Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  She staggered wearily up to bed, her mood depressed despite the three glasses of Powers’ liquid gold that Grace had plied her with ‘to keep the chills out after such a nasty shock’.

  She'd had an exhausting couple of hours convincing Grace that the man she’d assaulted with her umbrella wasn’t in league with the ‘filthy beast’ who’d caused Cíara to scream for help in the first place.

  “He was up to no good, anyway, girl,” Grace declared darkly. “Much too good looking to be wandering about untethered.”

  While she had to agree that her erstwhile rescuer had given off some very sexy vibes, embarrassment still twisted in her gut when she replayed the evening as she got ready for bed. Pulling up the crisp, fresh, lavender-scented covers, she had to agree with the evil fairy on her shoulder that she'd have loved to have seen the face of her rescuer when whirling Dervish Grace had pounded upon him, her deadly umbrella right on target!

  Then Wallace’s protestation that she was ‘just a hooker’ wormed its way back into her mind and she squirmed with humiliation and rage. She certainly hadn’t meant to play the seductress quite so obviously!

  She was still tossing and turning, sleep eluding her, when the cell phone beside her bed shrilled its catchy little tune.

  “Miss Somers? Frank O’Keefe here. Sorry to call so late, but it’s the only chance I’ve had. Listen, I know you said you’d be in our area this weekend but, well, my wife is going to a libraries’ conference midweek in Dublin – and J. V. Winters is going to be the keynote speaker. Cute, eh? So maybe that would, well, be the perfect time to see if…” The man’s whispery voice trailed away on such a dejected note that her heart welled with sympathy.

  “All right, Mr. O'Keefe, fax my office with the details of the conference and I’ll see what I can do,” she said wearily. As she put the phone down, her heart gave a little leap of relief. At least that meant she didn’t have to spend a moment longer at the scene of her Close Encounters of the Embarrassing Kind. She imagined that everywhere she went while she was in Waterford, people would be whispering about last night’s ‘seduction’ and pointing fingers at her.

  Vowing revenge on Wallace’s head, she fell into a deep, contented slumber punctuated only by the occasional uneasy dream of a stranger whose face was shadowed in darkness.

  * * *

  Frank O’Keefe, on the other hand, found it impossible to sleep even after talking to Cíara. In fact, talking to the pretty detective had made everything seem even more horrifyingly real. He’d been trying so hard to keep everything casual – although he did notice that strange look of dismay in Peggy’s eyes when he brought home a bunch of red roses as a surprise gift. Was it guilt that flooded her face with a color not that far removed from that of the flower petals?

  What really filled him with rage and despair was when that brute Winters had come into the office, large as life, wanting to talk to one of the agents.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Winters, I think Mr. O'Keefe can help you out,” Molly O’Flynne, the secretary/receptionist had trilled – yes, trilled! – as she fawned shamelessly over the writer.

  Frank had gritted his teeth together and forced himself to paste a pleasant smile on his face before stepping out from behind his desk to greet the man and accept his warm, firm handshake. What made it worse was that Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that Winters was a man he could actually like if he didn’t think he was trying to. … that he and Peggy were….

  He let out a deep sigh, trying to blot the end of that thought from his mind, and turned over in bed. But, like a tongue goes back again and again to a sore tooth, so Frank’s thoughts focused on his troubles.

  “I believe your wife is going up to this conference in Dublin, this library thing?” Winters had said, and Frank had scrutinized his face for any signs of guilt but it seemed just like a casual statement. The man must be a consummate actor! The very idea of his trusting, gentle Peggy getting involved with someone this smooth….

  “Well, maybe I’ll see her there – you know, if you join her for the evening perhaps the two of you could have dinner with me?” Did Frank imagine a vague sadness in the other man's voice? Could the famous writer actually be lonely? Did he actually think they could be friends?

  The effrontery of the man! Standing there in broad daylight, chatting comfortably, asking for help in contacting his landlord to get some leaking tap or electrical outlet fixed, handing over the spare key to Frank after Frank agreed to pass it on to whatever contractor was called in.

