Chapter 8

Jane was surprised to find Olivia sitting by herself in the dining hall, alone with a cup of tea. The steaming tea emitted the strong, serious scent of Earl Grey.

“Good morning. Where’s everyone else?” Jane poured herself a mug of coffee.

Olivia slid down in her chair and gazed into her lap without saying a word.

“What’s the matter?” Jane rubbed her eyes. Could Olivia tell she’d cried herself to sleep the night before? Was Dale’s betrayal obvious? Would everyone know he’d left her for his ex-wife?

“We were planning to go to the Cliffs of Moher today.” Olivia’s tone was apologetic, not a typical response for her.

“Is that all?” Jane’s muscles eased. Her fingers smoothed the puffy bags she knew were under her eyes.

Olivia cleared her throat. “Well, originally you were going to spend the day with Dale while the rest of us went to the cliffs.” Her words were slow and hesitant.

When Bruce suggested the trip, Jane had thought long and hard about visiting Ireland again. She had tried to overcome her past, but knew she hadn’t, not totally. Just enough to return to this beautiful country, but not enough to return to the cliffs. Was today the day to put her fears entirely behind her? Should she go with her friends? Just the thought of it made the memories resurface. No, she wasn’t ready. She would go someday, but not today.

She forced a smile of confidence. “I don’t mind having a day to myself.” That much was true. She would find something to do.

Olivia put her head in her hands. “I don’t want to leave you here on your own.”

Jane set her coffee cup on the table and stole over to put her cheek against Olivia’s. “Thanks for thinking of me, my friend.” She gave Olivia’s shoulders a quick squeeze, then stood back. “Really, I’m fine. You go and have a great time. The cliffs are fantastic, so beautiful, so high. And the view! You can’t come to Ireland and not see the cliffs.”

“It’s all right, then?” Olivia’s voice rose to a high pitch, as if uncertain.

“Of course.”

Olivia regarded Jane for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was back to normal. “All right. By the way, what happened with Griff last night? Anything you’re ashamed of?” Jane did a double take, but her friend said, “Just teasing. How’d you get back before us, anyway? For some reason the drive home took us forever.”

“Did it?”

“What’re you two doing in here, so cozy?” Cheryl swept into the room, her eyebrows bunched together. “Watcha talking about?”

Jane hadn’t spent a lot of time with Cheryl, as they’d originally planned. Cheryl had been her closest friend, helping her get into the exclusive dinner club. Then the Breewoods moved away, from Denver to Portland the year before. Their friendship had diminished over time and distance, while the dinner club continued to gain new members. Although Jane had become quite chummy with Olivia, she’d been hoping on this trip to regain the close bond she’d once had with Cheryl.

Jane sensed she was somehow in the wrong. “We were only talking about the cliffs. I want you to go. I’m going to relax today. Read a book. Take a walk.”

“Okay.” Cheryl stuck her right thumb up. “Sounds like a plan.”

Not wanting to admit she felt left out, Jane said, “You guys have fun.”

“Didn’t we have a good time last night, though? Griff took us to such a great spot. Bruce is hoarse this morning from all that singing.” Cheryl’s smile slowly fell into a pout as she pushed out her lower lip and her chin dimpled. “Did Griffin say anything more to you about the police investigation?”

“No. Nothing more.” Jane wished he had.

Cheryl’s face perked back up into a grin. “Okay, then. I won’t worry. Bruce keeps telling me not to worry.” She parked herself in the chair next to Olivia, and the three women set about devouring the filling, traditional breakfast. Jane ate Weetabix, a shredded wheat cereal. Spoken in Fiona’s accent, the name of the cereal sounded like, “whatever-it-is.” When Bruce and Doug sailed in, Jane finished up, told them all to have a great time, and returned to her room.

Unlike Cheryl, she was still worried, or at least concerned, about the mystery surrounding Alsander’s death. Might as well do some research. She dropped into a chair by the window overlooking the River Shannon and once again opened the text on excited delirium. There was something familiar about the binding. Had she seen this book somewhere before?

She digested the information in the small print, taking notes. Most people with the syndrome—agitated delirium was another name for it—either had a mental illness or used drugs, such as amphetamine or cocaine. Hyperthermia—she had to stop and look it up on her tablet computer—was one of the few physical findings. It meant the victim had an elevated core body temperature; in other words, they were overheated. Victims often exhibited irrational, agitated behavior, even violent behavior. Most of the case histories indicated that the victim was in police custody when the condition resulted in death. Detailed accounts of the studies were so technical, she put the book down.

