Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  “Everybody wants to protect Liam Joyce,” Rosaria commented.

  “Hell, even I want to protect him.” Solly responded. “What’s his major?”

  Liam’s?

  “No,” Rosaria laughed. “Wake up. Eduardo’s”.

  “Right. Major in social work with a minor in Latin American Studies. Dean’s list every semester.”

  “Well, wrong profile for whoever did Patrick in. How disappointingly outstanding of Eduardo.”

  “Yeah, the country has another immigrant success story and I have no suspect.”

  Just before Solly ended the call, their conversation took a different turn, a difficult one for Rosaria.

  “From the beginning, Justine had told me that Eduardo was not the kind of guy that could do this. She was right.”

  Rosaria couldn’t help it. “Justine’s your advisor now? You trust Justine’s judgement?”

  She could almost see Solly’s neck stiffen in irritation. “Justine has some good observations about people.”

  “You two have good conversations about the case together?”

  “Stop it, Rosaria. Justine’s on the staff of Saint Martin House. She knows everyone at the House and she was there the day Patrick visited.”

  “Right.”

  “She has good observations and...” Rosaria could feel the windup for the fast ball, “she doesn’t try to run my case.”

  Ouch. “Okay, I got it. You probably have some other things to do right now.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Bye, Solly.”

  “Bye, Rosaria.”

  Rosaria closed her phone and looked at the dog. “Shit, Fergus. Shit, shit, shit.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Rosaria and Mossie listened to Jimmy Norman on Galway Bay FM during the ride to Galway City, while Rosaria got a tutorial on hurling from Mossie. She was glad for the distraction of both.

  As best she could determine, hurling was played with an airborne small hard leather ball called a sliotar, hit with a curved stick called a hurley that was made out of a special cut of the ash tree. Mossie’s hurley looked a little like a long and curved field hockey stick to her.

  “When the sticks of the opposing teams hit, it’s called the clash of the ash,” Mossie explained as he made an unauthorized turn around a large sheep transport on the road. “Great sound—gets your heart going, it does.”

  “You ever play, Mossie?”

  “Oh, I did when I was younger. I wasn’t the best, but I had a great time. Around here people mostly follow the football.” Rosaria knew Mossie referred not to American football, but to the other, fast wild sport popular in Ireland— unpadded, uncompensated, and unfettered GAA football. “But I’m partial to the hurling. It’s more popular around the City—Galway City, I mean.”

  “I’ll bet football clubs tried to recruit you.”

  “Oh, right you are. And the rugby clubs. That’s really what I’m built for. But I’m partial to the hurling. The first time I picked up a hurley stick and whacked that little ball, there was no other sport for me.” He turned to her with a wide grin. To Rosaria at that moment, he looked like a large, happy brown bear.

  A happy bear, a happy man, thought Rosaria. His little cabin in the mountains up in the Inagh Pass that he’d told her about, his old van, and his hurling passion. What man could ask for more than Mossie O’Toole?

  ◆◆◆

  The smell of low tide infused the air as Mossie and Rosaria pulled up to the Spanish Arch on the harbor in Galway City. Rosaria sighed with pleasure. How she loved this well-preserved medieval city. No place like it.

  She remembered the sturdy Arch—part of a fortification built in the fifteenth century to guard the unloading of wine from Spain—from her student days and recent trips. When fourteen Anglo-Norman families established Galway City on the wild west coast of Ireland in the 13th century, the city at the time was surrounded by marauding native Irish clans. Thus, the fortifications to protect a prize any chieftain would aspire to—crates of fine Spanish wine. The founders of Galway City were disparagingly called the Fourteen Tribes by their nemesis, Oliver Cromwell. Today, the Galway football and hurling teams proudly carried The Tribesmen as their team names.

  Mossie was lucky enough to find parking near the Arch. He hauled himself out of the van and surveyed the scene with satisfaction. “A grand sight,” he said as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Rosaria exited the passenger side while Fergus, who’d somehow insinuated himself into the journey, jumped joyfully from the back seat. He sniffed the air before relieving himself on the back tire of Mossie’s van.

