A Turn for the Bad (3 page)

Maura drove the few miles into Leap and let herself in the front door of the pub, not long after nine. Too early to open for business—or was it? Running a pub was about more than selling alcoholic drinks to people; it also involved serving as a kind of Information Central, especially when there was an event such as John Tully's disappearance and people wanted news updates. Drinking hours were set by the government, but she could offer coffee and tea—and sympathy.

Still, she relished a little time alone in “her” pub. She was still surprised that the place belonged to her now, even after more than six months. She was more surprised that she'd managed to keep the place running and stayed solvent that long, thanks in no small part to the revival of a music tradition that
Old Mick had let lapse and that she—with help from a diverse group of people—had recently revived. It seemed to be a success: there were bookings scheduled through the end of the year, with room for events that just popped up unexpectedly—which she had heard happened quite often in Leap and the surrounding area, although nobody had approached her about one yet. There was nothing scheduled for the coming weekend, but she made a quick tour of the back room, just to make sure everything was in good shape. It was. While she had three people working for her—Rose, Jimmy, and Mick—she had made sure that Rose didn't end up doing all the cleanup. Jimmy and Mick, however they chose to split the duties, were surprisingly good at making the place presentable, and even washing up the glasses. All good.

The place was certainly oddly laid out for a pub, but that was probably due to the narrow plot of land, squeezed between a main road that had no doubt been there for centuries and the steep rock face behind. There were two main rooms, one behind the other, running parallel to the road. The main bar was in front, but there was a second, smaller one in the back room. A kitchen lay off to the rear, but it hadn't been used for a while, and at the opposite end were the loos. Maura had taken a quick glance at the rooms on the second floor, shuddered, and refused to return since. Old Billy took up the last of the space in the building, occupying two small rooms at the far end, one up, one down.

She had just returned to the front room when she saw a stranger at the door. Maura debated briefly about telling him the pub wasn't open yet, but decided that she might as well let him in. He might know something about John Tully. She unlocked the door, and the man stepped inside, smiling
broadly. In his forties, maybe fifty, casually dressed, carrying a binder with papers sticking out unevenly.

“I'm looking for Maura Donovan?” he said. Not a local accent. Maybe someone from the media, looking for a human-interest story about John Tully's disappearance? But if that was the case, why would he know her name?

“I'm Maura. What can I do for you?”

“The name's Brendan Quinn. I'm your liquor distributor.”

She couldn't have named the distributor if someone had paid her, and she couldn't recall seeing this man in the pub in the time she'd been there. “Mick Nolan usually handles ordering. He'll be in later.”

“But you're the new owner, are you not?” The man's charming smile stayed in place.

“I am. But I can't tell you much. If you know who I am, you know I've been running this place less than a year. Even so, from what I've noticed most of what people want here is Guinness, not hard liquor. Isn't that handled separately?”

“It is. And I know that most come in for a pint, not the hard stuff, but I like to get to know my customers, and of course I'm hoping to persuade you to try a few new things.”

Good luck with that
, Maura thought. “I'm happy to listen to whatever you have to say, but no promises.”

“I understand,” the man said. “May we sit?”

“Why not?” Maura led him to a table and gestured toward the chair. “Is Leap part of your regular circuit? Do you cover Cork only, or more of the country?”

“I go where the business takes me, Maura. You've already mentioned the black stuff, but what else do the folk here ask for?”

“A second pint. As you can see, I've got a few whiskeys
on the shelves there, but you can tell they're kind of dusty. It's mainly the tourists who ask for it, like they think it's part of the Irish experience—you know, come to Ireland and drink Irish whiskey, once at least. And tourist season is over for now.”

“I understand. Tell me, which whiskey do you prefer?”

Maura had to give the man points for trying, but he wasn't going to get much satisfaction from her. “Uh, none of them? I'm not much of a drinker myself.”

“That's probably wise, with you running a pub and all. But how can you recommend a whiskey to your customers?”

“Like I said, I don't get asked much, and those who do ask for whiskey usually know what they want.”

“A story I've heard before, Maura.” Brendan settled comfortably in his seat, and Maura wondered how long he planned to stay. “Tell me, what do you know about Irish whiskey, in general?”

“Not a lot. I know it's not as snobby as Scotch whisky, but nobody comes here looking for that. I assume you're going to educate me?”

“Only if you have the time. I try not to be a pushy salesman, as you Americans would say. But I'll be up-front with you—whiskey drinking is on the decline in this country. The excise rates are killing the distillers, up more than forty percent in the last couple of years. Do you know, an American tourist can buy the stuff cheaper back home than in a shop here? But odd as it may seem, at the same time there's a lot of new distillers coming online and investing in their product. We want to keep that growth coming, for it brings jobs with it, not to mention a bit of pride in our own product. I'm just trying to do my part to help the economy—and to
keep my job, of course.” He flashed a grin at her, and Maura found herself smiling back. “And,” Brendan added, “you've got one of those new distillers in your own backyard here. Surely you want to support them and see them prosper?”

“This is the first I've heard of them. Listen, I do know Ireland needs jobs—every country does these days. But isn't there a lot of heavy drinking in the country too?”

“I won't lie to you—there is. I can quote you statistics if you care to hear them.” Brendan went on without waiting for Maura to answer. “Far more than a million people—that's nearly a quarter of the population of the Irish republic—drink to excess, and maybe ten percent of those are what you'd have to call alcoholics, addicted to the stuff. Most of the alcohol here is consumed during binge-drinking sessions, and much of that amongst young people.”

