“I thought she was in England this time of year.”
“Not this Christmas. She had to stay in town to play an extra on a soap opera.”
“At Christmas? Couldn’t she turn it down?”
“Normally she would. But she couldn’t resist playing the role of a jaded ballerina-turned-dance critic, after spending so many years in the Radio City Music Hall corps de ballet herself. Of course, she’ll be missing your cousin and the grandchildren. It will do you both good to spend the weekend together.”
“It’s true the Banner will never send me to New York to follow up on that taxi receipt.”
“Then go for it! In fact, I’ll fund the train fare as an extra Christmas present. What does it cost, eighty-some dollars each way? Charge it and I’ll send a check you can pay the bill with. Where will you be on Christmas? Are you scheduled to work? Or has a special someone entered your life?”
“I volunteered to work the holiday. I figured, when a special someone does come along, the Banner’ll owe me the day off. As it turns out, it may give me the edge on the Johansson story. After all, Mom, this isn’t a story about aggressive people stealing parking spots from one another at the mall. A woman’s life may hang in the balance here.”
“You’re too good. The paper’s lucky to have you. Don’t work too hard, OK? I’ll give you a call on Christmas.”
Enlivened by the nap and, after she phoned her, by Janice’s delight at the idea of having a pre-Christmas guest, Liz arranged for train tickets and packed her bags. She also wrapped up a bottle of Pol Roger to present to her aunt and hand-washed a few pieces of clothing. Recalling Cormac Kinnaird’s appealingly boyish appearance while banjo playing, Liz changed into black velvet pants and a forest-green velvet tunic. The outfit seemed a bit dressier than others she had observed in Irish pubs, but it was one of the few clothing combinations she had neither packed for New York City nor left dripping on her clothes drying rack. And the truth was, she didn’t mind standing out just a little bit in the eyes of Dr. Kinnaird. So, Liz applied some make-up with care, threw on a hooded jacket and dry boots, and went out into the night again to make her way to Tir Na Nog.
At the door of her Mercury Tracer, in the chill of the December night, Liz remembered to return to her house to pick up the Ziploc bag containing the lipstick and hair elastic. At the same time, she remembered Dr. Kinnaird’s self-important posturing at the Worcester Public Library, and the gravity of her investigation, and revised her hopes for the evening.
It was a good thing Liz had downsized her expectations, since the tiny Tir Na Nog pub did not have music on the menu that night. While his banjo lay unplayed on one end of his table, Kinnaird looked ill at ease as Liz greeted him. Feeling overdressed, she hesitated to remove her coat. When she did, Kinnaird studiously registered no reaction.
“It’s charming,” she said of the bar’s interior decorating, which blended Irish and Bostonian elements into one harmonious whole. The atmosphere of the small pub was intimate, too, but that dimension seemed lost on Kinnaird. She ordered Chardonnay and sat in silence until her drink was delivered.
Liz took the opportunity to study her surroundings further. The brick walls were hung with an eclectic mix of items, including a blackboard listing bands scheduled to perform there, a circular ship’s life preserver, and a vanity license plate bearing the word FIDDLE.
“Usually, this place oozes music,” Kinnaird said morosely. Presumably because he was not playing that night, he was drinking a pint of Harp.
“Maybe you should play something for us. You have your banjo.”
“I’m not at a level to perform solo. I’m a rank beginner,” Kinnaird admitted, killing that idea.
Fortunately, there was business to attend to. Liz pulled out her Ziploc bag and turned it over to her companion, if “companion” he could be called.
“Ellen’s,” she said.
“Ah, indeed,” he replied. “At last, one is privy to some physical evidence.”
“To be sure,” Liz heard herself say. “I wonder if his formality is contagious?” she asked herself.
“Of course, I already have the poinsettias.”
“Have they revealed anything helpful?”
“Two different blood types. Hers, as reported in the press. And that of another person, as yet unidentified, of course.”
“Blood type?”
“B-negative. Uncommon.”
“Uncommonly good.”
“Let us hope. But it’s useless without additional evidence with which to match it.”
“I hope we’ve got that here,” Liz said, glancing at the Ziploc bag.
Kinnaird made no comment.
“And how shall you be spending the holidays?” she said, noting as she did so that it was unlike her to use the word shall.
“That remains to be seen,” Kinnaird replied cryptically. “And you? How shall you spend your time off?”
“Not ‘off.’ I shall have to echo you,” Liz said. “‘That remains to be seen.’”
“You’ve no plans? I’m surprised.”
“Oh, I’ve got plans, all right. I just don’t know the specifics. I’ll be on assignment for the Banner, covering whatever comes up: incendiary Christmas trees, kids choking on small toy parts, that sort of thing, I suppose. I hope there will be time to find fruitful developments in the Johansson case.”
“Ah, there we are in accord,” Kinnaird said.
Accordingly, shall we relax our vocabulary a bit? Liz thought but did not say aloud. Instead, she laid her right hand palm-up on the table and said nothing.
Cormac Kinnaird picked up her hand and pressed his lips to it.
Since he said nothing at all after that gesture, Liz dearly wished—as probably he did, too—that there had been some music playing. But there was no tune to be heard. So Liz picked up her new friend’s left hand and gently kissed the calluses on the tips of each finger.
“Tir Na Nog is a kind of Celtic paradise, you know,” he said.
“I know it now,” she replied. When he wouldn’t meet her eyes, she added, “I’m off to Manhattan before dawn tomorrow, so I must get some rest. You had better find yourself a pub where music is playing.”
Looking over her shoulder as she left Tir Na Nog, Liz saw the man who had kissed her palm pick up the plastic bag of evidence and his Irish tenor banjo with equal enthusiasm, without allowing his striking blue eyes to follow her out the door.
Remembering her encounter with the Doberman, simple joy at being alive and unscathed almost overcame Liz’s perplexity at the doctor’s behavior and her own impulsiveness. As soon as she reached Gravesend Street, she settled in for a short winter’s nap, knowing she would have to rise at 4:45 a.m. in order to catch her train.
Chapter 11
Liz closed her eyes and dozed in the Amtrak train until it reached the Connecticut coast. Then she purchased a cup of coffee from the café car and enjoyed the view of Long Island Sound over the reeded shoreline. It always amazed her how unspoiled some of the landscape appeared to be, considering the densely populated nature of the nearby New York metropolitan area.
Taking her eyes away from the view, she took out the copy of the taxi receipt. It measured only one and a half by two inches, but the small slip of paper carried a considerable amount of information. Headed by the words, “I ♥ NEW YORK,” the receipt recorded the cab’s medallion number, the date of the trip, start and end times, trip number, rate, miles, fare, and a telephone number for the “Consumer Hotline.” As insurance against losing the receipt, Liz copied the information into her reporter’s notebook. Then she sat back until the train arrived in Penn Station.