Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5

by Zara Keane

  “Yeah,” Tammy drawled, “so discreet that you made arrangements outside my bedroom door.”

  “When was this?” Clio asked with a smile.

  “On the night of the robbery,” her mother said primly. “The superintendent was merely offering me a shoulder to cry on.”

  Tammy’s grin was wide and mischievous. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  Helen opened her mouth, presumably to give her granddaughter a lecture about giving cheek to her elders.

  “More wine?” Clio asked hastily, sloshing a generous serving of liquid into Helen’s glass.

  “I don’t usually drink more than one glass of wine,” Helen lied with perfect sincerity. “But as it’s a special occasion, I suppose I can let my hair down a little.”

  Clio and Tammy exchanged amused glances.

  It wasn’t long before Helen was flushed and merry. She even made a risqué joke or two. It wasn’t enough to mend the damage done to their relationship, thought Clio, but it was a start. Now if only she could pull off a similar feat with Tammy. They were making tentative steps in the right direction.

  “Mum?”

  “Hmm?” Tammy’s voice jerked her back to the present.

  “Will you help me clear the table? Gran’s…not up to the task.”

  Helen was singing a song off key, a party hat perched precariously on her frazzled hair. She looked a far cry from her usual groomed, sleek self. “Have we any more wine?” Her voice was slurred, her eyes not properly focused.

  “Run out,” Tammy said promptly.

  “What sort of establishment is this? How can we run out of wine at a birthday party? Well, never mind. Bring out the gin, Cliona.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise, Mother.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s my idea, and my ideas are always excellent.” Helen staggered to her feet and weaved her way to the drinks cabinet.

  “Watch out for the dog.”

  The newly christened Travis leaped out of the way just in time to avoid being trampled by five-inch stilettos.

  Helen had some difficulty unscrewing the gin.

  “Here. Let me.” Clio opened the bottle and poured a modest helping into a glass.

  “That’s not nearly enough,” Helen said, outraged. She snatched the bottle from Clio, sending a stream of gin flying. She topped up her glass generously, then sloshed slimline tonic in to top it up. “I usually go for a slice of lemon,” she mused. “But I can’t seem to make the knife work today. Oh, well. Bottoms up.” She took a long swig from the glass, tottering on her heels.

  “Oh, Christ,” Clio said to Tammy. “She’s completely hammered.”

  Tammy folded her arms across her chest. “Sledgehammered,” she replied with glee. “I gotta say, this is the best birthday I’ve had in years. The only thing that’d improve it would be if I could have a gin and tonic too.”

  “No way. I might not win Mother of the Year, but even I’m not that irresponsible.”

  Tammy shrugged. “I figured you’d say that. It was worth a shot though.”

  “Come here. One last hug before we go back to normal and avoid all physical affection.”

  “I love you, Mum.”

  “I love you, too, pet. Are you sure you don’t mind being sent to the Reillys next weekend?

  “I’m disappointed I’ll miss the excitement of catching burglars in action, but as long as Ma Reilly makes her fruit cake, I’ll survive. Will you look after Travis?”

  Clio bent to scoop up the little puppy. He responded by giving her a generous lick on the nose. “Of course. We’ll have a great time, won’t we, Travis?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  SEÁN TOYED WITH a piece of cauliflower and ignored the lump in his throat. How had he let himself get roped into spending Sunday with his aunt and uncle? Oh, yeah…Nora’s pleading brown eyes, searing into his soul. An awkward situation made even more awkward by John-Joe’s recent arrest over the poitín.

  “More wine?” His aunt hovered by his side, the wine bottle poised to pour yet another dollop of disgustingly sweet white wine.

  He held a hand over the glass. “No, thanks.”

  “But sure you’re not on duty,” she said, ignoring him and sloshing wine into the glass, forcing him to yank back his hand before it got wet. “Might as well enjoy it while you can.”

  Across the table, John-Joe’s flushed face and bleary eyes indicated he’d been enjoying the drink with no qualms. “This wine tastes like shite,” he said but let his wife refill his glass to the brim. “Why do you always buy the sweet stuff, Nora?”

