Dad interjected his thoughts. “The customer is always right. And here at Shamrock Manor—”
I put up a hand. “Save it, Dad. I know what I know and what I know is that duck ballotine is not something we can offer at banquet service.” I looked at Kevin. “Do you know what that will do to your per-person cost? It will double it. No, it will triple it,” I said, doing a little math in my head. “And the labor? Holy cripes. You start two days ahead with one duck. It will take a week to poach all that duck, make the forcemeat…” I trailed off, putting my head in my hands. Kevin looked at my dad and I knew instantly that that was what they had been discussing—the cost of all of this—when I had walked in. I looked at my father. “You didn’t.”
“Now, Belfast…”
“Dad, I understand Kevin is an old friend and all but we have to make a profit on our weddings. It just doesn’t make sense to keep giving people discounts. Our rates are nonnegotiable. I’m tired of people nickel-and-diming you.” I looked at Kevin. “With all due respect, of course. No offense.”
“None taken,” Kevin mumbled.
“There will no extra charge for the duck,” Dad said. “And there will be duck ballotine. That’s an order.”
“Thank you, Mr. McGrath. Bel.” Kevin was sheepish as he brushed past me and out of the kitchen, not making eye contact with me.
Dad went into the office and closed the door. Mom was in there and I could hear him recounting the story—Dad is a man incapable of whispering—as I tried to calculate in my head just how many ducks I would need to feed the D’Amato/Hanson crowd, two families that wouldn’t know a duck ballotine from a meat loaf. It was not exactly “wine o’clock,” as I liked to call it, but it was close enough. I took a bottle of Malbec from the stash I kept under the sink and opened it, pouring a healthy portion into a water glass. I was chugging it down when Cargan walked into the kitchen. “Want to hear this, Car?” I asked. “Dad wants me to make duck ballotine—”
“Shush,” he said, holding up a piece of paper. On it was the license-plate number I had given him. “You want to know who the car belongs to?” he asked.
“Car?”
“The car that was chasing Pauline.”
I put the water glass down. “Who?”
“James Casey.”
CHAPTER Twenty-three
The lie fell from my lips so effortlessly that it kind of scared me. “Yes, I’m trying to learn everything I can about the import/export business because I’m thinking of branding a line of soda breads and believe that they could have international appeal.”
On the other end of the phone, James Casey cleared his throat. “Really? Soda breads?”
“Yes. My mother’s mother’s mother’s recipe. Straight from the old sod. The Emerald Isle. The land of…” I couldn’t think up another nickname for my parents’ birthplace so I fell silent.
“That’s interesting, Belfast. Soda bread. Huh.”
“So can you tell me a little bit about the import/export business? What it would take to get something like this off the ground?” I asked. I knew that James Casey had seen me, most likely, tailing him tailing Pauline but he didn’t know that I knew it was him. I was sure of that. The tone of his voice gave me no indication that he was suspicious of me beyond the fact that I had a lousy business idea that was never going to work. Shipping soda breads? Maybe it was just crazy enough to work. “We would put a photo of Shamrock Manor on the packaging. You know, a nice advertisement for the family business.”
“I’m not sure it’s the best idea I’ve ever heard, Bel, but let’s get together to discuss it. Crazier ideas have worked,” he said.
Well, that was the least confident vote of confidence I had ever heard. “How soon?”
“How soon what?” he asked.
“How soon can we get together?” I looked at the clock. It had been an action-packed day and I was ready to call it a night, but if he was free, I was definitely free as well.
“I’m just about to wrap things up here,” he said. “I could have a quick drink. Seven o’clock? Is that good?”
“Perfect,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”
“Do you know a place called O’Halligan’s? North of here?”
“I do indeed,” I said. “See you at seven.”
Curious choice. And one that would guarantee that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. The Foster’s Landing crowd liked to stay close to home, for the most part, preferring the Dugout or one or other watering holes in the village.
