Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery (2 page)

• 1 •

For the seventh day in a row, Merrit sat on a plaza bench in Lisfenora, County Clare, Ireland. She sat with back straight and sure against the bench, and with bare legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Unlike most tourists—especially her fellow Americans—she wore flip-flops instead of sturdy walking sandals, and a skirt instead of hiking shorts. Day after day, she appeared to be waiting for someone. While she waited, she jabbed her knitting needles through blue yarn hard enough to skewer the poor sheep to death.

One of the locals, Marcus Tully, lounged beside Merrit with hands settled over his crotch. A fresh, unopened flask perched next to him. As usual, Merrit had invaded his self-assigned bench in the plaza with its centerpiece statue depicting an illustrious O’Brien of generations past. Fuchsia-lined walkways radiated from the statue like bicycle spokes. Sunlight cast a mellow glow onto colorful gift shops and pubs
that pushed up against the sidewalks. All of it was bathed in an Irish heat, milky and cocoon-like compared with August in California.

Merrit stopped knitting to stretch out her fingers and gaze around the village. She reminded herself to be grateful that her journey had brought her to Lisfenora rather than to one of the nondescript villages she’d driven through after her red-eye flight. Lisfenora was only thirty-five miles from the Shannon International Airport, yet she’d imagined she was driving into the outback, Irish style. Drystone walls snaked for miles over the hillsides, delineating emptiness rather than relieving it. One-horse—or maybe that would be one-pub—villages rose out of the early morning mists and slid away as the green expanses took over again. The roads narrowed, and Merrit hugged the embankments as she drove, unsure of herself because of the left-handed road rules. She gripped the steering wheel and scraped along the hedgerows, predicting head-on collisions every time a car barreled toward her from the opposite direction.

Two hours after leaving the airport she had arrived in Lisfenora jet-lagged and frazzled, but also intact despite the scratches marring her rental car’s paint job. One glimpse at Lisfenora and she’d heaved a soul-unburdening sigh. Charming, yes, and lively, and obviously historic. It was a far cry from the claustrophobia and trauma she’d left behind in California.

Lovely, all of it, and she’d absorbed everything from the
failte
welcome mats to the old-fashioned name boards and cheery shop fronts, trying to imagine what her mom had felt when she’d first seen the village. The fact that her mom had looked upon the same stained glass transom windows had amazed Merrit most of all.

Unfortunately, after a week, her amazement had long since faded. She was here for a purpose, after all, and her purpose had led her to pester every local she’d met to no avail. She’d given up cajoling information out of Marcus days ago.

“I’m after warning you not to waste your time,” he’d said. “Liam’s address and phone number are off limits to tourists. You’ll have to wait for the matchmaking festival to start and stand in line with the rest of the love-starved wankers.”

The problem was that Merrit wasn’t just any tourist, was she? She’d bet Marcus would lead her to Liam the Matchmaker if she revealed she was Liam’s long-lost biological daughter. But this knowledge was hers and hers alone.

Well, almost hers alone. Anxiety constricted her chest as she fumbled her knitting. She counted back the stitches along the shorter edge of the afghan and continued on with the trim that she’d begun earlier in the day.

“Yonder Ivan, one of God’s own victims,” Marcus said as a short man with jutting Adam’s apple and red Albert Einstein hair rounded a street corner and disappeared from view.

Merrit waited, hoping for more, then shrugged away the knot in her stomach, or rather, tried to, but the same tension that disturbed her sleep prevented her from relaxing now. “I wouldn’t call Ivan a victim. He seems savvy in his own way.”

“And how would you be knowing that?”

“I’ve met him. At the Internet café.”

Marcus’s grunt came along with a wrist flick. He drank with athletic gulps as if his body needed replenishing—and fast. The silver vessel settled back onto his lap, discreetly covered by his hands. Merrit thought he’d doze, but he surprised her.

“I’m a bloody ghost for all I’m noticed.” He nodded to himself. “Sozzled I may be, but I’m not deaf or blind. Oh, and here comes that Lonnie the Lovely. Bloody piece of shite. Who’s minding the café while Ivan is at his lunch?”

