An Early Wake

by Sheila Connolly

  Jimmy, his attention focused on the row of pints in progress lined up in front of him on the bar, spoke out of the side of his mouth to Maura. “You’ve stirred the pot, right enough.”

  “Things kind of took off. Think it’s a good thing?”

  “The music, yeh mean? Maybe. Or it may all blow away again.”

  Jimmy was a pessimist, Maura reflected. Of course, he’d seen a lot of people come and go in his time at Sullivan’s, so he might know better than she would. “Is there any place in Skibbereen that has this kind of thing?”

  Jimmy leaned against the bar to look at her. “Nah, although there’s a couple of clubs now, opened in the past year or two. But a different crowd there, younger—not likely to stop in here. The hotel in Rosscarbery books some events, but not in the off-season, and things are a bit more posh there. Bandon, maybe. Cork city, though I don’t get up that way much, so I wouldn’t know what’s on.”

  Maura checked out the room. Mick and Jimmy had things under control at the bar, so maybe she should go mingle, find out what people were actually talking about. She realized that she hadn’t talked to Billy at all—he’d slipped in while they’d all been distracted hunting for Aidan’s fiddle, and she’d been busy ever since. He’d probably take himself home before too long, so she should talk to him first—if she could pry him away from his circle of admirers, who seemed to be hanging on every word. She didn’t recognize the group, so they weren’t from Leap. But they didn’t look like tourists either. From Skibbereen, maybe.

  “You guys all set?” she asked, approaching the group.

  “Ah, Maura, have yeh met these fine lads from the town?” Billy asked, beaming. When Maura shook her head, he proceeded to introduce the circle to Maura, who smiled and nodded and wondered if she’d ever remember even their first names. “Maura’s the new owner here at Sullivan’s, and a fine job she’s makin’ of it. Not that she’s any Mick Sullivan—she’s a lot prettier!”

  Billy’s joke brought a laugh from the group. Maura smiled back and hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  Billy seemed to pick up on her reason for coming over, for he said, “Can I have a word with this lovely lady without yeh oafs butting in? Go get yerselves another pint.”

  To Maura’s surprise, the men complied, and they even went to the bar for the suggested pint. Maura dropped into a chair next to Billy’s. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “They’re after tellin’ me that this is better than the telly. A mysterious death, a nice young boy roughed up, the gardaí on hand, big-name bands thrown into the mix. What more could they want?”

  “I’m glad they’re having fun, even if I didn’t exactly plan it. I’d be happy if we could get the first part sorted out at least. Do you think the whole music thing worked? I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about it. Will Aidan’s . . . passing”—Maura found she was reluctant to call it anything stronger—“mess things up?”

  “Nah,” Billy said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll only add to the mystery of it all. It’ll spread the story even more. The gardaí will sort things out, soon enough.”

  “I hope so.”

  Billy recognized her intent. “I think I’ve told yeh, the place—the Sullivan’s that was—has been missed. It filled a need, but then it just kinda slipped away. Mick was a great friend, may God rest his soul, but he kinda let things go toward the end.”

  “Would people take me seriously, if I try to bring it back?” Maura asked. “I mean, I’m an outsider, and a woman, and I’m kinda young, so I don’t have the right kind of history. Or was this weekend a onetime thing?”

  “It’s not you that’s bringin’ ’em in—not that yeh aren’t a part of it, of course—but it’s the music. Yer walking a fine line, I’d say. It’s not music for the young ones, and they’ve their own places to go. You want the ones who remember the way it was.”

  Hard to market nostalgia for something she’d never seen. Maura debated telling Billy about the money they’d found in the fiddle case, but Sean had asked her not to say anything about that. Besides, they were surrounded by people who shouldn’t know that bit of information. Then she realized that Billy’s earlier entourage had returned and were hovering, respectfully, to reclaim their places in the circle. One of them held two pints and offered one up to Billy. “I’ll let you sit down again, boys,” she said, getting to her feet. “Great to have you here.”

