May you live to be a hundred years,
With one extra to repent!
—Irish blessing
Sister Mary Helen awoke feeling groggy. Eyes closed, she patted the nightstand, feeling for her glasses. It took her a few minutes to work up the courage to put them on and check the time.
She groaned. Eight o’clock! She’d had six hours of sleep, if one could call that fitful catnapping that she’d done sleep. Actually, she was more tired now than when she’d gone to bed.
In the distance she heard the rumble of a lorry and the slamming of car doors. The doleful caw of a crow in the yard seemed to signal the beginning of another day in Ballyclarin. Yet the mews itself was silent. Eileen must still be in bed, she thought. Thanks be to God! It was far too early to begin the day.
Let the lorries roll and the crows cackle. She’d just stay put and hope to drift off again. She pulled the down comforter up under her chin and tried to focus on the gently sloping green fields and the soft textured clouds of blue and gray that she had enjoyed during her few days in Ireland. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Despite her best efforts, all the patterned fields, shifting clouds, and deep breaths were not able to push aside the sight of Willie Ward in his tweed cap enthroned in the ladies’. She cringed and tried to blot out the terrible scene. Surely no one in this peaceful idyllic village could have done such a thing. Yet the man was dead. That was a fact. Unless last night was nothing more than a nightmare. Wouldn’t it be grand to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream?
If it was not, then a stranger must have stolen into the Monks’ Table and committed the murder, a very strong stranger. One had to have strength to stick that small knife into a man’s heart.
Enough of this, Mary Helen thought. She shut her eyes tight to keep out the daylight that was struggling to get around the closed drapes and into the darkened room. But sleep refused to come.
Instead, again and again, Willie Ward flashed before her, a knife protruding from his blood-soaked shirt, a plain old kitchen knife that could be found in anyone’s drawer. Where had she seen one like it recently?
The answer played on the edge of her memory, just out of reach. Like names and places and faces often do when you are trying to pin them down. Just relax, she assured herself, and it will come. It had to have been within the last few days.
Of course, market day on the village green! Hadn’t Eileen and she watched the farrier at work? She was almost positive that at his booth was a display of handmade kitchen knives.
Surely Detective Inspector White and his partner were aware of that. But just in case, she’d mention it, if she had the chance. She tossed uneasily. Did the farrier have any reason to murder Mr. Ward? None she knew of, anyway.
She remembered thinking at the time that he looked like a pleasant sort of fellow—peaceful, really, as he pounded the hot metal. Not that looks had anything to do with murder. In the few days since she arrived in Ballyclarin she’d met up with several locals who seemed to thoroughly dislike Mr. Ward. Maybe one of them had snatched a knife up from the farrier’s booth when the man’s attention was on shoeing the horse.
Mary Helen caught herself. This was police business, not hers. She was in Ireland on holiday, as they say. It would never do to get involved in what was certainly no concern of hers. She must remember that!
A sudden loud knock on the kitchen door of the mews startled her awake.
“Are ye up?” She recognized the cheerful voice of Paul Glynn, their hackney driver. “It’s half twelve,” he called. “I was afraid there was another dead body or two.”
Twelve thirty! Mary Helen’s eyes shot open. How had she missed the tolling of the mass bell?
“We’ve had a very long night,” she heard Eileen whisper.
“So I hear.” Paul warmed to the topic.
“Can I fix you a cup of tea?” Eileen asked softly.
“Beautiful,” Paul said, and Mary Helen heard the door bang as he settled at the small kitchen table.
Many a day we shall rest in the clay, she thought, forcing herself out of the bed.
“Well, if it isn’t herself!” Paul exclaimed when a few minutes later Mary Helen joined them. She had dressed so quickly that she stole a glance at her feet to make sure her shoes were a pair.
“How’s the celebrity this morning?” Paul asked, obviously in high spirits.
“Celebrity?” Mary Helen was taken aback. “What celebrity?” she asked halfheartedly. She was really too tired for guessing games.
“It’s all over the village. Yes, indeed!” Paul grinned. “Yank nuns found Willie Ward’s body, God rest him, in the ladies’.” The driver’s hazel eyes danced behind his rimless glasses. He was having great fun.
Mary Helen felt her face grow warm. “The man was murdered, Paul,” she said.
“Ah.” Paul paused. Looking penitent, he ran his fingers through his straight dark hair. “None deserved it more,” he said piously.
Another knock came on the kitchen door. This was going to be a busy day. Before either of them could answer, the door was pulled open. Mary Helen was not surprised to see Detective Inspector Ernie White, still in his rumpled suit jacket.
His face was puffy, and the small dark moons that had formed under his eyes left no doubt that he’d been up all night, or at least a good part of it. His thick dark hair looked more than ever like a haystack. Mary Helen wondered if White had a wife or perhaps a lady friend who would tell him he needed a haircut. Badly!
“Can I fix you a cup of tea?” Mary Helen asked, trying not to stare.
“Ta,” the inspector nodded wearily and crumpled into the last chair at the table.
“Good morning, Sisters.” Detective Inspector Brian Reedy stood in the doorway.
“Tea, Detective Inspector?” Mary Helen asked, surprised that the man looked as fresh as he did. Ah, youth! she thought, going into the living room to pull in another chair.
“You needn’t go to any bother,” Reedy said. “I’m on my way to headquarters. I just wanted to let Ernie here know.”
“Good luck, then,” White said, leaving Mary Helen wondering what all that was about.
For several minutes the only sound in the small kitchen was the sound of sipping.
Finally White cleared his throat. “Did you get any rest last night?” he asked.
“Some,” Eileen said, “but it was quite unnerving. Finding that poor man …” Her voice trailed off.
“Indeed.” White tilted back in his chair to study something on the ceiling. Then, bringing his chair forward, he seemed for the first time to notice the hackney driver. “And you, Paul?” he asked. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine, indeed, sir.” Paul looked surprised to be asked. “My wife and I had no idea what happened until this morning.”
“You didn’t wonder a’tall when you left the tent and saw the tape and the garda at the Monks’ Table?”
Paul shook his head. Not too vigorously, Mary Helen noted. “According to my wife, I was feeling no pain. She drove us both home,” he added quickly, in case the inspector had any question about his driving under the influence.
Dumbfounded, Mary Helen watched the exchange. Surely Detective Inspector White didn’t think Paul had anything to do with the murder, did he? Unfortunately, his face gave nothing away.
“May I ask why you are here now?” His tone was friendly, almost chatty. At least, Mary Helen thought it was.
“I just came by to ask the nuns if they needed me today. I didn’t know a thing about any murder till I came into the village. The whole place is full of nothing else.”
Paul’s explanation seemed to satisfy White, who rose abruptly. “And you do understand,” he said, without taking his eyes off the driver, “that what you hear in this room, especially from the nuns, remains in here?”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Paul answered, his tone all business, but his face barely masking his disappointment. Mary Helen thought she understood why. Recounting any fresh news to the enjoyment of the lads in the pub surely would earn him at least one free round.
“When you’ve finished your tea, Sisters,” White said, as if he’d just remembered that they were there, “may I have a word with you both at the Monks’ Table?” He drained his cup. “I have a few questions. It shouldn’t be long.”
When he left the room, an uncomfortable silence filled the cozy kitchen, but only for a few seconds.
“The nerve of that man,” Paul snarled, his cheeks reddening, “practically accusing me of doing in the old get.”
That word again! From his tone Mary Helen was pretty sure she shouldn’t ask what precisely get meant.
“He did no such thing!” Eileen said, clearing the teacups. “He was simply asking you a few questions.”
“It came off as if he had me in mind,” Paul complained, sounding reluctant to let go of the affront. “The man is an odd duck, if you ask me.”
“He’s probably just exhausted,” Eileen said.
“A lot you know about the gardai,” Paul snapped testily.
A lot more than I want you to know, Mary Helen thought, catching Eileen’s eye.
“Do you think we will have time to go to the art show this afternoon?” Mary Helen asked, eager to change the subject.
“It will depend on how long they keep you, won’t it?” Paul said, beginning to get back his good humor. “I’ll check in at half two, if that’s to your liking.”
“Why don’t we meet with the detective inspector right now?” Eileen suggested, after assuring Paul that a 2:30 pickup was to their liking, indeed. “The sooner, the quicker,” Eileen, ever practical, remarked.
