by Ali McNamara
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I reply, blushing even more.
‘You should. Now,’ Finn says, picking up the menu, ‘what are they serving up today?’
We order our food then settle back to wait for it.
‘So,’ Finn asks after a bit, ‘I think it’s time you came clean, Miss Parker.’
‘About?’
‘About your interest in the house. Your questions are much more passionate than those of our usual curious tourist.’
‘You could be on to something there, Mr Cassidy. Tell you what, I’ll answer your question on one condition: you promise to answer one of mine this time.’
‘Sure,’ Finn agrees, to my surprise. ‘Not a problem. Only the one question, mind – you seem to have so many!’
‘Goes with the name, doesn’t it?’ I smile. ‘Parker?’ I hint when Finn doesn’t appear to get it. ‘As in nosy parker?’
‘Ah yes, of course, the perfect name for you! So, your turn first: why are you and your friend really here? I knew the day you walked into the hotel you weren’t our usual type of holidaymakers.’
I take a deep breath. He’s going to find out eventually.
‘I’m a property seeker,’ I tell him. ‘My job is to find properties for clients who have specific requirements in a house or home.’
‘A property seeker . . . ’ Finn repeats, as if I’ve told him I’m a spy. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of one of those before.’
‘There aren’t too many of us. I have my own company, and Kiki works with me.’
Finn nods, taking it all in. ‘Cool. So you’re over here seeking properties?’
‘One property – a house for a client who wants to buy a retirement home here.’
‘And let me guess: The Welcome House fits all his requirements?’
‘We’ve been all over in the last couple of days, but I haven’t been able to find anywhere else that’s even close. They’re always missing one thing. They have a view but not the right facilities, or they have all the facilities but no view. The Welcome House has everything I’m looking for; it’s perfect.’
‘Except for one thing.’
I look questioningly at Finn.
‘An owner!’ he replies. ‘How can you buy a house for your client if you can’t find a vendor to purchase it from?’
‘And that is exactly why I need to find out who owns it. Someone must. Or if I can’t find that out, I need to find out who looks after it. That would be a start, at least.’
‘Well, I wish you luck with that. As far as I’m aware, no one knows who looks after the place. It’s the biggest secret here in Ballykiltara.’
‘Secrets are there to be revealed,’ I say with meaning.
‘Some secrets,’ Finn says. ‘Not all.’
‘Talking of which, what’s yours?’ I ask, lifting my glass and taking a sip.
‘My secret?’ Finn asks, his bright green eyes wide with innocence.
‘Yes, yours. You must have one – you’re always so evasive when I speak to you.’
‘Am I?’
‘You are, and you know it. So now I’ve told you how I came to be here, how did you?’
‘Come to be here?’ Finn asks, pointing at the floor. ‘In this very room?’
‘Funny,’ I say flatly. ‘No, here in Ballykiltara and here at The Stag.’
‘That’s two questions. I only agreed to one.’
I sigh. ‘OK . . . here as manager of the hotel.’
Finn takes his time in answering. He drinks from his glass of Coke, looks around the bar, probably willing the food to arrive to get him out of having to give me an answer, but when it doesn’t he leans in towards me conspiratorially.
‘Dermot O’Connell asked me to do it,’ he says. Then he leans back in his chair smugly, his arms folded.
‘Oh no, you’re not getting out of it that easily! Had you been a hotel manager before? How did you know Dermot? Did you apply for the job or were you head-hunted?’
‘Whoa!’ Finn holds his hand up to protect himself against my torrent of questions. ‘What were you before you were a property seeker – military interrogation?’
‘Look, you agreed to answer my question if I answered yours. Now you’re being your usual obstinate self! I don’t know why I bother.’ I toss my head, still playing the game, and pretend to get up as if I’m about to leave, but Finn, to my surprise, grabs my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologises, looking up at me. ‘Please stay.’
I look down at my hand, still gripped tightly in his, and then into his sorrowful eyes, and it’s as I do I feel my hand fall to my side as he loosens his grip.
