Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  “The man said he had something to tell Patrick. Something for his project. Something important. Patrick should come to pub the next night. The man would wait near the smoke shop across the street. When Patrick saw the man from the pub, he should come out, not speak to him but follow him at a distance to a safe place to talk.”

  Rosaria felt a tingling, like an electrical current under her skin. This could be it.

  “And did Patrick go?”

  “He did, though he was not sure about the man—Patrick said he seemed a little addled. Not drunk, mind you, but just a little—off, you know. Not really senile, but kind of disconnected when he talked.” Sarah met Rosaria’s eyes before lowering her own and, with her long, slim index finger, began to trace lines in the sugar scattered on the tabletop.

  “Was it as important as the man said?” Rosaria pressed.

  “More important than Patrick ever thought it could be. He said when he finally got the gist of what the old man was saying, it was more than important. It was explosive.” She looked at Rosaria. “He wasn’t sure how to weigh what the man told him at first because the guy seemed like his mind was starting to get a little muddled. But Patrick said when he talked about the story he had to tell, he was a clear as a bell.”

  “Can you tell me what he told Patrick, Sarah?”

  A heavy sigh. “It’s not mine to tell.”

  Rosaria struggle to restrain herself. So close.

  “Patrick is dead, Sarah. This could be key.”

  “It’s not mine to tell,” the girl repeated and then said. “And, besides, Patrick told me it was too dangerous for me to know.”

  This was it. Rosaria knew this was it—whatever the man told Patrick was it. “He must have told you something, Sarah—about the man, the conversation. Anything?”

  The girl seemed suddenly drained of interest and energy. None of this would bring Patrick back. What was the difference? “He told me the name of the man. He did tell me that.”

  “Yes?” Rosaria told herself not to be too eager, not to press to hard—she could feel the girl drifting away.

  “Thomas Martin from Clifden.”

  Rosaria repeated the name and place. “Thomas Martin from Clifden.”

  “Patrick said that he was not well and that he had the beginnings of a dementia, I think. The man said he didn’t have too long when he would be thinking straight, and he wanted to tell somebody what he knew.”

  “Do you know where he lived in Clifden, Sarah? Of course, I am sure I could find him anyway if I have his name.” Rosaria was already planning a visit to Thomas Martin and had started to gather her things.

  Yes, I do.” Sarah leaned back heavily in her seat. “But you won’t be able to talk to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He died already? When did that happen?”

  “Around the time that Patrick died.” Sarah looked stricken again for a moment—Rosaria could see that it was so hard to say the words Patrick died— but the girl continued. “His family had to commit him to care home, for the dementia. And then, I guess he took a bad fall there, on a walk somewhere out on the grounds. He was with an orderly, but they said he slipped somehow and hit his head on a rock. Died instantly. “

  She looked at Rosaria. “So, now the two people that knew whatever he had to tell are dead.”

  CHAPTER 24

  CONNEMARA, IRELAND—1974

  The boy watched the men load the heavy crates into the sheep transport from his hiding place behind the oak tree. One man handed a torch to another to leave his hands free to pick up a crate. It was then, as the light passed, that the boy’s father glanced up. The man’s face momentarily froze as he glimpsed his young son, watching from behind the oak near the stone wall. His father turned his eyes down hurriedly, but the bearded man did not miss the swift movement of his father’s eyes. He turned to stare in the direction of the oak tree. Two of the other strangers, including the ginger-haired man, shifted their burden as they also turned to face the tree. The tip of a maroon-sweatered elbow stuck out from the side of the oak.

  A matter of seconds. His father looked up again. His eyes moved to that of the men and finally to the tall, ginger-haired man. Pleading, desperate eyes. A moment of decision.

  The boy held his breath, his cheek against the scratchy, rough bark of the tree. The damp night air chilled him through his pullover. Closing his eyes, he shivered.

  He heard the ginger-haired man whisper, “Christ”, then with a shake of the head, he breathed, “Let it go, man. He’s just a bairn. He’s the caretaker’s bairn. He’s been sound for us.”

