7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  She may have only imagined that his expression softened. He turned to an open box and began fiddling with something inside, his back to her.

  “Terry left us all a bit in the lurch, didn’t he now.” His voice came out soft and low. “He was gettin’ frail, we all knew that. But we dinna think he’d go so sudden-like. And then we didn’t even get—” He cleared his throat, gathered a stack of books into his arms and pushed past her, back into the sales area.

  Sam turned, caught something like worry in Keeva’s expression, saw Ambrose’s gnarled hands working over the books on the messy table, without really changing anything. She sighed. Obviously, she would only get information out of him in tiny doses.

  Keeva tilted her head toward Sam, motioning her over.

  “I could show you the register and how we ring up the sales. If you’d like.” She looked over toward Ambrose. “Hey, if you want to take a little break, Sam and I can handle things here for a while,” she called out.

  The older man stood up straighter, tugged at his cardigan and walked toward the door. “I could do with me lunch break now.”

  He walked out without another word.

  “Sorry he’s giving you such a hard time,” Keeva said. “We all understand what you’ve gotta do. It’s just been especially hard on him—losing Terry and all.”

  “Are you saying that they were . . .”

  “Oh, I’m not sayin’ they were a couple or anything like that,” she said, almost a little too solidly. “But, you know, Ambrose did love your uncle. Worked here together over forty years. Ambrose was fairly young when he started working here. Terry, being twenty years older kind of took him in, became like a dad. He’s takin’ this hard.”

  Sam felt a tug. Maybe she had come on too strong.

  “It was rough, watching Mr. O’Shaughnessy slippin’ in the last few years. Me, I’ve been here only ten years but I saw it, the difference in ’im from when I started.”

  Sam nodded. She might have to resign herself to the lack of written records. If her uncle had kept everything in his head, and then his faculties began to slip . . . well, there might not be anything to do but pick up with what she’d been handed.

  She glanced around the shop. “I just realized—where’s Bridget today?”

  Keeva neatened a small display of notecards. “Oh. Ambrose said she called earlier. Told him she’d be a bit delayed. I’d expect her soon, though.”

  As if in answer to the thought waves, Sam spotted Bridget crossing the street, heading toward the shop with a drag to her step. She seemed smaller, if possible, bundled into a tan raincoat that was a couple sizes too big. Ignoring the rain, which had settled to a steady light patter, the young woman pushed the door open slowly.

  “Morning, Bridget,” Keeva said.

  When the girl looked up Sam saw that her pale complexion was mottled and her eyes were red.

  “Bridget?” she said. “What’s the matter?”

  Bridget’s lip trembled. “Family stuff. Me dad’s terrible upset and we’re all real worried.”

  Keeva came from behind the counter and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “What’s happened, doll? What’s going on?”

  Sam noticed that Beau had gone still, although he kept his back turned. So like him, ready to come to someone’s aid if needed, but not wanting to intrude if this was what he would call ‘girl stuff.’

  Bridget sniffled loudly and Keeva reached into her apron pocket and came out with a neatly folded tissue.

  “Here now, wipe your nose and tell us what we can do.”

  Bridget wagged her head back and forth as she squeezed at her nose with the tissue. “It’s my Uncle Darragh, me dad’s brother.” To Sam’s ear the name sounded like Dye-ra. “He’s gone missing.”

  Keeva looked concerned. “Was he out? On the boat?”

  Bridget nodded. “A charter. Yesterday. The police are lookin’ into it. They’re just not telling us anything.”

  Beau set down the book he’d been browsing and walked over to where the women stood.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I heard. Bridget, was your uncle’s boat the Glory Be?”

  She nodded miserably.

  Sam saw Beau’s mouth go into a straight line. He was thinking of the blood stains.

  Chapter 6

  Bridget gave a loud, hiccupping sob and blew her nose. She straightened her shoulders. “I can’t think what to do and I’m no use at home. It makes more sense for me to be working but I wish I knew what was happening down there.”

  “Would you like me to see if I can learn something?” Beau offered.

  Sam explained that he was in law enforcement. Maybe out of professional courtesy the local police would at least speak with him about the case.

  Bridget actually smiled. “I’d be ever so grateful. My family, we know no one in the Garda and I don’t think Dad wants to be a pest.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said, turning to Sam and letting her know that they would meet up later at the hotel if he didn’t get back to the bookshop before closing time.

  Sam watched him walk away in the direction of the docks.

  “So. In the meantime, teach me everything you can about the shop,” she said to the two employees.

  Keeva understood that what Sam really needed to see were the areas that Ambrose guarded like a bulldog.

  “While he’s away, here’s where the files are kept.” She pulled open the top file drawer and Sam thumbed through the worn manila tabs.

  There were account files for the wholesalers from whom the store’s inventory was purchased, and a quick glance indicated that no one had bought new stock in months. But then, Sam had pretty much already figured that out, just by looking at the shelves. A folder labeled ‘Paid Bills’ was filled with aging copies, pages with dates in the last decade. It appeared as if Ambrose really had given her the most current records after all.

  The bottom drawer of the cabinet was filled with book catalogs. Layered in dust, there wasn’t a current one in the whole place.