“You know, you're not doing yourself any favors, telling me that most people in this country drink too much. In any case, my target audience is not made up of alcoholics and kids,” Maura pointed out.

“Of course not. But more than half of all drinking takes place in a pub or club or hotel or restaurant—that is, outside the home. Now, tell me, Maura Donovan, how do you find yourself running a pub that serves alcohol in the face of those numbers?”

She'd never really thought about it, Maura realized. She'd just fallen into owning the pub and kept on doing what had always been done at Sullivan's—serving drinks. Did she have a moral issue with that? No, she decided. “For a start, I inherited it, and I needed the job. But that's not what you're asking, right? Okay, I'm still here because a good pub is about more than drinking alcohol and getting blind drunk.
It's about relaxing with friends or sharing information about the community with other people.” Like now—and where were all the busybodies who knew what was going on with the Tully search? Shouldn't someone have come by with an update by now? “For a lot of people, a glass or two of something helps loosen them up. Just because I don't drink, doesn't mean I don't understand why people do it, and as long as they keep it under control, I'm good with it. I happen to know that liquor makes me stupid and then it puts me to sleep, but I've spent enough time around bars to see that it makes other people happier. And I don't let things get out of hand at Sullivan's.”
And I've got a garda friend to call if things really got scary.
Which they hadn't yet.

“Well said. And might I add to that, drinking a fine whiskey is more about savoring the drink, not pouring it down your throat as fast as possible. It can be a pleasure in its own right. All I'm saying to you now is that you ought to know what the stuff tastes like, so you can make an informed recommendation to anyone who asks.”

Maura eyed Brendan warily. “And of course you want me to buy one bottle of everything you've got, just so I can taste them all?”

“I wouldn't say no if you're offering, but that wasn't what I had in mind. Seeing this place, I'm guessing that might squeeze your purse dry, right? My thought was, might we do a tasting? For you and whatever of your staff might care to take part?”

“And when could we do that?” Maura protested. “We work every day.”

“One morning, maybe?”

Maura snorted. “Yeah, you want us all to get drunk before lunch.”

Brendan looked sorrowful. “Ah, Maura, can't you set aside the word ‘drunk'? Sure and you'd not be drinking enough of anything to become drunk. Or any of the other colorful terms we Irish favor.”

“Such as?” Maura asked, in spite of herself.

“Fluthered, bollixed, blethered, banjaxed, scuttered, poleaxed or ossified. Those are the creative ones. I'm sure you're more familiar with some of the other more ordinary terms, like tanked or soused or wasted,” Brendan said, grinning at her.

Maura had to laugh. “Well, any of yours is prettier than just saying ‘drunk,' but the result's the same, isn't it?”

“It is that. But I'm asking only that you try a few things. That's why it's called a tasting.”

“Let me think about it.” No way was she going to commit right now. After all, Brendan was a salesman, even if he was a charming and funny one. Maura looked around: it wasn't ten o'clock yet, and nobody apart from this Brendan guy had come pounding on the door. “Since I seem to have time to talk at the moment, what do I need to know about Irish whiskey?”

Brendan rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I was hoping you'd ask. There are several forms of it: grain whiskey, used most often in blended whiskey, pot still made either entirely from malted barley or from a mixture of malted and unmalted barley, single malt, and single grain. All these must be distilled and aged in Ireland to be called Irish whiskey . . .”

Once started, Brendan showed no signs of slowing, and
Maura began listening with only half an ear while she fretted over what was happening with the search for John Tully and whether his son had been able to contribute anything useful. How did Irish police interrogate a three-year-old? Poor child. But if his daddy came home all right, he might remember the whole thing as a big adventure, rather than the day Daddy disappeared forever. Like hers had.

Brendan was still talking as Mick came in, and he finally broke off to greet Mick. “Ah, Mick Nolan, good to see you again.”

“Brendan,” Mick said, less warmly. “You haven't been by fer a while. Business slow?”

“I'd tell you I missed your handsome face or that I wanted to meet this lovely lady here, but you're closer to the truth than I'd like. Still, you've badly neglected Maura's education when it comes to whiskey, so I've been filling her in.”

“We've little call for it here,” Mick told him.

“So she said, but she can't help me change that if she doesn't know the stuff.”

Maura interrupted him. “Anything new on the search, Mick?” Although she wasn't sure why she expected him to know anything.

He surprised her. “No sign of the man yet, but he's not come floating ashore.”

It took Maura a moment to realize he was saying that the searchers hadn't found a body—yet. “Wait—how did you hear?”

“A friend called me gran and gave her the story.”

Of course
, Maura thought. The Irish network at work. “How's the boy?”

“He's sayin' that he and his da saw a big white boat with
some men on it. Of course, ‘big' is kind of vague when yer a small child.”

“So how'd he end up on the beach, without his father?”

“He told his ma that the men stopped and talked to John, and then his da told him to wait there until he came back for him. Only he didn't come back.”

“So John was alive, with some other men, right? But no sign of him since?”

“Nor of a big white boat of any description anywhere nearby, although it could be anywhere. Or the child has a busy imagination.”

Which would she prefer? Maura wondered. That someone really had sailed off with John Tully on board, leaving the child behind, or that the child was trying to make up a pretty story rather than accepting his father had gone off and left him? She shivered. Something like that should not happen to a child.