Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  I segued into a discussion of the Oliver house that Marty had brought to me, after glancing at her for her approval. She signaled to me to go ahead with it, so I outlined the issues I thought were involved there. And then I glanced at Edward Perkins, who had sat silent with a small smile, listening. “I know this sounds daunting, coming all at once, but I think we may have a solution that should address both problems and also make everyone happy. Mr. Perkins, would you care to share what we talked about?”

  “This is a bit unorthodox,” grumbled one of the more staid board members, who had been known to fall asleep in meetings.

  I turned quickly to respond to him. “Yes, but I think you’ll see the relevance, so I ask for some leeway to proceed. I’m sure you have all met Edward Perkins, and he has an extraordinary proposal for us. Mr. Perkins?”

  I was relieved when he rose and took my place at the head of the table as I stepped back. “Thank you for indulging me. I have been a member of this institution for many years, and I have known many of you for as long. Recently I have been presented with the opportunity to make an unusual contribution to the local historical community, and I’d like to explain it to you.”

  I took his seat, next to James, and now I could sit back and watch the reactions of the board members. It took a bit for them to wake up, when Edward began speaking, but I could see them gradually listening more intently, and by the time he had wrapped up his short speech, most looked positively excited. Edward smiled at them, then turned to me. “Ms. Pratt, do you have anything to add?”

  “Thank you for your very clear presentation, Mr. Perkins.” As he resumed his seat, I surveyed the board. “I’m sure you have questions, and there are quite a few issues to be resolved, but I think you have heard the gist of it. Let me add another thing.” I picked up the stack of folders Eric had assembled, and Marty took them from me and began doling them out. “What you have before you is a small example of what we have in our own collections, and what we can provide to any agency or group that wants to take part in reviving the troubled parts of the city. And there’s one more piece: the local investment banking firm Dillingham Harrington is committed to creating a new funding unit to address social issues, and the Society has been invited to act as a consultant, providing an historical context for the projects it supports.”

  “They going to pay?” asked a member I didn’t know well.

  “Yes, they are.”

  For a long moment, the board looked confused, leafing through the handouts in front of them. But it didn’t take long for Lewis Howard to grasp what had just happened. He stood up, and slowly he began speaking. “My colleagues here may be a bit slow to realize it, but you have done something the likes of which I have never seen during my tenure at the Society. You have discovered opportunities to advance our institution’s stature in the community without compromising our core values. And to bring in money. Bravo, Nell!” He began clapping, and several other members joined in.

  For the second time in one day I wanted to cry, but I didn’t think that would be professional. I also rejected saying just doing my job, even though it was true. I felt extraordinarily lucky to have found myself in the midst of such an alignment of the stars, and maybe getting shot at was the price I had to pay for that. But all things considered, this was the best possible outcome. “Thank you all. As I’m sure you can guess, there’s still a lot of work to be done, but nothing we can’t handle. I should have more detailed proposals in your hands after the first of the year.”

  After that the meeting wound down quickly; everyone was eager to go home, or wherever else they were going. Lewis Howard stayed behind. “Nell, I meant what I said. Under your guidance, the Society is now in a position to take a giant leap forward. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Lewis. I feel very lucky.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me with James, Eliot, and Marty; I’d seen Edward Perkins slip out while Lewis was speaking. “We pulled it off,” I said, with something like wonder.

  “That we did. Although that we might be misleading,” Marty said. “I think you did most of the work.”

  And dodged a bullet, literally. “I’ll stick to the we. We should celebrate.”

  And so we did, with a long, luxurious dinner that included a lot of champagne. It was close to midnight as we said our good-byes outside the restaurant, and I watched Marty and Eliot head off together toward Marty’s house, which was not the same direction as Eliot’s. They looked happy even from the rear.

  “You are an amazing woman,” James said in a low voice.

  “I’m just doing my job,” I replied. “You know, preserving history, saving the city, solving crimes. All in a day’s work. By the way, it’s your turn to play hero. Can we go home now?”

  “Of course. You and I aren’t done celebrating.”

  Keep reading for an excerpt of Sheila Connolly’s County Cork Mystery . . .

  A TURN FOR THE BAD

  Available from Berkley Prime Crime!

  CHAPTER 1

  “John Tully’s gone missing.”

  Maura Donovan looked up from behind the bar at the man who had burst into Sullivan’s, sending the door slamming into the wall. She didn’t recognize him, but then, she was still sorting out who was who around Leap, even after seven months in the village. The few customers in the pub, local men and regulars, didn’t seem to know what the latest arrival was talking about.

  “What’re yeh sayin’?” one of them asked.

  “John Tully,” the newcomer said, still out of breath. “Went out this mornin’ with his boy to take a walk on the shore, he told his wife. He hasn’t come back. No one’s seen him since. His brother went out to look fer him, found the boy wanderin’ on the beach. His wife’s beside herself with worry.”

  “That’s bad,” another man said. “After that other thing and all.”

