No Strangers Here: a Riveting Dark Irish Mystery, page 16
“I need your permission before I start on any costly tests,” Dimpna said. She always gave it straight no matter how knotted up she felt on the inside; she always remained calm and gave it straight.
“We can’t pay,” Mrs. Collins cried. “We can’t pay.”
Dimpna couldn’t take it. She couldn’t afford to cover it either, but there was enough bad karma in Dingle right now. And her father might be the reason the cat had missed her heartworm pills. She had to at least try. “Let me start with some fluids, and see where we go,” she said. “If there’s no improvement, then we’ll discuss the options.” Dimpna hurried back to the treatment room and prepared a catheter. She quickly slipped it into a vein in the front leg, sending up a little prayer as the fluids made their way into the cat’s system. She drew the bloods, then collected a stool sample. Next, she gave Misty antibiotics and medications to help settle the cat’s stressed little body. When Niamh returned, they hooked Misty up to an electrocardiogram monitor. Dimpna cringed as it pulsed out abnormal heartbeats. “This doesn’t look good,” Dimpna said quietly. Misty looked even worse now, its poor head limp, a low moaning emanating from its belly. The monitor beeped; the poor thing’s heart rate was plummeting. Dimpna started chest compressions immediately. “I need a tube,” she said. “C’mere to me, Misty. You’re not going anywhere today. Did you hear me? Now.”
Niamh was efficient and at least knew where everything was. She handed her a tube that Dimpna slipped into Misty’s trachea, administering oxygen and beginning artificial respiration once more. The heart rate dropped further. “Come on, Misty. Come on, girl,” Dimpna said. “You’re loved. You’ve got nine lives. Did no one ever tell you that?” The monitor steadied but did not improve. “We go again,” Dimpna said. “From the top.” Fluids. Compression. Oxygen. Epinephrine through the tube. Misty was slipping away, leaving this world, and there was nothing more Dimpna could do. The monitor flattened into a straight line. Dimpna removed the tube and stopped the fluids. “Wrap her in the blanket,” Dimpna said. “Give her a last cuddle. I’ll break it to the Collinses.”
“Oh,” she heard Niamh say. “Poor, poor, thing.” Niamh wasn’t used to it yet. At the front desk she was slightly removed from all the trauma in the examination room.
Dimpna gave her shoulder a squeeze. “We did everything we could. You repeat that to yourself as many times as you need to, luv. We did everything we could.” Niamh sniffled and nodded as she cradled and rocked the cat. Dimpna headed for the waiting room, the familiar ache of defeat thrumming through her, hollowing her out. She’d told Niamh the truth; they’d done everything they could. If only that was any consolation. Back in the waiting room, Dimpna knelt by the couple who burst into tears before she could even speak. “Thank you, Doc, thank you,” Mrs. Collins said. “You tried. We know you tried.” It was one of the most staggering and touching things Dimpna had experienced over and over again as a vet. People, in their most agonizing moments, stopping to comfort her. Clients, who’d been put through the ringer watching their beloved pets take their last breath, would return to Dimpna’s clinic with offerings of love. Wine, and flowers, and chocolates, and sweet little photos of their pets in better times. Grief not only brought out the worst in people, it brought out the best. She was reminded of that now as Mrs. Collins stroked Dimpna’s head. “It’s alright, Dr. Wilde, it’s alright.”
“Dimpna?” Niamh appeared at the end of the hall, her voice pinched.
“Just a minute.” The old couple had their arms around Dimpna; they were having a moment.
“Can you come back here for a minute?” Niamh said a little louder.
“Just give us a moment—”
“Misty came back!”
The couple dropped their arms and Dimpna shot up. “What?”
“She’s alive!”
Dimpna hurried after Niamh into the treatment room, Mr. and Mrs. Collins at their heels. Misty was sitting up on the exam table, eyes open and alert. She meowed when she spotted the Collinses. Dimpna stared, gobsmacked. Clips from the EKG hung off her like she was a science experiment. She let out another pitiful meow, but it was the most beautiful sound Dimpna had ever heard. She was breathing on her own.
“You lied to us!” Mr. Collins said, sounding furious. “You made us think she was dead!” He balled up his fist. “What kind of person does that?”
“I swear to ye,” Niamh said. “I thought Misty was dead, too. She fooled both of us. But Dr. Wilde did everything, and I mean everything in her power, to save her, in lightning speed. Only looks like Misty here needed a minute to catch up. Didn’t you, luv? Dr. Wilde is the only reason she’s alert and looking at us like we’re a bunch of blubbering eejits!”
