Chapter Thirteen

Carter’s pub was only a half mile from Declan’s parents. We walked single file on a narrow strip of grass bordering the side of the road. My flashing sweater and Colin’s and Jane’s yellow reflective vests cautioned vehicles to slow down. I hoped my sweater wasn’t distracting enough to cause a driver to run off the road and into a sheep field. Carrying the food containers, glass punch bowl, and sloshing egg nog-filled pitchers wasn’t easy when struggling to walk against the forceful winds. However, Colin was too afraid to risk a drunk-driving ticket.

A group of men stood smoking outside the white pub with blue-framed windows. One of them eyed the creamy beverage in my glass pitcher. “Milk, is it? Jane gotcha off the whiskey, does she?” he asked Colin.

“It’s egg nog,” Colin said. “An American tradition.”

“Made with alcohol, so you’ll fancy it, Daniel,” Jane said.

The men raised their pints, wishing us a happy holiday as we walked inside.

A small dog in a red Santa sweater sat on a barstool next to an elderly man. Another slept curled up under a table. Several kids were dancing to “Jingle Bell Rock,” sung by two musicians on stools next to a decorated tree. Coal burned in the brick fireplace despite the body heat warming the small pub. Rather than horse races, a dart championship was playing on TV. Besides Jane in her plain red sweater and Colin in a green reindeer tie, red and green sports jerseys were more popular than festive sweaters.

I eyed Zoe in her red reindeer sweater and antlers headband. “Thought this was a contest?”

“I’m trying to get people in the spirit of the ugly jumper.”

I turned off my flashing sweater, reminded of the time Declan and I had been the only ones dressed in Halloween costumes at a trendy Paris lounge. Declan had looked way hot in the pilot’s uniform, and the flight attendant costume had given me a boost of self-esteem, making me feel worldly and envied by others. However, right now I’d rather be here in this rural pub than jetting off to Bangkok or Venice.

I wasn’t sure if I should be worried that Declan might have gotten in an accident after driving off like a lunatic. Or maybe he took off for another country. He probably had enough hotel points to hide out until summer. Part of me wanted to call him, and the other part said he should call me. And what if he didn’t answer my call? I was leaving in another day, and he wouldn’t see me again until… I didn’t know when, now that my February Venice program had canceled. It apparently bothered me more than it did him. Which bothered me even more.

Carrig, who owned the Christmas sheep, stood with a group of buddies dressed in soccer jerseys and T-shirts, drinking pints. They eyed me with curiosity, either admiring my unique fashion sense or questioning the sanity of the crazy Yank wandering their roads baaing at sheep.

“Where’s your feckin’ brother?” one of them asked Zoe.

“Didn’t feel like being involved in any of your shenanigans, Darragh Reilly. He’s more mature now.” She looked over at me. “He’s probably the one who painted Carrig’s sheep. He and Declan used to get into some fierce trouble.”

“Like stealing the Guinness truck?”

“Yeah, they were quite the pair. But that Darragh is gorgeous, isn’t he? Too bad he’s engaged to Breeda.” She gave her eyes an exaggerated roll.

Zoe knew everybody in the place. I’d never known my neighbors at my downtown condo. I hadn’t realized the woman across the hall had died until a new owner moved in a month later. I didn’t know any of my parents’ newer neighbors.

A teenage girl wearing a Santa stocking cap came around selling raffle tickets for a charity providing toys to underprivileged children. I bought twenty-euros worth and stuffed them in a canister for a gift basket containing a bottle of Jameson, a Jameson T-shirt, whiskey glasses, whiskey fudge, and whiskey marmalade. It reminded me of the Irish gift basket I’d devoured last meeting in Dublin, before learning I’d received an attendee’s gift by mistake. Yet this one would make a perfect gift for Declan.

Even though he didn’t deserve one, making everyone worry.

