The Irish Cottage Murder

by Dicey Deere

  18

  “I don’t know!” Torrey Tunet said, flinging out her hands. “I forgot I was wearing it! Then when I came out of the water, it was gone! Gone. Oh, God!”

  By Luke’s estimate, this was the sixth time Torrey Tunet had repeated those words since they’d left the lake and started up the path in the moonlit dark. She was walking ahead with Desmond, who had a comforting arm around her shoulders and kept nodding his head.

  “In the morning, we’ll get a diver,” Desmond said, also for the sixth time … or was it the seventh? “Though frankly, I doubt we’ll find it. Muddy bottom. You could sink the Eiffel Tower in that lake and never find it. Though maybe, on the shore…” and he shrugged.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” Torrey said. “Your family heirloom! Your grandmother’s necklace! Was it insured?”

  “Not for nearly its worth,” Desmond said, “unfortunately.”

  Luke was treading on their shadows in the moonlight, the shadow of the little thief and Desmond Moore … only this time, was she innocent? There was no place on her body that she could have hidden the necklace. She didn’t even wear a bra under that thin silk sweater, that was easy to see. She had on just the black sandals, possibly skimpy panties, and those loose, thin black pants over her neatly rounded buttocks.

  “You might really have dropped it in the dressing cubicle,” Desmond said reassuringly for maybe the eleventh time. But the three of them had fruitlessly searched the dressing cubicle, inching over it, in case Torrey had absentmindedly taken off the necklace and dropped it somewhere before going out to swim.

  Luke frowned. Something bothered him, something peculiar about Desmond Moore’s reaction when Torrey had discovered the loss of the necklace and cried out in dismay. Puzzled, he gazed at the dark bulk of Desmond Moore with his arm around Torrey Tunet. He could have sworn that Desmond had been pleased at the loss of the necklace. But how was that possible? Unless the necklace was actually over-insured?

  They were passing the stables when a suspicion about Torrey, the little thief, surfaced again in Luke’s mind: a possibility. To his surprise, he found himself edgily trying to brush it away; it was as though he wanted to believe her innocent. Was she?

  * * *

  Three A.M. In black jeans, navy turtleneck, and sneakers, she went softly down the stone steps and out by the smaller side door of the west wing to the path that led to the lake. The moon was still high, but anyway she’d brought the pencil flashlight that she never traveled without.

  Dead still at the lake; a duplicate moon lay on the lake’s surface. At the pebbled fringe of the lake she shone the flashlight back and forth on the pebbles until she located the bigger gray stone. It was the size of her fist. She counted four stones to the right of the gray stone, and there, indeed, was the broad, flat piece of shale. She knelt and put down the pencil flashlight.

  She lifted the piece of shale and drew out the diamond necklace.

  * * *

  He ducked into the bushes beside the path just in time. A whiff of perfume reached him as she went past. Something shone on her cheeks, as though the moonlight had turned her face to marble.

  So! As he’d suspected! Still a thief. Was there some moral blindness in her mind, some inability to understand what her crooked actions did to people? This time there was no suicide and heartbreak and no tragic accident that destroyed a life. But in North Hawk, Massachusetts, she had destroyed more than one life; because what about the younger girl, her friend, now spending her life in a wheelchair?

  He plucked a leaf from the bush and chewed it. Bitter. But this time the tragedy was not to someone else. This time the tragedy was the corruption of Torrey Tunet’s own decency, her morale. It was a rape of what she had since—supposedly—tried to become. Don’t! Don’t do it! he wanted to cry out to her. But she had already done it.

  So bitter, that leaf in his mouth, so greenly bitter. What ailed him? Strange, to be so disappointed in Torrey Tunet, whom he hated and despised. Weird to be so angry at her for thieving again. Or—

  It hit him like a shock. Not so weird after all. Torrey Tunet and him? Impossible!

  And what was worse, he was going to turn her in.

  19

  In the bedroom she slid the necklace into the top drawer of the dressing table. She shed the black jeans, turtleneck, and sneakers; sat down at the dressing table; and creamed off her makeup, looking into her eyes in the mirror. She knew what she was going to do. Could she go through with it? She had to. But what was the extreme of temptation? She needed the forty-thousand-dollar miracle that lay in the dressing table drawer.

