by Zara Keane
Reynolds regarded me with a bland expression that was belied by the amused twinkle in his eyes. “What makes you think I’ll discuss an active case with you?”
“Because Lenny and I can help,” I said boldly. Okay, I wasn’t sure how, but I’d wing the conversation and see if I hit upon a good idea.
“Want a chip?” Lenny extended his fish-and-chip container to Reynolds.
“No, thanks. I’m more interested in knowing how you and Maggie think you can assist me.”
“Chicken Night,” Lenny said, deadpan. “We can spy on the Malones.”
Sergeant Reynolds’ jaw descended. Before he could ask for clarification, Mamie bustled in with a tea tray and a plate and cutlery for Lenny’s takeout meal. “I never liked the Malone boys,” she said, placing cups and saucers before each of us. “They were always trouble.”
“I assume you’re referring to Enda and Mick,” I said. “Or did you mean their sons?”
“I don’t know their sons. I hear mention of the golfing lad from time to time, but I couldn’t put a face to a name. No, I meant Enda and Mick.” Mamie looked at each of us in turn. “We were at school together, you know.”
I choked on my tea and performed a mental readjustment of Mamie’s age.
“It’s the clothes,” Lenny said under his breath, and I bit my tongue to stop myself from laughing.
“Why didn’t you like Mick and Enda Malone?” Reynolds asked. “And what sort of trouble were you referring to?”
Mamie sniffed. “They were wild as children, and bullies in school. There were rumors about Mick getting a girl pregnant, but I never found out if that was true. As for Enda…” Her voice trailed off on an ominous note. “He had a tendency to take things that didn’t belong to him.”
“He was a thief?” I glanced at Reynolds and then turned back to Mamie. “What did he steal?”
The older woman pursed her lips. “Nothing was ever proven, mind, but the word was that Enda was behind a raid on the post office. The thieves made off with over five hundred pounds, and the poor postmaster suffered a bad concussion.”
“Pounds?” It took a moment for the penny to drop. “Oh, right. You used to have pounds in Ireland before euros were introduced.”
“Pounds or euros, it was a lot of money at the time, especially from a small post office. And assaulting a postmaster…” Mamie clucked her tongue. “A disgrace, that’s what it was. No one was sorry to see Enda go to Australia.”
“Enda Malone has no criminal record,” Reynolds said. “Do you know if he was questioned at the time of the assault and robbery?”
Mamie nodded, and her plump cheeks quivered with indignation. “Without proof, the police had to let him go.”
“Thanks for the tea and info, Mamie,” Reynolds said, deftly bringing the conversation to a close. “There’s no need for you to stay up. I’ll lock up when Maggie and Lenny leave.”
His landlady regarded Lenny and me with disapproval. “Okay, but don’t forget to switch on the dishwasher before you go to bed.”
“No worries. I’ll take care of it.”
With obvious reluctance, Mamie removed herself from our presence. The instant the door closed behind his landlady, I pounced. “What did you discover about Darren Malone?”
Reynolds laughed. “No way. You and Lenny have yet to convince me that you can help me with the case. I’m not sharing any info with you unless there’s a reason.” He paused. “But I’ve got to know what Chicken Night is.”
Lenny provided him with a brief rundown of the Whisper Island Golf Club and its tradition of dancing chickens. “So,” Lenny concluded, “Maggie and I will have the perfect opportunity to observe the Malones. And with Rob Malone having the hots for Maggie, we can pump them for info. After a couple of shots of my grandfather’s poteen, they’ll tell us everything we want to know.”
I didn’t share my friend’s confidence in our persuasive abilities, but having the chance to party with the Malones was an opportunity the police wouldn’t have. “We can chat to them in an informal context,” I said. “That’s not something you can do, particularly now that you’ve questioned Rob and Darren.”
Reynolds stared at me for a long moment. “Sergeant O’Shea is a member of the golf club. I’ll bet he’ll be at Chicken Night.”