Des and Mags Carter were third-generation publicans, running their ancestors’ business. Des gave me a deal on a bottle of rum to mix with the egg nog in a punch bowl. I ladled the frothy beverage into cups and lined them up on the bar for people to taste. I offered one to an elderly man who’d been sitting at the bar watching me prepare the drink. He had on a dark suit, red tie, and reindeer slippers. A plaid flannel cap topped his wooden cane resting against the bar.

He sniffed the glass. “Egg nog, is it?”

I nodded. “You’ve had it before?”

“Certainly have.” He took a sip. “It’s quite tasty, luv.”

He took another sip, closing his eyes, smiling. “Brings back memories, it does.” He opened his eyes. “Memories of a lovely lass just outside Boston.”

I gave him an intrigued smile.

“I worked in Boston for three years. The only time I haven’t lived up the road in my parents’ house.”

“She must have been quite the woman.”

“A true lady. Would still be there if she hadn’t broken my heart.”

Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

“So what brings a young lass like yourself here from the States?”

I told him about my Coffey ancestors in Killybog and how I’d hoped my Grandma had been married to her Daly neighbor.

“The landowners?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I surely have information on the family. They owned most of the land in the area. Of course, the shooting at their Killybog estate gave them historical infamy.”

My gaze narrowed. “Shooting?”

“In the 1880s, a plot to shoot the landowner went bad. His sister was mistakenly killed instead while returning from church in a covered carriage. Five men were sent to prison. Supposedly more were involved in the conspiracy, but not enough evidence to bring them up on charges.”

One hadn’t been a Coffey, had it?

“I’m a bit of a local historian, Nicholas Turney. If you’d like, you may call down to my house tomorrow, and I’ll find the story and whatever else I might have on the family.”

“That’d be wonderful.”

Sadie would have mentioned the murder if our ancestor had been involved, wouldn’t she have? If she’d known. Or maybe she was trying to hide skeletons in our family closet. Our fear that Grandma’s supposedly dead family members had been sheep thieves or petty criminals paled in comparison to having been murderers. And a Daly certainly wouldn’t have married into the family responsible for murdering his rellie.

* * *

We left the pub shortly after midnight. Luckily, my sweater was lit up because I was lit. I’d never had so many people I didn’t know buy me drinks. The Jameson basket weighted me down, so the wind didn’t whisk me away, though it made my staggering appear even worse. When we arrived home, nobody commented on the fact that Declan’s car wasn’t in the drive. Upset and disappointed, I gave his parents the whiskey basket as a thank-you for their warm hospitality and a silent apology for causing so much drama at the holidays.

Zoe and Colin went to bed while Jane and I sat in the living room, taste testing the whiskey fudge. Luckily, the chocolate flavor prevailed over the liquor. Lying on the back of the couch, Quigley poked his nose over my shoulder and sniffed the fudge as I took a bite. Unimpressed, he laid his head back down and dozed off, looking cozy and a bit like Elmer Fudd, in his red knit hat with ear flaps on the sides.

I studied the painting of a little girl hanging a star on a Christmas tree, next to the fireplace. “Did Declan paint that?”

Jane shook her head. “I took his paintings down after Shauna passed. They met while taking an art class. Declan was a model.” Her gaze narrowed. “Wasn’t naked or anything. The assignment had been to capture a realistic portrait of the model. Shauna drew a caricature instead in bright colors accenting Declan’s blue eyes and exaggerating his mischievous grin. She gave it to him and said, ‘That’s how I see ya, Declan Grady. You’re a real character.’” Her reminiscent smile faded. “He certainly was.”

“He still is,” I reassured her.

I recounted several of the funny tales Declan had shared about his work mishaps to make me feel better and not so inept. How his stories and upbeat attitude had helped me survive the start of a very difficult job.

Jane laughed softly. “Ah, thank you for that.” She sprang from the couch. A bit tipsy, she steadied herself. “Be right back.” She went upstairs and returned with two paintings and handed me one. “He’s a brilliant artist. So sad he gave it up. You keep that. Zoe mentioned you two were out herding Carrig’s sheep from the road today.”

