Irish Stewed (3 page)

“Carrie’s already gone for the day, of course,” Sophie
said, turning from the bookstore to look across the street at a place called Artisans All. “The arts and crafts crowd,” she confided. “They don’t shop late. And then there’s Barb and Myra and Bill, of course.”

For a moment, I thought I must be imagining things. Was that really perpetually cheerful Sophie sounding as sour as if she’d just bitten a lemon? I looked where she was looking, at the store just to the right of the empty storefront next to Artisans All where three people stood just inside the front door, coffee cups in their hands and their gazes trained on the Terminal.

“Caf-Fiends?” I read the name painted on the front window.

Sophie sniffed. “Stupid name for a coffee shop, isn’t it? New in the neighborhood. I don’t know about you, being from Hollywood and all, but I have to say, I don’t trust people who charge three dollars and fifty cents for a cup of coffee. Three dollars and fifty cents!” Another sniff emphasized her outrage. “It ought to be illegal.”

“We’re going to have to talk to each and every one of them.”

Sometime while I’d been looking out the window, Detective Oberlin and the young cop had come back out to the waiting area, and at the sound of his voice, I turned in time to see the sergeant send a laser gaze around the neighborhood. “Who saw what, where they were, what they know about the deceased. You know the routine. Statements, contact information, blah, blah, blah. And when you’re done with that—”

Before he had a chance to finish, the front door of the restaurant opened and Declan hurried over. He crouched down in front of Sophie and took her hands in his.

“I saw the police cars. Is everything all right?”

“Obviously not.” I shouldn’t have had to point that out, so really, I didn’t deserve the condescending little half smile he shot my way.

“Well . . .” Oberlin stepped back, his weight against one foot, and aimed a look at Declan. “Doesn’t it figure? There’s trouble, and look who’s here.”

When he got to his feet, that funny little half smile never faded from Declan’s face. “Nice to see you, too, Gus. What’s going on?”

“A murder, that’s what’s going on.” Since they were pretending I was invisible, I stood up and stepped between Declan and Oberlin. “Some guy called the Lance of Justice.”

Declan pursed his lips and let out a long, low whistle. “That ought to stir things up around here.”

“You would know.” Over my head, Oberlin glared in his direction.

Declan was nearly as tall as the detective, and though he was broad, he wasn’t anywhere near as burly. That didn’t stop him from trading the cop look for look.

“Just being neighborly,” Declan said.

“As always,” Oberlin shot back.

“Just like you were neighborly earlier tonight?” I asked, and don’t think I didn’t notice that this got Oberlin’s attention.

He shifted his gaze from Declan to me. “What are you talking about?”

“He stopped in,” I said, indicating Declan with the tip of my head. “About an hour ago. Right before we found the body. He said it was because he saw the lights on and he wondered what was going on.”

“That would be because I saw the lights on and wondered what was going on.” Declan crossed his arms over his chest and his black leather jacket creaked.

“He also said he was going to go back across the street when he left here, but when he did finally leave—”

The clink of metal on metal interrupted me as the paramedics wheeled a cart out the door of the restaurant. There was a black body bag strapped to the gurney, a round hump at the end where Jack Lancer’s head was and the squared-off outline of his feet showing at the other end.

Instantly, the TV camera lights outside swung our way and we all squinted.

Except for Sophie. She looked like she was about to be sick.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way around this,” Oberlin grumbled. “Vultures, every one of them.”

He opened the door, then stepped back and out of sight of the cameras, allowing the paramedics to leave with the body. The cameras followed the gurney to the ambulance and when they did, Oberlin looked back my way.

“So what was it you were saying?” he asked me.

“I was saying that while you’re taking statements, you might want to take his.” I didn’t have to point to Declan; he was standing right beside me. I looked up at him. “He was here earlier this evening, too. And when he left, he went—”

“I know you’ve got plenty to do.” I would have thought Declan had forgotten me completely, I mean, what with the way he talked to Oberlin as if I weren’t there, but his hand clamped over my arm. “And I’m sure you need to talk to Sophie and Laurel some more. But they’re going to be in the way here and they don’t need this crazy publicity.” He tugged me toward the door. “I’ll take them across the street and you can be sure I’ll keep the newshounds away from them. When you need them, you’ll find them over at the Irish store.”

