thirty-eight

The store was exactly in the vicinity where Megan had remembered. A green canopy with sheehan’s irish gifts written in Celtic-style white lettering took up the corner of the Brooklyn street. Less than six months ago, she and Aunt Maureen visited Doreen Sheehan’s store to pick out presents for the newborns of the Murphy clan.

The bell on the door chimed as Megan entered. Doreen Sheehan stood behind a glass jewelry cabinet restocking inventory. She was in her sixties, with a silver pixie cut. Her diminutive build could deceive one into thinking her personality was equal in size, but as Megan soon recalled, she was tough Irish stock.

“Hello, luv, what can I do you for today?”

Megan remembered Doreen was born and raised in Dublin, but she’d been living here for over forty years. She wondered if the woman put the Irish accent on a little thick to boost sales.

“Well, actually I’m here to …”

“Wait a second, I know you, darlin’. ” She shook her finger. “Yes, you’re Pat and Rose’s girl.”

“Megan McGinn.”

“Maureen Murphy’s goddaughter, right?”

“You have a good memory,” Megan said.

“God bless your father’s soul. I didn’t know him well, but from what I did, I knew he was good as gold, he was. How’s your mum doin’? Maureen said she’s in hospital. Holding up well, is she?”

Vacant of all rational thought. “Nursing home, actually. She’s doing as good as can be expected, thank you for asking.”

“Good to hear. Good to hear. I just saw Maureen two weeks ago at bingo.” Doreen put one palm up to her cheek as if telling a secret. “Took home the pot, she did. But don’t let it get around, especially to the mister.”

“Cross my heart.” Megan looked around the store and out of curiosity looked above the doorway. “I’m interested in that.” Megan pointed up to the Saint Bridget’s cross above the entrance.

“Ah, Saint Bridget, the Mary of the Gael. What exactly are you looking for, sweetheart? Jewelry? Maybe a necklace?”

Megan had temporarily forgotten the fact that her cross was missing, but the question was a hard reminder.

“Did you make that cross, Mrs. Sheehan?”

“Yes. Been making them since I was a wee girl in Ireland. My granny taught me how. It’s a tradition, you know. Place the new cross above the door, take the old one down and burn it.”

“Yes, I know. Where do you get the rushes from?” Megan asked.

“Darlin’, that one isn’t made out of rushes—yes, they’re supposed to be, but I made that out of crepe paper from a craft store. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s been up there for eight years now.”

“Your secret is safe with me. But if I wanted to get rushes, specifically from Ireland, how would I get them?”

“I have distributors in Ireland where I order my Saint Bridget’s crosses from, but they come already made. I should think you could order the rushes from the same place and put them together yourself, if you wanted to go to all the trouble.”

“Would you mind giving me a list of your distributors?” she asked.

Megan sensed Doreen Sheehan’s hesitancy, not that psychic powers were needed. Doreen tapped the cash register with her pen a few times. “Oh sure, luv, that’ll pay me rent.”

“May I have a copy of the list while I browse around?”

“Of course, darlin’, be right back with your information.”

Knowing she’d be stopping off at the Murphys’ before heading back to Manhattan, Megan was perusing the store for gifts when her phone vibrated.

Nappa’s personal cell showed up on the screen.

“Hey,” Megan answered.

“I checked with the tech guys on the video. It’s going to take some time to get a clearer visual, but the tech guy agrees with you. He sees something on the tape, too.”

She close fist punched the air. “I knew it!”

“Paige Gowan came into the precinct.”

“The PG from McAllister’s datebook. Anything?”

“Nada. She also assumed Bauer had something to do with it,” Nappa answered. “One more thing, I just got off the phone with the lab. The second cross, the one from the sympathy card that had trace amounts of type AB blood, also had minute traces of paper towel.”

“Paper towel? What for?”

“He said it was probably to keep the reeds moist. What little was found was near where the tips had been trimmed. The second cross also had traces of green sponge. But, again, very minute traces.”

“Green sponge? Why would green sponge be on the reeds?”

“Foam brick, luv,” Doreen interrupted.

“Hang on, Nappa.” Megan turned to Doreen. “Pardon me?”

“Reeds are packed in saturated foam brick, like from floral shops.”

“Who is that?” Nappa asked.

“I’m in Brooklyn, let me call you back.” She flipped her cell closed.

“I received a shipment yesterday, let me show you.” Doreen went into the back of the store and returned with an opened carton from Dublin. “See?” She showed Megan the moistened brick. “Same as a typical floral arrangement sent to ya.”