  The phone buzzed.

  “Torrey?” It was Myra Schwartz, Interpreters International, Inc., in New York. “Torrey? Lucky you gave me that bedroom phone number. Some fancy castle! Anyway—I know it’s four A.M. in Ireland, but I thought you’d want to know. Good news! I’ve got an assignment for you. Right up your alley. In Turkey, Ankara, with the French, some brouhaha about a boycott. You’ll be there three weeks. Tell me you’re pleased.”

  “Myra, that’s great. Thanks.” It would be money in the thousands, maybe several thousand dollars. But not enough. She suppressed a wild desire to laugh.

  “When?”

  “Middle of August. In six weeks.”

  “Count on me,” Torrey said, “and tesekkur.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Thanks,’ in Turkish.”

  “Oh, God,” Myra said, “I barely speak basic English.”

  20

  Two hours before dawn, Rose, in her loose pink cotton nightgown, sat at the little desk scribbling a hasty note to Hannah in London. The note was more like a postscript to yesterday’s letter. But remembering what a naïve child Hannah was, Rose, sleepless, had gotten out of bed and at the desk was sending these few more words, “About Sgt. Jimmy Bryson—When you come back to Ireland, if you go out with him and it would be nice if you would, you always liked Jimmy Bryson—you don’t have to tell him everything. Some secrets are better kept.”

  Rose sealed the note and addressed it. Better not to tell Hannah about the murdered Finnish man; a murderer loose in the vicinity of Castle Moore would only set Hannah’s mind to worrying about Rose.

  Back in bed to keep warm, she saw the light of dawn, heard birds chirping. She had slept badly, she had been so upset and embarrassed—Ms. Winifred throwing her drink, vodka it was, in her cousin Desmond’s face. Not that she could rightly blame Ms. Winifred, her so poor and Mr. Desmond so rich, and him taunting her that way, clasping the necklace around Ms. Tunet’s neck.

  Ms. Tunet! If only Hannah, so soft and trusting, were more like Ms. Tunet! Ms. Tunet wasn’t easy to fool. Ms. Tunet had given what they called a skeptical look at Mr. Desmond, such big gray eyes she had! A skeptical look. She’d known somehow that Mr. Desmond had only been using her to torture Ms. Winifred, clasping that necklace around her neck and saying, “Wear it during dinner.” He was like a bullfighter waving a red flag before a bull, maddening it. Ms. Winifred wasn’t a bull; she was a poet. Still …

  21

  At eight o’clock in the morning, Fergus Callaghan arrived on his motorbike at Castle Moore to pursue his genealogical research. Rose brought him a morning cup of tea in the library and told him about a dead man found in a bog west of the castle. “Strangled!” Rose said, eyes wide with horror. “Murdered!”

  Fergus Callaghan stiffened with alarm. A murderer roving about! And those bogs were near to Maureen Devlin’s cottage. Maureen could be in danger. Maybe it was a madman, a serial killer. And Finola played in the woods. She, too, was a possible victim. This past Tuesday, when Maureen had given him a cup of tea and a sandwich for lunch, Finola hadn’t showed up by the time he’d left. Then, on the way back to Castle Moore from Maureen’s cottage, he’d glimpsed Finola in the woods. She must’ve been playing “buried treasure.” He’d watched, smiling, as she dug a hole beneath a bramble bush and buried something she took from a bag she’d brought. And it was such an oddly secr
et, listening way she’d hunched her shoulders and kept turning her head! He’d chuckled, remembering his boyhood when he was about Finola’s age. When she’d gone, he’d noticed something glittering among the brambles, something Finola must have dropped. He picked it up. A doll’s shoe, black patent leather, with a pink rosette; a tiny fake diamond centered in the rosette, it was the glitter of the glass diamond that had caught his eye. He was surprised. An expensive shoe like this belonged to an expensive doll. Yet, would Maureen spend such money on a doll? Still, Finola might have saved the money for it herself, selling the blackberries she picked.

  Carefully, he wrapped the little shoe in his handkerchief, then scooped away a few handfuls of dirt above Finola’s buried treasure and laid the little shoe in the hole and covered it over, tamping down the earth and smiling to himself. Would Finola, later coming to dig up her treasure, think a leprechaun had found the shoe she’d dropped, and put it there for her all wrapped up? Leprechauns, in Irish folklore, were believed to reveal the hiding place of treasure if you caught them.

