Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery (8 page)

• 14 •

Kevin recognized Danny’s professional mask face when he returned with ice in his whiskey. “About to get to the point, are you?”

“Unfortunately. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

“You’ve nothing to hide, remember that,” Liam called after them. The confidence in his tone comforted Kevin until Danny set a tape recorder on the counter. A sickening
déjà
vu
enveloped him as Danny settled himself on a stool at the kitchen island.

“We’re at this again? Why so official?”

“Because I need to be on this one. And I don’t have an extra man handy to be my note taker. Better this way, actually.” Danny fiddled with the recorder without turning it on. “Listen here, Kev, the shit’s about to blow your way again. Lonnie was knifed in the heart sometime during the party.”

“Holy shit. Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

“Oh, I don’t know—because of your temper?” Danny held up his hand to quiet Kevin’s protest. “The news is already out. The journalists have arrived, and Clarkson has started his media games. He’s already sniffing after you on the O’Briens’ good say.”

Unable to stand still, or sit, Kevin jerked open a cupboard. Of course the O’Briens pointed their fingers at him. It stood to reason, didn’t it, because of his supposed jealousy, his uncontrollable temper?

He grabbed the cake and frosting mixes he’d bought before deciding to bake from scratch. Chocolate fudge, Liam’s favorite. “I’d have been mad to kill Lonnie. Pure mad. And besides you were with me the whole evening.” He yanked down a bowl, poured in the cake mix, and ruined two eggs in his attempt to crack them against the bowl. “Fucking hell.”

“How much do you remember about last night?” Danny said.

“Is this the official interview?”

“Not yet. We’re two friends, talking. Though you know I ought to treat you like any other suspect.”

“Oh yes, duty.” Kevin splattered another egg and bowed his head. “I’m grand. I did nothing. I have nothing to hide.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” With quiet finesse Danny cracked two eggs into the cake mix. “The reason I ask about what you remember—” He shoved the bowl aside. “Listen, you went missing for a good thirty minutes.”

“I did?”

“And I have to include this in my report. In fact, Mrs. O’Brien nattered on about it when she gave her statement this afternoon, so I’m sure others noticed, too.”

“That cow can’t help herself, always the busybody bitch.”

“Still, I’m warning you, OK? I’ve got my men questioning the partygoers as we speak, and hopefully they’ll find someone who saw where you went.” Danny dipped his finger into the cake powder and licked it. “How many people do you suppose were in and out last night?”

“Three fifty? Four hundred? Your men will have more work than a ram in breeding season.”

“But not nearly as much fun.” Danny swung an arm around Kevin’s shoulder, the manly shake, and then his voice turned serious again. “Remember to answer with the minimum necessary. This is routine. We’re asking everyone to run through their evenings.”

“Not routine from your boss’s point of view, I’d wager.”

“And do not, I repeat, do not lose your patience.”

“Good luck to that.”

Memo of Interview

Detective Sergeant Danny Ahern questioning Kevin Donellan in the death of Lonnie O’Brien. Sunday, 31 August 2008, at 21.40, in the home of Liam Donellan at 94 Kilkany Lane.

DA: Let’s start at the beginning. What time did you arrive at the Plough and Trough Pub?

KD: Eight or thereabouts. People were starting to arrive.

DA: And what did you and Emma talk about?

KD: What’s that got to do with the price of potatoes?

DA: Several people saw you talking with her early on.

KD: I bet they did—took a sorry interest in seeing us together, I’m sure. Last year, the relationship not even laid to rest, and she showed up at the party with Lonnie. Oh, and Lonnie made sure to swagger her around the room, acting as if he actually cared for her—

DA: You didn’t grease this tin.

KD: (clanking) Anyway, last night Emma only wanted to be sure I was right in the head again, such as that goes.

DA: Were you angry last night?

KD: Angry enough to kill Lonnie, you mean? You can say it.

DA: Please answer the question.

KD: Talking to Emma saddened me, that’s all. And honestly, maybe some residual guilt. That business was my fault. I left her high and dry.

DA: And last night?

KD: We said “hi,” and then I fetched Liam. That’s it. He was outside with Marcus. That was around eight thirty. I escorted Liam back into the party, and I didn’t so much as wink at Lonnie the whole night.

DA: Did you meet his date?

KD: Of course not. I avoided him—and her by association. Felt sorry for her though. Hope she didn’t end up like Emma. She didn’t, did she?

DA: No.

KD: Besides, I was pretty well ossified by the end. I don’t remember much of anything.

DA: Then how do you know you didn’t speak to her or Lonnie?

KD: Because I’d remember that much, wouldn’t I? Are we done now?

• 15 •

After ten minutes of listening to Kevin rant, Danny clicked off the tape recorder. In that time, Kevin had managed to pummel the cake batter into submission, pour the batter into cake pans, and shove the pans into the oven.

“So much for not losing your patience,” Danny said. “Plenty of people have seen your temper fly. This isn’t exactly in your favor.”

Without a word, Kevin added milk to the frosting mix. Danny, harking back to his own kitchen with Ellen, watched Kevin beat the frosting until sweat broke out on his forehead. Ellen, he predicted, had put herself to bed at the same time as the children, whose mouths and fingers were probably still berry-juice stained. If they went berry picking at all, that is.

The swinging door creaked behind them. “Ah, chocolate cake, I see,” Liam said. “And thank you for that. I couldn’t be bothered with the white cake Mrs. O’Brien supplied for the party. I detest white cake.”

“And God forbid we sing happy birthday,” Kevin said.

“I draw the line at that. I made a point of not going near the bloody cake in case Mrs. O’Brien saw me and rallied up a song. Don’t know why she insists on a cake. Give the people their pints and they’re happier than two peckered dogs.”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Kevin said. “More cake for her to gorge on at home.”

“Silliness in any case. After the first couple of hours no one cares whether I’m there or not, and thank Christ for that. People having their fun, the way it should be.”

It was the same conversation every year. In Danny’s opinion, the only solution was to fire Mrs. O’Brien. Unfortunately, she prided herself on her party planning skills and fancied herself a festival sponsor because her husband’s hotel turned a healthy profit during the festival.

“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 Tuesday 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.