Malarkey

by Sheila Simonson

  "...and I have to leave Sunday at the latest. I don't suppose either of you wants to move to a hotel," Jay was saying. "Still, it's obvious the cottage is vulnerable. So I called in a locksmith. He's coming in the morning."

  "You're going to change the locks without telling the Steins?" Dad sounded distressed.

  "It is their property," Jay agreed. "If you insist, I'll tell Alex about the change privately. I'd rather not."

  "They're bound to find out," I grumbled. We were approaching the cottage, which looked cozy and undisturbed with the light shining out from the kitchen.

  "I'm concerned about the next couple of days," Jay explained. "Things should sort themselves out by Sunday. Kennedy will send a patrol car by several times tonight, but he can't keep that up. We may have to hire a security firm."

  "We could move to Ballymann House," Dad said unhappily.

  "Let's see how it goes, George. I may be overreacting. And my public refusal to take on the Steins' case may do some good. I hope so. I'm glad Barbara asked me in front of witnesses."

  "You think the killer was there at Stanyon?" Dad stopped dead on the gravel drive. "No, I refuse to believe it of those young people. And never of Alex and Barbara. I know them too well."

  "You're probably right," Jay murmured. It's possible that Dad was reassured. I wasn't.

  I unlocked the door. Jay disabled the alarm system.

  Chapter 13

  Shillelagh law was all the rage

  And a row and a ruction soon began

  Irish song

  Jay fixed Denver omelets for dinner. Afterwards, Dad took one of his books downstairs to read in bed. Jay and I stayed in the kitchen. It was my turn to wash dishes. I soaked the flatware first. I wash the flatware, then the plates. Jay does the opposite. Go figure.

  As we cleared the table, and scraped and stacked the dinnerware, I could feel tension rising like the steam from the dishwater. I suppose there were too many unspoken reproaches between us.

  "So you're flying home this weekend." I cleaned egg from the tines of a fork.

  Jay gave an assenting grunt.

  "Nice of you to let me know."

  "Wasn't it?" He doled dried spoons onto a cloth.

  "I guess you like surprises." Plop went the spatula into the rinse water.

  "Love 'em." He dried the forks.

  I lowered the three plates we had used into the dishpan. "I was surprised, speaking of surprises, that Joe Kennedy let you enter the cottage all by yourself with a putative burglar on the premises. That must have been a kick."

  "Pure adrenaline."

  "I'm beginning to see how your mind works. You object to it when I take risks. When you do, it's okay."

  "If you're referring to the risk you took when you went for a walk in Stanyon Woods, you're right. I do object. It was a stupid thing to do. Also inconsiderate. I know you don't give a rat's ass about scaring me, but you might stop to consider what your father would have felt if something had happened to you."

  "Let me deal with Dad in my own inadequate way." I dumped a plate in the water. "The Gardai had searched the woods thoroughly, it was broad daylight, and I am not incapable of defending myself. I also run very fast. As you know. I can outrun you."

  "That's childish."

  I scoured the omelet pan with vicious energy.

  He went on in a quieter voice, "Why did you do it?"

  I took a breath. "That was the day you came. I went for a walk because I wanted to be alone. I came to Ireland because I wanted to be alone."

  "You told me that in Shoalwater. I was trying to accommodate you—"

  "When I landed myself in another mess. So you mounted up on your white horse and charged to the rescue. Thanks. I needed your vote of confidence."

  Jay dried the three plates without speaking.

  I squeezed the sponge and began wiping the nearest counter.

  "I wish you'd consider my viewpoint." He set the skillet on the Rayburn. His voice was so quiet I barely heard him.

  I turned. "I do consider it. Whatever you may think, I don't go out of my way to worry you. I didn't choose to find a corpse in the potting shed. I understand your viewpoint," I repeated, louder, as if he were going deaf. "It's my own viewpoint I'm having trouble with."

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "You're a strong personality, Jay. You're older than I am, more experienced. I respect that, but I won't let you blot me out."

  "Christ!"

  "I have to figure out who I am." He was going to hear that as the cliché it was. Unfortunately it was also true.

  "I don't think we're talking about Stanyon Woods."