  Business held steady until closing time, unusual for a Monday night. Toward the end Tim came over and dropped onto a stool in front of the bar. Maura thought he looked more settled than he had earlier—but who wouldn’t be unsettled by being kidnapped and threatened by a stranger in this peaceful area?

  “Can I get you anything, Tim?” Maura asked.

  “A coffee, please. Everyone in the place has been buying me pints all evening and I think me kidneys are floatin’. I’m glad I don’t have to drive anywhere.”

  “Did you learn anything helpful?”

  “About me mystery attacker? Or the long music history at Sullivan’s?” He smiled.

  “Either one.”

  “No one seems to have recognized the car, more’s the pity. But you’ll be glad to know that everyone loved the music, and they’re still talking about it. The general opinion is that Aidan’s death was a shame, but nothing worse.”

  Maura presented him with a mug of coffee. “How much longer do you think you’ll be around?”

  “I don’t have to be back in Dublin fer a week or two, and I’d like to talk with more of the others who remember the past—Billy’s given me some more names. The man’s memory is deadly, isn’t it?”

  Maura hoped that “deadly” meant something good, because she hadn’t heard it before. “He is. He’s like an institution here, and he’s definitely the keeper of memories. Listen, uh . . .” Maura stopped, unsure how to go about talking to Tim about Rose. She felt kind of responsible for her, since Rose had no mother. “About Rose . . .” She swallowed. “I hope you’re not just looking for a little fun. She’s kind of young, you know.”

  Tim smiled into his coffee, then looked up at Maura. “I like Rose, and I know she’s been lookin’ out fer me, and I’m glad of it. But I wouldn’t promise her anything I can’t give her, yeh know? And I think she knows that.”

  “All right,” Maura said. “Just be careful—or I’ll have to sic Jimmy on you. And I’d bet he fights dirty.”

  “I hear yeh. Thanks, Maura.” Tim drained his coffee and stood up, reasonably steadily. “I think I’ll go back across the road now, but I’ll be stoppin’ by tomorrow. I hear some of the musicians might be planning some kind of memorial to Aidan. He was one of their own, if not lately. I’d like to see that.”

  That was the first Maura had heard of that, but it seemed like a good idea. She said good night to Tim and watched him make his way across the street, glad to see him look both ways.

  And then Sean Murphy’s car pulled up.

  Chapter 21

  Maura checked her watch: just past closing time, not late enough to be a problem. She figured Sean’s arrival would probably clear out the last lingering patrons. They looked up as Sean came in, but when he clearly had no announcement for them, they started fumbling in their pockets for their keys.

  Sean made straight for the bar. Mick was the first to speak. “Any news?”

  Sean shook his head. “None to speak of.”

  Maura turned to Mick. “You and Jimmy might as well go home—I can handle the cleanup.”

  Mick looked at her for a moment without speaking, then collected his jacket and made for the door, Jimmy on his heels. The last of the patrons went out the door, leaving her alone with Sean.

  “You really haven’t learned anything?” Maura asked as she mopped off the top of the bar.

  “A bit. The Cork file arrived. The money came to a coupla thousand euros. A lot for a man like Aidan Crowley to be carrying around with him, but hardly a fortune.”

  “Still no relatives for him?”

 
“Not a one. Crowley lived at three different addresses in the past ten years, and not a soul at any of them remembers the man. He’d been on the dole a time or two, but not currently.”

  “Nothing more useful in that file?” Maura asked.

  “There were suggestions that Crowley had been involved on the fringes of the drug trade in the city. He had to have had some income. But no arrests, just suspicions.”

  “Have you talked to Niall about him?”

  “I did the other day, but I haven’t followed up with the man yet. I’ve been phoning Cork half the afternoon. I’d run over there meself, but I don’t know the neighborhoods, and I wouldn’t be welcome there. The Cork gardaí don’t want to trouble themselves—seems Aidan Crowley doesn’t make the cut for them, and I can’t say I’m surprised. We don’t know if he’d seen a doctor about his heart anytime recently, but it seems like it was a condition he’d had since he was a child—the coroner said she was surprised he’d lasted this long. They’re content to call it a natural death.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be frustrating for you.”