  Maura was falling more and more behind in this conversation. If she’d got it right, not only had this Tully man disappeared, leaving a young child alone on the beach, but it had happened before? To Tully or to someone else? Nearby or somewhere else? She hadn’t heard anything about that, but for all she knew the first disappearance had happened a century earlier. She had learned that memories were long in this part of Ireland. “Is he from around here?” she ventured.

  The first man turned to her. “Over toward Dromadoon. Sorry, we’ve not met. I’m Richard McCarthy, and you’d be Maura Donovan? Used to be I’d stop by now and then when Old Mick ran the place, but not lately.”

  “I am,” Maura said, “and welcome back to Sullivan’s. So what’s happened?”

  “John Tully, a good man, told his wife, Nuala, he wanted some air before the evenin’ milkin’. She told him to bring along the youngest child, Eoin, because she was takin’ the older ones to something or other. He did so. Nuala came back a few hours later, and there was no sign of the man. It was gettin’ cold and she was worried about the little one, so she sent the brother Conor out to collect him. Conor comes back with the child, but not John. It isn’t like John to go missin’ like that. So she waited fer a bit, then went over to where John liked to walk. He had what he called a ‘thinking rock’ by the water, and she knew where to look. No sign of him there. She had the other kids with her, and Conor as well, so they all searched and they found nothing. Then she called the gardaí, and they’re searching now.” The man settled himself on a stool at the bar, and a couple of the other men took adjoining seats. “I could do with a pint, if you please.”

  “Sure. Rose?” Maura nodded toward Rose Sweeney, who worked in the pub part of the time, as did her father, Jimmy, who’d been listening to the tale.

  “Right away,” Rose said. “Anyone else?” Rose glanced around the room.

  One of the other men at the bar nodded, and Rose started two pints.

  Maura turned back to the men at the bar. “You said this has happened before? I mean, some
one just disappearing?”

  Richard McCarthy nodded, his expression somber. “Terrible thing, that was. Before your time, I’m guessin’, a year or two back. Older man, a farmer, married a young American who was visiting here, and they had a child, a little girl it was. Light of his life, he said. But the wife was talking about moving back to the States and takin’ the child with her. So the man went out with the girl while the wife was visitin’ a friend, and drowned the little one and then himself.”

  “How awful!” Maura said. “Do you think John Tully . . .” Maura wasn’t sure how to finish her question. She didn’t know the man, but she couldn’t believe he would have taken his young child along if he planned to drown himself.

  “God willing, I hope not. Nor is there any reason to suspect it. John’s a good man, and he and his wife get on well. He’d have no reason to do himself harm. And he loves the boy—the first son, after three girls.”

  Rose slid the pints across the bar to the waiting men. “So who’s looking fer him now?”

  “The neighbors and the gardaí. The wife’s waitin’ back home with the kids—she had the milkin’ to do. The gardaí haven’t called the coast guard yet, seein’ as there’s no reason to think he was out on the water. John has no boat and wasn’t much of a man fer the boatin’, him raisin’ cows and all. But he liked the walk—said it was good for his thinkin’. Ta.” He raised his glass to Maura. She realized she probably was expected not to charge him for it since he was the bearer of news, even if the news was bad. Another thing she was getting used to: the odd rules about who paid and when at the pub.

  “Will they be needin’ help?” one of the other men asked.

  “Might do. It’ll be gettin’ dark soon. No doubt the gardaí will get the word out if it’s wanted. And some of you must be volunteers for the coast guard, eh?” McCarthy had finished his pint quickly, draining the last of it. “I’m off to tell the folk at Sheahan’s across the street. Pray fer the man, will yeh?”

  After McCarthy had left, the remaining men lapsed into glum silence. Maura checked the time: only a couple of hours until dusk, now that it was late October. Would that be enough time to search? She could understand how a man could walk out of his home and just keep going, but to take a small child along and then abandon him? That made no sense.

  “Rose, I’m going to talk with Billy for a bit, okay?” Maura said.

  “No worries. I think I can handle the crowd here,” Rose replied, dimpling. By Maura’s count there were five customers in the room, including Old Billy, who lived in a couple of rooms at the far end of the building that Maura now owned and who spent most of his waking time holding court in the pub, seated by the fire. She guessed he was well past eighty, but she wasn’t sure even he knew his age. He had known Maura’s predecessor Old Mick well, and luckily Billy Sheahan had stayed around to see Maura through the first few rocky months. And since he had lived in the area all of his eighty-plus years, he knew the history of most people and places in West Cork.

  Maura walked over to the corner by the fire, where Billy occupied his favorite armchair—which no one else who knew the place dared to sit in—and sat down in the adjoining chair. “Are you ready for another pint, Billy?”

  “Not yet, thanks fer askin’. McCarthy’s news has put me right off my drink.”

  “It doesn’t sound good. Do you know the Tully family?” Maura asked.

  “I knew John’s grandfather, years ago. They’ve a nice little piece of land over west of here, and they keep cows. They make a fair living at it, from what I hear.”

  Maura thought a moment. “So you’re saying John Tully would have no reason to, well, do himself harm?”

  “Not likely. And he and his wife are well suited, and they grew up together. And then there’s the child. The man was over the moon about havin’ a son at last, after the three girls.”