  “After all, I’d really hate the power to surge and blow up my computer!” Winters had joked as he left the office.

  I’d like you to blow up! Frank thought and was immediately ashamed. But letting the aggressive feelings out seemed to help, and he fell into a restless sleep.

  His last thought before sleep finally claimed him was that the little kernel of an idea that had taken root in his mind was really a pretty good way of sending a message to Winters that his type wasn’t wanted around here…

  * * *

  “Honestly, Ruth, I’m that worried about Frank that I don’t know where to put my head!” Peggy confided in her friend the next morning when they met at the grocery mart. “He was tossing and turning all night long, kept me awake, and muttering and snorting as if he was involved with the devil in a battle for his very soul!”

  “Maybe he had a touch of indigestion. Men his age do get it, you know,” Ruth replied, adding a ‘two for one’ package of laundry powder to her cart.

  “No, it’s more than that. You know, he brought me roses – red roses – when he came home from work on Friday night! Do you know how long it’s been since he even remembered to bring me a bunch of daisies from the garden? “

  “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me. Usually, when Jerry does something like that it means he’s agreed for us to go and have dinner at his mother’s,” Ruth said, plopping bread into both their carts and looking at her friend with a worried eye. “Did you really want tins of dog food? I didn’t know you’d got another dog? Or is it for Frank?”

  Peggy gave a weak laugh. “Lord, No, I thought it was tinned peas. Ruth, what am I to do? Do you think it’s a guilty conscience, and over what? Is it something at work, or is there...could there be someone...no, not my Frank!”

  Seeing the blood drain from her friend’s face, Ruth pushed both their carts to the side of the store, nodded to Marie on the nearest check out that they’d be back for their groceries in a few minutes, and led Peggy off to the small delicatessen and coffee shop on the concourse.

  Pushing her friend down into a seat, Ruth said firmly: “Now, you listen to me, Peggy O’Keefe. You’re letting this whole thing get out of hand. Your Frank, up to something? What nonsense! If you’re really worried about him, take the man out to dinner somewhere quiet and tell him how you feel, ask him what the problem is. He’s probably dying to confide whatever it is, but doesn’t want to upset you. He’s always been a protective one, that one. Remember how long it was before he told you how bad things were with the farm?”

  Peggy nodded numbly. Then, taking a deep breath, she pulled herself together. “You’re right. No point in agonizing, I’ll do what you say. I tell you, though, I’m really thinking of canceling out on this library conference in Dublin – I don’t like leaving the man alone for two days!”

  “Ah, now, Peggy – two days, just you and J.V. Winters in a posh hotel!” Ruth grinned.

  “Yeah, me, J.V. Winters, and about 200 other library workers, all drooling…”

  “Well, I’m jealous, I can tell you…”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Frank O'Keefe's fax was waiting for Cíara when she arrived at her office on Monday morning. She opened his file and popped the information in, noting that guests were expected to arrive early that evening for a reception before the conference started. If she got to the hotel early she'd be able to scope out the lay of the land – particularly the room arrangements.

  She worked quickly to get her report
for the E. P. Walters Agency neatly typed and courier delivered. The sooner she got rid of this, the sooner she could put the memory of the disastrous evening out of her head.

  She spent the rest of the morning catching up on office work and feeling a little nibble of anxiety as she saw her diary was thin for the rest of the month - a feeling that was alleviated when Joe, one of Dublin's notorious motorcycle couriers and boyfriend of Cíara's best friend, Mary Margaret, arrived back from his mission to deliver her report to Walters. He grinned broadly as he handed her an envelope.

  “Had me wait for this, they did – and gave me a tip. They must value you a lot, girl,” Joe said, helping himself to some of Cíara's coffee.

  “More like they want to get rid of me quickly,” Cíara replied, “And get your thieving mitts off my coffee!”

  “So, how's business going?” he said, perching on the edge of her desk and taking another swig from the coffee mug before handing it back. “You know if ever you need any muscle as back up in this detective business….”

  “Eeeurk! You drooled down the side of the cup!” Cíara wailed, changing the subject. “You know, I really needed that coffee!”

