by Liz Mugavero
Chapter Nineteen
Stan hurried back to the shop with poor Julius’s creamer, hoping he hadn’t left yet. He hadn’t. His dog was still having a grand time playing with friends, and Julius looked like he was enjoying the company of other dog parents. Exactly the outcome Stan had envisioned when she started planning for her patisserie.
She thought about making a beeline for Betty and asking how on earth Seamus had contributed to Abby’s money problems, but that would likely just fuel the gossip fires so she kept her mouth shut.
But despite the nonstop stream of customers, Stan couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened since last night. Her head swirled, trying to fit all the information she’d learned into some kind of answer that made sense. Of course, until they knew how Harold had died, it was pointless. But her conversation with Miss Viv had taken hold of her mind and wouldn’t let go.
What kind of money had Uncle Seamus come into recently that would allow him and Miss Viv to take off for an island getaway—and potentially move there? What kind of job was his global business? From the way his sons talked, Seamus had never been that successful at any business venture. She’d heard that a failed run at opening a pub up in Boston had prompted his semipermanent move to Ireland. But from what Miss Viv had insinuated, there was more to that story too. She wondered what kind of trouble he’d gotten into that had chased him out of the country. That didn’t bode well to his being a savvy businessman who’d figured out how to make a killing.
Of course, it was possible that he’d finally gotten smarter. Or luckier. But the timing bothered her. Had Seamus been up to something not-quite-aboveboard that was netting him some cash? Did this have something to do with his disappearance? She tried to focus on working—it was her first full day of being open and she wanted to enjoy it—but her mind wandered constantly. And she couldn’t help but think of Abby’s threat. What could she possibly have to sue Seamus over?
When she flipped the sign to closed at four o’clock, her dog-treat case was nearly empty, and she had an order for custom cat treats for two finicky cats. All in all, the day was a success. She did a quick sweep of the floors and tidying up of the kitchen, then left. She planned to head to McSwigg’s. Stan wanted a steaming plate of Jake’s fries, and a huge hug. Not necessarily in that order.
When she arrived at the pub, the parking lot was mostly empty, but that didn’t mean much. Even in the winter here, people walked to McSwigg’s. She yanked open the heavy wooden door and slipped inside, her eyes automatically adjusting to the dim light. It wasn’t packed. A few late-lunchers and Saturday afternoon beer drinkers were scattered around the bar and some of the tables, but it was otherwise quiet. Although the promise of a loud, happy Saturday night with Irish music, drinks, and friends hung in the air.
Stan loved McSwigg’s at this time of day. She loved it anytime Jake was there, sure, but it was special during the off-hours. You could really appreciate the love and care Jake put into creating and maintaining the place—the gleaming mahogany bar, the carefully positioned drop lighting over the stools, the comfortable furniture over by the stage area, the sign over the bar that read YOUR FEET WILL LEAD YOU TO WHERE YOUR HEART IS in Gaelic.
The only thing missing was Jake behind the bar. Instead, Scott dried glasses. When he’d moved in with Brenna upstairs a couple months ago, she’d immediately put him to work in his “free time.”
He waved at Stan. “Afternoon. Wow, I can’t believe it’s afternoon already.” He glanced at his watch. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
Stan walked up to the bar and dropped her purse. “That it does. How are you, Scott?”
Scott nodded. “Doing fine. Still kind of in shock about what happened last night.”
Stan studied him. Scott looked serious today. Then again, he looked serious most days lately. “It’s very sad,” she agreed, relieved when he didn’t mention murder. “Is Jake around?”
Scott jerked a thumb behind him. “Cooking.”
Stan thanked him and hurried out back to the kitchen. Jake had French fries going, among other goodies. She could smell them before she even saw them, and the scent made her swoon. Jake made the best French fries. And he put more effort into them because he knew how much she loved them. Duncan sat at attention on the floor near the stove, watching his every move intently.