Outside the sky was a brilliant blue with startling white clouds all in a line. Cottage doors and windows were flung wide open, and wash hung out to dry. It was going to be a grand day. Everyone seemed to be counting on it. At least, Mary Helen hoped it would be a grand day. For Eileen and herself, it all depended on Detective Inspector White.
Sister Mary Helen recognized the pimple-faced garda from last night standing at attention in front of the door of the Monks’ Table. Liam, Mr. Lynch had called him. He has to have a last name, she thought, smiling at the young man. I can’t keep referring to him, even in my own mind, as Liam with the acne.
The garda tipped his hat when the two nuns passed, revealing a head of thick sandy-colored hair. “Morning, Sisters,” he said, his cheeks glowing red.
“Good morning, Garda …” Mary Helen searched his chest for a name tag or some sort of identification, but a large yellow rain slicker covered any place she could expect to find one. She might as well come right out and ask.
“Garda Liam O’Dea,” he answered smartly.
Wasn’t O’Dea the Oyster Queen’s name? Something-very-Irish O’Dea? “Are you by any chance related to that lovely young women who is the queen?”
“If it’s Tara you mean,” Liam O’Dea offered.
Mary Helen nodded. That was it. Tara O’Dea.
His face lit up. “In the West of Ireland we all seem to be related somehow,” he said. “But, yes, I am. Tara O’Dea is my first cousin. Her da and my da are brothers.”
The acne skin must be from his mother’s side, Mary Helen thought, not unkindly, smiling up at the young man.
“But enough of my relatives,” Liam said, suddenly all business. “Detective Inspector White is expecting you. I have strict orders to show you in as soon as you get here.”
Straightening his shoulders, Liam O’Dea pulled back the door of the Monks’ Table and watched the two nuns walk inside. When he was sure the heavy door was completely closed, he moved closer to it, hoping he could overhear some of the goings-on. Hard as he tried, he heard not a sound. He glanced around nervously. It would never do for someone to catch him eavesdropping. No indeed, he thought, deliberately taking up his position closer to the curb.
Although Liam O’Dea had only been a Garda Siochana, a Guardian of the Peace, for a little over six months now, he could not remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be one.
Maybe for a week or two after his First Holy Communion he had thought he might like to be a priest, saying Mass and passing out the hosts at Communion time and hearing everyone’s sins, even his da’s.
But then one of the lads in his class told him that priests weren’t allowed to kiss girls, and he had abandoned the idea immediately. Especially when he thought of never being able to kiss Carmel Cox, the doctor’s blue-eyed daughter. When they were youngsters, Carmel with the long auburn curls had lived down the road with her parents and her three brothers.
Liam felt his face grow warm. Now it was not the priesthood that kept him from trying to kiss the beautiful Carmel. It was her brothers. Somehow after their father had passed on, they felt it was their duty to keep everyone away from their sister. The way they were going at it, poor Carmel might as well be a nun.
“What is going on in there?” a sharp voice cut into his thought. Liam froze. That voice could only belong to one person, his Auntie Zoë. He had been so preoccupied he hadn’t heard her coming in time to make his escape.
“The woman has a tongue so sharp,” his da had said many times, “it could clip a hedge.”
Liam pressed his lips together to keep from grinning at the thought of two sharp clipper blades protruding from Zoë’s thin lips and snipping away.
“I can’t say, Auntie,” he replied, avoiding her piercing eyes.
“Can’t say! Humph! Won’t say is more like it. Ever since you went to that garda school, you’ve been acting like a perfect eejit. If you had any brains at all, you’d have gone into the funeral business, like the rest of the O’Dea clan. And you wouldn’t be standing on your feet all day guarding a door!” She stared up at him.
Liam clenched his teeth, trying to keep his face from showing any emotion. The old cow! Dumb as dirt, she was. He had no intention of guarding doors all his life. No, indeed! He was set on being a detective inspector. As a lad he had watched hundreds of hours of detectives on the telly—Inspector Morse and that nice chap, Inspector Barnaby from Midsummer. Although they did seem to have an excessive amount of murders in Oxford and that little village, but that was England for you.
Then there was the American telly with the detectives shooting and jumping and chasing. The Streets of San Francisco had been one of his favorites. He remembered as a lad bragging at school that he had a second cousin who had actually visited that dangerous, hilly city.
He could feel his aunt’s eyes still on him. “Well, Liam?” she said. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Not,” he said, feeling his cheeks burn. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared straight ahead, wishing that she would go away.
“That’s beautiful,” she said sarcastically, “a young man who wouldn’t even give his auntie the time of day. After all I’ve done for you!” She took a breath, ready, he knew from past experience, to start a long harangue on the ingratitude of modern youth with a number of pointed references to himself.
Feeling like one of the martyrs Father Keane often talked about at Mass, Liam was determined not to hear a word. The woman is mad, he kept repeating to himself, plain mad.
He was concentrating so hard that he almost missed the slamming of the car door that saved his day.
“Morning, Liam,” Detective Inspector Brian Reedy called in a cheerful voice, despite the fact that he’d only a few hours of sleep. The man was remarkable!
Checking the sky, Reedy slipped into his raincoat. Although a watery sun still shone, dark clouds were tumbling into view. You didn’t have to be much of a detective to realize that rain was on its way.
“And what can we do for you today, Mrs. O’Dea?” Reedy asked, not bothering to lock his car door.
“Not a thing, Brian,” his auntie said, her thin face burning. Then, muttering something that Liam was just as glad he could not make out, she hurried away.
“She’s quite a woman.” Reedy shook his head. “But what a beautiful daughter.”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Liam answered, aware that Reedy had that look on his face again, the one that he always had when Tara was mentioned. It reminded Liam of the look of a sick cow.
Brian Reedy was one of the nicest fellows you could ever meet on a day’s walk, yet Liam was not sure how he’d feel about having Reedy as a cousin-in-law, if that was Reedy’s intention. Would Liam still call him sir?
“Ernie here?” Reedy interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” Liam answered smartly. “He’s here and he sent for the two nuns from America.”
Reedy looked at him quizzically.
“They are in there with him now,” Liam said. “They’ve been inside for about twenty minutes.”
“Poor old dears must need a cuppa by now,” Reedy said. “I could use one myself.” He checked his watch. “How about you, Liam?”
Liam tried not to answer too quickly. If the truth be told, he would do just about anything to get inside and watch Detective Inspector White at work. Although Reedy was a grand fellow and full of chat, White was a regular genius when it came to solving crime.
Garda Liam O’Dea was determined to learn as much from him as he possibly could.
Inside, the Monks’ Table was dark. Only a few lights were on, and the whole place reeked of spilled beer and stale smoke.
What this pub needs, Mary Helen thought, wondering if her clothes would retain the odor, is a good airing out.
Obviously the smell was the farthest thing from Detective Inspector White’s mind. Sister Eileen and she had told him and retold him their every move from leaving the tent to finding the fully clothed body propped on the toilet seat. So much so, that Mary Helen was beginning to wonder if the man was a little thick.
“Is everybody ready for a cuppa?” Brian Reedy called out as the heavy front door of the pub closed behind him.
Strangely, Mary Helen felt saved.
Without waiting for an answer, Reedy, with the assistance of Garda O’Dea, poured and passed the teacups. He helped himself to a couple of bags of crisps, which he tore open and passed around.
Potato chips and tea were an unusual combination, but under the circumstances, Mary Helen found they hit the spot.
Teatime was over too soon.
“A word, Brian,” Detective Inspector White said, motioning his partner into a side alcove. The two nuns were left with Garda O’Dea, who shifted self-consciously from foot to foot.
Sister Mary Helen watched the color spread like melting butter from his jaw to his hairline as he struggled to look official. She was wondering what she could say to put him at his ease when both of the inspectors returned. It must have been really just “a word,” she thought.
“Now, then, Sisters,” White began, clearing his throat. He tilted back as though he were studying a spot in the ceiling. The way he had in the kitchen.
Mary Helen wondered if that helped him think or if it was a technique he used to make those he was questioning nervous. It was impossible to tell.
Without warning, his head snapped forward and his brown bloodshot eyes fastened on her.
“I don’t suppose you ever get used to finding dead bodies,” he said out of the blue.
Mary Helen frowned. Had she heard him correctly? “Pardon me?” she said.
“Last night when you told me your name and that you were from San Francisco, I wondered.”
“Wondered what?”