  “Well, I'd get you another one, “Joe said maliciously as he stuffed his fee inside his leather jacket and picked up his motorcycle helmet, “But I saw your granny heading along the street this way and I don’t want her to catch me here. She's been driving me crazy with wanting to come for a ride on me bike!”

  “Don't you dare take her!”

  “Hell, no – the old lady would have me done for speeding while she gets her kicks!” And Joe took off down the stairs, his leather boots hammering on the steps.

  Oh, God, all she needed was a visit from Granny Somers.

  At least the old lady would never find out about the shadier side of her business, and maybe soon she'd have an established clientele and be able to give up the seduction racket completely.

  There are other sources of financial backing, whispered the nasty little traitorous voice, But the money’s yours by right, anyway.

  “I’d rather starve than touch their filthy money. It’s just to salve their consciences,” she muttered to herself. And those consciences certainly had a lot of stains to try to erase.

  The door opened and Granny Somers walked in. “What you need here is a receptionist,” the old lady announced “I’m free for a few hours a day – want me to drop by?”

  Oh, Lord! Cíara rubbed her gritty eyes. Granny esconced in her office. Grace Muldoon threatening to come up to Dublin some day and ‘help out’ with some of the cases she was sure would be piled high on Cíara’s desk. Her estranged paternal grandparents whispering ‘make-up’ noises down the telephone again.

  Maybe she should run away and join the circus – after all, she’d had plenty of practice juggling odd people!

  “I take it that’s a no, is it?” Granny snapped, her tiny, ramrod straight figure quivering with affront.

  “No, Granny, no, not really – no, I mean yes, it’s a no. There’s just not enough work to warrant anyone wasting precious time sitting in the office waiting for it to come in the door.”

  “What about answering the telephone, girl, while you’re out?”

  “I have an answering machine.” Which at least takes accurate messages, records phone numbers, and doesn’t intimidate or insult the clients.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t offer to help when you needed it.”

  “Look, honestly, if we get busy enough I’ll call you in, to be sure.” Cíara carefully crossed her fingers behind her back before saying anything that could be remotely construed as a promise. “Please, Granny. Don’t give me a hard time. I’ve already had the Henleys on the phone this morning. It seems like the old man heard about this business and doesn’t think it’s suitable for a lady.”

  Granny Somers snorted. “So what’s he gonna do? Buy your office lease? Close you down? Over my dead body!”

  She winced and wished she had a Euro for every time Granny had made the ‘over my dead body’ declaration about the Henleys.

  “My daughter wasn’t good enough to marry their son – they cut off their own flesh and blood, they did, because he married out of love. And now a good, honest line of work isn’t good enough for the granddaughter they’d never have had, if Bobby Henley had been a weak mewling thing and listened to his parents like they wanted!”

  She shouldn’t have gotten Granny onto this, even though it had seemed like a good diversionary tactic at the time. She hesitated to remind Grannie that Bobby Henley had actually died in a car accident leaving his parents’ home in a real Henley temper (which Cíara was known to have inherited from time to time).

  Nor did she remind her that her own mother, that is, Granny’s daughter, had barely lifted her head from that day on despite having a two-year old daughter to care for. And she’d ignored all offers of help from the grief stricken Henleys, just as Granny had done when Anna Marie Somers Henley had finally succumbed to pneumonia when Cíara was just four years old – died of a broken heart, Granny always insisted.

  Cíara had carried on the tradition of slighting at every turn the wealthy, bigoted people who had scorned her mother’s family. Despite court orders insisting that the Henleys were allowed occasional visits with their granddaughter, there was no love lost between them. Since the time she was just a tot, Cíara had gone to the Henleys' County Meath mansion with the same expression on her infant face as the French aristocrats had taken to the guillotine. She'd been weaned on contempt for them, and all the expensive offerings they'd showered on her had cut no ice as far as her stubborn Somers hide was concerned.

  She was determined to make her own way in the world and steadfastly refused to accept the help that was often trumpeted by her paternal grandparents. The Somers side of the family had a hard time forgiving and the Henleys had a lot that needed to be forgiven.

