Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  She whirled and stormed away.

  Baby Paul had his chin resting on Siobhan’s shoulder. He watched Lassi with big, puzzled, blue eyes that seemed both hurt and betrayed.

  His expression carved holes in her heart. “Oh, God. Can it get any worse here in Ballyna-nightmare? Even the child hates me.” Lassi paced the small square space of her cell. “I comforted him a few days ago! I was the one who soothed him. Me! Not Penny, not even his mama. It was me! And now he thinks I’m the devil.”

  She reached for the bars and hung her head, pressing her forehead against them. The metal of the iron rods grew blisteringly hot. She jumped back and stared at her hands. Then, she cautiously patted her forehead to check for burns.

  “Cillian, I don’t know what to do. Why is this happening to me?”

  She looked over at him.

  He sat on his bunk, his hands palm-down, gripping the edge of the bed-frame. The expression of absolute anguish on his face matched her mood. “I wish I could tell you, Lassi, love.”

  It was the first sentence he’d spoken to her in hours. She met his tortured gaze. “Well, try. Please tell me something, anything that will make sense to me.”

  “I can’t.” His voice came out cracked, sounding hopeless.

  “Cillian,” she wailed. “Please.”

  “I can’t, Lassi. I want to more than anything, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  He shook his head.

  She sank back onto her hard bunk and fell into a pit of despair. Tears silently tracked down her face, moistening her lumpy pillow.

  “Lassi.” Cillian spoke softly. “Lassi. Beautiful girl.”

  She ignored him, rolling on her side.

  “Lasairfhíona. Look at me. Please.”

  His voice whispered inside her like a sweet caress, nearly causing her to turn and face him. “No. How do you know my given name?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She curled into a ball and stayed put, willing herself to go numb.

  A short time later, footsteps tromped down the hall in her direction. “Shift change,” Conway said, cheerfully. “For one of us, at least. Garda Galbraith is eager to go home to his dinner, his telly, a good pint, and bed. I’ll be the one to keep you company.”

  Lassi rolled over and blinked at him. “What’s got you in such good cheer, Inspector?”

  “The company I keep,” he said, smiling. He motioned to someone behind him.

  An older woman, with salt and pepper hair pulled back in a neat bun, marched toward the cell block. She had the same weasel shaped face and ferret-like eyes as Conway. Her attire consisted of a blue pant suit and low pumps. The pumps made a muffled thump, thump, thump against the concrete floor.

  She’s got to be a relation to the Inspector. Lassi sat up on her bunk.

  “Good evening, Miss Finn,” she said when she stood outside the cell. She clutched a red and gold purse by her side. “Father Ward,” she added with a nod.

  He kept his broody silence.

  “Hello,” Lassi said.

  “I’m this chap’s mother, Mary Conway.” She stabbed a thumb at the Inspector. She turned to him. “Are you going to introduce me?”

  His face grew flushed. “Yes, mother, of course, I...”

  “Kids these days.” She shook her head before scrutinizing Lassi from top to toe. “Aye, so it’s true, then. You’re the very picture of a Finn woman.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess. How would you know? Why are you here?” Lassi rose to standing and stepped in front of Mary Conway.

  She had a far friendlier appeal than her son, the Garda Inspector.

  Mrs. Conway gripped the iron bars trapping Lassi. “Roberta would be sick at heart knowing her great-granddaughter was about to fail where three hundred years of Finn magic has succeeded.”

  “What?” Lassi’s brow stitched in consternation. She started to grasp the bars, then stopped herself, not wanting to alarm the woman before her if sparks flew. Her forehead creased even further. Come to think of it, all Cillian did was stare at me when I burned myself earlier. She filed that thought away for later.

  “Roberta was my great-aunt.”

  Mrs. Conway tut-tutted, shaking her head, and said, “Oh dear, you have no idea, do you?”

  “What are you going on about, Mrs. Conway? I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Please call me, Mary.” She gave a quick smile. “Ryan, dear, do let these two young people go, would you?”

