Death of an Irish Mummy

by Catie Murphy

  Orla took a shocked step backward. “You don’t swear.”

  “No, I don’t, so don’t be fucking coy!” A surge of satisfaction rose in Megan as Orla, still gaping, tried to gather herself to answer. She’d realized early in her career that foregoing curse words could both defuse a situation—people tended to laugh at a well-timed gosh darn it—and that it made the occasional f-bomb considerably more effective. The Irish swore so much, though, that she hadn’t known if Orla would even notice her dropping one. Apparently she would.

  “We’re none of us IRA, or Real IRA, or New IRA, or any of it, not my lot,” Orla muttered in sullen cooperation. The rain suddenly blew sideways, sending thick drops slapping loudly against the windowpanes. Megan pushed the blinds open a few inches with her fingers and made a face, not looking forward to walking home in the storm. Orla hunched up as if the rain was spilling down her back as she continued. “We’d know them as are IRA, or who run with them as are. Or were. Most of it’s all blown over now, even with the bloody stupid Brits and their Brexit and the troubles it’s caused. What’s left is talk.” Her gaze rose to meet Megan’s, an abrupt, worried discomfort in it. “That’s all it is, is talk. No one gives a tinker’s damn about some eejit American claiming to be a countess. There’d be no point in killing the likes of her. If they were looking to make a statement, they’d pick a bigger target.”

  “Would they, though? It’s a lot easier to get to an eejit American than the British prime minister, and they’ve never had any compunction against risking civilians with their tactics.”

  “Have you heard of any bombs going off in Dublin?” Orla demanded, and Megan had to give her that. Every group claiming to be the old IRA’s heir tended toward using bombs and guns, not sneaking up on people and filling their veins full of air. Explosions made a statement in a way more subtle assassinations didn’t. “I told your detective all of this,” Orla muttered.

  “Did you give him any names to talk to? People I should check up on to see if I can find a way to help clear you?”

  Orla looked wary. “That could be dangerous for yis. Can’t you just figure out who did it instead of bothering my own?”

  “Just tell me who you talked to, Orla, and who they might have talked to as well.”

  “It’s not only who I had a word with my own self,” Orla replied cagily. “I might have had a thing or two to say down the pub about countesses and lost heirs and the like.”

  “Oh my god, Orla! Which pub?”

  “Maybe Slattery’s. Maybe Rody Boland’s. Maybe Murphy’s or even out the Hill if I was feeling like a wander.”

  Megan put her arms and head on the counter, slumped in despair. “What happened to a local where you go every night without thinking about it?” she asked, muffled.

  “Then you’ve the same audience every night,” Orla said with a performer’s disdain. Megan thunked her head against her arms a few times, then straightened.

  “If you had to guess, where would you say rumour would fly straightest to trouble from?”

  “Either where the youngest lads or the oldest gather, but I wouldn’t know which of the pubs that is, if any of them.” Orla’s jaw set, and Megan knew she wouldn’t say more for fear of painting a friend’s establishment with a black mark. Paul Bourke would know more about it than Megan did, by dint of being local, but Megan would have to make the rounds herself, with a plausible story to get her into the gossips’ good books. She leveled a finger at Orla.

  “Word might get back that I’m bad-mouthing you. If it does, be forewarned that it’s how I’m trying to get people to trust me.”

  Orla sniffed. “I’m a pillar of the community, I am. Watch what you say or it’s your own self who’ll be in trouble.”

  “Uh-huh.” Megan thought anyone given a chance to complain about Orla’s sharp tongue and tight-fisted ways would leap at the opportunity, but there was no profit in saying so. Orla’s eyes narrowed with irritation, suggesting she’d followed Megan’s line of thought, and that she suspected Megan was right. “I’ll do everything I can,” Megan promised. “And you’ll keep your word.”

  Orla’s jaw set even harder, but after a moment, she nodded grudgingly. Megan sighed. “Fine. All right. I’ll let you know what I’ve learned tomorrow evening. Good night, Orla.”

  Her stomach suddenly rumbling, Megan walked home in the lashing rain so she could eat.

