Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Which we still have,” Grace said. “There’s a lot to do to get ready for new guests this next week. One young couple will be checking in tonight.”

  “Ah, we can take a little while off for lunch now, don’t you think?” Colin said. “The last chance we’ll get to spend time with Alex and Jordan.”

  “Would Patrick join us?” Alex said.

  “He might,” Grace said, “but we’d have to lock up the B&B! I don’t think we’ve ever done that.”

  We decided to meet at the Hayes Hotel for their Sunday buffet, which was reported to be extraordinary. Colin said he’d call ahead to be sure we’d have a good table.

  “I wish we could go with you!” Doreen said, and I wished it, too. Thinking about the departure of all of our new friends touched me in a way I wouldn’t have anticipated.

  As it turned out, Patrick wanted to stay at Shepherds. He told Colin it would be a perfect time for him to call Enya and have a long Facetime chat, without any interruptions.

  “Facetime, like Skype, but it’s an iPhone feature,” I clarified for Alex.

  He sighed and said, “The wonders of technology.”

  Ian, the Quinns, and I arrived early at the train station. I parked and said I’d wait and see them off. I didn’t need to be at the Hayes Hotel until 12:15. Doreen pressed some bills into Molly’s hand, and Molly and Ian went off to purchase tickets.

  “They do make a nice couple, I s’pose,” Doreen said. Since our trip to the Cliffs of Moher, she’d made a 180-degree turn, and now I wondered if she wasn’t going to be a little too eager to push a romance between Molly and Ian.

  I reminded her that Molly might have other young men in her life after Ian. “But, yes, they do make a lovely couple,” I said.

  She gave a dismissive wave. “I’m just hoping this will last long enough for Molly to accept a position in Dublin instead of going off to Sligo. It came to my mind that Ian Haverty would be the best thing in the world to keep her in Dublin. Don’t think she’ll be wanting to leave him for Sligo, even if she’d leave her mam.”

  “You’re devious, Doreen,” I said.

  “Just being a mother, looking out for my daughter.”

  All mothers did not try to orchestrate their adult daughters’ lives, but I didn’t say so.

  Molly and Ian returned with the tickets. Molly was beaming. Ian’s smile was a little more guarded, and every now and then, a shadowy look came into his dark eyes. The memory of yesterday’s tragedy and the weight of it, I imagined, and maybe of Tim Sweeney.

  Even so, in other moments, when he looked into Molly’s eyes, I could believe he’d found something in this pretty violinist that would get him through whatever he had to work out in his own mind. Those two might be a force Doreen was underestimating.

  The train to Dublin arrived. We said our goodbyes. I promised Ian I would keep up with him—and his book—on his website.

  “I can’t help but wonder if the farmer that hid the priest from Cromwell’s men could have lived in that same cottage in Red Stag Crossing—Magdala’s cottage,” he said. A light came into his eyes, shining as when I’d first met him, when he’d first told the story. “The priest hole, the gold cup the priest used for the Eucharist—what do you think, Jordan?”

  “I’d like to believe it,” I said.

  “Ah, so would I,” he said.

  I waited on the platform and waved as the train began to pull away. I watched until it was out of sight.

  How sentimental I felt this morning! That squeezing in my chest, like a fist. All the goodbyes.

  Back in my car, I had a whim. I checked my phone and found Paul’s number. I couldn’t just “Reply” to the international call, but I noted all the numbers and punched them in again. I got his voice mail. I assumed it was his voice mail, though it was an automated message—in French, naturally. I said it was wonderful to see him on Friday. It’s easier to leave a message when you’ve heard the voice of the person you’re calling. I felt awkward, a little foolish, really. Wrapping it up, I said, “I hope you’ll call soon. Au revoir, Paul.” Now I could add wistfulness to those nostalgic feelings constricting my chest.

  The buffet at the Hayes Hotel provided a delicious variety—potatoes, of course, but scalloped this time—and the service at our table was exceptional. Everyone seemed to know the O’Tooles. We finished with a pot of tea. We lingered, refilled our teacups, and lingered some more, until Little Jimmie began to whine and reach for Grace, then for Colin—someone to get him out of his high chair. From the high chair to the stroller—the little guy was more compliant than anyone had a right to expect of a toddler who must have just wanted to run around.

