“Aye. Mairéid told me.”
“Hope to see you there. And, I need to place an order for delivery.” Griff paid an additional amount for several dozen bottles of wine, then Isleen went into the kitchen. He sipped his pint and swiveled his stool to face Jane. “How’s your wine?”
“Nice. You know, bold and all that.” Jane talked low, not to be overheard. “The funeral’s tomorrow already? That’s Saturday.”
“He died five days ago, Monday night.”
“Right. I guess it’s been that long.”
“Mairéid’s planned it. You should come to the wake at least.”
“Should I?” Jane’s voice rose in a question.
“Have you ever been to an Irish wake?” Amusement lit his blue eyes, the ones capable of turning dark one minute and clear and reflective the next.
“N-n-no.” She drew the word out.
“You and your friends don’t want to miss it. It’s tonight at the castle.”
“All right, thanks. I’ll check with the others.” Jane hesitated a moment, then asked, “Griff, is there some kind of fight between you and your cousin?” She was interrupted when Isleen settled two baskets of fish and chips in front of them. When the bartender left, she asked, “Is there some kind of property dispute?”
“Mairéid’s not getting the castle.” He shook his head, as if it was all too incredible. “She believes she is, but she’s wrong. That’s all. It’s just typical of her. She’s jealous because I was closer to her da than she was.”
Jane perked up. Was this a clue? “Tell me more about your cousin.”
A man, with a flat cap on his head and a jangling pocket full of change, punched up a song on the jukebox. Griff looked as if he was waiting for the song to start. When the music began with, you need some lovin’, tender lovin’, he said, “Well, Uncle promised the castle to me when Mairéid turned down the manager’s job years ago. Then, just recently, she starts in on Uncle to leave it to her.” He took a bite of his fish.
“According to Isleen, Mairéid thinks she owns the castle.” Jane wrinkled her forehead in a perplexed frown and entwined her feet around the legs of her stool.
“Mairéid can think what she likes. Uncle left the castle to me.” Griff drank deeply from his pint, then wiped the froth off his upper lip.
She filched a couple of chips from her plate and dipped them into the ketchup before taking a bite. After wiping a napkin across her mouth, she took a sip of her wine, set the glass back on the bar, and fiddled with the stem of the wine glass. Finally, she asked, “Griff, did your uncle have any enemies?”
He took her fingers in his and raised her hand to his lips. “Is this how you investigate, a mhuirnín?”
Her fingertips brushed against the scratchiness of his chin when she pulled her hand back. “Yes. It would help to know more about him.” As long as the police were still asking questions, she needed to, as well.
He rotated his stool forward to face the counter and leaned both forearms across the bar. “Let’s see…enemies…Ryan and Uncle argued, remember? And, Bruce would take his cousin’s side, wouldn’t he?”
“But Ryan recommended your place to us. He wouldn’t’ve done that if they were enemies.” Jane stabbed a chip at Griff. “What about that guy with your cousin?” She popped the chip into her mouth.
“Sean Smithwicket.”
“Yes, him. Does he have a motive?”
“Motive? For what?”
How could she say this without sounding rude or inconsiderate? “A reason to dislike your uncle, a reason to harm him.” Should she tell Griff about seeing the two, Mairéid and Sean, on the street corner looking like they were up to something? Although she wasn’t sure what something they were up to. Griff was absorbed in his food and didn’t answer, so she asked, “What did the police find when they searched the castle?”
“Nothing.” He set down his fork and rubbed under his chin with the back of his hand. “The police have it all wrong. Uncle’s death was natural, he had some kind of a fit and choked, all on his own. He was old, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Griff.” A jovial man with a wide grin laid a heavy hand on Griffin’s shoulder. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hovered about his frame. “What’s the craic?”
The two men were soon off on a conversation of their own. She sat back and ate some more of her lunch, trying to avoid the stares of the people who all appeared to know Griff and were doubtlessly trying to figure out where she fit in. Isleen sidled up on the other side of the bar across from Jane to wipe the sticky counter with a damp rag. Jane asked her, “What does ‘uh-were-neen’ mean?”
