by Zara Keane
Seán’s eyebrows shot up. “You went to school with Helen Havelin?”
“Don’t look shocked, Sergeant Mackey.” Bridie’s eyes twinkled over the rims of her half moon spectacles. “I laughed myself silly when the glossy magazines printed photos from her fiftieth birthday party the same year I celebrated my sixtieth. It’s amazing what nips, tucks, and fillers can do, not to mention ruthlessly erasing your past.”
Seán stiffened and eyed her with suspicion. Was she dropping a hint that she’d rumbled his revisionist history? He shifted in his seat. Of course she knew. There was very little about Ballybeg and its inhabitants that escaped Bridie.
The older woman’s expression gave nothing away. “Helen’s daughter looks a lot like she did before she wrecked her face with all the cosmetic procedures,” she said. “Pretty girl. I noticed you checking her out, Sergeant.”
“None of your matchmaking, Bridie,” he said with a dry laugh. “You can be content with setting Brian up with Sharon.”
“Hey,” his younger colleague protested, “we managed that all by ourselves.”
Bridie gave Seán a sly wink and settled her large frame onto a chair at one of the tables in the Book Mark’s small café. “Come on and drink up before it gets cold.”
He took a seat across from Brian and Bridie. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was divine. “You’d better tell us what’s been happening with the thefts.”
The woman took a sip of tea and peered at them over her half-moon spectacles. “As I mentioned on the phone, someone has been helping themselves to our tip jar. It’s not an enormous amount of money, and I generally let Sharon keep all the tips from her shifts, even if I’m also working. Regardless of the amount in the tip jar, it’s the principle of the thing. I don’t like someone coming into my shop and stealing from me and my employee.”
“Do you have any idea who’s responsible?”
The corners of her mouth drooped. “It’s happened twice since Christmas, but on two different days. The only thing the days had in common was that groups of school kids came in to order books. Also—” She hesitated.
“Yes?” Seán prompted.
“A couple of Traveller kids came in to root through the used book section. I don’t like pointing fingers, but this sort of thing hasn’t happened to me before.”
He sighed. Unfortunately, it was true that Travellers were often caught stealing. They had a different conception of property and possessions than settled folk. Despite the television documentaries portraying the Traveller community as wealthy gangsters, many families led a fairly hand-to-mouth existence.
“Do you know their names?” Brian asked, pen poised and notebook at the ready.
“I’ve a notion the boy was called Jimmy. I don’t know the girl’s name.”
“What about the school kids?” Seán prompted. “Which schools were they from?”
“A few were wearing Glencoe College uniforms. I recognized James Jobson and Kyle Dunne. I don’t want them to be involved, as you can understand.”
Seán nodded. Bridie’s recent marriage to Kyle’s grandfather would make accusing him of shoplifting rather awkward. “Anyone else you recognized?”
“There were a couple of girls from Sacred Heart, as well as Jenny Cotter and Roisin Quirke from Glencoe College. There was another girl not in uniform. I’d never seen her before.”
“Would you consider installing security cameras?”
Bridie laughed. “For a little country bookshop? Those cameras don’t come cheap.”
“All right. We’ll ask around, but my hopes aren’t high. We have no evidence that either the school kids or the Travellers were involved.”
“I understand, but I wanted to report it all the same.”
“You were right to do so.” Seán drained his coffee cup and stood. “If you have any further problems, please let us know.”
“I will. Thanks for coming round.”
Outside on the pavement, a brisk wind propelled Brian and Seán down the street toward their car. He’d used his free day yesterday to reflect on his inner turmoil at being faced with seeing Helen Havelin on a regular basis. She was more the personification of what had happened to his family rather than the real problem. He knew this, same as he recognized that blaming her was irrational. Unfortunately, years of pent-up loathing every time he saw her face on the television was difficult to delete. He exhaled a sigh. Yet another reason to solve the Travellers case and push for a transfer. The sooner he left this damn town and all its dark memories behind him, the better.