“Is that my lunch?” she asked innocently, motioning toward the fryer.
He turned around and grinned. “No. I have your salad over there.”
“Nice try. You know in stressful times I need French fries.” She plucked one off a plate and winced. “Ouch. Hot.”
“Yeah, well, I just took them out of the hot fryer.”
“Any word on Seamus?” Stan asked.
Jake deftly scooped some recently sliced onions into a sauté pan, then wiped his hands and turned to her. “No. Unfortunately. Have you talked to Char?”
Stan shook her head and popped a fry into her mouth, ignoring how hot it was. “I called her but she was in bed. Can you believe it? My mother brought her cook over to help feed the guests. I have to try her again.”
“Bed? She must not be doing well. I feel terrible.” He turned back to the stove and stirred. “How was your day? I wanted to get over to your shop this morning, but I got a call from Betty. She wanted me to help with some cleanup from last night. Sounds like you’re going to be called into an emergency committee meeting at the beginning of the week. Betty says it’s imperative”—he used air quotes around the word—“that Christmas gets back on track.”
“She told me. Jeez. She puts you to work, but she was the first one at my door this morning, dying to talk about Harold.” Jake was the go-to guy around town when people needed help with most things. It didn’t hurt that he was strong, agreeable, always around, and just a generally nice guy. So he always said yes. “Anyway, she and Gail showed up. They were full of theories about Harold and were already pointing the finger at poor Lester Crookshank. We don’t even know if the guy was murdered, and they’ve already got him pegged as the number one suspect.”
“Lester?” Jake asked. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Something about Harold’s black eye. And their work history. The whole conversation was making me twitch.” Stan took a deep breath. “Hey, Jake? Can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can, sweetheart.” He glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I bumped into Miss Viv today. Literally.” She filled him in on her encounter on the sidewalk with Miss Viv, the fancy clothes, her secret about Seamus’s windfall, and their upcoming trip. “The whole thing sounded a little too good to be true,” she finished. “Did you know anything about some job that was making him a ton of money?”
Jake shook his head slowly as he spooned his onions onto a dish. “No. But I haven’t talked to him much. The last time I saw him was over the summer, and he wasn’t here for very long.”
“What does he do for a living?” Stan asked.
“He’s always been involved in a bunch of things,” Jake said. “He finds people to partner on things with. I would say he’s a man with many interests.”
Which means you have no idea, Stan thought. “So Abby came outside when we were talking and they got into a bit of an altercation. Abby said something about suing Seamus, that he’d left her in financial ruin and that’s why she’d had to raise all her prices. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
Jake raised an eyebrow and leaned against the counter. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “I think Abby just raised her prices and is trying to find some excuse when people get mad about it. I don’t think my uncle and Abby even communicate.”
Stan studied him. He wouldn’t lie to her—he’d have no reason to—and he genuinely seemed to believe that these crazy stories about his uncle were fictional. But was he simply, as Liam had suggested, too loyal?
“Jake.” Stan watched as he turned back to his stove. “Do you think he was involved in something … dan
gerous?”
“Dangerous? No way.” Jake dropped his spoon and turned again to face her, shaking his head adamantly. “Listen, Stan. Miss Viv is sweet, but she’s a little flighty. I’m not sure you can take anything she says at face value. You know what I mean?”
Stan wasn’t so sure. “But what about the trip?”
Jake shrugged. “Why shouldn’t they go on a trip? Seamus has been stringing that poor woman along all these years. He should be taking her on a trip. Heck, he should be marrying her before she dumps him fifty years later. Now come on.” He slid his arm around Stan’s waist and led her out to the bar. “I’ll be right back with your fries. And your salad.”