  "In a sense we are. I entered the woods because I had to enter the woods."

  He shoved the dried plates into the cupboard with unnecessary force. "I said I thought you'd fight fair. Is it fair to accuse me of trying to blot you out? Is it, Lark?"

  "I didn't mean..."

  "You're not accusing me of trying to off you." He leaned his hands on the counter, head down. "I can grasp that. So what the hell do you mean, blot you out? I've never forced you to do anything."

  I was making pointless circles on the surface of the table with my damp sponge. "It's hard to put into words. And I don't think you're trying to erase me, even metaphorically. It's not what you're doing or not doing. It's who you are."

  "Can I help who I am? You don't leave me much room to maneuver."

  "When I came to Ireland, I was trying to give us both some room."

  He whirled. "Don't lay that on me, lady. That was not my choice." He was really angry, eyes a darker brown than usual, mouth set.

  I held his gaze. "I feel useless. Your coming over here made me feel more useless."

  "Useless! For God's sake, Lark—"

  "Useless," I repeated. My voice was starting to shake. "And incompetent."

  He pulled a chair and sat slowly. "So tell me what you want me to do."

  "I don't know." I threw the sponge at the sink. "If you'd asked me that when you first came I would have said go home. Now I don't know. You're here. I guess we'll have to work it out."

  "Do you want to work it out?" He sounded tired, his anger seeping away.

  "Of course I do."

  "Well, that's something."

  I had a very strong urge to throw my arms around Jay and hang on for dear life. But that was part of the problem. After a moment, I said carefully, "I'm going to turn in early. It was a tiring day. When does the locksmith arrive?"

  "Around ten."

  "Are you coming down?"

  "Not yet."

  "Shall I reset the burglar alarm?"

  He stood up. "I'll do it. I'm going to work on George's papers for a while. Good night."

  I was too tense to fall asleep at once. I tried reading Phineas Finn. It is a very masculine novel. I was having viewpoint problems. A lot of them. I shut the light off and stared at the darkened ceiling for a long time.

  I heard my father turning pages in his room and hoped our quarrel hadn't carried downstairs. Dad's light clicked off and the darkness deepened. I heard Jay walking around. Dad snored a little. After a while everything went quiet. Outside, the trees and bushes whispered in the light wind. Rain brushed the window. I didn't try to think because I wasn't ready to. If I tried to think, my mind would move in circles. Spirals. Long elegant double spirals.

  When I woke, it was barely dawn, and Jay was not beside me. I froze in panic for a moment and then forced myself to relax. When I had dressed in my exercise suit and thick socks, I carried my shoes upstairs. Jay was asleep on the couch with the light on and the computer plugged in. He didn't stir as I tiptoed through the room. Dad's notes lay in neatly labeled folders on the kitchen table.

  I stood in my stocking feet for a long time, staring at the folders. Then I sat down and put on my shoes. I even remembered to disable the alarm before I opened the door.

  I ran on Suicide Lane all the way to Killaveen. Nobody was awake, not even the dogs that make a runner's li
fe hazardous. I ran past the pub and along the road by the fishing stream. I looped up and around the village and down past the Garda station. A light shone, but the place looked empty.

  On the way back to Stanyon, I saw a patrol car headed the other way. It was Joe Kennedy. He waved and I waved. Then I ran down the curving drive to the rhododendrons. I didn't stop to look at the Steins' fake castle. As I approached the cottage, I slowed to a jog and then a walk. In the slanting eastern light the woods looked inviting. Sunlight sparkled on the pond. I walked along the grassy rim, watching the ducks, until my breathing slowed. Then I went into the cottage and made a pot of coffee.

  Jay was still asleep, but frowning, restless. I showered and changed into jeans and a tee shirt. On impulse, I carried the duvet upstairs and covered Jay. He had fallen asleep in his shirtsleeves and must have been cold. He made a vague interrogatory noise and burrowed into the cover.

  Dad came upstairs as I was stirring a pot of oatmeal. "Jay's asleep on the sofa. Is something wrong?"

  "He worked on your notes for a while after I went to bed. He probably didn't want to wake me. Coffee?"