  But now he shuddered, thinking of the dead man found in the bog. He had only a couple of hour’s work to finish up in the library at Castle Moore, then back to Dublin. He wished he could protect Maureen and Finola in some way. If he could only think how.

  22

  The clock was striking ten when Torrey came briskly down the great staircase. She wore her navy suit and a beige silk shirt. She had brushed her nape-length hair sleekly back behind her ears. A small purse swung from her shoulder. She carried her briefcase. She wouldn’t even have a cup of tea. She’d have a bun and coffee at the Shelbourne. “Foreign” in Hungarian was kulfoldi, “expire” was lejar, “document” was okmany. Hungarian was easy.

  But before she left—

  At the foot of the stairs, she paused an instant, smiling. This morning she would have smiled at the devil himself.

  She went into the cavernous kitchen. Rose was standing at the long table putting rolls into a basket lined with a blue-checked napkin. A hanging brass lamp shed yellow light down onto the table. It was a gray, cloudy morning; no sun came through the windows. “Morning, Rose. Is Mr. Moore down yet?”

  “Yes,” Rose told her. “Mr. Desmond’s been out touring the grounds with Mr. Willinger since eight o’clock. He’s in the library now. With Mr. Callaghan, the genealogy man.” Rose tucked the napkin farther around the breakfast rolls, which smelled of cinnamon. Torrey couldn’t resist. The roll was warm; it had raisins and tasted heavenly.

  From behind her, came Winifred’s voice. “Ah, yes, the genealogy!” She reached past Torrey and took a roll from the basket. “There’s something in my cousin’s head that rides him like a witch!” Winifred gave her booming laugh. “Delicious rolls! I’ve already had breakfast—sausages, scrambled eggs, tea, two kinds of breads. I’m omniverous.” She chewed the roll. “You’re off to your labors, Ms. Tunet?”

  “A witch?” Torrey asked, but glanced at her watch.

  “Well, not literally a witch, Ms. Tunet. Allow me a little poetic license, if you please. But something does ride Desmond, and my poetic side assures me that he’s trying to prove … what? Unfortunately, my poetic side doesn’t tell me precisely what.”

  Torrey smiled at Winifred and licked a bit of cinnamon from a finger. “See you later.”

  She walked quickly through the great hall with its gilt-edged portraits and into the library. “Good morning, Desmond.”

  He was bending over a mahogany desk clear of anything but an immense chart. Genealogy, she saw. He was alone. From the open window came the sound of a motorbike starting. Mr. Callaghan departing.

  “Torrey.” Desmond faced her, smiling. He slouched, somehow a rich man’s indolent slouch, hands in the pockets of his designer jeans. He wore a yellow cashmere sweater, thick and rich, over his bare skin. His smile was a shark’s smile. “I hope you didn’t stay awake worrying about my grandmother’s necklace. I—”

  “I didn’t.”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “I’m not going to have divers search the lake for the necklace. Waste of time.” His cold green-yellow eyes were clear, his voice vibrant. An air of self-satisfaction emanated from him, irritating her. He was eying every inch of her; he was so sexually aware of her that she felt it like an invasion.

  “Divers? Yes. Definitely a waste of time, Desmond.” She smiled back at him, feeling good, feeling fine, happy with herself. She drew something from the pocket of her navy jacket and tossed it onto the mahogany desk.

  “What the—!” His voice broke off.

  It lay there, sparkling, the heirloom diamond necklace with its single, pear-shaped emerald.

  Desmond looked up from the necklace. He stared at her. “So you had it all the time.” His voice was soft, his eyes calculating. “You could have conned me and gotten away with it.”

  “Could I have? In a way, yes.” She eyed him, her lips quirked. “What kind of a serpent was it, Desmond?”

  “What serpent?”

  “The one that tempted Eve.”

  A silence. A vacuum cleaner went on in an adjoining room. For a full minute Desmond Moore stood silent, slouching against the desk.