  The bearded man stared back, then took a moment before acquiescing, if reluctantly. Without looking at the boy’s father, he said, “You’ll take care of that, man?”

  “Yes, yes, I will. I will. It’ll be all right. I will,” his father whispered quickly.

  Then, with a brief backward glance at the oak and the small elbow jutting out from it, the bearded man lifted his chin in the direction of the truck. “Carry on then. Let’s get home.”

  His father closed his eyes for a moment and let out his breath as if he would faint. The men from the north started to carry crates to the truck. The ginger-haired man turned back to look toward the stone wall with a soft chuckle. “There’s the wee Fenian, ready for the fight,” he said. “You’ll have your turn, lad. You’ll have your turn.”

  ◆◆◆

  That night, his father didn’t stop at the door when he walked into his son’s bedroom. The blow to the boy came so fast, he lost all breath and dropped back against the wall on his bed. “You’ll forget what you saw tonight. For pity’s sake—for yours and for mine—understand?”

  The boy nodded wordlessly.

  “And, Jesus, don’t let me ever, ever,” his voice rose on the second ever, “see you near Saint Mary’s again.”

  CHAPTER 25

  After a couple of pints and oyster stew at Quay Bar, Rosaria and Hugh walked under the Spanish Arch and onto the quay that afternoon. The walkway was busy but they were able to stroll quietly, catching up on each other’s lives over the years. Swans glided in languid patrol near the River Corrib’s granite wall by the harbor. Brilliant primary colors on the doors of the row houses glowed in the early afternoon sun.

  So much to cover for old friends, like Rosaria and Hugh, who hadn’t seen each other for years. They talked all through lunch and now couldn’t seem to stop, sometimes speaking over each other or interrupting to interject a comment or crude remark. God, she had missed him.

  Both had made ill-fated, ill-advised first marriages that hadn’t work out, each union persisting much longer legally than in practice. “Her mother wanted a doctor or a lawyer, not a seedy academic with empty pockets and too many political passions. Over time, my wife agreed with her mother,” Hugh said. He shrugged. “You?”

  “Bottom line—I was too independent for him and he slept around.”

  “More fool him.” Hugh put his arm around her and kissed her hair.

  Rosaria was surprised that her eyes moistened. Was she really that thirsty for affection?

  Each had professional successes—though in wildly different areas. Rosaria’s in a corporate life she had recently left behind. Hugh’s as political activist, largely supporting Cathal McKenna—the ex-IRA politician Patrick had mentioned was running for Taoiseach. Hugh was also an instructor of Irish history and politics at NUI Galway. Both pursuits ensured he still had empty pockets, he commented wryly.

  Rosaria had a relationship in her life now with Solly. Hugh was unencumbered, not having a romantic interest in his life at the moment.

  He mentioned that last part several times during their walk. “Did I tell you yet that I’m not romantically involved with anyone, Rosaria? Did I mention that point yet?” he would laugh.

  “Well, yes, in fact, you did mention that a few times, Hugh,” she responded. “And once again, for my part, I am in a serious relationship.”

&nb
sp; “Uh-huh. Right.” A brisk, late summer wind came up from the harbor. Hugh reached over to pull the hood of Rosaria’s light jacket over her head. He cupped her head affectionately and smiled before putting his hand back in his own jacket pocket.

  “So, tell me again. I’m thrilled to have you here, but tell me again what are you helping the Keenan family with? Long way to come to investigate a Boston murder.”

  “Oh, you know, just to see if maybe there’s something that might shed some light on the murder over here.”

  “Seems like a long shot. Where would you start looking?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “Well, you’ll be a help to the family, Rosaria. I hear you’re a good detective.” Rosaria was fleetingly puzzled as to where Hugh had heard about her detecting abilities, but let it go. Gossip traveled like the wind in Ireland. Too, the Irish were always up-to-date on U.S. news, especially in cities like Boston where so many friends and family had settled.