I went back to my apartment and got cleaned up. I wasn’t going to tell Cargan about this plan, his internal antennae likely to be raised. Heck, who was I fooling? This was a long shot, the longest shot, maybe. The likelihood that James Casey was going to tell me anything about Pauline or their connection was slim to none. But it was worth a shot.
I dressed in my best “I’m serious about exporting soda bread” outfit: a white shirt just back from the cleaners, black pants, and a scarf to cover the big stain on the white shirt just back from the cleaners that had not been there when it went to the cleaners. I looked like a part-time Aer Lingus flight attendant and full-time soccer mom but it was better than the alternative: a Shamrock Manor T-shirt and a pair of jeans, the only other two items in my limited wardrobe that were clean. Before I left, I did a little research on Casey Imports and saw that they had a well-done Web site complete with photos of the primary stockholders—James, Pegeen, and of course, Mr. Casey. I searched each person’s name separately but there wasn’t a lot on any of them besides professional-looking LinkedIn pages and an article about Mr. Casey winning the American Order of Hibernians Hibernian of the Year award from the South Boston chapter of the organization, a photo of him with Pegeen and James flanking him. There wasn’t a lot to see here, nothing to suggest that what Mr. Casey had told us, that he imported this, exported that, wasn’t the truth.
With nothing to go on, I ran down the steps to the parking area, jumped in my car, and set off for O’Halligan’s.
The bar was crowded but I spotted James Casey at one end, sitting on a bar stool and protecting another one for me. I made my way through the crowd and sat down, shaking his hand like a professional with a soda bread business would do. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he said. “You’ve been so kind to our family during this difficult time. I can’t thank you enough. Listen, before we get started, have you found my sister’s bag?”
“Her bag?” I asked. I hadn’t heard a word about it and hadn’t pursued it further. “I’m sorry. We haven’t.”
He smiled sadly. “Oh, thanks, then. Seems like it’s gone.”
I had forgotten, almost, how cute he was. Pretty cute, indeed. “How is your sister doing?”
He flagged down the bartender and looked at me. “Drink?”
“Yes,” I said. “A bourbon neat, please.”
“Ah, a lady who drinks actual drinks,” he said. “That’s refreshing.”
“I do like a cheap Chardonnay every now and again,” I said. “And I’m not above a hearty Italian table wine.”
He smiled. “Good to hear.”
The bartender slid the drink in front of me. “Your sister?” I asked, taking a sip. “Is she doing okay?” I looked around but there was no sign of Angus Connolly.
“That’s hard to say,” he said. “She hasn’t gone out at all since the wedding. We know it hasn’t been long but, still, we’re worried.”
“Does she work?” I knew she worked and where she worked but wanted to hear his answer.
“She works in Dad’s business. Like I do.” He sipped his own whiskey.
“Yes. Your dad’s business. Import/export?” I asked. “What exactly does that mean?”
“We bring things in and ship things out,” he said. “It’s pretty simple actually.”
“Things like what?” I asked. “And how?”
“Trinkets. Larger items from around the world. Furniture.” He took
a sip of his drink.
“How do you do that?” I asked. “Planes?”
“We use ships mostly.”
“Interesting,” I said. “There’s still a shipping industry for goods?” In my mind, I thought that everything got to where it needed to be by air; it hadn’t occurred to me that the shipping industry was alive and well internationally.
“Oh, yes. That’s how we ship most of our items.”
“And your sister is in the business, too?”
He nodded. “She is. She’s Dad’s right-hand man, so to speak.” He looked at me intently, trying to discern my purpose in asking a lot of questions about the import/export business. “Thank you for asking after her. But enough about that. Tell me about your business plan.”
Business plan? There was no business plan. What there was was the wisp of a fictional idea that if I didn’t flesh out quickly would expose me as the biggest liar of all time. “Well…” I started.