  “He’ll be asleep in no time,” Colin said, pushing the stroller out onto the sidewalk.

  Grace and Alex were going to ride back with me. We all headed in the direction of the car. When Colin’s phone rang, he answered, and then with a big smile said, “Bridget!”

  Grace took over the stroller, and we all kept walking until Colin said, “Wait a minute. Let me put you on the speaker so your mother can hear.”

  Bridget’s voice was stronger than I recalled. “It’s come back to me, what Dr. Malone said on the phone that night before he was murdered. I remember something like ‘He’s a good man and he’s been nothing but decent to me and I can’t believe what I’ve done!’ ” He kept saying, ‘No more! No more!’ and then, ‘She doesn’t know but what have I to lose? You must stop it now, before it’s too late! Get rid of everything!’ He was very angry, pacing back and forth.” Bridget said it all in a rush, as if she might forget it if she waited, and then she paused. “I think it may be important.”

  Grace said, “We’ll take it from here, love. You’re right—it sounds important, but you mustn’t worry about it anymore.” Bridget said she would call again tomorrow. As Grace and Colin told her goodbye, I noticed that Little Jimmie’s eyelids were heavy—nearly closed. He hadn’t reacted at all when he’d heard his mother’s voice. The very thought tugged at my heart. I only hoped that Bridget would be home soon, ready and able to be Little Jimmie’s mother.

  Colin put away his phone and took charge of the stroller. As we walked on, a pensive expression etched into his face, the furrows of deep thought in his brow.

  “What is it, Colin?” Grace said.

  “It’s what Bridget said.”

  “Get rid of everything. It does sound like drugs, doesn’t it?” Grace said.

  “It’s who made that call that I’m thinking about,” Colin said. “ ‘He’s been a good man,’ Dr. Malone said to whoever it was on the phone. ‘I can’t believe what I’ve done.’ Maybe he doped up somebody so he couldn’t work. So who’s he telling that they must stop it?”

  My mind had been running along the same track.

  “It’s not just that I despise the man,” Colin said.

  Grace’s breath caught. “Do you mean—you do!”

  “I feel it in my bones. I don’t know that he committed murder, just that he and the doctor were into something bad, in it together.” His scowl deepened. “But I know it will take much more to convince that arrogant prick Perone that he should question Lucas Riordan.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Patrick was coming from the kitchen carrying a plate with a sandwich on it and a tall glass of beer when we arrived at Shepherds.

  “How did it go with Enya?” Grace asked.

  “Time will tell,” he said. So much like his father. He headed into the office. Work ethic like his father, too. And his mother. Grace set about her housekeeping chores immediately. Colin came in some time later and put Little Jimmie to bed, and next thing I knew he was trimming the shrubs at the front entrance.

  I used the computer in Reception to check on our hotel reservations in Dublin for Monday night, and something possessed me to pull up the Cliffs of Moher website. I was able to find on a map of the cliff paths the point that jutted out, where Ian was forced backward before Mr. Sweeney put a gun to his own head. I wondered if Mr. Sweene
y was still alive. The incredible photographs, the wild beauty of the Cliffs of Moher, brought everything back, all too vividly. I closed out the site and went to my room to start packing.

  Alex was taking a nap. By the time he knocked on my door, about an hour later, I had made significant progress packing, my mind geared now toward going home.

  “We have a little time left,” he said, “and there’s one more thing I’d like to do.”

  “It’s quite a walk from here, and the trail is rough,” I said when we got out of the car.

  “I feel confident that I’m up to it,” Alex said. We started on the rocky footpath. Just one week ago I had accompanied Grace through these woodlands to Magdala’s cottage. The sunlight danced on the delicate leaves of the alder trees, as it had then. I told Alex the legends of the alders that Grace had told me and explained how the purplish clusters on the alder trees gave the purple tinge to the air.