Megan recalled all too well the number of recent sympathy arrangements sent to her and Brendan acknowledging their father’s death. “Yes, I see.”

She rang Nappa back. “Did the lab say if they came from the same bunch of reeds? The cross from the doorway and the cross from the card?”

“Couldn’t tell, but they said if we want a more extensive workup, it could be sent to a university out of state. They could run more tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Something about checking the pollen grains from the plant. It could identify the region they came from,” Nappa said.

“At this point, go for it.”

“It’ll take some time, but it’s worth a shot. Unless, like your computer friend, you have another friend, a botanist perhaps?”

“Any botanists I know deal with a certain other kind of plant.”

“Information I don’t need, McGinn,” said the ex-Narcotics officer before ending the call.

“Here’s the list, darlin’. ” Doreen handed Megan a paper of over twenty distributors based in Ireland.

“I didn’t realize there were so many.”

“And that’s not even half of them—those are only the ones I order from. I go to trade shows in New York and New Jersey. They’re always coming out with new things, so I like to use different distributors. It keeps the inventory fresh.”

Megan looked at the names and phone numbers on the list. “What time is it in Ireland right now?”

“They’re five hours ahead, so a bit after nine in the evening. You might better wait until tomorrow, if calling them is what you’re needing. Can I wrap those for you?” she asked.

Megan had picked out a pair of silver earrings for Maureen and a Donegal tweed cap for Uncle Mike.

“Actually, yes. Gifts for Maureen and Mike.”

“What, nothing for yourself, luv?”

Megan looked around the jewelry case. She already had a Claddagh ring, and still, in her mind, owned a cross necklace.

“Darlin’, you asked so much about Saint Bridget, why don’t you take that bracelet?”

A delicate silver bracelet had Saint Bridget’s cross at the center of the clasp. Megan picked it up to check the price.

“I’ll give it to you at cost, sweetheart.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Doreen removed the price tag from the bracelet before fastening it to Megan’s wrist. She smiled. “Now you have Saint Bridget on your side, my dear.”

_____

As soon as Megan knocked on the Murphys’ front door, she could hear the mayhem inside. Kids laughing, dogs barking, and at least two different people yelling, “Someone’s at the door!”

Aunt Maureen greeted her with a grandchild on one hip and another tugging at her from behind. She had a warm, welcoming smile on her face until she took a look at Megan’s. “Meggie, what happened?” She gently touched Megan’s chin, turning her face side to side.

“I’m okay. Really.”

“Come in here. We have a large group tonight: two out of the four boys and their entire crews—including the dogs.”

A Jack Russell named Conan and a black Labrador named Daisy bombarded Megan with licks and tail wags as she entered. “Hey, guys.” In a momentary lapse Megan bent over to pet the dogs, shooting currents of pain through her back muscles.

Aunt Maureen noticed her wince. “What else is wrong with you?”

“I’m fine, just pulled a muscle.”

“The hell you did. Patrick, come take a look at Megan,” Maureen yelled into the kitchen. Patrick was her second-eldest son, named after Megan’s father, and he was also a doctor interning in orthopedics.

“Hey, Megs. Shit!” Patrick gave Megan a hug and a light peck on the cheek. He was the younger-looking version of Uncle Mike, only he now surpassed his father in height and not one gray strand could be found in the mop of black hair on his head. But the two men still shared the same warm smile.

“Patrick, the language,” Aunt Maureen scolded. “Meggie’s hurt her back, take a look.”

By that time the rest of the Murphy clan in attendance had come into the living room to greet Megan: Patrick’s wife, Moira; Kyle, the youngest Murphy brother; his wife, Veronica; and countless Murphy grandchildren.

Megan loved a full house, just not the medical attention. “Turn around, Meganator,” Patrick demanded, “let me take a look.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Patrick, take her in the kitchen. I’m going to put a video on for the kids until dinner is ready.” Aunt Maureen received an enthusiastic response from the children, if not more so from the adults. The dogs, however, followed the scent of the roast cooking and joined the gathering in the kitchen.

Uncle Mike was checking on the roast when everyone crowded into the chef’s quarters. “Genius at work, people. I need my space.”

“Dad, Megs is here.”

He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel, staring at Professor Bauer’s handiwork. “So she is.”

Megan handed him the bag of gifts. “This is for you, and this is for Aunt Maureen. As for all of you other Murphys, you’re going to have to wait until Christmas!”

“That’ll wait. Patrick, look at Meggie’s back,” Aunt Maureen ordered.