  “Marking his territory—my old wreck,” commented Mossie, pulling Fergus in. “Anyway, we’re a little early. If you like, I’ll just wait with you for a few minutes, ma’am. Stretch my legs.”

  “Sure, glad of your company, Mossie,” Rosaria replied.

  The pedestrian traffic was heavy down the narrow cobblestone streets through the blocks of medieval buildings to the harbor and across the Wolftone Bridge over the River Corrib. The Salmon Tower—where in the old days men would watch for the avalanche of salmon storming downstream to the open water and call to the fisherman near the mouth of the harbor to cast their nets—stood bright and still watchful in the morning sun.

  Rosaria had always understood why Irish banks and companies called lively and interesting Galway City the “graveyard of ambition”. Once posted here, staff often refused to leave, even for lucrative promotions.

  “Rosaria!” Suddenly, Rosaria was interrupted in her reverie when she heard her name called. “Rosaria!” came a booming voice again, emphasizing and lengthening her name like a sporting event cheer—“R-O-O-saria!”

  She swirled around once or twice to see the source of that distinctive voice, a voice she remembered from a long time ago. And then her heartbeat quickened when she saw a vision from her past striding down the cobblestoned Quay Street. Hugh Moran, a long-ago friend and old flame from student days. Hugh’s youthful mass of black hair was now an aureole of the early snowy white that marks so many Irish, but she would have recognized him anywhere.

  There he stood, with his arms outstretched for a welcoming hug and a wide smile “Is it really you? Oh, Jesus wept. It’s really you.”

  She had forgotten he had that lethal cleft in his chin. Were his eyes always that deep hazel color? Oh goodness, she thought, why did I ever let the connection with him go?

  Rosaria laughed in disbelief and walked into his embrace. “Incredible. I can’t believe it, Hugh.” She felt a surge of pure joy as he rocked her in those long arms.

  “God, I was just thinking of you this past week,” Hugh said. Rosaria considered briefly the fact that Hugh had been wondering about her the past week—why would that be? I’m not that unforgettable. But, but...we did have something special.

  Hugh held her at arm’s length to look at her damaged face. “Jesus, Rosie. What did the other guy look like?” He turned her head to the side to see the area around her right eye a little better. Then, he looked at Mossie. “I hope your big man here is going to get whoever did this to you. I’ll bet from his club flag that he has a hurley stick right in the back seat.” Mossie flushed and turned his eyes to the water in confusion.

  “Long story, the new map of my face. Some other time,” Rosaria said. “And the guy that did it is in a place beyond retribution.”

  Hugh stared at her seriously, clearly wanting more.

  “Not now,” she said, as she turned to Mossie. “And this is Mossie O’Toole, who’s driving me around while I’m here, since I can’t seem to get the hang of the roads anymore.”

  Hugh extended his hand to Mossie. “Ah, and here I was thinking he was your latest beau.”

  Mossie again flushed with embarrassment at being mistaken for Rosaria’s “big man” or “beau”. He shook Hugh’s hand wordlessly and nodded.

  “Well, then, if he’s not your man, let’s go somewhere and catch up on the years,
” Hugh said enthusiastically as he put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Oh, Hugh, I’d love to, but I have to meet someone now. Would you be free in a couple of hours?”

  He looked disappointed, but smiled. “Okay, I’ll try to be patient. How about in two hours at the Quay Bar—just up the way?”

  “Oh, I remember,” Rosaria laughed. She did remember many the night there with Hugh Moran and friends during her year at the university in Galway. Happy days.

  Rosaria looked over her shoulder at Mossie to say, “It looks like the afternoon will be a little longer. That okay?”

  “Just fine,” Mossie replied, with one eye still on Hugh. “We can meet back here. What time?”

  “Late afternoon. Maybe about 4:30? I’ll text.”

  Hugh put his hands on his hips and gestured to the maroon and white Galway United hurling flag on Mossie’s car. “They looked weak at the last match against Kilkenny—just not the same caliber as the black and gold. Good old County Kilkenny. Now, that’s a club with a proud history. No comparison.” He stuck his chin out in a mock challenge.

