Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  Another elevator arrived in the lobby as Solly was headed for the stairs. The doors opened to the formidable bulk of Declan Twomey. Twomey’s face darkened at the sight of Solly. “Aren’t you done here, Detective?” he asked.

  “Need a follow-up visit with Mr. Joyce,” Solly responded.

  “What for? I’m sure Liam has told you all he knows, as I have.”

  “Oh, I’ll be coming by to see you again too, Mr. Twomey, to see if you might remember more than you thought.”

  “I’m not going to remember anything else and neither is Liam. People are busy, you know. They have things to do without going over the same ground again and again.”

  Solly walked back to face Twomey directly. He wasn’t quite as tall as the big man, but he didn’t have to look up at him when he spoke and he had a solid build himself. “You know, Mr. Twomey, I have a job to do. Sometimes people remember things after the first or the second or even the third time you talk to them. A young man has been murdered, and it’s my job to find out who did it.”

  Twomey snorted in response and pivoted away toward the front door of the lobby.

  “I’ll be coming to see you again too, Mr. Twomey,” called Solly before he walked toward the stairs.

  ◆◆◆

  Liam Joyce’s eyes were closed when Solly entered his office. Perhaps in meditation, perhaps in exhaustion. Solly waited until Joyce opened his eyes.

  Solly had expected Liam Joyce to be flush with irritation and anxiety when he saw Solly standing at the door to his office. But he was neither. As he opened his eyes, Joyce’s manner seemed gentle, peaceful, perhaps resigned.

  “Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Joyce. I’d just like to go over a few things with you again about your meeting with Patrick Keenan. Sometimes we find people remember things as time goes on—even small points—that might be important to the investigation.”

  Joyce nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “I sense that Patrick talked to you about more than the Irish-American community support of Saint Martin House and similar shelters in Ireland.”

  Joyce was silent for a few beats before he said, “The time period that Patrick was researching was a complicated one in Ireland.”

  Solly didn’t respond, didn’t push.

  “People here, Irish-American people here, wanted to help the Cause in some way, whatever their understanding of the Cause was. They didn’t have a very nuanced sense of events and everyone had a bitter distrust of the Brits bred into them—for good reason given our history. They never considered the Protestants in Northern Ireland as Irish, and don’t to this day. They saw them as intruders that came and took Catholic lands. These are long, centuries-old memories in a small country. So, you see, some people here thought the Cause was just and, yes, they wanted to help.”

  He picked up a pen, one of a number of cheap Bic pens standing in a Dunkin Donuts paper cup on the desk, and played with it mindlessly as he talked. “You know, from far away, from over here, you just hear stories like something in a heroic movie or video. You don’t really know it or understand it—the horror, the cruelty. On our side to our own too.” He looked somewhere near a file cabinet in the corner, his mind very far away from Boylston Street in Boston.

  “Is that what you talked about with Patrick, Mr. Joyce?” If this was the truth, it wasn’t all of it.

  Solly heard a deep intake of breath and saw Joyce rearranging his face, preparing to tell a lie. Perhaps not a complete lie, but maybe a half-truth. Or the Catholic sin of omission, an interesting sin which Rosaria had once explained to him, her Jewish significant other. Lying by omitting or leaving something out.

  Perhaps the most important something, the most critical, the most damning something. He was certainly familiar with that form of lying from his experience as a cop over the years. He just had never heard it given a category name before.

  “Yes, that’s what we talked about,” said Saint Liam.

  Right, thought Solly. “Is that all you talked about, Mr. Joyce? Was there any specific event or person you touched on in your conversation with Patrick?”

  “No, no. Just the general lack of understanding of what the war in Belfast was like and what the money and the support was really going for.”

  “I see,” Solly said. He let the silence settle in.

  After some time, Solly left his card on the desk. “Well, if you think of anything else or if you want to talk, Mr. Joyce, give me a call. I’ll probably swing by again soon.”

  Liam nodded and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 18

  A brisk breeze was coursing off the water the day Rosaria drove out the Sky Road, headed for the short-term rental cottage that friends of the Keenans had found for her.

