Some of Us Are Looking

Book 2: County Kerry Novel

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery

Synopsis

In late summer, the Dingle Peninsula is thronged with tourists drawn to County Kerry’s dark mountains and deep, lush valleys. For Irish vet Dimpna Wilde, who has returned to run her family’s practice after years away, home is a beautiful but complicated place—especially when it becomes the setting for a brutal murder …
In Dimpna Wilde’s veterinary practice, an imminent meteor shower has elevated the usual gossip to include talk of shooting stars and the watch parties that are planned all over Dingle. But there are also matters nearer at hand to discuss—including the ragtag caravan of young people selling wares by the roadside and the shocking death of Chris Henderson, an elderly local, in a hit-and-run.
Just hours before his death, Henderson had stormed into the garda station, complaining loudly about the caravan’s occupants causing noise and disruption. One of their members is a beautiful young woman named Brigid Sweeney, and Dimpna is shocked when Brigid later turns up at her practice, her clothing splattered in blood and an injured hare tucked into her jacket.
Brigid claims that a mysterious stranger has been trying to obtain a lucky rabbit’s foot.
Dimpna is incensed at the thought of anyone mutilating animals, but there is far worse in store. On the night of the meteor shower, Dimpna finds Brigid’s body tied to a tree, her left hand severed. She has bled to death. Wrapped around her left wrist is a rabbit’s foot.
Brigid had amassed plenty of admirers, and there were tangled relationships within the group. But perhaps there is something more complex than jealousy at play. The rabbit’s foot, the severed hand, the coinciding meteor shower—the deeper Dimpna and Detective Inspector Cormac O’Brien investigate, the more ominous the signs seem to be, laced with a warning that Dimpna fears it will prove fatal to overlook.

Release date: October 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

TONIGHT WOULD BE A SPECTACULAR NIGHT FOR HER TO DIE. A glorious send-off. The Perseid meteor showers would attract quite a bit of attention, and if there was ever a night to “go to the light,” this was it. One hundred meteors per hour streaking from the Irish skies while the Atlantic Ocean thrashed in the background. What a way to go! It was possible, knowing her, that even that wouldn’t be enough to coax the vixen to heaven. She may very well sink into the dark abyss. Goodnight, angel. She was a stunner, a head turner; that was just an objective fact. She was the one who chose to exploit it, used her beauty to destroy men, not to mention a few women. She had mastered the art of humiliation, but she would not have the last laugh.

She was visible now, just through the trees, a flash of dark hair, a glimpse of a royal blue dress lifting in the summer wind. Those shapely thighs and heart-shaped calves, that skin which defied their pale-skinned people and actually tanned, that long dark hair cascading down her back, that youthful laugh. She had so many people fooled. Was there anything more ignorant than assuming a beautiful face came with a beautiful soul?

She was laughing now, twirling for an audience in front of the silver caravan. The location, in close proximity to the Camp-to-Annascaul section of the Dingle Way hiking trail, was ideally situated for preying on gullible tourists. Grown men throwing away euros on a lucky rabbit’s foot just to have a close-up gawk at her. You reap what you sow. A nearby patch of trees beckoned. From the cocoon of the woods, the sounds of Tralee Bay were amplified, as if fanned in by the leaves. Trees. What fascinating plants. Oak, birch, ash, Sitka spruces. Sharing information and nutrition through their root systems. A secret underground society. Hidden in plain sight. The trees knew what was coming. What an appropriate grave for the little nymph.

One could see what she was doing. One could see it all.

She, on the other hand, had no idea what was coming. What a pity. Blindsided. That had a certain ring to it, although it would also be satisfying to whisper the news into her ear, watch her eyes widen with fear, see a shiver run down her perfect spine. To everything there is a season. “Turn, turn, turn.” . . . Hunting season. Her beauty would not save her this time. It was tempting to stay and watch her some more. Her last full day on earth. But time was of the essence, and essential things were needed. A list had to be made. The hand that held the biro trembled with anticipation as the four essential ingredients were penned:

CHRIS HENDERSON BARGED PAST THE RECEPTION DESK AT THE Tralee Garda Station, and before anyone could stop him, he’d flung open Sergeant Barbara Neely’s very flimsy door. “I caught a pervert,” he announced. It was his third visit this week, but his first time making this particular pronouncement. He stood with one hand behind his back, the other resting atop his cane.