“Bel?” Behind me a man’s voice, one that I knew so well, called my name. So much for not running into someone I knew. I couldn’t know this guy any better. Why? He was my brother.
I turned and came face-to-face with Feeney and a young woman who was definitely not his girlfriend Sandree. “Feeney?” I looked at James Casey. “You remember my brother? Feeney?”
Feeney eyed James suspiciously but held out his hand to shake. “Nice to see you again,” he said, but it was insincere. He looked at me and I smiled. I had nothing to feel guilty about beyond the fact that I was lying to a nice guy who had chased one of our servers in his car this afternoon. What was Feeney’s story exactly? I could tell just by looking at him. He was up to no good. It was a look I knew well, having grown up with a guy who gave hooligans a bad name.
“And who is this lovely lass?” I asked, giving his companion the once-over. She was sixty if she was a day, a good two decades older than my brother, and dressed to the nines in an expensive leather jacket and the kind of jeans that moms with money wore: fitted, boot-cut, dark-washed, and high-waisted. I held out my hand. “Belfast McGrath.”
“Patricia Sandford,” she said. Her hand felt like a skinny dead fish in my own meatier palm. Her face was stretched tighter than the snare drum that Derry played in the band, her enhanced lips glossed and shiny. A little nip and tuck, for sure, but she looked good.
“And Feeney? How did you and Ms. Sandford meet?” I asked.
He narrowed his eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, realizing, too late, that he knew how I had met James Casey. “Um, what I mean is, why you’re here. With him,” he said, pointing at my fake future business partner. “And not with Brendan Joyce.”
Heck, were we really going to do this here in front of two people who had no business in this? Old sibling baggage is tough to tote around but even tougher to explain to nonfamily-members. “Mr. Casey here is helping me with a business idea that I have.”
“And that’s what, Bel? Shamrock Manor coasters? Belfast McGrath doohickeys?”
“‘Doohickeys’?” I said. “No, not doohickeys, Feen.”
James Casey jumped in. “Soda bread.”
Patricia Sandford and Feeney said it in unison. “Soda bread?”
I did some quick thinking, some quick talking. “Yes, Feeney,” I said, staring straight into his eyes to let him know that whatever I said, he should go along with. “Remember Great-grandmother Blair’s soda bread?”
“I thought you said it was your great-great-grandmother?” James said, exhibiting an incredible memory for ridiculous details.
“Right. Great-great-grandmother Blair,” I said.
Feeney played along. It was always good to have a hooligan on your side, someone for whom lying was a daily event, the only thing that could keep him out of trouble where Mom and Dad were concerned. “Of course, Belfast. Great-great-grandmother Blair. A true Irish lass.”
That was laying it on a bit thick and I let him know that by grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “The soda bread. The one that Mom makes. Handed down over generations.”
“It’s a thing of beauty.” Mom’s soda bread was like eating plasterboard dotted with caraway seeds and currants.
I squeezed his hand harder. “Well, what would you think of us exporting it?”
Patricia Sandford asked the most obvious question. “To where?”
“Canada,” I said. “Mexico.”
“Mexico?” she asked. “Is there a call for soda bread in Mexico?”
“Yes, large Irish expat population in Mexico City,” I said.
Feeney covered his guffaw with a cough. “Coming down with something,” he said, pounding his chest with his fist. “Been going around.”
James Casey studied me with intensity. “This is becoming much more attractive as a business opportunity, Bel. Mexico City? Really?”
I nodded and swallowed any pride I had left, continuing with the lie. “What do you think, Feeney?”
“It’s grand, Bel. Truly grand.” In his smile was evidence that if he didn’t leave soon, he would completely lose it in front of James Casey and the jig would be up. “Now, we must be going. Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Casey,” he said, turning to his date. “Ready, Patricia?”
I watched them weave through the crowd and, when I was sure they were gone, turned back to James. “My brother is a character.”
He leaned in close to me. “This isn’t about soda bread, is it, Bel?”
