Page 81 of Her Irish Savage

Nothing.

No further texts. No claims. No commands.

I want to get back to the game interrupted by the burner’s chime, but one look at Patrick’s scowling face tells me the moment has passed. That’s fine, though. It has to be.

There’s plenty of work to be done after we climb the stairs to the Back Bay apartment. I need to find a photo of my father, one presentable outside thedún. I need to decide what to wear. I need to issue a press release, to put the media on high alert.

Because tomorrow morning, I walk into the executive offices of the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum and hand over ten million dollars—on condition that the Gala publicly recognizes Kieran Ingram’s dying gift.

30

PATRICK

Igive up on figuring out the physics of how Fiona’s dress covers the mission-critical parts of her body. It wraps around her neck like she’s wearing a collar. It falls from her hips to the floor. But in between, big triangles are cut out of the sides so anyone who cares can count her ribs. The back is completely bare. The blood-red fabric barely covers her tits.

A leather belt snakes around her hips, challenging every man in the Corman Museum’s courtyard to keep his mind on cold showers, snowstorms, and icebergs floating in a frozen sea. I already made one unscheduled trip to the jacks before we left the Back Bay apartment, and I’m starting to feel the need for another.

“Fiona!”

The woman who sails down the steps is a mass of white hair and heavy makeup and a cloud of perfume that arrives twenty feet before she does. I don’t know if anyone on earth can weargold and black stripes without looking like a pregnant bumblebee. This woman certainly can’t.

“Marjorie,” Fiona responds, dutifully accepting air kisses on each cheek. “My father would be so touched by the memorial.”

“We were afraid you weren’t coming,” Marjorie chides.

I’m the reason we’re late. I set three alarms, but somewhere between the studs for my tuxedo shirt and the clasp of my cummerbund, I got distracted. We ended up leaving the apartment five minutes after we were supposed to arrive at the museum.

Fiona doesn’t flick a glance toward me. She just settles her hand on the older woman’s arm and says, “You know I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Together, Marjorie and Fiona look toward the head table. Places are set for Fiona and me to sit dead center, like a bride and groom sandwiched between twenty of our closest friends.

A gigantic headshot of Kieran Ingram is suspended between the balconies that frame the museum’s second floor, at least twenty feet tall. Fiona had the good sense to dig out a vintage photo of her da. The giant looming over us still has a full head of thick, dark hair. The only creases on his face are the laugh lines by his eyes. His cheeks have a healthy flush, nothing like the sallow tinge even the morticians couldn’t hide at the end.

An even larger scroll wraps around the bottom edge of the photo’s frame.In Memoriam, it says.Kieran Phelan Ingram.

Smaller images of the photo, frame, and banner are set into floral centerpieces on every table—overflowing Easter lilies and shamrocks. The Gala menu has taken on an Irish flair as well. Waiters walk around with trays of little lamb chops and caviar-topped potatoes. The entrées promise to be chicken in Jameson sauce and baked salmon. Someone managed to bring in the entire East Coast supply of Guinness for the bars on either side of the courtyard, and rumor has it there are vats of Bailey’s for after-dinner drinks.

It’s amazing what ten million dollars can buy, even on short notice.

Marjorie Hindman continues cooing over Fiona, bringing her into a circle of the museum’s greatest supporters. There’s the mayor and the chief of police. The chief fire inspector. The head of the city’s tax division.

Every last one of them knows exactly who Fiona is. And every last one of them is forced to shake her hand. To gesture at the portrait of her father. To thank her for her generous donation to the museum they all support.

“Our girl’s loving every feckin’ minute of it.”

I’ve let my guard down, watching Fiona bask in the glory of her donation. That’s the only reason I didn’t see Aran Dowd approach—and now he’s close enough to rumble in my ear.

I resist the urge to reach for my Glock, which isn’t even here. The shoulder holster doesn’t fit under my tuxedo jacket. Besides, I knew we’d be forced through a metal detector before anyone would be allowed near His Honor, the mayor.

Clenching a fist against the Bell that starts echoing inside my skull, I manage to respond with a level tone. “So the Corman’s open for all sorts now.”

“They could hardly refuse a request from their Platinum Donor’s brother-in-law, could they? Especially when he came armed with his own seven-figure check.”

So Dowd was willing to cough up a million of his own dollars to get through the door. Giving in to one clang of the Bell, I ask, “Which table are you at?” I already know he’s not sitting with us at the front of the room.

He scowls, and I think he’ll tell me to fuck off. Instead he says, “Isn’t it about time for you to leave town, Cujo? I think I hear your Philly master whistling.”

What a feckin’ tool. If Dowdcouldhear Kelly calling, that would mean he’s a dog too. The Bell starts an in-skull symphony, but I can’t exactly rip off his bollocks and shove them down his throat. Not here, amid Boston’s wealthiest art-lovers. So I settle for raising my glass like I’m toasting his brilliant wit. “Shove it up your fucking hole,” I say evenly, before I sip the Jameson.

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