  * * *

  Not even the puppies wanted to go out in the miserable weather. Megan herded them out the door to do their business and a while later ate chili and cornbread muffins with two small, dripping dogs staring reproachfully at her every move. Well, not dripping: she had, for her own sake as much as theirs, toweled them off when they got back in, but somehow they managed to emote drippiness. By the time she’d finished eating, though, Dip and Thong had forgiven her and equilibrium was restored. Megan crawled on to the couch with the puppies and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to both clear Orla and steer away from the rough sorts Orla obviously imagined her having to tangle with in order to clear her.

  The answer was to find out who was actually responsible, which she wanted to do anyway. The trip up to Leitrim hadn’t shed any light, not unless old Maire had actually found a treasure after she and Megan had parted ways. But really, unless there was a sword in a stone which, when drawn, would proclaim the heir to Leitrim as the rightful ruler of all Ireland, Megan didn’t know what else she might have expected to find up there that could help Orla or the Williams daughters.

  “Besides,” she said to Thong, who crawled up to lie on Megan’s stomach and lick her chin, “the Lia Fáil is the Irish version of the sword in the stone, and it’s in County Meath, isn’t it. Yes it is. Yes it is. Hello, baby. Eee, you’re kissing me.” She wrinkled her face and rubbed the puppy’s head. “Good girl. Should I bring the Williamses to Meath, huh? Should I bring them out there and see if the stone screams when they lay their hands on it? Can you imagine Sondra’s face if that happened? Huh? Can you? Yeah, me too. It’d be gas.”

  Lia Fáil meant “Stone of Destiny,” and the waist-height pillar of pale stone at the Hill of Tara was meant to recognize the true kings of Ireland. No one believed it, of course, but despite that, everyone hoped a little when they put their hands on it. Thong licked her chin again and Megan crossed her eyes at the puppy on her chest. “Oh, you’d stay out of the family dramas, would you, huh? Yeah, that’s good advice.”

  Thong blew air through her nose and settled down, apparently feeling that was answer enough. Megan rubbed her head, then looked at the time on her phone and considered a pre-bedtime nap there on the couch. The puppies didn’t help her decide against that notion, either, as both of them had fallen asleep, Dip sprawled across her thighs and slowly sliding to the side, where she could squish between Megan’s ribs and the couch. Megan scrolled through a few pub reviews, like one of them would helpfully mention that modern IRA sympathizers hung out there, and finally put her phone on her chest, willing to drift off with the dogs for a little while.

  She was just about asleep when the buzzer from the street-side door intercom blared. Megan jolted upright, the puppies coming awake with a series of startled barks. Megan dislodged Dip and let Thong slide the few inches to the couch cushions by getting up and walking blearily to answer the buzzer. “Yeah?”

  “Megan?”

  “Paul?” Megan buzzed the detective in and opened her door to watch him come up the stairs, shaking water off his shoulders. Dip and Thong went barreling out to meet him and he picked them up at the top of the stairs, smiling as they wiggled in his hands. His hair, dark brown with water, was plastered to his head, rivulets streaming down his nose and cheekbones. Megan left the door open and went to get him a towel, which he took gratefully after coming in, closing the door, and putting the puppies down. He hung his coat up and dried off a bit, then sat on the front edge of an armchair, trying not to drip as the puppies wiggled around his ankles. Megan, smiling, said, “How’s Mama Do
g?”

  “Grand. She’s come all the way around so. I knew she would. It just took a little patience so, as I’m not whatever ginger bastard who did her wrong. She knows that now, and she’s a good girl, mo croí.”

  Megan knew the Irish words meant variations on “my darling,” and smiled at his affection for the aloof little dog. “What’s the story?”

  “How fast did Orla enlist your help?” Paul lifted his eyebrows under messy, damp hair, his blue gaze both amused and challenging.

  A surprised, guilty flush rushed Megan’s cheeks. “Fast enough and urgently enough, that I’m a hundred percent un-fired. Do you really think she’s got any part in this?”

  Bourke shook his head. “Probably not, but there’s been a lot more New IRA movement since Brexit, and it’s not impossible.”

  “Cherise Williams isn’t much of a political target, though.”

  “But she was accessible and makes a good flashpoint, especially if she turns out to really be the heir to Leitrim.”