“Who’s going to confide in that eejit?” Lenny demanded.
“So says the man who’s just confessed that he’ll be herding a troop of dancing chickens and wearing a leprechaun outfit for the occasion,” Reynolds said mildly, and I struggled not to laugh.
“I can assure you that I won’t be dressed as a leprechaun,” I said. “I’ll chat up the Malone boys and see if I can persuade them to let something slip.”
Reynolds sighed. “Okay. I want this necklace business cleared up, and I don’t think Jennifer or Aaron had anything to do with its disappearance, but I need your word that this information will stay between us.”
“Scout’s honor,” Lenny said, his face the picture of innocence.
“I promise,” I added, doubting my friend had ever been a boy scout, but not willing to argue the point when Reynolds was on the verge of telling me what I wanted to know.
Reynolds leaned back in his chair. “Darren Malone was a suspect in a bank robbery in Sydney two years ago. Like the post office robbery that Mamie described, the police couldn’t make the charges stick, and they had to let him go. However, the officer in charge of the case is convinced Darren did it and has been keeping tabs on him ever since.”
I whistled. “An experienced bank robber could probably get his paws on a necklace in an unguarded safe. The security system at Jennifer and Aaron’s place leaves a lot to be desired.”
“I want you and Lenny to glean whatever information you can from the Malones, and report back to me. Specifically, I want to know if they knew Jennifer by sight before Darren’s outburst at the Movie Club meeting. And I also need to find out what, exactly, Rob and Darren’s financial situation is. I’m assuming the golfer, Brendan, is doing okay, but if you can check on him, too, all the better.”
Lenny and I stood to leave. “You’ve got it, Sarge,” I said. “We’ll do our best and report back to you on Sunday. Should we meet you here?”
Reynolds escorted us back into the hallway and opened the front door. “Yeah. Here would be good. Say ten o’clock in the morning?”
“We’ll be here. Right, Lenny?”
Lenny nodded enthusiastically. “Sure thing.”
“Good night,” Reynolds said with a smile. “And good luck with the chickens—human and fowl.”
As we walked toward the gate, Lenny turned to me. “Um…Maggie? About my leprechaun costume…”
My heart sank. “No way. Absolutely not.”
My friend grinned. “You know you’re expected to wear one, too, right?”
8
When Saturday evening rolled around, my prayers for a relapse of the flu hadn’t been answered. The Valentine’s Day dance loomed, followed by Lenny’s infamous Chicken Night. With an air of gloomy resignation, I regarded the two outfits spread across Julie’s bed.
“The leprechaun dress has a certain charm,” my cousin said. “If it were St. Patrick’s Day. And if I were drunk.”
I groaned. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
“Are you referring to the dancing chickens, or to a spin around the dance floor with Paddy Driscoll?” Julie’s eyes twinkled with merriment.
“Both.” I fingered the green felt of my leprechaun costume. “Although my dress for the Valentine’s dance is preferable to this outfit. I can’t believe your mother found me a leprechaun costume.”
“Before she started working at the library full-time, Mum was a leading light in the Whisper Island Dramatic Society. She still has connections, and they were only too happy to provide her with a female leprechaun costume.”
“It’s like a cross between every preschooler’s nightmare, and a stripper’s outfit.”
“You’ll be fine,�
� Julie said, her sincerity undermined by her struggle not to laugh. “Lenny will be wearing a similar outfit.”
“So we’ll both look like dorks. That image doesn’t bring me comfort.”
“Maybe the dance with Paddy will cheer you up. Speaking of dancing…” my cousin glanced at her watch, “…we’d better get moving if we’re to make it to the town hall on time.”
I grabbed the blue dress I was wearing for the first part of my evening. “Give me five, and I’ll be ready.”
I was as good as my word, even if I was still attempting to tame my mane when Julie pulled her MINI into the town hall’s parking lot fifteen minutes later.