Finn looks somewhat shamefaced as I slowly sit down again opposite him, still a little dazed by his previous reaction.
‘So, are you going to tell me or not?’ I ask him when I’ve recovered my composure. ‘It must be some secret if you work this hard at keeping it.’
‘No. It’s just, when you’ve built a wall up around you and you find someone chipping at it, your natural response is to protect yourself.’
I know all about that.
‘I understand,’ I hear myself saying. ‘Really I do.’
‘Do you?’ Finn asks warily. ‘How?’
‘This is supposed to be about you this time,’ I remind him. ‘Not me.’
‘Sorry,’ he says again. He takes a deep breath, and prepares to lower his own internal drawbridge. ‘I got the job here because I met Dermot when I took a trip to Tara – his island. It was one of those bonding trips companies send you on – you know, outward bound, that kind of thing. We met and got on well, that’s all there was to it.’
I suspected there was a tad more to it than that.
‘And he offered you a job here?’
‘No, not then – later.’
‘So you worked in the hospitality industry?’
‘Yeah, I knew a fair bit about it.’
‘What happened later then, for you to want to come and work here?’
‘Change of direction – that’s all.’
‘Finn?’
‘What are you, part bloodhound? Once you get the scent of something you won’t let go, will you?’
I silently watch him and wait for his answer.
‘OK,’ Finn says with a sigh, ‘if I tell you the whole story, I get at least another three questions about you – deal?’
I think about this. Am I ready to answer the sort of questions I know Finn will ask? I’m about to answer him when our food arrives; one of the plates is covered with a silver cloche, the sort used for room service.
‘Thank you,’ I tell Ciaran, who I now recognise from behind the bar, as he puts a bowl of piping-hot vegetable lasagne in front of me.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he says, smiling. He looks hesitantly at Finn as he rests his covered plate down on the table in front of him. ‘Finn, I’ve brought yours to the table, but I’ve been asked by Sarah to see if you’ll pop back to the kitchen to settle a dispute. I’m so sorry, I know you’re off duty. But she says it won’t take a minute.’
‘That’s what she always says!’ Finn rolls his eyes. ‘This is exactly why I don’t spend time here on my days off. I’m sorry, Ren,’ he says apologetically. ‘I guess our Q&A will have to wait for a bit. You go ahead with your food – I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’
‘Sure, no worries. Go do your job.’
Ciaran leaves Finn’s covered plate at the table, and then he and Finn hurry off to the kitchen. While I tuck into my food, I try and imagine what this Sarah looks like. She seems to be quite the tyrant in the hotel kitchen; she’s certainly got everyone jumping, and probably tells them how high too.
As I wait for Finn to return, my mind returns to The Welcome House. Why did the only house in the area that fitted Ryan Dempsey’s needs have to be one that was so tied up in local folklore?
Like I’d said to Mac, I was quite interested in that sort of thing, and I would never usually think about interfering in,
or possibly destroying a tale like that. But I had a job to do, and a reputation to uphold. I couldn’t possibly let anything or anyone prevent me from doing it, myth, legend or otherwise.
Thirteen
No sooner has Finn apologetically returned to our table than Kiki appears in the bar.
‘Do you two want to be left alone?’ she asks, eyeing the two plates of food – one full, as Finn tucks hungrily into his ale pie, and the other empty, except for a stray lettuce leaf from the lasagne’s accompanying side salad.
‘No, you’re fine, sit down.’ Finn waves her into the seat Mac had vacated earlier.
Great, now I’ll never get Finn back on to our earlier topic. But on the plus side, I won’t have to answer any of his questions either.
‘Where’s Eddie?’ I ask, looking for him.
‘He’s on earlies tomorrow,’ Kiki says, lifting my glass and wrinkling her nose up at the dregs of my Guinness. ‘Had to get an early night. But I did find out some stuff . . . ’ She taps the side of her nose and glances at Finn.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Finn says, polishing off his plate of food. How can he have eaten that so fast? He’s a big guy – he towers over Kiki, and he’s a fair bit taller than my five-foot-nine frame – and he’s broad with it, but still his plate had been loaded, and now it’s empty, apart from some stray peas. ‘I’m heading up to the bar now. Kiki, what ya having?’
