Cruel Winter: A County Cork Mystery

by Sheila Connolly

  “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us by the fire. And for soup. It’s hot.”

  “We’ll see. But again, thank you.”

  Maura gave up her efforts. She felt sorry for the woman, who seemed very alone. And she wanted it that way, Maura reminded herself. She’d done the same thing herself more times than she wanted to count in bars and low-end restaurants back in Boston, where conversation with strangers could be annoying at best and dangerous at worst. How long ago had Mick said this crime had happened? Twenty-odd years? Surely Diane must have moved on with her life since then. Maura wondered idly why she had waited so long to sell the family property if that was indeed what she was doing here in Ireland. Had she hoped things would change, that the murder would be solved and clear her name, or at least that people would forget? Or had she been reluctant to let go of that piece of her past—the part before the death had upset things and driven her away under a cloud?

  On her way back to her place by the fire—still vacant, since all the men still seemed to be happier at the bar, now that they had some of Rose’s soup in their stomachs—Maura stopped and leaned over the bar. “Rose, you’re a genius. Is the bread gone?”

  “I’ve held back a bit, since this is all we’ve got until the storm ends. There’s plenty of soup—have you had yours?”

  “Not yet. How many pints has this lot had so far?” She nodded toward the cluster of men. Seamus and Danny, Liam and Donal—and Maura was annoyed to see that Jimmy had joined them and had a glass of his own in hand.

  “I’m guessing this’d be their second round—not that I’ve been counting,” Rose said. “Did you want me to?”

  “No, don’t bother,” Maura told her. “We’ll make it up somehow, and there aren’t that many people drinking here. Though those who are may get rowdy after a while if they keep drinking.” Maura added a mental note to herself to check that the men’s bathroom was stocked with paper supplies. And maybe a light?

  “Ah, Mick can keep ’em in line,” Rose said with assurance. “You needn’t worry. Might we ask the Dublin boys fer some music later? That’d keep ’em busy.”

  “Only if they’ve brought acoustic instruments with them. No power, remember?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But they might have tin whistles and drums,” Rose said hopefully.

  “I can ask ’em.” Maura stood up again. She was restless, unused to just sitting and doing nothing. Well, maybe talking to people wasn’t exactly nothing, but she wanted to be busy, and besides, moving kept her warm. Mick and Jimmy had the bar covered between them, serving the men in the room, except Old Billy, who was doing what he always did; Rose was cooking; Gillian was sitting with her hands over her baby bump—What a silly term, Maura thought—dreaming of who knew what. Maybe Harry sweeping in on a white horse with his pockets full of cash?

  She approached Liam and Donal, who were standing together at the far end of the bar, on the fringes of the group of men who all knew each other. With the exception of Rose and maybe herself, they were easily the youngest people in the room. She still hadn’t worked out all the details for booking of musicians yet; mostly she invited people who had been recommended, but the results had been mixed, although in general the crowds had definitely been enthusiastic. Should the pub adopt a particular style of music, like traditional or contemporary, or just go with whatever came along? She hadn’t decided.

  “Hey, Lafferty brothers, think you could give us some music? If you don’t need electricity for your instruments?”

  The two young men exchanged a glance. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

  “What’ve you got?” Maura shot back. “Believe me, we won’t be picky, and you’ve got a captive audience here.”

  “So we do. Liam, you up for throwin’ a few songs at them and seein’ what sticks?”

  “Why not?” Liam said, and the pair went into the back room to retrieve their instruments. They did a bit of tuning before coming back and settling on a pair of chairs. Without any announcement, they started in on a tune even Maura recognized, although she couldn’t put a name to it. After a startled response, Seamus and Danny picked it up, as did one of the strangers—and they all knew the words. Billy smiled, although he didn’t sing. Maura nodded toward Rose, then toward the players, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rose added a sweet soprano. They sounded great, at least to Maura’s ears.