She eyed my efforts with the brush. “From one curly-haired woman to another, give up, and let me have a go,” Julie said.
I handed over the brush, along with the fancy clip I’d somehow thought I could wrestle into my hair. “I always think I can make it look good,” I said, as my cousin ruthlessly attacked my scalp. “But I never can.”
Julie pulled my stubborn curls into an updo and secured it in place with the clip. “There,” she said, pleased with her handiwork. “That’s about as good as it’ll get. Ready to go inside?”
“No.” I opened the passenger door. “But I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”
I climbed out of the car and narrowly avoided stepping into a deep puddle. The heavy February rain had formed a series of glistening puddles in the parking lot, and raindrops pounded against my waterproof coat. Julie and I extended our umbrellas and ran for the entrance.
Inside the town hall, the dance was in full swing. Several of Whisper Island’s older couples were on the dance floor, performing performed steps I vaguely recognized from old movies, but could never recreate.
“Finally.” Noreen grabbed our arms and hauled us over to a refreshment stand where Julie’s parents were helping themselves to drinks.
Uncle John wore a pained expression on his craggy face. “Every year, it’s the same story. Bad music, worse food, and watered-down whiskey.”
“Ah, would you ever stop with your whiskey accusations,” Philomena said. “It’s all in your head. No one’s diluting the drinks.”
John grunted and gave Julie and me a conspiratorial wink. “What can I get you lovely young ladies?”
“How about a one-way ticket out of here?” I cast a jaundiced gaze around the crowd. “Is it my imagination or are Julie and I the only people here who are under fifty?”
“Who are you calling fifty?” yelled Sadie Levin as her husband swung her past on the dance floor. “Sure I’m only forty-nine.”
“You’ve been forty-nine for the last five years, Sadie,” Noreen yelled back. “Time to bring out the correct number of candles.”
John lifted a bottle of lemonade and examined its label. “Sure, this is the cheap stuff.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “Stop bellyaching about the drinks and serve the girls.”
John looked at Julie and me. “We’ve got water, lemonade, diluted whiskey, and some awful white wine that’s sweet enough to make your teeth fall out.”
“An enticing array of beverages,” I said dryly. “I’ll have a glass of lemonade.”
“I’ll stick to water tonight, Dad,” Julie added. “I need drive Maggie to Chicken Night at nine-thirty.”
My uncle’s brow creased in concern. “Be careful, love. There’s a storm forecast.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad. I’ll take shelter if it gets bad.”
My uncle poured us our drinks and then raised his whiskey glass to us. “Slàinte.”
I’d barely had a chance to take a sip from my glass when the main doors swung open, ushering in a gale-force wind and a disheveled-looking Günter and Reynolds. My hands were clammy around my glass, and my mouth grew dry. After the men had stripped off their raincoats and deposited them with a cloakroom attendant, they made a beeline for us.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Julie muttered. “Does Günter have to show up everywhere I go?”
“He mightn’t be here for you,” I teased. “He might have fallen for Noreen’s charms.”
Under the disco lights, my cousin’s cheeks grew pink. “Not that I care, of course.”
I swallowed a laugh. Julie cared far more about Günter than she liked to admit. But then, who was I to criticize? The instant I’d clapped eyes on Reynolds, my vow to avoid men until I could trust myself to pick a good one took a flying leap out the window.
As he and Günter maneuvered their way through the crowd, Reynolds’s gaze met mine. My breath caught for an instant, and I took a hasty swig from my lemonade glass. If he asked me to dance, would I say yes? What a ridiculous question. I was already imagining his strong arms around my waist. My heart beat faster.
The men had almost reached us when my glass was whipped out of my hand, and I found myself swung onto the dance floor.
“Sorry, Maggie,” Paddy Driscoll said with a grimace. “I promised Noreen I’d dance with you. Better get it over with, eh?”
Not exactly the dance partner I’d been hoping for. “No need to be polite on my account, Paddy. If you’d rather ask someone else to dance—?”