  Not amused and in no way ready to be teased about his beloved hurling team, Mossie flushed and his jaw tightened. “Yes, Mr. Moran, I would have a hurley stick in the back of my car, as a matter of fact.”

  Clearly taken aback that Mossie had not responded in a similar teasing manner, but had taken him seriously. Hugh said, “Ah good. You can never know when you might need a good solid piece of ash to do your business.”

  “Hugh, stop it. Rude, rude, rude.” Rosaria said sharply before turning to Mossie. “Sorry for my friend, Mossie. I think he hasn’t grown up after all these years.”

  “I guess I haven’t. Sorry, man, just kidding,” Hugh said cheerfully as he raised his hand in apology to Mossie. “Anyway,” he said to Rosaria, “I won’t have to be worrying about you now, will I? What with this big one and his hurley at your side?”

  Hugh held his hand out to Fergus and gave him a rough caress. “And this fearsome watch dog.” Fergus shivered with delight in attention from a new admirer.

  Mossie didn’t smile. Rosaria thought she might have heard him call Fergus a “treacherous canine” under his breath as he pulled the dog in, but she couldn’t be sure. His face had turned a dark red. For a terrible moment Rosaria thought he might indeed reach for his hurley stick to take a swing at Hugh.

  Men and their sports, Rosaria rued. She had forgotten that Hugh was from County Kilkenny, apparently County Galway’s arch-rival in G AA hurling and one of the best clubs in the country.

  “Behave yourself, Hugh,” she said with a helpless look at Mossie. “The only thing Mossie’ll be protecting me from is totaling my car on these crazy roads. I’m sorry that I have such a rude friend, Mossie.” She checked her watch. “I have to get a move on. I’ll be late. See you at the quay in two hours.”

  She started to walk up Quay Street before turning around. “And leave Mossie alone.”

  “Never changes,” Hugh complained to Mossie. “Just the same as always. Pushy American. She was this way even when she was young. I can see she’s even worse now.”

  Mossie, his face still dark and angry, his mouth flinching in distaste, didn’t respond.

  “Okay, I’ll do a few things and then to Quay Bar and oysters it is,” Hugh said brightly.

  Without turning back, Rosaria waved in mute apology at Mossie as she walked away. Unsmiling, he raised his own hand and turned back to the car, yanking Fergus’s leash as he went.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sarah Glynn, the late Patrick Keenan’s girlfriend, puffed nervously on a cigarette as she walked down the secluded lane behind Cross and Quay Streets in Galway City to the Cobblestone Cafe.

  Over a black coffee inside the cafe, Rosaria waited by the window, surrounded by a crowd of young people and the birdsong of their cellphones. She watched Sarah Glynn approach. The girl had one of those pale, soulful, lightly freckled Irish faces, framed by a sweep of dark hair. Beautiful in an ethereal way. The folds of her light scarf lifted beside her like wings in the wind from the harbor.

  Rosaria was relieved. She had half-expected the girl to be a no-show. But here she was.

  At the cafe entrance, Sarah sighed a last, thin stream of smoke from her mouth before dropping her cigarette into the sand receptacle by the door.

  Sarah nodded at Rosaria as she entered the cafe. Murmuring a brief hello, she sat quickly, dropping a heavy messenger bag on an empty chair at the table and taking off her long, light scarf. Rosaria could smell the cigarette smoke on Sarah’s clothing. It was not only smoke but clouds of grief that seemed to eddy up from the girl.

  “Thank you for coming, Sarah. I know this is a hard time.”

  “Yes, it is,” the girl replied, her eyes shifting from the window to Rosaria to the crowd in the coffee shop and back to Rosaria. The waitress approached the table. Looking up, Sarah said, “Latte, skim milk.” It seemed like an effort for her to talk.

  “Nothing else?” Rosaria asked. “A sandwich, a salad. Maybe a scone?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  Rosaria let a few moments pass before speaking again. “I’m so sorry about Patrick, Sarah. I appreciate your talking to me. Maybe it will help.”