Kiki thinks about it. ‘Malibu and Coke,’ she decides, fluttering her eyelashes at Finn. ‘Thank you.’
‘Ren, another Guinness?’
I look at my glass.
‘No, I’ll have an orange juice this time, thanks. But it’s my round.’ I grab my bag.
‘Put that down,’ Finn insists. ‘What use is being the manager if you don’t have a tab – and,’ he adds grinning, ‘a healthy discount!’
He heads back up to the bar.
‘I like him!’ Kiki announces, watching him go. ‘So what’s happening, Ren?’
‘Well, I’ve found out some more about The Welcome House,’ I begin.
‘No, not about that – about you and Finn!’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘So why are you having dinner together?’ Kiki points to the empty plates on the table.
‘Technically, we didn’t have dinner together . . . ’ And I begin to explain as quickly as I can what had taken place this evening.
Finn comes back during my explanation.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell Kiki when she flashes her eyes in warning at me. ‘Finn knows what we do.’
‘And I’m cool with it,’ Finn says, lifting our drinks from a tray and sitting down. ‘But some around here might not be if they find out you’re messing with The Welcome House. Best you keep it quiet.’
‘We’re not messing with it,’ I insist. ‘Well, we might be if we can find out who owns it. But that seems unlikely right now.’
‘Don’t speak so soon, my friend,’ Kiki says, taking a long slow sip of her drink. She looks tantalisingly over the rim of her glass at us.
‘What do you know?’
‘Well,’ Kiki says eagerly, ‘when I asked Eddie about it, at first he said he knew nothing, all I got was the usual Blarney – see what I did there? Blarney?’
‘Yeah,’ I groan. ‘I get it.’
‘He told me all the same stuff you heard, Ren. Except for the ghost part – we really need to talk about that some more . . . ’
‘Kiki,’ I prompt, knowing she’s liable to go way off topic, given the chance.
‘OK, we’ll do the ghost later. Oh, I didn’t mean . . . ’ she giggles, and looks shyly at Finn, who doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Internally I roll my eyes. Kiki obviously enjoyed several Malibu and Cokes with Eddie before joining us.
‘Kiki, the facts, please?’ I ask as calmly as I can.
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ She clears her throat and composes herself. ‘Right: Eddie. So, when I pushed him a bit harder about the house, he said he remembered cycling past there once in the early morning on his way into work – he lives with his mammy you know, isn’t that sweet?’
I wait patiently.
‘So anyway he was cycling past when he saw someone going into the house carrying a couple of Super-Valu bags. Is that like a supermarket here?’ she asks Finn.
‘It is, yes.’
‘Ah, I didn’t like to ask.’
‘What happened then?’ I prompt. ‘Did Eddie see the person’s face; did he recognise them?’
‘Nah,’ Kiki says, lifting her glass. She shrugs. ‘Shame really.’
I look apologetically at Finn with a ‘This is what I have to deal with’ face. He smiles back.
‘So all we know is that the owner or person that looks after The Welcome House shops at Super-Valu. Great.’
‘It might not have been them,’ Finn points out. ‘It could have been someone passing through – one of The Welcome House’s temporary guests.’
‘Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that.’ Kiki sounds disappointed. ‘But Eddie seemed pretty sure. I wonder why?’
‘What time did he see them?’ I ask. I look at Finn. ‘What time does an early shift start here?’
‘It varies. Eddie could have been biking past around six a.m., I guess. Possibly even earlier.’
‘I’m pretty certain your local supermarket doesn’t open before then, am I right?’
‘Eight o’clock, if it’s the one in Ballykiltara.’
‘Then it’s more than likely that the person Eddie saw going into the house was our mystery caretaker, right?’