  “Excuse me? You’re releasing us?” Once again, Lassi reached for the bars, then pulled her hands away.

  Inspector Conway held jangling keys up to her cell door. He unlocked the door, and stepped toward Cillian’s cell where he did the same thing. “You’re free to go, Father. You, too, Miss Finn.”

  Mary turned to Cillian. “Father Ward, Ryan will accompany you. We need everyone to pull together to put this matter to rights.”

  Lassi stepped free of her prison enclosure. “Would someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?”

  She scanned the faces of all who surrounded her.

  Cillian refused to meet her gaze.

  “It’s complicated,” he said to the floor.

  “I’m a complicated woman. I can deal,” Lassi said, her hands flying to her hips.

  “Let’s go,” Inspector Conway said to Cillian.

  Cillian nodded.

  The two men departed, wandering away from them.

  Lassi started to follow but Mary stopped her.

  “You’re going with me, child.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s time for you to learn everything, and I mean everything. Let’s head back to the cottage and I’ll explain.”

  “It’s about bloody time,” Lassi shot back. “Since I stepped foot in this village, no one has been willing to provide answers.”

  Mary cast a sympathetic look. “Be careful what you wish for, dearie.”

  Chills stiffened Lassi’s spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mary held out her hand. “Come along. You’ll find out soon enough. Then, I’m afraid there will be no looking back.”

  Chapter 19

  As Lassi and Mary drove up to Great-Aunt’s...Great-Grandmother’s... cottage, tucked in Mary’s sedan, the sky prepared for evening by draping the landscape in thick, heavy streaks of shadow. In perhaps two hours, the land would be choked in darkness—which wasn’t much of a change from day.

  Mary wiped her feet on the Not-Welcome mat. “Your great-grandmother had a sense of humor, she did.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Lassi said, pushing open the front door. “Most people called it mean bitchiness.”

  She stopped, her foot nearly squishing three dead rats, side by side, on the floor of the foyer.

  Crusty McKitty sat next to them, grooming his paws. When he spied Lassi, he pulled back his ears and hissed. Then, watching her carefully, he slunk over to Mary and rubbed her ankles.

  “Good Christ, that cat is a nuisance.” Lassi stared at the stupid, rat-killing feline.

  Mary crouched to pet him. “Oh, I think he’ll be special to you someday. Give him a chance. He was Roberta’s familiar and he isn’t happy about her departure. Isn’t that right, kitty?”

  The cat purred and butted her hand.

  “He’s bringing you gifts, like he knows to do. He doesn’t know who you’re meant to be to him yet. I’d bet it has something to do with your ignorance about the magic you possess.”

  “Magic?” Lassi drew back her head and blinked. Then, she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the coat hook. “What magic?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know. What a disservice your mother did by not telling you.” Mary rose to standing. “Surely, you’ve noticed mysterious, unexplainable occurrences since you’ve arrived, right?”

  “Apart from dead cats and such? Can’t say I have,” Lassi said, looking away.

  “Come now.” Mary’s
lips pressed in a line of disapproval. “Nothing?”

  Lassi shook her head in the same evasive manner when she was confronted in the kitchen as a child stealing cookies.

  “Lassi, girl. The sooner you can trust me and tell me the truth, the better.” Mary brushed her hands together, ridding herself of cat hair. She cast her eyes about the cottage. “What a mess! You’ve got your work cut out for you, don’t you?”

  “You could say that.” Lassi stared at the lack of progress she’d made over the last few days.

  “Tell you what. You get settled in the front room. I’ll lay Crusty’s gifts to rest outside, put on a kettle, and bring us a tray of tea.”

  Lassi lifted her hands in protest. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m the hostess here.”

  “Don’t be silly. You seem road-worn and weary. Let me at least fix you tea.”

  Hoping she might get some tea if it was prepared by someone else, Lassi accepted. “All right, then. But we won’t make it a habit.”

  Mary strode down the hall.

  Lassi tromped into the front room and slumped onto the sofa.