D
eclan opened the front door of the shop and stepped back to allow first Sophie then me inside.

“Welcome to Bronntanas,” he said.

I glanced up at the giant shamrock over the front door. The word he used—one he pronounced
BRON-tuh-nuss
—was nowhere to be seen on the sign.

“It means
gift
in Irish,” he told me because he could either read minds or my look at the sign spoke volumes. “That was supposed to be the name of the place. But no one could remember it. Or pronounce it. So everyone just calls it—”

“The Irish store.”

We finished the thought together and we might have laughed about it the way people do when they happen upon the same words at the same time if I could have gotten past that image of poor, dead Jack Lancer that was stuck in my head—and of the receipt spike that was stuck in his.

Another memory followed close behind. That one was
of Declan insisting he’d have a look around the restaurant before we found the body. And slipping into the parking lot on the side of the Terminal after Sophie told him we didn’t need his help.

Maybe Declan was doing his mind reading thing again and knew exactly what I was thinking, because without another word he made his way down the center aisle of the small, well-lit shop and all the way to a counter where kilts and tams and tweed caps were displayed along with shawls and cabled sweaters. There was an open door behind the counter and when he closed it, I saw the white ceramic sign decorated with green shamrocks that hung from the door:
OFFICE
.

“What can I get you ladies?” he asked, and when Sophie answered, “Tea, if you have it,” he ducked into another back room. While he rumbled around in there and she went to sit at a table next to the small sink and ministove and fridge where he prepared the tea for her, I took the chance to look around.

The Irish store (I’d never remember its real name or pronounce it properly even if I did) had a little bit of everything: jewelry in the front counter, including claddagh rings and brooches along with emerald-studded necklaces and earrings, paintings of quaint country cottages, T-shirts and sweatshirts that featured rainbows and leprechauns, teapots covered with shamrocks, and even a curio cabinet filled with Waterford and Galway crystal along with Belleek pottery.

The shop was spotless. The displays were tasteful and appealing, and there was an interesting mix of handcrafted and kitschy souvenirs.

It didn’t strike me at all as the sort of place a man like Declan would work.

“So?” After he delivered Sophie her tea in a mug with a picture of a castle on it, he handed a similar mug to me. “What do you think of Bronntanas?”

“I think having a name no one can remember must cut down on your Internet sales.”

I wasn’t going for funny, but he laughed. “I don’t much care for online sales. I think it’s more important for me to get to know my customers, face-to-face. That way, I can learn what they like and help them make their gift choices.”

“Like this tea?” I sniffed. The tea was dark and strong, and Declan had added milk to it.

“Let me guess, you like your tea to be herbal. And organic. Am I right?”

He didn’t really care, so I figured I really didn’t have to answer. Instead, I strolled over to check out a display of pretty painted pottery. “Is this your shop?” I asked him.

“It’s a family business.” He hadn’t bothered with a cup of tea for himself. He leaned back against the nearest glass display case, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just keep things in order.”

“So what did that cop mean? When he said when there was trouble, he wasn’t surprised to see you around?”

A small smile played around his mouth. “You don’t think gift shop managers can get in trouble?”

“I think trouble doesn’t track with expensive crystal wineglasses and recordings of Irish folk songs.”

“Ah, you’ve never heard some of the really good, old songs. They’re all about trouble!”

A lesser woman might have been distracted by the heat of his smile and the way his eyes—as gray as the marble candleholders displayed nearby—crinkled up at the corners. I was immune. Six years with the Beautiful People will do that to a girl.

“It all must look incredibly boring to you.”

There he was, reading my mind again even if he wasn’t exactly accurate.

I sipped my tea and found it surprisingly delicious even though I wasn’t used to sugar in tea or in much of anything else. “I’ll come back someday and do a little shopping.”