Marcus sank into grumbles as Lonnie came abreast of them from the direction of the hotel that lined one side of the plaza. Merrit averted her gaze, trying to keep her needles clicking in steady fashion. Her knuckles turned white with the effort.

“Marcus, you manky old git,” Lonnie said, “made your move on Merrit yet? Get on with you or I will.”

“You’d like to try, wouldn’t you then. Push yourself on her. That’s your way, you damned—”

“Watch yourself, old man.” Lonnie turned toward Merrit, smiling as if Marcus didn’t exist. “Pleasure to see you again.”

Lonnie in his tight Euro-jeans and linen dress shirt bowed to Merrit and strolled off in the direction of Internet Café, which he owned.

“You stay away from him,” Marcus said. “He’s a shifty sort.”

Too late. Since Merrit’s arrival, Lonnie had aimed himself at her like a money-seeking homing device. Within twenty-four hours of meeting her, he’d boasted of knowing that she was Liam’s bastard daughter—and of knowing a few other things besides. What he might know about her had caused her lungs to spasm. She’d peppered him with the obvious questions. How could you possibly know I’m Liam’s daughter? What
other things
do you mean? Other things about me, or about Liam, or both?

Unfortunately, Lonnie had only smiled and shrugged. “I’ll let you dangle for a while longer. More interesting that way.”

Slimebag.

Lonnie could sabotage her fresh start with a fresh parent. What a depressing, not to mention infuriating, thought. This was why she couldn’t sleep, and why she sat here knitting an afghan when she could be out exploring the ancient sites her mom had visited thirty years ago, especially the church that had haunted Merrit from its position on the living room wall. Merrit longed to feel Atlantic winds chapping her cheeks and scouring out the ache that had shackled her since long before Andrew’s death.

Instead, here she loitered, vigilant despite Marcus’s insistence that before the festival started she’d sooner see a leprechaun than see Liam. She loathed the idea of Liam learning about her from a nasty piece of work called Lonnie O’Brien. Yes, he was one of those O’Briens, descended from the founding father himself to hear Lonnie tell it. And he was quite the talker when it suited him. She imagined gossip about her circulating the pubs, which was to say the village. Lonnie could say anything, and she’d had enough public speculation aimed in her direction to last the rest of her life. This was a good enough reason for her to pay Lonnie cash in exchange for his silence. For now.

She dropped her needles and slouched like Marcus. Meeting Liam wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. She couldn’t have predicted villagers circling the wagons around their celebrity, this matchmaker who’d put Lisfenora on the map, who’d managed to turn an annual festival into an event known to lovelorn singles all over Europe and North America. Unfortunately, the longer her quest took, the more apprehensive she became. The possibility of rejection loomed larger than she had expected now that she was actually in Ireland.

“Look there, will you?” Marcus said, interrupting Merrit’s thoughts. “Now you’ll be seeing how beloved is your Lonnie. That’s Danny Ahern.”

Marcus had brightened at the sight of the man named Danny, a detective sergeant, Marcus said. Perhaps this detective sergeant with the careworn facial stubble and graceful hands could help her out with her Lonnie problem.

“See there?” Marcus said.

Indeed, Danny had stiffened at the sight of Lonnie and then plastered a neutral—some might call it professional—smile on his face. The two men stood at the edge of the plaza near a row of parked cars, Lonnie doing all the talking and Danny all the nodding. After a moment, Lonnie walked on and Danny grimaced in Marcus’s direction. “Cheers, Marcus,” he called. “Have to get on, but you’ll take care not to annoy our Lonnie, will you? Seems to think your presence might be throwing off his business.”

“Piss poor shite I call that!”

A smile sparkled for the barest moment before Danny tossed up a wave and departed.

“Village life,” Marcus said, yawning. “After a time, you’ll recognize all its muck, sitting here. Not that Lisfenora’s muck is special in that regard. That Danny’s a good one though. A lifesaver to me, that’s the truth. And like a second son to Liam, I might add. Quite the threesome, them.”