“Ah, no.” The taciturn farmer twirled me around, deftly avoiding a collision with an elderly woman’s walker. “I don’t like this type of shindig, but Noreen says it does me good once a year or so.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. “So this is like your annual attempt to be sociable?”
Paddy grunted. “I show up to the Movie Club, don’t I?”
“You do,” I conceded, “but you’re grumpy, and you only talk to one or two people.” I didn’t add that those conversations were usually about sheep.
“Evening.”
The deep voice tugged my attention away from my dance partner. A bemused Sergeant Reynolds swung past us with Rita Ahearn, the local fire chief’s wife, clinging to his chest. An unfamiliar stab of jealousy made me catch my breath for the second time that evening.
“Maggie, watch out,” Paddy roared.
Too late. The couple with the walkers danced by us, and the heel of one of my shoes caught against the frame. Before I could register what was happening, I’d pitched forward and landed face first in a guy’s lap.
With as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, I removed my face from the man’s crotch and struggled to my feet, wincing in pain when I placed weight on my right ankle. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” the old man rasped. “Most fun I’ve had in years.”
“Are you all right, Maggie?” Paddy asked, appearing at my side with a concerned expression on his face. “Did you hurt your foot?”
“Put it this way: my ankle had a fight with a walker, and the walker won.”
My new friend loved this and patted the empty seat next to his wheelchair. “Come and sit with me for a while.”
I glanced at Paddy. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’m up to more dancing.”
“Okay. Do you want me to get Noreen?”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll take the weight off my ankle and it’ll be okay.”
I sank onto the seat next to the guy in the wheelchair, grateful to take the pressure off my sore ankle. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No, but I know who you are,” the old man said with a chuckle. “You’re Maggie Doyle, Noreen and Philomena’s niece.”
“That’s right, but I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Rick O’Mara. I was head of police here on Whisper Island before I retired.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Sergeant O’Shea and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”
This was an understatement, and we both knew it.
When Sergeant O’Mara leaned forward in his chair, his bones creaked. “I hear Aaron Nesbitt has hired you to find that missing necklace.”
“Yes,” I said warily, “but I can’t talk about—“
“Those Ma
lone boys were always trouble,” he said as though he hadn’t heard me. “I suppose you heard about the raid on the post office?”
“Of course,” I breathed. “You must have been the officer in charge when that happened.”
The man nodded. “A terrible business. The postmaster was never the same after the robbery.”
I frowned. “I heard he suffered a concussion. Was it more serious than that?”
“Not physically, but emotionally. He’d always suffered from his nerves, and the robbery was too much for him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The old man eyed me shrewdly. “Which of the Malones do you believe stole that necklace?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Enda and Mick might have done it. So might one of their sons.” I volleyed the question back to him. “Which of the brothers did you believe was responsible for the post office robbery?”
“Both,” he replied without hesitations. “Mick always had a temper, but Enda had the brains. The robbery was too well planned for that to have been Mick’s idea. The fact that the postmaster walked in was pure chance. The man was supposed to be in Galway for the day, but stayed home due to a migraine.”
A migraine that was unlikely to have been helped by getting whacked over the head. “Poor guy.”
“Yeah.” The old man’s wizened frame appeared to shrink. “I regret that I never managed to solve that case.”
An idea, hazy and half-formed, lurked at the back of my mind. “Does the postmaster’s family still live on Whisper Island?”
“Only the daughter. The man himself died years ago, and his wife is in a nursing home in Galway.”
I sucked in a breath. Could the postmaster’s daughter have heard about the necklaces Matt Malone had purchased as his children’s inheritance? Had she then decided to steal one as revenge for the attack on her father? “I’d like to talk to the postmaster’s daughter,” I said. “She might be able to provide me with background info on the Malone brothers.”
Sergeant O’Mara snorted. “I should say so. The poor girl had to go to school with those bullies.”