  “Maybe.” Fingering the row of silver piercings along the side of one ear, Sarah glanced across the table with a look that Rosaria was surprised to see—anger. Perhaps at her. At Patrick. At the world. “Not that it matters. He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Rosaria didn’t respond. Sarah took a deep breath and looked at Rosaria again. “Sorry. I’m usually a very nice person. Maybe I wasn’t ready to come back to Galway and the university.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. Had you been going together long?”

  The girl took a sip of a glass of water before responding. “A year or so. We were in the same department.”

  “Journalism? Same year?”

  Sarah nodded and murmured a thank you to the waitress who brought her latte.

  “Working on the same project?”

  “No, I’m working on something different.”

  “Related to Patrick’s in any way?”

  “Mine is on the Garda—you know, the police.” Sarah’s voice picked up some energy. “I’m working on the budget cuts—the closing of so many stations, especially in the country. Leaves some areas with scant coverage.”

  Sarah stopped and waved her hand. She had forgotten her grief for just a moment. Now, she’d remembered and sank back against the seat.

  “I’d like to hear about that some time. So, nothing to do with Patrick’s project?”

  “No, no.”

  Rosaria let some time pass. “What was Patrick’s project, Sarah?”

  “I’m not sure I should really talk about that. Patrick was very private about his project.”

  “Patrick’s dead. You can’t hurt him by talking about it now.”

  “Right.” Sarah bit her lower lip and thought for a moment. “It was a history project.”

  “Recent history?”

  “Yes.” She fiddled with the wooden buttons on her sweater several times. Then, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. She opened her mouth but didn’t speak for a few moments before replying.

  “Well, it was originally about the Irish-American support for the Republican movement. You know, so much has been written and so much has happened. Very complicated. I’m not sure if the Americans knew what they were supporting. Even today, they tend to have kind of a—what’s the word—romantic vision of things over here. Things weren’t very romantic on the ground. There was so much blood and cruelty, horrific things.”

  “What do you mean, his original topic, Sarah? Did the focus of the project change?”

  Sarah looked at Rosaria, her brows drawn together. She didn’t mean to tell me that.

  “Patrick didn’t want to tell me. He said it was better for me not to know yet. He didn’t even share with his faculty advisor at the end what he was working on. He kept postpo
ning meetings at the department. The advisor was getting annoyed. He said that if he didn’t know Patrick so well, he’d think he was slacking off on his independent study time.”

  Sarah gazed out the window. “But Patrick was very excited. He said he’d go to Boston for a few weeks’ research. He’d have a good solid story when he got back, and it would blow everyone away. That’s what he said. It would blow everyone away and be the makings of his career.”

  The girl pushed back her long black hair with nail-bitten fingers before she looked at Rosaria. “But it didn’t and he didn’t come back, did he?”

  “Was there anything at all Patrick said that might have given a lead to what he was working on?” The girl looked at Rosaria and then away. Rosaria continued, “You know how important this is, Sarah. Do you think you might owe it to Patrick?”

  There was only the sound of the busy cafe around them for a few moments before the girl spoke—the cash register ringing, the laughter at the table of students behind them.

  Sarah started slowly. “He was excited about going to meet some man in Clifden. Patrick was in a pub there the night before—it might have been Manion’s or maybe Lowry s—I can’t remember—and was talking to a friend about his independent project for university. About how he was looking for a new perspective. He just felt he was going over the same old ground. He needed a new hook on sympathizers and what was going on up North in the seventies and eighties.”

  She shifted in her chair, closing her eyes, concentrating. “I guess after Patrick left the pub and was walking back to his car, he noticed an older man following him. Patrick stopped and asked the man if there was something he wanted. Patrick said the man acted all cautious and quiet-like, looking around like he didn’t want anyone to see him.” Rosaria was surprised to hear the girl chuckle. “Patrick said he wondered for a minute if the old guy was going to make a pass at him.”

  The smile left her face and Sarah sipped her latte, which Rosaria thought must have gone cold by now. The girl gazed out the window of the coffee shop again, looking as if her mind were somewhere in the distant past. Rosaria exercised patience—never her strong suit—with some difficulty and remained silent until the girl resumed talking.