Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria wasn’t sure that she had the strength to call Solly that night. He should really know about her conversation with Theresa Martin and the Mother and Baby Home and the mystery surrounding Thomas Martin’s death. He really should, but the thought of telling him, it all gave her the beginnings of a headache.

  Professionally, Solly would feel he had to do something with this new information about what happened in the Saint Mary of Egypt cemetery those many years ago. He’d want to call the Galway Garda, or insist that she do so.

  The authorities would also want to talk about the old events in the cemetery with Thomas Martin’s family, to see what else he had told them. Theresa and her mother were still in the throes of grieving not only about the death of a father and husband, but now trying to absorb the fact that Thomas Martin was likely murdered. Maybe there would be a leak to the press. The Irish could be so chatty, and the press would descend on the Martins’ little cottage. It would be awful. A nightmare.

  Yes, it could wait. She’d give Solly an abbreviated, watered-down version for now. Some old IRA political thing. Not too much information. She’d let him know when she knew more. No need to stir things up prematurely. She wouldn’t even mention the new suspicions about Thomas Martin’s death.

  As for her own father’s illegal activities—she’d wait until she got home for that. Rosaria envisioned telling Solly when they were sitting on the couch at her place with a glass of wine, his arm around her shoulder. She hoped things would work out and that indeed they would sit that way again in the not too distant future. Her heart sank when she thought about their last conversation.

  But she didn’t have to worry about a conversation with Solly when she called. She got his voicemail with its brusque, businesslike greeting. “Belkin here, Homicide Boston PD. Leave a message.”

  She left him her water-downed report of events. He’d know she was withholding. He knew her so well. Maybe it would be wise to avoid his calls for a while until he calmed down, and until she knew more on the ground here.

  Right now, she was exhausted from the events and emotions of the day. Time for the horizontal solution, time to flop into bed and hope her mind would let her sleep.

  ◆◆◆

  She was more open with Nora Keenan during their regular update at Cullen’s Coffee Shop. She shared in full her conversation with Theresa Martin and her visit to the care home where Thomas Martin had been a patient. A visit that Theresa had helped arrange.

  Nora frowned and shook her head. “A horrible business, Rosaria. But how would that involve our Patrick?”

  “I don’t know yet. It may have been part of what he was researching.”

  Nora looked down at her hands, which she was turning over in her lap thoughtfully. “Did I not tell you that the answer might lie over here, not in Boston?”

  “You did, and you may be right, but we don’t know yet, Nora.”

  “Should we be telling Gerard?”

  The last thing Rosaria felt she needed right now was a hundred questions from Gerard Conneely that she had no answers to.

  “Could we wait on that? I just have wisps of an old story. There’s nothing he could dig into. I’d worry that it would just waste his time.”

  She was afraid Nora would reply that perhaps they should let Gerard and the guards decide that. But she didn’t.

  After some thought, she looked at Rosaria.

  “I understand, Rosaria. For now.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Rosaria had walked the path down the low cliff from the Burke cottage to stroll along the rocky beach below when Marguerite called.

  Rosaria had been missing Fergus, who spent a good deal of time with Mossie now. The stony coast somehow seemed less interesting without the noisy, hyperactive young dog racing all over the rocks around her. But still, this stroll was a welcome break from all the unanswered questions and half-truths that seemed to be floating around her.

  “Hi,” she picked up Marguerite’s call, grateful for the steady cell signal. With low tide, the noise from the lapping waves was a pleasant background. “Find anything out?”

  Rosaria picked up an unusual shell—or unusual to her—and wondered if it were a dog whelk shell. She knew there were still middens of dog whelks down near Ballyconneely. Apparently, just inside the creature sat a precious gland which emitted a tiny spot of deep indigo when pressed. Through a highly labor-intensive process, the coastal people had, according to legend, dyed special fabrics a gorgeous color purple, unsurpassed in brilliance, from this little shellfish.

  “Well, your friend Mossie was right. The Bon Secours order of nuns may have survived the Mother and Baby Home scandals for now, though I feel sure that they will have to answer for that history as more and more comes to light. The Compassionates did not survive as an order. Their recruitments dried up and so did their philanthropic support. If what you heard about the payoffs they received from the IRA for collusion on gunrunning is true, they really must have struggled when that stopped—even with the fees they received from adoptions and from the Irish government for housing the young mothers in their care.”

  “So, the order doesn’t still exist?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Its members were subsumed into another order—the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart.”

  “Were you able to find any of the former Compassionates?”

  “I was. In one of the Sisters of Nazareth care homes. A Sister Finbar.”

  “And?”

  “And bedridden with a deteriorated hip, but still sharp. And pretty combative. She wanted to know who put such ideas and wild stories about gunrunning at the Home in my head. I told her it had to do with an investigation into the murder of a young student who was exploring the story. She was very taken aback with this—she couldn’t really talk for a minute.”

  “Pretty shocking. She probably thought too that these old stories were all in the past and would never come out.”