Inspector Cormac O’Brien, who still hadn’t spilled whatever he’d come to spill, was making her mental by standing behind the chair across from her desk instead of sitting down like a normal human being. He was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were turning white. In this job, there was no such thing as enough cups of tea. She’d wanted a quiet morning, had been hoping to squeeze in a workout during lunch, yearning for some calm before the meteor storm. She glanced at her mug of lukewarm tea and imagined pouring a shot of whiskey into it. Neely stood. “You do know that I can arrest you for barging in here.” She probably couldn’t. But she could certainly threaten it. Being elderly was no excuse for storming into her station like his arse was on fire and she was the only one with a water hose. Neely was a fool. At sixty-three years of age, instead of retiring, she’d transferred to the Tralee Garda Station from Dingle. And ever since, she’d dealt with complaints like this one. Eejit.

Chris Henderson pounded his cane, and his dark eyes flashed with anger. “You are the guardians of the peace, and there is no peace in the village of Camp with that caravan!” He whipped his hand out from behind his back, revealing a massive pair of binoculars.

Cormac O’Brien turned and took in the binoculars. “For the meteor shower?” he asked. “Nice pair.”

Neely flicked him a look, and Cormac grinned. The detective inspector had loosened up since his move to the Dingle Peninsula a few months back, and Neely wasn’t sure she liked it. She suspected his eternal grin had something to do with his crush on the local veterinarian, Dr. Dimpna Wilde, but given that they’d done nothing but dance around each other at trad sessions, funneling their lust through a fiddle and a squeeze-box, she was going to keep her nose and her gob out of it.

Mr. Henderson shook the binoculars. “They belong to a pervert. Caught him creeping around that caravan in his black Audi. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Only perverts drive German cars!”

“It’s not against the law to drive a German car, Mr. Henderson,” Neely said, lowering herself back into her seat. “And I’ve seen no evidence to suggest that those who drive them are perverts.”

“But have you studied it?” Cormac asked her, keeping a straight face. “Properly?”

She seared him with a look. “Maybe I should conduct a study,” she said. “What do you drive again, Detective Inspector?”

“A Toyota that’s nearly as old as me,” Cormac said. “But she’s steady as she goes.” He winked.

Neely rolled her eyes. She’d been afraid the Perseid meteor showers would bring forth a bit of insanity; she just hadn’t expected it from within the ranks.

Chris Henderson frowned, eyes bouncing between them as they bantered. “Now, what are you going to do about this pervert?”

Neely gestured to the door. “Please see our receptionist in the front. She’ll give you an incident form to fill out.”

Henderson banged his cane on the floor. “I’m not filling out another bloody form. I’m telling you now. He was perving. Looking at that girl in the caravan with these yokes.” He waved the binoculars again. “What caravan, you ask? The one I keep telling you to do something about!” He jabbed his cane at Neely.

“Hold your horses,” Neely said. “I sent an inspector there yesterday to lay down the law.” She gestured to Cormac. His jaw tightened. He didn’t like the spotlight.

“And?” Henderson said, his gaze sliding to Cormac. “Did you boot them out?”

Cormac shook his head. “I only talked to one of them, but from what I could see, they weren’t breaking any laws.”

It wasn’t Cormac’s words that startled Neely; it was his tone. Meek. The detective inspector she knew was anything but. Humble at times, albeit mostly pushy. He had his weird little ways about him. Whenever they went to lunch, he had to sit facing the door, and he always wiped the table before the server arrived, even when it was spotless. He was fidgety. Allergic to everything. But other than that, he was bright. She’d rather have him on her side than against her. He was handsome, but somewhat scruffy, which was odd for a perfectionist with a boatload of quirks. But she’d never met an inspector sharper or more determined to seek out the truth. He was an enigma, that was for sure.

Henderson pursed his lips. “I told you I saw a pervert—a creeper—lurking across from the caravan in his German car, with these things aimed directly at that bonnie girl.” He lifted the binoculars and peered through, then took the binoculars from the ground to the ceiling, as if reenacting the scene. Neely half-expected his eyes to pop out of their sockets, like some kind of cartoon character.

“How did you get your hands on the binoculars?” Cormac asked. He stepped back from the chair and crossed his arms.

“I approached his car, yelling, ‘Hey! Pervert! I see you!’ ” Chris said. “Your one dropped them out the window and screeched away like a bat out of hell.”

“Are you telling me that you picked those binoculars up with your bare hands, perhaps ruining any chance of us getting fingerprints off them?” Neely asked, staring him down.