Chapter Eleven
IF CLIO HEARD “It’s off season” or “We only hire locals” one more time, she’d scream. After leaving the bookshop, she’d trudged around Ballybeg in the rain, clutching a folder containing crisply printed copies of her C.V. She’d asked in all the shops, cafés, and restaurants if they needed part-time staff, but none did. The one restaurant manager who deigned to look at her C.V. had sniffed in disapproval. “A cocktail bar? We don’t serve cocktails here. Can’t think of anywhere in Ballybeg that does.”
“I can serve more than cocktails. I have restaurant experience too.”
“Yes,” the manager said significantly, “in a Michelin-star restaurant in Barcelona. A bit fancy for us. We serve burgers.”
“Do you know anyone who’s hiring staff?”
The man shrugged, already turning away. “You could try MacCarthy’s.”
The same place Bridie had suggested earlier. Clio checked her watch. The pub would be open by now. She’d head back toward the town square and try her luck.
Outside the restaurant, the wind had picked up force and the rain fell in heavy sheets. Clio pulled up the hood of her raincoat and ventured out into the elements. Unfortunately, the hood was no match against the driving wind. At this rate, she’d be soaked before she’d walked five meters. Why hadn’t she tied her hair back this morning? It would look like a bird’s nest by the time she got to the pub.
A police car was parked near the town square. Seán Mackey leaned against the side of the vehicle, muscular arms folded languidly across his chest, laughter on his lips as he chatted to a blonde in her early twenties. The woman wore a faux fur coat over a green sequined top. Her umbrella was patterned with wild polka dots. Judging by her towering heels, she’d consider Clio’s fancy-dress scarlet stilettos everyday footwear.
A pang of an emotion she couldn’t pinpoint pricked her conscience. Was it…envy? She wasn’t by nature a jealous person, and certainly not when it came to men. She’d learned the hard way not to depend on them to stick around. “Use them, then lose them” was her motto. Which meant feeling the stirrings of envy over a guy she’d had a one-night stand with was absurd, especially when she’d flown off the handle at him in the bookshop. Clio swallowed a sigh. Her impulse to panic every time she sensed a potential threat to Tammy was out of control.
She was on the verge of continuing her wet journey to the pub when the younger policeman—Garda Glenn, if she recalled correctly—strode out of the supermarket with a small plastic bag in his hand. His face lit up when he caught sight of the blonde and he caught her up in a hug, followed by a passionate kiss. Ah…so Seán was being friendly to his partner’s girlfriend, not flirting. The thought shouldn’t have come as a relief, yet it did. She was being ridiculous, but she hated feeling drawn to Seán.
Clio swallowed past the lump in her throat and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She’d overreacted in the bookshop. She felt bad for snapping at Seán. It wasn’t his fault that she was paranoid at the moment with regard to Tammy and older men. If they were going to be seeing one another regularly until her mother’s stalker nonsense blew over, she’d need to rein it in. Hovering on the edge of the pavement, she contemplated crossing the street to apologize. However, he and Glenn got into their car, waved to the woman she presumed was Glenn’s girlfriend, and drove off.
After the car disappeared around a corner, she pulled her coat tight around her chest and plun
ged down the side street to the left of the Michael Collin’s statue.
Sure enough, MacCarthy’s pub was next to a betting shop. The green paint on the walls looked recent, as did the varnish on the heavy wooden door. The sign in the window was succinct and to the point. “Help wanted. If you’re literate, numerate, and semiclean, ask for Marcella.” Clio laughed out loud, the first proper laugh she’d had since the odious Ray had destroyed her dreams of a fresh start in Ballybeg.
A poster on the pub’s front door featured an older man with Elvis hair crooning into a microphone while wearing what looked like a pair of swim trunks and goggles. All in all, MacCarthy’s sounded like Clio’s kind of joint. She glanced at her watch. Just opening time. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The pub was deserted save for two older men standing sentry at either end of the bar. The counter was the old-fashioned kind, polished wood that gleamed even in the dim light. The walls were decorated with old Guinness posters and Midleton whiskey ads, along with pictures of Ireland’s Republican heroes—men and women who’d fought in various uprisings in Ireland’s long struggle to gain independence from Britain.