  “I’m not surprised to know what you are doing with your life, Hugh. After how intense you were, how fierce you were about Irish history and politics.” She glanced at him slyly. “And how you used to go on...and on...and on.”

  He chuckled. “Give it a rest, O’Reilly.”

  “Anyway, you were just so committed, I figured you’d be involved in politics somehow. Though I thought you’d be running yourself.” She gave him a questioning glance.

  “Oh no,” he laughed, “That’s not for me—all that speechifying and handshaking, God knows. But I can make a lot happen behind the scenes. That’s where I work best.”

  “And I thought you might have ended up teaching—probably at a university, since you’re so goddamned smart. And I was right.”

  “Thank you, dearie.” He gave her a friendly nudge.

  For a moment, Rosaria remembered other times, other days, hiking in Donegal around Malin Point. Days when they had been so close, so intimate, in every sense of the word. She felt her heart quicken just a little. She thought Hugh must have remembered those days too since next he asked, “When is your friend Sally coming over?”

  “It’s Solly, not Sally, Hugh.”

  “Just having you on. You never did have a good sense of humor, Rosie.”

  The only three people in the world that ever called her Rosie were her father, Hugh and Solly. How interesting. “He can’t come. He’s pretty locked into work in Boston right now,” she responded. “And, you know, I’m almost afraid he’d be bored anyway. The cottage I’m in isn’t all that far from Clifden. And it’s a gorgeous place, but it feels in the middle of nowhere. Just the ocean, rocks and seaweed. Lots of seaweed. Solly’s a city guy. He might go berserk. But,” she sighed, “I think he would like to come if he could.” Rosaria wondered why she added the word think to “he would like to come.”

  Hugh gave her a side glance, and they walked along in silence for a few minutes.

  “I have Patrick’s young black and white dog with me, that border collie at the car. The family has a hard time looking at the dog, reminds them of the boy. His name is Fergus.”

  Hugh broke out in his broad, high laugh that she remembered well. A joyous sound halfway between a man’s laugh and a donkey’s bray. She loved it. What a pleasure to hear that laugh again.

  “Well, he must be a manly little fellow. That’s what Fergus means, you know, manly.” He chuckled again. “Fergus the manly dog. Why not?”

  Rosaria turned serious as she continued. “Patrick was working on a project—about Irish-American support for the IRA in the North.”

  “Any particular aspect?”

  “Not that I can determine.”

  “Too broad a subject. So many questions and issues.”

  “Yes, it does seem like a big, complicated project for a student. Apparently, his advisor was pressuring Patrick to narrow it down, but without success.”

  “Happens all the time. Even if you think you have an agreement on the area to be covered, a young and curious student finds an interesting scent leading away from the trail and off he goes. Certainly, rich pickings in the area he chose to work.” Hugh stopped to pick up a white seagull feather. “Could be anything,” he continued as he turned to look at her. He ran the seagull feather down the side of her face with his long, slender hand, lingering on the scar over her right eyebrow. Rosaria remembered his running that long, slender hand down the side of her face at Malin Point in Donegal and could almost feel the tenderness of it again.

  The touch of the feather gave Rosaria chills. Neither of them spoke for a moment, after which Hugh put the feather in his pocket and continued.

  “Could be anything,” he repeated, “Still so many people with grievances. And rightly so. You just can’t sign a piece of paper and have all that emotion and the history of injustice disappear. And there’s the hope for a united Ireland, for one country again.”

  “I thought people were kind of moving beyond that now.”

  “Oh, maybe for some. So much of this generation is about waltzing around with new electronic devices, traveling to the Continent. Not Irish. European— whatever that means,” he added with disgust. “But in others’ minds—including my own—that hope of a united Ireland is not going to go away.” Hugh paused and looked up the Corrib to the harbor. “In my estimation, I’d say that there’d only be one or two men that can keep pushing unification forward, making it happen.”

  “Like who?” Rosaria asked.