  “Because I like it. And because I’m the one doing the shopping. I didn’t see you offering to shift your lazy arse off the sofa to help.”

  “Why should I? Aren’t I the one out earning the money to buy your fancy wine?”

  “And what do you think I do at the suit rental shop all week? Your money, my arse. It’s me keeping a roof over our heads, not you and your bloody Elvis routine. And now that you’ll be up in court again, who knows what will happen?”

  “The food was delicious, Nora,” Seán said, cutting through the argument neatly. As instructed by his aunt, he’d brought a nice bottle of wine as part of her birthday gift. She’d immediately hidden the good wine from her husband and served cheap sweet stuff with their dinner, presumably to piss off her husband. What a marriage.

  “More mashed potatoes? Gravy? I made it the way you always liked it when you were a boy.” Nora’s smile was strained, her eyes showing the tension.

  Her obvious determination to make the meal a success was touching. Not for the first time since he’d moved back to Ballybeg, guilt chafed at him. Despite being married to an eejit,, Nora was a good sort, and she genuinely cared about Seán. That much was obvious. “I’m grand, thanks. I’ve eaten more than my fill as it is.”

  Her smile broadened a little. “I loved you and your brother visiting us when you were kids. Having had so many…disappointments, you were like sons to us until our own boys finally came along.”

  “But you understood why I stayed away.”

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t like it, but I understood. I suppose the memories are bad enough now, even after all this time.”

  “Memories are unreliable,” John-Joe said with a snort. “People see things differently. A child doesn’t see the whole story. You think my brother was an unfaithful bastard, don’t you?”

  “John-Joe!” exclaimed Nora. “Leave it, for heaven’s sake. Not on my birthday.”

  “You do think that, though, don’t you?” John-Joe jabbed a thick finger in Seán’s face. “I’m not even convinced there was anything serious between him and Helen Havelin, despite what your mother believed. And she was one to talk. Sure she shagged half the town.”

  “John-Joe,” Nora clutched the crucifix around her neck as though it would ward off evil. “Stop this now. Let’s forget the past and enjoy our dinner.”

  “His mother shot my brother, yet Johnny blames him for the situation.”

  Seán sat stupefied. This couldn’t be true. His beautiful mother would never do such a thing. Yet memories nagged him. He saw her perfectly made-up face and gorgeous clothes. Far too fancy and expensive to be funded by a country policeman’s income. He recalled being left in hotel lobbies with his little brother while his mother disappeared to meet faceless friends. He remembered babysitting Dex while his mother was out and being told not to mention her absence to his father. Was John-Joe telling the truth, or was his uncle screwing with his mind?

  “You know it’s true, boy. My brother shouldn’t have flirted with Helen Havelin, but a man can only take so much humiliation.”

  “If my mother had affairs, too, why did she kill him?” And herself…

  Nora and John-Joe exchanged a significant glance. Eventually, Nora sighed and said, “I dearly loved your mother, J—Seán, but she wasn’t the most stable of characters. She suffered badly from depression after you and your brother were born. Sometimes, it was
hard to get her to rouse herself to go through the motions of the daily routine. On other occasions, she was a whirlwind of hyperactivity. I’ve often wondered if she didn’t have one of those disorders like manic depression. Bipolar, I think they call it these days.”

  Reeling, Seán pushed back his chair and stood. “Thanks for dinner, but I need some air.”

  “Seán, don’t go,” Nora pleaded, clinging to his arm. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it, and John-Joe didn’t mean what he said. You know what he’s like when he’s been drinking. I should have left off after the first bottle of wine. He doesn’t even like the stuff.”

  Making fumbling excuses, Seán managed to extract himself from his aunt’s clutches and make his exit. Outside the Fitzgeralds’ house, he sucked salty sea air into his lungs and tried to steady his racing mind.

  Walking rapidly, he headed toward the promenade and down the steps to the beach.

