Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

“She’s currently visiting Dublin.”

“And drinks there like a tourist?”

“It’s a world-famous pub. Your daughter takes advantage of the local watering holes.”

“She’s a drunk.”

He shook his head, laughing. “Come and see.”

He took her arm in custody again, but she resisted. “She’s a barmaid.”

He shook his head again. “Come see and then speculate.”

They had to fight a constant flow of people coming and going. Soon Max, with his unusual height and a bit of maneuvering, had them standing by a just vacated table, being swabbed down for new customers.

“Two Belfast Blonde pints,” Max ordered before the girl could whisk away. She nodded.

“You didn’t consult me,” Kathleen complained.

“All craft beers here are superb, and Belfast is where we’re headed.”

“It’s back to the beginning, I see. Meanwhile, this place is so crowded, so noisy on the inside, so luridly red on the outside,” Kathleen groused.

She looked prim and proper among the overwhelmingly young and casual crowd. And annoyed.

“Your resemblance to your occasionally visiting daughter is less likely to be remarked on in a crowd,” Max pointed out. “Unless you want a public outing.”

“Lord, no.”

Their pint glasses landed like UFOs in their midst, and Max handed over a generous ransom to make for a quick exit, if necessary.

“Thank you , sir.” The serving girl flashed a smile with a brightness that made up for its brevity.

“I hate ale.” Kathleen stared at the honey-dark brew with knitted eyebrows.

“You’re here to look, not drink. So look.” He nodded to the stand-up bar.

The girl’s blue-black hair among mostly ruddy and brown heads was hard to miss.

Iris provided plenty of side and three-quarter glimpses of her face. She was standing sandwiched between two men also in their mid-twenties. Obviously just good mates, to Max’s trained eye. This was a post-work meet. Likely more men and women would join the party. Crumpled bills lay on the bartop, ready for a second round.

Meanwhile, Iris tossed her head and hair and cracked jokes and smiled, delivering what the Irish call “good craick”—bar talk that creates fellowship and jolly exchanges…and alcoholics. In a green land under a gray sky and veils of rain and mist, indoor warmth of any kind was a necessary boon.

“I hate ale,” Kathleen repeated, “and the little bitch may look like me, but I see traces of the bastard who fathered her.”

Max wasn’t surprised. Remnants of paternal genes were bound to show in Iris’s face and body, even in a gesture or a certain angle of the head. Yet, to him or someone’s casual glance, she was a remarkable “twin” to Kathleen. Anyone who saw them together would think them sisters, rather than mother and daughter.

He was surprised to realize that Kathleen’s right hand was curled into his forearm like a claw.

“Who are those men with her?” she asked. “They are going nowhere. She’s not even flirting with them. She has nothing to gain there.”

“I hope not,” Max said. “My sources say she’s seriously seeing a law student at Trinity College. She works as a copy editor for a small publishing house that specializes in poetry.”

“Poetry!”

“It’s a famous Irish export,” he said mildly. “Like politics.”

“Not married at twenty-six,” she muttered.

“Smart, no doubt,” he said.

“I presume you researched her foster parents, spy that you are.”

He nodded. “They are still ‘free-thinkers’ and still firmly atheist. Iris went through a rebellious stage when she investigated the Catholic Church because of a boyfriend—”

“What—?”

“The parents were upset, but Iris became more interested in hot yoga instead. Sensible child. Useful exercise, if hard to find in a chill climate like Ireland.”

“She’ll marry this Trinity man?”

“Looks like it. I can’t say if she’s contemplating having children.”

“At least your intelligence gathering has limits.”

“But…she’s filed an inquiry with her adopted parents for permission to find her Magdalene birth mother.”

The nails of Kathleen’s hand cut through his tweed jacket like Freddy Kreuger’s razor gloves in a horror movie. “I’ll kill you if that succeeds.”

“Fair warning,” he said, eyeing her untouched glass. “Drink up anyway. You wanted to leave. We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.”

Oddly, she did just as he said.

The car CD player happened to hit a classic Irish folk song from ugly olden 18th-century times, that Max had played on both recent trips to Ireland, a favorite of his, and hadn’t songs like this heard young inflamed his and Sean’s desire to visit Northern Ireland?

He and Sean could have been the “lone wolf” fanatics of an earlier day instead of just the romantic deceptive phenomenon’s victims.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone

In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him;

“Land of Song!” said the warrior bard,

“Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said “No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free

They shall never sound in slavery!”

20

Driven to Murder

Matt watched the luggage spit out from the carousal and snake past on the McCarran Airport conveyer belt.

“That trip to Minnesota was easier than I thought,” he said, “but I’ll never come back for ‘ice fishing’ season.”

Temple smiled. The yellow-and-magenta yarn she’d tied to their checked luggage handles certainly stood out among the lime green and orange pompons decorating the other bags.

“An invitation to ice fishing is the highest compliment from my brothers,” she explained. “It’s the ultimate macho male tribute. That means you rank up there with the Greats, like Wayne Gretsky.”

“Wayne who?”

“Hockey star.”

“I’m ready to swear off all things Minnesota until the next family visit up north. Tell me that will be a while.”

“You sure were great with my nephews on Sunday, all sixteen of them.”

“I was assigned to a parish with an attached grade school, remember? Mass quantities of ’tweens and teens don’t scare me.”

“So that’s why you get along so well with Molina’s daughter, Mariah.”

“Too well. I feel really awkward about taking her to the Dad-Daughter Dance she’s counting on. I understand a single mother’s dilemma with those type of events, but isn’t that Detective Alch closer to the family?”

“He’s Molina’s go-to guy at work,” Temple said, “but he isn’t as cute as you are.”

“Dads aren’t supposed to be ‘cute’. They’re supposed to be comfy and lived-in, like a recliner chair.” He didn’t want to mention he was no rooting for Rafi Nadir.

“Like my dad?”

Matt leaned forward to snag the biggest bag as it glided past. “Right.”

“Oh, look, here’s mine.” Temple grabbed the end handle of the smaller bag and slung it off the conveyer belt before Matt could play Galahad and do it for her.