The other two don’t look quite as convinced as I sound.
‘Perhaps you should talk to Eddie,’ Finn says. ‘He’ll be about early tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll certainly be doing that,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll also be speaking to as many locals as I can tomorrow, and spending a fair bit of time on the Internet. Someone must know who owns that house. And I intend to find out who that person is.’
Fourteen
The next day I do exactly what I’d promised Finn I would.
After breakfast, I take my laptop and I sit in the comfortable foyer of the hotel on one of their red velvet sofas drinking coffee and searching every website I know for clues as to who might own The Welcome House. But the house proves as elusive as its owner.
Infuriatingly, I can find the history of virtually every other surrounding property. Although the house stands alone and doesn’t have any immediate neighbours, I easily trace similar properties in the locality through sale sites and estate agents, but sadly not the one I’m interested in. The only mention of the house is on a random walker’s blog. The walker talks in great detail about the time he got caught just outside Ballykiltara in a torrential storm and found shelter in a strange little house that offered hospitality and a much-needed roof over his head. The blog described how the walker had found a note telling him he was most welcome to stay as long as he needed to, and to help himself to anything he found in the fridge and kitchen cupboards. All it asked in return was that he left the house the way he’d found it, and if possible replenished any food he had used, or left some compensation for it.
I read the blog post through twice, in case I’ve missed anything, then I sit back in my seat and think.
There must be some way of finding out who owns this house. The Internet hadn’t been any help, but someone in Ballykiltara must know. The question is, will they tell me? Mac had suggested the house had been like this for generations; it sounded as though it was a well-known local myth that people around here had grown up with. Why would any of the locals confide in me, a foreign tourist, the truth about their precious fable? They’d be suspicious. Chances were, they’d clam up immediately and tell others not to speak to me once it got out I was asking ‘awkward’ questions. I wouldn’t stand a chance in a tight-knit community such as this.
Which is exactly why I’d sent Kiki out to speak to people.
Kiki has an innocent, open quality about her that makes
people trust her immediately. I’d seen it many a time when we’d been in negotiations for a property. Whereas I brought a cool, calm, organised air to the proceedings, Kiki would be her usual exuberant, energetic self. People weren’t threatened by her, and that in turn allowed them to be completely honest. Which is what I was hoping would happen this morning when she hit the streets of Ballykiltara.
I open up my laptop again and fire off a quick reply to an email Ryan Dempsey has sent me, assuring him things are going well in Ireland, and we’re currently ‘in negotiations’ over a property that might be the perfect one for him, and promising I’ll keep him updated. As I close the lid, I spy Eddie hurrying across the foyer carrying a bucket and mop.
‘Eddie!’ I call, getting up and rushing over to him. ‘Have you got a moment?’
Eddie looks flustered. ‘Not right now, miss.’ He lifts his mop. ‘There’s been a nasty spillage. One of the maids dropped a breakfast tray upstairs. Apparently, there’s a sea of porridge running between rooms thirteen and fourteen.’
‘Oh no! Well, you’d best go then. If you’ve time, can you pop back and see me afterwards though? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. Just give me a few minutes.’
I watch him hurry away towards the staircase, carrying his bucket and mop.
At the moment, Eddie is my equivalent to a key witness in a murder inquiry. He’s the only lead I have, and I need to bring him in for further questioning.
I notice Orla is watching me from reception, so I go over to her.
‘Is everything all right, miss?’ Orla asks as I approach.
‘Yes, everything is fine, thank you,’ I assure her.
‘You wanted to speak with my brother?’
‘I did? Oh, Eddie is your brother . . . sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘Stepbrother, actually. But we’re very close.’
‘I only wanted to ask him a couple of questions. It can wait, though,’ I lie, ‘nothing urgent.’
‘Anything I can help you with?’ Orla asks brightly, in her super-helpful receptionist way.
I shake my head. ‘I doubt it, not unless you know anything about that old house on the road out of Ballykiltara – The Welcome House, I believe it’s called.’