  Mary hummed and whistled in the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with a tray laden with a pot of tea, two flowery tea cups, and the rest of Lassi’s crackers.

  “Here we go,” she said, setting the tray on the side table. She lifted the tea pot and poured the steaming amber liquid into Lassi’s cup. “Here you are. Drink up.”

  Lassi took the cup. She lifted it to her lips and waited for something awful to happen. The cup didn’t break. The water didn’t levitate. No sparks shot from her fingers. She drew the tea cup close and started to sip.

  Crusty leaped over the sofa, using her as a landing pad.

  She shrieked and dropped her tea. The cup shattered on the floor, but at least it landed. No water hung suspended, either.

  Lassi let out an exasperated sigh. “Bloody hell. All I wanted was a good cup of tea.”

  “I’ll get you another cup.” Mary started to rise.

  “Don’t bother. It seems I’m cursed not to have tea while I’m here. I’ll clean up in a second.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I think the pile of newspapers caught most of the liquid.” Lassi pointed to the sopping paper.

  “All right, then.” Mary placed her hands on her thighs. “So. Where do I begin?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you since I’m in the dark,” Lassi said, more focused on the idea of drinking tea than anything else.

  “Finn magic is old, old magic.”

  “Magic.” Lassi scoffed. “Exactly what kind of magic are we talking here? What can it do?”

  Mary laughed slyly and said, “Why, anything you want it to.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” Lassi said, eying the food. She reached for a cracker, ravenous. Have I eaten at all today? I think the answer is no. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m a distant cousin on the Finn side.”

  Lassi continued to shovel crackers in her mouth. She paused, mid-chew, and said, “So we’re related, then, are we? And I’m related to your son, Inspector Conway?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mary said, adding a musical-sounding laugh. “He’s all right once you get to know him. He takes his job very seriously. This one—all the murders here—has been most disturbing for everyone.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Mm hmm,” Lassi mumbled agreeably. She swallowed a lump of masticated cracker paste.

  Mary took a sip of tea. “Well. Let’s get to it, then. I’m guessing the best place to start is with Roberta. The old dear was married once. Did you know that?”

  Lassi shook her head, mumbling, “Nope,” with her mouth jammed full of crackers. She was so hungry, she could barely track a word Mary said.

  “He was the love of her life.” Mary cast her eyes toward the ceiling.

  Lassi frowned and slowed her food-fest as the words sank into her brain. She couldn’t picture Roberta being in love with anyone.

  “He went off to fight in the Great War. Roberta was devastated, fearing the worst. Then, on July 15, 1944, she received a telegram...the telegram every woman dreads. Her fiancé died in the fields of France. The local priest consoled her and eventually gently encouraged her to try for love again with someone new.”

  “Wait. What? With him?” Did the priest bed her? Do local priests make a regular practice out of seducing the women of Bally?

  Ignoring her, Mary continued. “But, Roberta wasn’t having any of it. Her fiancé’s death broke her spirit. Even the fact she was pregnant with his child couldn’t bring relief to her grief.”

  “Hold up here. Whose child are we talking?”

  “The priest grew increasingly concerned about her mental state and ability to care for the infant when it arrived. He contacted Roberta’s brother in Dublin, asking him to come care for Roberta in her confinement.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Who was the child’s father? The priest?” Like a spider with a fly, Lassi’s mind wrapped around the idea of one of her relations having sex with a priest. Good Christ, is it in my genes to sin against the church?

  “Goodness, no. Roberta’s dead fiancé was the father.”

  Lassi blinked. “So, he got her knocked up, went to war, died, and left her with child, is that it?”

  Mary nodded. “And Jacob Finn arrived here as Roberta was in labor.”

  “My great-uncle Jacob?” Lassi asked. She tried to picture a family tree in her mind. Living a modern Dublin life, she’d never been good with who begat whom and family heritage.

  “That’s right. Roberta delivered a healthy, squalling baby girl, but she rejected the infant in a devastatingly potent combination of post-partum depression and grief. Jacob took the girl to live with him, and the line of Finn women continued through little Theresa Finn.”

