Irish Stewed (17 page)

I helped her unpack both boxes and went around to the other side of the table so I could put the things I’d brought on the shelves.

I glanced at the few cans of soup and vegetables and a dozen boxes of cereal and macaroni and cheese mix and thought about that line out the door she’d mentioned. “Will there be enough for everyone?”

Jennifer’s nose crinkled. “There’s never enough. But if there’s one thing folks around here know about, it’s how to make do. We’ve had to since most of the employers moved out of town. These days it’s gotten to the point that Father David . . . he’s our pastor . . . it’s gotten to the point that he’ll do just about anything to bring in some revenue so we can stock the shelves here. Had a spaghetti dinner a couple weeks ago. It was delicious! You’ll have to come to the next one. We raised seven hundred dollars. Of course . . .” Her shoulders sagged. “That was the same week the thermostat went out at the school building so that money flew right out the window. But no worries!” I don’t know if she was trying to convince me or herself, but Jennifer grinned. “Father will think of some other way to fatten our checking account. He always does.”

I thought about what I’d heard from George. “Like using the church for AA meetings.”

Jennifer’s brow furrowed. “Here? At St. Colman’s? We don’t have an AA group that meets here.”

I was sure I remembered correctly. When I asked George where he’d been the night the Lance of Justice was murdered, he said the AA meeting at St. Colman’s. “Maybe there used to be a group that met here,” I suggested even though in this case
used to
was only a week earlier.

Jennifer dismissed the thought with a shake of her head that made her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair twitch. “I’ve been a member of this parish for thirty years, and I’ve been on parish council the last ten. I can tell you, there’s never been an AA group here. There’s a Wednesday-morning meeting over at the Methodist church. I know because my uncle, he used to go. If you’re looking for a group—”

“I’m not,” I assured her.

Which didn’t mean I wasn’t looking for answers.

Thinking it over, I stacked a few more cans of tuna on the shelf.

An AA meeting. George told me he’d been at an AA meeting here at the church. George, the guy I’d found drinking Irish whiskey not twenty-four hours earlier.

“What is it?” Jennifer’s question snapped me out of my thoughts. “You look like you’re thinking about something real serious.”

I was, but I couldn’t tell her that. Because what I was thinking was that George hated the Lance of Justice.

And that George’s alibi had just gone up in smoke.

“Oh, look at that, will you?” Once again, I was forced to abandon my thoughts when Jennifer spoke. “One more jar of spaghetti sauce left.” She reached far to the back of a shelf in the corner. “Way back here. Oh, somebody’s going to love this. Then again . . .” Her eyes twinkling, she grabbed the jar of sauce and tucked it under the table, then gave me a wink. “Old Mrs. Wyjacki loves spaghetti and she’s always at this Mass. I’ll slip it to her when she comes down here and no one else is looking!”

Though I’d been in Hollywood for six years, believe me, I didn’t live under a rock. I knew there were plenty of people who were hungry, but nothing brought it home
like looking at the half-bare shelves of St. Colman’s food pantry or thinking that one jar of pasta sauce could be so treasured.

“I can bring more next week,” I told Jennifer, even though I wasn’t sure what might be left over or what George would find to pack. “Maybe bread. Or pasta.”

“Or maybe our Robin Hood will show up again. We wouldn’t even have this much if it wasn’t for him.”

The mention of the Food Pantry Robin Hood took my mind off George, the bottle of Irish whiskey, and the AA meeting that wasn’t. See, Robin Hood was exactly what I’d hope to talk to someone about. I’d planned to choose my time carefully, but since Jennifer brought up the subject, I didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

“Was Jack Lancer doing a story about the food pantry?” I asked Jennifer.

“The Lance of Justice?” Jennifer was a short woman, and as round as she was tall. She pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “Isn’t it just awful what happened to that wonderful man? He was always so nice. Always so friendly.”

“You knew him?”

“Well, he did a story on TV about the food pantry. Oh, I don’t know . . . three or four years ago.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why this bit of news hit me somewhere between my heart and my stomach. I moved a stack of tuna cans from one side of an empty shelf to the other. “He wasn’t working on a story now? He already did one?”

She nodded. “Like I said, three or four years ago. We just wanted to get the word out, you know, that we were here and that we were able to help people out. Father David, he called the station and they said they were happy to help. Weren’t we all just knocked out of our socks when the Lance
of Justice showed up to talk to us!” All these years later, the excitement lingered; she fanned her face with one hand. “Such a nice man. Such a terrible shame what happened to him.”