Second
son?

“The matchmaker has a son?” Merrit said.

“Indeed. Kevin. But he’s not much about the village since last year’s festival. Been keeping himself scarce you might say. As anyone might expect, truth be told.”

Merrit waited, but once again Marcus lapsed into silence. That was the problem with Marcus—just when he started to open up, he stopped talking. Still. A son, a brother. Maybe she could get to know Liam’s son first. She imagined a man similar to her, but younger—yes, surely several years younger—with reddish brown hair and a small bone structure. She’d always wanted a brother. How she used to pester her mom to have a baby, little knowing that her mom could no longer bear children after her own birth.

Her mom had loved children.

Marcus’s head tilted onto his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered, and Merrit leaned closer, breathing in the smell of mint toothpaste and gin fumes. The bags under his eyes looked heavier today, swollen with bluish half circles. As ever, sitting next to him comforted yet pained her. She was drawn to his kindly father-figure presence, and it was this, precisely, that caused her heart to clutch with worry about his welfare. Marcus, a widower for many years now, had admitted to a daughter dead to him, yet he also appeared in clean slacks and button-down shirt. Thankfully, someone helped him out, and this someone probably provided the mint toothpaste, too. Unfortunately, Marcus’s patron didn’t bother about Marcus’s tatty sneakers painted with green and yellow stripes—some teenager’s idea of a fun time while Marcus snoozed, so he said.

“Marcus?”

He harrumphed.

“Tonight I’ll finish this afghan for you. It’s the least I can do in exchange for invading your space all the time. You’re my first friend here, you know.”

“Off with you then. I’m that wrecked.”

“OK, but I’m coming back later with food. I insist you eat something.”

Merrit rolled up the afghan and tucked it under her arm. Despite Marcus’s terse shrug, she spied the beginnings of a smile stretching his lips. He’d never toss aside one of her afghans like so much garbage, leaving her to wonder why she’d bothered.

• 2 •

Merrit walked down one of the plaza’s paved spokes, hoping to catch sight of Danny, the detective sergeant. From what Marcus had said, Danny was an honorary member of Liam’s family. She could introduce herself, start a conversation, bring up Liam. She could try, anyhow.

The plaza sat like a bump at the top of the T-juncture where Burren Street ended at what the locals called the
noncoastal road
, which was to say that in either direction it meandered toward the coast through other noncoastal villages with other plazas. Turning right once she reached the noncoastal, Merrit headed toward the village church, which wasn’t breathtaking—hardly St. Patrick’s Cathedral—but in a certain light, like now when softened through clouds, the nineteenth-century walls reflected a peaceful yellowish glow.

The detective sergeant had disappeared into the throngs of tourists who strolled along in a carefree way, no doubt anticipating their future love connections. Merrit squeezed through a gaggle of Germans and pardoned herself past two Englishmen until she was forced to slow down behind a gang of women who turned out to be none other than Lonnie the Lovely’s mother and sisters. Just her luck. She backtracked but not fast enough to avoid catching the matriarch’s eye through their reflections in a pharmacy window.

“Well, here you are,” Mrs. O’Brien said.

The women held fast, and the people stream parted around them. They gazed at Merrit expectantly, so she raised her shoulders with what she hoped was friendly confusion. In reality, she longed to duck into the pharmacy.

“I was after telling my girls that you plan to be here for a while.”

Mrs. O’Brien’s girls looked to be pushing their forties. In the rush of introductions and floral cologne, Merrit didn’t let on that she knew them by name already: Mariela, Eloisa, Constanza. Why the Spanish names? she’d asked, to which Marcus had replied that Mrs. O’Brien fancied herself descended from Spanish high society—
aristocrats,
not deckhands, mind you—who had sailed to Eire and stayed. According to him, there was a reason they were all single, and that reason was their ghastly mother, who’d nag the devil out of hell itself. Merrit had avoided the O’Brien women because of Marcus’s warning. “The mouths on them, you wouldn’t believe. Gather flies, the lot of them. You’d better be sure Mrs. O’Brien will take an interest in you.”

