Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery (27 page)

• 54 •

Kilmoon Church greeted Danny with moon-shiny stones and the quietude of the dead. He’d left Liam’s house with one backward glance at Merrit, the woman who had flayed him pink side out, and one question. The original question: who the bloody hell had offed Lonnie?

Perhaps Kilmoon safeguarded the answer as she had the answers to both Adrienne Meehan’s and Kate Meehan’s deaths. He could hope anyhow.

He tilted his head back, felt the Atlantic winds circling him like banshees, felt for Kevin out in the wind too—lost to them for now—and felt for his wife, most of all his wife, who’d avoided the freewheeling winds since wee Beth’s death.

He must accomplish one fecking thing. One—fecking—thing. He hadn’t prayed in years but gave it a try now. “Lady Kilmoon, you mighty bitch, grant me insight.”

He thought about his revised timeline and Emma’s knife forgotten in Lonnie’s shop, ripe for the sticking. Truth was, Lisfenora was full of characters who’d have liked to stick Lonnie. Even Marcus. Could he discount Marcus? Lonnie had been causing Marcus grief for months, after all, wanting to drive him out of the plaza.

Danny shook his head. No. Not Marcus. Ivan crept into his head as he had throughout the investigation. From Ivan his thoughts wandered. He stared at Kilmoon’s blackened-window eye sockets. What are you trying to tell me, bitch? You love your secrets.

Love. It always seemed to come down to love. True love, tortured love, unrequited love, match-made love, it didn’t matter. Love.

He sat up. “Thank you, bitch.”

***

At the Grand Arms Hotel, Danny descended the stairs from the lobby into the pub, and thus, into Lonnie’s wake. The low-raftered ceiling trapped conversations so that they sounded louder than they were. In the corner, a Celtic string band played ballads. Wall sconces designed to look like lanterns cast orange shadows over the guests, most of whom had been at Liam’s party.

In her usual proprietary manner, Mrs. O’Brien stood at the bottom of the steps next to a sign that stated “Private.” She shooed a couple of tourists back up the stairs.

“My condolences,” Danny said.

Mrs. O’Brien took her time sipping from a glass of white wine. “I see that Marcus is off the plaza at long last. Good of you to do that at least. Go on then.”

Danny nodded, reminding himself to smile as he slipped passed her. He edged along the walls and scanned the subdued crowd. The drinking had just begun. The jigs and the singing and the toasting would come later. He fingered the timeline in his jacket pocket. Along with the new fact about the knife’s accessibility, an old fact had bobbed up with new significance.

He must do right by Lonnie’s death, even if the truth brought down the hounds of hell on his sorry carcass. Two of those hounds stood in the corner of the room next to a memorial collection of bouquets, trinkets, and cards.

Clarkson held his whiskey glass up against Mr. O’Brien’s, and they drank. O’Brien wore a black armband and a weary expression. Danny had nothing against the man. In fact, he was a decent sort who, unfortunately, had to contend with the rest of his family on a daily basis. Deep lines etched the sides of his mouth, and they deepened when he nodded a welcome toward Danny. Clarkson merely raised his eyebrows.

The cloying scent of calla lilies and gladioli tickled his throat. He offered his condolences and greeted his superior.

“This one here believed in Kevin Donellan’s innocence all along,” Clarkson said, his voice looser than usual. He swigged back more whiskey. “By shit he was right.”

“Good to have the final answer at last,” O’Brien said.

“Sir?” Danny said.

“Old Benjy the Bagger couldn’t find conclusive signs of anything but an accidental fall for Kate Meehan. And Lonnie’s braid under her body says it all. Cheers.” Clarkson drank again.

“But what about the bruise on her chest?” Danny said.

“Inconclusive of anything. Seemed accident prone if her ankle had anything to do with it.”

Merrit with her dead-on, bloody instincts had sized up reality just as Benjy had, and it was all too convenient for everyone, even for Danny if truth be told. Unfortunately, Lonnie’s braid wouldn’t be so easy to explain away when Danny officially absolved Kate of Lonnie’s death. Hold that thought. A fresh wave of disgust washed over him. The braid
would
be easy to explain away. Merrit would be only too glad to confirm that Kate had snuck into the crime scene after Lonnie’s death to steal the folder and while she was at it, snip the braid and throw the money around. Eloquent and believable she would be, he was sure. Liam would be off the hook again.