Detective Inspector White blinked several times before he continued. “I wondered if you were the same nun that my wife’s cousin sent us a clipping about,” he said finally.
“A clipping?” Mary Helen’s mouth went dry.
White nodded. “My wife’s cousin Maura lives in San Francisco. She sent us a clipping from the newspaper there about an older nun who was involved in solving a homicide. She thought that because I deal with death under suspicious circumstances myself, I might be interested, which, indeed, I was.
“So when I went home last night, I found it on the mantelpiece where my wife had left it, and sure enough, it was you!” He paused to let that much sink in. “Brian, here, confirmed it this morning with a quick call to San Francisco and to an Inspector Gallagher, whose name was also mentioned in the article.”
Uh-oh, here it comes, Mary Helen thought, feeling something inside turn over and sink.
“He was helpful, indeed,” Reedy said with a wicked little grin on his handsome face. “A bit gruff, but who can blame him? Poor divil had his horn ringing at half four in the morning, his time. I did get an earful about you and your friend here.” He nodded toward Eileen.
Detective Inspector White leveled his eyes at the two of them. “Now, you may get away with these shenanigans in America, but this is Ireland,” he said sternly. “We do things a little differently here. We do not have our nuns, or anyone else for that matter, poking into our homicide cases, putting themselves into danger. Is that clear?”
Sister Mary Helen felt her cheeks burn. “Detective Inspector, we had no intention of—”
“Sister,” he interrupted, a pleasant smile returning to his face, “surely you must know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. As I said, we will tolerate none of it. Am I clear?”
“Very,” Eileen answered for the both of them.
But that didn’t seem to satisfy White. “Sister?” He was talking to her.
“Very clear,” Mary Helen replied stiffly, resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue.
Seemingly convinced, he checked his wristwatch. “You are free to go now. You’ll be right in time for the art show. Paul Glynn is waiting for you, no doubt. Enjoy yourselves, and remember.” He paused. “Stay as far away as possible from anything remotely connected with Willie Ward’s untimely death.”
The door of the Monks’ Table shut behind them.
“Men,” Mary Helen fumed. “They are all alike!”
Sister Eileen started to giggle.
“What is so funny?”
“Can you imagine what Inspector Gallagher said? The phone lines must have been burning blue.”
Eileen’s laugh was infectious. “And did you see the expression on that young garda’s face?” Mary Helen asked. “I wonder what the poor kid is thinking.”
Actually, Liam O’Dea wasn’t thinking anything very profound, thank you very much indeed. If anything, he was in shock. How was it two elderly nuns weren’t frightened to get involved with death under suspicious circumstances? They seemed rather frail, but according to what he had overheard Detective Inspector White say, they had solved murders on the streets of San Francisco.
Liam’s heart began to thud as he envisioned the hilly chase and the final shoot-out. Perhaps he should be watching them for techniques, as well as Ernie White.
“Find Owen Lynch, will you please, garda. And tell him I have a few more questions.”
Liam almost missed White’s order.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“If he’s not at home, he’s most likely at the art show,” Reedy added.
“Yes, sir,” Liam answered again, and he hurried down the road.
Owen Lynch was at home, just finishing up his dinner, when Liam knocked on his front door.
“Should I go with you, love?’ Patsy Lynch asked. Her usual cheerful expression seemed to have been replaced with a worried frown.
“No, pet. I’ll be fine,” Owen answered too quickly.
“But you haven’t had dessert,” Patsy said.
“When I come home.” He patted her hand.
Liam thought he smelled fear on the man, but perhaps it was just the turnips still on his plate. “The detective inspector only wants to see Owen,” Liam said, hoping he sounded like a man in charge.
“You tell Ernie White—” Patsy began, but her husband hushed her.
“Never mind, pet,” he said, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and polishing them. “It is only routine. I’ll be home shortly.”
“The twins have their artwork on display.” Patsy’s voice was small. “They are so proud of it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Owen assured her, and he bent to peck her on the cheek.
“They have no talent, you know, our twins,” Owen said once he and Liam had stepped out into the street. “But the missus won’t be convinced. We’ve spent a king’s ransom on art lessons and dance lessons.”
Odd thing to say about your own children, Liam thought as the pair walked briskly toward the Monks’ Table.
Liam stood tall and threw his shoulders back on the off chance that Carmel Cox might see him escorting a suspect to be interrogated. But no such luck. The village was all but deserted. Liam guessed that the townsfolk were either at the art show or at home recovering from last night’s gala.
“In here, Owen,” he heard Detective Inspector White call as they entered the pub. “Have a seat. When was it, now, you said you last saw Willie Ward alive?”
“Should I come back for you in an hour’s time?” Paul Glynn asked when he dropped the two nuns at the old convent school.
“Aren’t you going to view the artwork?” Eileen asked, a hint of divilment in her voice.
Paul’s groan was answer enough.
The convent school auditorium was crowded, although the art on the walls seemed to be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Small tight groups had formed all around the room. They seemed more interested in what their neighbors had to say than they were in viewing the displays.
Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen squeezed past, trying to enjoy the art. Was it her imagination, Mary Helen wondered, or did several conversations stop as they neared? She was sure she’d heard Willie Ward’s name mentioned and the Monks’ Table. “How do?” she said cheerfully to a woman who seemed to be staring, but the woman quickly turned away.
“All I did was find the body,” Mary Helen whispered to Eileen. “Why do I feel so guilty?”
“It’s the Irish way,” Eileen quipped, narrowing her eyes to study a watercolor.
“These must be local artists,” she whispered, staring up at a garden that clearly lacked both perspective and technique. Next to it was a pencil sketch of a horse behind a fence. The fence appeared to have been flattened by a strong wind.
“Pretty awful, aren’t they?” a woman’s soft voice remarked. “The art, I mean.”
Mary Helen turned quickly and was surprised to see Oonagh Cox holding a glass of white wine.
“May I get you some?” she offered, her blue eyes sparkling. “You look as if you could use a glass. Besides, these works of art tend to improve after a glass or two.”
Eileen and she followed the small woman to the refreshment table. “I suppose you are wondering why we have an art show at all,” she said, handing them each a glass and a napkin.
Knowing there was no tactful answer, Mary Helen took a sip of her wine. She noticed Eileen did the same.
“It’s a tradition,” Oonagh said, “started by my dear, late husband, Kevin. And everyone seems to think that they will offend his memory if they stop it.” Oonagh rolled her eyes. “Frankly, Kevin is most likely turning over in his grave if he can see what is being hung on these walls and called art.” She sighed. “Truly, the only one in the village who has any talent at all is Jake.”
“Jake?” Mary Helen asked.
“Jake, the tinker,” Oonagh explained. “Although some would not acknowledge it. It is as if admitting that a tinker has any talent is more than they can bear.”
“Was he the same fellow who had words with Willie Ward at the wine tasting?” Eileen asked.
“Everyone’s had words, as you put it, with Willie,” Oonagh said, refilling her glass. “To know Willie is to despise him. Come,” she said, “let me show you Jake’s work.”
They followed Oonagh’s curly head through the crowd—which did seem friendlier after a little wine—to a small display of photographs fastened to a wooden divider. Mary Helen caught her breath. Oonagh was right. Jake was extremely talented. His photographs had captured in black and white the wild beauty of the Irish landscape. There was a clarity and simplicity to his work, almost a spiritual quality about it.
As the three women stood in silence, taking in the richness of his photography, Mary Helen wondered if he might sell one, and if so, how much he would charge. It would be a lovely gift to bring home to the convent in San Francisco.
“He’ll win the prize again this year, no doubt,” someone behind them said in a low whiney voice.
Turning, Mary Helen recognized Zoë O’Dea, Tara’s mother.
“Look who’s here,” Eileen said under her breath, “the Queen Mum.”
“And why shouldn’t he? He’s the best,” Oonagh answered without even turning around. “The O’Deas can’t win everything, Zoë. Your daughter is queen,” she snapped. “What more do you want?”
“And these must be the nuns from America who found poor Willie in the loo,” Zoë said smiling.
Mary Helen wondered if the woman had heard Oonagh.
“You know very well they are.” Oonagh clearly had little patience with Zoë O’Dea.
“A little testy this afternoon, are we?” Zoë’s voice dripped with concern. “Maybe next year your Carmel will be the queen. Lovely girl she is, too, so like her dear father, may he rest in peace.”