  “Have yeh learned anything new here?”

  “I don’t think so. After you left, Tim was a really popular guy, so maybe he picked up something from someone here.”

  “I’ll talk to him again. Putting this investigation aside, it may be that Tim is better off, knowin’ that Crowley’s not his da. Lets him hang on to a few dreams about who it might be, I guess. You told me yeh never knew yer own father?”

  Maura was surprised by the personal question, although they’d talked about it on their one, interrupted dinner date. “Yeah. He died when I was too young to know him, and I was raised by my gran.”

  “And yer mother?”

  “Took off. Not the maternal type, I guess. Never heard from her again—if Gran did, she didn’t tell me. So I guess I can understand Tim wanting to find someone to claim as his own. Although, like you said, maybe he’d rather hold on to a nice fantasy than be stuck with a down-and-out loser for a father.” At least her father, who’d died in a construction site accident, had been a decent and hardworking man. “What about you? You don’t talk about your family much. You come from around here?”

  “I do. Both parents alive and well. Five brothers and sisters, scattered all over—the youngest sister’s at uni in Cork. Me da’s still running dry stock in his pastures, and me ma worked in a real estate office before that business went bust.”

  “Dry stock—what’s that?” Maura asked.

  “Cattle. Steers, not milk cows. At least people are still looking for good Irish beef.”

  “There are cows down the lane past my house, but I don’t know whose they are or even what kind. They’re probably milk cows, since they have udders.”

  Sean smiled, clearly amused. “That would be a good indication.”

  “So what happens next? About Aidan, I mean,” Maura asked.

  Sean rubbed his hands over his face. “Wait for the rest of the reports from Cork. Keep talking to anyone else who comes forward. Truth be told, there’s not that much more to be done, and not much interest in doin’ it.”

  “Have you been looking for the guy who grabbed Tim?” Maura pressed, although she wasn’t even sure why it mattered to her.

  Sean shook his head. “Not much to work with there. Twenty people, including yerself, saw Tim get pushed out of a car. He was a bit distracted so he couldn’t tell us much about it. What description the others gave of the car comes down to a two-door or four-door sedan that was golden brownish red, unless it was gray. Not new, not old. Do yeh have anything to add?”

  Maura shook her head. “No. I only saw it through the window, and I didn’t even notice it until Tim fell out onto the street.”

  “No surprises there, then. There was a man driving it, clear enough, but no one seems to recall if he had hair or glasses or even a nose. We’ve Tim’s description of him, of course, but no one’s added to it.”

  “Think he’ll be back?”

  Sean shrugged. “Hard to say. If it’s the money he’s after, he doesn’t know we have it, unless you or Tim has spread it around. If it’s drug money, he may decide to cut his losses. He’s been drawing too much attention to himself. So that’s where it rests, then,” Sean said. He stood up. “I should let yeh get home—you’ve had a long day.” He hesitated, looking suddenly nervous, and looked around the empty pub. “Uh, there’s a show on at the hotel in Rosscarbery week after next, a comic who’s been on the telly. I was wondering if yeh’d like to go? I’d need to see to tickets.”

  Ah. Maura had been wondering if he’d get around to asking her out again. Their first date had been nice enough, but it had been cut short by a police call, and he hadn’t tried again, until now. Sure, she was a modern woman and could have asked him, but she’d been on the fence about that. No doubt Sean had a number of local lovelies pursuing him; employed, healthy young men were scarce in Ireland, especially rural Ireland.

  Now here he was in front of her, asking her out again. She liked Sean—he was a decent guy. She certainly trusted him. But did she want to go out with him? Maura felt like she was standing on a tightrope: if she said no now, that might end it for good. If she said yes . . . “Sure, I’d love to go. Sounds like fun,” Maura said. “Tell me which day and I’ll make sure somebody can cover here.”