  “I don’t see how we’re ever going to know that, though. Can I get you some tea?”

  Unfettered gratitude shone in Bourke’s eyes. “Please. I’m frozen through. It’s desperate out there.”

  “If it weren’t so desperate, I’d have probably gone out to try sizing up potential bad guys at local pubs,” Megan admitted as she went to put the kettle on. Fortunately, the kitchen and living room were both open-plan and small, so it meant walking about ten feet away from where Paul sat with puppies leaning on his feet. “Have you eaten? I can reheat some chili and there’s cornbread left over.”

  “What’s cornbread?”

  “Oh, you sweet summer child.” Megan got him a couple of muffins to go with his tea and reheated the chili, putting the whole meal on the table. “There’s no rice to go with it,” she told him severely. “I’m not a barbarian.”

  He came to the table and sat, completely nonplussed. “What do you eat it with, then?”

  “Cornbread!” Megan sat across from him, tucking her legs up into her chair. “It took me ages to figure out that you lot regard chili as a kind of curry and that’s why you put it on rice. And let’s not even talk about the disservice you’re doing to Indian food by referring to it all as ‘a curry,’ anyway.”

  “We don’t call it all a curry.” As Megan raised skeptical eyebrows, Bourke shrugged in defeat. “All right, maybe we do so. Oh my god,” he added around a mouthful of cornbread, and moved the muffin back to take a better look at it. “This is brilliant. What is it?”

  “Mama Malone’s sweet cornbread recipe. Not too sweet, though. It’s corn flour, except not what you call corn flour. That did my head in too,” she said irritably. “You call cornstarch corn flour, and I bought like three things of it before I realized I was never going to get what I was looking for. Separated by a common language, dang it. You call this cornmeal, or polenta, although your polenta’s more finely ground than what I use in the muffins or already mixed up in to actual polenta that you just put on things. Not that anybody actually puts it on anything.”

  Paul took all of that with the air of a man who expected it to end, or at least reach a point, eventually. Not even Megan imagined she’d made a point, but she did at least wrap up, upon which Bourke said, “Whatever it is, it’s gorgeous. Mama Malone’s recipe, huh? So it’s secret?”

  “No, I’ll email it to you. I don’t believe in secret recipes.”

  “I never heard of anyone who didn’t believe in secret recipes.”

  “Well, now you have. Eat.” Megan got the brewed tea and came back to the table as he spooned up a bite of chili. “I assume you’re here to tell me to not go poking around the IRA.”

  “I would if I thought it would do any good. Wow. This is gorgeous too.” Bourke looked into his bowl of chili like it contained a surprise.

  Megan, vaguely offended, said, “What did you expect?”

  “Tesco’s Own?”

  “Oh. No, I’m constitutionally incapable of buying chili spelled with two L’s. This is homemade. I just put it in the slow cooker for a day, freeze it in meal-sized packages, and eat it whenever I want some.”

  “I didn’t think you cooked.”

  “I got out of the habit when I got the puppies. They wrecked my life, yeah, didn’t you, guys?” Megan’s tone changed enough that the dogs, who had gone back to lie on the couch, stood up to look over its back, then hopped down and came over to see if anybody was going to give them a treat. “Okay, that was my bad,” she said to them, and got up to get them snacks. “So if you’re not here to tell me to stay away from the IRA, what is the story?”

  “Apparently it’s that I was hungry and needed home cooking. My mother wants me to marry a nice Irish girl, but she’d probably accept an American if she came with that cornbread recipe.”

  Megan snorted. “First, technically, I am a nice Irish girl. Second, I already said you could have the recipe. Third, that was a terrible proposal, but fourth, that’s probably a good thing, since you’re dating Niamh.”

  “I’m more seeing her for occasional weekends in the midst of her strange, larger-than-life life, but I can’t quibble over the rest of that. I put in a request to get the earl’s DNA.”

  “You did what? Why?”

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t see how they could claim anything, but the family association has to be why she was killed. Either someone wants to make a statement about how welcome British landlords are in modern Ireland, or they think there’s something about the title worth having. I can’t imagine the legal mess involved with actually claiming it, but either way, finding out if the link is legitimate may help to unearth something.” He ate a few more bites of chili, sipped his tea, and finally added, “And it seems like they ought to at least know, after all of this.”

