Short Eddie and Smokey had promised they'd be out of her hair by evening, and her little chat with Winters seemed to have gone off well enough, too. Meeting Anton had been a shock, but she'd carried it off well, she thought; no sign of Winters to muddy the waters and stir up memories in both men's minds though she did think that Winters looked kind of cute with that purple and green bruise on his cheekbone.
And so long as she could continue to keep both men apart, things would be just fine. Men, she had discovered long ago, had short memories, especially for humiliating moments in their lives. But Anton had asked for her phone number, wanting to see her for dinner, perhaps, and she had foolishly given him her business card.
The one with the real number on it, not the night number of the local Chinese takeway.
Still and all, the jeweler was attractive and he was rich. His personality might stink, but many a time a girl had to be satisfied with just two out of three major attributes in a man.
Now she was at a loss as to what to do with herself for the rest of the day. She debated. She could go into the office, which probably meant being in close contact with Winters for hours, being subjected to his infernal assessing, disapproving scrutiny if anyone called for her special services – why was the man so antsy about what she did?
It wasn't as if she was selling herself or anything. Oh, no, she made good and sure the evening ended long before any of her victims reached even first base. Maybe he just didn't understand how important this work was to the women who hired her. A thought, a memory, yawned and stretched at the back of her memory, but before she could capture it a scruffy mongrel dog, hotly pursued by three screeching little boys, ran into the path of her car.
She slammed on her brakes and the little MG slewed hard into the curb. Winded, as she'd been thrown hard against her seatbelt restraint, Cíara sat for a couple of seconds taking in deep breaths. Then she got slowly out of the car and advanced towards the green patch of ground on the canal bank where the boys were merrily chasing the less than merry dog around.
Her already lit fuse burst into flame as she saw why the dog looked so miserable – the brats had tied a half brick to a rope around its neck, hampering its escape, and then they'd tied tin cans on a rope to its tail. Now they were chasing it around, laughing at the dog's attempts to free itself from the frightening monster attached to its tail while it frequently fell over the brick and rope around its neck.
“You dirty little monsters! Leave that dog alone!” Cíara hissed quietly. Kids like this paid no attention if you yelled, they heard yelling all the time. But speak quietly, and you got their attention. Four pairs of eyes – three human, one canine - swung in her direction.
“Sez who?” demanded the ringleader, dressed in what looked like his big brother's clothes, pants at half-mast in the American rapper style and a big green booger hanging from his nose. While Cíara watched, he absently wiped the snot off onto his wrist, leaving a snail-trail halfway up his arm that glistened in the sun.
“Yeuk! Filthy kid, don't you have a handkerchief?” she snapped.
“Don't you have a handkerchief? Don't you have a handkerchief?” The other two kids started to chant, jumping in a circle around this intruder and their buddy.
“None of yer business, lady.” The boy turned and picked up a stone.
“Throw that stone at that dog and I'll hurt you,” Cíara said. The boy looked at her over his shoulder, grinned, and launched the missile directly at the skinny dog, which appeared to have collapsed and given up all hope as it lay panting desperately on the grass. It gave a yelp and jumped as the stone cracked into its gut.
The boy turned around to grin at Cíara again, but the grin faded as he found himself looking down the barrel of a neat and ladylike handgun. “So, shall we see how you behave when someone bullies you?” she said, her voice deadly.
There was a rustling in the grass as the other two ran off, but the third stood in front of her as though he was pinned to the ground by the gun. He sniffed, thrust out his chest, and said: “Bet that's not a real gun!”
“You reckon?”
“I reckon.”
“Wanna find out?” And she flicked her thumb over the safety and laid her finger tenderly on the trigger. The boy gulped.
“See that car over there – the red one?” The boy nodded, his eyes still fastened to the gun. “Well, see, I love that car. Right now it's up against the pavement and its tire is all bent because I swerved to miss you. Wanna know why I swerved?”