  “Is there really a reason to keep all these?” Sam asked, looking up at Keeva.

  “Can’t really think of one, no.”

  “I won’t throw them out, but I’d like to drop a strong hint to Ambrose that eliminating clutter is a good way to get organized and boost everyone’s morale. This drawer might be a good start.”

  “And himself is always complainin’ about having no storage space. I’ll give him the hint, Sam.”

  “Maybe we can think of some other suggestions, too,” Sam said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and I know that I’m new at this. But, really, a visitor’s first impression of this shop, from the street, is that it’s either out of business or in a severe decline. It just doesn’t come across as a winner.”

  Bridget walked over from a shelf of romances, nodding vigorously. “I agree. I’ve tried to say it to Ambrose. Mr. O’Shaughnessy would have listened, I think. He was a nice man, but he spent no time here in the last year or two.”

  Keeva piped up. “He’s afraid of change, Ambrose is. Wants everything to be as it was in the old days. The shop thrived when it was only Ambrose and Terry operatin’ it. He just wants it to be that way again.”

  “I understand. This has been hard on him,” Sam said.

  “But we’ll lose the shop if we can’t get the business to make it stay open,” Keeva said.

  “Exactly.” Bridget had perked up now that she had something new to think about. “I have some ideas about it.”

  “First, we better figure out how to get Ambrose on board,” Sam said. “Nothing will happen if he’s fighting us every step of the way.” Had she actually said us?

  “Let me think about it a day or two. There has to be a way.” Keeva glanced up. “Here he comes.”

  Sam pushed at the heavy file drawer full of catalogs until it closed.

  There was more spring in Ambrose’s step as he crossed the street and mounted the step to the shop’s front door.
Even his expression seemed lighter. His eyes scanned the room and he spotted Bridget.

  “Heard about Darragh,” he said. “Sorry. He was a good man.”

  “Was?” Bridget’s face went to a paler shade of white.

  He shuffled and reached out to straighten a book that lay at a tilt on one shelf.

  “What did you hear, Ambrose? They told my family he’d not been found.” She strode over to him and stared into his face.

  “That’s all I heard, Bridg. Really. Sorry, I didn’t think before I spoke.”

  “So they still haven’t found him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Bridget turned around and went back to her romances. Keeva was studying Ambrose, wondering, probably, if this would be a good time to discuss changes in the store. Sam found herself watching all of them and thinking she would rather be with Beau right now.

  When a lone customer walked in a minute later, the employees drifted into their normal spots. By two o’clock Sam decided she wasn’t accomplishing anything. She could only wait it out, let Keeva find the best way to broach the idea of an overhaul of the shop whenever she felt the timing was right. Sam slipped her coat back on and left with a quick, “See you later.”

  She walked the same route back toward the hotel and docks that she and Beau had taken earlier, reasoning that if he were headed back this is the way he would come. By the time she got to Merchants Road she could see a small crowd gathered dockside. The bright red roof on the wheelhouse of the Glory Be was visible above their heads. She crossed at the traffic light and made her way toward the restless mass. Striped sawhorse barriers marked a perimeter, with yellow plastic tape strung between them to mark off an area close to the boat.

  Above the heads of the civilians she caught sight of Beau. He seemed to be in earnest conversation with someone, a black-haired man in his forties wearing a tweed jacket and dark slacks. Beau spotted Sam and apparently asked the man if she could come behind the barrier. The guy nodded and motioned her over. Aboard the boat, she could see several other people, probably crime scene evidence collectors, studying the trawler and picking things up with tweezers. They wore black jackets with glo-green stripes, Garda insignia and latex gloves.

  “Detective Joe Lambert, this is my wife, Samantha.” Beau said. “She has helped me on several of my own cases at home.”

  Lambert sent a quick smile her way. He had intense blue eyes, a high forehead and straight nose, with weary creases near his eyes and mouth. She had the feeling he didn’t smile all that often.

  “So, this is Darragh O’Henry’s boat?” she asked, trying to get the pronunciation right.

  “It is. Beau says his niece is an employee at your shop.” Joe Lambert’s voice was soft and cultured, what she would imagine more from a poet than a cop. She didn’t try to explain the complexity of her ownership of the bookstore; instead she merely nodded in response.

  “But Mr. O’Henry himself? He’s not turned up yet?” Bridget and her family should be the first to hear of it, Sam hoped, before word got out among the crowd.

  “Not yet. We’re still piecing together what might have happened. Darragh’s a professional charter captain, well respected around here. He’d not have abandoned his craft willingly.” He pronounced craft with a slightly rolling ‘r’, as if the word had two or three of them.

  “Was he out with a charter yesterday?” Sam asked. “Sorry, you’ve probably been over that already with Beau.”

  Lambert nodded but answered anyway. “He was. We have an officer speaking with his dispatcher now.”

  Beau spoke up. “We should let you get back to it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Lambert’s parting nod seemed to say that he was sure they had the situation under control. Sam knew, from watching Beau at work, that sometimes lawmen appreciated input from outside sources but most of the time they simply wanted to be left alone to investigate and process their evidence. Beau took Sam’s elbow and guided her past the barrier and through the crowd.