  Blood roared through his head. He didn’t need this shit. Didn’t want it to be true. The sweet memories of his mother, the scent of her perfume, all tinged and tainted by John-Joe’s sordid tale. That perfume…something expensive. Hard to pay for on his father’s salary. Damn. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? It all made sense. What a fucking tragedy. If she had been mentally ill, why hadn’t someone gotten her help? If she’d had the proper treatment, maybe she wouldn’t have snapped and blasted Seán’s childhood away.

  He focused on the waves crashing over wet sand, the salty air, and the smell of seaweed. Here a man could think, could breathe, could gather his galloping thoughts. Why had he always fixated on the idea that his father was to blame for what his mother had done? Did he find it easier to blame the quiet, taciturn father who was hardly ever home rather than the warm and caring mother who baked biscuits and always sat down for a chat when he came home from school?

  The ringing of his phone cut through his thoughts.

  Superintendent O’Riordan got straight to the point. “I need you out at the halting site.”

  “Another attack?”

  “You could say that. Someone put a knife in Blackie Murphy.”

  “Jaysus. Is he dead?”

  “Nah, but mighty pissed.”

  Seán stared out at the crashing waves and forced himself to focus. “Okay. I need to collect my car, but I should be there within thirty minutes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THE EXCHANGE WITH Blackie Murphy was not going well.

  “Enough with the theatrics. I’ve got the message. You’re the tough man on the halting site, and I’m not to forget it.” Seán leaned forward. “For feck’s sake, I’m trying to help you. I want to know who’s harming your people, and I want them stopped.”

  Blackie cradled his sore arm and glowered at Seán. “We sort our own problems. How do we know you’re not like the rest of the Guards?”

  “I don’t call you Tinkers, for a start.”

  The other man laughed. “I don’t give two shites what people call us, long as they let us live in peace.”

  Peig shuffled into the room, leaning heavily on her cane. “You again,” she said upon seeing Seán. “Would you ever give over hounding us and focus on finding whoever’s behind the attacks?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. But to get to the bottom of it, a bit of cooperation from your side would help. We all want the same thing—find whoever’s responsible and stop them. I know you don’t want police involved, but it seems to me like you’re not having much success on your own stopping the attacks.”

  “What are you proposing?” she asked with a sneer. “That we work together? I don’t see that going well.”

  “It might if you’d give me a chance. So you don’t trust the Guards in general, but do you trust me?”

  Peig stared at him through rheumy eyes. “Oddly enough, I do.”

  “Ma, you can’t be serious.” Her son looked horrified. “We’re not working with a Guard.”

  “Not working with him as such. Just being a little more willing to swap info.”

  Seán was on the alert. “Anything I should know?”

  “Oh, no, Sergeant Mackey. You first.”

  “We’ve traced the air rifle I believe was used to take shots at your tires, and we’ve questioned people who might be responsible for the attacks. Problem is, they deny everything. I suspect we have the right men, but I’m not convinced they decided to attack your people of their own accord. Any idea who has a vendetta against you? Or some sort of agenda in driving you out of Ballybeg?” Seán leaned back in his chair. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Blackie exchanged a glance with his mother. “We’ve had issues with some of the local landowners over the past few years. You know the halting site is on communal land?”

  Seán nodded. This was why, ostensibly, the locals shouldn’t object too loudly to the halting site’s location. While the Travellers were occupying land that belonged to the community, they weren’t squatting on anyone’s private property.

  Peig shuffled to an oak sideboard and pulled open a drawer. She extracted a pile of letters and tossed them on the table in front of Seán. “We’ve had several letters from the town council over the past year. They’re looking to rezone this area and designate this land for building.”

  Seán stared, his mind in overdrive. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

  “That’s the odd thing, Sergeant Mackey.” Peig gave him a weary smile. “Very few people do seem to know about it. Aidan Gant suggested it when he joined the town council. Now that he’s dead, Councilors Evans and Jobson seem particularly keen on seeing it approved.”