Mesmerized, the boy nodded, “I swerved because I didn't want to have the scrape something like you off the tires of my car. But I'd have no such worries about shooting you. D'you hear me? Shooting means I don’t get my hands dirty.”
The boy nodded, swallowed again.
“Is that your own dog?”
The head with its tough-guy shaved hair swiveled backwards and forwards.
“Well, much as I love my car, you know what I hate?” The head swiveled from side to side. “I hate little brats who get their fun torturing small furry animals. If I ever see you at this again, I'll give you a free sample of bullets. Understand?” The head nodded feverishly up and down, then the boy was gone in a jumble of flapping pants and grubby sneakers.
The dog lay panting on the grass, the white of his eyes showing. Cíara went over to free it from its attachments of cement and the tin cans.
“Bravo,” a voice drawled from behind her, and she whirled around, the gun still in her hand as Winters backed off with his hands up. “For God's sake, put that away – it might just go off! Don't you know it's illegal in a public place…?” His words tailed off as Cíara's finger tightened on the trigger – and a gaudy red flag with 'Bang!' written on it exploded from the barrel.
“Really classy, eh?” she laughed delightedly. “Couldn't believe my luck when I found this in a toy store when we went looking for a christening present for Mary Margaret's sister's baby.”
He struggled to stop from grinning. Typical. “By the way,” he said, and he was obviously enjoying himself now. “You've got a flat tire.”
Cíara looked over to where the MG listed sadly against the curb, and let out a string of curses that made his delighted grin widen further. “I can give you a lift back to the office. I'll even call a tow truck for you. Provided you promise to play nice.”
“Play nice at what?” she had to ask, but the sexy grin on his face told her everything she needed to know. “Get lost.”
Winters shrugged. He handed her his cellphone to call her garage, then opened the passenger door for her but she lingered on the sidewalk. “I can't leave him,” she said when he asked about her hesitation.
“Fine, we'll wait until the mechanic gets here. Your rim is all bent – no point in changing the tire until you know whether there's any further damage. Is it true that a car parked in some areas of Dublin can be stripped of all spare parts before you can say 'Guinness'?”
“Yeah, it's true – but it’s not the car.” She nodded towards the miserable ball of fur on the grass.
“Oh, no…no, no…” Winters began, but she'd already walked over and gathered the dog up in her arms.
“He looks like he needs help,” she said, depositing him on the pristine leather back seat of Winters' vehicle. “And besides, I saved that dog's life and they say if you save a life, it's your responsibility. Forever.”
“Oh, dammit, the car stinks like dog already…dog, and something even less nice...”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I don’t believe it. We're finally getting some work done around here.” Winters pushed back from his swanky new desk, the rollers of his new office chair gliding smoothly, and stretched his arms above his head. Cíara watched the muscles of his shoulders flex under his shirt, noticed the springy black hair that peeped from the open collar. Her mouth went dry as she imagined the feel of that smooth pelt against her lips…..
It's only lust. Ignore it and it'll go away, she told herself firmly, once more pickin
g up the lists of dinner guests who'd attended events at each of the eight wealthy homes that had been burgled.
“What's really hard is that so many of these names are the same – Irish upper crust society must be really inbred – and just about all of them have platinum bank accounts. There’s no sign of any evidence to suggest that they're either in dire financial straits or have been spending more than usual lately. Maybe your grandparents could help. They're more in tune with what's going on in these people's lives….?” His point was very valid, she admitted. It just went against the grain to ask the Henleys for help.
“I don't know, Jonathon. To be honest, what I know of these guests, they're all rich enough to give away a few diamonds, not steal more…” She paused as a funny little idea nagged at the corner of her mind. “You know ….” But the telephone ringing interrupted her.
“Hello? Oh, yes,” Margaret Henley must read minds, she thought. Anytime her thoughts strayed in the direction of her grandmother, the woman seemed to snatch the chance to intrude into her life.