In the painting, sheep grazed on rolling hills, a lamb and its mum the focal point. A stone house sat on a ridge in the distance. Not a cloud in the blue sky. It was the field across the road. D. Grady was scrawled in the lower right corner.

“This is wonderful, but I can’t take your painting.”

Could I, when Declan refused to discuss his muse, Shauna? Would he want me hanging the painting in my bedroom when he wouldn’t allow his parents to hang it on the wall?

“Nonsense. It’s a gift. You can’t refuse a gift. It’s the perfect fit for your hand luggage.”

She replaced the painting on the wall with Declan’s. The scene transported me to their home on a starry night, washed in a haze of blue and white hues, streams of smoke rising from the chimney. A warm, cozy feeling wrapped around me.

When Declan returned, the house would be decorated with reminders of Shauna, and he’d have me to blame. Yet maybe his family would have me to thank.

* * *

I lay in bed, thinking about my encounter with the local historian, Nicholas Turney. What if an article identified a Coffey as having been brought up on murder charges but not convicted? At least he wouldn’t have been found guilty. Bernice and Gracie had said they wouldn’t want to know about a killer in their family unless it had been a famous one who used his powers for good rather than evil, like James Bond. Maybe that Daly landowner had been a horrible slum lord, charging outrageous rent for squalor dwellings, evicting people when they couldn’t pay. Yet that didn’t justify attempting to shoot him and murdering his sister.

Feeling like I’d been lying wide awake for hours, I glanced over to check the time on my phone. The empty charger lay on the nightstand. I hauled my butt out of bed and padded across the cold wood floor. After grabbing my cell phone from my purse, I placed a hand against the iron wall register, as cold as the floor. With the high cost of fuel, they must have turned off the heat at night. I slipped back under the green-and-red quilt, into the warm bed. I plugged the phone in, and a text popped up from Declan, received five hours ago while I’d been downing egg nog in the noisy pub. Nobody else had mentioned getting one. Maybe they hadn’t seen theirs either.

He promised he’d be home tomorrow. He’d driven off to calm down, no destination in mind, and had hit a pothole, blowing a tire and causing a rattling under the hood. Of course, he didn’t tell his whereabouts so someone could drive over and assist him. I wasn’t sure if he was being honest about the flat tire. He’d better be telling the truth about being home tomorrow. I was ticked, yet my heart ached, picturing him lying in bed alone in a hotel room, even though it was his own fault. He was likely still awake. Checking on him might help me sleep. And I didn’t want him to think I’d ignored his text.

I texted him. How are you?

My screen went black before a text popped up and a loud shrill filled the air. I turned my phone to vibrate.

Grand. How was the pub party? Great craic?

Yep. Met Nicholas Turney. Going to visit him tomorrow.

Ah, brilliant. He might be a help with your research.

While I debated how to explain the possible Coffey murder connection in a nutshell, another text popped up.

Sorry I’m not there. Will rent a car if need. Good night.

Guess that was the end of our conversation.

Good night.

At least he’d apologized. And his comment about renting a car was reassuring. But he should have called, and earlier. I verified that the only missed call I had was from Sadie. I checked her message to learn her cousin didn’t have any further info on Grandma’s husband or the Dalys.

Another dead end.

I peered over at Declan’s painting on the white dresser, leaning against the wall. I snuggled under the quilt, imagining that warm sunny day, a light breeze carrying the baaing of sheep through the rural countryside. I pictured Declan painting at an easel, me admiring his artwork while relaxing in a white wicker chair, sipping lemonade. I had on a white floppy-brimmed hat and lace dress, and he wore a flannel cap, white linen shirt, and dark pants, like a scene out of the 1930s, Grandma’s era.

I turned off the lamp, yet the idyllic, peaceful setting remained in my thoughts as I drifted off to sleep…