“Detective Matt Hurley characterized the Christmas Eve day chicken heist as a scam. ‘The kid did chicken (expletive) to prevent it, though,’ Hurley said, referring to Fino. ‘In fact, he helped load the birds into the van they were taken away in. He actually helped the birds fly the coop,’ Hurley added. ‘And here’s the kicker. After all that, he couldn’t describe the vehicle!’ Hurley said.”
Liz pressed the H&J button on her keyboard and watched the machine lay out her story in a long column. The ATEX machine measured the piece, too. 3.6 inches. Probably just about right for the gravity of the crime.
Dermott McCann came by her desk, and said, “What have you got for me, Higgins? I need to know for the meeting.”
Liz gave him a nutshell summary. Then she made her way to the library to read her e-mail while McCann determined story sizes and placement in the afternoon meeting. Besides more spam messages reading “Blister,” there were Christmas messages from her mother, Aunt Janice, and several colleagues and friends. Nothing new from Cormac Kinnaird. Annoyed at how much it mattered to her, Liz knew she needed to separate her need for his professional expertise from her personal feelings for him. Although she would have preferred to phone him, in the hope that the tone of his voice would help her to read his mood, she knew she had to contact him regarding the Johansson case, so she tapped out an e-mail message on the keyboard: “Dear Cormac, I would very much like to connect with you regarding professional matters—and especially to deliver a little something to put under your Christmas tree. I hope you will get in touch with me as soon as it is convenient. With warm gratitude for the gorgeous bouquet, I wish you a Merry Christmas. Liz.”
After replying to a few family messages, Liz returned to her desk and saw the light blinking on her phone. Before picking it up, she logged onto ATEX and found her chicken heist piece was just the right length. She also read, with gratitude, the words “File and fly rule in effect. Merry XMAS.” After sending her story into the system, she dialed up her voice-mail messages and found she’d just missed a call from her mother and another one from Cormac.
“It’s Cormac,” the doctor said on her voice mail. “It’s a business matter. You can catch me on this line until around six-thirty, when I’ll be meeting some people at Tir Na Nog. Come to think of it, you can catch me there, too, in the evening.”
Liz looked at the clock. It was 6:20. But when she phoned Cormac, he did not pick up. Unprepared for this, she left an awkward but honest message.
“I’m disappointed not to find you in, Cormac,” she said. “And I feel unsure if I should take your time for business on Christmas Eve. Really, I don’t know what to do. I’ll give this all some thought during my drive and hope, whether I see you or not tonight, you have a wonderful Christmas.”
It might be a toss-up as to whether Liz should go to the Irish bar, but she was certain of one thing. If she did go out, there was no way this bird would turn up at a Christmas Eve gathering in the same clothes she’d worn to cover the fresh-killed poultry scam. So she got on the Pike and headed back to Gravesend Street.
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.
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:
