Saving Sharkey

by Felicity Nisbet

  “Ah, you flatter me.” He paused. “I think.”

  I laughed and followed Charlie down the front stairs of my house. We walked slowly along the road toward Sharkey’s wee bungalow. It was a luxury not to have to drive and therefore not to worry how much we consumed of that thirty-year-old single malt whisky Sharkey had promised us.

  Charlie stopped outside the gates, lightly touching my arm, and I knew he had the same feeling of trepidation that I was experiencing.

  “We can always leave,” I said, “if it turns into a rumble.”

  He laughed. “I fear it might.”

  “Between the daughter and the girlfriend or possibly the—?”

  He finished my thought. “The girlfriend and the housekeeper.”

  “My money is on the daughter,” I said.

  “Mine too, I have to admit. And if the son joins forces with the daughter—”

  “Aye, I did notice at the pub after the game, Maureen did speak fondly of her brother. I suspect they are very close.”

  “I observed that as well. I also observed that shortly after Maureen showed up at the pub, Aileen left.”

  “Ah, you noticed too,” Charlie said.

  “If nothing else, this evening should be interesting.”

  “Aye, that it shall be, even more so if the ex-wife makes an appearance. And, we’ve yet to meet the spouses of the son and daughter.”

  Before we could have second thoughts, the front door swung open. “Welcome, gentlemen!” Sharkey greeted us and swept us inside where he requested an update. I quickly informed him that there were no new developments.

  He ushered us over to his prized bar. We started with our usual beer. The Scotch would come after dinner. Sharkey’s son Declan was behind the bar, serving. His young wife, Susan, sat on a barstool beside Maureen’s husband, the infamous Andy Currie. A familiar threesome, I thought, as I recalled the day they had sat in the courtyard eating lunch, an event well captured in my photographs. After introductions, we pulled up barstools and settled in. The sun was setting over the Puget Sound and the Olympics. Another glorious Seattle day.

  “And your lovely daughter and your girlfriend?” Charlie inquired. “Will they be joining us?”

  “Aileen is in the kitchen supervising Sarai’s cooking.” He grimaced as he said it, and I felt immediate sympathy for the housekeeper as well.

  “And Maureen?”

  “Right here!” The striking redhead exclaimed as she made her entry. She headed for Charlie and me first, kissing each of us on the cheek as though we were old friends, then sauntered over to join her husband and sister-in-law.

  “White zin?” Declan asked.

  “Thanks, bro.”

  He poured her a glass and pushed it toward her.

  Andy intercepted it and took a sip before she could, giving her a look of warning. “Pace yourself, darling,” he said, his voice lowered. “You had two glasses at home.”

  Maureen’s scathing look had him setting down the glass. She scooped it up and took a long sip. The little rebel.

  Sharkey’s attention turned from the young couple to us as he introduced a safe subject. “Declan ran the West Seattle marathon on Sunday. Finished fifth overall.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “You’re looking awfully fresh for having just run a marathon a few days ago.”

  “Jacuzzi and several naps,” he said, grinning to show the dimples that matched his sister’s. While her hair was deep red, his was brown with flecks of red. Both shared the emerald green Irish eyes.

  “What was your time?” Charlie asked.

  “I had a good day. Just over two hours and twenty-four minutes. Just not fast enough for Olympic qualification. Have you ever run a marathon?”

  “Not I,” Charlie said. “I’m not that much of a masochist.”

  “And you, Malcolm?”

  “I’ve run four, all after I turned forty. Best time is far from yours—three hours, nineteen minutes at Long Beach.”

  “Good time for someone with your build.”

  I appreciated the acknowledgement. He was right. I was not built for marathons. Rugby, on the other hand . . . However, that career was behind me, thanks to the mandatory requirement of aging. “I think I’ll stick to tennis now . . . and soccer.”

  “Dad was telling me about the game. Looks like he knows how to recruit.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “This first game may very well have been a fluke,” Charlie said.

