Fergus’s wet doggy smell and the scent of the peat fire brought Rosaria into a meditative state. For the first time since she’d arrived, she could think. And that brought her to thoughts of Solly and a number of the attendant complications around him.
Rosaria and Solly had talked several times since their Justine-as-an-acute-observer-of-people conversation. Their discussions now were disturbingly polite and distant. Also, although she had thought that Solly had come to terms with her being here, she knew it was hard for him. It got more difficult after Mrs. Keenan called Solly directly with the request that Rosaria represent the family in the information flow around the investigation of Patrick’s death. He accepted Rosaria’s role, but wasn’t at all happy about it.
She knew all the reasons for this. Her intrusion—as he accurately predicted when she announced she was going to Ireland—into the official investigation, his investigation, his territory. Her decision to come here, when he specifically asked her not to. His—again accurate—reading that the Keenans thought his relationship with Rosaria would give them the inside track if she were their conduit.
On this last point, Rosaria had warned Mrs. Keenan that Solly would not share any more information with Rosaria representing the family. Perhaps, actually less, because he wouldn’t want to give the appearance of any impropriety. Mrs. Keenan was undeterred. Rosaria remembered one of Bridie’s descriptions of Patrick as sometimes “like a dog on a bone, he is”. Rosaria thought she knew where he got that focus.
She was aware that her involvement was causing problems for Solly in his job. He had mentioned, in a terse report to her, that one old-timer had asked Solly what his girlfriend was doing in Ireland with the vic’s family and had sneered, asking if she was over there “helping out her Boston cop.” Referring, of course, to that infamous picture, shot by Justine, of Rosaria and Solly at a high profile social event. The picture which appeared in the Names section of the Globe with the caption “heroine in nun murder scandal and her Boston cop.”
She took a sip of wine and shook her head. A terrible conflict. She didn’t want to compete with Solly—at least she didn’t think she did. Clearly, it was the Boston Police Department’s job to find Patrick’s killer, not hers. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling, growing on her more every day, that there was something to find here, in this rocky, boggy, mountainous place. Something to do with Patrick’s research and perhaps even his death. She didn’t know how to find that key. She sighed. Perhaps there wasn’t one at all.
Maybe in the end, Solly and his colleagues would find Patrick had indeed had a disagreement with another patron at one of the bars down near the Boston waterfront—a patron who’d followed him and, in a drunken rage, given him a savage blow to the head.
But still. But still she couldn’t stop herself from searching for some answers here—not yet.
Besides, the prospect of the key to Patrick’s murder being found on the remote western shores of Ireland was too far-fetched—too fanciful, as Nora Keenan put it—for the resource-constrained, pragmatic Boston Police Department to expend any energy on, or to ask the even more constrained local Garda in the Galway District to do so. So, if she wasn’t on the hunt here, no one would be.
Rosaria ran her finger over the rim of her wine glass—Galway crystal, she saw. Must have been a Mrs. Burke extravagance. Didn’t seem like Mr. Burke’s style. Then, she found herself musing over other, larger personal questions.
Solly had been her best hope for the kind of stable, loving, equalitarian relationship she assumed she’d never find after the disappointing experience of her first marriage. Perhaps now she was blowing up that chance. But, if she gave in on this—distanced herself from the investigation and just went home now to Solly—what else would she give in on? What shell of herself would be left in such a stable, loving—but perhaps unequal—relationship? Rosaria started to get that old feeling when she was penned in too closely in a relationship—the walls closing in, her throat feeling constricted. She couldn’t do it. She hoped the relationship would weather the storm but if it didn’t—it wasn’t meant to be.
She heard her cellphone, in her jacket pocket across the room. She was so comfortable, she briefly considered letting the call go to voicemail.
Ah, but it might be Solly—maybe Solly. It was afternoon in Boston, probably a convenient time to call. With his schedule, it was hard to play phone tag if she missed the call. Rousing herself from the big chair and a thicket of troubling thoughts, Rosaria got up to take the call, hoping for the best—maybe just a little of the old camaraderie and affection—but keeping her expectations low.