A large woman with wild, spiky hair stood behind the bar pulling a pint. She did it slowly, holding the glass at an angle and letting the foam settle before adding more liquid to the glass.
Clio approached the counter. “I’m looking for Marcella.”
“You’ve found her.” The woman shoved the pint glass toward one of the customers and gave Clio a once-over. The neutral expression on her face gave little away. “Are you here about the job?”
“Yes. I’m looking for part-time work for the next few months.”
“Hmm. Any experience?”
“I haven’t done bar work in a while, but I made cocktails at a club in Barcelona for several years and waited tables at a tapas bar before that.” She deliberately failed to mention the Michelin-star restaurant. If Marcella wanted to familiarize herself with the full list of Clio’s previous jobs, she could read the C.V.
“As you see, we’re nothing fancy. Just your average country pub.”
A pretty nice country pub from what Clio could tell. The furniture and deco gave the impression of a recent renovation. “I don’t need fancy. Do you serve food?”
“Yeah. I take care of all the cooking. We have two hot meal options during the winter, plus snacks. I do a proper menu during the tourist season.”
“So you’d need me to serve those as well? I can cook, too, if you’re into Spanish cuisine.”
Marcella gave a wry grin. “Most of the locals are happy with traditional Irish fare, and it’s what the tourists expect.”
“They wouldn’t go for tapas?”
“The tourists might, but”—Marcella jerked a thumb at her elderly customers—“the only thing this crowd wants on tap is stout.”
Clio beamed. “I can cope with that.”
“Do you have a resume?”
Clio rooted through her handbag and slid a piece of paper across the counter.
The other woman blinked at the resume, then stared at Clio. “You’re Helen Havelin’s daughter. Why do you want a job pulling pints? More to the point, why do you need a job in a pub?”
For the millionth time since she’d returned to Ireland, Clio cursed her unusual surname. It had never been an issue while she’d lived in Spain.
“News always travels fast in a small town,” Marcella said, giving her a knowing look. “A celebrity and her family moving here is prize gossip.”
Clio laughed. “And I thought my neighbors in Spain were nosy!”
“Speaking of nosiness, you didn’t answer my question. Why would Helen Havelin’s daughter need to work in a pub?”
“Because I’m Helen Havelin’s daughter, not Helen Havelin.” She paused, debating how much she should reveal. Marcella’s direct gaze demanded honesty—or at least an explanation that stuck close to the truth. “For reasons I’d rather not get into, my daughter and I needed a fresh start. In return for room and board, I’m acting as my mother’s housekeeper while she’s away during the week, but I still need to earn money on the side.” And sooner rather than later if she wanted to pay Emma back before the spring, not to mention saving enough money to escape Ireland—and Ray Greer—for good.
Marcella nodded, clearly satisfied with, or at least accepting of, Clio’s abridged version of events. “How many hours a week do you want to work?”
“I clean Clonmore House every morning until lunchtime, but I’m free after that.”
“I’m looking for someone who can work the odd lunch hour in addition to evening shifts.”
“I can make that happen.” It would mean getting up earlier to get all the cleaning taken care of, but she’d manage. Thank feck Helen had had the good sense to hire a gardener—Clio and plants were not a good mix.
Marcella returned her attention to the resume. “Not much call for cocktails in Ballybeg.”
“So I’ve been informed.”
Marcella raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I asked around the town for jobs. The manager of the Chew and Chat burger restaurant indicated that cocktails weren’t popular around here.”
“Jim Green?” Marcella snorted. “The man is a prick. Big fish, little pond, entrenched opinions. Just to piss Jim off, why don’t we try a cocktail hour as an experiment? Anyone in Ballybeg who wants something fancier than a pint or a glass of vino has to go all the way to Cork City.”