  She’d been content staying in the Buttermilk Lodge on the Westport Road with Cathriona’s full Irish breakfast and the peat fires that Pat had started to make in the cooler evenings. But Nora Keenan had taken the initiative to sign and pay for the cottage rental.

  Rosaria was bemused that the cottage owner’s name was Burke, one of her family names. But the Burke grandfather who had immigrated to Massachusetts left so long ago that she couldn’t imagine making the connection with anyone in Clifden or Ballyconneely now. And she was not sure she had the energy to try. Not where her head was at the moment.

  On this day, Rosaria was concentrating on staying on the correct side of the gorgeous Sky Road with its breathtaking vistas around every corner. Patrick’s border collie Fergus occupied the passenger seat beside her, his head stuck out the window, greedily breathing in the fresh ocean air.

  Somehow, through unspoken agreement, Rosaria had become Fergus’s foster parent during her stay. The Keenans had a hard time having Fergus around after Patrick’s death. On the one hand, the dog was a well-loved, living reminder of their son. On the other hand, because Fergus was a well-loved, living reminder of her son, Mrs. Keenan often burst into tears when the dog came bounding through the door. “Fergus is always hoping to see Patrick standing here,” she said. “Just like us.”

  Everyone could see that the yearning, confused dog missed his young master and needed attention. So, when Fergus had attached himself to Rosaria, she was happy for it. She’d be living alone in an isolated cottage for several weeks and could use the company.

  She had hoped Solly might find time to visit, but she saw now that it was impossible for him. He was so tightly tied to Patrick’s case and others in Boston right now. Nothing to be done about it.

  Despite the affectionate tone to their call when Rosaria had first arrived in Ireland, she and Solly were both still subdued and careful in conversation. His calls recently were disappointingly businesslike and brief. Their clash over her coming to and now staying in Ireland had surprised them both. They both had considered their relationship strong and loving enough to withstand these perturbations.

  Yet, in retrospect, Rosaria thought the clash should have been expected. Two strong-willed people who were used to operating independently and, to a certain extent, calling the shots, were trying to build a partnership without losing the core of themselves. Solly’s brief marriage to the needy, dependent Justine and his past relationships, from what she knew of them, had certainly not prepared him for the likes of Rosaria, no matter what he said. Independent, challenging Rosaria. She couldn’t be different. She was too old to change.

  This particular decision, to come to Ireland in the middle of Solly’s investigation into Patrick Keenan’s death—when Rosaria thought there may have been something relevant to the case on this side of the Atlantic and Solly did not—was tailor-made for igniting a fiery debate. She was not ready to give up on their making it together as a couple, and she had hopes that Solly would come to terms with her staying here and working with the Keenans.

  Still, Rosaria knew she was not the only one in the relationship who wondered if this partnership would work out over the long term. .”

  ◆◆◆
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  Now, it was toward the end of summer in Connemara. The strange and wonderful half-light of the long Irish summer evenings would be gone soon. The days would be getting shorter and the air chillier. Summer visitors were even now heading back to Dublin or Munich, London, New York or Boston. She knew she’d be glad of having Fergus around as it got quieter on the Sky Road. Enthusiastic and inquisitive, he was good company and it was never a bad idea for a woman living on her own to have a watchdog around.

  Entering through a break in a low stone wall along a narrow dirt driveway, Rosaria pulled beside the Burke house. The house sat on a lonesome stretch off the main road along the sea. But it was not too far from town and, it came with a precious WiFi connection. This last at the insistence of Mr. Burke’s only child—a daughter in Seattle, who with her husband and children Skyped with the old man every week.

  The estate agent hinted that the house might be on the market when Mr. Burke came back. He’d likely be moving to be with his daughter—what with getting on in years and his wife being gone since two Christmases ago. What was there here for him?

  Rosaria looked over the expanse of open water behind the house for a few minutes, listening to the ocean rolling and murmuring like a watery, restless, gray blue beast. She inhaled a deep breath of the fresh, chilly air heavy with the smell of brine and seaweed. Then, braced by the sounds and smells, she took out a key and walked to the side door to enter the cottage.

