Malarkey

by Sheila Simonson

  My father said, "May I hitch a ride with you?"

  I felt a twinge of anxiety. "Are you tired?"

  "We can leave any time you like," Maeve offered.

  "Don't cut your concert short. I'll ride with Alex and Barbara." He stood up and directed a courtly little bow at Maeve. "I thank you for a most diverting evening. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself more. I'm not tired yet, but I don't want to be, either, so I'll call it a night."

  Jay rose, too, and so did Maeve and I. In the flurry of leave- taking Jay touched Dad's arm. "'Sonofagun,'" he said. "'Have big fun on the bayou.'" Dad laughed and went off with the Steins through the blue haze of smoke.

  We stayed until midnight. A woman played the small Celtic harp and sang sleepy songs in Irish. When a man brought in what Maeve called uilleann pipes, though, Jay started to squirm.

  Maeve and I exchanged looks, and she said, "Shall we wind down with a nightcap at the Troutdale Hotel? The bar's quiet in winter." It was not winter, of course. She meant before the tourist season started.

  "Sounds good," Jay said gratefully.

  We slipped out between songs. Pipes are an acquired taste, though these had a mellower tone than bagpipes.

  The Troutdale lay on the N11 north of Arklow. Aside from the morose bartender and a German couple, we were the only patrons. I had drunk three glasses of ale at the Stanyon Arms, so I used the loo. When I returned to our table, Maeve was adjusting her lipstick, and Jay stood at the bar. He brought a sherry, a glass of ale, and a cup of coffee. He took the coffee.

  I slid onto the red leather banquette. "Is Joe Kennedy on duty tonight?"

  "We're not joined at the hip," Maeve snapped. She drew a deep breath. "Sorry. We quarreled. We do that once a fortnight on average."

  Jay said mildly, "He can't discuss the details of a case that's under investigation, you know." He must have tuned in on her discontent earlier.

  Maeve scowled. "I know it. You may omit the lecture."

  "Sorry."

  "So how did you get to be a policeman?" She said polis in palpable imitation of Kennedy's accent.

  I squirmed. The sergeant's pronunciation was local, though his language was sophisticated. Maeve's accent was pure and very u. I wondered whether a class conflict underlay their sparring.

  "I needed a job." Jay tested the coffee and set the cup back on its saucer. "The department was hiring."

  "You were at university."

  "A senior," Jay agreed. "In history. There wasn't much demand for BAs in history. We were going through one of those mini-recessions, my marriage was foundering in shoals of student loans, and I thought I'd better take what was offered."

  At the word marriage Maeve's eyes flew to mine.

  "Not me," I said ungrammatically. "I'm number two."

  "Only in the sequential sense," Jay murmured, bland.

  Maeve shook her head, her mouth easing in a smile. "Americans. You do realize we have only just recognized divorce in this country."

  Both of us nodded.

  Maeve sighed. "So you chucked a history career and took up sleuthing."

  Jay winced. "Not exactly. I did my stint on patrol and went into community relations. I speak Spanish."

  "Spanish?"

  "Los Angeles is one of the larger Spanish-speaking cities in the world."

  The LAPD had received several years' worth of bad PR in recent months. I could see Maeve gearing up for questions about race relations.

  Possibly Jay could, too. He said, "That was a while back. I was with the department eight years and wound up negotiating with hostage-takers. A big urban department has a lot of divisions. The captains move officers around as a matter of policy."

  "Then you weren't a detective?"

  "Well, yes, afterwards. Elsewhere. In small departments. When I met Lark I was head of the Monte County CID." He smiled at her. "That means I was the senior of two detectives."

  "Two!"

  "It's a big county geographically, but the population density is roughly twelve per square mile."

  "Good heavens, why did you go there?"

  "I was asked," Jay was evading the truth, editing history, so to speak. He retired on a medical disability from the LAPD. He took a sip of coffee, adding, "I got interested in the problems small departments have dealing with evidence. In a large department officers have time to pick up on the finer points."

  "And your book came out of that. I see. Did your first wife follow you to your rural fastness?"

  "Linda? Good God, no. We split while I was still driving a patrol car."

