Wedding Bel Blues: A Belfast McGrath Mystery (Bel McGrath Mysteries) Page 7

  He looked up at me, squinting into the sun.

  I said something I hoped I wouldn’t regret. “I kind of missed you. This guy. Not the other one, the cop,” I said.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked away. It was true. I did miss him. I just hadn’t realized it until now.

  CHAPTER Ten

  After my visit to the river, I climbed the stairs to my apartment, hearing what sounded like a chain saw when I passed my dad’s studio. He really was getting into what he called installations now—he had just done one for the river walk at the end of our street commemorating 9/11, his second since the swordfish—and was using pieces of old scrap metal and fallen tree limbs to create “art.” I knew that art came in many different forms and was subjective, but my dad’s installations were just plain weird. For instance, the swordfish had a face. And not just a face, a face that looked like Aunt Finnoula’s—she of the “cankles”—husband, Gerard. Made no sense. Made me wonder if he was starting to lose it, if just a little bit.

  In the apartment, no sign of my feral cat, a guy (or gal) who really needed a name, I sat down at my computer and poked around, seeing if there was any information on the mysterious Declan Morrison. Turns out that there were lots of men with that name on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like, but none were my Declan Morrison.

  If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, heard him say his name, I would have thought he never existed. Then again, Declan Morrison may have made up his name, in which case he could have been anyone.

  I stared at the computer screen for a few minutes, finally pushing away and taking out a leftover container of lo mein from the refrigerator, not bothering to heat it up. From beyond the sliding glass doors at the back of the house I heard a meow, and I found the cat—name unknown—standing on the deck, the one that was two stories above the ground.

  I glanced into the living room before going out onto the deck, noticing that there was a pillow on the floor, a stain on the white slipcover of the couch. Looked like ketchup that someone had desperately tried to clean up, but the mark was there nonetheless. I didn’t take Mom for the type who would eat a meat-loaf sandwich on my couch, but that’s what the place smelled like and the ketchup stain indicated. I couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth—I was living here rent-free—but why my mother felt the need to spend so much time in my living space was beyond me. I looked at the stain and decided to deal with it later, heading out to the porch and the cat.

  “How did you get up here?” I asked, bending down to pet him/her and losing the container of lo mein in the process, the noodles spilling out onto the deck. The cat dove into the old Chinese food and made a meal of it, me wondering how far I had fallen when the thought crossed my mind that I could scoop up whatever hadn’t been touched by his sandpaper tongue and salvage it for my lunch.

  I decided that as low as I had sunk, as depressing as my life had become, I was still one step above eating cat-saliva-tainted Chinese food.

  I had been avoiding my dad, pretending that I didn’t know that he was right below me every single day, but I couldn’t pretend any longer when he appeared at the side door of the apartment, a napkin-wrapped sandwich in one hand, a can of Diet Coke in the other. The look on his face, the one that said you are so pathetic but I love you anyway, seemed to reside there permanently, hence my avoidance. I was happier here than his expression suggested, and to prove it I plastered a smile on my face and gave him a big hug in greeting, breathing in the scent of citrus thinner and the soap he used to clean his paintbrushes. Smells of my childhood still here now that I was an adult. It was a comfort to me knowing that despite everything that had happened throughout my life, things here would still, solidly and without a doubt, remain the same.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said into his T-shirt. He was covered head-to-toe in some kind of fine silt that made what remaining red was in his hair look silver. I opened the screen and let him in even though he owned the place and could come and go as he pleased, something that my mother had already decided was her right.

  “I saw that you were home, so I brought you a sandwich,” he said, offering the tuna on wheat like it was a precious gift from the gods. “Oh, and here’s a soda.”

