Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  Rosaria was surprised at what a timid driver she’d become on this visit to Ireland. A veteran Boston driver and parallel parker par excellence, she somehow couldn’t adjust to the left side of the road driving, especially at the roundabouts. She wondered if the “insult to her brain” that the doctor had diagnosed last winter had given her some kind of driving dyslexia. And her healing, but still damaged, right eye was truly a liability in navigating the narrow roads here.

  A pale sun caught on the steeple of Saint Josephs as she headed toward her appointment with Nora Keenan. Main Street was busy with shoppers. Except for the SuperValu market, which was not really that big, there were no large stores in Clifden. You had to drive to Galway City for that, to find a Boots or a Tedesco’s. As a result, small shops—pharmacies, clothiers, stationers and probably the best bookstore in the west of Ireland, the Clifden Bookshop, survived and prospered in a fashion Rosaria hadn’t seen since her childhood decades ago. Some rural towns in Ireland had been left behind. It was as if they were places missing a spine or vertebrae with their empty shops and storefronts on the High Street. But not Clifden.

  She turned the corner of Market Street and walked down the slight incline to Cullen’s. The tables were filled and the shop crowded. Nora Kennan sat in the rear of the shop near a small fireplace. She raised her hand in greeting as Rosaria came through the door.

  Rosaria made her way through the diners to join Mrs. Keenan. Rosaria was a natural hugger, but she had learned over time that many people were not. So, she held back until Nora Keenan opened her arms and said. “Good to see you, Rosaria.”

  Rosaria leaned in for a hug. “And you, Nora.”

  “Welcome to one of my favorite haunts,” Nora said as Rosaria took a seat and surveyed the coffee shop. Really, more of a tea shop despite its name. Normally, this amount of bric-a-brac, old photos, pictures and lace would have given her hives, but today Rosaria felt embraced and comforted—like being in a grandmother’s parlor. Rosaria’s own Nana O’Reilly had, in fact, been more given to bling in her decorating and played the dogs at the Wonderland track—but Rosaria knew there were other nanas, if not her own, with parlors like this one.

  “I always get the soup and sandwich special here. Never disappoints. Hello, Mary,” she said, turning to greet the waitress.

  The waitress’s eyes were moist. “My heart goes out to you, Mrs. Keenan.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” She reached for the waitress’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “It means the world to us, all the kindness.”

  Mary nodded and, after a moment, asked Rosaria, “Coffee today?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Would you want the soup and sandwich special with Nora? Today, it’s a potato leek soup and salmon salad on a brown bread.”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be perfect.”

  Nora Keenan lost no time when Mary left. After a perfunctory “How are you settling in?” she got right down to business. “I know you’ll be talking to our Sarah. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

  “Sarah is probably my best start at getting an overview. I’d hoped to talk to Patrick’s advisor, but I understand he’s on sabbatical in Germany. My email exchange wasn’t perfect, but it will have to do for now.”

  Nora nodded. Mary brought their soups and sandwiches. As they ate, Rosaria hungrily—enjoying every bite—and Nora sparingly, Rosaria sketched out her general plans at the moment. “I’ll stay on top of what’s happening with the investigation in Boston and keep you posted with whatever they are at liberty to share with the family. What’s the best way to do that, Nora?”

  They agreed for the short term to meet every few days or as necessary at Cullen’s for a face-to-face update if they could. If not, then a phone update would do.

  “Fine, that’s good, Rosaria,” Nora Keenan said when they had finished, briskly pulling her bags together. “I’m going to walk up to visit Patrick now. Would you keep me company as far as Bridge Street?”

  “Of course, I’d be pleased to, Nora.”

  As they walked up the main street, Nora took Rosaria’s arm. Walking arm and arm with another woman was not something that Rosaria had experienced since Catholic school, though she’d often observed older Italian women in Boston’s North End, near her condo, amiably strolling arm and arm down Hanover Street. She often envied them. Now, she was surprised at how comforting it felt to face the world with another human’s touch.

