Free Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery by Lisa Alber

socks were all the rage.
    Given her paranoid mood, the plaza was more like it: open and transparently cheerful. Even so, Merrit turned back to sight down the length of the alley and its double row of closed doors. Must have been her landlady, Mrs. Sheedy, spying on her comings and goings through lace curtains. As usual. The woman was almost as bad as Mrs. O’Brien.
    On the far side of the plaza, Merrit found Marcus sprawled over the length of a bench with half the contents of an overturned flask soaked into his trousers. “Wake up,” Merrit said. “You’d better go to—wherever you usually go to sleep. Marcus?” She poked his arm. “Are you OK? Wake up.”
    He didn’t move. Not a twitch.
    Alarmed, she leaned closer. “Marcus,” she said into his ear.
    Marcus jerked awake with a sharp cry. His hands fumbled into the air, and then, seeing Merrit, he lapsed back into grumbles. “Sweet Mary and Jaysus fecking Christ, have you gone mental?”
    “Maybe so, but Jaysus F. Christ yourself—I thought you’d gone and died on me. Here, sit up.”
    Marcus pushed himself up with a groan. With shaking hands, he patted down his hair and tucked his shirt into his soggy trousers. He felt under himself for the flask and tsked sadly when it came up empty. “Good craic, the party?”
    “Hellish, more like,” Merrit said. “And Lonnie only made it worse as you can imagine.”
    Marcus’s stomach growled.
    “One errand,” she said, “and then I’ll take us to breakfast.”
    Marcus muttered, shaking his head. “Could have sworn to a full dinner last night. Or maybe not, because we all know I’m not to be trusted, not even in thought. Even so, I’ll take my gin-soaked vagueness, thank you very much. And maybe a bloody fecking pint for breakfast too.”
    “What’s up with you? You seem more out of it than usual.” She perused him with fresh concern. “Your shoes are untied.”
    He lifted his feet to view his graffiti’d green and yellow sneakers. “So they are.”
    Merrit cast about behind the bench. “Did someone take your afghan?”
    “The afghan was on my lap. Cozy it was.” Marcus’s face crumpled. “Oh Christ, but then what? Such is the steaming load of shite that is my life.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” she said despite her disappointment. “I’m sure the afghan will turn up. Wait here while I tell off that Lonnie once and for all.”
    ***
    Back in the alley, Merrit counted doors, passing her lodgings as she went. Fifth door down, this would be Internet Café’s back entrance.
    The door was the tiniest bit ajar, which was odd even by Lisfenora’s safe standards. Merrit hesitated with fist raised against the shop’s door. No way was Lonnie at work this early in the morning. Ivan had to be up and about then. She nudged the door open to see a shabby storage area. Stacked packages of printer paper leaned against one another, covered in dust, and a bathroom exuded a musty funk. A yellow tabby sidled through an inner door that must lead to the storefront. The little fellow mewed and brushed her legs. Merrit picked him up.
    She carried the purring cat through the storage area and into the shop. Perhaps she could relay a message through Ivan to Lonnie. Something along the lines of, Stop talking to Liam about me, or else.
    Or else what? She wasn’t sure, but it was better than nothing at this point.
    A squeal, or perhaps a moan, issued from Lonnie’s office. Merrit froze. A moment later the rat-a-tatting of computer keys ceased and oaths in Ivan’s native Russian took over. Merrit smiled. The minion up to no good in the boss’s office. Now he’d see how much he liked having his personal life threatened with exposure.
    On tiptoes, she stepped past computers and around the service counter behind which Ivan usually sat. Thankfully, the window blinds were drawn. No one could see her as she stepped toward one of two doorways marked “For Employees Only,” only to freeze again, this time in the office