Clarkson and O’Brien continued their conversation where they’d left off when Danny appeared. Golf. Danny scanned the lantern-lit crowd again, stopping at Ivan. Dour and twitchy as usual, he slouched at one of the tables near the musicians. He’d cut his hair and bought himself a decent shirt in readiness for his new life. Danny felt sorry for the poor bastard.

He could still leave. He’d done his duty to politics and social niceties. But no, he had to find a way to live with himself, even if he served up only one slice of the truth pie. He excused himself from Clarkson and O’Brien. Clarkson, in true Clarkson fashion told Danny he wasn’t all the way off the hook yet. “I’ll be watching you.”

“I expect so, sir.”

Ivan drooped when Danny sat down beside him. “You are sitting in Connie’s chair,” Ivan said.

“I thought I might be.” Danny started to pull out the timeline, but stopped himself. He didn’t have the sauce to fuck about with Ivan tonight. Best to get straight to the point. “What time were you supposed to meet Connie at Internet Café on the night of the party?”

Ivan grabbed his pint. With both hands he upended the glass and gulped it down. “You have to harass me still.”

“It’s a simple question with a simple answer.”

Ivan’s gaze darted around the room and locked onto something behind Danny. Not something, a someone named Connie O’Brien, who arrived with a plate of cold cuts. She’d pulled her hair back into a tight bun and hadn’t bothered to disguise her pasty complexion with makeup. She placed the snacks on the table, pulled up a third chair, and sat down. She immediately placed a roll of ham in her mouth and chewed.

Ivan lowered his head into his hands.

“What time were you supposed to meet Ivan during the party?” Danny said.

Connie pulled the plate closer and bit into another piece of ham. “Midnight.”

“Instead of Ivan, you found Lonnie.”

She nodded and plucked a piece of turkey off the plate. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Through the turkey, she said, “It wasn’t Ivan’s fault. He couldn’t find me in the crowd, so I thought we were still on. The door was unlocked anyhow, so I went in.”

Liam was supposed to have arrived at midnight to pay Lonnie his latest installment. Lonnie must have been surprised to see Connie. More than surprised, he must have been appalled.

“Who was he to judge me with all the tarts he’d shagged?” she said. “But he did, couldn’t stand the thought of us, the hypocrite.” She met Danny’s gaze. “We all just want love, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do.”

Ivan moaned into his hands.

“You ever wonder why none of us O’Brien children have married?” Connie said. “Because of my dear sainted mother. She’d like to drive the halo off an angel. So now I finally find a man who can tolerate her, and what does Lonnie do? He threatens to send Ivan back to Minsk. He was my mother all over again. He was always the most like her. But he couldn’t do that to me. I deserve love as much as anyone at the matchmaking festival.”

Danny held out his hand. Connie held it as they stood up.

Ivan lifted his head. “I knew you would ruin my life.”

“I’m sorry for it,” Danny said.

“Can Ivan come as far as the Garda station?” Connie said.

He nodded, and the three of them slipped out the service entrance. Tomorrow was soon enough for the drama to begin.

The usual festival buoyancy met them when they reached the plaza. Undaunted by the crispy chill of autumn’s start, tourists and locals alike congregated around the benches while others sauntered along with smiling voices. Hopeful dancers swung around in time to hopeful music. Their scarves flapped behind them in the breeze.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Connie said. “It was too much love coming out of me all at once. It was too painful, and I couldn’t contain it. The knife was right there on Lonnie’s desk.”

In a sorry way, Danny understood. He and Ellen had once loved each other in the same all-consuming way. He pulled up his collar against an errant wind gust. The matchmaking festival banner snapped its clichéd insistence that love conquered all.

Tell that to Liam, Danny thought.

He propelled Connie and Ivan away from the plaza. Tomorrow Liam would once again work wonders for everyone but himself, as he had since the seventies. Maybe that was as it should be.

And tomorrow Danny would wake up in his lost friend’s bachelor’s bed. The decision to take over Kevin’s cottage didn’t distress him as much as he’d expected. And maybe that was as it should be too.

• 55 •

Merrit as the next matchmaker. Un-bloody-believable. Or maybe not.

Kevin sat, staring at the letter, awestruck by Liam’s machinations, his audacity and will, his perverted sense of justice, not to mention his altruistic loyalty to the lovelorn and his desire for his own brand of good. Kevin continued reading.