“Sounds like a fantastic idea. We could offer a few options to start with and focus on drinks that use ingredients you’d likely have in stock in any case.”
“All right. I’ll need to talk to my brother first though. He’s the owner and manager.”
“How many people work here?”
“Mostly it’s just me and Ruairí. Our sister, Sharon, does a couple of shifts a week, as does our brother, Shea. We don’t usually need to hire extra staff unless it’s for a one-off event, but Ruairí’s wife is in the third trimester and on medically ordered bed rest. He’s trying to juggle work with looking after her, and I’ve started a part-time cookery course. We need someone to pick up the slack.”
“If you’re willing to give me a chance, I’d be delighted to be that someone.”
Marcella grinned. “I’m leaning toward it. Now for the crucial question. Can you pull a decent pint of the black stuff?”
“No,” Clio said frankly, eyeing the Guinness taps, “but I can learn.”
“In that case”—Marcella lifted the counter flap and ushered her through—“there’s no time like the present.”
Chapter Twelve
BY LUNCHTIME, the sweat was rolling off Clio. She was making a balls of her trial shift, that was for sure. At this rate, she’d be fired before she got hired. The sight of Seán Mackey striding into the pub didn’t exactly elevate her mood. Her stomach twisted painfully. She needed to apologize to him for lashing out earlier. It wasn’t his fault she was paranoid at the moment.
He stopped short at the counter, his eyes widening in surprise. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you behind the counter.”
“New job.” Clio threw a furtive glance over her shoulder to where Marcella’s brother, Ruairí, was pulling a pint. “At least, I hope it will be my new job. Listen, Seán…” She hesitated for a second. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. It’s not your fault I’m sensitive where Tammy is concerned. She’s…vulnerable at the moment, and I have a tendency to be overprotective as a result.”
He stared at her for a moment, curiosity writ wide across his handsome face. Her breath caught in anticipation of the inevitable questions she didn’t want to answer. And then he beamed—a warm, comforting smile that turned the cramping in her stomach into butterflies. “No worries,” he said in his deep bass. “If you say Tammy is vulnerable, I’ll tread carefully around her. I’ll make certain Garda Glenn and the reserves know to do the same.”
“It’s—” She broke off, quelling the impulse to
elaborate. “It’s a long story. Anyway, I overreacted at the bookshop.”
“No worries. I’m sure having us hanging around the house every weekend isn’t ideal.”
She choked back an hysterical laugh. He had no idea how awkward it was going to be. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
His gaze meandered to the pint glass in her hand. “How’s the new job going?”
“It’s going.” Clio pushed a runaway lock of hair behind one ear and gave a rueful smile. “Did you want to place an order?”
“Yeah.” He perused the chalkboard menu behind her shoulder. “I’ll take the cottage pie and a mineral water.”
Further down the bar counter, John-Joe raised his pint glass in greeting. “Hey there, lad. Aren’t you going to say hello to me?”
Seán’s expression underwent a series of slow-motion changes, starting with surprise, morphing into pain, and ending with a shuttered reserve. His reaction to the older man was both strange and strangely intense. “Hi,” he muttered before nodding to Clio and retreating to a table near the door.
How odd. “Not your greatest fan, John-Joe?”
A pained look flickered over the older man’s fleshy features. He took a deep drink from his pint glass before responding. “He used to like me well enough when he was a boy. Times changed.”
Clio blinked. How had John-Joe known Seán when he was a kid? Hadn’t Garda Glenn said that Seán had moved to Ballybeg last year? His accent certainly held no trace of Cork. Interesting…
The next quarter of an hour flew by in a flurry of pints and food trays from the kitchen. When she brought Seán his order, he was flipping through one of the pub’s copies of the local newspaper.
“Any news on your mother’s stalker?” he asked, putting the paper down and picking up his cutlery.
She shook her head. “I’m becoming more and more convinced that she imagined the whole thing.”