  “I doubt that,” Sharkey joined the conversation. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”

  The conversation and the drinks flowed nicely as the sun set and the tide ebbed. We learned that Maureen worked at her mother’s boutique—whenever she had the inclination, and not, when she didn’t. Or when she couldn’t tolerate being around her mother.

  Clearly Declan was the dreamer in the family, runner and cyclist by nature, bartender by trade. He worked at a five star restaurant in the city so income was nothing to frown upon. His wife Susan, while offering him her reserved affection, had a more ambitious edge to her.

  I laughed at myself. Charlie’s training. I would never enjoy a dinner party the same way I had before working with Charlie. Movie and book critics undoubtedly had the same dilemma.

  “And do you work as well?” Charlie asked Susan.

  “Yes, I do. I’m an accountant.”

  “Ah, you work with numbers, something that seems to elude me,” Charlie said.

  “Andy is an accountant too, with a different firm,” Maureen said as if she had not already provided us with that bit of information. She slid her arm possessively inside of her husband’s. “And before you say what a coincidence that is, Susan and Andy met in school. Susan introduced me to Andy, and Andy introduced Susan to Declan.”

  I bit back the temptation to say “small world,” one of my least favorite expressions. It made sense now, the friendship between the spouses, their luncheon in the courtyard, and the sympathetic glances they had exchanged more than once this evening. Commiseration, I suspected. I did not envy them. Despite wearing rings, they did not quite seem to be part of the inner family circle. That privilege seemed to be reserved for Sharkey and children.

  “And what kind of work do you do?” Susan asked us.

  “Well, Malcolm here is a physicist and a professor at the University.”

  Susan’s smile broadened. “How impressive.”

  “Which part?” Charlie asked. “Physicist or professor?”

  Susan giggled. “Both. Maybe you can explain the value of a good education to my darling husband.”

  Declan looked up from behind the bar. “I’m well educated, thank you very much.”

  Susan frowned. “If only you’d do something with that education— And don’t claim to be a chemist because you spend your time mixing drinks.” As she spoke the words, she smiled sweetly at her husband and leaned across the bar to kiss him on the cheek. “How about you, Charlie? What do you do?”

  “I’m a private detective,” Charlie responded.

  Her smile wasn’t quite as amiable as the one she’d offered me. Private detectives obviously did not rate as high on her list as physics professors. I decided that it would be prudent for more than one reason to not divulge to those in the group who were not already aware, that I too had my PI license. I took Charlie and Sharkey’s silence to mean that they agreed.

  “And Charlie teaches courses at the University,” Sharkey said. “And is a brilliant goalkeeper.”

  “Reserve judgment on that, if you don’t mind,” Charlie said. “I’m afraid I’m long past my glory days. Whereas you yourself still seem to be a gifted wing.”

  Sharkey laughed. “Sneaky, you mean.”

  “Aye, I did like the way you seemed to blend with the spectators on occasion, leaving yourself wide open for a pass.”

  “How did you meet?” Susan asked.

  Sharkey told her the tale of our meeting at the park. “And it’s about time we met, considering th
at we’re neighbors.”

  “Neighbors?” Andy asked.

  “Aye, I live across the street,” Charlie said. “And Malcolm lives a few doors down.”

  “Directly across the street?” Susan asked.

  “Very nearly,” Charlie said. “I don’t have quite the view these two blokes have, but mine will do just fine.”

  “And you’ve only just met?” Susan asked.

  “If Eddie came out of his house more often, we might have met sooner,” Charlie said.

  “I am a bit of a home body,” he confessed.

  Declan laughed at that. “Except when you’re on one of your many adventures.”

  “’Tis true,” Sharkey said.

  Just when I decided it was going to be a more pleasant evening than I had originally anticipated, Aileen entered the room. Her jet black hair hung over her shoulders as it had every time we’d seen her, but this time she was not wearing soccer shorts. She was dressed in a tight-fitted dark blue dress that showed almost as much of her legs as her shorts did, but far more cleavage than her jersey.

