Secrets and Shamrocks
Page 13
This morning I thought I might just stick with coffee, bread, and strawberry jam. And one scoop of scrambled eggs. But the hash browns did look so appealing. I passed up the blood pudding and baked beans but still found myself with a full plate. I had no trouble eating it all.
Helen was rounding up a group to go to the Cliffs of Moher with Finn on Saturday. Alex had not come down yet, but I told Helen to count both of us in. Ian said yes, he thought it would be enjoyable. Molly said, “I’ll go, sure! And my mother will, too.” I was shocked to hear her speak for Doreen.
“I can get tickets for our concert this afternoon, if you’d like to attend,” Molly said, while it was just the four of us—Helen, Ian, Molly, and me. “This is one we’ll be doing for the schoolchildren. We performed yesterday for one of the schools, but today it should be much more entertaining. The children are performing, too. They go to a heritage school where they learn Gaelic and Irish music. We’ve shortened our program, so the children can show off their talents. Would you like to come?”
It was the longest speech I’d heard from Molly. Her mother had not yet arrived, to intimidate her—or whatever Doreen’s effect was—but this was also something she was passionate about. I said I’d love to attend. Once again, I spoke for Alex. I was confident he’d enjoy the concert, too. Helen and Ian said yes, and Molly’s face shined with delight. We’d all go together that afternoon.
One by one, the others arrived for breakfast and everyone lingered for a while—except for Mr. Sweeney. All of us somewhat like a little family, I thought—except for Mr. Sweeney. I waited for Alex to finish, since he’d started late, and when he excused himself, I left as well. I’d noticed he hadn’t eaten anything but bread and jam. That was all I had intended to have, of course. Nothing wrong with that. But I asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”
Before he answered, Grace called to us. “After I finish a few housekeeping chores, I’m going to take Jimmie out in the stroller,” she said. “We haven’t gone out like that in a while. Do you want to walk into town with us?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Grace, but I must beg off. I need to work on my notes this morning,” Alex said. With a cheery smile, he reported that we were going to see children from the heritage school perform in the afternoon. He seemed well enough, I decided.
“Sounds delightful,” Grace said. “What about you, Jordan? Are you up for a nice walk? Leave in about forty-five minutes?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a gorgeous day.”
“The fresh air will do us good,” she said.
Now my day’s schedule, which had been blank before breakfast, was full.
It was, indeed, a splendid, sun-splashed day, with low humidity and no wind. Little Jimmie settled back in the stroller and put his fingers in his mouth for the ride. When we passed the narrow lane that led to Red Stag Crossing, Grace darted a brief glance in that direction, and a shadow came over her face. Obviously she was thinking of Bridget, but after a moment she continued our conversation about the two shootings that apparently targeted Ian. “I can’t imagine who would want to do Ian harm,” she said. “Surely it can’t be anyone from Thurles.”
“I wouldn’t think he’s been here long enough to make enemies,” I said.
“He’s from Dublin. It’s more likely connected to Dublin, don’t you think?”
“Mr. Sweeney’s from Dublin,” I said, “and so are the Quinn ladies.”
“I didn’t mean anyone from Shepherds! I certainly hope not!” she said.
Before we knew it, we were approaching the town proper. The trip didn’t seem long at all in daytime, with the bright sun beaming down on our shoulders. Now and then Grace waved to someone in a passing car. So different from that other journey on a chilly night, walking on the dark, lonely road.
We stopped in front of the beautiful Cathedral that dominated Cathedral Street so I could admire it. Grace said, “I should have invited you to mass with me Sunday. You would enjoy the architecture, not to mention that Father Tierney always delivers a thought-provoking homily.”
“Maybe I can just go inside and look around sometime before I leave Thurles,” I said. “Alex would probably want to come with me. He’d definitely be interested in the history.”