Mr. Collins’s mouth dropped open. He released his fist. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, wiping a tear off his face with the back of his hand. “Thank you, Doc. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“We’re forever grateful,” Mrs. Collins said.
“I think this is as close to a miracle as I’ve ever witnessed,” Dimpna said. “She really does have nine lives.”
“That’s who she is, don’t you know. She does everything on her timetable, so she does,” Mrs. Collins said, clasping her hands together. “You saved her. I don’t care what they say about you or your father. You saved our Misty!”
“We’re not quite in the clear yet,” Dimpna said, making a concerted effort to ignore Mrs. Collins’s last statement. “I want to keep Misty here overnight,” Dimpna said. “She’ll need extensive deworming, and I’m obligated to warn you, given the amount of time she was flatlined, she may have some brain damage.”
“She looks like our Misty to me,” Mr. Collins said. Misty was now enthusiastically licking herself. She took a few wobbly steps forward.
“Those are the medications making her woozy,” Dimpna said. She massaged the cat’s little head. “You’re going to need a long catnap after this.”
“We owe you,” Mr. Collins said. “I’ll think of some way to pay you.”
Dimpna held up her finger; she wanted to check the cat against the monitors. She hooked Misty back up to the EKG. Perfect heartbeat. Next, she checked her oxygen. Perfect saturation. Dimpna let out a laugh. “I think this cat must have a few angels watching over her,” Dimpna said. “But she’s definitely used up one of those nine lives.”
“There’s only one angel here today,” Mrs. Collins said, taking Dimpna’s hand. “I’m going to tell everyone you’re a miracle worker.”
“I think you’d better make that two angels,” Dimpna said, throwing a grateful look to Niamh. “Turns out she’s one hell of a cat cuddler.” Niamh laughed, her cheeks filling with a rosy glow.
“I tell you one thing I can do for you,” Mr. Collin said. “I couldn’t help but notice you have some strays in your courtyard.”
“We’ve had an influx lately,” Dimpna said. “What did you have in mind?”
“It needs cleaning up, but I could let you use my auto body shop across the way. If you can pay to have all the old paint cans and whatnot disposed of properly, and have any scraps or tools hauled away to the junkyard, she’s all yours. It could serve as an extra kennel and yard for your creatures.”
“That is a very generous offer, Mr. Collins. If I say yes—and I’m only thinking about it at this stage—I’d like to eventually start paying you rent. It might just take a while.”
“Here.” Mr. Collins removed a fat set of keys from his pocket and took one off the ring. “Have a poke around and when we come back to collect Misty you can let us know what you think.”
CHAPTER 17
“YOU HAVE TO KEEP THIS CLINIC OPEN,” NIAMH SAID TO DIMPNA. IT had only been an hour since the Collinses left and they were still feeling the buzz of Misty coming back to life. “Dingle needs you.”
“I don’t know.” But even as she said it, Dimpna had a sudden urge for the work. Misty was an outlier; the cat should have been dead. But she wasn’t. And Dimpna had learned that you couldn’t just wallow in the bad, you had to actively embrace the good. And if she was being honest, she needed the work. The routine. The hyperfocus. The quirky pets and their equally, if not more, quirky humans. Not to mention the money. She couldn’t afford to take care of all these animals herself. And she couldn’t let harm come to them.
Niamh’s eyes lit up as she leaned in. “You would go a lot of places, talk to a lot of people. I hear a lot of things too. People come in. They can’t help but gossip.”
“That is true,” Dimpna said. Maybe she could get answers. Answers like why her father had secretly met with Johnny O’Reilly. They wouldn’t be found unless she had access to the O’Reilly estate. Would Tommy Healy speak with her? If anyone knew about this meeting between Johnny and her father, it would either be Tommy or Sean. She would need a legitimate reason to be near them.
“Not to mention the obvious,” Niamh said, interrupting Dimpna’s mental maze.
“What’s that?”
“The animals need you. We couldn’t even fill all the requests when we were open full-time. Unless of course, you don’t need the money.”
She was smart, Niamh. Whether she was trying to preserve her own job, or honestly wanted to help, the answer was obvious. Dimpna would do better if she kept busy. Her parents needed her. Correction—they needed them. Both of their children. Where the hell was her brother? She was going to have to find him even if she had to personally search every single boat at the harbor. “Do you think clients will accept me as the new vet?”
“Absolutely,” Niamh said.