  Since everyone was happily occupied, Maura decided to make the rounds of the pub. If nothing else, she could check where there was cold air leaking in, so she could fill those cracks when the snow stopped. And what the heck were they going to do about sleeping? Billy could go home, since “home” was only a matter of feet away. Heck, if the sidewalk was dangerous, the guys here could carry him home. But that still left another—she counted on her fingers—five who might want to sleep sometime, plus Gillian and Jimmy and Rose and Mick. And herself. That made ten. Where could she put them all? Maura grabbed up a torch and marched up the stairs to check out the rooms up above. Nobody seemed to notice her leaving. She could hear the music clearly even upstairs.

  Damn, it was cold. Was there no heating in the rooms? Or had somebody turned it off years ago? Well, duh—why waste heat if nobody was using the rooms? But she should check to make sure everything still worked—just not tonight. She had no idea the last time Old Mick had been up here, although some of the visiting musicians had said they used to crash here. She should have brought a notepad along to make notes to herself, but it was hard enough stumbling around in the half dark, trying not to drop the flashlight. So, upstairs: three bedrooms and a bath. She knew the plumbing worked. Last time she’d looked, the rooms were filled with years’ worth of discarded stuff in boxes and piles, just like the cellar. Clearly Old Mick had never thrown anything out. The only reason she could get around her house—once Mick’s—was that somebody had cleared Mick’s stuff out after he had died. It had been pretty Spartan when she moved in. What were the odds someone had stashed a supply of blankets up here? Slim to none. There were no beds in sight, and nobody had taken a bath in the bathroom in a very long time, although at least the toilet flushed.

  The tempo of the music below picked up, which was probably a good thing. Maura prowled around aimlessly, peering into boxes and shutting them again. She wandered over to a front window, from which she could see . . . nothing. Not even the snow. All the lights, on the street and in the other buildings that lined it, were out. She thought she saw the bobbing light of a flashlight over at Sheahan’s across the street, so she waved her light in that direction. Whoever held the one over there waved back. At least there was someone else out there.

  Focus, Maura! What to sleep on downstairs? The musicians said they had their own sleeping bags—that was two people taken care of. Two more people could take the upholstered chairs, which meant pregnant Gillian and maybe Old Billy. That left . . . how many? Mick, Jimmy, Rose, Seamus, his friend Danny, and herself. Seven more people, which made it nine total, plus the odd stranger or two who might still wander in. No, she’d forgotten Diane, who made the total ten in need of something to sleep on or in. Would anyone share space with Diane, thinking she might be a killer? Who was likely to know about that? Mick, probably Jimmy and Old Billy for a start, and Seamus. Heck, just call it everybody, for if they didn’t know who Diane was yet, odds were short that the secret wouldn’t stay secret much longer. Well, it wouldn’t kill them to spend a night on a bare floor with her, but nobody would get much sleep. And poor Diane would probably be left in the cold corner, just in case she might be dangerous.

  Maura felt a surge of excitement when she spied some long bulky rolls shoved against the back wall of the last room. Please be rugs! she prayed. When she tugged at the nearest one, she smiled: rugs they were. Filthy, of course, and they’d probably gotten wet more than once, but at least they’d be softer than old flagstones downstairs—and warmer too. And they might block any drafts that swept across the floor. First bit of good news she’d had fo
r a while, and how silly was that? Getting excited about some old dirty rugs?

  She didn’t see anything else that could possibly be useful, so she went back downstairs. Nobody seemed to notice because they were absorbed in the music. Jimmy was behind the bar now, obviously not singing, and looking grumpy. “What?” Maura demanded. He didn’t say anything, so Maura moved on to, “Any change in the weather?”

  “How’re we to know? Can’t see a thing out there,” Jimmy grumbled.

  Diane finally came over. “May I?” she said, taking an empty mug.

  “Of course,” Rose said. “Let me fill that fer yeh. There’s plenty more for those that want seconds.” She went into the kitchen and emerged a minute later and handed Diane the mug. She took it gratefully and perched on a stool at the end of the bar. Maura was reminded of a feral cat approaching cautiously, drawn in by hunger. At least she’d moved a few feet closer, and now she had some food.