“The history is fascinating,” Grace said. “Originally the Cathedral for the diocese was located on the Rock of Cashel. After the Reformation, the seat of power changed. I’m fuzzy on all the details, but I know our Cathedral of the Assumption was built in the mid-1800s.” She gave a little laugh. “I’ll tell you who knows all the facts and will talk your head off if you ask him about the history—Father Tierney. If you and Alex decide to visit the Cathedral, I’ll give him a call and see if he can meet with you.”
We moved on toward the town center. Grace suggested that we take a break and have a cup of tea. There was a nice little tea house, she said, on one of the side streets. On the corner as we made the turn, she pointed out, “That’s Dr. Malone’s office and his apartment above. It was.”
The words had scarcely passed her lips when the door of the office opened and a woman appeared. She was carrying a box of files, about half the size of a banker’s box but still an armful. Smartly dressed in designer jeans, a tailored jacket, and short-topped boots, she was a little on the heavy side but might have had a very pretty face, had she not been scowling. Her dark hair was cut in a short, severe style. She said, “What are you doing here, Grace?”
“Just passing, on our way to the tea house. This is my friend Jordan Mayfair. Norah Malone.”
I said hello, and Norah Malone nodded, but her expression did not soften. Grace pushed the stroller closer to her and said, “Norah, I didn’t make it to the funeral, but I want you to know how sorry I am about Dr. Malone.”
Norah was looking Little Jimmie over. He continued to suck on his fingers, staring back at her with a look that seemed oddly disapproving for a twenty-two-month-old child. He was accustomed to seeing smiling faces when people approached him, and he always smiled back. I wondered how Norah Malone could be so unfriendly toward this little boy. A thought flitted through my mind: She and Dr. Malone didn’t have children—not to my knowledge. Someone would have mentioned it if they did. She may have wondered why Bridget O’Toole, who had yet to prove herself as a mother, deserved a child like this.
“We’ll miss the doctor,” Grace went on. “Everyone in Thurles will miss him.”
“No doubt you will,” Norah said with a piercing gaze. Then she turned back to the door and shook the doorknob. “Everyone loved my husband, didn’t they now? The whole town was over the moon for him.” Grace opened her mouth but Norah raised her palm and said, “Don’t. Don’t say any more, Grace. And now you’ll have to excuse me. I have things I must do.” She shifted the box in her arms and crossed the street to a black SUV parked at the curb.
Grace turned to me with an expression of bewilderment. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Certainly not,” I said. “I don’t understand that, either.”
“Unless,” Grace said, “it’s about the exchange her brother and Colin had yesterday when Lucas came to Shepherds. Lucas warning Colin to stay away from Mr. Riordan. You heard, didn’t you?”
“I was there in Reception. Lucas was insulting. And now his sister has been just as rude. All very odd.”
Grace began to push the stroller. “Do you think Norah believes Bridget had something to do with Dr. Malone’s murder? Even though the Guard has cleared her?”
I wouldn’t have said the Guard had cleared Bridget, not entirely, but I didn’t say that to Grace. “If Norah does believe it, yes, you’re probably right. That could account for her behavior toward you.”
“And toward Jimmie.” Grace had noticed, too.
We were at the tea house, a charming, frilly little place, filled with ladies who all smiled at Little Jimmie as we threaded through the tables.
He took his fingers out of his mouth and rewarded each pretty lady with a happy grin.
I knocked on Ian’s door. He answered, and when I expressed my surprise that he was in, he said he was writing. “So was Alex,” I said. “He didn’t want to be bothered, and you may not, either.”
“No, it’s quite all right, Jordan. Come in,” he said. “I’ve been looking for a chance to tell you about my visit to the Garda station yesterday.”
“That’s why I came by,” I said. “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the others.”
“I told Charles and Helen about the Hedge School incident last night when we were at the pub,” he said, turning the desk chair around to face the bed. I noticed that his computer was gone. He’d been writing on a legal pad.