“But not anytime soon. If I’m not mistaken, the way you and Sophie were going back and forth over at the restaurant, it means you’re going to walk out and leave that poor, dear lady high and dry.”

I shot a look toward the back room. Sophie was still at the table, her feet flat on the floor in front of her, her eyes closed, her head back, and her hands wrapped around her tea mug.

“What I’m going to do or not going to do really isn’t any of your business,” I said, shifting my gaze back to Declan. “And your editorial comments aren’t going to change my mind.”

A lesser man would have taken offense. This one simply smiled. “You heading back to LA?”

I took another sip of tea, the better to try and drown the spurt of anger that exploded inside me when I thought about what Declan did—and didn’t—know about me. “How much has Sophie told you?”

“About her wonderful, fabulous niece, Laurel, who she can’t seem to ever get tired of talking about? Only that you’re some Hollywood big shot. She mentioned some big movie star, but sorry, I’m not much into pop culture so I don’t even remember the name. She also mentioned a cookbook. And a TV cooking show. Now, that I could get into. I love those shows where they go to firehouses and let the firemen do the cooking. Or the ones out in the wilderness where the host is forced to eat grubs and berries.
Something tells me that’s not the kind of show you’re going to be doing.”

“I’m not going to be doing any kind of show.” This was the truth, and I refused to elaborate. If I did, it would bring back the wave of disappointment that engulfed me every time I thought about how I’d had my dreams snatched out from under me.

“Sophie talks too much,” I told Declan instead.

“She’s proud of you.”

“She has no reason to be.”

“Not even the cookbook and the big-time movie star?”

“Ancient history!” Because I couldn’t continue to stand there and pretend like it didn’t hurt, I turned and strolled to a corner of the shop and a display of Irish-made beauty products.

“This stuff should appeal to you,” he said, picking up a bottle with a distinctive blue and white label. “It’s made with all-natural botanicals. Sounds like something a California girl would like.”

“This California girl has plenty of skin care products, thanks.”

“It’s made with soy and wild oats,” he said, giving the bottle a little jiggle. “Guaranteed to soothe and soften and firm. None of which you need because your skin is perfect.”

It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard my share of compliments in my day. Still, I felt my cheeks heat, and before he could notice, I wandered toward the front of the shop and the windows that gave anyone in the Irish store a bird’s-eye view of the Terminal.

The ambulance in which Jack Lancer’s body had been placed was gone, but the police cars with their flashing lights were still there. So were the TV trucks and the gawking neighbors.

“Did you know this Lance of Justice guy?” I asked Declan.

He’d followed me to the front of the shop and I knew he was right behind me because I heard his leather jacket scrunch and figured he’d shrugged. “Everybody in this part of Ohio knows the Lance of Justice. He’s a TV personality. Well, he was.” He paused a moment, no doubt aligning his mind with this new reality. It wasn’t
Jack Lancer
is
a TV personality
. Not anymore. From now on, anybody who talked about Jack would use the past tense.

“The Lance of Justice!” Declan’s chuckle told me he didn’t take the moniker 100 percent seriously. I couldn’t blame him. Even to me, coming from LA, where hype was the name of the game and more often than not, people believed their own PR even when they shouldn’t have, the name came across as overblown and self-important.

I wondered if the Lance was.

And if that was what got him killed.

“Jack Lancer was always on one crusade or another,” Declan explained. “Sometimes, he’d do a story exposing public employees who weren’t putting in their full day’s work. Or he’d investigate companies that provided shoddy products or workmanship. You know, that sort of thing. Jack was big and loud and pushy. At least that’s how he came across on TV. The fearless crusader. He was a publicity hound, too. He’d show up as grand marshal of local parades, or at the openings of stores. A local celebrity. He had a couple charities he backed, too. An animal shelter, the local food pantry. So I guess he wasn’t all bad. Even small towns have hometown heroes.”

“So do you think that’s why someone would want to kill him? Because he was pushy and shamed people on TV?”