  “You’re a good man, Detective Bourke.”

  “I try. What’s in the diary?”

  Megan blinked around like she might have one she didn’t know about, then shook herself. “Oh. Cherise’s diary. Or Gigi Elsie’s, I guess. It’s a family heirloom, and maybe their best bet at establishing a connection to the Edgeworths. Well, not if the DNA thing goes through, but it’s the best they’ve got otherwise. It didn’t sound like there were any deep dark secrets hidden in it, but Raquel’s the only one who’d even read it, and that was more than twenty years ago. Their family is a mess,” she added. “Cherise was gullible. Sondra, the oldest, kept bailing her out financially, but her sisters don’t know that. Raquel’s apparently a lot like Cherise, and Jessie, the youngest, is angry at everything. Generally, I mean. I think it’s how she goes through the world, not just right now in the wake of her mother’s death. They all want different things and they’re like cats and dogs with each other trying to get it.”

  “Would any of them have killed their own mother?”

  “Jesus.” Megan rolled back like she was taking a hit. “I don’t think so, but more importantly I don’t see how they could have. Raquel was flying into Dublin when Cherise died, and I don’t see how either Jessie or Sondra could have flown in, murdered her, gotten back to Dallas, and gotten on another plane to fly back here fast enough to arrive at eight this morning.”

  “Hired killer, maybe? How deep was Sondra in, financially?”

  “She lost her husband and her house over it, I guess. But . . . well, I don’t know.” Megan sighed. “I certainly don’t want to think any of them hired somebody to kill their mother. Wouldn’t you be able to follow the money on that, anyway?”

  “Not if you hired somebody online and paid in cash that you’d been saving up. I could follow a browser history, maybe, if they were mad enough to do their searches from home.” Bourke finished his chili, sighed in contentment, and got up to rinse his dishes. Megan followed him with her gaze, astonished.

  “You can hire assassins on the internet?”

  He made a face over his shoulder. “For surprisingly little dosh, although the cheap ones aren’t, em . . .”

  “Very p
rofessional?” At his nod, Megan put her face in her hands. “We live in a strange, strange world, Paul.”

  “We do so.” Bourke sounded almost cheerful about that. “It’s less likely, though, than Orla shooting her mouth off to somebody who thought he’d take a chance.”

  “I honestly don’t know which is more awful.” Megan rose to look out the window at the pouring rain. “It’s miserable out there. Are you going home or back to work?”

  “Home.” Paul finished washing the dishes and came back to glance out the window. Thong ran over and leaned on his ankles, so he crouched to rub her ears. She sighed and rolled onto her back, feet flopping without dignity, so he could rub her belly instead. For a moment or two he was engaged in that serious activity, but he finally stood up with a sigh. “I’ll be no use to anybody if I don’t get some sleep. I’m calling a taxi, though. I don’t think I can face another drenching. Look, Megan . . .”

  “If you’re going to tell me to stay out of trouble, I’m pretty sure it won’t take.”

  “I would so, but I know you better than that by now. I’m serious about this, though, Megan. Stay away from the political side of things. Don’t go digging into who Orla knows and who she doesn’t. That’s dangerous business, and it’s not your job.”

  “I was planning on clearing her name by figuring out who really did it, not by interviewing people with dubious political connections.”

  A smile twisted Paul’s mouth as he took out his phone and pulled up an app to hail a taxi with. “That’s not your job either, but it’s as good as I’m going to get from you, so I’ll take it.”

  Megan flicked a sharp, if not official, salute. “Assistant Investigative Detective Adjunct at your service, sir.”

  Amusement crossed Bourke’s face. “Someday I’m going to take you to the opera. In the meantime, keep me apprised of anything the Williamses let slip, since you’re going to be nosing around anyway.”

  “You keep me apprised of whether that diary shows up again.”

  “It is definitely not my job to do that.” His phone buzzed with the announcement his taxi had arrived and, with a wave, Bourke left Megan and the dogs to their night’s sleep.