Rosaria didn’t look at the screen before pushing the Talk button. She was surprised then not to hear Solly—tense, clipped, subdued, businesslike and resentful Solly Belkin. Instead, she felt Hugh Moran’s booming, warm, and enthusiastic voice wash over her. “Rosaria, my Boston beauty—I’m coming to the wilds of Connemara to see you. What do you think of that?”
CHAPTER 27
Later that week, after some errands at the bank and the stationers, Mossie suggested a ride along the Bog Road to Roundstone. It was a sweet, clear day and Rosaria agreed—though in truth the name Bog Road as a destination didn’t exactly inspire her. It did, however, apparently inspire Mossie.
“The bogs, the mountains, the sea, that’s what makes us who we are here,” he commented as he turned down the Ballyconneely Road toward the turnoff for the Bog Road. “You know, some might think the bog is a swamp. That’s not what it is. It’s poorly drained, peaty land—peatland, not a swamp. But it’s filled with life. Wait till you see the birds.”
As they pulled on to the narrow Bog Road, Rosaria found it hard to absorb the vastness of the bog, stretching to the horizon. From a distance, it might look like a flat plain or moor. In reality, it was rough with heathery hummocks, lakes and rock formations. People still laughed at the story of the first transatlantic flight in 1919 when the pilots Alcock and Brown thought the great Derrygimlah Bog was a smooth landing strip near the Marconi wireless station, and promptly sunk a good part of their plane in the rough bog when they landed.
And Mossie was right about the birds—cruising, swirling, and wheeling over the bog. Rosaria was mesmerized watching a merlin’s low flight over the grasses to its nest in one of the rock islands. The colors of the bog itself were a patchwork of purple and gold with bell heather, low-growing western gorse, and the tall purple moor grass.
“There’s a little yellow lily that grows out here too. I forget the name,” Mossie said. “I think that’s my favorite.”
“You’re an appreciator of nature, Mossie O’Toole.”
“I am, I am. That’s why I’m here.”
The peat harvesters—or turf cutters—as they were sometimes called, had been busy earlier in the season. Cutting neat logs of earthy vegetation from squares in the peatland, as they had done for centuries. Now, the peat logs were stacked to dry for the winter season next to their tractors and old trucks along the peat harvesting side roads. Rosaria could see a couple of turf cutters out there, perhaps checking on things, with their dogs.
Fergus saw the dogs from his perch by the back window and barked a greeting, clearly wishing he were out racing around the uneven bog chasing hares with them.
“They’d better get the turf while they can,” Mossie commented as they passed the side roads. “The EU is putting strict limits on the harvest.”
“How come?”
“Oh, the environment. I guess the cutting releases some gases that pollute. And, you know, once you cut acres of peat out, it’s gone. We’re going through it fast. Of course, there’s always the burning of it too. I suppose it’s not so green.”
“Oh, I love the smell of it.”
“So do we all.” Mossie turned for a moment to look at her. “You’re a good girl, Miss O’Reilly. Good taste.”
“I’d like to think so.” She smiled back.
“Anyway,” Mossie continued, “quite a few bogs been protecte
d by the EU. Because of their unique ecology. Is that the right word—ecology?” he asked.
“That’s the word,” Rosaria responded as she watched a sleek fox slide through the long grass.
“There are some things that grow here that you don’t see anywhere else.”
“I believe it. I just saw a fox, too.”
“Oh yes, lots of small animals for the foxes to feed on. Like a fox all-you-can-eat buffet.” Mossie laughed.
Rosaria relaxed into her seat and inhaled the sweet fresh air coming straight across the bog in gentle gusts of wind. Somehow, she’d expected the bog to smell damp and fetid. Anything but, it smelled of life, long grass and wild-flowers. And the musky smell of a large flock of sheep who now seemed to be wandering everywhere—snuffling and munching about the bog with bright markers on their long-haired coats, daintily navigating with ease the uneven surfaces on their tiny black feet.