“So, if he did a story about the food pantry years ago, he wasn’t working on another one now.”

“Well . . .” I don’t know how long I’d stood there thinking all this through and holding a can of tuna, but it was apparently too long. Jennifer plucked the can out of my hand and placed it on the shelf. “Now that you mention it, it was kind of odd. You see, about a month or so ago, the Lance of Justice, he showed up here again. Weren’t we all just thrilled! But he never did run another story. Not about the food pantry. And when he was here . . .” Thinking, she tipped her head. “Well, all he really seemed to care about was Robin Hood. You know, the person who leaves food for us now and again. Shows up out of nowhere. Like a miracle! Boxes and boxes of food. And nobody knows who drops it off. We come in and there it is. One day it’s a pallet of canned chili. Another day, it’s fresh veggies. Lots and lots of them. And I’ll tell you what, that’s a real treat because the people who get food here, they don’t have the luxury of buying a whole lot of fresh vegetables.”

I thought this through. “When was the last time Robin Hood left food here?” I asked Jennifer.

“Three weeks ago. No, two,” she corrected herself. “Twelve cases of peanut butter.”

My head snapped up and my brain spun. Twelve cases of peanut butter?

It wasn’t the first time my questions about Jack Lancer led me back in the same direction, and this time, like last, I knew exactly where that direction would take me.

I left the church and headed over to Serenity Oaks.

“B
ingo!” Sophie grumbled the word, then glanced around to make sure Vi and Margaret, who were sitting at the table with her, weren’t watching. She rolled her eyes at the same time she crinkled up her nose and made a face. “Can’t say I like bingo much,” she said, leaning in close so I was the only one who could hear her. “Boring game designed for old people. They make us play every afternoon.”

“Incentive,” I told her, talking out of the side of my mouth. It wasn’t like I was afraid of what either Vi or Margaret thought of me, but hey, if Sophie was going for secrecy, I wasn’t going to argue. Especially since secrecy was exactly what I’d come to Serenity Oaks to talk to her about. “The sooner you’re up and moving on your own, the sooner you can leave. Then you won’t have to play bingo anymore.”

“Bingo? Everybody loves bingo!” Margaret was supposed to be hard of hearing, but the moment I saw the
silvery-haired woman with the sharp dark eyes, I figured she was a shrewd old bird. She waved at the young woman at the front of the room who was calling out the numbers. “Hey, Melissa! We’ve got a visitor. Get her a card!”

“No. Really.” I pushed my chair back from the table. “I’ve got to get over to the Terminal. I don’t have time to—”

“Everybody has time for bingo!” Sophie was on my right, her friend Vi sat on my left. She patted my arm with one incredibly wrinkled hand. “So soothing. Don’t you think, Sophie?” Vi’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Perfect for old ladies like us!”

Sophie’s lips puckered. “Old ladies.” She added a harrumph to make her opinion clear. “When I came here for rehab, I thought we’d have time for gossiping about the old days. And catching up on our soaps. And flirting with some of the fellas here.” As if to prove it, she twinkled across the room at a guy with a receding hairline and flamboyant handlebar mustache who grinned back at Sophie like a teenager at his first mixer.

“But no!” Sophie dragged out the last word to emphasize her point. “They keep us busy all day long. Meals and bingo and therapy and more meals, and the food isn’t anywhere near as good as it is at the Terminal. They treat us like we’re old! I can’t stand it. I’m not old. I run my own restaurant, don’t I? I haven’t lost my marbles and I haven’t lost my energy, even if this dumb knee . . .” She glared down at her right leg. “Even if it isn’t working quite right yet. It will be. Soon. Then watch out, world!”

I had no doubt she’d make good on the promise, but for now I was grateful that she was something of a captive audience. I popped out of my seat and grabbed on to the back of Sophie’s wheelchair. “Let’s go outside,” I suggested,
and I never gave her time to object. “There are some things I need to talk to you about.”

“Thank goodness,” Sophie said once we were out of the activity room and in the garden behind Serenity Oaks. It was a pleasant space shaded by broad trees and dotted here and there with pots of pink impatiens and white begonias. There were benches along a brick path, and I parked the wheelchair next to one and sat down. The better to look Sophie in the eye.

“Thanks for saving me from bingo, kiddo,” she said.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I told her.

“You want advice. About the restaurant.” Sophie was so sure of this, she nodded. “I can understand. I know you have experience, but cooking for those highfalutin Hollywood stars, that’s different from actually running a restaurant with real food and real customers.”

“I don’t need advice about the restaurant,” I said. “In fact, the Terminal’s been doing really well. We had more customers last night than we’ve had in the last month.”