  The last time I had had a tuna on wheat with a Diet Coke, I had been sixteen and living in the Manor, a magical place to grow up with four brothers, its hidden staircases and long hallways the perfect place to run and yell and be boisterous. In the intervening years, I had stopped roughhousing with my brothers and had also developed more of a taste for the exotic foods one could find in my East Village neighborhood. Ethiopian. Thai. Moroccan. I never thought I would eat tuna again, really, unless it was prepared tartare or found in a sushi roll, but staring at the sandwich in my dad’s hand, smelly and a little crushed from being in his huge paw, brought on a wave of pleasant nostalgia, a feeling that I hadn’t had since I was little and this snack greeted me when I came running in from school to regale Dad with stories of who did what and when during the day, his face lighting at my vocal impressions of everyone from Sister Dolores Regina, our principal, to Father Morse, our pastor. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was a “daddy’s girl,” though the boys might beg to differ. But whereas they considered Dad a nuisance and sometimes nothing short of an idiot for his old-fashioned ways, his adherence to a code of honor that hearkened back to a time long ago, I remembered the father whose blood, sweat, and sometimes tears made Shamrock Manor a place that was popular for a long time and that afforded us a rather nice life.

  “Thanks for the sandwich, Dad.” I dug in, the taste of soggy bread and warm tuna just what I needed, though I hadn’t known it until now.

  “Any thoughts on what we discussed yesterday?” he asked, leaning over onto the counter and resting on his elbows. Today, as with any day he worked in his studio, he was wearing an oversized dress shirt that had been deemed a “rag” by my mother and pants he called clamdiggers. They were baggy, shortish, and had assorted pockets, like capri pants that were worn mostly by woman over the age of fifty. I was used to his look. My ex-fiancé? Not so much. The first time I had introduced Ben Dykstra to the McGrath clan and my dad appeared in his usual getup, I knew it was probably the end of the relationship. Ben Dykstra was nothing if not concerned with appearances. The first time he commented on my weight, a comment that took me so by surprise that I felt sure that I must have not heard him correctly, I should have known that the relationship and the subsequent engagement were doomed from the start.

  “You didn’t see my text?” I asked. “Mom didn’t tell you?”

  “Devil’s handiwork, that texting,” he said. “And Mom has a client, so we haven’t spoken.”

  “Yes, Dad,” I said. “I’ll do it.” How bad could it be? I would make money. (I think. That detail still remained a mystery.) I would leave in a few months. They’d find someone else. I would get back to my old life. I had a plan.

  Dad didn’t respond one way or another, just adding a little “hmmphh.” To me, it was the closest we were going to get to “thanks.”

  That decision made and articulated, I lifted my head from the counter. “Hey, Dad, I want to ask you something.”

  “Aye?”

  “That guy that died at the wedding. Declan Morrison. You knew him. How?”

  Dad was shaking his head negatively before I even got the first sentence out. “No. Never saw him before in my life.”

  “But I saw you talking,” I said. “At the bar. At the wedding. It looked like you knew him.”

  “Nah, just met him at the wedding.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a layer of dust on my kitchen floor. “Never saw him before in my life.”

  “So, why were you talking? If you just met him? He told me he was Caleigh’s cousin.” I had that same feeling I used to get when Ben professed a late-night prep when really he was prepping the vagina of another sous at a competing restaurant. Dad didn’t have a tell like Mom; he didn’t need one. He just got nervous and jittery when the trut
h wasn’t forthcoming, making him possibly the worst liar—and poker player—in the world. He got louder and more expansive, if that was even possible. Dad took up a lot of psychic energy when he came into a room and even more when he felt ill at ease.

  “Wanted to let him know that we McGraths are friendly! Accepting! Nice!” he said, sputtering. “Jaysus, Bel, can’t a guy share a pint with a new friend?”

  I cracked open the Diet Coke. “Sure, Dad. Of course.” I changed the subject. The last thing I needed was to be responsible for my father’s imminent heart attack. “Aunt Helen okay? You know, after everything that happened?”

  He nodded, still a little perturbed. “She’s fine. Mom has been with her all morning.”

  “I thought she was with a client?”

  “She was with her before Pilates and she will be with her after Pilates.”

  Of course. Nothing stands in the way of Pilates. Ever. Mom had even had clients, prior to Caleigh’s wedding.