All the windows of the van were open. Fergus hung his head out the back window, tongue lolling, in an ecstasy of smells with the wind blowing his black and white fur back.
“Good thing there’s a nice breeze here today. On a bad day, the midgies— those damned little biting black bugs—can drive you wild,” Mossie commented. He inhaled deeply. “Oh, but there’s a lovely wind right now. Just right.”
They rode in silence for a few moments. “There are stories, of course, out here,” Mossie said.
“Like ghost stories? I can imagine it’s eerie at night or in a fog or a storm.”
“That’s the truth,” Mossie replied. “There is one story about a place called the Halfway House. The ruins are up here.” Mossie pointed ahead at a pile of stones. Using her imagination, Rosaria could see the rough outline of a ruined cottage. “They say that in the days before the Famine, a murderous brother and sister used to live here—halfway across the Bog Road. When the packmen, the peddlers, passed by on their way to the fair at Ballinboy, the brother and sister would invite them in for food and drink, murder them, steal their wares and throw their bodies in the lake behind.”
“That’s pretty awful. Do you think it’s true?”
“Oh, yes, it is a fact, a historical fact, as they say. And would you know what the family name of that brother and sister was?”
“I give up.”
“People say they were Conneelys.”
“Like Gerard Conneely? Brave, upstanding, basic good guy Sergeant Conneely?”
“The very same name. But don’t ever say it to his face. He gets flaming.” Mossie chortled. “Maybe they made that part up just to annoy him. Even our Gerard can get annoyed.”
“All the same, it’s pretty scary to think about.”
“Well, Miss O’Reilly, don’t spend too much time thinking about the old stories. Just enjoy the day.”
◆◆◆
On the way back from their excursion to the Bog Road, Rosaria mentioned to Mossie that Hugh was coming in for a talk at the Clifden Historical Society and they’d be having dinner afterwards.
Mossie scowled and blew out a long breath. “Oh, Jaysus. Shoot me now.”
Rosaria laughed, “Now, Hugh’s a perfectly nice guy.”
“I think he needs to get over himself.”
“No, he just says things to be funny, yank your chain a little.”
“Well, I’ll pull his chain right good if he says anything like that again.” Mossie hit the steering wheel with his big hand.
“Anything like what?”
“A man who would insult your club before he even knows you is lacking in the social graces.”
Rosaria leaned against the passenger side door so that she could face Mossie, to see if he was truly serious. “I knew it. It was the hurling comment. He was only teasing you, Mossie. You were supposed to tease him back and say something derogatory and outlandish about Kilkenny. Really, give it a rest.”
“If you say so,” he grunted in reply.
They rode on, an awkward pause between them.
“Would he be staying over with you?” he asked.
“And this concerns you, how?”
“I just don’t like to see you mixed up with some people who might not be your type—of good character, I mean. A fine woman like you.” He didn’t say “with a shite like that” but Rosaria could feel it implied.
Mossie’s jaw was tight as he pulled into a parking place and, without looking at her, said, “Hugh Moran reminds me of that statue in Galway at the university—that one of a graduate in his robes with no head. All show, no brains. And no character, I’ll wager.”
“Thanks for your input, Mossie. I’ll take it under advisement.”
Mossie stared straight ahead and didn’t respond except to give Fergus, whose head was wedged between them from the back seat, a bitter glance. “And you. Dogs are supposed to be good judges of character. You’re a disgrace. That man’s done a big con job on the both of you.”
Fergus gazed lovingly at Mossie and accepted the compliment.
“That will be enough, Mossie. Not your affair.”
Mossie snorted and didn’t speak as she got out of the car.