Mr. Henderson let out a yelp, and the binoculars clattered to the floor. “Take me prints,” he said, wriggling his hand like it was a fish he caught. “You can take me prints and separate out his, can’t ye?”

“Alright, alright, let’s all calm down,” Neely said. She was only messing about the fingerprints; she had no intention of following through with that, but she rose and yelled out the door for a guard. A moment later, Garda Lennon stuck his head in the door.

“I was just headed your way.” Barry Lennon, the youngest addition to the station, had yet to wipe that eager-to-please look off his face. With his platinum-blond curls and blue eyes, she had no doubt he was mercilessly teased in garda college. But given that he completed any task asked of him with nary a complaint, she was beginning to think he was a grown man after all. But really. Twenty-two? One day he’d be running the place, and she’d be nothing more than a dusty plaque on the hallway wall. Depressing.

“Can you grab some gloves and an evidence bag for these binoculars?” Sometimes it was best to go along to get along.

“Sure thing.” Garda Lennon lingered in the doorway.

Neely frowned. “Something on your mind?”

Lennon nodded to Cormac. “Just got a call from the Dingle Garda Station asking for you, Detective Inspector.”

Neely glanced at Cormac. “Don’t you have a mobile?”

Cormac tilted his head. “Turned it off. Was hoping for a private chat.” He didn’t look in Henderson’s direction, but the connotation hung in the air.

Neely threw open her arms. “Best-laid plans.”

“Is there a message?” Cormac asked.

“There’s been some kind of vandalism at the shops in Dingle.”

Cormac groaned. “More than one shop?”

Lennon nodded, then scratched his head. “They said something about writing on the wall.”

“Can you give them a bell, tell them I’m on my way to the harbor?”

“Absolutely.” Lennon hurried out of the room.

“You’re leaving?” Mr. Henderson shook his fist. “I didn’t even get to talk about me foxes.”

Neely couldn’t help it, she audibly groaned. Again with the foxes. Had she known Henderson was coming, she would have made a bet with Cormac. How many minutes until he mentions a fox?

“You’re in good hands,” Cormac said, grinning at Neely. Before she could reply, he slipped out the door. She turned to Henderson. “I know someone who might be able to help with your fox dilemma.”

“Oh?” Chris Henderson arched a bushy white eyebrow.

“The clerk at the reception desk has a calling card for a man from ISPCA.” He’d been called out to the caravan to check on the well-being of the dogs. The caravaners had a giant pair of drooling mastiffs that had been breaking their chains and chasing after cars. He hadn’t seen any signs of abuse, but he dropped his calling card off at the station. Maybe it was fate. “You’re welcome to take his card, give him a bell.”

“And he can help, can he?” From the tone of Chris Henderson’s voice, he was doubtful.

“I hope so. They are the Irish Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, are they not?”

She prayed that would be the end of the discussion, that he’d scurry out to fetch the card.

“People drive too fast,” Henderson said. “One thousand, three hundred and seventy-seven of these stunning creatures are killed every year on Irish roadways.” He pounded his cane. “Every year.”

“Good on you for leading the brigade,” Neely said. “But you can’t wander the roadside wagging your finger at drivers, or you’ll be the next stunning creature to get knocked down.” Neely came around from behind her desk. She’d have to leave the office to get him to follow suit.

“What about Brigid Sweeney?” Henderson asked.

“What about her?” The caravaners were no longer breaking any laws. There was nothing they could do.

“She dances in broad daylight!” Henderson said. “Charges hikers and tourists to pose with her for photos. She’s twirling around and showing off her assets!” He slid a look to his feet. “They’re considerable,” he added under his breath.

Neely groaned. Respecting the elderly was a virtue she held dear, but it was way too early for his misogyny and stereotyping. She imagined taping his mouth shut, another indicator she might be approaching career burnout. “Dancing isn’t a crime either, Mr. Henderson.”

Henderson pursed his lips and stared at a spot on the wall. “Your one better look where she steps, or someone’s missus is going to be out for blood.”

“We’ll handle it, Mr. Henderson. Now. I bet you have a very busy morning, and you’ll be wanting to be on your way.” Traffic wardens had already issued two tickets on that caravan and sent out an inspector. The next thing she’d send would be a tow truck. Only she had to deal with the mastiffs. And from what she’d seen, they weren’t the friendly sort of mutts. Henderson was right. Neely should have done more. The group was nothing but trouble. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t warned them. One of the lads swore they would be gone by the end of the day. That was two days ago. She didn’t like being played for a fool. Trouble. She smelled trouble.