I felt a sheen of sweat break out on my upper lip. “Whatever do you mean, James?”
“Soda bread? Great-great-great-grandmother Blair? The large expatriate population in Mexico City?” He came closer to me. “You really didn’t have to go to such trouble. I would have met you anyway.” He put his hand over mine. “The attraction has been undeniable since we first met.”
It has? “Oh, James. You caught me,” I said. “But this can never go anywhere. I do have a boyfriend whom I love very much.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Before he could get any closer and plant a kiss on my lips, I drew back. “This was a mistake,” I said. “I never should have called you. This never happened.” I got up off my bar stool and gave him my best look of regret, biting my lip for emphasis. “I’m sorry, James. This was all a terrible, terrible mistake.”
He sipped his whiskey, buying some time, thinking of what to say. “If things change, Bel … if your boyfriend and you…”
I put a finger to his lips to quiet him. “No more. It’s too painful.” And before I could say anything else that might make the situation go on longer than necessary, I made haste out of the restaurant and into my car, driving as quickly, but responsibly, as I could to Shamrock Manor. I had wasted an evening and really mucked things up. I couldn’t see or talk to James Casey again without him thinking that we were destined to be together and that left me with another wrinkle in a mystery that just got more convoluted as time went on.
I fell asleep less than an hour later and dreamt of ladies with face-lifts eating duck ballotine while preparing soda bread.
CHAPTER Twenty-four
That Saturday, I was in the last stages of defying Mom’s orders about hors d’oeuvres, putting the finishing touches on a small red potato with caviar and crème fraîche, when Brendan entered the kitchen, taking one from the tray and popping it into his mouth.
“Who’s the lucky couple today?” he asked around a mouthful of caviar.
“Dorothy Murphy and Patrick Stewart,” I said, rearranging the tiny appetizers on the tray to cover up the spot left by the one Brendan had eaten.
“The guy from Star Trek?” he asked.
“Yes, Brendan, the guy from Star Trek is marrying a girl from Foster’s Landing,” I said, shoving a tray of pigs in a blanket into the oven, slapping his hand as he reached out for another potato.
“Cool,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to meet him and I’ve got nothing to do today. Can I help in the kitchen?” he asked.
I turned back around and he was rig
ht behind me, leaning down and giving me a long kiss. The day would go much better certainly if he was around. “You’re not a lot of help, you know,” I said. “Your feet are big and you’re slow to expedite. What other services do you have to offer?” I crossed my arms, taking him in. We hadn’t seen each other the night before, him in the throes of doing midterm grades and me exhausted from the week and feeling a wee bit guilty about my passion play with James Casey the night before.
“Well, I can feel you up between courses, and I pour a nice glass of wine and give a good foot rub when service is over.” He smiled. “I have other talents as well but I have a feeling your mother is around here and I wouldn’t want her to know what other services I offer.”
“You’re hired!” I said. “For real though, I do need your help. We’re down a server and obviously we can’t pull any of the boys off band duty. It’s not a huge wedding, but we could use your help. Do you have black pants and a white shirt at home?”
“I do,” he said.
“That begs the question, why?” I asked. “All I’ve ever seen you in is a blue oxford and khakis.”
“I’m Irish, Bel. Every good Irishman has a nice black suit in the closet,” he said. “You never know when a good funeral is going to present itself.”
“Good point,” I said. “Now go home and change if you’re really serious about this.”
“I have to serve food?” he asked.
“We’ll make it easy on you. Maybe just bus tables. I’m sure Mom and Dad will throw a twenty your way when the day is done.”
“Riches!” he exclaimed.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
He kissed me again. “Anything for you, Bel,” he said before popping another potato in his mouth and heading out the door. I heard a respectful and slightly terrified “Hello, Mrs. McGrath” come from the foyer when he ran into Mom who arrived in the kitchen moments later.
Bel of the Brawl--A Belfast McGrath Mystery Page 12