  A stab of surprise sliced through Lassi’s belly. “Theresa Finn? She was my...she was...Grandma Theresa.” Shivers whispered across her skin.

  “That’s right. Theresa was your grandmother and Roberta was your great-grandmother.” Mary nodded, looking at her with concern.

  Lassi sat back on the sofa, trying to make sense of the story. “Why wasn’t I told this before? It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference knowing Roberta was my great-grandmother. I still wouldn’t have liked her. By the time I entered her life she was already a mean old biddy. I couldn’t stand to visit. I only did it once or twice when I was forced to. And we never stayed in Bally. She always took me on one of her five-finger discount shopping expeditions in another part of Ireland. Then, she dropped me off in Dublin.”

  She eyed a stack of commemorative plates in the corner.

  “She was heartbroken, child. Utterly devastated.” Mary dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips.

  Is she crying? Bewilderment swirled in Lassi’s mind, as she tried to fit all the pieces together.

  “She stayed on as the priest’s housekeeper until she grew too old to care for him.”

  “And then what? Cillian arrived as the healthy young clergy and he cleans for himself? His place looked fairly tidy.” Lassi struggled to make sense of things, as if she were trying to force square pegs into round holes.

  Crusty entered the front room again, interrupting her confusion. He leaped into Mary’s lap, curled in a ball, and began purring.

  Fecking feline. Lassi’s nose crinkled in a sneer.

  “There’s a good cat, Crusty,” Mary said, stroking his fur. “You’ll make your piece with your new mistress soon enough.”

  “Me?” Lassi pointed at her chest. “No. I’ve got to get back to Dublin. It’s where I belong.”

  “You can choose that. That’s what your grandmother and mother Billie chose. They refused to carry on the lineage. And then they died, each one too young.”

  “What lineage?” Lassi sat forward, eying Mary’s tea.

  “The magic, child. Finn magic. It runs deep and true in all of you. The priest thought the chain
would be broken when Roberta died. But then, you arrived to deal with your great-grandmother’s estate.”

  “What priest? Are we talking Cillian here?”

  “You’re the only one left in the lineage. And you’ve got to stop the killer.”

  “Wait, what?” Lassi bolted to her feet. “You’ve left out a few key pieces, here, Mary. I’m afraid my mind is spinning.”

  “That’s to be expected. You should have grown up knowing what part you play here.”

  “I don’t want to play a part here.” She began to pace. “I want to get things sorted and head back to Dublin. And what do you mean by I’ve got to stop the killer? What do you know? Do you know who the killer is?”

  Mary finished her tea and set the cup in the saucer. It landed with a sharp tink. “Ask Cillian.”

  Lassi’s eyebrows practically flew from her face. Her jaw dropped open. She managed to snap it shut and ask, “Cillian knows who the killer is?”

  “He’s always known. Few in Ballynagaul know but he’s one of the knowers.” Her phone buzzed. She opened her red and gold purse and fished it free.

  “Well, bloody hell.” Lassi threw out her arms. “It would have helped if he’d have told me. And why would your son arrest us both?”

  “Oh, goodness,” Mary exclaimed. Her hand flew to her bosom. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I have to go meet Ryan at the grave.”

  Chills shot through Lassi’s belly. “At the grave?”

  “He wants to show me something.”

  “But my head is stuffed with mysteries now,” Lassi whined.

  “I’m sorry, it can’t be helped,” Mary said, shooing the cat from her lap.

  Crusty eyed Lassi, hissed, and slunk away.

  Mary got to her feet and picked up her purse. “You’d best change, too, child. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Lassi looked down at her pajama clad, robe-wrapped self. “Doing what?”

  “All your questions will be answered, Lassi. But time is of the essence.” She scurried toward the foyer and let herself out.

  Lassi stared at the front door in bewilderment. “Jesus fucking Christ! I know less than I knew an hour ago. She left me with a whole lot of vagueness.”