All the days of the last month combined.

I didn’t bother to point this out since I didn’t want Sophie to feel bad.

“So, if you don’t want to talk about the restaurant . . .” Sophie’s cheeks shot through with color and her eyes flew open. “It’s got to be love! It’s Declan, isn’t it? Well, if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t,” I assured her with a little too much oomph in my voice to convince either one of us. “I’m not here about the restaurant. And I’m sure not here because of Declan. I’m here about peanut butter.”

She did her best to play it cool, but don’t think that I didn’t notice that all that color drained out of Sophie’s face
in an instant. Stalling for time, she cleared her throat. “Do you like peanut butter? I do. Extra crunchy.”

“Peanut butter and I don’t exactly get along,” I told her, and I didn’t bother to explain that was because I’d once lived with a foster family who fed me nothing but peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast and lunch every single day of the six months I was with them. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here because I eat peanut butter.”

“You’re looking for recipes! To add to the menu at the Terminal!” Relief washed through Sophie’s expression. “Peanut butter pie would be good. People love peanut butter pie, especially when it’s drizzled with chocolate. Or peanut butter cookies. That might be a nice addition to the lunchtime menu. Or there’s—”

“There’s twelve cases of peanut butter on our inventory list and not one jar of the stuff in the restaurant,” I said, and before she could offer up some lame excuse designed to throw me off the scent, I was sure to add, “And St. Colman’s just got twelve cases of peanut butter from the Food Pantry Robin Hood.”

“Twelve cases! How generous of someone. But you can’t possibly think that I have anything to do with—”

“What’s the big deal?” I jumped to my feet and turned to face her, my fists on my hips. “It’s a wonderful thing that you’re doing. And it’s incredibly kind, too. And, believe me, I don’t care if you’re spending the profits of the Terminal on filling the shelves at the food pantry. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I—”

“You took today’s donation? That was awfully nice of you.”

Probably not, since I’d had an ulterior motive for going to St. Colman’s all along.

“I really don’t care if you’re the Food Pantry Robin
Hood,” I told her, sure to keep my voice down. After all, Sophie obviously wanted the truth of the matter kept secret, otherwise she wouldn’t make sure the food showed up out of nowhere. “I do care that Jack Lancer was working on a story about you.”

“About me?” Her hand flew to her heart. “Oh no. No, no, no. That’s wrong! He couldn’t have been.”

“But he was. I’ve heard it from one of his coworkers, and I heard it from one of his ex-wives, and I heard it from Jennifer at the food pantry. He was snooping around. He was asking questions about the Food Pantry Robin Hood. And if you wanted to make sure the truth didn’t get out . . .”

Sophie was breathless. “You think I killed the Lance of Justice?”

“I think you were at the Terminal earlier that Monday evening, before I arrived in town. I think you parked out front. I think you let yourself in at the front door. Then I think—”

“Whatever you think after that,” she said, “it’s wrong.”

“But I’m not wrong about you being at the Terminal, am I? I’m not wrong about how you used your key and walked in and—”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not wrong about any of that. But I can’t . . .” Her shoulders rose and fell. “I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s not my secret to keep.”

“Then whose is it?” I stopped just short of screeching, and when she clamped her lips shut, I gave in and grumbled. “This is important, Sophie. And it’s better for you to tell me the truth than it is to have the cops show up here.”

As if they already had, her head snapped up and her gaze shot to the door. Her voice trembled when she asked, “You think they know?”

“I think if I found out, they’re going to find out, too. And
if they do, they’re going to talk to you. They’re going to want answers, and so do I. I can understand if it was an accident of some kind. Or if you were defending yourself. But if you had anything to do with Jack Lancer’s death—”

“I didn’t. I swear.” She held up two fingers, like a Boy Scout taking an oath. “You’ve got to believe me. But . . .” She swallowed hard. “That’s all I can tell you.”

I flopped back down on the bench and ran a hand through my hair. “It’s not as easy as that, Sophie. There’s been a murder, and the cops aren’t going to ease up on investigating it until they have some answers. So what if you’re taking every penny the Terminal ever makes and—”

Her lips folded in on themselves. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it, dear? You’ve got it all wrong. And if that’s what the police think, then they’d have it all wrong, too.” She looked away and I knew when she made up her mind, because after a minute, she glanced back at me. “You know so much already, I suppose there’s only one thing to do. You’ve got to talk to the only person who can tell you the truth.”