  She turned when she heard and then saw an ancient dark Renault van coming around the bend from the direction of Clifden. The van had signage on the side, too far away to read, and a piece of cloth flying from its side window. Rosaria wondered if, like so many country people, she’d get in the habit of stopping whatever she was doing to watch a car go by on a quiet day. This one was certainly interesting enough.

  She raised her hand to the driver—a heavy man with an angular face and a shock of dark hair. The man stared at her for a moment and returned a shy wave before driving on. Rosaria reminded herself that people in the Gaeltacht, the Gaelic-speaking regions, had a reputation for being clannish and shy.

  “Ah well,” she whispered as she turned the key in the lock and called to Fergus, who was chasing seagulls over the seaweed and sand. “Let’s go, Fergus,” she called. “You’re wasting your time. You’ll never catch those guys.” Forgetting all about his chase, Fergus came racing to Rosaria and they entered the house together, the dog pushing his way through the half opened door first.

  It was an old man’s house, living inside the shell of another time when he was long-married to a loving, attentive and fussy homemaker. A tattered dark green reading chair and ottoman sat squarely in front of a small television. On top of the set, a plastic statue of the Blessed Mother. A stack of dusty books held up one corner of the chair where the fourth leg should have been. Beside the chair, a cluttered end table covered with a plastic blue doily held a large ashtray, a pipe stand, a laminated card with a novena to Saint Jude, a racing form for the Galway Races and a solitary photograph in a silver frame. What she took to be the late Mrs. Burke smiled gaily out of the frame—a sweet-faced, tight-curled woman in a blue ruffled dress, apparently enjoying a party or a wedding.

  An animated Fergus poked and sniffed around the room, delighted with the new and different scents of a strange house. He occasionally interrupted his explorations by standing on his hind legs to look out the large window at the rocks and the gulls, to let them know he was still on the watch. Rosaria smiled and lowered herself gently into the big green chair, feeling that she was entering someone else’s life. Over the next few minutes, she just breathed— inhaling the smell of pipe smoke, wool, and the scent of an old man. Gradually, Rosaria sensed that she was being introduced to James Burke and that they would like each other.

  Looking around the living room, Rosaria saw touches of Mrs. Burke—a floral settee with lace doilies in the corner. A rose-covered china teapot on a small tea table. On one corner of the wall, a portrait of Pope John Paul II with a palm cross from some long ago Palm Sunday tucked behind the picture. On the other wall, John R. Kennedy with rosary beads hanging from the corner of the picture frame.

  She reached into her side pocket for her cellphone to call Solly. She was calling in part to hear his voice, but also to get an update on his conversations with Eduardo Mendez and the other staff at Saint Martin House regarding Patrick’s visit just before he was killed.

  Rosaria knew that this part of the investigation would require an interview with the ever-present Justine. Rosaria just hoped that the interview would happen with another officer present and at the Boston Police Department headquarters. She didn’t want to think about the interview happening with just Justine and Detective Belkin in some cozy coffee shop on Beacon Hill or, God forbid, in Justine’s apartment.

  Rosaria’s spirits lifted when she opened her phone to find a photo sent from Marguerite—Archie on a couch with three elderly nuns at the Motherhouse. Archie was sitting up and on alert, staring straight ahead intently. One nun’s wrinkled hand lay affectionately on his back. They were all apparently watching television. Rosaria knew how much Archie liked watching mysteries and dramas. Sure enough, the text from Marguerite read “Monday night, watching Midsomer Murders. This was the best idea. Archie is everyone’s darling.”

  Rosaria smiled and wondered about the wisdom of leaving Archie at the Motherhouse. Now she hoped she could get the nuns to release him. She blew a kiss at the photo and then hit Solly on speed dial.

  Not for the first time lately, she had to be content with hearing Solly’s voicemail greeting. “Detective Belkin, Homicide Division, Boston Police Department. Leave a message. Back as soon as I can.”