  Dad walked to the door, his work here done. Sandwich and soda delivered, me on board at Shamrock Manor a done deal, we had nothing left to talk about. He slid a key to the Manor onto the counter, the indication that I needed to get to work. I already knew that we had a wedding the following Saturday. “You ever going to be happy again, Bel?” he asked in an uncharacteristic show of sensitivity, if you could call it that.

  “Yes. Definitely. Real soon,” I said, my father’s red hair not the only thing I inherited from him. Steely resolve and stoicism were also part of the genetic deal, the transference of DNA. “I’m happy here, Dad,” I said, taking in his gloomy face. “It’s great.” I threw my arms out, gesturing to the apartment. “What could be better? This place is great. And if I stand out on the back deck and crane my neck really hard to the right, I can actually see some of the river.” The Manor itself had the gorgeous river view; my apartment, not so much.

  He smiled sadly. “Okay, honey.” He put his hand on the knob. “I think it’s a good sign that you’re up and around, out in the world.”

  “Me too,” I said. I closed the door behind him, waiting until I heard the muffled sound of the chain saw beneath me before going into my bedroom and taking down a box from the shelf in the tiny closet. In it were some memories that I had carted around from apartment to apartment, even overseas for that three months I had lived in Paris. I had never opened the box, not since it had been packed, but the last few days were bringing up emotions I hadn’t expected to have.

  Thoughts of Amy and the night she disappeared.

  Coming back here had been my only option, but leafing through the pages of my old yearbook, I started to think that maybe it had been a mistake.

  CHAPTER Eleven

  Figures the year I move back, and the same year when I would have some free time to start swimming again, there was a severe drought but I figured that that wouldn’t affect the town pool. If I wanted to go, I’d have to go by myself. I had not one friend to call on, since everyone I knew from my past lived either in the Landing with a boatload of kids or far, far away, never to return.

  Yeah, right, you’ll never be back, I wanted to say to those who had fled and vowed never to come back. Happens to the best of us.

  I took a quick look inside the Shamrock Manor kitchen and decided there wasn’t enough wine in the world to make it look better, or to make me not regret my decision to cook there. I went back to the apartment and dug around on the Internet for Declan Morrison some more and decided that he was a complete non-entity in the world, a man with an alias who had shown up, inexplicably, at my cousin’s wedding. Who killed him was one mystery, but who he had been was another.

  I jotted down the number of the Ballyminster police department, which was housed in a building that I was unfortunately familiar with after a night out with Annie ended up with her car hitting the front of a tree. Turns out Annie’s lack of driving skill was well-known in the little village. She had hit just about everything that didn’t move and, sadly, once, a cow. After the incident that had us seeing the business end of a large oak, we were taken to the station, Annie being stripped of her license and us awaiting the wrath of Mr. O’Dell, a blustery fellow who was prone to flights of anger.

  Everyone we knew was from Ballyminster, so the chance that Declan was, too, was not exactly a long shot even if Annie couldn’t summon his name immediately. I rang the police station and spoke to a cop who was more than willing to engage in a conversation with someone in the States. Slow day in Ballyminster, the cows all penned, the kids all in school.

  “Hi, my name is Belfast McGrath and I am inquiring about a man named Declan Morrison, who I believe resides in Ballyminster.”

  “Belfast McGrath? Malachy McGrath’s daughter per chance?” Sergeant Donvan asked. “You live in America, yes?”

  I looked at the phone in my hand. How did he know that? “Um, yes, sir.”

  “I remember when you visited a few years back,” he said. “What was it? Ten? Fifteen years ago?” He went silent, thinking. “Probably more, now that I think about it.”

  “At least,” I said. “I was wondering—”

  “You were with that O’Dell girl most of the summer, if I recall.”

  “Yes. So—”

  “Got into a little mischief.”

  “True again.” I waited for him to conclude the walk down memory lane before I got into my real purpose for the call. “So Sergeant, we had an unfortunate circumstance here at my parents’ business. A man named Declan Morrison passed away unexpectedly. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “Declan, you say? It’s Ireland, Belfast. Can’t shake a stick without hitting a Declan.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “But Morrison? No. No Morrisons in Ballyminster.”