  Then he laughed. “You guessed I was trying it on? I’ve never met a woman, rich or poor, who was above temptation. A little temptation, a little guilt—you would have owed me. You’re the kind of woman who would pay the debt. It would have been interesting in bed. How could I have known you’re smart enough to have guessed.” His voice was admiring.

  She shrank into herself. He was uncannily right about her: she would have paid for the necklace, paid in the coin he wanted.

  “Not that I would have lost anything, anyway.” Desmond drummed his fingers on the desk, eyeing her. “Did I mention the necklace is insured for forty-five thousand dollars?”

  “Did you? I don’t remember.”

  Desmond gazed at her. He smiled. He licked his lower lip, then bit it, holding it between his teeth.

  An instant ago, she had been in control. Now he was making her nervous.

  Desmond picked up the necklace. He held it, swinging it back and forth, watching her. “You’ve turned out to be so honorable. What if I were to say that you could have the necklace?”

  “What?” Puzzled, she stared.

  He came close to her. An inch away, he took one of her hands and clasped her fingers around the necklace. It was a rough gesture, so rough she winced. Her fingers felt bruised. But of course it was not intentional cruelty … or was it?

  “… on account,” he added softly.

  “On account?” She stared at him.

  “Keep it until tomorrow. Then make up your mind if you want to keep it for good.” His jaw had a brutish look; his greenish eyes were cold and avid. He licked his lips, clearly thinking of lustful favors, plenty of them of various sorts. Over a period of time. His home was in Brookline, in Massachusetts.

  Forty-five thousand dollars. If this was the miracle she needed, it was a punishing one. That many dollars’ worth of bedding with the lickerish Desmond Moore. Months of it. She felt sick. She felt sick, too, that he would give away his grandmother’s necklace for his sexual kicks. Incomprehensible. But she’d bet anything that he’d collect his forty-five thousand from the insurance company, claiming the necklace had been lost in the lake. He’d even had a witness: Luke Willinger.

  He was leaning toward her. He gripped her hair at the crown, pulling back her head. His mouth came down, but not on her mouth; it came down on the tiny mole on the side of her neck, below her ear, his tongue flicking out, licking the little mole over and over, his breath quickening. She felt almost overcome with nausea.

  The phone rang. Desmond pulled away, his breathing heavy. He picked up the phone; his hand was unsteady. “Hello?”

  Estate business, as it turned out. She felt too shaken to move. He put down the phone. “I have to leave.” He nodded toward the necklace that she still unconsciously clutched. “Take your time. Take … until you get back
from your conference tomorrow in Dublin.” She hated the way he looked at her.

  When he was gone she opened her cramped hand that clutched the necklace. She looked at the red bruises on her fingers. There was a cut on her forefinger, blood oozed. What a sick bastard he was!

  She thought of Desmond Moore’s hands on her, and she almost gagged. And he’d make her pay cruelly in bed for having trumped him. She shuddered to think how.

  But if she had the money! Massachusetts General Hospital, the surgeon from Texas, the physical therapy, the wheelchair become an artifact. Her mind formed the dazzling pictures because … because it could happen. Finally.

  She took a deep breath. She closed her fingers and slipped the necklace into her pocket. She was no longer a thief. Could she become a whore?

  Leaving the library, she felt numb. In a way, she almost had to laugh. She had wished for a miracle to bring her the money she needed. And this, at last, was the miracle. A miracle almost too bitter to bear.

  23

  In Dublin, shortly before twelve noon, Thursday, Luke Willinger strode purposefully across Saint Stephen’s Green toward the Shelbourne. The sun shone, the flowers in the formal gardens tossed in the light breeze. Noontime picnickers on benches were unpacking lunches; children raced about. A breeze snapped the flag above the hotel.

  The elegant lobby was quiet, gracious, soothing. Luke’s eyes still ached after a sleepless night and two strong cups of morning coffee. Pacing the planned landscaping acreage at eight o’clock this morning with Desmond Moore, he’d been unable to concentrate on landscaping possibilities. Desmond, in high spirits, hadn’t seemed to notice. He’d something up his sleeve and was tickled about it. He’d worn jeans and a yellow cashmere sweater over bare skin. His brassy hair had gleamed.

  * * *

  In the Shelbourne, Luke approached the reception desk. “Good morning. The Hungarian-Belgian Conference. Can you find out what time they have a lunch break?”