  They received inquisitive stares from several onlookers who clearly wondered what two obviously-American tourists were doing speaking with the police. Sam kept her eyes forward; Beau didn’t talk again until they’d cleared the area and he was sure they were alone.

  “Want to grab some lunch?” he asked. Rather than heading straight for their hotel they’d circled the three-block-long commercial dock.

  “Food? Again?” She thought of the weight she’d lost before their wedding and how she’d hoped to keep it off. That wasn’t happening on a diet of Irish potatoes and full breakfasts. On the other hand, she was starting to feel a twinge of hunger. “Something light,” she said.

  They walked a few more blocks, until they spotted a sandwich shop that appeared to be open. The clouds had broken up, showing wide patches of blue, so they opted for an outdoor table. They’d missed the prime lunch time and their waitress informed them that there was no more brisket or chicken, and Sam couldn’t bring herself to eat more potatoes, cabbage or stew. They opted for a salad and decided to share it.

  “If we do this and skip dinner tonight, I might still fit into my jeans by the end of this trip,” Sam said. She settled into her seat and let the sun warm her face. “So, did you learn anything useful from Detective Lambert—anything that would help Bridget?”

  He glanced around, making sure they were alone.

  “The stains I saw last night were definitely blood—human blood. There wasn’t enough to prove a fatality—I mean, not a large pool of it or anything. So, the evidence is still being collected and they’ll soon see what they can learn from that.”

  He paused while the waitress approached with cups of tea. When she’d gone back inside he said, “On the other hand, they do know a bit about the boat’s activities yesterday. While I was talking with Lambert, an officer came up and gave a quick rundown. The charter business consisted of the one boat, Darragh as captain, a crewman named Sean Bareth, and an office employee Deirdre Athy. The officer had spoken with her.”

  He stopped again as their salad came, courteously divided between two plates. They spent a couple of minutes shuffling flatware and taking tastes.

  “According to Ms. Athy, the Glory Be went out yesterday with Darragh, Sean and some Americans who’d chartered the boat for the day. They’d told her they wanted to go along the coast a little way and do some fishing. She says the area they wanted to go to isn’t exactly the best spot for fishing and that Darragh tried to talk them into another place. In the end he told her he would go where they wanted. The customer is always right, kind of thing.”

  “So, the men got mad that they didn’t catch anything?”

  “Deirdre Athy told the police that Darragh doesn’t keep in touch continuously when he’s out on a charter. Usually just radios in when he arrives at the location and again when he heads back home. Since there was a little disagreement on where they would actually catch any fish, she wasn’t surprised that she didn’t hear from him. At least until it started to get dark. Says he would have been on the way back and would have radioed that fact to her. That’s when she got concerned and called the coast guard. Lambert told me they found the boat abandoned and towed it in.”

  “Was it out of fuel? Maybe the men were stranded and had to leave it.”

  “Well, the lifeboat is missing,” Beau said. “But why wouldn’t Darragh have radioed for assistance? A captain isn’t going to leave his boat in those circumstances. Plus, Lambert said the Glory Be is equipped for long trips. She could have sailed to England on her normal fuel load. His men started the engine this morning and the tanks were nearly full. The boat was found only ten miles or so down the coast, and the fuel used was about right for that.”

  Sam mulled that over while she chewed a forkful of lettuce.

  “So, a boat goes out with several men aboard and comes back with nothing but some bloodstains.”

  “That’s the gist of it,” he said.

  “How many Americans w
ere there? I wonder if their whole party went out on the boat or if there’s someone here in the city who’s worried about them.”

  “There seems to be a little confusion over that question,” he said. “Deirdre Athy said two men came in to book the charter. Gave their names as Smith and Jones, but they didn’t show any ID or give addresses.”

  “That seems odd. Darragh O’Henry would have asked for that, though, wouldn’t he? The men would have needed fishing licenses. Maybe he wrote down more information on his copy of the paperwork and it’s somewhere aboard the boat.”

  “Possibly. Based on what Lambert told the younger officer who reported to him while I was standing there, they hadn’t found any manifest at all aboard the boat.”

  “Hm.” Sam popped the last bite of her bread into her mouth.

  “There’s more. Deirdre Athy said that the men’s gear didn’t look like the typical things guys take fishing. They had a suitcase, like you’d carry on an airplane.”

  “So, maybe they never intended to do any fishing at all. Maybe they wanted the trawler to take them to another destination.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense either. They could have rented a car to go down the coast. Right now the police don’t have enough information to rule out anything.”

  Sam glanced at her watch. The waitress had cleared their empty plates, but without pressure to vacate the table it was pleasant and tempting to let the afternoon slip by.

  “Maybe we should stop by the bookshop,” she suggested. “Bridget was nearly frantic for news of her uncle. I suppose you could tell her a little bit of what you learned, without messing up the police investigation.”

  Beau seemed reluctant to say anything about another jurisdiction’s case, but she could tell he was intrigued about the mysterious abandoned boat. Perhaps he could learn more than he gave away by talking to the family of the missing captain.

  Chapter 7