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
“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
“Ah, there we are in accord,” Kinnaird said.
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 cafe 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.
After exiting the train, Liz made her way up the escalator to the taxi stand, took her place in line, and finally secured a yellow cab. Once inside, she told the driver her aunt’s address. Then she said, “I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me? I’m a reporter working on a missing person’s case and I’d like to know how to identify who was driving a certain cab at a particular time.”
It was unclear if the cabbie’s heavy accent was affected or if he genuinely had trouble understanding her. What was certain was that he would not answer her question.
Arriving at her aunt’s address, Liz requested a receipt before getting out of the cab. The driver took out a pad of receipts and filled one out by hand.
“Why aren’t you printing one from the meter?” Liz demanded.
“Not working,” he said, driving off as soon as Liz was clear of the cab.
The hand-written receipt delivered far less information than did the printed one.
After an evening of laughter and delicious dining with Janice, Liz rose early and phoned the telephone number on the taxi receipt. It seemed the “Consumer Hotline” was hot indeed, since it was constantly busy. When half an hour of calling kept producing a busy signal, Liz decided to seek out another cabdriver.
At Janice’s street corner, she hailed a cab. Once inside, she began with a less honest conversational gambit.
Giving the driver an address located far downtown, Liz turned her smile on him and said, “I wonder if you could help me? I’m writing a book with a taxi driver as the hero. Just one of his good qualities is his helpfulness when a woman leaves a diamond ring in his car. I’m trying to find out what a driver like you would do if he found something valuable in his car.”
“I would turn it in, of course.”
