Along the way, she saw her name and the Christmas greeting in lights again on the dark side of her billboard. This made her remember she hadn’t phoned Tom to thank him for his surprise. After turning on her Christmas tree lights, phoning him was the first thing she did when she arrived home.
But Tom was not in. And the message on his answering machine gave her pause. “We’re out for Christmas Eve, but please leave a message,” a woman’s recorded voice said. “And Merry Christmas to all!” Tom’s voice added.
“We?” Liz almost said aloud. She had been under the impression that Tom lived alone. Who was this woman? Surprised again by unexpected information in an answering machine message, she said only, “Merry Christmas to you, too,” and hung up without adding the words she had expected to say: “And thank you for last night.”
Then she sank into her chair, pulled up the purple and white afghan and gazed at her tree. There remained one more gift under it. Getting up to examine it, she saw that the paper on it was tattered and torn. And when she opened it, she realized why: It was a catnip mouse for Prudence. Apparently, the cat had tried and failed to open it.
What’s a guy with a girlfriend doing providing treats to another woman and to her cat? Liz wondered. Throwing the mouse to Prudence, she decided not to spend Christmas Eve alone, even if it might mean awkwardness with Cormac. Using the remaining red tissue paper, she wrapped up the four guitar strings in separate pieces of paper, tied them together in a flat stack with gold ribbon, and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay.
Then she went through her closet and dresser in frustration. Even at age thirty-two, it was possible to be plunged into a high-school moment when challenged to pick out an outfit intended to make a good impression on a member of the opposite sex. Casual dress had been the norm at the Green Briar and Tir Na Nog, but Liz had no idea if this would be the case on Christmas Eve. Too bad she had already worn her forest green velvet tunic to one of her two meetings with Cormac. While its fabric was soft and luxurious, the color did not stand out as loud or dressy. Finally, Liz decided to forget about fitting into the crowd and to put on her mint-green, shot silk tunic-length jacket over black velvet leggings. It was her favorite outfit for festive occasions, and it was clean, so it would just have to do.
Liz needn’t have worried about her fashion choice. When she wedged her way into the crowd that packed Tir Na Nog, she found it was impossible to stand back and get a full-figure look at anyone. In the small room, made warm with body heat and cigarette smoke, she was glad she had opted for the silk instead of a sweater.
It took some doing to find Cormac, but, predictably, he was seated at a table near the musicians. Less predictably, he was leaning forward in animated conversation with a red-headed woman. The eye contact he made with her beat any he’d ever made with Liz. The pair looked like a couple. Seeing this, Liz went to the bar and bought her own drink, another glass of Chardonnay. As she turned to find a seat, she found Cormac standing behind her.
“I would have bought you that,” he said.
“Thank you, but I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”
“It’s a reel,” Cormac said, referring to a lively tune filling the air.
“Aren’t you playing tonight?”
“Not with this group. They’re so much more advanced than I am. I left my banjo at home. But I’ll learn a little something by listening. Come on over, and I’ll introduce you to Maggie,” he added.
The redhead gave Liz as thorough a looking over as could be accomplished in the crowded place. Then, placing one hand proprietarily on Cormac’s, she spread the fingers of the other and ran them through her gorgeous mane of straight, copper-colored hair, lifting her locks so that they fell fabulously again to her shoulders. The gesture—so reminiscent of Liz’s own movement when she was stressed or excited—made the reporter feel intensely uncomfortable. So did the realization that Cormac apparently had a taste for women with red-toned hair. The effect of Maggie’s movement seemed not to have been lost on Cormac, who could hardly take his eyes off her, even as she turned her back on him and stepped forward to speak to one of the musicians.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” Liz heard her say.
The reel spun on for some minutes. But after it was through, Maggie turned and faced the crowd. The musicians lay down their instruments and gave her their attention as, closing her striking green eyes, Maggie lifted her voice to sing:
Slowly lifting her eyelids, Maggie accepted the applause her perfectly delicate singing deserved and, smiling at Cormac, returned to the table. It was impossible to hear what she said to him as the musicians struck up a syncopated tune. But Cormac replied by squeezing her hand across the small table and gazing intently into her eyes.
Certain she did not wish to witness any more of this, Liz made a hasty exit from Tir Na Nog, missing the chance to observe the redhead turn, a moment later, to give an open-mouthed kiss to a bearded musician who tapped her on the shoulder. Turning around, himself, to look for Liz, Cormac’s face fell as he realized she was out of sight. As he wove through the crowd looking for her, his expression changed. Realizing his actions must matter to Liz, he began to smile. Returning to his table he said to Maggie and her man, “Congratulations on your engagement!”
There was still the question of forensic news, Liz realized as she drove to Gravesend Street in silence. It remained unclear if Cormac had planned to share more information with her. Well, her e-mail message to him would serve to remind the doctor of that. If it wasn’t going to be a personally satisfying evening tonight, at least it would have been useful to have the forensics information to use on Christmas Day, when she was scheduled to work. Otherwise, she might be sent on another fresh-killed goose chase.
As she approached an all-night store lit up and open even on Christmas Eve, Liz pulled into the nearby parking lot and went in to purchase milk, eggs, and cheddar cheese. On the rack near the cash register, she saw new stacks of newspapers, delivered early for Christmas Day. Probably, the drivers had worked as fast as they could to get them delivered so they could get home to their families. Liz picked up copies of the Banner and the World and made haste to get home, too.
Back at Gravesend Street, she turned on her Christmas tree lights, lit her fireplace, and whipped up a soufflé. Relaxing in her chair with a glass of mead while Elizabethan lute music played on her CD player, she took a look at the newspapers while the dish baked.
The Banner’s front page was taken up with an old engraving of Santa Claus and a printing of the poem The Night Before Christmas. Headed “FAKE ST. NICK HAS KNACK FOR NICKING,” Liz’s story made Page Fifteen. It was accompanied by a photo of the hapless Lucarno, looking thoroughly perplexed, at the police station. The caption read, “BIRD-BRAINED poultry clerk admits aiding Santa look-a-like in Christmas Eve turkey heist.”