  “Brilliant,” Sean said, looking relieved.

  Maura quickly changed the subject. “Oh, by the way, somebody said that Niall and his crowd might be planning some kind of memorial thing for Aidan, since a lot of them knew him—have you heard about that? Nothing’s been set up yet, but it might be like Saturday’s thing.” Only sadder. Or maybe not: she’d seen wakes in Boston that were anything but sad. “When I know when it’s going to be, let me know if I need to ask you guys to keep an eye on things—I have no idea how big this thing might be. Or you might want to come yourself and see who else shows up. Maybe out of uniform?” Oops, that almost sounded like she was inviting him to come, as a guest rather than a garda. Well, why not?

  “I hear what yer sayin’,” Sean said. “I’ve always fancied goin’ undercover. I’ll see yeh tomorrow, then. Safe home.”

  “You too.” She watched as he left, then she came out from behind the bar to take one last pass through the back room. Nothing seemed out of place, but this time she walked up the stairs to the balcony and checked the back and side doors to make sure they were locked. She hadn’t had the time to ask about getting the locks replaced, but it was probably pointless—a strong man leaning against either door would open it.

  She went back down the stairs, turned off the lights, and shut the door to the back room firmly behind her. In the front room she collected the last few glasses and set them behind the bar. She gathered up the last euros from the top of the bar and put them in the cash drawer. A respectable take, although nothing like the past weekend. But if the pub’s income held at anything like this level, she wouldn’t complain.

  And then she took the money out again. The way things were going at the moment, she figured it would be safer with her than in the pub. She closed and locked the drawer, turned off the lights, and went home.

  *

  In the morning, Maura counted the cash she’d brought home and filled out a deposit slip, then sat at her kitchen table eating breakfast and dreaming, something she rarely did. When she’d arrived she’d done all the necessary things to set up a bank account for the business in her own name, but she admitted to herself that she was kind of sloppy about balancing the checkbook regularly, and she hadn’t even thought about working out the overall income and expenses for the pub until recently, once the first six months had passed. She wondered yet again whether there were any business taxes in Ireland and told herself to find out before she faced a nasty surprise. Soon. Once the tourist season was over for the year. Mostly she’d been operating month to month, giving Mick and Jimmy and Rose their hourly wages in cash, and paying the distributors and the power bill. But she really had no ide
a what kind of a profit they were making, and she had been kind of afraid to find out. At least there had always been some money in the bank—she hadn’t scraped bottom or bounced any checks—but that was as much as she could say. But now? Saturday’s music had brought in an amazing crowd, and the income had given her enough to tide the business over for months—more than she’d ever expected or hoped for. Even the past few days had added to the total. When all the dust settled, she’d think hard about trying to keep it going—with the help of some people who knew something about who was who in music these days, because she certainly didn’t. Would Mick know? He’d recognized most of the older guys who had showed up, but would he know the new crop? Who else could she ask? Maybe in the dead of winter things would be slow, and she could do some basic research, see if she could get Sullivan’s listed in tourist brochures, stuff like that . . . Maura had never planned to run her own business and hadn’t exactly prepared for it. Yet maybe it didn’t matter: so far the best promotional route she’d seen here was word of mouth, and that she couldn’t control anyway beyond doing what everyone said Old Mick had done: offer music and drink and the people would come. Now she’d seen it herself.

  She decided to make another quick trip to the bank in Skibbereen and deposit the previous day’s take, which was still larger than average. She didn’t like having that much money just sitting around. But that would mean no time to stop by and talk with Bridget this morning, not if she had to make a trip into Skibbereen before she opened the pub. Not that it was any great hardship to go there: she really liked the town, and from what she’d seen, it was a busy place, with lots of people on the streets at any time of day—women shopping, school kids coming and going, trucks delivering stuff. At least she finally felt comfortable navigating her car through the one-way streets, and she knew where to park.