Oonagh’s face darkened and her eyes blazed. Mary Helen wondered uneasily where this was going.
“Oh, Patsy,” Zoë O’Dea called across the room. “May I have a word?”
Sister Mary Helen watched Zoë O’Dea turn on her flat heel, cross the auditorium, and corner Patsy Lynch, the chairman’s wife.
“That thick cow!” Oonagh said hotly. “If there’s another murder in this village, it is sure to be hers! It’s a bloody miracle somebody hasn’t murdered her already.”
Despite the heat in the crowded room, Mary Helen shivered. Where had she heard those words before? It took her a moment to remember—at the Monks’ Table the day she arrived. Zoë was saying them to Willie Ward: I’m surprised someone hasn’t killed you already.
“What is it, Mam?” The voice startled Mary Helen. She hadn’t heard anyone coming up behind them. She turned to find a smiling Carmel Cox.
The girl put an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “You’re not letting Mrs. O’Dea rile you up, are you?” she asked.
“Of course not, love.” Oonagh smiled up at her daughter and pushed a stray curl from Carmel’s forehead.
“These are the nuns from America.” Oonagh seemed anxious to be done with Zoë O’Dea.
“The ones everyone is talking about?” Carmel grinned. “Your ears must surely be ringing. Guess who is guarding the door at the murder scene, Mam?” Carmel’s blue eyes twinkled. “Liam O’Dea! Can you believe it? Liam is a garda!” The girl shook her head and her auburn curls bounced. “Should I go chat him up?”
“If he’s on duty, love, he won’t be able to chat,” Oonagh said, but Carmel was already on her way out of the auditorium.
Oonagh watched her go. “She’s a mind of her own, that child,” she said fondly. “Her brothers say I spoil her and that she is going to be a handful. But she’s my only daughter.”
Both Mary Helen and Eileen knew better than to comment.
“At last! Here comes our chairman.” Oonagh pointed toward the entrance to the auditorium. “This dreadful event should be over soon.”
Sure enough! Owen Lynch stood by the door, his face flushed. Looking distracted, he shook hands and greeted people on his way across the room toward the refreshment table where the three women stood. “I need something a bit stronger than this,” he said, taking the glass that Oonagh held out to him.
“Where have you been?” she asked quietly.
“With the garda, answering a hundred thousand questions.” Noticing the nuns were listening, he stopped abruptly.
“They can’t think you had anything to do with it, can they?” Oonagh sounded concerned.
Owen shook his head, then dug in his trousers’ pocket for a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Let me get your glasses,” Oonagh said. “They are full of fingerprints.”
Sister Mary Helen was surprised that he let her take off his horn-rimmed glasses and disappear with them.
“I’m blind as a bloody bat without them,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “She’ll be right back.”
And she was.
“Ah,” he said, putting the glasses back on, “that is much better. Ta.
“Sweet Jesus!” he said suddenly. “Look! Patsy’s been cornered by Zoë O’Dea. Sorry, I need to rescue my wife.”
“The gardai must have been rough on him,” Oonagh said to no one in particular.
“Or maybe they are just being thorough.” Eileen sighed. “We were in with them ourselves. Detective Inspector White seems quite competent.”
“Oh, indeed,” Oonagh said, a smile playing on her lips. “Ernie White always gets his man. Or in this case, maybe it will be his woman,” she said, turning away.
Studying the woman’s profile, Mary Helen couldn’t help wondering if Oonagh Cox knew something she wasn’t telling. It was difficult—no, impossible—to know.
A flurry of activity at the entrance caught their attention.
“Look who it is.” Eileen pulled on Mary Helen’s sleeve.
It was Tara O’Dea, and she was on the arm of Tommy Burns, Mr. Death. Tommy looked quite dapper in his suit, Mary Helen noticed. The gardai must have let him go home last night. Except for the bruise under his left eye, he looked none the worse for wear.
Owen Lynch clapped for attention, and the room quieted. All eyes focused expectantly on Tara and Tommy.
Tara fidgeted self-consciously with her green taffeta dress that by now, Mary Helen thought, must smell a little ripe.
With one hand Tara held up her long skirt and with the other held on to her tiara as she stepped onto a raised platform. Microphone in hand, Owen stood below her.
“Let’s give our Oyster Queen a round of applause,” he urged, and the crowd obliged. “In a few minutes, our committee will count the votes, then Queen Tara will announce the winner of this year’s Ballyclarin Oyster Festival Art Contest. So, please, those of you who still have to vote, please do so. The ballot box is over by the door.” He pointed to a wooden box, which looked quite official. “Our pastor and committee chairman, Father Keane, will start to count in ten minutes.”
The noise in the room began to swell as people stepped up to the table to refill their wine glasses and view the displays.
Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen quickly circled the room to see if they’d missed anything. They hadn’t. Jake’s black and white photographs were clearly superior to any other work in the auditorium.
“Good afternoon, Sisters,” Father Keane greeted them. Mary Helen hadn’t noticed him come in. In fact, she was rather surprised that he was the committee chairman. He didn’t look the type that would know that much about art. Although, if pushed, she’d have been hard-pressed to say what “the type” looked like.
“I’m the committee chairman,” he whispered as if he could read her mind, “because they insist. Somehow, they think a priest will keep the vote honest.”
“I should hope so,” Eileen said, watching Father Keane hurry toward the ballot box where the other members of the committee were assembling.
After what seemed like a long time, Owen Lynch, his face unusually pale, once again took up the microphone and called for attention. The wine had lifted everyone’s spirits, and it took him three tries to finally get the crowd quieted down.
Once he had, he handed the mike to Tara, who had a bit of difficulty getting it to stop screeching. When at last she did, Tara gave a short, hiccupy cough, then announced, “We have two winners this year.”
Tara paused, and the crowd became very still. The mike squealed. Again, she cleared her throat. “Jake’s black and white photo of sheep on a hillside,” she said clearly.
Good choice, Mary Helen thought, remembering the photo. Sun filtered in and out of high clouds, creating light and shadow on a steep hillside to which black-faced sheep seemed to be attached, as some wag had put it, by Velcro.
“And.” Tara paused. “The Lynch twins’ pencil sketch of the horse in the pasture.”
“The one with the collapsed fence?” Eileen whispered.
“You have to be joking,” a loud voice cried, and the crowd burst like a sudden storm into an angry roar.
Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. Thank God, she thought, Paul should be here at the old convent school any minute to collect them.
Garda Liam O’Dea would rather have been hanged than admit to anyone that his legs ached and his feet hurt. Actually, the soles of his feet felt as if they were on fire. It must be the socks he’d bought on sale at Penny’s Department Store in Galway City.
“No sale is a good sale if you can’t use what you buy,” his old granny used to say. At this moment he knew she was right. He wiggled his toes for relief and looked toward the sky, which was beginning to cloud up. A sharp wind blew in off the Atlantic, snapping the blue and white tape cordoning off the door to the pub, the same one that he was guarding.
Liam had been guarding the front door of the Monks’ Table for hours. At least, it seemed like hours, and he wasn’t sure why he was needed. Not a single living soul had tried to get in, except, of course, Owen Lynch, whom the detectives had summoned.
But Lynch had left several minutes ago and hurried toward the old convent school, which made sense.
Liam rolled his shoulders back, then forward. He could use a bit of a break.
“Hello, Liam!”
Without looking, he recognized the voice. Carmel Cox. He felt the heat start at the collar of his uniform shirt and rise to the brim of his hat. Oh, how he wished he could control his blushing. He must look the fool. He cleared his throat. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
“Good afternoon, Carmel.” He put his hand to his hat brim and tried to sound very official. “Sorry, but no one is allowed in the pub. Police business, you know.” He pressed his lips into a straight, no-nonsense line.
Carmel giggled. “Of course I know. Everyone in the entire village knows that Willie Ward was murdered here last night, silly. It’s all the talk at the art contest. I just came by to see you.”
Liam’s cheeks burned. Next his acne would start to itch. “You did?” He paused, not knowing exactly what to say next—afraid that he might stutter. Sometimes when he was very nervous, he stuttered.
Although there was nothing really to be nervous about. Carmel and he had known each other since they were wee tots. They had played together for hours in the vacant fields behind her father’s surgery.
Sometimes they played tag; sometimes hide and seek; sometimes they made up games like cowboys and American Indians. Carmel had always wanted to be the Indian and have him chase her.
