False Mermaid

Nora slowed as she approached her parents’ home. She heard the music first, an Elgar cello concerto—her father’s favorite. She stopped to listen as the instrument’s deep vibrato, sonorous and sweet, spilled into the night. The broad screen porch at the side of the house was illuminated by a single reading lamp, and she could see her mother’s head bent in concentration over the crossword, a daily passion. Her father’s lanky frame was stretched on the daybed along the wall. He lay with his eyes closed, and fingers steepled over his chest as he listened to the music. Her parents had been like this always, Nora thought: two planets, each in its separate orbit. She remembered wishing once, when she was about thirteen, that her parents would shout or curse or throw things—display some feeling, anything at all. But the world around them was always calm and laid out according to scientific principles. Reason was the highest good. Nothing ever broke that peace.

When the music ended, her father sat up and leaned over to lift the LP from the turntable and slid it gently into the sleeve. He had never caught up with the world of CD recordings. Nora’s heart suddenly squeezed tight, remembering how he had played that same recording incessantly in the weeks and months after Tríona’s death. Some people reached out to others for comfort, but her father’s grief had driven him ever more inward. After five years, this nightly dose of Elgar still seemed his only consolation.

Eleanor Gavin set aside the folded newspaper and removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes as if plagued by a dull headache. Nora heard her father’s voice: “Are you all right, Eleanor?”

“I’m worried about Nora. I should have told her about Miranda. I just didn’t have the heart to do it over the phone.”

“She’ll find out soon enough.”

Nora stood in the shadows, wondering if she’d heard right. The only Miranda she knew was Marc Staunton’s younger sister. Had something happened to her?

“I’m sure she’d want to know, Tom. I should have said something. Peter said they were leaving on Saturday. Dublin’s not a large city. What if she were to run into them?”

“Have you tried the flat again?”

“No answer. Her office at Trinity will only say that she’s on break, and I can’t raise her on the cell phone.”

“Wait until she gets home, love. It’s all we can do. She’s probably on her way now.”

Nora stood in the darkness, a strange feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. What was it her parents had to tell her about Miranda Staunton?

And then she knew. Peter Hallett wasn’t returning to Saint Paul with some anonymous, clueless female he’d picked up in Seattle. He was coming back to marry Miranda Staunton, his best friend’s sister. And he was taking his new bride on a wedding trip to Ireland, where he and Tríona had spent their honeymoon. Was it some sort of deliberate taunt, a demonstration that he could do exactly as he pleased, and no one could stop him?

Nora wanted desperately to speak, but she couldn’t make a sound. It had been a mistake, coming here. The crickets’ thrumming suddenly turned unbearably loud and harsh. She turned and started back to the apartment, first walking, then running blindly, gulping air and trying to fight off the angry tears that stung her eyes. After two blocks, she slowed to a walk, suddenly so exhausted that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

Turning in at the carriage house sidewalk, she caught sight of a figure standing in silhouette at the side door to the garage. The door to her apartment. Her heart lurched as she jumped back out of view, perhaps too late. When there was no audible reaction, she leaned forward and peered around the corner again, slowly this time. A man stood in the shadows—not tall, but solid and powerfully built. He seemed to hesitate, outstretched thumb poised over the bell. Then he tipped forward, slowly banging his forehead against the door. “Press the button,” he muttered to himself. “Just press the fucking button and get it over with.”

She recognized the voice. “Frank—is that you?”

Cordova’s head shot up and he stepped back, one hand reaching instinctively for his holster. “Goddamn it, Nora, don’t ever sneak up on somebody like that. Especially not a cop.”

He’d kept his jacket on despite the heat, but his tie was loose and slightly askew. The street light in the alley threw most of his body into shadow, but Nora could see the crown of straight black hair, the sharp angles of the clean-shaven face, cheekbones that offered proof of Mayan ancestors. Cordova looked a little unsteady on his feet, and she realized that her sudden appearance wasn’t the only thing putting him off balance. He was holding onto the door frame for support. Something was a little off.

“I’m just surprised to see you here, Frank. How did you find me?”

“Give me a little credit. Carriage house, you said. Arundel Court.” He leaned forward and whispered: “I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s no other carriage house on this street.”