*   *   *

The Irish store wasn’t open on Sundays, but as soon as I got back to Traintown, I knew Declan was around because I saw that smokin’-hot motorcycle of his parked at the side of the building. There was a chance he was across the street at the Terminal, looking to make my life miserable and far more complicated than I imagined it would be when I got in my car back in California and made the trip to Ohio, but I knocked on the front door of the gift shop anyway.

A moment later, I saw him in the doorway of his office at the back of the shop. He closed the door behind him before he walked up front.

“Good morning!” Declan stepped back so I could walk into the shop and, while he was at it, he looked over my shoulder at the Terminal. “I see you’ve got a good crowd for brunch this morning.”

I’d noticed that, too, but since I wasn’t there to talk about restaurant business, I slipped into the Irish store and waited until he closed the door behind me.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“I’d rather have the truth.”

He was dressed in khakis and a white shirt that was open at the collar, and he stepped back and studied me. “What are we talking about?”

“What do you think we’re talking about?”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He scraped a hand through his hair, further mussing it in a way that made it look as if he’d just rode in on that motorcycle of his. “I asked you about coffee, and you said—”

“That I’d rather know the truth. Are you the Food Pantry Robin Hood?”

He was too smart to let anything as small as an expression or a gesture give away whatever it was he was thinking. Instead, he offered me a dazzling smile. “You’ve been talking to my mother. She swears I’m a superhero. But then . . .” The shrug was far too contrived to look innocent. “I suppose that’s how all mothers think of their favorite child.”

“You? Ellen’s favorite?” I crossed my arms across my chest. “Seamus plays a damned good fiddle.”

“And Claire and Bridget are saints because they’re nurses, and Aiden is an angel of mercy—he’s a paramedic, you know—and Brian is changing the world because he’s a teacher, and Riordan . . . !” As if to prove there was no arguing with his mother’s opinions, Declan threw his hands in
the air. “Well, soldiers have a way of melting women’s hearts, especially if those hearts belong to their mothers. But none of that keeps my mother from being extra fond of me. I’m the youngest, you know. So I have a special place in her heart.”

“Really? And your mother, she thinks you’re the Food Pantry Robin Hood?”

“Not really.” He grinned. “But it’s just the kind of thing she would fantasize about. Mom, she’s imaginative like that.”

“So, are you the Food Pantry Robin Hood or aren’t you?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know about you, but I stayed up late last night. It was a heck of a party, wasn’t it? And I got up early this morning so I could get to church. I really do need a cup of coffee.” He marched to the back of the store and when I didn’t budge, he never even bothered to look back at me.

He brought out one mug of coffee for himself and another for me. Since I still had my arms hugged around myself, he set my cup of coffee on the nearest counter. “Who have you been talking to?” he asked.

“Kim Kline, for one,” I told him. “She tells me the Lance of Justice was working on a story about the Food Pantry Robin Hood.”

Thinking, he sipped his coffee. “I don’t see why. There’s nothing very sensational in it, is there? Somebody leaves food at the pantry now and again.”

“The same somebody who orders the food through Sophie’s suppliers.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to. I’m pretty smart.”

“And pretty nosy. The emphasis being on the pretty.”

I blew out a breath of frustration. “If you think I can be so easily distracted by your lame compliments, you can think again. I know Sophie was at the restaurant the night of the murder.”

“Sure she was. She was with you when you found the body.”

“Before I got here.” I stared at him hard when I said this, the better to let him know I wasn’t about to put up with his attempts to distract me with his charms or the chemistry that bubbled between us like Irish stew on the boil. “She came early. She parked out front. She walked in through the front door.”

“And you think she, what, invited Jack Lancer to meet her and killed him once he got there?”

“I can’t imagine Sophie killing anyone.” It was the truth, so of course my voice rang with conviction. “She’s not that kind of person.”

“And why would she feel the secret of the Food Pantry Robin Hood was worth killing for, anyway? Whoever Robin Hood is . . . well, he must be a wonderful guy, don’t you think?”

Yes, I noticed that his shoulders shot back a fraction of an inch when he said this. Since I didn’t acknowledge the question, Declan went right on.

“He must be generous and charitable. Practically a saint! If he’s paying for the food and Sophie is ordering it for him and then he’s sneaking it over to the church . . . I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking the guy is like Mother Teresa and Gandhi all rolled into one. With just a touch of Pope Francis thrown in for good measure.”

“And a great big dose of hogwash!”

He laughed. “You think?” he asked, but he didn’t give me a chance to answer before he asked another question.
“Why would someone so wonderful and generous and kind and compassionate and—”

“Cut the bull.”