He had loved watching her long auburn curls bob up and down as she ran across the field. He never caught her, although they both knew he could. Liam reddened when he thought about it now.
Without warning, the door of the Monks’ Table pushed open and Detective Inspector Reedy appeared.
Saved, Liam thought.
“Come in, Liam,” Reedy called. “It is way past time for a bite. I could eat the back door buttered,” he said. “He’ll see you later, Carmel.”
Liam felt his cheeks burning again as Carmel’s giggle filled the air.
“Will I see you after a while?” Carmel asked. “Will you be at Rafferty’s tonight?”
“What’s going on at Rafferty’s?” Liam asked, wondering if he should continue speaking to her while he was on duty. Why not? he reasoned. He was only guarding the pub door, not Buckingham Palace.
“A whist game for the older folks and a dance for us,” Carmel called.
“She’s quite a beauty,” Reedy remarked, watching Carmel hurry down the street.
Liam pretended not to hear his superior officer as he followed him into the Monks’ Table.
“Sit down, lad.” Detective Inspector Ernie White indicated a place on the bench next to him. Without a word, Liam took off his hat and sat. Hugh Ryan, the publican, came with a tray piled high with cheese and tomato sandwiches, some bags of crisps, and three tall glasses of Guinness to wash it all down. Without a word, he returned to his position behind the bar.
Liam hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he saw the spread. They had taken no more than a bite or two and a sip of Guinness when Ernie White cleared his throat.
“Sorry, lads,” he said, “but this will be a working lunch, although I know it’s not good for the digestion.” He took another bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “This morning I heard from the deputy commissioner in Dublin. Seems that nationally, Willie Ward was a bigger name than we realized. The commissioner is desperate to find his murderer.”
Liam’s face burned. Is he talking to me, too? he wondered.
Narrowing his eyes, White swung them from Reedy to Liam and back again, making it clear he was. “It’s up to us to listen and hear what is being said about the murder. Nothing is too small or too insignificant. We never know what unlikely slip may give the murderer away.”
Brian Reedy frowned as he searched his partner’s face and slowly chewed a crisp. “Do I take it you’ve heard something?” he asked.
White gave a sad smile. “Not a’tall. Not a damn word,” he said, running his fingers through his haystack of hair.
“How did they get in?” Liam’s voice surprised even him. It was small and high-pitched.
“Are you saying something, Liam?” Reedy asked.
Liam cleared his throat. “How did they get in? Mr. Ward and his murderer?”
“What is it, lad?” White frowned.
Liam felt three pairs of eyes boring into him. Even Hugh Ryan was staring. “I’m just asking.” Liam wished he had kept his gob shut. “How did Willie Ward and his murderer get into the Monks’ Table?” He turned toward Hugh. “Did you see them come in?”
Scowling, the publican rewiped the already spotless bar top. “If you are asking me, I’d swear they didn’t come in a’tall,” Hugh said. “As God is my witness, I didn’t see them, and I would have. The place was nearly deserted. The hangers-on, the servers, the cook had all gone. Only the two American nuns were still here.” Hugh wadded up the bar rag and tossed it into the sink.
“And they claim they didn’t see anyone either,” White mumbled to himself.
“The only way a living soul could have come in without anyone seeing him,” Hugh said, “is through the service entrance in the back. I wouldn’t have seen anyone from here. No one would.” He slapped down the palm of his hand for emphasis.
The four men silently chewed on that possibility.
“Wouldn’t they be taking an awful risk being so conspicuous? Someone standing in the road might notice them coming in the wrong door.” Reedy finished off the last of his Guinness and looked happy when Hugh walked over with another.
“Not if they were conspicuous already.” The words were out of Liam’s mouth before he thought.
“What’s your meaning, lad?” White asked, frowning.
Liam’s mouth felt dry and his cheeks were hot. For a moment the room was so quiet you could have heard a bee belch. Had he spoken out of turn?
No, White looked genuinely interested. “Suppose they were dressed in Tommy Burns’s Grim Reaper costume?” he said, at last. “Everyone might notice, but who would think it odd? They would think it was just the I Believe Team having a bit of fun.”
“That would explain why someone cracked poor Tommy on the head and left him in the field,” Reedy said.
“Good point, lads,” Detective Inspector White downed his Guinness. “Maybe the first order of business is to find the whereabouts of that costume.”
When the two nuns came out of the old convent school auditorium, Paul Glynn, arms crossed, was leaning against the hackney looking the picture of long-suffering.
Above him dark clouds rolled across the sky, looking as if they might bump and burst at any minute. Mary Helen shivered. It had started out to be such a nice, sunny day.
“Did ye enjoy yourselves?” Paul asked, opening the car door for them.
“It was interesting, Paul. Very interesting,” Eileen said as the two nuns settled in the backseat.
“And what exactly is your meaning?” Paul asked, starting the motor. “What was so interesting? Jake, the tinker, always wins. He’s the only one in the village with any real talent. Even a blind man can see that.”
“That is just it,” Eileen said. “There were two winners, really three. Jake and the Lynch twins.”
Paul turned around in his seat. Behind his rimless glasses his hazel eyes were full of disbelief. “The Lynch twins?” he repeated. “Noreen and Doreen? Are ye sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Eileen said. “You should have heard the roar that went up.”
“I can imagine.” Paul shook his head. “The Lynch twins, was it?” he asked again, as though he were unable to take it in.
“That’s who,” Eileen assured him.
“They’re talented, are they?”
“Not a bit of it, as far as I could tell,” Eileen answered truthfully. “Although I’m no art critic,” she added quickly.
“I doubt if art has much to do with it,” Paul said. “Over the years, there have been them who wanted someone else besides Jake to take first prize. Willie Ward, God rest him, among them,” he said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I would be surprised if our departed Willie hadn’t stuffed the ballot box. It’s been out since the display went up on Saturday.”
“Why?” Mary Helen asked.
“Why what?’
“If Jake was clearly the most talented, why would Willie want someone else to win?”
“It was just his way,” Paul said.
“I see,” Mary Helen said, although she didn’t see at all. “But if he or someone else did stuff the box, why wouldn’t Mr. Lynch just disregard a big block of votes that looked suspicious?” It seemed a sensible question to her.
“Lynch had nothing to do with the counting. Father Keane heads the committee that tallies the votes, and he’s straight as an arrow. Where is it you two want to go?” Paul asked, backing out of his space in the car park.
Without so much as a backward glance, Mary Helen thought, tensing for the crash. When none came, she relaxed.
“What is the next event on the Oyster Festival schedule?” she asked.
“Right now?” Paul started to rustle through some papers next to him on the front passenger’s seat.
It was all Mary Helen could do to keep from shouting, “Mind the road!” She scooted forward on her seat so that, at least, he wouldn’t have to turn around to talk.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything right now,” he said, holding up a paper in front of him on the steering wheel. “Ah, tonight there is whist at Rafferty’s Rest, starting at eight. And for those who haven’t had enough punishment, there’s a dance.” He glanced at the road, then back at the paper. “Right now, for those with any sense, it’s probably time for a lie down. What’s your pleasure?” he asked, studying them in the rearview mirror.
“Why don’t you drop us at the mews,” Eileen suggested, “and take a bit of a rest yourself? Then"—she looked at Mary Helen for approval—”if you’ll pick us up about eight.”
Mary Helen nodded, although she hadn’t the slightest idea how to play whist (pinochle was her game). But perhaps Eileen did, and at any rate, Mary Helen would enjoy watching the dancing.
“My nerves couldn’t stand another minute of his driving,” Eileen said, fumbling with the key to the gate that led to their mews. Mary Helen was glad to hear it. She had thought only her nerves were thin.
Once inside, they settled in comfortable chairs and put up their feet. Through the front window the late afternoon sky looked bruised with dark clouds, but so far there had been no rain. In fact, Mary Helen noticed one radiant shaft of sun piercing the cloud cover.
A flock of tiny wrens lit on the grass and flicked their tails as they busily searched for their supper. She checked her wrist-watch. It was dinnertime.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Eileen.
“I could eat.” Eileen sat up. “Which reminds me, we’ve nothing in the house.”
“A perfect excuse to go out to dinner,” Mary Helen said.
“Who needs an excuse, old dear? We are on holiday.” Eileen pushed up from her chair. “The Ballyclarin Hotel is within walking distance, and I’m told the salmon there is delicious.”