As if to prove his point, Mrs. O’Brien said, “You’re staying in Mrs. Sheedy’s upstairs flat for the month. She’s the sort to watch over you, but she’s hardly in a position to help you meet people. In fact, I have a brilliant idea.”

Merrit had a nasty feeling about Mrs. O’Brien’s so-called brilliant idea and tried to exit stage left, right, or backwards, but she couldn’t because the daughters had her surrounded.

“I’ve got a prescription waiting,” she said.

“We must visit my son,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “He’ll be the one to introduce you to the nicer elements of Lisfenora. You don’t mind my saying that you ought to keep better company, and our lad, he’s charming. I’m sure you’ve seen his business headquarters, the flagship as they say. Such an odd word really. Flagship. What could it possibly mean?”

Merrit caught herself patting her chest against tension gathering around her lungs. She drew in a deep breath as the women pushed her forward. “I need to run into the pharmacy,” she tried again, but by then they had arrived at the Internet café.

“’Alloo,” Mrs. O’Brien called as she opened the door.

Ivan sat behind the counter. At the sight of the women, he tugged on an earlobe and bolted into his workshop, but not without first aiming a tentative smile in their direction.

“The Russians are such a cowardly lot,” Mrs. O’Brien said.

“He’s Belarusian of Russian descent,” said one of the daughters from behind Merrit. Which daughter, she couldn’t tell. They all sounded the same to her. “Do the favor of getting it straight if you’re going to malign him.”

“Oh, do stop. Belarus, Russia, it’s all the same. He speaks Russian and that’s enough for me.”

The powerful momentum of the O’Brien women propelled Merrit across the room, around the service counter, and into Lonnie’s office. His monitor faced away from the door, but even so, he clicked his mouse once before stepping around the desk to greet them. “And what’s this?”

“I implore you to rescue Merrit here from that Marcus,” Mrs. O’Brien said.

Lonnie relaxed. A smile popped into place. “Just Merrit’s luck to have met us then.” He turned to Merrit. “As I recall, you’re here for family research. Any luck?”

“What you’d expect.” She matched his bland smile with one of her own. “No help at all, some people. In fact, some people aren’t worth knowing.”

“This is my point exactly,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “People worth knowing. Remind me, Merrit—your surname?”

Merrit hesitated, glancing at Lonnie, then said, “Chase.”

“Solid name but no Chases in this area. Unless you’re here to look up your mother’s lineage?”

Lonnie grinned. He knew well enough that Chase
was
her mom’s lineage and that Merrit had officially changed her last name. Merrit rubbed her fatigue-laden eyelids. To think, she’d first entered this shop because she was having trouble with her wireless connection. Lonnie had suggested she leave her laptop for a few hours. His man Ivan would figure it out, he said, but just then he was busy. Lonnie’s offer seemed kind at the time, but now she puzzled over how he knew within two minutes of meeting her that he’d find something interesting on her laptop’s hard drive. She’d left laptops with technicians plenty of times and thought nothing of it.

“Well?” Mrs. O’Brien prodded. “Your mother’s surname?”

Merrit spoke up against the daughters’ side chatter. “My mom’s side is well-documented back to the eighteen hundreds. They came over from County Cork, and every last family member emigrated.”

“Oh. Cork. Now, where was I?” Mrs. O’Brien clapped her hands within inches of Lonnie’s face. “Are you listening? Merrit must be your date to Liam’s birthday party. How else is she going to meet the people who matter in Lisfenora?”

“What birthday party?” Merrit said.

“Quite the annual event for us, Liam being Liam. And best yet, this year his birthday falls on a Saturday. Tomorrow night, mind you. Over at the Plough and Trough. You’ll have fun, I have no doubts, especially with my Lonnie to escort you.”

Lonnie spluttered into a laugh, causing Mrs. O’Brien to aim an uncertain blink in his direction. “I don’t know why this should be so funny. Everyone will be there.”