He indicated the chair for me, and he sat on the foot of his bed. “So yes, I went to the Garda station, and there’s a Sergeant Casey who has taken an interest in these shootings.”
“Good,” I said, remembering that Colin had mentioned Sergeant Casey as one of the officers who came to Magdala’s cottage to speak with Bridget. Colin had been impressed with how the Sergeant dealt with her.
“As I expected, they have no leads so far,” Ian said, “but the Guards who met us at the Hedge School had already reported to the Thurles station, and someone was going out there to investigate. The Sergeant said they should get much more from that location than they’d obtained from the place where I was shot. Which, as you know, was bollocks. I have to wonder how hard they looked. But at the Hedge School, the Sergeant said, they’d get shell casings and tire tracks and footprints.”
I nodded, but without too much enthusiasm. That evidence would be of little use unless they had a suspect and a car and a weapon to match. Ian had to be thinking the same thing. “I know, it’s not much, but Sergeant Casey said they’d also be willing to look at my computer—the message that came to my website. So I took it in to them this morning.”
“How long will they have to keep it?” I asked.
“Normally they get help on things of this nature from the Dublin office. But they’re going to send their best IT person over to LIT Tipperary this afternoon to get some help.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if Patrick was the expert they consulted?”
As I got up to leave, Ian said, “Did you ever read the stories on my blog, Jordan?”
I had to confess that I hadn’t had a chance—or hadn’t taken the time.
Ian walked to the door with me. “You know there’s a computer in Reception for guests to use. It’s old, but it works. I may go down later myself and check my website.”
“Don’t forget the performance this afternoon.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” he said.
“I think I’ll go down right now,” I said. “I should have just enough time to read the stories on your blog.”
Ian beamed as he told me how to access his website.
I settled at the computer in the corner of Reception. It was probably five years old—an ancient relic! The legends on Ian’s website were well written. He was quite the storyteller, as I’d already concluded from hearing him tell about the man with the cows who hid the priest and the man driven to suicide by the hooting owls. The written versions supplied some vivid details that had not come out in what Ian had told us. In the first story, Cromwell’s men had gone to the cottage on several occasions looking for the priest, but he was hidden in a “priest hole,” a secret hiding place that was often built into houses during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when Catholics had to practice their religion in secret. I remembered studying about hidden chambers, including priest holes, in architecture school. The significance of the owl in the other story was clearer to me when I understood what the owl was hooting—actually, what the guilty man was hearing: “Who-o-o? You-o-o!” No wonder the owl had so alarmed Ian last Friday night, the night he was shot.
Ian’s website was attractive and informative. There were photos of his students in the classroom and engaged in various casual activities. He had photos from soccer games and dramatic presentations. It was apparent that Ian was far from the stuffy schoolmaster stereotype. He appeared in some of the photos himself, in a tug of war, giving a student a high-five, and sitting under a tree with several boys as one of them seemed to be reading aloud from a notebook.
His website encouraged comments, and many were posted. Considering that he had to approve all the comments, it wasn’t surprising that all were positive. As I read Ian’s posts to his readers, I saw that he wasn’t too concerned about privacy. Privacy was an issue I’d discussed with my young adult children who didn’t mind sharing with the world, via social media, far too much personal information. I hadn’t convinced them that too much sharing was not only unnecessary but it could be dangerous, and Ian apparently didn’t believe it, either.
“I’ll be on holiday tomorrow,” he’d written. “Don’t expect much blogging for two weeks. I’ll be gathering material for my book.” And what if someone takes advantage of these two weeks to burglarize your apartment? I scrolled back farther, to where he’d first announced his plans to spend his holiday in Thurles, spend time talking with the townspeople who might know of legends that he could use for his book, and stay in a quaint little bed and breakfast called Shepherds Guesthouse.
Anyone who’d been on Ian’s website knew how to find him. Anyone who wished him harm.
Was that what Mr. Sweeney had read?
“What is it?” Colin was standing nearby, smiling.