  As they passed the news agent, Rosaria caught a glimpse of Cathal McKenna’s bearded face on the front page of one of the national newspapers. The photo of the ex-IRA leader Patrick had mentioned to her, the one with ambitions to be the prime minister or Taoiseach of Ireland, sat over a headline about his party’s opposition to certain social service cuts. She thought she saw a line underneath about the “Man of the People”. The Cathal McKenna in the picture looked dynamic, hirsute and vaguely academic—perhaps a classics professor. She couldn’t imagine his having a history, as Patrick had said, whatever having a history meant.

  She and Nora approached where Bridge Street, leading to the cemetery, veered off Main Street. “Well, I won’t keep you now,” Nora said, in the polite Irish form of dismissal. “I like to go there by myself, you know.”

  Rosaria nodded. She could imagine Nora Keenan as the kind of woman who would prefer to give vent to her deepest grief and anger in private. She could see her getting up from her bed at night, too restless in her body, too wracked with grief and rage to sleep or even to stay still. Trying not to wake Francis as she walks to the darkened kitchen, and once there sits with the cat at her feet, a cup of tea growing cold on the table. Moaning in physical pain, weeping. Always with the door closed.

  “Talk to you soon, Nora.”

  Nora raised her hand in goodbye. Before she moved away, she said, “You know, sometimes I feel so strongly that he’s here. Just out of my sight. But here. I feel his presence. My darling boy.”

  Rosaria met Nora’s eyes for a few moments, but didn’t respond.

  Later, as she walked toward her car, Rosaria turned to watch Nora walking down the Bridge Street hill to visit the grave of her only son. She had lifted a blue patterned kerchief over her head against the light mist that had begun. Her pace was now slow and meditative, her straight spine slightly stooped. With a melancholy heart, Rosaria saw the old woman that Nora Keenan was fast on her way to becoming.

  CHAPTER 20

  Solly had called ahead for a follow-up appointment with Declan Twomey. He didn’t think he could trust the possibility of catching him in his office with all his comings and goings.

  In his conversation with Declan Twomey’s administrator, Anne-Marie, Solly made it clear that Mr. Twomey had no choice as to whether he’d have an interview with Detective Belkin. His choice was either in his office or at the station.

  Now, as he climbed the stairs to Twomey’s office, he passed a burly construction worker in a light vest over a black Bruins tee shirt.

  “Nice shirt. Big fan?”

  “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

  Solly stretched out his hand. “Solly Belkin, Boston PD.”

  “Frank O’Brien. Good to meet you.” The man shook Solly’s hand briefly and then raised his hand in goodbye as he headed down the stairs and out the front door at a good clip.

  Solly took out his little black spiral notebook and made a note. Frank O’Brien. Bruins tee shirt. Paper?

  ◆◆◆

  Solly was rarely intimidated by an irate interviewee. He’d tirelessly come back to the same questions again and again and wait out long, surly silences.

  Now, he wouldn’t say that he was intimidated by Declan Twomey, but he had to admit that he found the man chilling in some way. There were the eyes, such an odd color, staring out from under those massive black and gray brows. And, of course, his bulk.

  The image that came to Solly’s mind when he looked at Declan Twomey’s person was that of a destroyer. A massive destroyer on the high seas, coming right at him. And he
was about as personable as a destroyer, not giving an inch.

  “I have nothing to say about that boy. I never met him.”

  “Of course I looked angry in that picture with Liam Joyce. I look angry half the time. Look at my eyebrows, man. I look angry even when I’m smiling.” A hint of a real smile on Twomey’s face. But that was the only break in the wall. After thirty minutes of impenetrable blocking, Solly had to admit defeat. On this day, anyway.

  As Solly was leaving Twomey’s office, he heard him thunder from behind him, “From this point on, you can talk to my lawyer, Detective Belkin.”