“Of course,” Lonnie said. “I had it in mind to get to know Merrit better anyhow.”

Mrs. O’Brien patted Lonnie’s cheek. “That’s grand. You will escort Merrit.”

Within seconds, the O’Brien women were gone. The electronic snore of dozing computers filtered into Lonnie’s office. He fingered a thin braid that hung to his shoulder. Merrit longed to take scissors to the puerile affectation. Instead, she said, “Your mom’s a real piece of work.”

“And lucky fecking me.” He settled himself on the edge of the desk. “Actually, this is a fascinating development. Mustn’t disappoint Mother, mind, or she’ll give me a bollocking for sure. What time shall I pick you up for the party?”

Merrit swallowed hard against galloping nerves inside her chest. This was exactly what she didn’t want. Being railroaded. Not to mention the dubious distinction of being Lonnie’s “date.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I’ll go on my own.”

“Private party, only locals and their dates allowed. Old Liam’s one stipulation, and even
you
won’t get past the barricade.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “Believe me, you won’t. However, if you come with me, I’ll announce you to Liam myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll introduce myself to Liam on my terms, not yours. And definitely not in front of the whole village.”

“You and I both know you’re itching to go.”

She stared at him, loathing him for being correct. She was more than itching to go—compelled would be more like it. At the very least, she longed to observe Liam the Matchmaker from afar, to get a sense of whether he’d welcome or reject her.

“How much is it worth to you to ensure I keep my mouth shut during the party?” Lonnie said.

Merrit had considered scuttling back to California rather than deal with Lonnie, but that would have been yet one more sign of her weakness. Some might have called Andrew’s end a death with dignity. But she knew different. Powerless against a tidal wave of fury and despair and exhaustion, she’d snapped. Now she had to live with the horrid truth of it: she was capable of taking a human life. Lonnie might or might not know something about the darkness that lurked within her. He might or might not decide to reveal her darkness to her real father just because he could.

“You are such a—” Merrit yanked her wallet out of her purse, then the cash out of her wallet. She threw the wad at him. “I’ll go to the party with you, but you’d better keep your mouth shut about me.”

Lonnie’s smile turned gleeful just before he bellowed. “Ivan, fetch us coffee, will you?”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, “we’re such good friends. Screw you.”

“Why so uptight?” he called after her. “You could probably do with a good shagging after all that.”

***

Ten minutes later, Merrit reclined on her bed clutching a battered spiral-bound notebook with a psychedelic rainbow and “September 1975” on the cover. She’d found it in Andrew’s nightstand just like he’d said. After reading it, her shock had been so profound that she’d barely survived the next weeks of funeral arrangements and legal turmoil. She was better now. She hoped. At the very least, she wasn’t using her inhaler every ten seconds anymore.

She fingered the notebook’s tattered cover. Above the rainbow, her mom’s precise block lettering spelled out “Ireland Article.” Within the notebook, the pages revealed scribbles, cross-outs, and journaling that bore witness to her mom’s increasing distraction back in 1975. Julia Chase had started out earnestly enough with initial research for her first big travel-writing assignment. Quite a coup for a woman, given the times, but the travel piece went unfinished due to the source of Julia’s distraction. None other than Liam the Matchmaker. A man her mom had called
Liam the Lion
.

One sentence always filled Merrit with sadness.
I’m a coward, that’s what I am, and all I can do is pack my bags because I hate myself for loving the man . . .

Merrit’s life, her mom’s life—how different they would have been if Liam had fought for her mom. But he hadn’t, and Merrit had to know why. Since childhood, she’d yearned to fill the void where the unsaid and the murky festered beneath her mom’s smiles. Merrit couldn’t recall when she’d realized that her mom was a woman who hid her unhappiness well most of the time. Nor could Merrit recapture the moment she first noticed that Andrew treated her like a houseguest who’d overstayed her welcome, only that it hadn’t mattered until after her mom’s death. All she knew was that the answers lingered along Lisfenora’s cobbled lanes, along which Liam had walked arm-in-arm with her mom.