She got to her room, entered, and shuddered at how cold it felt. There was no thermostat to raise the temperature. Going to her bag, she pulled out a small bottle of duty-free Scotch she’d purchased in Toronto. Using a glass from the bathroom, she poured herself a stiff drink and put in a few drops of tap water.
Taking a good swallow, she let the scotch roll over her tongue before letting it slide down her throat. She let herself exclaim a heartfelt hmmm, then kicked off her boots and lay on the bed.
Everything in her wanted to sleep, but she decided to check messages on her phone. She knew it was the last thing she should do if she wanted to get to sleep, but in her heart, she wanted to reach out over the more than six thousand kilometers to Chris. She’d come close to being killed. Two young men had died in front of her for no sane reason, and she was in a room that really was shite.
She had a text from Chris asking her how she was doing, and one from Evanston wanting to know if she’d tried Guinness yet and that she should get her ass back to help the caseload.
It was one in the morning in Dublin, which meant four in the afternoon at home. Bernadette dialed Chris’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, sweetie, so glad you called. You okay?” Chris asked.
“Ah, yeah, just kind of tired. How about you?”
“I’m great. I miss you. How’s the search going?”
Bernadette filled Chris in on the meeting with Aunt Aideen and the Gypsy woman, Francine. She omitted the near-death experience on the cliffs.
“Any sign of Cahal yet?”
“We’ve run into some friends of his, but they weren’t very helpful. A bit unresponsive,” Bernadette said taking a sip of her scotch.”
“Just be safe over there. You know I worry about you.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet. What have you been doing?”
“Remember, I’m the wedding guy, you left me in charge. I’ve talked to the lady at Emerald Lake Lodge, I have the menu planned, and picked the banquet room.”
“Wow, you’ve been busy. So glad you could do all that.”
Chris laughed. “It’s easy when I’m making all the decisions. I just ask myself if you’d agree, I say yes, and it’s done.”
“My god, I love you,” Bernadette said with a laugh. She took another swig of scotch and smiled. “That’s the first good laugh I’ve had all day.”
“Good, because you won’t like the conversation I had with my darling mother.”
Bernadette put her hand to her forehead. “Go ahead and tell me.”
“She called to tell me that she wouldn’t come to our wedding. That’s it—her mind is made up. She ranted and raved about what a lousy son I am, and I will not go into the words she used for you.”
Bernadette took another sip of her scotch. “Don’t worry, my sweet. I’ll give her a call.”
“You’re kidding, right?
“No, I know just what to say to her—I’ll call you later tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay, love you madly. And don’t take what my mother says seriously.”
“No, problem. Goodnight,” Bernadette said.
Bernadette dialed the number of Maroula; it was 6 p.m. there. She answered after a few rings.
“Yassou, hello Maroula here.”
“Maroula, it’s Bernadette.”
“Why you call? I say I no go to your wedding.”
“That’s fine. No problem. But I want to tell you something. My mother gave birth to five boys and one daughter, me. My grandmother had seven children, five boys and two girls. You know what that makes me if Chris and I have babies—a baby boy factory. That’s the odds—I did not make that up. And, if I have a child, I will never let you see him and I will never name him after your husband, which is the Greek tradition if you do not attend our wedding. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Bernadette poured herself some more scotch and waited.
“You would do this? You would have a baby?”
“I’m not sure how this translates in Greek, but never say never. Yes, there’s a good chance we might have a child. And, as my mother and grandmother had mostly boys, chances are it’s going to be a boy.”
“You would not let me see him?”
“You coming to the wedding?”
Bernadette let the words sink in as she sipped her scotch. She looked at her watch, as the second hand swept around the face. She felt at that moment like she was sweating a suspect. The next person to speak would lose.
“I will come to the wedding,” Maroula said in a quiet voice.
“That’s wonderful news. I look forward to seeing you. How about if I call you Midera? Is that okay?” Bernadette said, using the Greek word for mother.
“Yes, of course, thank you, thank you. I will call Christos,” she said.
Bernadette pushed the end button on her phone. She finished her scotch and went to the bathroom to wash her face and change. For traveling, she wore a pair of pajamas. For this trip she’d chosen a flannel pair. The chill in the room told her she’d made a good choice.
By the time she got into bed, there was a text from Chris. It said, “Good news, my mom is coming to our wedding. Did you really promise her a grandson?”
She stared at the text, damn what the hell? How did her future mother-in-law get that conversation as a promise? She smiled. That old woman was still pretty sharp, even when cornered she could come up with a win.
As Bernadette turned off her light she muttered, “Well played, Maroula, well played.”
47
Bernadette woke up to the sound of her cell phone alarm at 7 a.m. She crawled out of bed, looked at the rain-filled sky, and went into the bathroom. On the way there, she noticed the empty bottle of scotch on the bureau.
Now she knew why her head felt not only jet lagged but slightly buzzed by a hangover. What the hell had she been thinking? Twelve ounces of scotch in a long evening was a lot of scotch., that was six drinks. In the one hour she’d been back in her room and on the phone, she’d binged. And, damn it hurt.