  “Hello, everyone. Dinner should be ready in five minutes.” Her Belfast accent was slightly tamed. “Declan can you pour me a beer?”

  “What kind of beer, Aileen?”

  “You know I drink Smithwick’s, Declan.”

  Ah, the familiar tension had returned, along with the chill I was certain would soon be freezing Aileen in her skimpy dress. So, the ill feelings were not

  only between girlfriend and daughter. Girlfriend and son were not fans of each other’s either.

  It turned out that I was right about her freezing in her skimpy dress, but for another reason entirely. As Declan handed her the glass of Smithwick’s, it tipped ever so slightly, spilling beer down the front of her dress.

  “Bloody hell! What did you do that for, Declan!” she yelled.

  “Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sure you are.” She grabbed a towel from behind the bar and dabbed it against her damp cleavage, all the while glaring at Declan.

  “Geez, Aileen! It was only an accident,” Maureen defended her brother. “Get over it!”

  “Did you not see him, did you not?” She looked from sister to brother. “You’re knowing yerself it twas no accident.”

  “Of course it was an accident,” Susan Sharkey stepped in to join Declan’s defense.

  “This is bollocks! There’s no such thing as an accident, now is there, Malcolm?” Aileen looked to me for support.

  Why me? “Well, in my field, we always look for the cause, the reason something occurred. Even more so in Charlie’s business, isn’t that right?”

  “Oh, aye, in the world of criminal investigation, no matter how much something appears to be an accident, we must assume it is not.”

  “But some things clearly are accidents,” Andy said, finishing off his wife’s glass of wine. “We’ve all had accidents before.”

  “Of course,” Susan agreed. “Surely you can’t possibly believe that nothing at all is accidental. Not everything that occurs has an ill intention behind it.”

  “Perhaps not on the conscious level,” I said, “at least according to Freud who truly believed that there is no such thing as an accident.”

  “In other words, Freud would say that unconsciously the woman who was in the news the other day because she accidentally dropped her baby, really wanted to on some unconscious level?” Susan’s tone was in sarcastic-attack mode. It was nice to know she was so profusely defending her husband whose spilling of the beer I did not categorize as an unconscious accident, but rather as a conscious effort.

  “And in your line of work, Charlie,” Andy jumped in with both feet. “Certainly some of the incidents you investigate must turn out to have been accidents, particularly if you investigate insurance claims. Car accidents, houses burning down due to electrical shorts, all sorts of things.”

  I smiled to myself. The only insurance claims Charlie McNair investigated were the ones that were sure to be fraudulent but no one else had been able to prove as such.

  “This is Freud’s theory,” Charlie responded. “And as I said, in my line of work, we must consider even the most apparent accident, a crime. Otherwise we would not be doing our job.” I could see from the slightly impish gleam in his eyes that he was as curious as I was as to why they had become so defensive and leapt to poor Declan’s defense, a defense that he did not seem inclined to justify himself.

  The evening was off to an interesting start. Maybe a rumble wasn’t so far off the mark.

  Chapter 4

  “Shall we go into the dining room?” Sharkey asked, leading the way. His children sidled up beside him, and as my curiosity got the better of me, I spotted him reaching into his pocket and handing them each a check. Two things were apparent. One, this was a well-established habit. Two, his actions were subtle enough that he hoped no one had noticed. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be the only one to disappoint him in that regard.

  Charlie and I hung back to see where the others sat. Positions were apparently assumed as Sharkey took the seat at the head of the table with his children on either side of him, their spouses beside them. When Aileen selected the chair opposite Sharkey at the far end of the table, Charlie and I took the two seats beside her, leaving empty the two extra places that were undoubtedly set in case we had brought dates. Apparently it was the hope that we and the spouses offered an adequate buffer between offspring and girlfriend.

  “If either of youse worked a decent number of hours,” Aileen said, “youse wouldn’t be asking your father for money every other day.” So I was not the only one who had noticed.

  Maureen’s glare outdid Declan’s. “And neither would youse,” she mocked.