  No wonder. Evans and Jobson both owned land that bordered on the communal land. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

  Peig shrugged. “We heard you had a run-in with that prick O’Shaughnessy.”

  “I did,” he replied with caution, wondering where this was leading.

  “That man was always a bigot.” Peig paused to top up his tea. “And frankly, so was your father when he was on the police force.”

  “I’m not my father,” Seán said roughly. “I’m my own man.”

  Peig gave him a measured look. “I can see that.”

  “Even if you suspect Evans and Jobson are behind the attacks on your community,” he continued, “I think we can assume they’re not carrying them out themselves. Are you going to give me a clue as to who is?”

  Again Peig and Blackie exchanged glances. Finally, Blackie shrugged. “The only ones I recognized were Colm MacCarthy Junior and a couple of his pals. There’s been bad blood between me and Colm MacCarthy Senior for years.”

  A confirmed sighting of the MacCarthys…excellent news. “Let me guess—dog fighting?”

  Blackie gave a half smile. “As I said, we don’t get on.” The man leaned forward, suddenly serious. “If you don’t sort this out, Mackey, we will. One phone call will rally a lot of help from our friends.”

  Meaning other members of the Travelling community. “Why haven’t you called in the cavalry before now?”

  “Believe it or not, Mackey, we just want to live our lives in peace. The moment I ask for help, I’ll get it, but it’ll mean an all-out war. That’s a step I’d rather not take. And now that young Jimmy is getting better, simmering tempers have calmed a bit.”

  “I’d prefer to avoid the vigilante justice route myself,” Seán said with a dry laugh, “but Jimmy was badly beaten. He deserves to have his attacker caught and punished—within the parameters of the law.”

  Blackie and Peig exchanged another loaded look. Finally, Blackie said, “Colm MacCarthy Junior and his pal, Ben Driscoll, are the men to question.”

  “Okay. Thank you for the information. I’ll try my best to sort this out.”

  He stood to leave, and Peig escorted him to the door of her caravan, her old bones creaking with each step.

  “By the way, do you know Helen Havelin’s first husband’s family?” he asked. “I believe they were part of your community.”

&n
bsp; Peig’s rheumy eyes twinkled in amusement. “Indeed I do, Sergeant. Billy Murphy was my late husband’s nephew. I’ve never met Billy’s daughter though. She grew up in the settled community. The two lifestyles don’t mix well, you know. Billy left to go on the stage, but the gypsy lifestyle was still in his blood.”

  He nodded good-bye and walked back to his car, deep in thought. In the days before the expected action at Clonmore House, he’d do some digging concerning the current members of the town council and their interest in the halting site.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “ARE YOU SURE you’re up for this?” Seán’s handsome face creased in concern. The intensity of his gaze made Clio wish she still had the right to kiss him.

  He’d called by Clonmore House a couple of hours before she needed to leave for her shift at the pub. It was the Friday before the expected burglary, and their plans were in place. Helen was staying with Superintendent O’Riordan for the weekend. Given the contented smile on her mother’s face the morning after her date with the super, Clio guessed it had gone well.

  Meanwhile, Tammy was on a train to Wexford. She’d been invited to spend the four-day weekend with Emma’s parents. The Reillys had always made an effort to keep in touch after she’d regained custody of Tammy, and Clio appreciated that. In truth, Emma’s parents had been more like traditional grandparents to Tammy than Helen or her stepfather.

  “I’ll be with you the whole time,” Seán was saying, “and we’ll have people positioned around the house. You won’t be in any danger.”

  She nodded. “I know. I trust you.” She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry about not confiding in you sooner. I should have told you the whole story that night at your house. I almost did, but…”

  A small smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. “But I distracted you. I remember. Vividly.”

  Heat crept up her cheeks. “We haven’t talked about it directly, but you’ve been avoiding me since my mother’s party.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been busy at work—tracking down leads and verifying sources.” He examined his knuckles, then turned his gaze back to her. “And I needed time to think. We all keep secrets. I know you were only trying to protect Tammy.”