7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  Lambert called over his sergeant and explained what was expected of him—accompany Beau who would be the liaison to the American authorities and report everything back to the detective squad. Surprisingly, both men seemed entirely agreeable to working that way.

  By the time Beau broke away from the cluster of cops, Sam was decidedly grumpy—no lunch, no dinner, and pretzels weren’t cutting it. Plus, she was tired of getting the suspicious gazes of every passerby who saw her as the only obvious civilian in the sidewalk gathering.

  “Okay, my little princess,” Beau said, making up for forty-five minutes of ignoring her. “Let’s get some dinner and relax.”

  They ended up staying at O’Leary’s for dinner; the car was already parked and the choice didn’t involve making any mind-straining decisions. Taking a table in a hidden alcove, Beau pointed at another exit, obviously the way Deirdre and Quint had gotten past them.

  “Don’t fret over it, darlin’. They may not have seen you. Likely, Quint knew about this other door and it’s how he came into the pub in the first place.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she mumbled with her mouth full. She’d spooned into the bowl of Irish stew nearly the moment the waiter set it on the table. “Now I’m worried about her safety, after what you said. Do you think Quint still has the gun with him?”

  “No telling. It’s a strong piece of forensic evidence. He would have been smart to dump it in the ocean after he killed Darragh and Sean. But criminals don’t always do the smart thing.” He cut into the lamb chop on his plate. “Anyway, let’s relax tonight. There’s an APB out on Quint so every uniform in town will be watching. Tomorrow I’ll get together with Aiden Martin and we’ll start asking questions.”

  “Oh! Tomorrow! I completely forgot to tell you my big news.”

  When she dropped the bombshell that Terrance O’Shaughnessy was still alive, Beau went completely still.

  “What the hell was he thinking?” he demanded.

  “I know. Not exactly fair play, if you look at it that way. But I do get what he was trying to do.”

  She went on to explain, as much in Terry’s words as she could, why the charitable trust had fallen apart and how her uncle wanted to test people’s reactions before finalizing his will. Beau didn’t look too happy about the deception—honesty might well have been his middle name—but he let her tell the whole story.

  “And,” Sam said, “do you remember the carved wooden box he had in the bookcase in his study? When I asked Anna to open the door so I could examine it closer?”

  He’d gone back to his mashed potatoes. “Not really.”

  “Well, I got the chance to see and touch it. It’s nearly identical to mine, a little larger. When I asked Uncle Terry about it he said there was quite a story behind it. He promised to tell me about it tomorrow when I go back.”

  Beau smiled at her. “Sounds like you won’t mind, then, if I spend a little time in the morning with Aiden Martin, asking around about Quint Farrell.”

  Sam felt a momentary tug. As much as she enjoyed helping Beau whenever he let her, learning more from her uncle and solving the mystery of those odd wooden boxes was more appealing to her right now. She felt a lightness of spirit as they finished their meal. Finally, she would have answers.

  Back in their room, Beau turned to her. “I missed you today.”

  “I’ll miss you tomorrow, too,” Sam said. “My plan is to wrap up the details of Terry’s estate in the morning, make sure someone else’s ownership of the bookshop is finalized and airtight, and be done with that worry.”

  “My plan is to get enough information on Quint Farrell that the Irish authorities can nab him and extradite his ass back to New York.”

  “And then both of us will have the last few days of our honeymoon to spend doing nothing that isn’t completely enjoyable.”

  To emphasize the thought, he took her in his arms and planted tiny kisses across her forehead, along her right temple, to her mouth, and down her neck. Somehow they fell onto the bed and all those clothes managed to come off.

  “I like this honeymoon stuff,” she murmured as he ran his hands over her body.

  Sometime later, she drifted into a dreamless sleep and didn’t remember even rolling over until she awoke to bright sunlight the next morning. They lingered over a room service breakfast until the phone rang, Aiden Martin informing Beau that he’d arrived to pick him up.