  "She didn't like being married to a policeman?"

  I knew where Maeve was coming from, and I suspected Jay did, too.

  He shrugged. "Linda got a fellowship at the University of Texas the next winter, when she finished writing her master's thesis. I didn't see myself as a Texas Ranger."

  "But..." Maeve frowned. "Then you left her?"

  "It was a mutual disengagement. No hard feelings. She's now a successful clinical psychologist, married to another successful clinical psychologist. They have two perfectly adjusted teenagers."

  Maeve laughed. I did not. Lovely Linda. Lovely Fertile Linda.

  Jay changed the subject with elephantine deftness. "How did you get to be an archaeologist?" He can read me like a book.

  She made a face. "A dull story. When I was ten the OPW did at dig on my father's land. The students who were working that summer made a pet of me."

  "OPW?"

  "The Office of Public Works," I said. "They do thoroughly explanatory bilingual signs at public monuments."

  That tickled Maeve. "Among other things. What public monuments have you visited?"

  I described the dolmens, and she told us of several others within driving distance. It was likely, she said, finishing her sherry, that her tumulus contained a similar megalith. As we left to drive back to the cottage, she gave us a rueful picture of the politics of funding digs. She also offered to show us the site she was investigating. I thought Dad would find it as interesting as I would and said so.

  The van jounced over a road bump, and Maeve slowed to turn off for Stanyon. We were halfway down the lane when a klaxon sounded behind us, and a revolving light flashed. Maeve swerved onto the shoulder, swearing. An ambulance passed us at high speed.

  "Dad," I said. "He's had another stroke."

  Maeve accelerated. "Surely not. He seemed relaxed and cheerful."

  Jay took my hand in a warm clasp.

  At the Y we could see that the ambulance had headed down the hill to Stanyon. A patrol car, its lights whirling, stood on the carriageway in front of the main entrance.

  Maeve slowed. "Do you think—"

  I swallowed. Dad might have been stricken in the car on the way home. The Steins would have driven him down to Stanyon Hall and called in the emergency from there.

  Jay said, "Drive to the cottage, Maeve, if you will. George is probably snug in bed. If he isn't we can walk back."

  "If he isn't," she said crisply, "I'll drive you to Stanyon." She wrenched the wheel to the right, and we headed through the arch of rhododendrons to Bedrock Cottage.

  Chapter 9

  Her skin was white as leprosy.

  The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,

  who thicks man's blood with cold.

  Coleridge, "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

  The lights were on in the cottage kitchen. We had left them on. Maeve parked the van at the front door and set the brake. I was out, scrambling over Jay and fumbling my key into the lock before she had killed the engine.

  Jay followed right behind me. "Quietly."

  I yanked the door open. "Dad?" I poked in the security code. No answer. The living room lay in darkness. We had left it dark.

  "Wait here. I'll check on him." Jay kicked off his shoes and padded through the living room. I heard the stairs creak as he walked down them.

  Maeve sidled in the door and stood watching me.

  "Have a chair," I croaked, sinki
ng down onto the nearest myself.

  She sat and folded her hands in her lap.

  We waited. When, at last, I heard Jay returning, I jumped up and went to the arch that led into the living room. As soon as I could make out his face, I said, "Is he there?"

  He nodded. "Sound asleep, snoring a little. He flopped over on his back. It's okay, sweetheart."

  I let out my breath in a whoosh. "Thank God. But what— ?"

  He squeezed my shoulder in passing.

  "If Professor Dailey is here and well, then what's going on at Stanyon?" Maeve stood up. "I'll drive over and find out, shall I?"

  Jay was shaking his head. "Give them time to get it sorted, whatever it is. Barging in with questions in the middle of a medical emergency is a bad idea."

  "But—" She sat again. "I daresay you're right."

  He went on over to the sink, filled the electric kettle, and plugged it in. He made tea, and we sat there drinking it in preoccupied silence. Finally, Maeve shoved her cup away.

  "I can't stand it. I'm going to drive to Stanyon."

  Jay looked at his watch. "Ten more minutes? The ambulance may be gone by then. I'll telephone."