  "Mmm." Dad touched the stack of folders. "He shouldn't have done all that. It must have taken hours."

  "It's okay, Dad."

  He didn't look convinced, but he drank a cup of coffee and I ate porridge without complaint. We went for a short walk together, came back, and drank another cup of coffee while Dad riffled through the folders. At that point, Jay woke. He walked into the kitchen unshaven, crumpled, and yawning. I poured coffee and handed it to him.

  When he had drunk half a cup, Dad said, "I'm in your debt, Jay. These are in better order than before the break-in. Thank you very much indeed."

  Jay blinked at the folder. "S'okay. They were more interesting than my students' reports." He took another swallow. "What time is it?"

  "Nine."

  "Hell, the locksmith will be here in an hour." He set the cup on the table half-finished. "Anybody need the shower?" He headed downstairs. Presently I heard water running.

  My father said, "You quarreled, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but not to the death. We're speaking."

  "That's good." He looked unhappy.

  I sighed. "Don't worry about it, Dad. Tell Jay you want to go fishing this afternoon. I'll drive you to Killaveen."

  He brightened. "We could do that." His face fell. "But it's too sunny out for decent fishing."

  "You don't really have to catch anything, do you? Go sit on a rock and think, or whatever it is the two of you do when you fish."

  "Maybe it will cloud over." Dad has a hopeful disposition.

  Jay agreed to carry the garbage sack to the dumpster if I double-bagged it. He returned sooner than I expected and said there was a camera crew at Stanyon. He had responded to their questions in Spanish, an old trick. It worked. They got a good shot of the garbage sack.

  The locksmith turned out to be as taciturn as Toss Tierney was loquacious. He finished installing new locks on both doors in less than an hour. The alarm system interested him, but he declined a cup of tea and drove off in short order, a model of efficiency. All the same, I would have laid odds that Toss did better business.

  Jay called in to the Garda station and reported the changed locks. He said he talked to Constable Byrne. Joe was off interviewing Tommy Tierney. I felt sorry for Tommy's mother.

  After lunch I drove the two men to Killaveen. The pub was just closing, but they caught the publican in time to rent gear. I left them deep in fish talk and went shopping in Arklow.

  I strolled around for a while, admiring the town. I bought a guide to the area in the lone bookstore. There was an Indian take-out and a full-blown Chinese restaurant. The shops in the High Street looked reasonably prosperous.

  When I retrieved the car, I headed up to the roundabout and spotted a sign for Avoca. So I followed the winding street down to a secondary highway, reached Woodenbridge by the back way, and crossed the river twice. In Avoca, I bought a smashing hand-knit tunic at the famous handweaving establishment, pale turquoise it was and rather expensive. I ate a scone in the tea shop.

  I can't say all that solitary to-ing and fro-ing stabilized my identity, but it didn't hurt. I waited for Jay and Dad in the pub. This was not a brilliant idea. Three men tried to buy me beer, two of them reporters and one a lonesome farmer. I declined all three offers and sipped Perrier. Eventually Dad and Jay showed up with two fat brown trout which they had already cleaned. Jay drank a celebratory beer, and Dad drank a whiskey. I drove.

  I was meditating over the trout when I heard the phone ring in the living room. Jay brought it to the kitchen. "It's Maeve, for you."

  I tucked the phone under my chin. "Hi, Maeve. How's Dublin?"

  "Dear and dirty. Fancy what I uncovered in the library!"

  I had no idea what she had found and said so.

  "There's no evidence of a survey of Stanyon in the OPW files and no site on the register. On a hunch, I browsed through a collection of early nineteenth century works on County Wicklow— travel journals, diaries, published letters. One English travel diary gave a detailed account of a visit to the Stanyon estate before the present house was built."

  "Before the woods were planted with conifers?"

  "Right. The diary's awful, full of nonsense about prospects of the river and picturesque natives, but there is a story about an antiquarian Stanyon, someone's loopy uncle, who did extensive digging in a mound behind the estate at the end of the eighteenth century. He found something, a structure, and decided to turn it into a folly."

  "The one Joe said was torn down?" I asked, doubtful.