“A mhuirnín, darling, something that’s dear.” The bartender shuffled away to wait on another customer.
“Oh.” Jane flushed. What a flirt! But what woman would mind the attentions of this handsome Irishman?
Her cellphone flashed a text message from Dale, a happy face followed by an explanation that he’d made it home safely. She replied with a thumbs up emoji. Feeling terribly insecure, she’d need to get off by herself to think through what she wanted to say to him before calling him back.
Jane slid her notes from her purse and jotted down Mairéid’s name and the words, “inherit the castle,” with a question mark. As she tucked the notes back into her purse, Griff glanced her way, and his face split into a reassuring smile, one of those smiles that gives a person confidence and a lift, just the shot in the arm she needed.
They’d polished off their lunch. Griff looked at his watch. “We should be on our way.” His friends gathered around to say goodbye, and several told Jane to come back soon for a visit.
They traversed the cobblestone streets to where they’d left the scooter. On the ride home, she breathed in Griff’s peaty scent—smoky and earthy—and wrapped her arms around his waist as they went over a bump on the country road. Perched on the end of the motor scooter, crushed to his back, was pretty intimate. What was Griff really like? He hadn’t yet gone through the grieving process fully. In fact, he was in denial that someone may have had a hand in his uncle’s death, as she thought might have been the case.
Was it possible Griff was right? Was his uncle’s death natural? Or was it murder?
Chapter 9
A Ford KA careened into the driveway in front of the castle, spraying gravel near Griff and Jane sitting on the red Vespa. Olivia was at the wheel, and Doug’s white face was plastered against the passenger window. He cracked open the door and rolled out onto the pavement, then got to his feet, bracing himself on the hood. “We shouldn’t’ve let her drive.”
“I can’t come to the Emerald Isle and not have a turn driving on the left, Douglas.” Olivia emerged from the right side of the vehicle. “And I did a pretty good job of it, too.”
“Tell that to the guy you ran off the road.” Doug drew a hand across his forehead.
Olivia stuck out her lips. “I wasn’t that bad. Tell him, Cheryl.” When Cheryl didn’t answer, Olivia said, “Tell them, Bruce.” No one said a word.
Cheryl walked over on shaky legs. “What have you been doing?” Her gaze darted between Griffin and Jane.
Jane let go of her tight hold around Griff’s waist. She hoped she didn’t have a guilty look on her face. She wasn’t hugging him, just holding onto him. There was nothing to feel guilty about. “How were the cliffs? You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
Doug said, “I need to go lay down first.” Bruce helped Doug through the front door, and everyone else trailed in after them.
Griff turned to Jane. “The lads from the pub are supposed to arrive soon with the sandwiches for the wake tonight. I’ll see you later.”
“All right.” She left him and lit out after her friends. “Wait for me.”
Standing in front of her room, Cheryl volleyed her words over her shoulder, “Come on, hurry up,” and held the door open.
Jane breezed in and sat at the end of the bed. Bruce was in the chair by the window. Olivia appeared in the doo
rway, explaining, “Douglas is lying down.”
Cheryl said, as she slid off her shoes, “The cliffs are fantastic. You were right, they’re definitely worth the drive.” Bruce and Olivia nodded in syncopation, like toy bobble heads.
Olivia put a hand on her hip. “You didn’t tell me, Jane, that there’s a memorial to all the people who died from being swept off by the winds. I can’t believe there aren’t safety barriers to keep people from the edge.”
Cheryl added, “We each wrote a note to leave on the monument.”
“That was a nice thing to do, but I don’t remember the memorial.” Jane’s voice had sounded wiggly and high at first, then she’d steadied it.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would walk close to the edge of the cliff, but we did see people do it. They went right past where the wall ends and kept going. Some of ’em even had kids with them.” Bruce pantomimed holding a baby in his arms.
Jane tried to say something, but sadness silenced her tongue.
Cheryl plopped down on the other side of the bed. “After we left the cliffs, we rode tandem bicycles in the Village of Doolin.”