  He gave Sam another lingering kiss and left her with the keys to the rental car. She showered and dressed then gathered her pack and the map of the town. After a few minutes in the driver’s seat, studying the unfamiliar layout of the controls, she headed toward Woodgrove Lane.

  The moment she approached Terry’s house her plans shattered, her mood plummeted. In the driveway sat a gleaming black hearse.

  Chapter 23

  A man in black came out the front door, directing two assistants who wheeled a gurney with its cargo, which made only a small lump under the white sheet. They guided it toward the dark vehicle while Sam parked and got out of her car. Her eyes began to blur. He’d been so frail, but so sharp in the way he made plans.

  On the doorstep, Anna Blake watched Terry’s body leave his home for the last time. Sam looked up at her with a thousand questions.

  “He was at peace with goin’,” Anna said as the hearse drove away.

  The two women walked into the house together.

  “Last night before he fell asleep, he told me he was happy to have met you, Sam.”

  The tears wouldn’t hold back. Sam felt her shoulders shake.

  “Let it out. It’s all right.” Anna handed her a box of tissues. Her own face was still a little red and puffy. “I found him when I woke up before daylight. Cold already, he was.”

  The door to the study stood open and they drifted that direction, settling into the two leather chairs in front of Terry’s massive desk. A hundred thoughts went through Sam’s mind, not the least of which was to wonder about the bookshop and its employees.

  “I’ve called Daniel Ryan,” Anna said. “Terry had a big envelope, his instructions. He told me where to find it last night.”

  Sam noticed a thick mailer bag lying on the desk. Beyond, the carved box was back in its spot in the bookcase. The painting covering the wall safe was back in place. Ryan or Anna had probably put everything back after her visit yesterday. She thought of the conversation she and Terry were to have this morning, how he was going to tell her the history of the box and how much she’d hoped it would give clues to the origins of the one she owned, as well. Regret flooded her and the tears flowed again.

  Anna quietly rose, saying something about tea, and left the room.

  Sam stared at the box in the bookcase, collecting herself. What was it about old people and these boxes? Did all of them have to die when they passed the boxes along?

  What am I thinking? This box isn’t automatically mine.

  But she knew. Unless he’d specified some other disposition for it, she knew Terry wouldn’t mind if she took this one. That line of thinking led her to the bigger question. What were Terry’s final wishes? Yesterday he’d only told her that the charitable trust didn’t exist anymore and that she didn’t have to keep the bookshop. But what had he done with all of his assets?

  The thick envelope stared at her, but she didn’t think it was her place to open it.

  Anna appeared in the doorway again with a tea tray in her hands and the news that Daniel Ryan had arrived. She set the tray on the desk and began to pour. The lawyer came in, offering condolences to both women. He picked up the envelope, bent the metal clasp upward and opened the flap. A glance inside, then he started to place it in his briefcase.

  “I’d like to know what it says,” Sam said. “My uncle and I talked yesterday. I would like to know if his wishes were put in writing.”

  Ryan reopened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’m sure they were. He signed this only a week ago.”

  “Terry used
to think of things at the oddest moments,” Anna said, handing Sam a teacup. “He would call me in and say ‘write this down.’ I would make notes and he would initial them. I suppose he thought, you know, in case he went in the night or something.”

  “After you arrived in Galway,” Ryan said, “your uncle seemed satisfied that he was ready to finalize his plans. We gathered all those little bits and put it together into this document. It was signed and all made duly legal.”

  “May I see it?” Sam asked.

  “No harm, I suppose. This was his copy. We’ve another at our offices.” He handed the pages to Sam. “I would suggest a reading of the will after the funeral. One of those documents includes his wishes for that, as well.”

  Sam reached for the envelope and placed the pages inside. She would read it all later. Privately.