  “I’ll look forward to talking to both of you, Mr. Twomey,” Solly responded without looking back. His mind was already on checking whether there was paper in the system on one Francis O’Brien of the black Bruins tee shirt.

  CHAPTER 21

  It wasn’t that serious an accident. Rosaria couldn’t calculate how close she was to the farm truck on the other side of the road. The scrape along the side of the rental car would have to be fixed, but wouldn’t be a big job. She thought her credit card might cover the deductible.

  Back in the US, the Massachusetts Department of Motor Vehicles allowed Rosaria to drive with her damaged right eye because she demonstrated she had learned to compensate with her left eye. She had passed the road test on the streets around the Watertown Registry offices outside of Boston easily.

  But that was driving on the right side of the road and on wider streets, even though they were busy and congested with notoriously unpredictable Boston drivers.

  In Connemara, the roads were often so narrow that one car had to pull off the road into farm gateways to let another vehicle creep by. Impossibly winding, with gorgeous fuchsia hedge rows so close and lush that the branches reached through the car window to greet you. Perhaps also to obstruct your field of view so that you might never see a car coming the opposite way until it was ten feet in front of you. Not to mention the sheep and the occasional cow being led from one pasture to another. Or, in the case of her incident, large farm equipment.

  Rosaria knew when she was beaten. Later that day, she stopped into Cullen’s Coffee Shop and Bakery and asked Mary whether she knew of a good driver who’d be willing to cart her around for a few weeks. They could use her car, but she really couldn’t drive here.

  Mary called to the back of the shop, “Peg, does Mossie the Yank still take people around?”

  Peg came out of the kitchen, wiping her floured hands on her apron. “Yes, yes, he does. Now, I don’t know if he’s available and he does like to drive his own car if that would suit you as well.”

  Rosaria shrugged. “All the same to me. I just need someone to get me from here to there.”

  “Well, he’d be your man then, I’d say. And he knows this area like the back of his hand.”

  She looked at Rosaria closely with a smile. “Did the roads here defeat you?” Rosaria laughed. I’m not equal to them yet.”

  “Not surprised at all. Here, let me see if I have Mossie’s card somewhere here.” Peg shuffled through cards for various local services that were stacked near the cash register. “There we are. Mossie’s Livery Service.”

  ◆◆◆

  Maurice Ignatius O’Toole or Mossie the Yank of Clifden by way of Adams Corner in Dorchester, Massachusetts pulled up beside the Burke cottage the next morning. He drove an ancient, battered Renault panel van with a TACSA sign on the top, Mossie’s Livery Service sign on the side and a maroon and white flag for the Gaelic Athletic Association Galway hurling team on a side window. Rosaria recognized the mysterious car that had twice driven by the Burke cottage when she’d first arrived.

  From the living room she could see a big rumpled man heave himself out of the van with surprising agility given his size. He reached one meaty hand down to tousle Fergus’s head and threw his head back to give a laugh as big as himself as the dog danced around him, thrilled with this new company. My watchdog, sighed Rosaria. Hopeless.

  Mossie raised his head to look at the sea, now a deep blue gray with white-caps under an overcast sky. He paused a moment, breathing in deeply before he turned and headed for the kitchen door.

  He filled the doorframe as Rosaria opened the wooden door. “You must be Mossie.”

  “At your service, Miss O’Reilly.” He removed his cap and smiled.

  Rosaria had made the tea. She poured them both a cup and, over the tea and yesterday’s scones from Cullen’s, she broached the subject of Mossie’s cruising past the Burke cottage twice on the day she moved in. “You know, you had me scared half to death—a big man like you riding by the house twice. What were you thinking?”

  Mossie’s face was flush with embarrassment even as he tried to explain himself. “Forgive me, Miss O’Reilly. I wasn’t thinking. I was only curious, you know, about who might be renting Burkie’s cottage for a few weeks. I meant no harm.”