  “Well, Cathal McKenna for one. He’s got the guts and the drive.”

  “I’ve heard he has a history—I’m not sure what that means.”

  Hugh’s face darkened. “Well, Christ, who doesn’t? Anybody that had any guts in those days has a history. Where did you hear that? From that young Padraig Keenan?”

  Rosaria noticed Hugh used Patrick’s Irish name, and was surprised at the tone of the response. “Yes, that’s where I heard it from.”

  “Foolish talk. Old gossip. Those newspaper rags have always had it in for McKenna. It’s like a conspiracy. The kid didn’t know what he was talking about—just trying to sound important, like he actually knew something.”

  He paused and turned to her. “It’s others that are carrying the flag now. The Real IRA, the ones that split from the peace process. They have no patience for all the endless talking, all the compromises. Good God. When will it end?” His voice quickened. “And they get their man too. They know how to take care of things. Like back in the day when they picked off that turncoat Denis Donaldson—hiding in a decrepit little pre-famine cottage in Donegal, like a hermit. Did you never hear about that?”

  Rosaria shook her head. How would she hear about that, or be alert to crimes by these old revolutionaries? It was like inside baseball. Somebody else’s game. She was also troubled by a weird excitement she felt in Hugh’s telling such a brutal story.

  Hugh’s voice continued to gather energy. “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, as the song goes. I hope the boy didn’t get too close to something best left: alone. Or get in the way of something bigger than he is.”

  Alarmed now, Rosaria stopped walking and asked, “Like what? What’s bigger and more important than the life of a young student, Hugh?” She knew she sounded harsh. Good.

  Hugh gazed out over the harbor before looking directly at Rosaria, his face more composed. “Ah, I’m talking shite, Rosie. I’m just a shabby, gabby old professor,” he said dismissively. “But there are things an amateur shouldn’t be wandering into. These are seriously hard people. Everyone says it’s over. Believe me, it’s not over.” He touched her face softly and kissed her on the forehead. “People have to be careful. It’s a dangerous game, darlin’.”

  Rosaria felt a shiver of something. Fear, or excitement, or both? “Dangerous for who?”

  Hugh didn’t respond. “Come on, Rosie. I’ll walk you down to the car.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Mr. Burke’s Sky Road cottage had ample electric heating to keep it snug against the raw, wet drizzle of the day. Still,
Rosaria couldn’t resist putting on a peat fire if only for the sweet, soft smell. The smell of Ireland—peat smoke and rain.

  She sank, a glass of Cabernet in her hand, into Mr. Burke’s great green chair, with its stack of books holding up the broken front leg. She placed her glass on the end table beside the chair, with its still fragrant pipe stand, ashtray and the silver-framed picture of a forever smiling, permed and coiffed Mrs. Burke in her blue fancy dress.

  Fergus, exhausted from charging all over the wet rocks and thorny brush that surrounded the cottage, had collapsed at her feet—adding a pungent wet dog smell to the mix in the room. The dog’s long legs and tail stretched across the floral carpet, the picture of contentment—snoring loudly.

  Rosaria had discovered that Fergus was a heavy snorer. The deep noise had startled her the first night in the cottage and woken her up. Too sleepy and dazed to be afraid, she’d crept out of bed to look in the sitting room. Perhaps Mr. Burke had come back from Seattle and had crawled into the side bedroom. Perhaps a sleepy burglar was taking a break. Or, it was always possible that she’d taken up snoring—perhaps so loudly that she had woken herself up. Or maybe it was the wind from the sea finding its way into the cottage through a strange sort of little orifice in the roof or walls that made these rhythmic sounds. Or, maybe...She looked around the bedroom again and saw that it was none of these things. Just Fergus, sleeping at the foot of the bed, blissfully blaring away through his big black nose.

  She’d noticed a vet clinic the other day down the Galway Road, near the Connemara Pony Sales barn and the Frank Acton Auto Repair Shop. Fergus seemed happy and healthy enough, but maybe she should have that snore checked out, she mused.