  “Fancy having a late lunch out, Granny? My treat?” She wanted to buy herself out of trouble and was shameless about it. “I have a job to follow up later this afternoon, and I thought I’d get something proper to eat.”

  “Not at one of them health food places, though?” Granny’s eyes narrowed to slits. Cíara swallowed at the memory of their last lunch together at one of the new health food bars. Granny had nearly reduced a waitress to tears by demanding fried potato wedges with her veggie burger.

  “Well, potatoes are vegetables, aren't they?” Granny had loudly asked the rest of the customers as Cíara dragged her to the door.

  Yes, it would be a while before she ventured into The Fresh Lettuce Café again.

  Instead she wheedled, “How about McDonald's on O’Connell Street? I know we can find something you like under the Golden Arches.”

  Granny condescended to accept.

  Three hours and two super meal deals later, Cíara was hovering in the lobby of the charming new Dublin hotel where the librarians' conference was being held. She’d chatted up the young man on the reception desk, using the story that she was a novice reporter trying to get a job on one of the national papers and hoping to scoop an interview with the elusive J.V. Winters as a major stepping-stone in her new career.

  With a little charm – and the help of her low cut t-shirt – she had winkled the number of Winters' room from the entranced young man. In return, he'd been crafty enough to ask for her private phone number.

  Winters had rented one of the hotel's best suites for himself and 'a companion', the clerk had told her with a lascivious wink. Cíara's heart sank – it certainly seemed that Winters was expecting another warm body in his bed.

  That would be Peggy O'Keefe, if Frank's surmise were correct.

  It was one thing telling women that the men they already distrusted could be led astray – it was something else again to tell a decent, middle-aged man that the wife he'd trusted for years was eager to hop into another man's bed.

  So she lurked behind a large potted palm tree waiting for the romance writer to arrive. Her resear
ch hadn't come up with a recognizable photograph of Winters but the desk clerk – with another of those winks - had agreed to discreetly signal her when the man and his 'companion' checked in. Already she had that dull feeling in her chest, hoping against hope that the man’s companion would not turn out to be Peggy O’Keefe.

  She'd got the impression that Winters was so gorgeous that women tended to swoon as he walked by – even Granny had a light in her eyes at the mention of his name - so there shouldn’t be any problem identifying him. She'd spent much of the previous night reading one of the man's racy, red-hot novels. His words raised goose bumps on her bare skin as she sat propped up in bed and there'd been a few moments when she, too, wouldn’t have minded taking a nibble at Mr. Winters.

  Security in city centre hotels was tight and a couple of security staff types were already giving her long, considering looks. Taking pity on her, the desk clerk brought over a chair and a cup of creamy coffee, wishing her the best of luck and adding that he hoped they would be able to celebrate her first sale to the big dailies together. Cíara suppressed the guilty flash – she'd actually given him the number of a Chinese take-out in Rathmines rather than her own number - and she settled down to wait for her chance to get photographic evidence that might end a 23-year marriage.

  Come to think of it, she might just punch that no-good philanderer on the nose herself. Remembering Frank O’Keefe’s woebegone face, she might just punch that stupid wife of his, too.

  Suddenly the foyer was all aflutter and the desk clerk was winking madly at her as the man Cíara had dubbed the Big Bad Wolf arrived with his innocent little lamb in tow. Except this little lamb wasn’t a comfortable middle-aged librarian but a ravishing blonde barely old enough to need to pluck her dark, curving eyebrows. The blonde hugged Winters as they checked in, planting a big red lipstick kiss on his criminally handsome face.

  Had the man no shame? It looked as though he was going to have a positive harem for his few days in Dublin!

  So, from her spot behind the potted palm, Cíara shot a couple of black and white photographs of the man and the blonde in a clinch, using fast film which gave a grainy finish but did not need telltale flash. Cíara's temper was rising – the kid had to be barely half the man’s age! Anyway, at least the photographs might serve to put Frank O’Keefe’s mind at rest.