Not all of them. There was plenty of sexism in the field. Male and female farmers who would still specifically request male vets only. Add in Dimpna’s size, and she had to make triple the effort to prove herself. People doubted her around horses, and cattle, and bulls. Seeing their sheer size next to Dimpna’s made others fearful. Until they saw her work. She did have to make accommodations, but she made them. She’d had close calls, but so had all vets that worked with animals. It was a little easier in Dublin, in a small animal clinic. Owners thought it was adorable watching little Dimpna with their kitties and puppies, and rabbits, and hamsters, and once a chinchilla, but at 3:00 A.M. when a large cow was calving, its baby trying to come out feetfirst, the looks on farmers’ faces when she showed up was akin to characters in a horror film when they realize the psychopath they thought was dead is not only still alive, he’s standing in front of them with a bloody cleaver. Sometimes, Dimpna actually enjoyed those expressions of horror, because they often changed to wonderment by the time she was done. Dimpna was strong, and she’d developed techniques in which she could use her size to her advantage but still accomplish difficult tasks around enormous animals. It was possible they even relaxed more around her due to her size. Either way, she made it work, and she excelled at her job. Just like her father had excelled for close to five decades. She was not going to let him down. The clinic would not close and he would not go down as a murderer.
Did that apply even if he really was?
She ignored the nonsense tumbling around her brain. She had to focus. She needed to add a second vet to the clinic. Someone fresh out of school, hungry for his or her first placement. And if she was going to be anywhere near the O’Reilly barns, her assistant should be tall and male. Like it or not, that was the only way Róisín O’Reilly would even consider keeping them on as their vet. Send a male vet. Róisín O’Reilly may be the grieving widow, but the Wildes had all their veterinarian records, knew every racehorse in those barns, and had been providing care at no cost for the past twenty-seven years. What a price they had paid to prevent the O’Reillys from pressing charges against Dimpna for releasing Last Dance and agreeing to keep quiet about her pregnancy. Not that Johnny O’Reilly had any interest in claiming his grandson. Quite the opposite. As far as Dimpna knew, Johnny hadn’t even told his wife. God forbid their bloodlines mix. If she was going to start snooping around their barns, she needed to keep the agreement in place, and she needed to add a male vet to the team.
Dimpna turned to Niamh. “We’ll open in three days.” Niamh grinned and pretended to clap her hands. “And once we’re on our feet again, you’re getting a raise.”
Niamh held her hands together in praying position, gave a little bow of thanks, then straightened her spine and pulled her seat closer to the reception desk. “I have résumés if you want me to schedule interviews for vet techs and assistants.”
Dimpna nodded. “Let’s start with a second vet and a vet tech.” They’d need more but it was a start. “Do you think Sheila would come back?” Dimpna had no intention of bringing Sheila back—she didn’t trust her—but she wanted Niamh’s impression.
Niamh’s face went still. “She might.”
“I sense hesitation.”
“It’s nothing I can put my finger on.”
“I’d like to hear what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know if this clinic is a priority to Sheila.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not accusing her of anything but . . .”
“Yes?”
“I can’t point to anything specific. It’s just . . . she doesn’t always seem to like it here.” Niamh leaned in. “Maybe it’s her new boyfriend. Makes her want to dash out of work as fast as she can. Before all this murder business, she slipped out early more times than I can count.”
Dimpna felt the irresistible pull of needing to know. “Who’s her new boyfriend?” Was it Paul? Please, don’t be Paul.
“That’s just the thing. She wouldn’t say a thing about her new love. I thought of us as a little family here. I guess she didn’t. She started dressing up and slipping out late and coming back to work with a big grin on her face. She’s riding someone, I’d bet the farm.” Niamh grinned, then shrugged. “I just don’t know if she wants to work here anymore.”
Was it true? Was Sheila in a relationship? Wasn’t Dimpna too old to feel jealous? How was it possible that being back here stripped away all those years in between and suddenly she was thinking and feeling like a teenager again? Dimpna hadn’t made love in a long time. Even before Niall took his own life, he’d been distant, and she’d been overwhelmed with work. It was nearly impossible to admit, but she hadn’t had sex in well over a year. And counting. There had been one last time with Niall, months before the news broke. Had she known it was going to be the last time, maybe she would have made more of an effort. There was nothing remarkable about their last time. Just a day when they’d found themselves going to bed at the same time and turning to each other in the dark. Pleasant, but quick.