  “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me,” the lawyer said. “Mick will be back in Galway tomorrow. He’ll certainly be available to you as well.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do and I can’t even formulate a question at the moment,” Sam said. “But thank you for being available.”

  “Hardiman’s can handle everything. Or you may become involved if you wish.”

  Sam remembered the undertaker’s professionalism at Darragh’s services. “Thank you.”

  She set her empty cup on the tray and stood up. “I suppose I better go by the bookshop and make sure everything is all right there.”

  Leaving the Tudor house, Sam felt the scenery passing in a blur. A hollow feeling settled in her core, so different than when she’d arrived an hour ago filled with anticipation at the stories her uncle would tell. When a horn blared at her because she inadvertently crossed into the wrong lane, she realized that she better be paying attention to driving on the left. She decided to park the car at the hotel and walk to the shop, rather than figure out the complex maze of one-way streets and limited parking in the shopping district.

  She walked in to find Keeva and Bridget in a somber mood.

  “You’ve heard about Terry.”

  They both nodded. “Anna called me,” Keeva said. “I’m afraid I had a few choice words for my sister over the idea that she’d known of the deception all along.”

  “I know. I was stunned by it too,” Sam said.

  “Ambrose nearly went into shock. Certainly wasn’t fit for working with customers after gettin’ the news. I took him home. He’s likely taken to his bed over this.”

  Sam thought of the older worker and his attachment to her uncle. Poor Ambrose.

  “I suppose we should talk about holding a proper funeral this time,” Sam said. “I’d like Ambrose to be in on the planning, if you think that would be wise.”

  “The poor dear never did find closure over Terry’s bein’ gone. It’s generous of you, Sam, to include him now.”

  Sam didn’t know about generous—mainly she wanted someone to guide the way so all the correct traditions would be observed.

  “Would it be all right to go by his house? I could talk to him about this.”

  Keeva nodded agreement.

  “Can you tell me how to get there?” Secretly hoping it was close so she wouldn’t have to get out in the car and traffic again.

  Bridget spoke up. “It’s a mite tricky to describe. I’d be happy to watch the shop if you want to take Sam over,” she said to Keeva.

  “That’s best,” Keeva agreed. She retrieved a jacket from the stockroom and joined Sam at the front door.

  “It’s not far,” she said to Sam as they walked along Shop Street.

  The day had turned surprisingly warm with a touch of Indian summer and a clear blue sky. The street made a dogleg turn and Keeva turned into a tiny alley, not wide enough for two to walk side-by-side. Sam followed into the gloom created by the three-story walls that rose above them. Fifty yards in, a set of stone steps rose to a green door. Keeva turned to Sam.

  “It’s not much, I’ll warn you. Ambrose can certainly afford better, but he’s a complete cheapskate. Keeps this bone-chiller little box and then puts his money by in the bank. For what? Some rainy day? As if we don’t have those all the time.”

  He answered their knock and stood back silently to admit them. After Keeva’s warning, Sam found herself surprised to enter the neat little square room, an efficiency apartment with a Murphy bed built into the wall. A closed door probably led to a bathroom. There were two upholstered chairs that had seen better days but were clean and neatly slipcovered. A short worktop with a small sink held a miniature microwave oven, and an under-counter dorm-sized fridge completed the cooking facilities. Mainly the room was jam-packed with shelves and books. Clearly, Ambrose’s love of reading extended into his entire life.

  His face seemed blotchy with color, his eyes puffy. Sam could only imagine his shock at having to face his mentor’s death for a second time. She leaned in to hug him and he actually allowed it and accepted her words of condolence. Keeva excused herself to go back to the shop, leaving Sam and Ambrose alone. They took the two chairs.

  “I met my uncle yesterday,” Sam said, relating how it happened that she’d been at his house when he fell and how their introduction came about.

  “I felt very lucky to talk with him awhile. I could see that his feelings for you and for the shop ran very deep.”

  The old man’s eyes became moist again. He cleared his throat a little too gruffly.