  “Right. To that point, I did tell her it would indeed all be coming out and that it would be easier to talk to me—a fellow religious—than it would be to talk to the Garda and the journalists.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  “You’re not the only one with the gift, Rosaria,” Marguerite chuckled. “Anyway, I explained again about Patrick and the story he’d been told.”

  “Did she confirm the gunrunning?”

  “Oh, to my mind she did, if not directly.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like going on too much about how they knew nothing about such a thing as illegal gunrunning on the property. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. In any case, Mr. Joyce took care of anything that happened on the property. That would have been his business. They left everything to him.”

  “I bet they did.”

  “She talked a good deal about how strained the Sisters’ finances were in taking care of the girls and the babies. It sounded like a litany of excuses. As she continued talking, I was sure the nuns were aware of what Mr. Joyce was up to and where this stream of extra income came from.”

  “Those poor girls and their godforsaken babies in that cruel place with those unkind women.”

  “Right you are. And, you know, she made a telling comment at the end.”

  “Yes?”

  “She said that those were complicated times and that the struggle for freedom was always hard. ‘It’s the long game, you know,’ is how she framed it.”

  When she and Marguerite were about to end their call, Rosaria said, “So, I’ve found something else out in this investigation, something personal.”

  “Yes. What would that be?”

  “It’s about my father.”

  “And?”

  Rosaria told Marguerite about her adoptive father Jimmy O’Reilly’s likely involvement in the gun-running organization.

  “Ah, I’m so sorry, Rosaria. You’ve had many complications in your family history. Another shock for you.”

  “How many more secrets
will I uncover about my family, Marguerite?”

  “We can’t know that, but no more, I hope,” Marguerite responded. “But just remember one thing about Jimmy O’Reilly, Rosaria.”

  “What?”

  “How much he loved his daughter. Over the moon. Isn’t that how the Irish say it? He was over the moon and back about you. With everything else, you have to remember that.”

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria had prepared herself when she took a call from Solly two days after avoiding all his phone messages. Their last conversation had ended badly on the subject of an old friend of hers in Ireland, after the unforgiveable interference of Mossie who’d left a message for Solly about her seeing Hugh Moran.

  She was enraged anew every time she thought of Mossie taking it on himself to tell Solly about her reconnection with Hugh Moran. Solly would also certainly want to dig deeper into her abbreviated report on illegal activities at the Mother and Baby Home decades ago. She wasn’t ready to go into all that yet and was contemplating how to do a little defensive verbal meandering and blocking to avoid a direct response.

  Rosaria was not surprised at Solly’s brief, chilly greeting. She was surprised when he asked only perfunctory questions about the subject of the Mother and Baby Home and commented, “Well, let me know if there’s more that comes out.”

  She had to admit that she was just a little annoyed at the last comment. Things didn’t just come out. She found information by actively tracking it down, for crying out loud, not just passively waiting for things to come out magically.

  While she was distracted with being annoyed, Solly moved onto another sore subject. She should have been prepared, but she wasn’t when Solly then said. “So, Rosie, I guess we’ll have to talk about old friends and what it means for us.” A beat of silence.

  “You have an old friend, Solly.” The issue of his ex-wife Justine had been there all along. It was only a matter of time before it came out. “Have you been seeing Justine?”

  “Ah, so that’s it,” was Solly’s dry response. “Yes, I have been seeing her.”

  Did she hear defiance in that response? Jesus. Rosaria’s stomach churned. Her eyes watered. She looked out to the sea for some solace. None there. Gray sea. Gray clouds. Oh please, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  “I helped her and a friend take some of her photographs up to the North Shore Art Association on Rocky Neck in Gloucester yesterday,” Solly continued. “She has a show there.”

  “How sweet. Is our picture from the Globe in the show?”

  “Very funny. No, it’s not. She’d got some nice work, though.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Rosaria responded flatly.

  “She has a book coming out—black and white shots of some Boston neighborhoods.”

  Why was he telling her these things—turning the knife?

  “Independently published. Her fiancé—her friend that helped out with the photo show yesterday—is funding it.”

  “Lovely. Why are you telling me this?” She was rubbing her eyes hard now, pressing on them not to cry and snivel. She had to maintain some dignity here... wait...“Wait, her fiancé?” A gulp. “That wouldn’t be you, would it, Solly?” Okay, now she was going to cry.

  “No, no, not me. Somebody else. Nice guy, for a Waspy artist, another trust fund kid. A good match—sure better for her than a Boston Jewish cop with an attitude. He lives down in Lanesville, Gloucester. She’s moving there next month.”

  “Good.” Rosaria’s voice wavered. “Good, I’m happy for her, for them. Really happy.”

  “Love you, Rosie.”

  “Love you, Solly.” And then she did burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 35

  Neither the name nor the voice on her phone messaging system was familiar to Rosaria. Michael Cahill? She searched her mind for any reference to a Michael Cahill. And came up empty.

  “Hello, Miss O’Reilly. My name is Michael Cahill. You don’t know me but I have information for you that I think you will want. It regards the murder of Patrick Keenan.” Rosaria’s breath quickened.