  The big man looked as if he wanted to drop through the floor. Rosaria knew what she was doing when she stared at him for a few moments before she showed mercy by moving on to other subjects. They talked about Boston and changes since Mossie was last there.

  Rosaria learned that Mossie’s mother had returned to Galway from Dorchester with her boy after she’d been left a young widow. Mossie was only five when he returned and soon had no trace of an American accent, but all his life, he’d been called the “Yank”.

  “They always had a time with it, you know. Even if your parents are from here and you’re just a little kid,” he explained. “But that’s okay. They’re just having fun and I don’t mind. The name stuck, though, didn’t it?”

  They talked about new development plans in Clifden, about how long it took Ireland to recover from the banking crisis. There seemed to be no end of interesting topics to discuss with her new driver. She could see that it would be a pleasure to ride the roads with this chatty and intelligent man. An unexpected added benefit.

  As the conversation wound down, Mossie put his hands on both knees. “So, where are we off to first, ma’am?”

  “Galway City, tomorrow. You can drop me off near the quay at the Spanish Arch. I’m meeting someone for coffee at a cafe off Cross Street. Maybe I can meet you back at the quay—I’ll text when I’m done.”

  “Brilliant. What do you say? Pick you up after first Mass tomorrow?” Rosaria cocked her head and looked at Mossie with a frown. “And when would that be?”

  “Ah. About half nine—half past nine. You do your business there and whatever errands. We’ll leave Galway half past two or three. God willing, we’ll be home with the cows.”

  “Perfect.”

  Mossie rose to go. “See you in the morning.”

  “After first Mass,” Rosaria smiled.

  “Will I see you there?” he asked.

  “Sorry, Mossie, no.”

  “Pity. Well, I’ll pick you up here then.”

  As he got to the door, he turned and said, “Lovely name to this cottage. Did you see the plaque on the side wall?”

  “No, I missed it. What would it be?”

  “Beannacht. Irish for Blessing. I hope it brings some to you, ma’am.” He tipped his flat cap. “I hope it does.”

  ◆◆◆

  After Mossie left, Rosaria made a quick call to Solly and was happy with it. The tone felt more like old times between them.

  She caught Solly up on her move to Sky Road and other details. He was especially relieved that she now had a driver. “I’d have a hard enough time driving on those roads, and I don’t have one damaged eye,” he said.

  For her part, Rosaria was relieved he sounded like her Solly in the call. She asked him about Eduardo Mendez as a potential suspect—not knowing if Solly would take this opportunity to remind her once again that this was not her case or if he’d feel comfortable talking.

  He felt comfortable talking. Maybe he was just tired and relaxed.

  “How about Eduardo?”

  “Well, you know, we looked at his history and he certainly is somebody who
could take a guy out without a second thought if he felt like it.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s somebody who could take a guy out without a second thought, but who also has an alibi.”

  “Which is?”

  “The security guard for the House was on duty the whole relevant time. Neither Joyce or Eduardo went out by him during that time and all the security cameras for the other exits are clear.”

  “How inconvenient for one of your hypotheses.” Rosaria chuckled softly.

  “Yeah, blows that theory apart.”

  “Is he the success story he seems?”

  “Oh yeah, big time. Even going to night school at UMass Boston, scheduled to get his degree next year. Will probably succeed Joyce as Director of the House. Could take over now if Liam were to leave.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Nah, I told you I liked him. He’s solid. Maybe too loyal by my book, but a good guy. You’d want him in your corner.”

  “Liam Joyce certainly does inspire loyalty.”

  “You know, you can see how he would, can’t you? He’s been dedicated to the homeless population for years, working himself to exhaustion sometimes so that he had to be hospitalized. I’m told he takes only enough of his salary to meet some minimal living expenses and turns the rest back into the operating budget of the House. And there’s something about him that’s...” Rosaria waited while Solly searched for the right word. “Something that’s broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “Yeah. Like he needs taking care of somehow. You could see how a big, smart, tough guy like Eduardo might want to protect a person like Joyce.”