. . . This evening I told you a story of hatred, but I stopped before I got to the worst of the cruel gestures that I mentioned. This hatred of mine, it didn’t ease upon Andrew’s and Julia’s departures. If anything, it evolved into a festering pain that led me to grab at the only connection available. I hired a security agency that specialized in everyday spying. I learned of Julia’s pregnancy, and I did the math.

Soon after your birth I wrote Andrew a letter, and in this letter I fairly crowed my triumph over him. Over the years, I kept my pain alive by sending him the odd note. I’m sure Julia told Andrew thousands of times that your paternity didn’t matter, but I kept his hatred alive with my letters. This is the sorrow of your life, because—who knows?—Andrew might have made a good father. Of the people whose deaths I caused, I bear not the guilt for them that I do for you, because I damaged you the most—and in yet one more way that I now describe to my everlasting shame.

Even thirteen years after your birth, I couldn’t resist poking at Andrew again. Near your birthday I sent him another letter, which he must have shared with Julia. In this letter, I made it clear that I was keeping a long-distance eye on you, and that I would like to take on some of my paternal obligations, starting with phone calls. This was a threat, and he knew it. Through you, I hoped to reconnect to Julia.

I can only imagine Julia’s turmoil when she found out. She worried for you mightily, and I’m dead certain that her distraction and exhaustion—that insomnia of hers, you know—led her over the traffic line. I only realized my dire mistake weeks later. She wrote pleading me to leave her family alone, to forget about you, to grant her a full night’s rest at last. The letter was postmarked the day of her death.

I leave these awful truths to a posthumous letter because I want you around while I die. I enjoy the bits of Julia you don’t know you possess. The way you pick at your cuticles when you’re hard at thought and the way you stand with your feet splayed. Simple pleasures, in the end, after a complicated life. I’m a selfish man. Believe me, I know it.

Truly, there are two loves in my life, your mother and Kevin, and you as the next matchmaker are my testament to that love. For Julia, who’d have spun a pirouette in pride, and for Kevin, who deserves at long last an unencumbered path in which to find his peace. For this reason, though I regret my actions, at the same time, I do not.

In a way Andrew did my job for me, sending you here. With my cancer diagnosis, I had to start thinking about my legacy anyhow. Little did Andrew know that this talent of mine runs in the family (it’s the family curse, in fact), which means that I have the last say over him anyhow. The notion pleases me mightily.

Remember, you’re charmed for it.

Sincerely,

Liam Donellan

After reading the letter through once and only once, Kevin folded it in precise thirds and slipped it back into the envelope. Little did Merrit know that her new father was as manipulative as her old father. Liam needed an heir sooner than he’d anticipated, and now he had one. If Merrit wanted a loving father figure, she’d best stick with Marcus.

With infinite care he stored the letter in the glove compartment along with the knife that had never gone missing, both of which he’d found in Liam’s desk drawer. Only then, when Liam’s letter was out sight, did Kevin relax. He needn’t feel beholden after all. Liam had other agendas besides protecting the bereft boy—who was not so bereft, who felt fine driving through his homeland, thank you very much.

Kevin leaned his heated face out the window to sniff at wind-torn ocean spray and wince against its sea-salt sting against his cheeks. Route 341 curved out of sight around bends both in front of him and behind, leaving him with the perception he was the only soul on the planet.

But he wasn’t. He picked up his mobile and pressed a few buttons to go straight to voicemail. “I made a casserole before I left. It’s in the freezer. Old troll.”

He hung up. Restarted the engine. Rolled up the window. Nothing to it really, this life as a nomad. Just a series of little actions, one at a time. So next stop, food. The Atlantic’s low rumble retreated into the direction from which he’d traveled thus far. He’d let the miles that ticked by on the odometer be his roots. He’d let the knife, the one that had tested his faith, be his reminder.

***

An hour after Danny left with Emma following on his heels, Liam passed the last book to Merrit, and she positioned it in line with the others. Neither had uttered so much as a sigh since Danny’s departure. There was nothing to say. They’d have to pick up the pieces as they did the books: one at time, on their own.

Before leaving, Danny had turned for a last look at Merrit. “I’ll take over Kevin’s cottage instead of staying here. I imagine you’ll be visiting Liam too often for my liking.”