  “I don’t feel comfortable going to the Garda with this information and I’d rather not be seen talking to you in Clifden. You’ll understand why when we meet. If you can meet me in Roundstone at the Roundstone House Pub this evening, I’ll wait for you there from eight o’clock. If you don’t show up tonight, I won’t call again. I’m not sure I should be involved in this at all.”

  And the message ended.

  “What the...?” So many data points coming out. Patrick’s research project tipping into long ago IRA gunrunning and a murder at Saint Mary of Egypt Mother and Baby Home. Patrick killed in Boston—why Boston? Liam Joyce, Saint Liam, son of the caretaker at the Mother and Baby Home during the gunrunning operation and probable IRA execution—how is he involved? And Thomas Martin—also likely murdered after telling Patrick his secret— who could have done that? All pieces of the puzzle, but she couldn’t quite fit them together.

  Maybe this was the key. Rosaria was getting impatient to put together the full narrative. She didn’t know what this message was about, but she was going to follow it. Should she call the guards? Tell Gerard Conneely? No, she’d spook Michael Cahill. He wouldn’t talk to her. And she’d never tell Solly—he would make such a goddamn fuss.

  Rosaria knew Roundstone was up the coast to the east, on the other side of the gigantic bog between it and Clifden. There was an old Franciscan school and monastery there, long closed and now home to a craft workshop making bohdans, the mesmerizing goat-skinned Irish hand drums. The village was also home to a summer regatta of Galway hookers—the red-sailed traditional Galway fishing boats named for the way they hooked the wind. That was all she knew about Roundstone, just another charming and picturesque village on the coast. And apparently where a Michael Cahill was waiting for her to tell her how this whole disjointed story fit together.

  She wished Mossie were available to drive her to Roundstone but he was on his way to Dublin, for the Galway match against Kilkenny the next day in Croke Park. He’d been talking about the match for weeks on end. She knew Mossie was saying a novena that Galway would trounce Kilkenny, giving him an opportunity to triumph over that annoying Kilkenny man, Hugh Moran. Oh how would he relish that. For her part, Rosaria mused at how the heavens might have time to answer novenas about sporting matches with all the troubles in the world, though best to leave that subject be.

  She was happy for Mossie, but here she was without a ride to Roundstone where a mysterious voicemail had told her critical information was waiting. And where was Mossie when she needed him? At a hurling match. Figures.

  And Bridie had taken Nora Keenan to Kenmare for a getaway near the

  Killarney National Forest. “To walk, talk together, you know,” Bridie had said.

  “Whatever I can do to help her. Poor woman.”

  It’s what Bridie should have been doing for her sister. All the same, Rosaria wished selfishly that Bridie had been here to drive to Roundstone with her.

  So, here she was, stuck for a ride. The hell with it. She’d go herself. She’d long ago returned her rental car, but Mr. Burke’s little blue Ford Fiesta sat at the end of the driveway, its key on a hook by the back door. She hadn’t driven a manual shift since high school. Still, she thought she could remember and could manage. Muscle memory and all that.

  Rosaria looked at the map. The R34l would bring her along the coast to Roundstone. The bog road was straight through that endless blanket of peatland. It would be a straight shot, save her precious time. There were no lights along the bog road and she didn’t think anyone really drove it at night. During the day, there was something magical about the bog—the larks and the merlins, the smell of the wildflowers and the heather. The sweet, fresh winds and wide open sky. Quite lovely in its own way. But at night—no way.

  There was also that creepy Halfway House site at the midpoint of the bog road with stories of a murderous brother and sister preying on travelers in t
he old days. Nothing but a pile of stones in a small clearing there now, yet still with an aura, if she were to be honest. But Halfway House was the last thing on her mind at the moment. She had to get going. She could drive on the Ballyconnelly Road, the R34, and take it slow. She was getting entirely too timid. She’d borrow Mr. Burke’s car, leave Mossie a text so that someone would know where she was, and get on with it. Then, she’d put the car on the wrong side of the road. Best laid plans, she thought to herself ruefully a short time later. She’d had terrible problems shifting with the manual system, gotten flustered and now taken a wrong turn and ended up on what indeed appeared to be the bog road. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  But perhaps not entirely a disaster. Not a great road, no lights except her own, but certainly the fastest route and she didn’t have much time. Right—not optimum—lonely and just one lane with the bog on each side. All the same, she could manage it if she focused. Just drive straight ahead for around six miles. She didn’t even have to change gears.

  Rosaria berated herself for being so incompetent to end up on this road at night. Incompetent and reckless. Jesus, it was dark. She could barely make out the narrow road ahead. There was no place to turn around and she’d make a mess of it anyway, not being able to see with her bad right eye.

  She didn’t know what she would do if a car came the opposite way. She’d just to have the hope that the other driver would pull over and let her pass. Oh God. I wish Mossie were driving. Damned hurling.

  Fortunately, she saw the headlights of a car some distance behind her, so she wasn’t totally alone. Her shoulders started to relax a little. The sweet smell of the bog wafted through her window. Rosaria breathed the dense, musky air in deeply and felt refreshed and a little bit calmer. Just keep ongoing. Slow and steady.