  “A rather magical place, isn’t it?” he said. My sentiments exactly. Alex had no trouble keeping up as we made our way along the path. The trail seemed smoother, easier to negotiate than it was the first time I made this trek. Maybe because of the ATVs that had been on it since last Sunday—Davin Callahan’s ATV that we used to rescue Bridget and Little Jimmie, and the ATVs that the Guards had used when searching for Magdala.

  “Wonder what will happen to Magdala,” I said.

  “Father Tierney and I talked about that when I had lunch with him,” Alex said. “He’s already been in touch with the Catholic social services about getting Magdala into a home for the elderly and infirm that the church runs.”

  I thought—not kindly—that the church might have taken more interest in Magdala when she was simply an old woman living in the woods, before anyone knew of the gold chalice.

  “What about her property? The land her cottage is on must be worth a lot,” I said.

  “We didn’t talk about that, but I would imagine it will have to be sold. The proceeds will surely be more than enough to take care of her for the rest of her years.”

  “Didn’t you say the church was going to take care of her? I thought you meant charity.”

  Alex gave a mock scowl. “I didn’t realize you were so skeptical of the church, Jordan.”

  “Says my uncle who went to mass today for the first time in years,” I said. “I meant to ask: Should I attach some significance to your church attendance this morning?”

  “If you mean, am I going to become a more faithful Catholic, probably not. It just felt right today,” he said.

  I did understand. I wouldn’t argue about Father Tierney’s motives, where Magdala was concerned. Alex liked him, and probably the priest was sincere. Not my place to judge.

  Alex’s train of thought apparently led him to Mr. Sweeney. “You said he had a notepad, and the Guards took it.” I told Alex all about Mr. Sweeney’s ramblings. He had little to say. And then some little creature scurried across our way, into the brush, making Alex jump.

  We laughed. I said, “I’m glad you wanted to come out here. Nice way to end our trip.”

  “It would be such a disappointment to leave Thurles without seeing the place I’ve heard so much about,” he said.

  I remarked that he seemed to have more energy these last few days, and he said, “I think you were right about all that medicine, Jordan. I stopped taking it except the pills for blood pressure and high cholesterol, and what do you bet Reuben will take those away when I see him.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I should have trusted my own instincts instead of listening to that young—very green—physician.”

  “It wasn’t as bad for you as it was for Bridget, trusting her doctor,” I said.

  Bridget’s most recent phone call became the topic of our conversation. “If Colin is right and the caller was the Riordan man,” Alex said, “it certainly sounds like the doctor was into drug dealing. Get rid of everything—some kind of contraband, no doubt.”

  “Dr. Malone orchestrated Bridget’s dependency on prescription drugs. Sounds like he was doing the same with someone else,” I said. “Maybe his own father-in-law.” I’d been thinking about Liam Riordan, who had some vague illness—too sick to go to his work at the bank—but he was able to attend the doctor’s funeral and had intimated to Colin that he was much improved. Was that because Dr. Malone, who had managed his prescriptions, was dead? Had Liam Riordan realized the medications he was taking were more harmful than helpful?

  Alex and I speculated on why Dr. Malone and Lucas would conspire against Liam Riordan. “Lucas may not have wanted his father to die, but he wanted him out of the picture,” I said. “Liam was a force to be reckoned with. Lucas had this idea for a big resort development and maybe Liam was against it—or maybe he just wouldn’t allow some of the methods his son was using to obtain property.” Heavy-handed was the word Grace had used for Lucas’s tactics.

  Alex lamented, “But a doctor—it’s hard to imagine that a physician, one who has taken an oath to heal, to ‘do no harm,’ would deliberately prescribe a dangerous mix of drugs for his patients.”