  Reluctant, she nodded. "Very well. I need to use the loo. Is it downstairs?"

  I said, "Foot of the stairs. I'm not thinking. I should have offered."

  "Aspirins?"

  "In the cabinet above the sink."

  She gave me a grateful smile. "I'll try not to wake your father."

  "He'll just think Jay and I are heading for bed."

  "Right." She whisked from the room.

  I turned to Jay, who had got up and was peering out the small window. "What in the world do you think is going on?"

  "I don't know."

  "Don't be so damned literal. Neither do I."

  "It could be anything from somebody with a bout of indigestion—"

  "To another murder?"

  He turned back, his eyes still dilated from looking into the night. "You said the word." He blinked and perched on the end of the kitchen table.

  The telephone shrilled twice as Irish phones do.

  Since Jay was closer, he answered it. "Speaking. Yes, about half an hour ago. We saw the ambulance."

  I leaned against the arch, watching him. The phone quacked. Downstairs the toilet flushed, and I heard water running.

  "She's still here. Has something happened?" His shoulders stiffened. "I see, yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry to hear it. We'll wait for you." He hung up slowly.

  "What is it?"

  We went back to the kitchen.

  "What happened?" I repeated. "Tell me."

  Jay's face was grave and his eyes dark and watchful. "That was—"

  Maeve appeared in the door arch so abruptly both of us jumped. She was carrying her flats. "I heard the telephone."

  Jay said, "It was Sergeant Kennedy. Kayla Wheeler is dead."

  I drew a sharp breath. Maeve's eyes widened. "How—?"

  "He didn't supply details."

  Maeve gave an exasperated cluck.

  "He's not supposed to, Maeve."

  "Terribly correct of him," Maeve said sweetly. "Terribly correct of you." She plunked her shoes on the floor and scuffed into them.

  "I don't think Miss Wheeler died of natural causes," Jay said wryly. "Kennedy wants to question you—"

  "Question me? Whatever for? I barely knew the woman." Spots of indignation burnt on her cheeks.

  "You went into Stanyon Hall this evening, remember?"

  Her hands flew to her mouth. "Are you saying she was dead then?"

  Jay shook his head. "I don't know anything, Maeve. I'm guessing he wants you to describe what you saw."

  Maeve kept her eyes on his. After a moment, she gulped and nodded. "All right. I'll stay, of course."

  "He said it won't be long. Chief Inspector Mahon is there already—"

  "From Dublin?" I interjected, surprised at the speedy response.

  "Mahon and his team stayed in Arklow last night," Jay explained. "Mahon wants Kennedy to take Maeve's statement as soon as possible."

  I said softly, "I wonder where Toss Tierney was this evening?"

  Maeve looked from me to Jay.

  He said, "I don't know about Toss, but if Tommy Tierney was in England and can prove it, he's going to look less like suspect number one in the first murder."

  "And Mahon will start investigating the Stonehall people in a serious way," I mused.

  "Alex and Barbara?" Maeve sat with a thud. "That's daft! They wouldn't harm anyone, certainly not a guest."

  Jay was frowning. He didn't speak. I knew what he was thinking, because I had heard the sermon before. Under the right circumstances, anybody can kill. It is a theory I still cannot accept. My father would not kill under any circumstances.

  I groped for conversation. "Was there local resistance to Stonehall?"

  Maeve frowned. "There was local rejoicing."

  "That may be." I remembered Liam's comic turn about smoking. "But foreign companies impose foreign values, even when they don't intend to interfere."

  Maeve thought. "There's always talk in the pubs, mostly hot air. The usual bigots made anti-semitic remarks about the Steins, but most people wanted Stonehall to succeed, even to expand."

  "Jobs," Jay said.

  Maeve leaved forward, earnest. "To be sure. If the younger people can't find work, they emigrate. The old pattern. We're still losing population. Of course, emigration's not the wrenching experience it once was. Families used to hold wakes for people who were leaving for America."

  I cleared my throat. "They can fly home now."

  She nodded. "For holidays and funerals and weddings. Still, it's hard on their families. Every sensible person wished Stonehall well. It wasn't until the war games started that there were serious grumblings." She ran a hand through her hair. "At least that's what my father says. In term time I live in Dublin, so I'm not necessarily up on the local gossip."