Stan settled onto a stool while he disappeared through the kitchen doors again. She wasn’t convinced, but Jake clearly didn’t want to hear anything negative about his uncle. Which she understood, but if he and Ray were in trouble and everyone kept their heads in the sand …
Jake came back out with a heaping plate of fries and the obligatory salad, which she ignored in favor of the fries. He sent Scott out on a break and took over bar duties, making easy conversation with the customers and cleaning up in between filling orders. Despite the troubles hanging over the town, it was easy to put them out of your mind sitting here. It was just that kind of environment. McSwigg’s was Frog Ledge’s very own Cheers—where everyone knew everyone.
Well, mostly everyone. Stan had never seen the man who sidled up to the bar wearing a plaid driving cap and a leather jacket. She might not have looked at him twice were it not for his nose. Slightly bulbous to begin with, it looked like it had been broken a few times over the years and finally settled into a position slightly left of where it should’ve been on his face. He had a pleasant look about him though. When Stan caught his eye, he tipped his hat to her.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said politely.
“Hello,” she said, waving a fry at him.
“I’m lookin’ for Jake McGee. You know where I can find him?”
Stan paused, curious now. “He’s right there.” She pointed with her French fry to where Jake poured a beer from one of his taps.
“Ah, thank you.” He winked at her, then moved up to the bar and took a seat. When Jake turned, he raised his cap again. “Afternoon,” he said. “I’m a friend of your uncle Seamus. Wondered if I could have a word with you?”
Chapter Twenty
After Jake recovered from the surprise, he called Scott to come back in and cover the bar, then led the man into the kitchen. Stan remained at the bar, dying to hear their conversation. Who was this guy? Did he know where Seamus was? Or was he looking for him too?
Once again, the all-too-familiar refrain of that little voice in her head repeated: What on earth had Jake’s scatterbrained uncle gotten himself into?
The two of them were out back for nearly forty-five minutes. Stan considered going back to get herself more French fries and eavesdrop on the conversation, but she managed to control herself. When they finally came out, Jake looked grim. His visitor climbed back onto his seat at the bar next to Stan. Jake poured him a bourbon, neat, then turned to Stan. He tilted his head ever so slightly, a gesture that said Come on, then disappeared through the door leading to the upstairs apartment.
She waited a few seconds, then slid off the stool and followed. He was sitting on the steps leading upstairs, eyes glued to his phone, scrolling slowly with one finger. Stan sank down on the step below his.
“Who is that man? Does he know where your uncle and Ray are? Are they okay?” She fired the questions at him one after the other. It wasn’t until she stopped to take a breath that she noticed how pale Jake was. Her heart hammered in her chest. Please don’t let it be more bad news …
“My God, what’s wrong?” She grabbed his hand. “Are you okay? Is your uncle okay? Would you say something? You’re scaring me.”
Jake glanced at her. His face was even darker than when he’d first emerged from the kitchen. “That guy is apparently my uncle’s friend,” he said. “Kevin. He says he plays poker with that gang Seamus hooks up with when he comes back to town. He said my uncle never showed up for the game. He came down to see if he’d been home. He’s worried about him.”
Stan digested that. “That’s not good.”
“No,” Jake agreed. “It’s not good at all. But what’s even worse is what he heard from another friend.”
“What?”
“Someone supposedly saw my uncle at the South Boston harbor last night. Waiting for a cargo ship that was coming in.”
“A cargo ship?” Stan repeated, completely baffled. “Why would he be waiting for a cargo ship?”
Jake shook his head slowly. “I have no idea. Kevin was asking me the same question. And then, according to this other person, there was an incident when the freight arrived.”
“An incident.” Stan knew she sounded like a parrot, but she was having a hard time wrapping her head around this information. “What kind of incident? And who was this other person?”
“I don’t know who the other person was. Kevin managed to dodge that question a few times. So I figured I’d check for myself.” Jake held up his phone. “According to the Boston news websites, he was apparently telling the truth. The headline news is all about a delivery at Conley Terminal in South Boston. According to the reports, a car that arrived from overseas was hijacked as it was being offloaded. Shots fired, the whole nine yards. The thief got away with the car, but it crashed into a barrier on the highway and burst into flames.”