  “Ambrose, I would like your help,” she said, going into the explanation that Terry had left certain instructions but that Sam wanted input from his closest friend. “Would you mind being the family liaison with Hardiman’s Funeral Home and getting the arrangements put in place?”

  “If I could make a request,” Ambrose said, his voice coming out clearer now. “A proper wake—at Terry’s home?”

  “Of course! We should absolutely plan that. Perhaps you and Anna can decide on the food and get the word out to Terry’s closest friends? Naturally, I wouldn’t expect you back at work for a few days. Take your time, and don’t worry about the expense. I’m sure there is plenty to cover as nice a party as you want to do.”

  Ambrose sat straighter in his chair, leaning forward a bit as he spoke. “Oh, I won’t spend a grand amount,” he assured her. “But it should be done correctly.”

  “Thank you, Ambrose.”

  As she left the tiny apartment and retraced her steps, Sam felt the energy drain out of her. What a morning. She turned toward the docks a block sooner than normal, deciding not to stop in at the bookshop. Keeva and Bridget would handle it just fine. At the moment all Sam could think of was finding a quiet hour to process everything that happened this morning and to read through the documents in the envelope from her uncle’s desk.

  She rode the silent elevator and let herself into the room, glad for the first time ever that Beau wasn’t in. She dropped her pack on the bed and shed her jacket, thinking of tea. Maybe she was more Irish than she’d ever imagined, she thought with a tiny smile as she switched on the kettle.

  She’d just settled into a chair, freshly brewed cup of tea on the nightstand beside her, the copy of her uncle’s written funeral instructions in hand, when the door suddenly opened. Beau strode in, full of motion and smelling of fresh air.

  “Oh, hey,” he said. “I didn’t expect you back yet.”

  She gave him the nutshell version of what had happened and he immediately knelt beside her.

  “I’m so sorry, hon. You were so excited yesterday after you met him.”

  She nodded, not quite trusting herself to talk about her emotions.

  Beau held her a minute. “I told Aiden that I would be right back. I needed to grab something and the hotel was on the way . . . But I can tell him to go ahead without me. I’ll stay here with you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Beau. I’ll be fine.”

  He began rummaging through a dresser drawer.

  “So, tell me about your morning. Where are you guys going now?”

  “We fo
und a small Traveller camp on the north side of town, just like Saoirse said. And there were some Farrells staying there. But no Quinton Farrell. At least that’s what they said. But I could tell that seeing an American lawman on their doorstep was a little unnerving. They were prepared to bluff their way through a conversation with the local police, but they kept giving me the eye, like they weren’t sure what my connections were.” He pulled his cell phone out of the drawer and pressed a button.

  “Uh-oh, this thing’s dead.”

  Sam set her papers aside and pulled her own phone out of her pack. “You can use mine. So, what happened?”

  “We got another lead. An old man, nearby, not one of the Travellers. Looked like an old retired guy with nothing else to do. He was strolling the neighborhood and stopped to gawk a little when he saw us pull up. When we walked away from the caravan where we’d been talking to one of the Farrells, this man motioned us over and said he’d seen the guy we were asking about.”

  Sam had set her papers aside and watched Beau buzzing around the room, filled with nervous energy.

  “So, you’re heading out to check this lead?”

  He paused long enough to give her a close look. “Are you okay, being here alone?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Another wave of sadness washed over her and she felt her eyes well up. “I guess I’m not completely fine. Could I come with you? It would take my mind off all this other.”

  He debated for a second, torn between agreeing and staying in the room with her. “Darlin’, I’m not sure—”

  Her disappointment must have been evident.

  “You’d have to stay in the car.”

  “Okay. Deal.” She grabbed up her jacket and pack and caught up with him at the door.

  Aiden Martin seemed surprised and not entirely happy to see Sam but he kept his thoughts to himself as she slid into the back seat of his unmarked government car.