“I can’t say.” Declan stepped up beside me and I looked
up and to my left. From this vantage point, his profile was outlined by the pulsing lights outside. The red and blue flashing lights emphasized his firm chin and a nose that was well shaped and straight enough that some of the actors I knew would swoon with envy. Declan’s gaze roved over the knots of people gathered out on the sidewalk, and I looked where he was looking, at the woman in the pink smock and the burly man who slipped his arm around her shoulders.

“Sophie says they’re your aunt and uncle.”

“Kitty and Pat Sheedy. Salt of the earth. Kitty and my mother are sisters. Pat and my dad . . .” He twitched his shoulders. “They love each other like brothers, but you’d be hard pressed to find two men who were more different.”

“Different good? Or different bad?”

Declan laughed. “You’ll see.” He slid me a sidelong look. “If you hang around long enough.”

Rather than get pulled into that conversation again, I watched the two uniformed cops who moved from person to person outside, asking questions and writing down the answers. For all I knew, the police already had a theory about the Lance of Justice’s murder, and maybe it really did have to do with someone trying to steal copper out of the restaurant. If that was the case, though, and the theory of the crime was wrapped up in a neat package, those cops outside probably wouldn’t have looked quite so worried.

“I imagine a man like Jack Lancer has plenty of enemies,” Declan commented.

And I imagined he was right. I finished my tea, and when Declan held out a hand, I gave him the cup.

“What were you doing at the restaurant tonight?” I asked him.

I’d hoped for some other sort of reaction besides a laugh. “Now you sound like the Lance of Justice himself! What
were you doing there? Why were you seen? What were you up to?”

“So . . .” I turned so I could face him. “What were you up to?”

“You don’t believe neighbors should check on neighbors?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. You just happened to show up when we got there.”

“Because you just happened to turn on the lights in the waiting area. Since Sophie isn’t usually open late on Mondays, that seemed a little fishy to me.”

“As fishy as you wanting to look around the restaurant?”

“I didn’t like the idea of two ladies being in there alone after dark.”

“Except we weren’t alone. There was a dead body in the other room.”

“And you think I knew something about it. You think that’s why I wanted to get in there before you.”

“That’s one possible explanation.”

“Are there others?”

I cocked my head and considered the question. “If you’re the murderer, you might have been worried that you’d left something behind that would incriminate you.”

“I hate the thought of being a sloppy murderer!” The way he shook those broad shoulders of his let me know he was kidding, but I didn’t let that distract me.

“If you had some idea that the body was there and you aren’t the murderer but you have an idea who is . . . well, maybe you wanted to see what you could see of the crime scene before the police showed up. You know, so you’d be one step ahead of them.”

“Ah, I like that better. Makes me sound way smarter than I really am.”

“Or you might—”

“Have been worried about two ladies all alone in the middle of the night in a closed restaurant. Especially when one of them is older and in pain and the other one is—”

“What?” I asked.

Declan stepped back and as he had over at the restaurant, he gave me a careful once-over. Just like then, he smiled when he was done. “The other one has the prettiest blue eyes I’ve seen in a month of Sundays, and I bet she knows her way around a kitchen.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Is that a prerequisite of some kind with you? A woman has to know her way around a kitchen?”

“It helps. But then, I’m not very good when it comes to cooking. My talents lie in other places.”

Oh, I bet they did.

Just like I’d bet that this wasn’t the time or the place to think about it.

I nudged the conversation back to firmer ground. “And when you left the Terminal? You didn’t come right back here.”

The way he spread his hands was almost enough to convince me he was as blasé about the whole thing as he pretended to be. I might have been positive if a muscle didn’t jump at the base of his jaw. “Did I say I was going to come right back here?”

“You went around the side of the building.”

“I saw something move over there in the shadows and decided to investigate. You know, like the Lance of Justice would have. Turns out it was a cat. Has Sophie told you she feeds the neighborhood cats? And any lost dogs that come around, too. She’s got a soft spot for strays.”

He was getting a little too personal again, and I refused to be sidetracked. “Back at the Terminal . . .” As if he might
actually forget the place I was talking about, I looked across the street. “You didn’t like it that I mentioned in front of Detective Oberlin that you showed up earlier.”