“I was just in town, dear, and thought I'd bring along a little gift for your office. Jonathon told me you'd been doing it up. Be there in five.” Cíara tried to get a word in edge-wise, but Mrs. Henley had snapped her mobile shut. Moments later, she heard the door behind her open – but she was fascinated as she watched Winters' face. He'd half-risen from his desk to greet the newcomer, but his mouth now hung open and an ashen color was spreading across his cheeks. She swiveled around to see who was causing his shock reaction.
It couldn't be! But it was.
“Hallo, there, darlin'! Bet you didn't expect to see old Grace Muldoon on your doorstep, now, did you?” Judging from the look on Winters' face, Cíara figured Grace had outdone herself in sartorial elegance, a vision no-one would have expected to see on their doorstep. Bright red stretch pants valiantly clung to her hips, while a wonderful peacock blue silk shirt flowed down over her generous chest, as if trying to reach the spike-heeled green patent leather shoes on Grace's tiny, plump feet. Her crowning glory was an orange, white and green silk scarf, patriotically colored and wrapped around her head, turban style.
“I was just up in town getting a few bits, and I thought to myself, Grace, why don’t you just go and see that little girl who you're as fond of as if she was your own daughter? I wasn't sure I'd got the right place until this nice little old granny type in the foyer told me it was up all those flights of steps.” Grace collapsed panting into the office chair Winters had quickly vacated for her.
“Who's a nice old granny type? Why, you cheeky mare, you! I'll have you know I'm a sure bet to be a few years younger than an auld one like yourself!” Granny Somers stood in the door, aiming thunderbolts of disgust at Grace.
Oh, no, it couldn't be –
“Well, dear, I'm afraid it must be said – weren't you having an awful time getting up those steps? Puffing as if your lungs were about to quit, you were,” Grace said, preening comfortably in her chair.
“Who was puffing on those stairs? I'll have you know I was a little out of breath carrying this plant!”
“Ohmigod!” Cíara squawked. Her worst nightmares were coming true all at once. Margaret Henley had just walked in the door, definitely a bit red in the face and short of breath, peering menacingly between the fronds of a potted fichus. Obviously, she thought Grace's last words had been a slight on her. The situation was not helped by Granny Somers dissolving in laughter. “You daft old coot!” She gasped between giggles.
Mrs. Henley put the plant pot down in the center of the room, hands on hips as she turned to glare at Granny Somers. But the glare turned to a look of abject horror as The Dog, as Cíara had named him, strolled over to the plant and raised a hind leg, spraying casually both the pottery base and Mrs. Henley's fine leather walking shoes.
Grace and Granny Somers were now holding each other up as they laughed fit to burst. Mrs. Henley looked about to have a heart attack. Cíara was already considering phoning an ambulance in advance when she saw a wicked grin struggle to birth on her paternal grandmother's face.
“Why Lillian Somers – and do you always go around with your blouse all undone up the front? I heard Mary Marshall's mother started doing things like that – senile dementia, they said it was. Poor old thing – they had to take her away after she ran along the beach at Greystones stark naked in the middle of the day.”
Granny Somers glanced down, saw her shirt really had come undone, and her giggles dried to a furious silence as both Margaret Henley and Grace Muldoon roared with laughter.
“Hey, no-one ever told me Dublin people could be such craic! I always thought you was all so tightly buttoned you couldn't pee straight!” Grace announced when she could draw breath.
“And just who are you, anyway?” Both Mrs. Henley and Granny Somers turned on Grace, who pushed her chair back a step or two as the other two women glared at her. “I'm Grace, Grace Muldoon, and I'm here to see this little girl who I rescued when she was trying to seduce a man down in Waterford. Hit him with my umbrella, I did and….”
A choked noise from behind the big desk made all four women swivel towards Winters. His face was brick red, except for the greenish purple bruise that he was fingering thoughtfully.