  I thought—but didn’t say—that Dr. Malone felt he was backed into a corner with Bridget, because she wanted him to be a father to Little Jimmie. I said, “Maybe he was backed into a corner with Liam. I wonder if Lucas threatened him somehow. If he didn’t go along with drugging Liam, maybe—I don’t know.” And then it came to me and seemed so simple. Lucas could have known about Jimmie, and that was what he held over the doctor’s head. But I couldn’t say it because I had promised Bridget I wouldn’t tell anyone who Jimmie’s father was. I said, “It might have been an accident—a fight. Simple as that. Lucas has a temper. Maybe he just lost it and then had to cover up somehow, so he brought the body out here, hoping to implicate Bridget. She’d gone to see him, and the doctor told Norah—on the phone—that Bridget was hysterical.”

  “Or Dr. Malone could have turned the tables on Lucas and said he was going to confess what they’d been doing to the elder Riordan,” Alex said, “and Lucas wouldn’t have it.”

  We agreed it was too bad we had to leave Thurles before any of our theories were proven or disproven. Nothing would be resolved for a while. There was that little thing called evidence.

  Then all at once, as if we had turned a page in a storybook, we came upon the cottage.

  “There it is,” I said, and I realized in the same breath that someone was at the woodpile. I touched Alex’s arm, and we stopped walking.

  The man had heard us. Something about his stance made me think he might run. Instead, he called out in a harsh voice, “Who are you?”

  I whispered to Alex, “It’s Lucas Riordan.”

  “Who are you?” he called again, and he came toward us, taking long strides. In a swift movement, he put something in the pocket of his jacket. Something he may have taken from the woodpile. I’d seen a flash from whatever was in his hand in that instant when he turned toward us.

  “Tourists.” Quick thinking, on Alex’s part. He kept walking, showing no alarm, and I followed, hoping we could keep up the ruse. I didn’t know exactly what Riordan was doing out here, but he had to be up to no good. Alex and I had just come to a conclusion that Lucas Riordan was a murderer.

  “Mind if we take some photographs of this cottage? Do you know how old it is? What an amazing find!” Alex said as we met Lucas Riordan near the alder tree where Magdala had smoked a cigarette. We stood just a few feet from each other.

  Maybe Alex had overdone it just a bit. Riordan was scrutinizing us, his dark brows pulled together. “Private property,” he said, and then, as if ordering a dog, “Go on now. Be off with you!”

  “Let’s go,” I said. We had a way out and we should take it.

  “Just one photo?” Alex said. Maybe it wasn’t all pretense with Alex. He seemed mesmerized by the cottage. Didn’t he realize the danger that Lucas Riordan posed?

  “Come on.” I gave an insistent tug at his sleeve.

  “I’ve seen you at the pub,” Riordan said, and
then, in a flash of recognition, his curious gaze turned into something sinister. He pointed at me. “You. You were at Shepherds.”

  I’d thought he might not remember, as I had simply faded into the background that day he and Colin had exchanged words in Reception, and he’d warned Colin to keep away from his father.

  “That’s where we’re staying,” I said, trying for an innocent tone, though I probably was no better at pretense than Alex was.

  “Friends of Colin O’Toole, you are.”

  “Guests at the B&B,” I said.

  “Not much goes unnoticed in this town.” Riordan’s chuckle was more bitter than jovial. “I heard all about how O’Toole’s good friend, an architect from the States, discovered the priest hole where the girl was hiding with her baby. Her bastard child.”

  I felt myself wince. He was talking about his brother-in-law’s child. Surely he knew that. I was even more certain now that he blackmailed the doctor, found out about Jimmie and threatened to tell Norah Riordan. Wouldn’t he have some feeling for the child? Probably not. If I was any judge of character, Lucas was a narcissist, incapable of love—or anything resembling affection.

  “That’s why we’re here. I wanted to see the priest hole,” Alex said. As it was the absolute truth, I hoped Riordan would assume we had no other motives. But he had a cagey look that I didn’t trust. We just needed to go.

  “Maybe you ought to see it then.” Riordan took another step toward us. His voice, never friendly, was more menacing as he said, “How much do you know?”

  There was the moment of decision that might mean everything. Fear began to course through my body. Should I keep feigning innocence, hoping Lucas might let us slink away? The glint in his eyes said not likely. Put up a fight? Not wise. Even as I wondered whether he had a weapon, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket.