Buried In a Bog

by Sheila Connolly

  “Only the next townland over, but in a different parish, so they went to another church.”

  Maura looked around before saying, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, love. What is it?”

  Maura tried to choose her words carefully. She had a strong suspicion that Mick had stayed around mainly to take care of his grandmother, but she didn’t want to make Mrs. Nolan look too hard at Mick’s motives or think that she was holding her grandson back. “Ellen’s told me a bit about Mick, but he seems kind of out of place working in a pub. What’s his story? I mean, did he go to college? Does he have a profession other than barkeep?” Maura wasn’t sure she’d managed to hide her real question: why would anyone want to hang around such a dead-end place?

  “Ah, and would you be thinking of making a run at him? There’s no woman in his life, although I’ve told him time and again he’s not getting any younger.” At Maura’s horrified expression, Mrs. Nolan laughed. “I’m just having a bit of fun with you. He studied business at uni, but there’s not many that’s hiring these days. I’ve told him he should be in Dublin, or at least Cork City, but he claims he’s happier here. I know he wants to keep an eye on me, see that I don’t get into any trouble.”

  “What if the pub closes, or the new owners want to bring in other people?”

  “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? He knows which way the wind is blowing, and he’ll be all right, whichever way things fall out. If you’re going up the hill, you should start now, give yourself a little time to spend there.”

  Maura stood up. “I’ll report back to you tomorrow, then.”

  “Say hello to your grandda Jimmy for me, will you? He was a grand figure of a man,” Mrs. Nolan said.

  Jimmy. James. Her grandfather. It took Maura a moment to put it together. “I’ll do that. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 20

  They said their good-byes to various friends and acquaintances, then Mick escorted his grandmother out of the restaurant, and Maura retrieved her car from behind the Keohanes’ house and headed north. It was only when she was halfway there that she realized that she hadn’t given a second thought to driving. There were no problems with the car, as far as she could tell, but she didn’t know a whole lot about fixing cars. That had always been a guy thing when she was in school, and she’d never had a car anyway. But the fact that the old car had stood up to some pretty serious abuse was strangely reassuring; Maura felt protected, like she was driving a tank. Patting the steering wheel affectionately, she promised the car that she would avoid small roads in the future, at least whenever she could. She’d already learned that most of the roads around the area would be called “small” by any standards, clearly meant for a horse cart. Of course, she wouldn’t have any more luck managing a horse—she’d never been near one. She suddenly realized that she was laughing at herself.

  Taking her on that little excursion to Drombeg this morning had been a really nice thing for Mick to do. It was almost embarrassing that she had been in the country nearly a week and hadn’t done any sightseeing—all she’d seen was Leap and the inside of the pub, and a bit of Skibbereen—including the garda station. She wasn’t going to count the hospital in Cork, a place she’d rather not have seen. None of it was the stuff that made it into tourist brochures. Maybe Mick had wanted to show her a different side of the place, a more mystical, primal one. Strip away all the organized religious stuff—easier now that the Catholic Church was losing its grip—there was still this weird underlying sense of unseen forces lurking, particularly out in the country. Maybe leprechauns had been invented to sell beer and greeting cards, but at the same time, maybe they held just a dash of truth. Maura was almost willing to concede that there were spirits here, and if there were, some of them lingered at Drombeg.

  As she followed Mick’s napkin map, Maura realized that none of the roads except the main highway had road signs, much less directional signs. The road that she turned onto when the bog road ended was the Drinagh road because it led to Drinagh, nowhere else. You had to know where you were going, or know someone who did, or you’d be hopelessly lost.

  The Drinagh road took her to another T-intersection, where she stopped. Looking left she could see what Mrs. Nolan had called the creamery, so she must be in the right place. When she’d heard the term “creamery,” she’d pictured something small and quaint, but in fact it looked like quite a modern thriving operation, with multiple buildings and a few tanker trucks in sight. At least one business around here seemed to be doing well. Maura turned right, and the road took her by a lovely small lake, below her on the right. But she was looking for a road on the left, leading uphill. She crept along, grateful that there were no other people on the road, or she would have missed it. She turned carefully, passing some ramshackle sheds with a couple of chickens scurrying around, and after a few hundred feet she could see what had to be the tower from the old church, looming through the trees.

  Just past the tower there was a wide turn-in on the left, and Maura pulled over, close to the well-kept stone wall. When she got out of the car, she could see an old cemetery spread out below her, its headstones canted in all directions. The tower was near the wall, and the empty space to its left had to be where the old church had stood. It was a good landmark, but why had whoever demolished the building bothered to leave just the tower? Noisy black birds she couldn’t identify flew in and out of the open windows in the upper stories. She glanced briefly around her. To her right there was nothing but open fields. Further up the hill, there appeared to be a home and some farm buildings, and the lane petered out in the farmyard. She couldn’t see any people around. So much space, so much silence—it all felt so foreign to her.

  Before heading for the gate, Maura stopped to read a large and new-looking sign. Apparently the local Cork County authorities had recently decided to allow only approved grave diggers to work in county burial grounds. Maura smiled: what did it take to be approved as a grave digger? Did the sign mean that until now family members could just show up, dig a hole, and deposit their dearly departed? Looking out over the small graveyard, she could easily believe that people might do just that.

  She unlatched the gate and let herself in, carefully closing it behind her. There was nothing as orderly as a path, just space between the rows of headstones, which ranged from short stubs to a few that were taller than she was; from old to a few that looked like they’d been put up last week. Were people still using this place, even though there was a newer cemetery down below? Or were they only coming to visit their dead? Someone was taking care of the place, because the grass was short; she spotted a rusty scythe resting against one side of the tower, and tattered bunches of plastic flowers on some of the graves, so at least there were occasional visitors.

  Just like her. What was she doing here? Maura didn’t like cemeteries—they were depressing. She’d visited her father’s grave a few times, but only with her gran. Looking at the headstone of a man she’d barely known didn’t do much for her. So she was here now to pay her respects to her unknown grandfather, mainly because she knew her grandmother would have wanted her to. Burying Gran had been hard, but only because it drove home that she would never see Gran again. Whatever had been buried in that cemetery was not the person she had known and loved, the strong, kind woman who had raised her.

  Mrs. Nolan had said to send her greetings along to James Donovan—how odd to think that she had known him. Were Mrs. Nolan’s people buried here? Maura had forgotten to ask. She wandered along the rows, trying to avoid tree roots, silently apologizing to whoever she was stepping on, even though they were long gone. After she saw two stones with the exact same names on them, she started counting, and ended up with four. They had certainly stuck to naming patterns around here, hadn’t they? Was it confusing or comforting if everyone had the same name? It must have been hard on the schoolteachers.

  Her grandfather’s stone turned out to be a fairly modern one—well, he had died
in 1968, which was probably a hundred years later than most of the burials here. Who had erected it? As far as she knew, the family hadn’t ever had much money, and not only had Nora had a child to support, but she’d also somehow paid the fare for both of them to come to Boston. But the stone looked professional, and expensive. She’d have to ask Mrs. Nolan, if she could figure out how to do it tactfully. There was plenty of room left on the stone, probably intended for Gran at least, if not her own dad and his family. Like me, Maura realized.

  The ground in front of the stone seemed dry enough, so Maura sat down cross-legged and tried to figure out what to say. She shut her eyes for a moment, listening to the birds and what sounded like a distant cow, or maybe sheep. And to the silence: no cars, no airplanes, no useless annoying noise. It could be any century. She opened her eyes again and looked at the stone erected for a man she had never known. One whom her grandmother had loved, and had had a child with. If he’d lived, there might have been more children—Gran had always loved taking care of people. Of course, if he’d lived, Gran probably wouldn’t have gone to America with Maura’s dad, who then might never have met Maura’s mother, meaning that then Maura wouldn’t have existed, and wouldn’t be sitting here now, surrounded by relatives she had never met but who shared her blood. And they had all mattered to someone, because there were stones to honor them; and they apparently mattered still, if the garish plastic flowers were any indication. It certainly wasn’t like any cemetery Maura had seen before; the ones in Boston were big and impersonal, and suddenly she felt bad for her father and grandmother, parked in the middle of hundreds of strangers, with only her to remember them.

  Her increasingly maudlin thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. Another person coming to visit a dead relative on a Sunday afternoon? As far as she knew, this road didn’t lead anywhere but the farm. She sat still, waiting to see if the car kept going, but instead it stopped next to the cemetery. So much for privacy.

  Maura stood up, brushed off the back of her jeans, and turned to check out the newcomer: a young man wearing a baseball cap, leaning against the gate, with a dusty brown car behind him.

  Chapter 21

  Maura’s senses went on high alert at the sight of the man and his car, which she recognized as the one that had pushed her off the road the day before. This wasn’t a random meeting; this guy, whoever he was, must’ve followed her here. What did he want?

  She checked him out: about her age, dressed like every other twenty-something guy she knew, in jeans, a hoodie, and that stupid cap. He looked slightly grimy, although she couldn’t put her finger on why. A sneer was plastered on his face. So much for a warm Irish welcome.

  He was watching her too. What was he thinking? She’d faced off against tougher guys than him—her neighborhood, school, and the places she’d worked all had had their share of bullies. If Brown Car was expecting a meek tourist, he was in for a surprise.

  Maura looked around her: still no other people in sight, although she thought she could hear a tractor now, several fields away. Yeah, that would be a lot of help to her. Maybe Brown Car Guy wanted to apologize. And maybe pigs could fly.

  But she wasn’t looking for trouble, and her business here was done. Might as well leave. She could be wrong and he really was here to honor his dead mother or something. Maura started walking toward the gate, and he straightened up from his slouch, but he didn’t move out of the way. When she was about five feet away, she said, “Mind letting me by?”

  “Mebbe I do,” he said. To Maura’s ears his accent didn’t match the others she’d heard around here, but she didn’t know enough to place it.

  “You want something?” she asked. Not the smartest move in the world to challenge him, but she hadn’t survived Southie by being timid.

  “Yer not from around here. Go home where yeh belong.”

  Was this some punk kid who liked to throw his weight around? Someone who hated Americans on sight? What was his problem?

  “What if I like it here?”

  “That can change fast.”

  This standoff was getting them nowhere, although Maura’s gut was telling her that this guy had more on his mind than picking on a tourist. What should she do? She had the cell phone in her pocket: she could call 999 and say…what? That a man was annoying her? Still, maybe the threat of a call would be enough to discourage him. She pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket.

  He laughed. “Think the guards’ll be any help? It’ll take ’em forever to find this place. Besides, I’ve a message to give yeh: Yer pokin’ yer nose where it don’t belong. Leave it go.”

  What on earth was he talking about? “Oh yeah? Says who?” Maura retorted. To her own ears she sounded like a twelve-year-old on a playground.

  Maura was relieved when he didn’t push back. “I’ve said my piece. Back off or yeh won’t be happy.” The punk turned and strolled back toward his car, ignoring her questions. Instead of using the gate, he vaulted over the low wall—showing off? But at least he did nothing more threatening than get into his car and back out of the lane too fast, spraying gravel as he sped down the hill. Maura had time to notice part of a license plate this time. Would that help?

  She gawped at the phone in her hand. She didn’t need 999 now, but she thought she ought to tell the gardaí that she’d seen the car that had run her off the road again, and now she’d gotten a good look at the driver as well as part of a license plate. She didn’t have Sean Murphy’s mobile number, but she could go to the station at Skibbereen and tell him face-to-face, so he could add one more piece of information to their skinny file on her. And she even knew how to get back to the main road from here: the Drinagh road led to the main road, which led to Skibbereen.

  As Maura drove to Skibbereen, following the Drinagh road to the main highway, she had time to think about what Brown Car Punk had said. Stay out of what? She’d been minding her own business, talking to a few elderly people, and pulling pints at the pub. The guy had apparently wanted to warn her off—but from what? Why was he picking on her when he didn’t even know her? She pulled abruptly into the small lot in front of the garda station, nearly empty on a Sunday. She got out and headed for the front door.

  The same ridiculously young officer was stationed at a desk in the front, and he looked up and smiled politely at her. “Hello, miss, can I help you?”

  “Is Officer Murphy in?”

  The young officer stood up. “I’ll see if he’s free,” he said, and darted across the room. He didn’t have far to go, and reemerged quickly with Sean Murphy in tow.

  “Ah, Maura Donovan. How’s the car running?” Sean asked with a smile.

  “Fine, thanks. But, uh, look, can I talk to you about that?” Maura said.

  He looked around, finally locating an empty desk in the corner and nodding toward it. They walked over, and he gestured Maura toward a chair while he went around and sat on the other side. “What is it you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

  “I saw the guy in the brown car again. And this time he got in my face.”

  Suddenly Sean Murphy was all business. “Just now?”

  Maura nodded. “Yes. I came straight here. I was visiting my grandfather’s grave—he’s buried in the old cemetery at Drinagh. Do you know it?”

  “Up the hill, by the old tower?”

  Maura nodded. “That’s the one. I drove from Leap directly there, and when I got there I was alone. I spent some time in the cemetery, and I found my grandfather’s gravestone. But then this other car showed up, and the guy got out and came into the cemetery. He had to have followed me.”

  “And he threatened you?” Sean asked. “What do you mean by ‘got in your face’?”

  “Well, not exactly threatened—at least, not physically. He watched me for a while, and when I tried to leave, he told me I wasn’t welcome and I should just go home. He didn’t say why, except that he didn’t want me ‘poking my nose’ into something. He didn’t get close enough to touch me.”

>   “Did you respond to him?”

  “I asked him what he wanted, and he just laughed at me. I pulled out my phone to call you guys, and he said you’d never get there in time. But then he left.”

  “You were lucky. Did you happen to—”

  “—get the license plate? Part of one. He took off pretty fast, so by the time I got to the gate he was making the turn. All I got was 99-C-8 something.”

  “That at least tells us it was a Cork plate, then. Can you describe the man?”

  “He looked…ordinary. About my age, no taller than I am. He had on jeans, a hoodie, running shoes—none of it was new. A baseball cap, no logo on it, so I couldn’t see the color of his hair. I didn’t get close enough to see his eyes.” Sean was writing all this down, and Maura waited until he had finished. “Does that help?”

  He sat back in his chair and looked at her. “You’re sure now the car was brown, and we have a partial license. That’s good. The way you describe him, he could be about anyone. But what matters is that he’s come back after you a second time. He seems to want you to go away. Why would that be?”

  “I can’t tell you. You think he’s hanging around, like, stalking me?”

  “I can’t say. I’m sorry—I don’t know what we can do to keep you safe from him. Of course I’ll check the car registration, but we’re out flat with these murders and all, and we can’t put anyone on it right away.” At Maura’s puzzled look, he added, “We’ve few violent deaths in Skibbereen. Or in all of Cork, for that matter, even in Cork City. Few of us have ever worked on a homicide at all. And the people in town are on edge, looking over their shoulders all the time, if you know what I mean. So we’re doing our best to figure this out, and that leaves little time for complaints like yours. I’m sorry.”

  “You mean, he’ll have to kill me to get your attention?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Maura regretted them. Of course the small police force here was stretched thin. Of course the fresh murder of one of their own people took precedence. She kept having to remind herself that this was small-town Ireland, not Boston. “Look, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That didn’t come out right. I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me now, at least. Have you made any progress on Bart Hayes’s death? Were there cameras on the cash machine, or anything like that?”