“Listen, er, we've an important appointment, special case, we've got to go out for a while.Can you ladies take care of each other till we're back?” Cíara grabbed him and literally dragged him to the door, grabbing her purse from her desk as she went. As they left, she heard the comments- “Ain't that like the young today?”
“You know, you do your best….”
“All this way just to see….” -as the door slammed shut behind them.
And the very ominous “What did you say about seducing…?”
It was possible the three women would kill each other before she dared return to the office. Or it was possible they'd set up an alliance… Cíara shuddered. But right now she'd more worrying things on her mind. Like the fact that a furiously angry Jonathon Winters was right behind her – and a beaming Anton Wallace was heading right towards her.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and all the saints preserve us,” she muttered under her breath. But the saints didn't seem interested in interceding on her behalf. Like the three old women, the saints also seemed to be ganging up on her. “Anton!” she said, forcing a bright smile, “Fancy meeting you here!”
“Well, it is your office, isn't it?” Wallace was looking doubtfully at the shabby foyer, and she sensed Winters bristling behind her.
“Yes, well, you know how hard it is to find office space in Dublin these days. Besides, this is what people expect from a detective agency.”
“It is?” Wallace still looked puzzled, but shrugged his shoulders. “I thought I'd formalize our arrangements for dinner tonight – I was thinking perhaps Jury's, around half-past seven?”
Jury's? Cíara's stomach rumbled. Good food, even if the company promised to be a bit dicey, she thought, agreeing to meet Wallace there. She turned to a thunderous looking Winters, and silently added the rider: Assuming I live that long.
“I can explain everything,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. Upstairs, The Dog barked, then whined, scratching at the office door. Cíara felt a strong bond of sympathy. She'd like to escape, too.
“Oh, I am sure you have a wealth of explanations, and they'd better all be good. I'm in the mood for some entertainment,” Winters said, taking her arm and propelling her out of the building and onto the sidewalk. She thought of screaming for help, but there's nothing Dubliners love more than a spectacle and she wasn't in a performing mood.
They stopped in at the nearest pub, a dark and cozy place still resisting the temptation to become an 'Irish Pub' tourist style. This was the real thing. A peat fire burned in the corner, there were worn leather seats, walls covered with photographs of sporting events, many of them signed by heroes of past Gaelic League hurling and football battles, and a thick fog of stale cigarette smoke and warm be
er permeated the air.
Ancient looking red-faced men, in even more ancient suit jackets, sprawled on stools at the bar, hands wrapped around dark pints; the odd show-off nursed a whiskey. They gave Winters and Cíara a once-over as they arrived, immediately identifying her as one of them, Winters as a Yank, and promptly lost interest.
Cíara sank into a seat by the fire, beginning to relax. He went to the bar and got them drinks, then came and sat alongside her. “So?”
“So what?” she asked, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the familiar surroundings. The throaty, threatening growl from the man next to her brought her back to reality quick enough.
“You could start with seducing Anton Wallace down in Waterford, and go on from there.”
“I did no such thing! I did not seduce that man!” All eyes swiveled towards them as if by heat-seeking radar, and she glared them down. The interested silence brought her back to her senses and she lowered her voice.
“Well, you see, I'd taken on this assignment – from the Walters Agency,” she told him, desperately name-dropping in an attempt to impress with the bigger agency's respectability. He didn't look very impressed. “They knew I – well, I do a lot of work for women, finding out if their partners are the faithful type…”
“What….?”
“Okay, it's hard to explain, but you would be amazed at the number of women who don’t trust their men. They pay me to go out, all dressed up and looking available, and approach...”
“Spare me the details,” he cut in harshly. “Just tell me how I came to be assaulted by that wild woman with the strange color sense – and where does Wallace come into all this?” His tone brooked no nonsense.
“Okay, Wallace was my target.”
“Dear God…..” The disgust in his voice was enough to rile Cíara.
“Look, you asked about all this. It's not really any business of yours – you forced yourself on me...”
“Not quite…I don’t recall force being used.”
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