  Gillian still had her own mug, wrapping her hands around it. Old Billy seemed to have finished his. “Should we add more coal to the fire, do yeh think?” Rose asked him.

  “Might be a few more lumps would do,” Billy told her.

  Rose knelt and stoked the fire and stood wavering for a moment. “Rose, sit down and have some soup,” Maura told her. “You’ve been working harder than anyone, and you’ve earned a rest.”

  “Ah, I had a grand time. Mebbe I should think about a restaurant. Or openin’ the kitchen here.”

  “We can talk about that now that we’ve got more people coming in for the music. But let’s take it slow.”

  Seamus and Danny came back for seconds, but they were strangely polite about it. “What’s fer dessert?” Donal—or was it Liam?—called out, and some people laughed.

  Rose dimpled. “There’s apples, and might be I brought back some biscuits, and we can make tea. If you lot wash yer dishes first, that is.”

  “Rose, you are amazing,” Maura said with admiration.

  “What time is it?” Seamus asked.

  Mick pointed at the clock over the bar, which luckily was battery run. “Gone seven. You meetin’ someone?” That question met with laughter.

  “What’re we gonna do without the telly?” Danny said plaintively.

  “You’re tired of singing already? You want to play charades?” Maura suggested. She wanted to divert the men from drinking, at least for a while.

  Most of the men looked blankly at her. Had they never heard of charades?

  Jimmy had been leaning against the back counter behind the bar, not saying much. Now he spoke, and his tone was anything but cheerful. “Seems like someone’s already been playin’ games wit’ us,” he said, his tone surly.

  Maura wondered how much he’d had to drink—she’d never known him to pass up a free pint, but it might be getting to him now, and he’d been in a mood all day. Had Mick questioned him about the missing oil? That might have set him off. And then the significance of what Jimmy was saying dawned on her: Was he talking about Diane? And why? Did he just feel like making trouble? She glanced at Mick, who looked as concerned as she felt.

  “Leave it be, will yeh?” Mick said to Jimmy.

  “And why should I do that? Why should the likes of her”—he nodded toward Diane, who sat as still as stone on her stool—“be welcome in this fine establishment?”

  Maura stepped between them. “Because I invited her to stay, Jimmy. This is my place, remember? Drop it.”

  He didn’t. Jimmy’s lip curled. “And do yeh know what kind of woman yer harborin’ in yer place here? A killer, is what.”

  “Jimmy—” Maura began, but she was interrupted when Diane walked over to where Jimmy was standing and said, “You’d be talking about me, I assume?”

  Maura stepped forward as well. “Diane, you don’t have to—”

  Diane didn’t move from her position in front of Jimmy—a little too close for his comfort. She turned her head slightly toward Maura. “Yes, I do, Maura, though thanks for defending me. But it’s clear that some of you in this room know at least some part of the story. The old house is sold, so this may be my last trip to this country. We’re stuck together for the night, through no fault of mine. Do you want to hear the story? The true story, that is?”

  Some people in the room looked bewildered, but it was clear that more knew what Diane was talking about. Including Maura, thanks to Mick. She stepped forward and said in a low voice, “Diane, you don’t have to do this. It’s nobody’s business but your own.”

  Diane turned to face the others in the room. “Maura, thanks for trying to spare me, but just this once, I’d like to tell my story my way. The papers, the news people, they all branded me as guilty from the start. But the gardaí could never find enough to arrest me, much less take me to trial. I’ve kept quiet for years now, but I want someone to hear what really happened.” Diane surveyed the small crowd. “Those of you who can’t stand the company, feel free to leave.” Diane’s mouth quirked, and Maura was obscurely pleased to find she had a sense of humor.

  Maura came up beside her. “I, for one, don’t know the story, and I say we let her speak. You have anything more important to do?” Nobody said a word. Maura turned to Jimmy. “Jimmy, you have a problem with that?” Maura demanded.

  Jimmy realized he was in the minority. “Ah, let her go on. It’s nothin’ to me.”

  “Then you’d better refill your glasses, because I’m guessing it’s not a short story. Jimmy, a word with you in the back?”

