returned to Merrit. “Take these. If you did not kill him, and if I did not—”

“The big
if
,” she wheezed.

“—we have to choose to trust each other, yes? I will not tell about you, and you will do same for me.”

He balled his fists, waiting for her to catch breath enough to scream down the walls. Instead, she pulled in a shaky breath, put on the gloves, and fumbled a yarn ball out of her shoulder bag. With the distanced look of someone floating from the ceiling, she wiped down the door frame she’d grabbed to steady herself.

“When the Garda arrive,” he continued, “explain that you walked in and saw me standing in doorway then you will appear truthful.”

“And by association, you too?”

“Honesty by appearances. In Belarus this takes politicians far.”

“The file. Where is it?”

Back at the computer, his fingers tapped the keyboard. His mind raced, trying to remember if he had erased everything that implicated him in Lonnie’s blackmailing schemes. Damn Merrit for distracting him from his task.

“Hello, Ivan, where are the printouts?” Merrit said. “Lonnie showed me the file. It has to be here somewhere.”

“I do not know where Lonnie stores the hard-copy file. I already looked, but you can try too.”

Too many minutes later, Ivan was ready for the next phase of evidence tampering, and Merrit had given up her search for the file. “Now you help me with computer,” he said. “And then we call the Garda.”

• Part II •

Sunday, August 31st – Saturday, September 6th

“Even well-honed instincts can come undone.”

—Liam the Matchmaker

Gull’s Hollow Community Gazette, Monday, July 17, 1989

Hero’s Death Continues to Baffle Locals

Officials continue to investigate the death of local philanthropist Julia Chase McCallum. On June 7, McCallum was killed after her BMW collided with an oncoming Ford truck in the worst crash this area has seen in a decade.

The truck’s driver, Chris Jones, 18, sustained massive head trauma and remains in critical condition at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Sources close to the investigation say initial evidence shows McCallum drifted into the oncoming lane. McCallum’s husband, Andrew McCallum, president of the privately held Mid-Pacific Consulting and Trading Company, headquartered in San Francisco, could not be reached for comment.

“Julia was an esteemed member of our community,” said Mayor Danny Wyatt, “and we feel her loss immensely. This is a tragedy.”

McCallum chaired the local equestrian club and was a show-jumping champion.

“Her expertise will be sorely missed,” said Marilyn Cooper, cofounder of the Wine Country Equestrian Club. “She almost single-handedly raised the $20,000 sponsor-donated prize money for our first show-jumping competition.”

McCallum has also been praised for her work with migrant families, especially in the area of literacy. “Julia loved children,” said Sheila Ortiz, president of Migrant Worker Relief Fund. “I’ve always admired her commitment to literacy. She was not the type to lose track of her driving. She had too much to live for.”

Inquiries into factors in McCallum’s collision yielded nothing from her peers. The police won’t speculate except to say that they are investigating all possibilities. Until the accident, McCallum had no record for traffic-related or other offenses.

McCallum was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on April 22, 1945, to Percival and Mary Chase, distant relations to the Chases of Chase Manhattan Bank fame. Prior to marrying Andrew McCallum and settling in Gull’s Hollow, she worked as a journalist.

A memorial service was held at St. Rose Catholic Church in Santa Rosa, on Saturday, June 24, 1989, at 1:00 p.m. and was attended by more than 300 mourners. Her 13-year-old daughter, Merrit Lane McCallum, led the eulogies. In lieu of flowers, Andrew McCallum requests donations to the Migrant Worker Scholarship Fund established in his wife’s name.

• 10 •

The sun had risen high enough to reflect off the dirty dishes by the time Danny blinked his way to the sink to rinse out his coffee mug. Another four cups might rouse him, but the second brewing pot might also give him away. He pictured his wife drop-kicking him all the way to County Galway because he got ploughed at the Plough during Liam’s party.

He plugged the sink and cupped his hands to drink while the basin filled. The water’s metallic warmth went down easy.

“Do stop,” Ellen said from behind him. “Do you want to set a bad example for the children?”

Mandy and Petey were outside, but Danny remained silent in hopes he wouldn’t accidentally touch off his wife. Calm for the moment, she stood by the window overlooking the backyard where the playhouse Kevin had built no longer stood. Tangled blackberry vines seeped over the rock wall that bounded their land and overwhelmed the flower beds Ellen used to tend.

The children pressed funny faces against the outside of the window. Their church clothes were already dusty, and blackberry juice stained their lips. Danny stooped under the windowsill as Ellen moved away. Giggles turned into incipient hysteria. Just as the children were about to give up on him, he stood and pushed open the window. The smell of over-ripening berries rushed into the kitchen. He leaned out the window, grabbed each child in a one-armed tickle hug, and lifted them into the house.

Mandy, at eight, considered herself the expert on rules. “You’re still in your bathrobe. It’s too late for that.”

She held one of Danny’s hands in both of hers while Petey hugged his leg. “A deal then,” Danny said. “I’ll wash and change into my play clothes if you do the same.”

Their identical smiles almost broke his heart. Mandy clapped her hands, then stopped. She approached Ellen, who had retreated to her spot at the kitchen table. “Mum, can we use your shower today, please? Instead of the bath? Please?”

Ellen’s expression was lost to Danny, her head tilted as it was to gaze at her oldest child’s freckled hand, but he knew its angled contours, the melancholy she tried to hide from their observant daughter, who now leaned close to Ellen and whispered, “Please, Mummy, I’ll be ever so careful with Petey.”

Ellen cupped Mandy’s face. Danny shared Mandy’s happiness for the kiss his wife planted on her nose. “Go on then. I’ll be in to wash your hair.”

“And Petey’s too?”

“And Petey’s.” She sank back into a slouch as the children ran from the room. “You didn’t miss anything at Mass today. The church was half empty, and Father Dooley talked about the body as temple even though he undoubtedly drank as much as everyone else at the party.” She rubbed a finger through bread crumbs on the table. “How was door duty, by the way?”

Danny returned to the dirty dishes. Squeals and water gurgles issued from their master bathroom. “What you’d expect.”

“Anything unusual this year?”

“By which you mean with Kevin. What’s got you asking?”

“Just that I bumped into Emma outside the church. She looked awful, simply done in. All she wanted was to clear the air with Kevin. After a year, that’s not so much to ask, is it?” She licked her finger. “For anyone but Kevin, that is.”

Ellen liked to forget that Kevin might as well be Danny’s brother. Danny opened his mouth to object and just as quickly Ellen shut him down. “Don’t say a word, don’t you do it. You always defend your men friends.”

Ah, here we go then. Like clockwork a checkmate occurred, twice, three times a week. Danny’s presence was all the accelerant Ellen needed to vent her despair, her anger, and her gripes against him, everything from the towel rack he hadn’t repaired to his pittance salary.

Hoping to waylay yet another fight, Danny said, “You go splash, and I’ll finish up the dishes. Then we ought to pick some of those berries. Petey’s been pleading for tarts.”

“You’ll be here to make the dough—won’t you? I don’t think I can manage the dough today.”

He nodded, relieved that her flare-up had dissipated as quickly as it had emerged.

“Mummy, Mummy, you’re here,” Mandy shouted a few moments later, and Petey in mimic, “You’re here!” If anything, their delighted surprise depressed Danny, as did the abandoned garden, as did last night’s drunkenness. He dry-swallowed aspirin, pulled flour out of the cupboard and mixed it together with the rest of the dough ingredients. Over the past few years, he’d become a decent cook much to his not-so-delighted surprise.

His mobile rang, displaying the number for his superior in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He put the phone on speaker and continued mixing the dough. NBCI’s Clare division superintendent, Eric Clarkson, worked out of county headquarters in Ennis. He didn’t bother greeting Danny. “Problem out your way. The state pathologist and scenes of crime team have already left Dublin. You need to get on securing the scene for them, and do it well because I’m talking about Lonnie O’Brien here. Apparent homicide at his Internet café.”

Danny froze with his hands in the dough bowl. “You’re having me on.”

“Indeed I’m not. Son of a friend, I might add.”

A spurt of adrenaline drove Danny to hurry with the dough.

“I question whether you can handle this—” Clarkson said.

“Good call on your part, keeping this with me.” Danny knew well enough that Clarkson was on the brink of calling in a more experienced detective. Any detective
inspector
out of Dublin would do. “The locals won’t cozy up to anyone but their local lads. Plus, the matchmaking festival starts tomorrow.”

“Ah, shit, that’s right, isn’t it? Just what we need, hundreds of bottom-feeders circling the action. Bloody nightmare. And mind you take care with the O’Briens. After last year’s buggery, they’ll want a quiet arrest. O’Brien Senior has an idea for a suspect. That Kevin fella we had trouble with last year.”

But of course. Danny could have predicted that one.

From the bathroom, Ellen’s voice called out for the children to hurry now. Danny patted the dough into a ball while Clarkson wasted precious minutes letting Danny know that O’Brien and Clarkson went back a ways and that Clarkson would be the one to keep O’Brien abreast of developments. Danny got the hint. Clarkson would receive the back slaps after he, Danny, solved the case.

“So O’Brien Senior found Lonnie?” Danny interrupted.

“What? No,” Clarkson said. “Some employee of his did and called O’Brien.”

Ivan. He was just the type to call the big man instead of the Garda. Lately, Ivan had appeared more ratlike than usual as he scurried about Lisfenora on Lonnie’s behalf, and now Danny wondered why. Ivan, who’d arrived just over a year ago, spoke stilted English, and lived above Lonnie’s shop the last time Danny had checked.

Danny wrapped the dough in foil. He turned to see Ellen staring at him from the hallway with the children on either side of her. He held up the dough. “Work,” he mouthed.

“That’s convenient. You’ll use any excuse to get away, even door duty, won’t you?”

He covered the phone. “You like to remind me that I’m due for a promotion. So which is it? You can’t have both the money and a house husband.”

“That’s the way with you then, push it all back on me.”

Back on the phone, he begged Clarkson’s pardon, ending with, “I’m on my way.”

“You’d best be,” Clarkson said. “And Ahern, no fucking about on this. You’ve had a rough go, but I don’t want to hear any family excuses.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rang off. The children retreated to their bedroom, no doubt to avoid witnessing another fight. They took their plastic berry-picking buckets with them.

***

In a rental cottage that had seen better days, Kate Meehan peeled back her sleep mask. The clock read half nine, and normally she was not one to sleep past seven. Even so, she snuggled deeper into her body heat, closed her eyes, and luxuriated in a well-deserved lie-in. She still couldn’t believe her luck and congratulated herself for her quick thinking during Liam’s party. She fancied herself the only person with a bird’s-eye view of the current drama, from 1975 to the present, from Liam to Lonnie.

She reached under her pillow to be sure of her souvenir and thought about how she might use it to benefit herself. She stroked its smooth surface—it looked so innocent from the outside—then let herself wallow in a self-indulgent doze. For once, she felt replete.

She’d come up with a plan. She always did.