  Well, we offered a physical buffer anyway. Nothing, I had a hunch, would buffer the verbal hostility. Or the antagonistic energy.

  “And we didn’t ask for money,” Declan pointed out. “Dad enjoys giving it to us.”

  Before Aileen’s response could escalate the tension, Sharkey stepped on her words. “Is dinner ready then? I thought you said it would be only five minutes.”

  Aileen’s voice was even colder, if that was possible. “That’s what I was told. Convincing Sarai to serve it is a challenge, it is.”

  “Maybe you should help her,” Maureen said.

  “Your father pays her well. She needs to earn her keep somehow.”

  Maureen’s retort sat on the edge of her lips. I could hear it as if it were spoken but it was stifled with a look of caution from her husband and a look of warning from her father. And from one of them, judging from her sudden wince, a not-so-gentle kick beneath the table.

  A minute later Sarai appeared with a lavish salad of greens and artichoke hearts, asparagus, and baby corn, not something she was likely to serve in Thailand. She was learning well and quickly, despite Aileen’s belief to the contrary.

  It did occur to me that the reason for Aileen’s unpleasantness toward the lovely housekeeper was the way Sharkey looked at Sarai. It seemed that he followed the Charlie McNair school of thought—to never pass up an opportunity to appreciate a beautiful woman, even if only in your thoughts. Perhaps it was not an effort on the girlfriend’s part to brandish her superiority in household stature, but quite simply an effort to mark her territory.

  As Sarai served us, the conversation resumed, this time dominated by soccer, Sharkey’s favorite subject and something—possibly the only thing—he and Aileen had in common.

  The salad was followed by haddock, mashed potatoes, green beans, and carrots and turnips. Sharkey knew how to prepare a menu for Scots. Aileen blithely took credit in response to our compliments.

  Sharkey said, “Did you do the preparation, dear? I do think we need to give Sarai some credit.”

  Aileen’s look was as icy as Maureen was capable of—something the two had in common. Together they could freeze the state of Florida. “I taught her how to cook a proper meal . . . and assisted.”

 
Surprisingly we made it through the meal with no further hostilities, at least none that was physical. Sharkey, Charlie, and I did our best to steer the conversation away from sore subjects. It would have helped if we’d known exactly what those were.

  Susan and Andy, relieved looks on their faces, happily chatted about their accounting firms, both very prestigious. Apparently they were the more ambitious partners of the marriages.

  “You mentioned your daughter lives on an island in the San Juans,” Sharkey jumped into the silence at one point.

  “Oh, aye, she moved only recently to Anamcara Island. Do you know it?”

  “Well, in fact. I own an island west of hers. It’s also in the San Juan chain.”

  “You own it?” Charlie asked.

  “Aye. It’s quite small, but beautiful as all the islands are. It has only the one house, a wee harbor and dock. It’s quite steep in parts, but I did manage to put in a soccer field.”

  Charlie and I laughed. “You didn’t,” Charlie said.

  “I confess I did. Not regulation size, but large enough to have some fun. We do have to import water, and electricity comes from a generator. Relatively primitive, but after growing up in poverty in Ireland, it is quite a luxury to me. There’s even a secret tunnel between the house and the dock.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “I kid you not.”

  “And the name of your island?”

  “Tara Island, after the Irish castle where the High Kings of Ireland were crowned long long ago.”

  “Excellent choice,” I said.

  “I’ll have to mention it to Jenny to see if she knows of it,” Charlie said.

  Having cleared the dinner dishes, Sarai appeared with coffee and a lovely trifle which Aileen proudly served.

  “I must say I enjoy getting away to the island when I can. We should take the cabin cruiser out there for a weekend. Do some fishing, hiking, maybe kick around the soccer ball.”

  “Great idea,” I said, my mind flashing to an image of Jenny. It would be easy to stop in for a visit on Anamcara to invite her along. Not wanting to miss an opportunity when it was handed to me, my eyes glancing toward Declan, then zeroing in on Andy, I asked, “Does either of you have a boat as well?”