  The gravel outside crunched, and a car door slammed.

  I opened the front door. "Come in, Joe."

  Kennedy entered. He looked as if he had spent a sleepless night and a long day.

  He nodded to me, unsmiling, and shook hands with Jay. The fading bruise stood out on his cheek.

  Maeve raised her chin. "I'm given to understand the inspector wants you to interrogate me."

  Kennedy's mouth compressed. "Briefly."

  "A sorry business," Jay muttered. I stared at him. He didn't indulge in obvious remarks, as a rule.

  "It is that."

  "I thought Kayla was a sad woman," I ventured. "Has Mahon ruled out suicide?"

  "She did not kill herself," Kennedy said with such heavy conviction I felt ice touch my spine. After a moment, he went on, "You said sad, Lark. I would have found other words myself. Why sad?"

  The fact of Kayla's death was beginning to sink in. I blinked. "She seemed lonely, isolated. Maybe self-isolated. And she drank in a practiced way, as if she were anesthetizing herself."

  Maeve made a face. "The woman was a sot. No doubt she had reasons for being as she was, but, as she was, she was distinctly repellent."

  "A born victim?" Kennedy was cutting her no slack. They must have had a royal quarrel.

  Maeve's cheeks reddened, and she bit her lip.

  He set a cassette tape recorder on the table.

  Jay said, "Do you want Lark and me to leave?"

  Kennedy frowned.

  "We can wait in the living room."

  He shrugged. "Ah, the devil with it. I'll take Maeve's statement—without interruption, if you please—then I'd like to talk to the three of you about the Stanyon mènage. May I beg a cup of tea, Mrs. Dodge?"

  I went to the sink. "You called me Lark a moment ago."

  He gave me a rueful smile. "A wee lapse of professionalism. You induce lapses, missus."

  "Ma'am," I shot back. "A true cop would say ma'am. And don't tell me ma'am is reserved for addressing royalty. This is a republic."


  "God help us, so it is. Ma'am."

  Jay took in this badinage without expression, but I could feel him watching me.

  I filled the kettle while the sergeant shoved a fresh cassette into the player and adjusted the volume. Neither Jay nor Maeve wanted more tea. I didn't either but I made myself a cup by way of civility.

  The kettle shrieked. When the tea had turned peat black, and he had sugared his, Kennedy took a scalding sip. He set his mug down. "Now, then, Miss Butler, if you'll state your full name and direction."

  Maeve complied. Her middle name was Margaret and the Dublin address sounded like a flat. She was thirty-four. She indicated that she was a lecturer at Trinity College.

  "How long have you known Mr. and Mrs. Stein?"

  "A year. I met them last Easter holiday shortly after the company removed to Stanyon Hall."

  "And you are friends?" He swallowed tea.

  "Yes, we see each other when I'm stopping at my father's house—most holidays and whenever I have a dig nearby."

  He took her local address, which sounded like an estate rather than a cottage. "How long have you known Kayla Wheeler?"

  "Not long. I first met her evening before last."

  "At what time did you enter Stanyon Hall this past evening?" His voice droned. He was going through the motions.

  It occurred to me that the Steins had called Joe when they found the body, leaving him to call Mahon. Mahon might have perceived that as interference and directed him to interrogate Maeve as a way of removing him from the crime scene. Mahon didn't seem small-minded, but territoriality is a strange phenomenon. Jay also reacted to Joe territorially.

  "Half eight," Maeve was saying. "A bit past that."

  "Who answered your ring?"

  "I didn't use the doorbell. The Steins leave the front door unlocked whilst they're up and about. I walked into the foyer. I expected Alex and Barbara to be waiting for me, but they weren't, so I nipped along to the drawing room. I found Alex there. He said Miss Wheeler hadn't come down yet."

  "He used those words?"

  "Approximately. He was impatient. He said Barbara had gone to knock her up."

  "His words?"

  Not bloody likely, I thought.

  "That was the gist," Maeve snapped. "Alex said Miss Wheeler had been drinking and intimated he thought she might have, er, passed out."