I realized I’d been shaking my head, trying to comprehend.
I logged out and moved back from the computer. “What do you really know about Mr. Sweeney?” I said, keeping my voice low. No one was around, but better to take precaution.
“Very little,” Colin said, also in a quiet voice. It occurred to me that he may have felt my question was inappropriate, and maybe it was. “Why do you ask?” he said.
“You said he’d read something on a blog about Shepherds and he’d insisted on booking a room here. Ian had something on his blog about spending his holiday at Shepherds.” I hunched my shoulders. “I doubt there’s any connection.”
“Sure, Mr. Sweeney did insist on a room here,” Colin mused, “but you’re not saying he’s the one shooting at Ian, are you, Jordan?”
“I’m not accusing. Just wondering,” I said. Though the message Ian had received on his blog clearly had some connection to the shootings, it was a stretch to suspect Mr. Sweeney was in any way involved. Poor man who had just lost his wife. I was wondering if I should tell Colin about the message Ian had received—Ian had told the police, so it wasn’t a secret—when the phone rang at the Reception desk. Colin reached for it but paused before answering.
“Mr. Sweeney is a wee bit strange but he seems harmless enough,” he said.
I nodded, thinking I had let my imagination run wild.
CHAPTER 15
The afternoon performance at The Source was a delight. Though the music by Molly’s ensemble was wonderful, as one would expect after the Saturday night performance, the twenty or so bright-eyed, fresh-faced children from the heritage school stole the show. They played Irish music on wooden flutes and whistles. They performed Irish set dances. They sang and recited poems and acted out a folktale about an old woman beside the road—all in Gaelic. The oldest students were just ten years old. We could not stop talking about them as we waited for Molly.
She joined us, with more high praise for the children. “Wasn’t it thrilling? Those lovely children, singing in our own language?”
It was the ensemble’s last performance at The Source, but the young people were going straight
to the Seniors Centre to play again. “You can come, too. Please do!” Molly said to us, the Shepherds group. Doreen did not hesitate. She hooked one arm around Molly’s and grabbed Alex’s arm. At first he looked mortified, but then in the spirit of the occasion, he gave me a look—Why not?—and let himself be pulled along.
Ian held back a little, until I reminded him that he’d get to meet some of the older people in town who, no doubt, had a lot of stories. He nodded and said, “Ah, I see your point.”
As we turned on a side street with a narrow sidewalk, Molly broke loose from her mother and our little procession continued with Molly and Ian walking together, Helen and me bringing up the rear. Doreen seemed to have a natural sense of direction. Molly told her the address, and she said, “I know the street. Remember, love? Grace directed us to a place for lunch, our first day in Thurles.” Molly didn’t reply. She was smiling up at Ian.
And so, after enjoying the talents of the children, we assembled in a large hall surrounded by some fifty elderly citizens. They could not have been more hospitable, as they directed us to the tea and biscuits and put out extra folding chairs for us. Molly’s ensemble entertained for no more than fifteen minutes, after which the white-tufted gentleman in charge announced that the music had been grand but now it was time for dancing.
The floor was immediately crowded, and the Irish step dancing began. The footwork was incredible. Men and women much older than Alex performed intricate steps. Most astonishing was that no one seemed to be breathing hard. I commented to Ian that they were all amazingly fit. “Makes me think I should take up step dancing instead of tennis,” I said.
“The thing is to do manual labor all your life and walk or ride a bicycle everywhere you go. And hoist a pint or two every night,” Ian said.
The step dancing ended with a solo performance by a woman who had won some kind of national title. The announcer told her age, which was eighty-three. And then the others came back on the floor for set dancing, which was what we’d seen the children do at The Source, but somehow it was even more impressive, performed by these dancers in orthopedic shoes. The footwork was not so fancy in these figure-dances, but the movements required precision, grace, and—yes, a high level of energy. Memory was apparently not a problem with these seniors.