“I’m fine. Really.” Megan’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

Moira passed Megan a glass of red wine. “Drink up. You’ll need it with this group tonight.”

“C’mon, strip for me,” Patrick joked.

“Patrick!” Maureen swatted his shoulder.

“Okay, I give up.” Megan took her jacket off. “Patrick, I’m telling you I’m fine, but take a gander anyway.”

Patrick raised her shirt up.

When Maureen saw her son’s concerned look, she moved closer to see for herself. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

Of course, this led to every adult in the room inspecting Megan’s posterior region.

“I had a rather impromptu altercation with a suspect.” She skirted having to tell the whole story.

Patrick felt around the bruise. “Does this hurt?”

“Only when you touch it.”

“What about here?” he asked. He pressed hard into the bottom of the bruised area.

“If you push any harder, I’m going to turn you from a Patrick into a Patricia.”

“Please do, three kids are enough,” Moira chimed in.

“You should really get some X-rays, and a few tests,” Patrick said.

Uncle Mike was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Do you want me to set up an appointment?” Patrick asked.

“Let me give it a few days. I promise, if it doesn’t feel better, I will call you for some tests. Fair enough?” she asked.

“Hey, you’re the baby sister I never had. I’m just trying to watch your back.” Patrick messed Megan’s hair. “Get it? Watch your back.”

“Your bedside manner sucks, but thanks anyway.”

Uncle Mike spoke up then. “Megan and I are going into my study. Help your mother with the rest of dinner.” He moved to the doorway and motioned Megan to follow.

In the study, Uncle Mike took out a bottle of whiskey and poured them each a shot. “Did this happen before or after your apartment was broken into? Before or after you started your vacation?”

“How did you know about that?” She thought to herself how stupid a question it was as soon as it left her lips. Though not on the force anymore, Uncle Mike had eyes and ears everywhere in the department.

“Drink.” He handed Megan the glass. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Bruised but not broken. It looks worse than what it is. Promise.”

“Sit. Talk.” Winning friends and influencing people were clearly not high on Uncle Mike’s list during this conversation.

Megan went into full disclosure of every aspect of the case, from the moment she first arrived on the crime scene to an hour ago at the Irish gift store. Uncle Mike listened intently, though she could tell he badly wanted to interrupt and give Megan the riot act for not immediately acting the first time the unsub reached to her out via cell.

“So, there you have it.” She finished her drink.

“That’s not all of it.”

“What? Yes, it is. I’ve told you everything.”

“Everything but the fact that you’re on leave and still working the case.” He threw back the remaining whiskey in his glass.

“It’s nothing you or dad wouldn’t do, and you know it,” Megan said with a level of certainty that could not be argued with, even by her father’s best friend.

Mike sat forward. “I’m not going to waste my breath arguing the truth with you. You hear me, and you hear me good. You keep eyes open, front, back, sideways. You stay armed every second until this is seen through. Got it?”

“Dad, Megan, dinner!” Patrick yelled from the dining room.

Megan nodded. “I promise.” She squeezed his hand. “I love ya, Uncle Mike.”

He welled up and pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket. “Just stay alive. Get in there, I’ll be in in a minute.”

_____

A few hours later, the dining room looked as though a holiday feast had been enjoyed instead of a casual family dinner. The adults sat around the table drinking coffee and finishing off dessert, while the kids were experiencing food comas watching the end of the movie in the living room.

“So, Megs.” Kyle threw a dinner roll across the table. “Saw you on the news this week.”

“Oh, yeah.” She returned the sentiment by throwing the roll back.

“I have to say, that partner of yours, Nappa, is so hot,” Veronica chimed in.

“Definite eye candy,” Moira added. The Murphy husbands moaned at their wives’ observations of Megan’s partner.

“I’ll let him know you feel that way,” she joked.

“We all think you should date him,” Maureen said.

“Here we go!” Megan laughed.

“Okay, if that doesn’t work for you, I tell you what,” Moira suggested. “My girlfriend joined this Internet dating service. It’s really been a great experience, and it’s geared toward Irish New Yorkers.”

“That’s it, I’m outta here!” Megan started to get up from the table. “It’s been lovely, just great seeing everyone, but unfortunately Manhattan calls.”

The goodbyes took longer than the meal. Uncle Mike walked Megan out to the porch and gave her a gentler hug than normal. “Watch your back, kiddo. No pun intended.”

“I will. Hey, you’ve been awfully quiet this evening. Are you okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, and call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“You’re on my speed dial.” Megan gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the cap. It looks good on you.”

Uncle Mike smiled. “I know.”