Griff had mentioned the name of Alsander’s doctor, Dr. Watcherly, so she added his name to her notes. Maybe she should contact him, but didn’t know if Ireland had the same confidentiality requirements as in the States. Deciding to put the book away for the moment, she pondered what else to do.

Despite assurances to her friends, she was at a loss now that Dale wasn’t around.

Her cellphone burst out with the ringtone of Elvis singing, “Hound Dog.” It danced across the table, heading for the edge. She wasn’t really an Elvis fan, but her son had chosen that song in tribute to her new puppies. She watched Dale’s name on the caller ID until it quit playing. Likely, he’d landed in Denver, but she wasn’t ready to talk yet. If he was back with Polly, she needed to hear it face-to-face.

At that thought, tears welled up and spilled over, but she only indulged in a brief crying spell. She splashed cold water over her eyes, reapplied fresh makeup, and brushed her hair with some force. Time to deal with the world again. Not a sound could be heard outside her room, so she descended the stairs, figuring the others were long gone.

Griff was at the reception desk. “What are you up to?”

“My friends took off sightseeing, and I have the day to myself.” She twiddled the button on her sleeve.

“We’re all alone in the castle. What should we do? Alone and all.” Griff looked as appealing as he had the night before. He was wearing a sky-blue rugby jersey with the word, “Garryowen,” on the emblem, untucked, over black, slim jeans and black, leather boots.

Jane’s cheeks burned a little, yet her heart lifted a little.

Before she could respond, Ryan Breewood shoved through the front double doors and marched up to the reception desk. He jammed his hands on both hips and planted his feet wide apart. “The gardaí have been questioning me like I’m a hoodlum or somethin’.”

She turned an eye on one man, then the other.

“They had a look at my records, wanted to know all about Alsander’s prescription and when it was changed, how much, how often…and who was the last one to pick up his medication.” His volume inched louder, his pitch climbed higher, as he counted off each point on his fingers.

Griff’s tone remained calm. “Ryan, the Superintendent is considering everything, including his health, just to be thorough.”

“How’s it look, me being interrogated by the guards?” Ryan’s voice echoed around the grand entryway.

“They’re just verifying his medicine.” Griff held onto his composure as he gripped a pen in his hand.

But Ryan was about to lose it. “This better be cleared up, an’ fast.” He spun around and stomped out the front door.

Jane said, “Wow. Ryan’s really mad. He didn’t even say ‘hi’ to me.”

Griff rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s always mad, it seems like.”

“He told Bruce he expected to be questioned, so I wonder what upset him exactly. I should let Bruce know about this.” She clamped her lips in a straight line as she tapped out a text, but when she tried to send it, she got an error message. “My text didn’t go through.”

“Reception’s bad at the Cliffs of Moher.” Griff held his index finger to his ear and his little finger to his lips, as if on a phone call.

She shut her eyes. Something wasn’t right. “How’d you know where they went?”

“They told me where they were going when they left.”

“Oh, I see.” Likely, the others had explained why Jane didn’t join them, too. Should she out with it, tell him about her fear of the cliffs?

She gazed through the open doorway to the old stone buildings opposite the parking lot, side-by-side on the cobblestone street, with no space in between or in front. A candle shop, a solicitor’s office, a bakery…snuggled next to each other, as close as lovers, and here she was, unloved. On her own. Abandoned. Alone.

Studying her hands, she began, “You know, I told you yesterday I’m a widow…about that—”

“And what a beautiful widow you are.” Griff eased out from behind the desk. He came close and gave a lock of her hair a tug, which must be his signature move.

“You’re very sweet.” She couldn’t look up. Her eyes were still dropped down, her mascaraed eyelashes heavy on her cheeks. Maybe she’d applied a bit too much makeup trying to hide her red eyes.

“I mean every word. You’re a fine thing. Grand. Anyone can see that.” His lilting voice was so captivating. “I have a few errands to run. Would you like to come along?”

The empty day stretched ahead. More time in this Irishman’s company was just what she needed. And she might be able to slip in a few questions about his uncle. She raised her head. “All right. That would be nice.”

“Let’s take my motor scooter and you could ride pillion.”

“What’s that?”

“On the back.”

That sounded like a lot of fun. Why the heck not? She gave him a smile that said she was game. “I’d love, love, love to go!”

“All right then, a mhuirnín.”

“A what?”

His melodic Irish laughter rang out, but he didn’t explain.

Jane waited on the front steps until Griff came around the corner propelling a red Vespa, with mirrors sticking straight up from the handlebars. He passed her a helmet and positioned another, larger helmet on his own head.

She fastened the buckle under her chin, then her hands flew to the hem of her skirt. “Oh, look what I’m wearing. Should I go back and change?”