Neely turned and pushed the intercom button on her phone. “Ann?”

“Yes, Sergeant?” The front-desk clerk was perky as always. Neely wished that didn’t annoy her. Maybe she and Garda Lennon would fall in love and breed uber-optimistic lads in short trousers.

“Do you have the calling card for that man from ISPCA? What was he called again?”

“Charlie Meade?” Ann said straightaway.

Neely hadn’t met him, but from Ann’s reaction, she took it he was handsome. Or at least handsome in Ann’s eyes—the woman was generous to a fault. “That’s it. Charlie Meade.”

“I have his card right here.”

“Can you make a copy for Mr. Henderson, and also give Meade a bell—let him know we may need him in the next day or so to pay another visit to our caravaners.”

“There was something about the way the creeper was staring at the girl,” Chris Henderson said. “Gave me the chills.”

“Leave the caravaners to me,” Neely said. She could not take one more second of this man. And Cormac never did get to have his say. She’d join him at the harbor to see what this vandalism was all about. She tried a softer approach with Henderson. “Why don’t you go home and have a rest?”

“Not a chance,” Mr. Henderson said. “I can rest when I’m dead.”

JOHN STREET IN DINGLE WAS A TREAT FOR THE EYES WITH ITS COLORFUL shops, pubs, and restaurants. Cormac couldn’t help but think of all the history that was packed into this charming harbor town. He thought about how Dingle thrived in the fourteenth century by trading with France and Spain, exporting fish and hides, and importing wine. By the sixteenth century, Dingle had become one of Ireland’s main trading points. But like everything and everyone else in life, Dingle also suffered. In the seventeenth century, the town was burned and plundered, and during the Great Famine in the 1840s, more than five thousand people died in the Dingle Poorhouse alone. Their burial sites in the pauper’s burial ground overlooked the town. But then good luck struck again in 1984 when Paddy Ferriter, the Dingle Harbor lighthouse keeper, spotted a lone dolphin escorting fishing boats in and out of the harbor. Fungie would become the darling of Dingle for the next thirty-seven years, delighting locals and tourists alike. Sadly, he’d since disappeared without a trace.

Many of the buildings on John Street were historic—if only those walls could talk. But the writings they were looking at now, on at least ten shops, were scratched out in chalk. It would be easy enough to wash off, and three shops that were “hit” had already washed theirs away, but it was odd enough that at least one shopkeeper talked the rest into calling the guards. Cormac stood in front of the ice cream shop, reading the message over and over again, as if an explanation would suddenly appear.

“Mean anything to you?” Cormac asked Neely. He knew she would follow. He was surprised it had taken this long. The guards had temporarily blocked access to the upper portion of John Street where the shops had been chalked. Tourists were starting to gather in clumps on the other side of the barrier, pulled in by the lure of the drama. Given that they were being treated to a rare dose of summer weather and the shopkeepers were eager to welcome in customers, they had to work quickly. The scent of sugary ice cream tickled his nose.

“Hold on,” Neely said, bringing out her mobile phone. “Is the message exactly the same on every shop?”

Ten shops—three washed them off already. They’re all the same except this one.” He pointed to the lower corner of the wall in front of them. Neely bent down. She could make out four words, also in chalk:

Was it akin to an artist’s signature?

“I didn’t bring me reading glasses,” Neely said, straightening herself up. “Give it a read, will ya?”

“ ‘The Hand of Glory.’ ”

Neely repeated it to herself a few times. “Is it religious? Are we dealing with some kind of zealot here?”

Cormac shrugged. “The possibilities are endless.” He crossed his arms. “Either way. He’s definitely trying to send some kind of message.”

Neely stood. “He?”

“Or she.”

“Damn straight.”

Cormac had mixed feelings about Neely joining him. He hadn’t had a chance to confess his sins, and now that he was no longer in her stuffy office, he was having second thoughts about doing so. He was a grown man. He was allowed to have sex. Was she too young? Yes. Twenty-four. Jaysus. He should be ashamed of himself. And he was. He was also oddly proud of himself. It had been so long. He was impulsive; he went against his own grain. And he’d told the truth—he saw no evidence they were breaking any laws. He and a grown woman went out for lunch, had a few pints, and knocked boots in the great outdoors behind the pub. It was so out of character, but lately he’d been stressed and sad. His mam was going downhill. Motor neuron disease was cruel. Day after day, he watched her suffer and struggle.