There were times she thought she may never be with a man again. She wasn’t getting any younger. She’d secretly wondered if seeing Paul again would awaken her desires. Instead, she found herself thinking of the inspector. There was something about him, a charisma, an intensity that beckoned her. He seemed lost, and so was she. The intense way he studied her was something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Or perhaps it was just a thing she did—fall for inappropriate men. But sleeping with the inspector investigating her parents for murder was not just foolish, it would be dangerous. Now was not the time to indulge in fantasy. There was something about the mention of Sheila that brought back all her old insecurities and petty jealousies. “My father did throw a book at her face and accuse her of being a thief,” Dimpna said. “I can see how that would be a deal-breaker.”
“Shall I line up interviews?”
“Yes. And if we eventually open a facility across the street, we’ll need workers to help clear it out. But one thing at a time. I want to get the other vet first.”
“On it,” Niamh said.
“And could you start calling clients to see if they’re willing to book? That will give us an idea of whether or not we can pull this off.”
“I’ll start now.”
“Good woman.” She chewed her lip. “I’m wondering if you shouldn’t give Sheila a courtesy call? Offer her her position back. I have a feeling she’d turn it down—but I don’t want to stab anyone in the back.” Like she did me. So many times.
“I’ll do that,” Niamh said. “But I believe she’s working with O’Connell now.”
Dimpna nodded. It made sense that Sheila would go to the other vet in town. “Let me know what she says.” Dimpna stepped into the courtyard. The skies were gray and starting to spit. She called her father’s solicitor. He told her he had already spoken to her mam and had recommended another solicitor, one that dealt with criminal matters. He hung up before she could even say goodbye. At least her mam was on top of things. Dimpna called her next. Her mother picked up right away. “I’m waiting to speak with his doctor, luv. Hopefully we’re going home today.”
“Should I join you?”
“Not at all. You can visit your father when we’re back at the house.”
“I’ll see you at the house later then,” Dimpna said. “Have you heard from Donnecha?”
“You know your brother,” her mam said. And then she hung up. Did her mother know that Donnecha had been taken into the station? That he had been cleaning the boat that the inspector believed had been used in the murder? Dimpna sighed, then dialed Donnecha’s number. The voice mail picked up and told her it was full. She sent a text: Call ASAP. Emergency! She went back inside, wondering when she was going to have time to check out the auto body shop. The reception desk was empty. Dimpna came around to log onto her email, but when she did, she caught sight of a notebook near the monitors. It was open, the handwriting neat and elegant. It must belong to Niamh. She sat in the chair and glanced at it again. One line stuck out; this one was not neat and orderly, nor was it in the same blue ink. This was one in red, the letters large and slashed as if the writer had gone over and over and over it obsessively. Dimpna stared at the message, wondering what on earth it was all about: I HATE HIM.
CHAPTER 18
THE DINGLE GARDA STATION ON BRIDGE STREET WAS HOUSED IN A lovely stone building that had tried on various paint schemes over the years but was currently on the blue end of the gray spectrum. Cormac studied the walls of his small makeshift office, annoyed at smudges mocking him. This had previously been a storage room, evident by the pile of cardboard boxes shoved to one side. He was the first to admit he could be a bit neurotic. Stacks of books needed to line up just so. Biros couldn’t roll willy-nilly on a desk; they needed to be placed in a holder, ink facing down. Wet marks on restaurant tables drove him mental, to the point where he couldn’t even focus on conversation until they were all dabbed up. Daily life was a struggle to accept nagging imperfections. He’d certainly tried. Meditation, meds, a few reluctant sessions with therapists. No drink. More drink. No drink. Moderate drink. More sleep, less sleep, no sleep, more sleep. Eat your veggies—that’s what you need. Vitamins. That’s the trick. He’d even tried fecking yoga. Only two things had ever eased the chaos in his mind: playing the squeeze-box and working a case. And this case did not disappoint. He hadn’t been this hyped up in ages. But the theatrics Paul Byrne had played at Nancy Griffin’s house this morning still burned in his mind, and he’d been replaying them like a film, trying to suss out the man’s angle. Cormac had been thrilled when the young girl was released from hospital with a clean bill of health. And he’d been as accommodating as he could, going out to the house instead of having her come into the station. It was bad enough they’d all been jammed into the table in that tiny depressing kitchen—dishes piled in the sink, every surface loaded with clutter, open food containers, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol choking the air. He had a sinking feeling this wasn’t due to the fact that her daughter had been missing, that this was how the place had always looked. He’d started sneezing, and then when that was finally under control, he’d gotten absolutely nothing out of the girl, and it was all Paul Byrne’s fault. First, Byrne kept delaying the questioning, insisting he let her eat her breakfast in peace, and then when Cormac gently started his questioning—“Tell me about the night of your birthday”—Paul Byrne cut in.