  She tsked. "Joe thinks it was torn down. Who's to know? The Stanyons have been gone more than fifty years."

  "True."

  "The book's grand, full of gossip. There a bad sketch of the folly and a view of the estate. Everything's distorted, out of proportion, but the artifacts the loopy uncle uncovered sound as if they might have come from a neolithic grave site!"

  "That's uncanny." I was impressed and said so.

  She burbled on a bit about the artifacts, all of which had apparently disappeared long ago. "I've taken the book out, and I'll bring it to the cottage Thursday around teatime. Shall you be there?"

  "Yes, and I'll tell Dad." And Jay. I would enjoy telling Jay. I thanked Maeve again, and she hung up.

  The Rayburn had no broiler, so I poached the trout with wine and lemon. Nobody complained. Dad was impressed by Maeve's find, Jay silent. I considered describing my megalith for them by way of corroboration, but I didn't. Some things are private.

  After dinner I let Jay give my father a lesson in dishwashing while I lay on the sofa and read the regional guide. Water sloshed, their voices rumbled. I heard words like bream and tench that led me to believe they were talking fish. Fine with me. Jay and I were speaking to each other, but with a degree of ceremony that made conversation uncomfortable.

  I looked up Stanyon Hall in the guide without result, and paged through Sights of Scenic Wicklow. Glendalough sounded worth a daytrip, though the founder of the monastery appeared to have been sainted for misogyny. Liam had mentioned the gardens at Powerscourt. Another pleasant excursion. Dad was bound to run out of Quaker sites fairly soon, and my mother wouldn't arrive for ten days. I began planning an itinerary.

  "Tea?" Dad beamed at me. He was carrying the tray.

  I sat up. "Heavens, such domesticity. No sugar, thanks."

  Jay went to the computer and plugged it in. It made its dialing sound, so he was going on the Internet again. At home it was almost time for his one o'clock seminar. He sat and sipped from a mug and made an occasional entry, while I told Dad about my adventures of the afternoon.

  Around half past nine a car drove up. Jay answered the door and ushered in Joe Kennedy. That provoked another round of tea. Joe had come to give us an update, he said.

  Results of a preliminary post mortem on the body of Kayla Wheeler had revealed no surprises. She had eaten dinner, sh
e was drunk, and she had been strangled with a cord. There were no skin fragments under her nails, so she probably hadn't scratched her killer. It was early days for an opinion on whether Alex Stein's bruises could have been inflicted in a struggle with the taller, heavier Kayla. The inquest was set for Friday, and we wouldn't have to attend. That was a relief.

  Dad listened to the concise, edited account of the medical consequences of violent death with such obvious discomfort I was doubly relieved when Joe finished. Joe was franker with us than the police generally are after such a crime. It may have been that Mahon was deferring to Jay's status as an expert and had told Joe to be open—or just that Joe trusted us not to talk. He clearly needed to.

  "You interviewed young Tierney?" Jay poured him a fresh cup of tea.

  Joe nodded. "This morning. Declan said you called the station." He took a test swallow of the tea and added a lump of sugar, stirring. "I didn't have much joy of Tommy. Obstruction runs in the family. However, he says he was with friends of a cousin in Leeds the evening Miss Wheeler was killed. The friends will back him, so Mahon is inclined to rule him out in the first murder, too."

  "Do you agree?"

  He sighed. "We had only two murders in the county last year. Whatever the Yank media may suggest, killing is a rare thing here."

  "Then you think two murderers are unlikely."

  "I think Mahon was right to leave Tommy at liberty." He took another swallow and set his mug down. "Not but what it goes against the grain. I told the little perisher Mahon had a full team watching his every move, God forgive me for a liar. We haven't the manpower. And speaking of that, I'm relieved to hear you called the locksmith in." He dug in his tunic and produced a business card. "That's the security firm I mentioned, the one out of Wexford. The local boys say they'd rather not take the job on. They don't like the woods. The place is airy."

  It was a moment before I realized he meant eerie.

  Dad had been very silent, sipping his tea and brooding. At the mention of the woods, however, he brightened and told Joe of Maeve's discovery.