“Oh my God.” Stan’s hand flew to her mouth. “Was it …”
“I don’t know,” Jake said.
“How many people were in the car?” she asked, although her brain screamed that she didn’t want to know.
Jake lifted his hands, palms up, a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.”
“This is nuts.” Stan leaned her head against the wall, trying to process. “You know this sounds like a bad movie, right?”
“For sure. But it’s all here.” He waved the phone at her. “And if it’s true and my uncle was there, it’s not clear what role he played. But we need to find out if he was hurt in that car crash. If he was even in the car. And if Ray was with him. But why would my uncle be picking up a car? Unless it was his own? I need to ask Liam if he knows anything about this. And why would anyone want to steal my uncle’s car, if that’s the case?”
“Do you think he was shipping some of his things here?” She thought about what Miss Viv had said, about Seamus leaving Ireland. “Maybe Miss Viv was right, Jake. Maybe he was planning to move here permanently. Or move somewhere permanently.”
“I don’t know, Stan. He loves Ireland. I can’t imagine him not spending part of his year there.”
“Maybe there was something in the car that shouldn’t have been.” She hesitated. “Something stolen?”
“The story didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Did the person who crashed the car die?”
“It didn’t say.”
They were both silent for a minute, then Stan asked hesitantly, “Do you think the car was stolen? I mean before the person at the harbor stole it?”
Jake frowned. “My uncle is a lot of things, but he’s not a thief, Stan. I know my cousins can be down on him, but he really is a good guy.”
“I’m not disputing that. I know how important he is to you. But even good guys make mistakes. Listen, this all sounds really crazy, especially after what Miss Viv said. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think right now,” he said. “But I’m definitely not going to assume my uncle’s guilty of something. Or assume he was even involved in this. For all I know, this Kevin guy is a complete whack job.”
“But the news reports are real,” Stan said.
They both fell silent for a moment, pondering the implications of that.
“God. We can’t tell Char. She’ll freak.” She rubbed her temples, feeling her headache returning.
“No, we can�
��t,” Jake agreed.
“Should we tell Jessie? Maybe she can make some calls to find out …” She trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. Was Seamus in the hospital? Dead? What about Ray?
“Are you kidding, babe?” he asked incredulously. “If we tell her there was a shoot-out and a car chase and our uncle was spotted in the area, she’s just going to say I told you so. She’s not going to want the Boston police associating her name with that kind of thing. When it comes to Uncle Seamus, she’s as unforgiving as my cousins can be.”
They trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.
“Should we make the calls then?” Stan asked. “I can try the hospitals up there when I get home.”
Jake looked relieved. “Yes. We should. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do that just now.”
Stan hugged him. “Because you’re stressed. Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I’m family. Maybe we’ll get a hit.”
“You are family,” Jake said, squeezing her fiercely. He held on for a minute, then sighed. “I’d better get back to the bar.”
Stan nodded. “Sure. I’ll head home so I can get started on those calls. I just have to grab my things.”
Stan followed him back out into the pub. Kevin, the dapper, bad-news-bearing Irishman, sat on his stool sipping his drink and nibbling on Stan’s French fries. Stan narrowed her eyes at this. A cheeky one, for sure. He obviously didn’t know how sacred French fries were around here. He brightened when he saw them.
“Hey, laddie. I heard there might be a place for me to hang my hat for the night? A lovely little inn of some sort?”
Jake and Stan looked at each other. Stan knew they were both thinking the same thing. They couldn’t send Kevin over to Char’s. He’d blab this story, Char would freak out, and next thing the entire town would be in an uproar even more than it already was.
“The B and B is full,” Stan blurted out.
Kevin’s face fell a bit. “Ah, shame. I’d heard such lovely things. Well, I guess I have to find another place. It’s a long way back to Boston.” He started to rise.