She hit the shower. It was almost warm, as in not entirely cold. She did the thing called washing the most important parts and got out as fast as she could. Wrapped in a towel, she scrolled the texts again on her phone.
Yes, there was the one from Chris asking if she’d told his mother they’d agreed to have a child. They had discussed that issue at length, deciding that two people in law enforcement should not have a child, too much stress and the chance of leaving the kid with only one parent or none at all.
But the dynamic had changed. Chris was thinking of forestry management where the worst he could face was an angry moose or bear. In most cases they were preferable over a criminal with a weapon.
She changed into fresh clothes, took some of the mud off her boots, and threw on her wool sweater and jacket. Today, she’d be prepared for the elements.
Taking the stairs down to the lobby of the little hotel, she found Sullivan waiting for her.
“You look like you’ve been asleep at a train station,” Sullivan said. “Did you get any rest?”
Bernadette shook her head. “Did anyone tell you the Irish could be too honest?”
“I have just the thing, cures jetlag, hangovers and botched detective stakeouts,” Sullivan said. “A little café that serves the best black pudding in the city is down the street. I parked my car beside it.”
Bernadette winced only slightly. She marched in step with Sullivan in the brisk morning air. “I take it this pudding has some ingredients that make it black?”
“Blood, of course,” Sullivan answered.
Bernadette raised one eyebrow. “Of course, what was I thinking? I’ve eaten raw venison and raw seal meat. I’m sure some cooked blood won’t hurt me.”
They entered the busy café made their orders at the counter and found seats near the window.
“I ran some queries last night after we parted ways,” Sullivan said.
�
�What kind?” Bernadette asked, sipping her coffee.
“You’d said you thought all of our recent dead suspects had to have met somewhere. I ran a search on all their files. None of them had served time in jail, so that was out, but there was one place they all passed through.”
The breakfast arrived and Bernadette had to focus on Sullivan’s words as the pile of eggs, black sausage, and chips appeared.
“Where was it?”
“An orphanage. It was the Poor Sisters of Nazareth. It no longer looks after children; nowadays they take care of the elderly. Back then they took care of the neglected waifs until they were eleven, then the boys were shuffled off to the Christian Brothers of Kircubbin, in County Down.”
Bernadette took a test bite of black pudding, decided it was delicious, and cut off another bite. She chewed for a second and swallowed. “Wasn’t there a story of child abuse in one of those places?”
Sullivan put his hands on the table. “It was all of them, I’m afraid. Both the sisters and the brothers were accused of sexual abuse and cruelty.”
“Do you think the attacks on the priests in Canada had anything to do with that?” Bernadette asked.
“Your priests in Canada came from a totally different order. They had nothing to do with children. And how do you explain the two old IRA men who were murdered here?”
Bernadette looked at the window at the Saturday morning traffic. People were walking down the road, heads down, heedless of the light rain. It didn’t seem to bother them; this was just a regular occurrence.
“What about Cahal? Was he one of them?” Bernadette asked.
“No, but the other four were. That’s the only pattern I can see.”
“We need to get their records. See where they ended up working, where they lived,” Bernadette said.
“That’s the interesting part; they worked for Odin DNA that has an address near the wharf. We can drop in there after breakfast.”
“Sounds good. What have you done with Francine Dooley, by the way?”
“She’s in custody awaiting a hearing on harboring a fugitive. Her bail hearing is on Monday.”
“Did anyone question her on the whereabouts of Cahal?”
Sullivan chuckled. “Yes, a female Garda officer did. I believe she got an earful and some distinct instructions on where to go and how to get there.”
“Sounds like her. I would like to pay a visit to the person who claims to be my Aunt Aideen. There’s a whole lot she’s not telling us. She might be able to put some dots to Cahal and our dead suspects.”
“The best plans are made on the fly,” Sullivan said.
They finished their breakfast and drove to the address of Odin DNA at the wharf. No one was there.
“Well, it is a Saturday, perhaps they don’t work weekends,” Bernadette said.
Sullivan rattled the doors and looked inside. “I don’t think this place has been used for some time.”
“You think it’s just a front?”
“Perhaps,” Sullivan said, finding a small brick to smash in a window.
“Really, detective, breaking and entering,” Bernadette said with false admonishment.
“I’ll call it in later after we’re gone. That way the Garda can write the report for insurance purposes.”
They walked into the deserted building. A few birds flew in the rafters. Long tables were lined up in the center of the room with overhead fluorescent lights. An office was at one end with some desks and chairs with papers scattered on the floor.
Bernadette took some papers off a desk. “There are DNA records here. Someone named Constance Finery, and how about that she’s eighty percent Irish and twenty percent Norwegian.”
Sullivan picked up a few more. “Here’s the same results from these three, all have the same percentage. That is strange.” He turned to Bernadette. “The odds of that happening with four people is infinitesimally high. Have you had your DNA done?”
“Mine’s in the mail.”
“Unless these four people were siblings, the chances are Odin DNA is making things up,” Sullivan said. He pulled out his phone and opened his Google app. “Yes, Odin DNA is owned by Odin Genetics.”