“If we go now, we can easily be back before Paul comes for us,” Mary Helen said, picking up her umbrella, just in case.
Liam O’Dea was knackered. He had led a small army of gardai called up from Galway City on a search of every yard, every lane, and every field in Ballyclarin. They had looked beneath every hedge and down every alley. They had spent the remaining daylight trying to find the missing I Believe costume.
Dogs barked and a cloud of crows wheeled into the air as they tramped through muddy pastures, peering behind stone walls. They had even sifted through household trash left out for the trash man. They had found not a thing.
“Would we know it if we saw it?” one weary fellow asked as the lights began to go on in the houses up and down the main street of the village. Smoke from chimney fires rose into the damp air.
“Sure enough,” said Liam, although he was not at all sure. “It looks like a very long bedsheet.”
“Next thing you know, the chief inspector will be having us search the beds,” one fellow joked.
“Or the clotheslines. Maybe the murderer washed it and hung it on the line to dry.”
Even Liam laughed.
“Very funny, lads.” In the settling darkness, they had not seen Detective Inspector White approach the group. “You’ve had no luck then?”
“None, sir,” Liam answered.
A soft rain had begun to cover them all. “Good work, lads,” White said, although Liam wasn’t sure what was good about a search that turned up nothing. “Time to go home for a hot supper and a good night’s sleep.”
“Yes, sir,” the gardai answered in unison, then headed for their cars before he changed his mind.
After a quick hot shower, Liam decided to go to Rafferty’s Rest for a pint and to have his supper. The food was decent, cheap, and fast—three qualities that Liam always looked for in a restaurant.
Besides, Carmel Cox had practically invited him to the dance there tonight. It was only right that he should go.
When the two Sisters arrived at the dining room of the Bally-clarin Hotel, it looked empty. In fact, Mary Helen began to wonder if it was open. Even the maître d’ seemed surprised to see them. And the young man behind the bar looked as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.
“What is it?” Mary Helen asked, once they were seated in a comfortable booth by a window. “Where is everybody?”
“We’re early,” Eileen explained. “Nobody but a tourist eats this early in Ireland.”
As if to prove her point, a party of Americans was the next to arrive, followed by a small group of Germans.
Eileen had been right about the salmon. It was delicious—the entire meal was. The rain began as they waited for their dessert. The dining room and bar were starting to fill.
A tall man in a dark rain slicker passed their table, his movements strong and sure, like the gait of a prowling cougar, Mary Helen thought. His straight black hair, wet with rain, was combed back and reached the collar of his jacket. Something about him was familiar. Where had she seen him before? The gala, was it, shouting at Owen Lynch?
“How ye keeping, Jake?” the barman called.
The man shrugged, shook his head, and straddled the bar stool.
Silently the barman pulled a pint and set it before him. “This will be good for what ails you,” he said.
Mary Helen leaned toward Eileen. “That must be Jake, the tinker,” she whispered.
It took Eileen several seconds to peek without appearing to be peeking. “I think so, too,” she whispered finally. “I wonder if someone’s told him that he tied for first prize with the Lynch twins?”
“From the look of him, I’d say somebody did.” Mary Helen tried not to stare.
From nowhere their waiter appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Sisters,” he said with an apologetic smile. “But the crème brûlée is taking a little longer than the chef intended. While you are waiting, may I get you more coffee or, perhaps, some Baileys Irish Cream?”
“No, thank you,” Eileen answered for both of them.
“Anything a’tall ye want?” The waiter gave a toothy grin and was preparing to leave.
“Anything?” Mary Helen asked.
The waiter paled a bit but nodded good-naturedly.
“Would you mind asking Mr. Jake to join us for a moment?” she asked.
The waiter seemed surprised, but not as surprised as Eileen. “What in the world … ?” she muttered, watching the waiter approach the bar.
“I’m very interested in purchasing one of his photographs to bring home as a little gift for the convent. I’m simply going to ask him if they are for sale and the price.”
Much to Mary Helen’s delight, Jake came right over. In fact, he looked almost happy to have been invited. Pint in hand, he smiled down at them.
“The Yanks I’ve been hearing about all day,” he said without a bit of reticence.
Meeting his eyes, Mary Helen was struck by how enormous they were and how blue and sparkling, as if they were taking in everything. The eyes of an artist, she thought. No wonder he can capture such detail in his photographs.
Quickly she introduced Eileen and herself. “Will you join us for dessert, Mr….” Suddenly she realized that she had no idea of the man’s last name. All she’d ever heard was Jake, the tinker. Calling him Mr. Tinker would never do!
“Powers, Sister. My name is Jake Powers, but please, just call me Jake,” he said, his brilliant blue eyes seeming to look right through her. “Everyone else does.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jake,” she said, feeling a little foolish. She probably should have found out where he lived and made an appointment with him.
“Won’t you join us? Perhaps you’ll have some dessert or a cup of coffee? Or another Guinness?”
Jake examined his nearly empty glass as though he were seeing it for the first time. Then he sat down in the booth next to Eileen. “That would be grand,” he said, lifting his glass so the barman could see it. “A bird cannot fly on one wing alone.”
That settled, he turned his enormous eyes on Mary Helen. “What is it you want, Sister, besides to buy me a pint?” Jake asked, a broad grin on his face. “To ask me if I murdered Willie Ward?”
The bluntness with which he blurted out the question startled Mary Helen.
“Why, no,” she stammered.
He took a swallow of the dark liquid and looked at her sideways. “No?” he said with a hollow laugh. “Then, I guess, you’ll be the only one for miles around who doesn’t. You and the murderer, of course. But the rest of them! I’m a tinker, and for any crime committed you have no further to look than the nearest tinker. Besides I had a bit of a brawl with old Willie at the wine tasting.”
Jake finished his Guinness and traded glasses with the barman, who had just arrived with another.
“Certainly, just because you argue with someone doesn’t mean you kill him,” Eileen added sensibly.
Jake spread his elbows wide on the table and stared into his glass. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” he said.
Sister Mary Helen was glad to see the waiter reappear with two small bowls of steaming crème brûlée. “What I do want to ask you about, Jake,” she said, anxious to change the subject, “are your photographs.”
Jake frowned, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“I was so impressed with your work at the art show in the old convent auditorium.”
Jake lifted his head and studied her with glassy eyes.
“And I was wondering,” she went on, “if any of them are for sale?”
Jake gave a sharp laugh. “They’re all for sale,” he said, “to those who’re willing to pay the price.”
Sister Mary Helen was almost afraid to ask the price. Apparently he was done talking. Draining his glass, he set it on the table, then stood and pulled a business card from his pocket. He placed it beside the glass.
“It’s there you’ll find me tomorrow. All afternoon,” he said, pointing to the card. “We can chat.” Without another word, he left the hotel dining room.
“I’m sure Paul will know where this is,” Eileen said, reading the small card. “Speaking of whom, we had better hurry.”
Mary Helen nodded. Quickly the two nuns finished their dessert. Mary Helen resisted the temptation to scrape the bowl.
One look at the whist game in progress at Rafferty’s Rest and Sister Mary Helen knew there was no room for an amateur. Except for the slapping of the cards and a low mumble of players bidding, the room was eerily quiet.
Standing in the doorway, she recognized a number of faces, although she could not put a name on most of them. Many of the whist players were the same smartly dressed women who had been at the wine tasting.
Zoë O’Dea sat at a table with a view of the entire room. Her sharp dark eyes swept across it like prison searchlights taking in everything.
She smiled stiffly and waved one hand when she spotted Mary Helen and Eileen. Her partner turned to see whom she had acknowledged.
Sister Mary Helen was surprised that Zoë was playing with Patsy Lynch, although she wasn’t really sure why. She didn’t know either one of the women, but from the little she had seen, she never would have picked them for friends.
“Now, would you join us?” Owen Lynch’s voice startled Mary Helen. For such a large man, he seemed to be able to appear without a sound.
“I think not,” Mary Helen said, catching her breath, then turned toward Eileen. “How about you?” she asked.
Eileen, too, declined. Mary Helen had the strange feeling that Chairman Lynch was relieved. “They’re a friendly enough lot,” he said with a chuckle, “until it comes to whist. Then they take no prisoners.”
The sound of a small band warming up lured the two nuns to the back room of Rafferty’s where straight chairs lined the walls. At one end of the nearly empty room, a fiddler plucked a few notes while a man with a great mountain of white hair played a quick tune on his flute. A tall thin lad with a happy grin stood ready with his goatskin bodhran.