  “Not one?” I asked.

  “Well, you’ve got Declan Martin and Declan Scurry and Declan McDonough, and Declan O’Keefe. That last one is a bit of a rogue.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. His list matched Annie’s to a tee. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”

  “My pleasure, Belfast. Don’t be a stranger, you hear me?”

  I thanked him, hung up, and looked around. Declan Morrison really was a cipher, a guy whom no one knew. So just what had impelled him to attend Caleigh McHugh’s wedding? I thought about that as I made my bed, an old habit from growing up in the Manor that I never lost.

  I had some other thoughts while hanging around the apartment, thoughts that went to the old days, to Amy, to the life I used to have here, my visit to The Dugout, Oogie’s horrible food and drink menu, if it could even be called that. All that thinking got me thinking about hot dogs and crappy wine. Foster’s Landing was better than that. We deserved just one more place where we could rest our weary bones and enjoy a nice beverage and even better meal. I deserved to feel as if I was helping, even if deep in my heart, I knew this was a way to assuage the lingering guilt I felt over the last night with Amy. I pushed that feeling away and left the apartment. I found Oogie in The Dugout at the bar.

  “Bel McGrath,” he said, using the same rag that he had used a few days earlier to wipe down the bar. I kept my hands at my sides, touching nothing. “What brings you here?”

  “Hey, Oogie,” I said. “Turns out I’m going to be here a while, so if you need help with your menu,” and I used that term loosely, “I’m happy to consult. On the house.”

  “I’ll give you all the wine your heart desires,” he said, grateful.

  That really didn’t interest me, but I nodded.

  “I’ve got to get rid of it anyway,” he added. “Would be a waste to pour it down the drain.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few days, after I figure out what’s going on at the Manor. Deal?” I asked.

  He held out his hand and I took it reluctantly. “Deal.”

  I drove over to the village pool as I had planned, figuring that I could blend in with the scores of mothers tending little ones, making sure that they didn’t get the debilitating sunburns
that some kids I knew had gotten but which we had managed to avoid given Mom’s diligence about wearing sunscreen before it was fashionable. It rains all the time in Ireland and I was starting to think that nature had a way of protecting its own.

  I pulled into the parking lot, noticing that there wasn’t one other car there. When I got out and looked over at the pool itself, it was obvious what was going on: the drought. No water. I was wrong and the drought had affected the pool, too. The pool was almost bone dry, a fetid puddle of green-hued water sitting in the center, covering the belly of the mermaid—the one with my mother’s face—that my father had painted on the bottom so many years ago. I walked over to the chain-link fence and stared in at the vast, empty space, the concrete bottom of the pool exposed for the first time in my entire life.

  “Kind of sad, right?”

  I turned at the sound of the voice and came face-to-face with a tall, lanky guy, a crown of messy curls sitting atop a cute face. “Yeah. Is it ever going to open again?” I said, asking possibly the stupidest question one could ask. If it didn’t start to rain in buckets, water refilling the dwindling reservoir, no, it was never going to open again.

  A look crossed the guy’s face, confirming that it was indeed a stupid question. “Well, I hope it opens again. Kind of boring around here without it.” He leaned in, his big frame blocking the sun and casting a shadow over me. “Bel? Bel McGrath?”

  I searched his face for a clue to his identity. “Yes,” I said, buying myself some time before I had to ask, “and … you … are?” “Bel McGrath. At your service,” I said, scanning his Foster’s Landing Swim Club polo shirt for a name, any name. Zilch. Nada. Finally, it hit me, the little hint of his brogue jogging my memory. I remembered his first day of school sophomore year, the homeroom teacher mangling the name of the town from which he had emigrated: Sligo. She had pronounced it “Sleego,” not knowing that it was pronounced as it was spelled: “Sl-eye-go.” “Brendan Joyce?” That was a long time ago, but his intonation still held a bit of his native land, its lilting tones.