The message beneath his parting words pricked Merrit because he was right. She had no morals to stand on with him. She’d gotten what she wanted, after all—Liam for the time he had left. She didn’t know if she could bear to watch Liam’s skin turn into a gossamer skein through which his blood vessels would show, or watch while pound-by-pound his bones floated to the surface and ill-used muscles puddled onto the mattress. But she would. This would be her price for getting what she wanted.

“You may have broken my mom’s heart,” she said, “but I’m the one who caused her heart to stop altogether.”

She wasn’t sure why she’d said this, but she decided that Liam deserved to know that he wasn’t the only guilty one when it came to her mom.

“The day she died I saw her slip a letter into an envelope that was addressed to a man. You, though I promptly forgot your name after my mom died. She seemed secretive about it, and me being the spoiled brat that I was, I goaded her about sleeping around with her horse trainer, with the next-door neighbor, with everyone. I called her the worst mom in the world. She stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks, taking it and taking it, as if she deserved to be beaten down with my words. Then she said she must hurry to the post office before it closed. I don’t know what happened on the road, but I do know that she wouldn’t have been driving half-blinded by tears if I had kept my mouth shut.” Merrit paused. “The worst of it was that I only blew up at her because she’d refused to let me ride her horse that day. And now, given everything I’ve learned, I’m certain I didn’t just hurt her, I devastated her.”

When she raised her head from sightlessly scanning book titles, she found Liam watching her. “I insist we ban Mrs. O’Brien from signing on for any of my caretaking shifts,” he said.

She smiled at his lame attempt to distract her. “I can help you through the rest of the festival. Carry your matchmaking book for you, take your notes. If you’d like.”

Some of the opaque dullness lifted from his gaze. “Interesting idea.”

“And I can move into the guest room. If you’d like.”

“That might be helpful too.” Liam rested a hand on each thigh and squeezed them as he straightened his spine. His gaze lingered on the mobile that sat too mute on the desk. He picked it up, pressed a button, listened. “Hovering magpie,” he whispered, then let the phone drop to the floor. “I’m cold, Miss Merrit. Shall we rally the fire?”

She settled him before a small mountain of peat and a steady flame. Liam shifted his feet onto an ottoman, wiggled his toes toward the fireplace, and invited the prowling cat onto his lap. Merrit grabbed her shoulder bag from the kitchen. Despite purging it that afternoon, it sat bloated with fresh excess. She pulled out one skein of yarn after another for Liam’s approval.

“That,” he said, “the purple. And that, the cream.”

Next, she pulled out her tape measure. “Longer than Marcus’s afghan, correct?”

Liam nodded. “Ah, yes, I do like my feet covered.”

After a while, Liam dozed and Merrit hoped the rhythmic click of her needles was his lullaby. She’d care for Liam, yes, and if his pain became intolerable and if he so desired, she’d see to the morphine once again—but this time in honor of her mom who’d have hated to see Liam subjected to unnatural corrosion.

As she knitted, she pictured the photograph of Kilmoon Church that had hung on the living room wall in California. The crumbling walls, the Celtic crosses, the soupy mist. Her mom’s hell that Andrew had insisted she live down every day. Little did Merrit and Kevin—and Kate for that matter—know that they’d grown up under Kilmoon’s corrosive shadow.

She glanced up to see Liam awake again. “What’s that you’re thinking about?” he said.

Liam didn’t need to know that her mom had let Andrew get away with his cruelty because she’d never stopped loving Liam. This was the penance she’d thought she’d deserved. Kilmoon had haunted her from afar, no doubt infiltrating her dreams, causing her insomnia, ultimately leading her into oncoming traffic. At long last, Merrit understood the enigma that was her mom, and she was grateful for that.

“I’m wondering how long it will take me to finish this afghan, that’s all,” Merrit said.

He grunted his skepticism.

She smiled. “Hey, I can be enigmatic too.”

“Like father, like daughter?”

“Or like mother.”

“Just so.” Liam settled back into his chair. “I’m glad you’re here after all that.”

He slipped into sleep again. After a while, Merrit set her knitting needles aside and reached inside her bag for the black box with squeaky hinges. She popped the box open and brushed her fingers across the earrings nestled within. Firelight glowed deep within the moonstones. Merrit slipped them on.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” she said.