He had sex. It happens. It happened. Maybe the caravaners would soon be on their merry way, and he would never have to think about it again. Maybe his mam was right, and he needed to find a good woman. Or a flawed one . . .

The only thing he knew for sure was that he did not want Dimpna Wilde to find out. Would she even care?

“Heya!” A male head popped out of the ice cream shop. “Take your photos, and let us get back to work.” He gestured to the antsy crowd.

“We have our photos,” Cormac said. “The sugar addicts will be coming your way soon, don’t you worry.”

The shopkeeper grinned. “Good man.”

Cormac confirmed with the photographer that she had completed her task, then instructed the shopkeepers to wash off the messages, noting that, once that was done, the guards would remove the barriers. He also gave a warning that he did not want to see a single photo of the chalk messages on social media, but he had a nagging feeling it was going to happen anyway. Too many people had already seen them, and no doubt their camera phones had been flashing. It was exactly the kind of attention this scribbler wanted, and Cormac was loath to feed the beast.

Neely looked up from her mobile phone. “I knew it,” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something familiar about Bella.”

Cormac despised technology. But he had to concede that it had its place. Now that they were across the street, watching shopkeepers hose down their walls, the smell of ice cream was replaced with the scent of fish and chips wafting out from a nearby pub. Overhead, gulls cried and swooped. “Story horse?” he asked.

Neely had perked up, and her voice came out in an excited rush. “The original messages referred to a wych elm.” She pointed out the misspelling on the wall:

“Original messages?”

She held up a finger. “However . . . in the 1970s, the incorrect spelling—witch, as in the broom-riding kind—appeared on a stone obelisk near Stourbridge.” She waited to see if this resonated with Cormac. It did not. He waited. “In England,” she added.

“I have absolutely no fecking idea what you’re on about. The 1970s? England?”

“The entire case goes back to 1944.”

“Case?”

She read off her phone. “The graffiti ‘Who put Bella down the wych elm?’ began appearing in England in 1944 after four young lads discovered the skeletal remains of a woman inside a wych elm in Hagley Woods.”

“Jaysus.”

“To this day, they’ve never identified her.” Neely began to gesture. “Messages were written in a variety of renditions—‘Who put Bella in the wych elm?’ ‘Who put Bella down the witch elm?’—and there were all kinds of theories as to who she was, a German spy being the most popular. There’s a lot more, but it’s going to take ages to read through it all.”

“I guess we’re looking at a true-crime buff. Maybe this is all some kind of twisted advertising for her true-crime podcast.”

“Or his,” Neely said.

Cormac couldn’t win. He gestured to the wall. “What about ‘Hand of Glory’?”

Neely’s tongue stuck out of her mouth as she googled again. “The pickled hand of a hanged man. The ‘hand that did the deed. ’ ”

Cormac took in the wall. “Someone is definitely trying to tell us something.”

“Meteor showers,” Neely said, shaking her head. “I knew it was going to bring trouble.”

“Seems relatively harmless. Ready to head out?”

Neely nodded, and they began walking toward the car park at the harbor. There was a buzz in the air, a jovial atmosphere, and a hearty crowd. From a distance came the sound of tin whistles and guitars.

“What was it you came to see me about?” Neely asked. “You said you wanted a private chat?”

Cormac was hoping she’d never ask. He wrestled with the words he should say. Remember when you sent me out to that caravan. . . “When you sent me out to that caravan, there was only one of them at home”—Neely’s mobile phone rang. She held up a finger, then put her phone on speaker. They had reached the dock, and they had to lean in to hear over the sound of boat horns, bustling fishermen, and amped-up tourists. The ocean rippled, and the sun shone down on them. It was picture-perfect. So why did it all feel so ominous? Maybe it was his shame, eating away at everything.

“Chris Henderson on the line for you,” Cormac heard Garda Lennon say.

Neely groaned. “Tell him I’m in a meeting.”

“He said it’s urgent.”

“Put him through.” She gripped the phone, already regretting it.

His voice came across the line in fits and spurts. The connection was terrible. “. . . Never believe . . . pervert . . . wolf . . . sheep . . . clothing.”

Neely glanced at Cormac to see if he could decipher it. He shook his head. “Mr. Henderson, this is a terrible connection.”