  Jimmy looked startled for a moment, then followed her reluctantly into the cold back room. “What’re yeh after?” he said when they were sure no one would overhear.

  Maura struggled to control her anger. “What you just did—that was wrong, Jimmy.”

  He shrugged. “I thought the others had a right to know who they were sharing space with. I’d wager most of them know the story anyways.”

  “You had no right,” Maura hissed. “Diane is a guest in my pub, and I’m the one who gets to decide who stays and who goes. Not you. And I’m beginning to think maybe you don’t belong here. How long have you been helping yourself to my oil?”

  At least he looked momentarily sheepish before he turned belligerent. “So what if I’ve taken a bit? With the wages yer payin’ me, how can I afford to keep my own place warm?”

  “You’re getting as much as I can afford to pay you. Feel free to look for another job if you’re not happy working here.”

  “Mebbe I will,” he said.

  Wherever the talk might have gone, it was interrupted by a burst of noise from the front room: the front door flung back, loud male voices, stamping of feet. “What the hell?” Maura muttered, and turning her back on Jimmy, she hurried out front. The room seemed filled with newcomers: two older guys and a cluster of—she counted—four twenty-something guys, clearly drunk.

  “What’s going on here?” Maura demanded.

  One of the older men volunteered, “I found this lot in a ditch by the side of the lane while I was drivin’ past. No way was I goin’ to try to haul them out on this night, and so I bundled them into my van and made for Leap. Yours were the first lights I saw, and here we are.”

  “Nobody’s hurt?”

  “Nah,” the other man said. “God protects fools and drunks, and these lads qualify for both. Is that food I smell?”

  “It is. Welcome to Sullivan’s. I’m the owner, Maura Donovan. And you’re not getting anything more to drink before you’ve put some food in your stomachs,” Maura told them firmly.

  “Yer a hard woman but a fair one, Maura Donovan.” The man turned to the group of younger men, who looked unsteady on their feet. “Lads, behave yerselves, and yeh’ll get some food and a warm place to sit. I’m guessing we won’t be going any farther this night.”

  “I think you’d be right about that,” Maura said. “Sit if you can find a chair. Rose, find some clean mugs and give this lot some hot food.”

  “Coming up, Maura.”

  Eight

&nb
sp; When Maura had sorted out the newcomers, she turned to find that Diane had faded into a corner again. She sidled up to her, keeping an eye on the sudden crowd. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Diane asked.

  “Because you thought you finally had a chance to tell your story after all these years, and then this bunch of drunken idiots shows up.”

  Diane shrugged. “Maybe it’s a sign from the heavens—my time here in Ireland is done. I’ll just go home quietly whenever the snow stops, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Why did that feel wrong to Maura? It was none of her business. Diane had come back to take care of one last legal detail, and it was purely by accident that she’d ended up in Sullivan’s.

  But maybe she recognized something of herself in Diane’s reserve. She kept her troubles to herself, and she didn’t ask for or expect help from anyone else. Had Diane always been like that? Or had being a murder suspect changed her? The event had happened a long time ago. But, as Maura had learned, memories in Ireland were long. Maura decided to allow herself one more question, and then she’d put it aside and get back to business.

  She turned to face Diane, who was still watching the crowd warily, although they paid no attention to her. “Diane, did you kill who they say you did?”

  Diane turned to her, studying her face. “No, I did not. I can see why the gardaí might have suspected me, but they never found enough evidence to arrest me. Because there was no evidence to be had.”

  “So in the end, you just walked away from Ireland?”

  “More or less. I think it was a mistake to come back now—I could have handled the transaction by post. But I wanted to see the place one last time. I don’t suppose that makes sense to you—you’re an American and younger than I am.”

  “True. But I know how my grandmother who raised me felt about Ireland, about this village and Cork. She didn’t shove it down my throat because she wanted me to be an American. She never told me that she kept in touch with people around here. But I know what you mean about memories. I showed up here last March, and everybody knew exactly who I was. They knew more about my family than I did.”