All three seemed to be following the lead of an ancient fellow with eyes at half mast. He was holding what Mary Helen’s old granny used to call a squeezebox. Tapping his foot, he pulled open his instrument and at the count of three, although only a few people were beginning to drift into the room, the band broke into a lively reel.
“We wouldn’t have lasted two minutes with the card players,” Eileen said as they settled into two chairs. “They’d have eaten us alive.”
“I hope there will be dancing.” Mary Helen leaned toward Eileen to make herself heard.
“Don’t worry,” Eileen assured her. “It’s early yet. They’ll come along soon.” And the two nuns clapped in time with the music.
Eileen proved to be correct. The music seemed to draw the crowd, and soon the dance floor was full of men and women of all ages.
Quickly they formed small sets, their flying feet moving to the rhythm. Mary Helen watched, fascinated, as the dancers went through the intricate steps, twirling and tapping, never missing a beat. To her amazement, they never ran out of breath either. She was tired just watching.
She noticed Oonagh Cox was on the floor with … She strained to see. Could that be Owen Lynch with her? For a large man, he could dance quite well. She wondered why his wife had chosen whist.
And Paul Glynn and his redheaded missus were twirling with the best of them. After he’d dropped the nuns off he had said he was going to fetch her. He hadn’t wasted any time.
A laughing Carmel Cox was a partner with the young red-faced garda. What was his name? Liam O’Dea? Poor fellow looked terribly ill at ease. Despite his shyness, he, too, could dance.
Tara, the Oyster Queen, was still wearing her emerald-green taffeta dress. Surely, she must air it out, Mary Helen thought. Tara looked exhausted as she took her place in the set.
When the musicians finally stopped for a break, Oonagh Cox nearly fell into the chair next to Sister Mary Helen. “There was a day, mind you, when I could go on all night,” she said, pressing a clean handkerchief to her brow. “But, no more. I fear,” she said with a wink, “that I’m getting old.”
“You looked just fine to me,” Mary Helen said, and she meant it.
“And your partner, Owen Lynch,” Eileen added, “is a fine dancer, too.”
Oonagh nodded. “And the shame of it is that his wife, Patsy, grand girl that she is, has two left feet,” she said, which satisfied Mary Helen’s curiosity as to why Mrs. Lynch had chosen whist.
“But his Patsy"—Oonagh stood and ran her fingers through her damp gray hair—”is brilliant when it comes to whist. She wins nearly every game she plays. So as the old saying goes, ‘God shares the good things.’ ”
Mary Helen was thinking about that when the band started up again. “A slip jig,” Oonagh said, hurrying out to the dance floor. “Ladies only.”
Sister Mary Helen watched the women both young and old dancing with an energy and grace that amazed her.
“They lift themselves and leap like deer, don’t they, now?” Father Keane said, sitting down on the empty chair next to Sister Eileen. “Are ye enjoying yourselves?” he asked, leaning forward so he could see them both.
“Indeed,” Eileen said, and Mary Helen nodded. “Are you a dancer yourself, Father?” she asked.
“Not a’tall! You’ll not find me anywhere near a dance floor,” he said. “All I’d need is to choose one of the ladies in my parish as a partner and rumors would be flying like pillow feathers in the wind. They’d have it on every tongue. Besides,” he added, “the bishop frowns on the priests dancing, and it’s a perfect excuse for me.”
“Then you’re here for the whist?”
“No, not that either. Those whist players show no mercy even to the clergy,” he said with a laugh. “Or should I say, especially to the clergy. No"—he lowered his voice—”I’m here because I’m expected to be. To tell you the God’s honest truth, I’m home to bed as soon as possible.”
“Father Keane,” an older man called, “I’d like you to meet my brother. He’s here on holiday.”
“Happy to, Donal,” the priest said. “On holiday from where?” His voice trailed off.
On the dance floor, a reel or two followed the slip jig, and finally the band broke into a waltz. The twirling couples, the music, the warmth in the room, and the full supper began to take their toll on Sister Mary Helen. Her eyes felt heavy. To be honest, she could scarcely keep them open. She glanced sideways at Eileen, who didn’t seem to be having any problem at all.
“I think I need a breath of fresh air,” Mary Helen said.
“What?” Eileen bent toward her, but the music made it difficult to hear.
“I’m going outside,” she mouthed, “for a breath of air.”
Eileen smiled and nodded but didn’t seem eager to go along. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Mary Helen said.
The contrast between the warm back room of Rafferty’s and the crisp night air nearly took her breath away. The wind slapped at her face and tore at the edge of her sweater. She shivered, yet it felt refreshing.
Overhead the sky was brilliant with stars. The wind must have blown the storm clouds out over the Atlantic and left the heavens sparkling. She pushed up her bifocals on the bridge of her nose and gazed at the beauty. The words of the ancient psalmist echoed in her mind. “You fix the number of the stars and give to each its name.”
She was so enthralled that she nearly missed the smell of smoke, cigarette smoke. It was coming from somewhere close. Who else was out here? She edged toward the back door of Rafferty’s. She didn’t want to startle anyone.
Peeking around the corner of the building, she spotted what she thought was a couple—a tall man and a much shorter woman. In the darkness she saw the orange tip of a burning cigarette. The hand that held it seemed to be around the other person.
Despite the brightness of the stars it was difficult to make out what they were doing. If she had to venture a guess, she’d say that they were embracing.
Sister Mary Helen squinted into the darkness. She watched the burning cigarette tip drop to the ground as the man pulled the woman to him in what looked like a passionate kiss.
Oh, my, she thought, edging backward. Talk about being in the wrong place at the right time! Although considering how engrossed they were, she didn’t think that they would even notice her.
Standing very still, she wondered exactly what she should do—slip back into the building, or make some noise so that they’d know she was there?
“We can’t continue to do this,” she heard the woman whisper. She sounded frantic. “I’m nearly beside myself with worry she’ll find out. Then what?”
That voice! Mary Helen recognized it, although it took her several seconds to put a name to it. Oonagh Cox! But who was the large man she was with? It couldn’t possibly be Owen Lynch, could it?
“To hell with it,” the man muttered.
“Owen,” she heard Oonagh say softly. “Get ahold on yourself. You’ve got to go back inside. They’re probably looking for you right now.”
“Not to worry, love.” Owen’s voice was thick with emotion. “No one suspects. I’m sure of that.”
“That’s what you say, but we both know Willie Ward was onto us.”
“Willie Ward!” Lynch gave a nasty laugh. “He’ll not be bothering anybody ever again. God saw to that.”
“Tell me you didn’t play God’s helper,” Oonagh whispered.
Mary Helen’s heart plummeted, and she felt a little queasy. Was she about to overhear a murder confession?
“Of course I didn’t, much as I’d have liked to have. You know I didn’t.” Owen’s words had the cold clink of ice. “But I am terribly grateful to whomever did.”
The night air was beginning to chill Mary Helen to the bone. Were these two ever going to go back inside? She clenched her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter from the cold. Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, she heard someone make a move. Was there another person out here? She peered into the darkness but saw nothing. It must have been one of them.
“You go first,” Oonagh said very softly. “I’ll follow.”
Mary Helen stood still until she thought the coast was clear, but her mind was racing.
Oonagh Cox and Owen Lynch were having an affair! Could that be? They both seemed so upright, so proper. Not that upright and proper people are immune to emotions.
And Willie Ward…. Had Oonagh actually asked Owen if he had killed the man? That was an odd question for one lover to ask another. Mary Helen’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. She needed to go inside. She needed to tell someone what she had just heard.
Back home in San Francisco, she would have given Homicide Inspectors Kate Murphy and Dennis Gallagher a call. But here there was no Kate or Gallagher, and Detective Inspector White had made it clear that he didn’t want her meddling in his business … quite clear! Yet she felt she should tell someone. But whom?
Without warning, the back door of Rafferty’s Rest swung open, and a young man stepped out. He looked startled to see her.
Garda Liam O’Dea, perfect! Mary Helen thought. What was the old saying? “Chance is a nickname for Providence.”
Liam O’Dea spun around with surprise. He hadn’t expected to find anyone else standing outside. “Who’s that?” he called, feeling his heart beating against his ribs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” a voice said.