“Not at all. You look a vision. Anyway, all the women wear skirts when they ride.” He put one leg over and sat on the seat. “Get on. You’ll need to ride side-saddle.”

She lowered her bottom onto the seat behind Griff and stationed both feet on the slender floorboard. She arranged the strap of her tiny shoulder bag across her chest. With her right arm she encircled Griff’s waist and with her left hand she pinched the hem of her skirt against her thigh.

They took off.

While they rode through the narrow streets, Jane caught a glimpse of the witchy-looking Mairéid O’Doherty with the stout-looking Sean Smithwicket. She was exchanging money for a package. At least that’s what it seemed like, but they’d sped past before Jane could get a closer look.

Was Smithwicket, the plump, pleasant-appearing man, who conveyed the impression of an innocent Samwise Gamgee, selling Griff’s cousin…what—drugs?

Very interesting. Something more to find out about. But, there was nothing she could do at the moment, as she clasped Griff with one hand and her skirt with the other.

The wind whipped her hair out from under the helmet. Her hair continued to fly in her face and she laughed, the sound of her laughter carried away on the rushing air. A frisson of excitement burned in her stomach as they bounced down the cobbled road. They passed from city to country, on a precarious strip of paved lane, tunneling between high, green hedges and scattered rock walls, until they returned to cityscape again. Jane saw a signpost for Ballysimon flash past. In no time they were in the old part of the city. Griff drove the scooter up onto a sidewalk alongside the cobblestone street and parked.

After tugging off her helmet, Jane ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “What’s this place?”

“Where I order my fresh produce. There’s loads of farmers’ markets out this way.” Griff took her elbow.

Glad to have worn her comfortable, ballet flats, she navigated the uneven cobblestones alongside Griff. At a city square busy with shoppers and vendors’ booths, Griff strode up to a craggy farmer in front of a vegetable stall. They talked business while Jane meandered through the rows of baskets mounded with string beans and lima beans. She stopped at a flower stand to take pictures of the colorful bouquets.

Griff soon caught up with her. “Let’s mix business with pleasure. Are you up for some fish and chips? You have to be hungry.”

“I am.”

He led her a few blocks away, then down an alley, like an English mews, to a tight, crowded pub, which looked like it had seen better days—stained and dented wood tables with cigarette burns, rickety chairs, and a haze of smoke in the air—an authentic pub, not a tourist trap. They entered into the cool, permeating, sour smell of whiskey.

“Dia Dhuit, Isleen,” Griff called out to the older woman behind the bar.

“Dia Dhuit to you, Griffin.” Her lined face relaxed into a smile.

Everyone in the pub seemed to know him, slapping his back, telling him in their musical accents they were sorry to hear of his uncle’s passing. Griff appeared solemn as they gathered about, but brightened when he introduced Jane, not mentioning she was merely a guest of the castle. They eyed her with interest.

After the other customers went back to their conversations, Griff and Jane were alone at the bar. “Two fish and chips and a pint for me, please,” Griff told the bartender. “And what would you like to drink, Jane?”

The old barkeep gave Griff a steady gaze as she pulled the pint. “Mairéid’s been gadding about, sayin’ how she owns the castle now…”

“She’s sayin’ that, is she? Well, she doesn’t own it. I do.” His voice came out gruff.

Jane looked for an angry expression on his face, but there wasn’t one. She broke the moment of silence. “I’d like a white wine and ketchup with my chips.”

“She was in yesterday. Said she did own the castle. That you aren’t telling the truth if you’re sayin’ it’s yours. What kind o’ white?”

“Just your house wine is fine.”

“Nineteen euro.” The elderly woman set their glasses in front of them on square, white napkins.

“I’m not lying and she’s wrong.” Griff plonked two €10 notes on the bar. “Wake’s tonight, funeral’s tomorrow, Isleen.”

“Aye. Mairéid told me.”

“Hope to see you there. And, I need to place an order for delivery.” Griff paid an additional amount for several dozen bottles of wine, then Isleen went into the kitchen. He sipped his pint and swiveled his stool to face Jane. “How’s your wine?”

“Nice. You know, bold and all that.” Jane talked low, not to be overheard. “The funeral’s tomorrow already? That’s Saturday.”

“He died five days ago, Monday night.”

“Right. I guess it’s been that long.”

“Mairéid’s planned it. You should come to the wake at least.”

“Should I?” Jane’s voice rose in a question.

“Have you ever been to an Irish wake?” Amusement lit his blue eyes, the ones capable of turning dark one minute and clear and reflective the next.

“N-n-no.” She drew the word out.

“You and your friends don’t want to miss it. It’s tonight at the castle.”