  Rosaria suppressed her irrational fear that Solly couldn’t answer the phone because he was locked in conversation—or other activity—with Justine. “Stop it, just stop it,” she whispered to herself before Solly’s greeting finished and she left her message. “Hi, just calling to say hello and see what’s going on. I’m in a little cottage the Keenans found for me. I have a watchdog, sort of. Call me when you have a chance. Miss you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria stared into the distance for a few thoughtful and melancholy moments after leaving her message. Then, she shook herself and punched the number for Sarah Glynn, Patrick’s girlfriend—to confirm she would meet her in Galway City the next day. No answer there, either.

  “Sarah here. I’ll call you back.”

  Rosaria knew from seeing Sarah at Patrick’s services that the distraught young woman was still in a hard shell of shock and grief. It had only been two weeks since Patrick’s murder. Nevertheless, Sarah was trying to rally—heading back from her parents’ home in Tuam to the University in Galway. She had rented a new apartment, to reduce the number of memories of Patrick that she would have to face every day. She’d be stopping by her department at the university, visiting friends and generally trying to pick up the pieces of her life. Hard work.

  Rosaria had been surprised and grateful when Sarah had agreed to meet and talk with her. Now, as she left a message on Sarah’s cell, she wondered if the young woman had been so numb and distracted that the commitment to meet never really registered. She could only hope for the best.

  As she ended her message to Sarah, Rosaria reflected for a moment on her email exchange the previous day with Patrick’s faculty advisor at the university— now on sabbatical in Germany. The conversation, a sad one as the professor had been fond of Patrick and believed he had a bright future, had turned up nothing new, but overall confirmed her sense of the situation with Patrick’s independent study project. The topic—Irish-American support for the IRA in Northern Ireland—was worrisomely broad and unfocused and Patrick had not been turning in his status reports. The advisor had to warn him several times, just before Patrick had gone to America, that he was in danger of falling behind. Being awarded his degree with the rest of his class might be in jeopardy.

  Rosaria frowned and shook her head. What i
n the world had happened to this bright boy in the middle of an independent research project—perhaps gone all wrong?

  Then, trying to energize herself, Rosaria put her cell back in her pocket, slapped her thigh and said to herself loudly, “Enough muddling around. Get moving!” She got up from the green chair to retrieve her bags from the car. Calling Fergus, she walked through the kitchen, noting the single place setting neatly stacked on the wooden counter and the pictures of American grandchildren in Little League and soccer uniforms beaming from the front of the refrigerator.

  Fergus beat her through the door again and ran joyfully once more toward the seaweed-covered rocks on the shore. He resumed his great display of energetic sniffing around the rocks and his fearsome barking at the gulls, who continued to ignore him disdainfully.

  As she stood on the low concrete step outside the front door, Rosaria pulled her sweater closer against the chill. The ocean had turned a metallic gray and the waves choppy. She opened the back door of her car, reaching for one of her travel bags, when she heard the hum of a motor again. She thought it was a boat and looked toward the cove, but then realized it was a car on the road.

  The dark Renault van she had seen earlier drove slowly by again. She still couldn’t make out the printing on the side of the van but she could see that the odd little piece of cloth fluttering out a side windows was some kind of red and white flag. The same heavyset man with the dark hair and eyes was driving the van and staring at her—not friendly, not curious, not menacing—just a flat stare.

  A gust of air off the rocks made Rosaria shiver. She did not wave at the driver this time, but called the dog and hurried with her bags into the house.

  CHAPTER 19

  The next day, Nora Keenan called, asking Rosaria to join her for lunch at Cullen’s Coffee Shop on Market Street in Clifden. Rosaria’s confidence about driving in Ireland was still somewhat fragile. After accepting Nora’s invitation, she took the Sky Road to Clifden and pulled into the parking lot of Saint Joseph’s Church on the Westport Road. She couldn’t face trying to find a parking place and then maneuvering the car into a space on a busy Main or Market Street. She’d leave the rental car here and walk the few blocks to Cullen’s.