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As if I weren’t already late enough, my gas gauge was dancing with Empty. I pulled into a station. Handing the attendant a buck, I told him to skip the oil check and window wash, just put in five gallons.
While I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, I thought about the two men who’d turned up to see Benning’s landlady. Her description of them fit what Lapinski, the blue-eyed accountant, had told me about the pair who sometime earlier had called on Benning at his place of business. I was more inclined to believe that now. There were probably several kingpins in town who ran illegal gambling operations and wouldn’t take kindly to those who didn’t pay debts. I only knew of one, a man named Nico. I didn’t know his last name, I’d only met him once, and I had no desire to repeat that experience.
The attendant closed up my gas tank. I waved thanks and drove on. When I got to Mrs. Z’s, I dashed up the steps still entertaining a small hope I might have gotten there ahead of Connelly.
It evaporated the minute I came through the door. He stood at the foot of the stairs chatting with Mrs. Z. I stared, slack-jawed with disbelief. At shoulder level Connelly’s upturned palm provided a perch for Mrs. Z’s cat, who lay there docilely, legs dangling. The vicious, sneaky wad of fur was even purring.
“Ah, here she is now.” Connelly turned with a smile. A lock of brick brown hair curled onto his forehead.
The cat looked at me and hissed.
“There, there, puss. Maggie looks meaner than she actually is.”
Swinging the cat down, he gave its ears a parting rub as he passed it to Mrs. Z. Eyes twinkling, he watched me try not to glower at the cat in front of my landlady.
“Butterball was a naughty boy,” she said fondly. “When I opened the door, he shot right past my feet. Officer Connelly was kind enough to scoop him up for me. I do believe Butterball’s taken a shine to you, Officer Connelly.”
“I have a way with cats.” Connelly’s eyes met mine. His lips twitched.
Mrs. Z disappeared back into her apartment.
“Sure you haven’t been telling fibs about that pussy cat?” he grinned when the door had closed. “It seemed friendly as all get-out to me.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I should show you where it sunk its teeth into my ankle last night. Or maybe you should talk to Jolene and some of the others.”
I unbuttoned my coat. My intended apology for being late had evaporated.
“I won’t be long. Just let me freshen up and pour more peroxide over the bite marks.”
Connelly looked as if he might choke as I started upstairs. Gripping the newel post, he leaned around to call after me.
“Jaysus, Maggie! Tell me that’s not how you really care for a wound!”
I ignored him.
***
I skipped the hydrogen peroxide part, but after I’d washed my face and combed my hair, I did slap a fresh bandage over the teeth marks. They weren’t as bad as some the cat had given me. I shed my suit in favor of the new red dress I’d splurged on for the holidays and put on fresh lipstick. My brain was overloaded from trying to figure out where Gil Tremain was and why. I wasn’t going to think about it tonight. Although I wasn’t about to puff up Connelly’s fine opinion of himself by acknowledging it, I was looking forward to the evening.
“Don’t you look a treat,” he said when I came back down. Popping remnants of something white into his mouth, he brushed the crumbs from his lips with a fingertip. “Lovely divinity, Mrs. Z. I don’t know when I’ve tasted better.”
Mrs. Z beamed. While I was upstairs, she’d come into the hall again, bearing a plate. This time the cat was nowhere in sight.
“Never have cared much for divinity,” Connelly confided as we crossed the porch and stepped into an evening whose damp air hovered just above freezing. “Nor any sort of candy other than fudge, come to that. Why women feel some need to churn it out at Christmastime like it’s part of setting up the crèche is beyond me. But talking of that, what should St. Nick bring you?”
“Somebody’s in a good mood,” I said.
There was always a spring in his step, but tonight it was even more pronounced.
“Someone better be, the mood you looked to be in when you stomped upstairs. But yeah. Had a letter from Ma and the kids. That’s better than finding an extra ten in my pay.”
“And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you never answered my question.”
I tossed him my car keys.
“You driving or not?”
Connelly didn’t own a car, but at least half the time when we set off somewhere, he drove. He claimed to like sitting behind the wheel of something that wasn’t a cop car. For me it was a treat to be a passenger.
We decided on a place that served fried chicken, which we both liked. It was something of an indulgence, but Christmas was a time for indulgence as well as for charity. Over whiskey for him and a martini for me, he told me about the letter he’d had from Ireland. Though he always referred to “Ma and the kids”, the youngest, his baby brother, was twenty-five now, the same age I’d been when I met Connelly. I knew he missed them, probably even more at this time of year, so I asked him about the little things they did to celebrate, the cooking and get-togethers and that. Talking about it allowed him to be there, at least in his mind.
When our dinners came, we ate in silence for a minute.
“Thanks, Maggie. For listening.”
I nodded, embarrassed. To prevent the moment’s becoming overserious, I made a big show of looking around as if about to divulge the deepest of secrets.
“Has Seamus ever mentioned the law-breaking rich woman he was smitten with? It appears she reciprocated.”
Connelly halted his efficient demolition of a drumstick.
“Are you talking about the Seamus I know? White-haired gent? Bad knee? Doesn’t say half a dozen words unless you pry them out with a crowbar?”
“That’s the one.”
A grin crawled over his face and he sat back.
“Even you couldn’t make up a whopper like that. And no, I’ve never even heard him mention a woman, except for you, of course, or when he does something with Billy and Kate. I always supposed maybe he’d had a sweetheart when he was young back in Ireland, and that she’d died or married someone else after he came over. It happens often enough.”
“Did it with you?”
The instant the question was out, I regretted it. Connelly shrugged, his gaze holding mine too intently for me to break free.
“There was a girl I thought mattered. A few months after I left, I realized she hadn’t.” He bit off some chicken. “You going to tell me how you came by this gem about Seamus, or are you sworn to secrecy?”
I laughed.
“Not formally, but it might be wise not to mention it. He was so caught up in the past, I doubt he realized he was chattering like a magpie. Shy as he is, I’d hate to see him razzed — which I know you wouldn’t.”
Connelly was as fond of Seamus as I was, though he’d known him but a fraction of the time.
“Spill all, then.”
His eyes weren’t as blue as Steve Lapinski’s, but when they twinkled the way they did now, they took my breath away. And so, as we ate our chicken and mashed potatoes and carrots, I told him all about Seamus and Tabby Warren. Connelly’s baritone chuckle rumbled under my narrative like an accompaniment.
Yet all the time we laughed and enjoyed ourselves, rustling at the edge of my mind like an intruder whose identity and intentions need to be determined, was the thought that I was missing something. Some stone I hadn’t turned over. Some two-plus-two I hadn’t added. Something that could mean the difference in finding Gil Tremain alive and finding him dead.