“All right, thanks. I’ll check with the others.” Jane hesitated a moment, then asked, “Griff, is there some kind of fight between you and your cousin?” She was interrupted when Isleen settled two baskets of fish and chips in front of them. When the bartender left, she asked, “Is there some kind of property dispute?”

“Mairéid’s not getting the castle.” He shook his head, as if it was all too incredible. “She believes she is, but she’s wrong. That’s all. It’s just typical of her. She’s jealous because I was closer to her da than she was.”

Jane perked up. Was this a clue? “Tell me more about your cousin.”

A man, with a flat cap on his head and a jangling pocket full of change, punched up a song on the jukebox. Griff looked as if he was waiting for the song to start. When the music began with, you need some lovin’, tender lovin’, he said, “Well, Uncle promised the castle to me when Mairéid turned down the manager’s job years ago. Then, just recently, she starts in on Uncle to leave it to her.” He took a bite of his fish.

“According to Isleen, Mairéid thinks she owns the castle.” Jane wrinkled her forehead in a perplexed frown and entwined her feet around the legs of her stool.

“Mairéid can think what she likes. Uncle left the castle to me.” Griff drank deeply from his pint, then wiped the froth off his upper lip.

She filched a couple of chips from her plate and dipped them into the ketchup before taking a bite. After wiping a napkin across her mouth, she took a sip of her wine, set the glass back on the bar, and fiddled with the stem of the wine glass. Finally, she asked, “Griff, did your uncle have any enemies?”

He took her fingers in his and raised her hand to his lips. “Is this how you investigate, a mhuirnín?”

Her fingertips brushed against the scratchiness of his chin when she pulled her hand back. “Yes. It would help to know more about him.” As long as the police were still asking questions, she needed to, as well.

He rotated his stool forward to face the counter and leaned both forearms across the bar. “Let’s see…enemies…Ryan and Uncle argued, remember? And, Bruce would take his cousin’s side, wouldn’t he?”

“But Ryan recommended your place to us. He wouldn’t’ve done that if they were enemies.” Jane stabbed a chip at Griff. “What about that guy with your cousin?” She popped the chip into her mouth.

“Sean Smithwicket.”

“Yes, him. Does he have a motive?”

“Motive? For what?”

How could she say this without sounding rude or inconsiderate? “A reason to dislike your uncle, a reason to harm him.” Should she tell Griff about seeing the two, Mairéid and Sean, on the street corner looking like they were up to something? Although she wasn’t sure what something they were up to. Griff was absorbed in his food and didn’t answer, so she asked, “What did the police find when they searched the castle?”

“Nothing.” He set down his fork and rubbed under his chin with the back of his hand. “The police have it all wrong. Uncle’s death was natural, he had some kind of a fit and choked, all on his own. He was old, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Griff.” A jovial man with a wide grin laid a heavy hand on Griffin’s shoulder. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hovered about his frame. “What’s the craic?”

The two men were soon off on a conversation of their own. She sat back and ate some more of her lunch, trying to avoid the stares of the people who all appeared to know Griff and were doubtlessly trying to figure out where she fit in. Isleen sidled up on the other side of the bar across from Jane to wipe the sticky counter with a damp rag. Jane asked her, “What does ‘uh-were-neen’ mean?”

“A mhuirnín, darling, something that’s dear.” The bartender shuffled away to wait on another customer.

“Oh.” Jane flushed. What a flirt! But what woman would mind the attentions of this handsome Irishman?

Her cellphone flashed a text message from Dale, a happy face followed by an explanation that he’d made it home safely. She replied with a thumbs up emoji. Feeling terribly insecure, she’d need to get off by herself to think through what she wanted to say to him before calling him back.

Jane slid her notes from her purse and jotted down Mairéid’s name and the words, “inherit the castle,” with a question mark. As she tucked the notes back into her purse, Griff glanced her way, and his face split into a reassuring smile, one of those smiles that gives a person confidence and a lift, just the shot in the arm she needed.

They’d polished off their lunch. Griff looked at his watch. “We should be on our way.” His friends gathered around to say goodbye, and several told Jane to come back soon for a visit.

They traversed the cobblestone streets to where they’d left the scooter. On the ride home, she breathed in Griff’s peaty scent—smoky and earthy—and wrapped her arms around his waist as they went over a bump on the country road. Perched on the end of the motor scooter, crushed to his back, was pretty intimate. What was Griff really like? He hadn’t yet gone through the grieving process fully. In fact, he was in denial that someone may have had a hand in his uncle’s death, as she thought might have been the case.

Was it possible Griff was right? Was his uncle’s death natural? Or was it murder?