The next morning, as Rosaria was pouring coffee from the French press into two mugs, she looked out the back window of the kitchen to see Mossie’s van driving slowly by, just like on the first day when she saw him scoping out who was moving into the Burke’s cottage. Now Mossie was checking to see if Hugh’s silver Mini was still parked in front of Mr. Burke’s cottage after his speech at the Clifden Historical Society and dinner with Rosaria the night before. And it was.
◆◆◆
She had almost forgotten about the guy in the black Bruins tee shirt that she’d told Solly about—the one who she thought was following Patrick Keenan. But Solly hadn’t, and he was convinced it might be the construction worker he’d met on the stairs at Declan Twomey’s offices.
“Want the lowdown?” he asked on one of their phone calls.
“Yeah, what did you find out?”
“Francis Xavier O’Brien aka Obie, originally from Charlestown. No paper as an adult, though he has a sealed juvy record. Nothing violent. Probably the extracurriculars kids there used to engage in—swinging baseball bats to smash the car windows of yuppies moving into the neighborhood, stealing equipment from the Boys’ Club. Nothing big.”
“Sounds like he could be useful to someone like Declan Twomey.”
“Right. I’m pretty sure he is. But he’s like his boss. A mixed bag. Ex-Marine, couple of kids, owns a two family over in Brighton. Active in the Disabled Vets, volunteers at Saint Martin’s.”
“Breaks into apartments.”
“He could be our guy—you saw his picture.”
“Right, I did.”
“But I have nothing to hang on him. I can’t pull in every guy in the city who wears a black Bruins tee shirt. I’d have half the city in here.”
“Yeah,” Rosaria agreed wearily. She closed her eyes and sank back in the green chair, ready to close the conversation.
“One more thing,” Solly said.
“Uh-huh?” she asked absently.
“I got a voicemail from a guy named Moose—or Masse—he had a really thick accent. I couldn’t understand him.”
“Mossie?” I’ll kill him, the interfering brute, thought Rosaria. “What did he have to say?”
“I wasn’t sure, but something along the lines that I had better watch out for my girly.”
“Did he really call me your girly? I don’t believe it.”
Solly went on, ignoring her objection, “...that I’d better watch out for my girly because a fox has been circling. A shite of a professor from the university putting on the charms.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And he hated to say so, but for a fine lady, she wasn’t showing good judgment. He wondered if I wouldn’t think about coming over for a visit and straightening things out.”
“I’ll fire that guy. None of his business. And...”
“And true?”
“I have an o
ld friend here.”
“I see.” Solly’s voice was condensed, concentrated.
“Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Solly…”
Solly had closed the call and was gone—again.
CHAPTER 28
Rosaria wondered if her hands were big enough and strong enough to wrap around Mossie’s thick neck and to squeeze the life out of him. She was that angry.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” she demanded as she got into the passenger seat when Mossie pulled up the next morning. Fergus jumped past her to get into the back seat, ruining her moment of towering rage by almost knocking her over in the process.
Mossie stared at the sea. A stoic, a martyr to the cause. “I had your best interests at heart.”
“I’ll decide what my best interests are, Mister O’Toole. You don’t get to decide. You have no right.”
Mossie didn’t respond.
“Do you hear me?”
Still no response.
“I said did you hear me?” she shouted.
“It would be hard not to.”
“Then answer me, for Chrissakes.”
“I hear you, ma’am.”
He stared out at the water, a curious amethyst shade on the blue gray day.
“I should goddamn fire you. Find someone else to drive me around. Someone who’s not going to stick his nose in my personal business.”
“That’s your prerogative, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me ma’am, dammit.”
Fergus, who in his doggy wisdom was lying quietly—perhaps cringing— with his head on his paws in the back seat, emitted a low whimper.
Mossie turned to look in the back seat and said to Rosaria. “You’re disturbing the dog.”
“I don’t care if I’m goddamned disturbing the goddamn dog,” Rosaria hissed.
Fergus whimpered again.
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” Rosaria stormed. And then she started to cry.
“My life is so complicated and you’re not helping,” she sobbed.
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