Olivia leaned against the doorframe, lifted her left foot, and rubbed the instep. “We had to ride up a lot of hills. I could hardly make it up that last one. But the views of the Atlantic were worth it.”
Jane pictured the couples cycling along the road ahead with herself lagging behind on her tandem with an empty seat. Glad not to have gone, she asked Cheryl, “What are we doing tomorrow? Did we decide not to see the Blarney stone?”
“That’s right. The guidebook says it’s overrated, and Ryan told Bruce the same thing. We have the castle guided tour tomorrow.” Her friend smoothed out the pillow at the headboard. “By the way, I found a plastic spider under this pillow. I knew it wasn’t real.”
“Yeah, well I found the plastic snake under the window in my room. Someone forgot there aren’t any snakes in Ireland.” Jane fluttered her eyes to give them a cool look, like nobody could fool her.
“What did you end up doing today, Jane? Did you go somewhere with Griff?” Bruce spread out in the chair with his long legs in front of him.
“I read in my room for a while, then I hung out with Griff. We rode his scooter to Ballysimon and went to a pub for lunch. It was fun.”
Cheryl wagged a pointed finger. “Do you have more fun with him than us?” Jane gaped at her friend, who said, “Never mind. I just wish you’d come with us that’s all.”
Jane lifted one shoulder and let it fall. Cheryl knew why Jane didn’t want to go. Enough said. “Another thing we need to do, we should see Ryan. He came by this morning. He was upset the police interviewed him.”
“What?” Bruce’s tone was sharp, not his usual playful tone, but cutting-edge, razor sharp.
Jane was quick to point out, “I didn’t speak to him myself, so I don’t know anything more about it.”
“I’ll call him now. I was going to phone him today anyway.” Sitting forward in the chair, Bruce tapped the buttons on his cell. Ryan must have picked up because Bruce talked in a low voice into the phone. He ended the call with, “All right. Let’s get together again.” Bruce explained to the rest of them, “Ryan said the guards had been to see him all right, but everything’s in order. There was nothing wrong with the old man’s tablets, he said. I think he meant his pills.”
They gave each other looks of relief, but Jane made a mental note to add this information to her list of clues, such as it was. “I almost forgot, the wake is tonight. Griff said we should come to it.” She flashed her friends a radiant, dare-we-do-this smile.
Cheryl’s lips twitched, as if she was trying to keep the excitement buried, but couldn’t. “A real Irish wake. Yes. We should go.”
Olivia headed out, saying, “I’ll get Doug up from his nap so we can get ready.”
Jane withdrew to her room to change. She had packed the all-occasion, little black dress and remembered the other women had, too. Who knew the dresses would come in handy for a wake?
****
Black material draped the mirror at the end of the hall, and heavy curtains covered the windows in the foyer. Long tables, shoved to the side, held platters stacked tall with thick sandwiches on white bread cut into triangles.
In an open casket, Alsander O’Doherty, with a white, waxen face, and in a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie, lay with hands folded across his chest, flowers tucked around his body. The white lilies made Jane sneeze, so she hung back. Mairéid and Griff stood side-by-side next to the casket as the assembly waited in a queue to shake their hands.
A priest, in a white collar and black shirt, crept forward in the procession. Someone behind him said, “There’s Father Gerard. He does a lovely funeral, doesn’t he?”
The man shaking Mairéid’s hand said, “We must get together at a happier time.” She nodded and looked past him at the next person in line.
The dinner club group had not yet joined the stream of people snaking around the room. “This isn’t any different than a viewing back home,” Olivia said, with a hand halfway over her mouth, “but I suppose we’re not here to enjoy ourselves.”
From behind her own hand, Cheryl murmured, “Let’s pay our respects then we can duck out early and check out the pubs in Limerick.”
“We should get something to eat first.” Doug advanced toward the tables of food. They followed him through the maze of strangers all wearing black. A couple dozen hung around the food table holding sandwiches and white cocktail napkins, so the friends filled their own plates.
After they’d eaten their sandwiches, Doug needled Olivia with his elbow and jerked his head toward the door. She nodded with a silent message of let’s-get-out-of-here, and they all followed after Doug.