Bernadette wandered around to the back area. “This place was well used until only recently. There’s no accumulation of dust, the place is clean, so I’d say it’s been vacant for maybe a week or two tops.”
“But why clear out now?” Sullivan asked. “I thought the DNA business was booming. I had my own done after my wife’s constant nagging. I think she wanted to know if I was related to Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun.”
“What did you find?”
“Oh, Irish for the most part. But Ireland has long been invaded by just about every race that could put a boat in the water to get here. I have some Danish, a bit of German, and a little Welsh just to make it interesting.”
There wasn’t much more to look at. They left the papers behind as they had no search warrant and got back into the car.
“Where to now?” Sullivan asked.
“You’re asking me?”
“I thought I’d throw it out there as at moment I haven’t a clue, except to go back to the office and pore over countless files to search for the owners of Odin Genetics.”
“How about a visit to my Aunt Aideen in Kilmeague?”
“Wonderful idea. There’s a good pub in Kildare that serves a decent pint and a nice lunch.”
Bernadette sat back in her seat and smiled. “I’m glad my idea meets with your approval.”
The trip took forty-five minutes in Saturday traffic. It was just past ten when they pulled up to Aideen Callahan’s house. Bernadette went to the door, rapping on the door knocker. There was no answer.
She rapped again and waited, still nothing. Pushing the handle, the door opened. She called to Aideen. No answer.
“I’m going in,” Bernadette said.
Sullivan walked in behind. “This place is cold. There’s no fire in the hearth. You think she’s gone away?”
Bernadette walked into the bedroom. “There’s not a stitch of clothing in the closet. There’s not even a bed in here.” She walked out of the room and back into the small reception.
“Was there a bed in there before?”
“The door was closed. Come to think of it, I only sat in this room. She brought out tea and biscuits,” Bernadette said. She walked into the small kitchen off of the main reception. She opened drawers and then the little refrigerator.
“There’s nothing in here. No one lives here. They never did. This had to be a set up,” Bernadette said.
“There’s one way to know for sure.” Sullivan said.
“Check the local police station?”
“No, the local priest. In a small village like this they know everyone.”
“Let’s go.”
The church was a few blocks down the road. They found the local priest in his rectory. His name was Shannon, he was an older gentleman, silver gray hair and slight goatee with wire rim spectacles that gave him a scholarly appearance.
“Sorry to bother you, Father, we’re looking for Aideen Callahan,” Bernadette said.
“You’ve come from America, have you?”
“Ah, no Canada,” Bernadette replied.
“Isn’t the pretty much the same thing?” Shannon said with a wink.
“Well, Father, that would be like us saying the Irish and the English are the same, because you live close by and both speak English.”
“Ha, good point. I like your spunk. Now, you’ve come to pay your respects to your aunt’s grave, have you?” Shannon said.
“Her grave? But I just saw her a few days ago.”
“You must be mistaken, my dear child. She’s been gone for many years, over thirty years, and somewhat tragic it was,” Shannon said.
“How tragic?”
“No one really knows the whole story, a lot of conjecture over the years, but it’s said she was in love with a man name of John Dooley, a Tinker from t
he camp down the way.”
“Was he related to Francine Dooley?”
“That I think he was. Now the story goes that John Dooley and Aideen were deeply in love, but both families were totally against the union, they were. The poor souls were found dead in a pond some days later. The police investigated, said they’d gone swimming and couldn’t get back to shore. So very sad. Some said it was suicide, but I wouldn’t let that besmirch their souls. But so sad it was.”
“May I ask who identified the bodies?” Bernadette asked.
“Now, let me think, that was long ago, but I do believe it was the brother, Cahal Callahan, who identified Aideen, and Francine Dooley identified the body of her brother,” Father Shannon said.
“May I see her grave?”
“Certainly. Follow me.”
They walked out back into the graveyard. They passed by graves from over one hundred years, some so old the lettering had worn away from the elements. All that remained was a weathered stone with some indents of letters.
“There we are, your Aunt Aideen Callahan. She was a lovely lass, always full of fun. And a great cook. A sad loss at an early age,” The priest said.
Bernadette looked down at the stone, and then something caught her eye, it was the stone next to it. “That says John Dooley.”
“Aye it does. Cahal wanted them buried together, and the sister Francine agreed. At least here they are together in the everlasting peace,” Father Shannon said with his hands clasped together.
Bernadette turned to the priest, “were you the priest at the time of their deaths?”
“Yes, I was, “Father Shannon replied.
“Why is it that Francine and Cahal had to identify the bodies, did no one else know them in your parish?”
Father Shannon rubbed his goatee as he thought, “well, no, Cahal had been at sea as a cook on a ship for many years. I only saw him as a young child, and I remember something about him raising a fuss that he should be the only one to see his poor sister.”
“Did you know John Dooley?” Bernadette asked.
“You have me there. I don’t recall seeing him about the parish at all. The Tinkers…I think you call them Gypsies, keep pretty much to themselves.
Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5) Page 23