Siobhán glanced at Macdara, who was sitting by the window in front of his second slice of pie, and rolled her eyes. He gave her a wink and a nod.
“Poor Father,” Tracy said. “I’m going to forgive him for cutting us out of the will.”
“You aren’t going to fight it?” Greta asked.
“No,” Brandon said. “We discussed it, and we just want this to be over. Start our lives anew.”
They weren’t entirely cut out of the will, but Siobhán kept her gob shut, and raised a pint. “To your da. May his legacy continue.”
“Which one?” Hannah asked.
First everyone looked at her sharply; then Brandon broke it by laughing; soon everyone joined in. “The good parts, my dear,” Brandon said. “We’ll carry on the good.”
Tracy raised her pint. “He’ll be thrilled that we’re going to carry on with the documentary.”
“It’s going to be a huge hit,” Jay said. “So many twists.” He stared at Siobhán with a smile. “Good thing you have Netflix.”
Siobhán’s head snapped up. “I thought you were all leaving in the morning?” She hadn’t grown that fond of them.
“We’re going to continue with the documentary in the States,” Greta said. “Peter died wanting the truth to come out.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Jay said. “I’d love to have you play your character.”
Siobhán was starting to feel a tummyache coming on. “My ‘character’?”
“The feisty, gorgeous redhead?” Jay said. “She’ll be the star.”
“I told her it wasn’t one of us,” Tracy stated again. “You’d better put that in the documentary.”
“She stayed on the case until it was solved,” Jay said, leering at her. Siobhán wished he’d stop talking about her; then she wished he’d stop talking altogether.
“However,” Frank said, with a worried glance around the room, “we wouldn’t want to rile up any more Irish folk, so please don’t worry about the documentary.”
“No one is worried,” Siobhán said. “Except George Dunne. And where he’s going, he won’t have Netflix.” She returned Jay’s sarcastic smile.
Siobhán glanced at Greta and Frank, and wondered what would become of the pair. At the thought her eyes drifted back to Macdara, who was gazing toward the kitchen as if willing a third slice of lemon meringue pie to come sailing out the door and land in front of him. She also wondered what would become of him and her. Maybe some mysteries were best left unsolved.
Siobhán saw the Americans to the door. “I’ll send you a copy of the documentary when it’s finished,” Jay said, winking at Siobhán.
“Please do,” she said.
“Just do me a favor. Don’t donate it to the museum.”
Siobhán laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She watched as they headed down the street, wondering if one day, half a century, or a century from now, their ancestors would go to the same lengths to learn about them. There was something special about that, a bond of blood that neither time nor distance could break. She looked toward the sky and gave a quick good-bye to Peter Mallon, and silently wished them all well. The bell tinkled on her way back into the bistro, the comforting jingle that always reminded her she was home.
* * *
They stood in the Shannon airport, a clump of crying O’Sullivans, and a heap of overweight luggage. Elise looked somewhat perplexed at their public show of emotion. Gráinne wailed louder than all of them.
“You’ll come visit me in New York, wont ye?” she said, wiping her tears.
“Of course, pet,” Siobhán said, wiping the tears from her own eyes. “And you can come home anytime. For a visit, or forever.”
Gráinne sniffed. “I wish you’d all move out with me.”
“Do you have room for us?” Eoin asked.
“Not in the same flat, like,” Gráinne said. “You can live in Brooklyn.”
“But you’re in Queens,” Eoin said.
“Exactly,” Gráinne said.
“How about the Bronx?” Eoin grinned, tapping his Yankee cap.
Siobhán grabbed Eoin and held on. “Let’s just say good-bye to one at a time.” He laughed and gave her a gentle shove.
“I hope you have a very nice time,” Elise said. “Lucky I’m here to fill in the gap!”
“Mind the gap,” Ann said under her breath.
James grinned at Elise; everyone else attempted a smile and failed.
“Send me loads of postcards,” Ann said.
“Postcards are for tourists,” Gráinne said.
“You’ll always be a tourist,” Siobhán said. “This is home.” That started a fresh round of tears.
“Enough,” James said. He shoved Gráinne forward. “Off with ye.”
“T’anks,” Gráinne said. She heaved her luggage onto a cart and pushed off. The O’Sullivans watched her until she was a speck in the distance.
“Come on,” James said, looping an arm around Siobhán. “Let’s get you some curried chips.”
* * *
Siobhán stood in her tiny office, with her single cardboard box. She hadn’t been in this office more than ten days, and here she was, packing up.
“Ready?” Macdara stood in the doorway. She turned, then smiled.
“Ready.” He led her to the larger office. Next to his.
He watched as she unpacked her few items.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” she said.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said.
“I’m going to learn a lot from you.”
“Ditto.”
She met his eyes. “It’s not going to be easy to follow all the rules.”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “But until we figure this out, we’ll have to try.”
“Are we talking about the same thing?”
“I’ve no doubt.” He winked. “Are you going to take all day, or are we going to pop into the chipper for a basket of curried chips?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“Let’s go then.”
“What will the others say?”
He glanced at the guards in the outer room, milling around, pretending not to listen. A grin spread over his face. “They’ll say what a cheap bastard I am, rewarding the guard who solved the murder with a cheap basket of curried chips.” She laughed. “So what do you say, Garda O’Sullivan?” He tipped his garda cap and flashed her his lopsided grin.
“As long as you’re buying,” Siobhán said as the image of that sweet, sweet curried basket of chips filled her soul.
“Yes, boss,” Macdara said with a tip of his cap and a wink.
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 29