“. . . caught . . . station . . . Camp.” She could hear the sounds of cars whipping past.

“If you’re walking the roadways again, I’m begging you to stop.” The connection severed. Neely sighed and stared at the phone. She hung up, then called Ann back.

“Can we send a squad car to Camp? I just want to make sure Chris Henderson isn’t playing in traffic again.”

“Absolutely.”

Neely hung up and shook her head. “I’m over this meteor shower already.”

They reached Neely’s squad car. She inhaled. “Do you smell that?”

“The ocean?”

“Fish and chips.”

“Did you want to stop for lunch?”

“I can’t.” She sighed. “If this diet lasts any longer, I’ll be fighting the gulls for scraps of bread.”

Cormac nodded sympathetically. His mam had already instilled in him the importance of staying far out of any conversations concerning women and their weight. “Here’s the story,” he said. “When you sent me out to that caravan”—Her phone rang again. This time, she left it off speaker, but he could tell from the look on her face that it was far from good news.

“There’s been an incident in Camp,” she said as she pocketed her phone.

Cormac felt his stomach drop. He’d had this sinking feeling of dread all morning. “What now?”

“A hit-and-run. We’ve got one dead. Driver screeched away.”

“God,” Cormac said, heading to the passenger side. “Tell me it’s not Chris Henderson.”

Neely threw open her door. They piled inside. “It is Chris Henderson.”

“He was struck by a car?”

Neely nodded as she started the squad car. “Hit-and-run. Witnesses say it wasn’t an accident.”

“I don’t understand. Either there was an accident or there wasn’t.” He held onto the dash as Neely pulled out. Throngs of people were crossing from the square to the harbor. She threw on the lights and sirens and waited for them to scatter. “Witnesses say the car seemed to be trailing Henderson. That it deliberately plowed into him and screeched off.”

Like a bat out of hell . . . Cormac’s heart was thudding in her chest. “Was anyone able to identify the driver?”

Neely shook her head. “All we know for sure is that Christ Henderson was struck and killed by a black Audi.”

“WILDE’S MIXED ANIMAL PRACTICE,” NIAMH DOWD CHIRPED into the phone. “Niamh speaking. Ah, Mrs. White, it’s good to hear from ya. I wanted to remind you that Porky is due for his vaccinations. I know, I know! We’re all going. I’m hoping to get off early to suss out a sweet spot. Do you think it will bring us luck?”

Standing in Exam Room 1 with her vet tech, Patrick Kelly, Dr. Dimpna Wilde could imagine the grin on her office manager’s face as her booming voice pierced through the air vent.

Patrick winced as an orange tabby clawed up his chest. “It’s like an amplifier,” he said. “You can hear everything.”

“Indeed.” Dimpna had often wondered how her father knew so much about his patients when he didn’t really engage them in chatter, but now that she’d taken over the clinic, she’d finally discovered Eamon Wilde’s secret. You didn’t even have to try to eavesdrop; the vents did the job for you.

Dimpna reached for the toenail clippers, while trying not to make eye contact with the feline. If Donovan locked eyes with you, it was as if he immediately knew everything you were about to do to him, and he’d freak out. Last time she cut his nails, he’d leapt onto the nearby cabinet, shaking medical contents loose and onto the floor. It took an hour to pick up everything, and she was still finding odd bits here and there. The cat gave Dimpna the side-eye and yowled some more. Dimpna peeled him off Patrick’s chest, eliciting a few whines from both of them.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Mr. McCarthy wants his anal glands expressed too.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to go to his own doctor for that,” Dimpna said. “Unless you’re willing. Some employees go above and beyond. In this case, I’m afraid you’d be going below and beyond.”

Patrick stared at her for a moment, revulsion stamped on his handsome, young face. It thrilled Dimpna way more than it should have. Dimpna’s lips finally betrayed her, and she smirked. Patrick’s face flushed red once more, then he began to shake with laughter. “Donovan’s anal glands,” he said. “But now I’ll never be able to look Mr. McCarthy in the eye again.”

“Ah, you will, so. If this job doesn’t toughen you up, nothing will.” Humor was the one balm Dimpna couldn’t do without, even if it was gallows humor at times.

Patrick chatted as he attended to Donovan’s chart. “Do you think Niamh is right? Is the meteor shower good luck?”

“I do not believe in good versus bad luck,” Dimpna said. “Just as I don’t believe black cats are bad luck or that women are witches.”

“I didn’t say that last bit,” Pat. . .