  “That’s what I was thinking—he wouldn’t have just gone off and left the kid. So if John didn’t have any problems, where is he?”

  “That I cannot say,” Billy replied somberly.

  “What’s the coast guard like around here? I haven’t heard much about them. Well, except when a fishing boat goes missing or starts to sink.”

  Billy smiled. “I’ll give yeh the short course, shall I? The Irish Coast Guard is a national organization that rescues people from danger at sea or on land, and that includes the cliffs and the beaches. There are three rescue centers, and the closest is on Valentia Island, over to Kerry. The Volunteer Coastal Units can do search and rescue—the nearest ones are at Glandore, and no doubt you’ve been past that one, and Toe Head. They’d be the ones would be called in fer this. They’re volunteers, local men and women alike, who have to live within ten minutes of the station—which clearly we here in Leap do—and they’re always on call.”

  “I never knew any of that, Billy,” Maura said. “How come you know so much about it?”

  “One of me nephews has been a volunteer fer years. But he’s seldom called in. Still, there are always those daft tourists who think climbing a cliff is a fine idea, until they get into trouble and they have to be rescued.”

  “Richard McCarthy didn’t think they’d been called yet.”

  “I knew the beach Tully likes, years ago, and I doubt it’s changed much. If the man isn’t found there, the rescue teams will be called in soon enough.”

  “Was the coast guard part of that other story?”

  “Where the little girl was drowned? They were, as were the gardaí and the local firemen. But neither father nor daughter was found until the next day. The man left a note behind, although it took them a bit to find it.”

  “And no one saw them go into the water?” Maura asked.

  Billy looked at her. “You’ve not spent much time along the beaches here, have you, now? There’s few people near enough to see anything, if they’re not lookin’ fer it.”

  “I haven’t had the time, I guess, and I don’t much like just going for walks. Down along the harbor here now and then, but that’s about it.”

  “Did you not grow up near the sea?”

  “Well, yes and no. Boston’s got a harbor, and there’s plenty of coastline nearby, but I never had the time to go off and look at the water and play in the sand. I was usually working at one job or another, when I wasn’t in school.” There had always been a job, because she and her gran had never had enough money.

  “Do yeh know how to swim?” Billy asked.

  “Enough to stay afloat, Billy. My high school got some kind of special grant to give the kids swimming lessons. That’s about it. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “There’s many a fisherman hereabouts who can’t swim, so yer ahead of the game there.” The front door opened, and Billy nodded toward the newcomers. “You’ve business to tend to. Maybe there’s someone who’s had some good news.”

  “Let’s hope so, Billy.” Maura went back to her usual place behind the bar and started helping Rose pull pints for the newcomers. It didn’t surprise her that the crowd grew throughout the evening, everyone hoping to hear that John Tully had been found. Most of the people who came in knew him, or had bought cows or milk from him, or were related to his mother’s cousin over near Clonakilty, and so on. Maura had given up trying to sort out all the invisible connections that existed in this part of Ireland, or maybe throughout the entire country—she hadn’t had time to check out more than this small corner.

  Mick Nolan, the final member of Maura’s staff, had arrived around five and kept busy since. Maura hadn’t had time to ask if he had come out of concern for John Tully or because he had heard the news and guessed that it would be a busy night at the pub. As the night wore on, Maura noticed a current of anxiety running through the crowd. No one was drinking much, and Maura hadn’t the heart to insist that they keep buying pints. Mostly the people there wanted to be together, either to wait for whatever news came or
to share the outcome, good or bad.

  It was past ten when garda Sean Murphy walked in. Conversation in the pub came to a halt, and all eyes turned toward Sean. He came straight to the point.

  “No sign of the man. They’ve called off the search until first light.”

  The mood in the room ratcheted down a notch, and people started draining their glasses and heading for the door: there would be no more news this night. Sean made his way to the bar.

  “A pint or coffee?” Maura asked.

  Sean rubbed his face. He looked tired, despite the fact that he was younger than Maura’s twenty-five years. “I’d love a pint, but it’ll be an early day tomorrow. Coffee, if you will.”

  “Coming up,” Maura said.

  “I’ll do it,” Rose volunteered. Maura hadn’t even noticed she was still there, they’d been so busy. Rose usually left early in the evening, except weekends, but most likely she had been as anxious as the rest of the people to hear what was going on.

  Maura leaned on the counter to ask Sean, “What can you tell me?”

  Sean shook his head. “Too little. Everyone’s been out hunting half the day, since we heard. The mother’s been hovering at the scene, with some of her family around her. The children are staying with the rest of ’em.”

  “Where’d you find the boy? You must have gone over that beach with a fine-tooth comb. Did you find anything useful?” Maura asked, although she wasn’t sure what that might be.

  Sean glanced around, but no one was near enough to overhear their quiet conversation. “We found some footprints where Conor told us to look—large and small, together. But they were soon trampled by well-meaning people lookin’ fer the man.”

  “I heard it was John’s brother who found the boy and took him home,” Maura said. “Is he old enough to tell you anything?”