It had an American accent. Liam frowned. Could it be one of those nuns from San Francisco? he wondered. But what was she doing out here in the cold? “It’s Sister, is it?” he asked.
“Yes.” Sister Mary Helen’s voice was low. “I just stepped out for some fresh air.”
“I did myself,” Liam admitted, sticking both hands in his trousers’ pockets. “That Rafferty’s can get as hot as the hinges of hell.”
In the darkness he heard her chuckle. “Especially when you’re dancing,” she said. When Liam didn’t comment, she went on. “Actually, I was just on my way to—of all things—find you,” she said with a shiver.
“Find me?” Liam felt his face redden. Sure, what did she want with him?
“Is there someplace we can talk privately?” she asked.
Staring into the darkness, he wondered what place would be more private than this.
“Someplace a little warmer?” she said through chattering teeth.
Back inside Rafferty’s, Liam miraculously found a quiet spot near a broom closet where he was almost sure no one would disturb them, for a few minutes anyway. “Does this suit you?” he asked.
Sister Mary Helen nodded and then got right to the point. “While I was out back, I overheard something that I think I should tell to someone in authority.”
Liam’s stomach knotted. Go on, now! Why him? He had only been a garda for six months. “Detective Inspector White,” he said quickly. “He’s the man in charge.”
The old nun’s eyes widened, and she studied him over the top of her spectacles that seemed to have slipped down her nose again.
“Under ordinary circumstance, I would, Liam—may I call you Liam?” she asked softly.
He nodded.
“But you were there,” she continued. “You must have heard what the detective inspector said about my getting involved with his case.” She paused, waiting for some reaction.
Liam felt the heat rise from his jawbone straight up to his scalp. Of course he’d heard. He wasn’t a deaf man, was he? But should he have been listening?
“Well, if you didn’t hear him,” she said, clearly impatient to get on with her story, “the detective inspector made it quite clear that he wouldn’t tolerate anyone who wasn’t a garda interfering in his homicide case. Clearly, he meant Sister Eileen and me.
“But what I overheard out there"—she pointed toward the back lot of Rafferty’s—”might be quite important, and"—she lowered her voice—”I would feel very guilty keeping it to myself.”
Liam’s mind was racing. Sure now, do I need this headache? he wondered, not quite sure how he should react. Not that it would make any difference. Clearly she was going to tell him whether he wanted to hear it or not.
And why shouldn’t she tell him? After all, he was a garda, and he was assigned to the case. Yet, if the truth be told, it was his first murder case, which was not surprising. There weren’t that many murders a year in the whole country. A man could be a garda his whole life and never be involved in solving one. But that was neither here nor there, was it?
“It seems to me,” the nun was saying in that schoolteacher voice that most nuns have, “that this could be valuable information that your superior would be glad to hear.”
Something Detective Inspector White would be glad to hear? Liam perked up. Hadn’t he this very day been thinking that someday he’d like to become a detective inspector himself? What better way than to glean some information about the case and pass it on to the famed Ernie White, who would be grateful? “Fine work, lad,” he could almost hear the man say. “Fine work, indeed.”
Liam felt the nun’s eyes on him. He threw back his shoulders and tried to look official. If only he had a notepad to write it all down. Not that he’d forget. Even at school he’d had a splendid memory. It just looked more professional with a notepad.
He cleared his throat, then said in the deep solemn voice that Father Keane used in the confessional, “What is it now, Sister, that you want to tell me?”
Without any further hesitation, Sister Mary Helen told him about stumbling on Mrs. Cox and Mr. Lynch and her suspicion that they were having an affair.
Liam’s stomach cramped. Mrs. Cox, Carmel’s mother, and Owen Lynch, one of the area’s most respected businessmen! He felt numb and scarcely able to believe his ears. He wished she’d stop, but, no, she had more to say.
Liam’s mind was whirling as she repeated the conversation that she had heard about Willie Ward’s murder. “But he did say ‘no,’ he hadn’t killed Willie, didn’t he?” he asked when he could finally catch his breath.
“Yes, he did,” Sister said, “and I hope he was telling the truth. But the very fact that she asked …” The old nun paused and studied his face, obviously waiting for a reaction.
Liam wanted to put his hands over his ears and run, but he knew he couldn’t do that. “Thank you, Sister. I’ll see to it,” he said, hoping he sounded as if he had everything under control.
“You’ll see to it?” Mary Helen repeated, as if she expected him to lay out his plan.
Well, first off, he didn’t have one. And if he had, he’d keep it to himself. “Tell one person and next it will be on every tongue,” Liam’s da often said, and he was right.
“Very well, then,” Sister Mary Helen said finally. She looked a little bit disappointed, but that couldn’t be helped. It was all the garda could do to contain himself.
“Thank you, Liam. I feel a great deal better.” She smiled, and Liam forced himself to smile in return. That’s all well and good, he thought, that you feel better, but, sure, I feel like someone has filled my pockets with stones.
Liam O’Dea’s head was swimming as he watched the old nun move off to the hall where the music had started up again. Eyes closed, he leaned against the broom closet door. Maybe he was hallucinating and this would all go away!
Carmel’s mother, the doctor’s wife, having an affair with the garage owner. It was preposterous! No one would believe him if he did tell them. And if Carmel heard, she’d never forgive him for saying such things about her mam. And her brothers! Liam didn’t even want to think about what they’d do if they heard a word.
Yet, he had a duty. He had some information that might prove useful to solving a serious crime.
Yerra, he felt the perspiration under his arms run down his sides. He better keep his gob shut. Maybe look around on his own, be sure of his facts when he did present them to Detective Inspector White. That would be the safest thing to do. On the other hand, maybe the best thing to do was to tell him straightaway.
“Oh, there you are,” Carmel called, bouncing up to him. “I’ve been looking all over for you and I’m nearly hoarse from calling your name.” Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm, and Liam felt a shock rush all the way to his toes.
“Come, dance with me,” Carmel begged, her bright eyes teasing, “before someone else asks me. You know you’d hate that.”
Liam allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor.
“Is something bothering you?” she said, lightly touching his shoulder.
“No. Nothing,” Liam lied. But after a few steps with Carmel’s supple body pressing against his, Willie Ward’s murder and his duty to help solve it seemed far, far away.
“Oh, you’re back,” Sister Eileen said when Mary Helen slipped into the empty chair next to her in the hall. “I was beginning to get worried.”
“What time is it?” Stifling a yawn, Mary Helen glanced down at her wristwatch. It was nearly midnight, and Rafferty’s Rest was still packed with people, young and old.
“You can’t even count on the old people to go home early,” she whispered.
Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “What? And miss something?”
Just when Mary Helen thought that she could not sit upright another minute, Paul Glynn, their driver, appeared with his wife on his arm.
“We’ve a babysitter,” he said, “so I have to take the wife home. Shall I come back for you or are you ready to go?”
“Ready!” Eileen said, even faster than Mary Helen could.
Once inside their mews, the two old nuns changed quickly into their nightgowns, bathrobes, and slippers.
“Where were you for so long tonight?” Eileen asked, handing Mary Helen a cup of steaming hot cocoa. “To help you sleep,” she said, as though either of them needed any help.
“You won’t believe it.” Mary Helen took a cautious sip of the foaming drink.
“Try me.”
“Well, you remember I went outside for a breath of fresh air?”
Eileen nodded.
“And apparently I wasn’t the only one with that idea. There was a couple out there in the dark, kissing, I think.”
“Oh?” Eileen blew on her cup of hot cocoa.
“You’ll never guess who!” Quickly she told her friend about Oonagh Cox and Owen Lynch and what she had overheard.
For once Eileen was speechless.
“Just when I was wondering what to do with the information, who should come outside but that young garda, Liam O’Dea.”
“You do remember what Detective Inspector White said about getting involved?”
“Of course I remember,” Mary Helen answered, a bit testily. “How could I forget? And that is why, when I saw Liam O’Dea, I decided to put the whole thing in his hands.”
“Good for you.” Eileen collected both empty cups, putting them in the sink to soak. “And what did he say?”
“Not much,” Mary Helen admitted, “just that he’d take care of it.”
“Splendid.” Eileen yawned. “And you’ll let him, right?”
“Right,” Mary Helen said. “I couldn’t help what I overheard,” she said a little defensively, “but now the whole thing is out of my hands.” She brushed her palms together to make her point. “I want nothing more to do with it.”
And when she said it, she truly meant it.