But when a white-haired man, who looked as if he were on his last leg himself, started to sing a sad folksong in a melancholy tune, “…my childhood days…so long ago…boyhood friends…have all past on with the melting snow,” Cheryl halted and held her arms out to stop the others. “It would be rude to leave now.” She gestured toward the folding chairs, and they all sprinted over to take seats.
Another ancient man rose from his chair. “I remember when Alsander bought Lomán Castle. He added all those en suite bathrooms. I asked him why and he said it was for the Americans. I told him everything is big in America, their cars, their country, but they can’t walk a few extra steps to the loo?”
The audience chuckled and the atmosphere changed. Others took to their feet, each to share a memory, usually ending with a quip at Alsander’s expense. A man brought out a guitar and a couple of folks gathered around him to join their voices with his lively music. People moved out of the way so others could dance in the middle of the room. The dancers executed a lot of leg work, hopping and skipping and stomping, with arms held close to their sides, feet pounding like drums to the music.
As a woman sang, “A bottle of whiskey at his feet and a gallon of port at his head,” Griff came toward the dinner club members. “Glad you made it to the wake. Are you enjoying the music and stories? The Irish do this to ease the suffering of the family.”
Bruce spoke up. “It’s a wonderful tradition. We hope you are comforted.”
Two elderly men sat on folding chairs next to Jane, their gray heads projecting forward on their necks, their backs curved and their shoulders hunched. The near one looked up. “Dia Dhuit, Griffin. Sorry about Alsander.”
Griff said, “Mr. McCollum, Mr. Burns, Dia Dhuit.” They chatted awhile, then a new arrival caught Griff’s attention, and he strolled off with him.
Jane turned to the old men and held out her hand. “I’m Jane Marsh.”
The nearest shook it. “I’m McCollum. This, here, is Burns.”
“Nice to meet you. Did you know Alsander well?” That seemed an acceptable question at a wake.
“We often met at the bocce ball court in the park a few blocks from here.”
“Tell me, Mr. McCollum, did you notice anything differen
t about Alsander recently?” She quirked an eyebrow in high expectation.
“Like what?” McCollum cupped a hand to his ear.
She spoke louder. “Did he seem off?”
“Now you mention it, he did seem off-like.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, not himself.”
“How’d he seem?”
“Off, you know.”
Jane’s shoulders drooped and she sat back in her chair. Pulling information from McCollum was as difficult as coming up with an easy menu for a dinner club event. “How about you, Mr. Burns?”
“The same.” Burns scratched the gray stubble on his chin. A smell of decay and body odor wafted up. “He did mention something funny that happened to him a day o’ two before he died. I think he was getting forgetful, like ya’ do at our age. Heh-heh.”
“What did he mention?” She tried for a friendly smile.
“Oh, he said that he went to the solicitor’s twice, had to keep signing the will and signing it again…went o’ couple o’ times in one day, he said.”
“That’s strange. Did he say why?” She puzzled over that, since having to go to a lawyer’s office twice in one day would kill anyone.
“He was just forgettin’, confused, ya’ know, prob’ly nothin’ to it.”
Both men eyed her expectantly as she searched for something more to ask. Finally, she said, “I’m going to get a cup of tea. Would you like anything?”
“Very kind o’ ye, but not tea.” Burns chortled and McCollum joined in.
Jane said, “Can’t help you there,” and clambered off her chair to head for the table holding the tea urn.
Near where the tea was set up, Isleen, from the bar in Ballysimon, was talking low to a young man with a mop of blond hair, who appeared amused. Fiona approached with a tray of clean teacups. She set the heavy tray down and arranged the cups in stacks. “Ha-ware-ya?”
“Fine. And you?” Jane twisted the knob on the urn to fill her cup with hot water.
The young lady inched closer. “Mairéid’s goin’ ta’ make another stink about Griff managin’ the castle. She’s trying to snatch it up.” Fiona aimed a worried look at her, and Jane stopped what she was doing for a moment.
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