Malarkey (13 page)

"Is your short-term memory going?"

"My teeth will be next."

Laughter seemed indicated. I laughed.

The mist thickened.

"Where are we?"

"Just follow the road."

"Geez, Wilma, how long before we get to Bedrock
Cottage?"

"I thought it was a silly name, too, but I suppose it was
inevitable."

"Stonehall. Bedrock."

"You got it." I wiped mist from my face with a tissue. It
wasn't raining. The overcast was just very, very low.

"How about a run?"

"Not tonight." I probably needed a run, but I didn't trust the
surface of the road, and I didn't want to sweat all over my pullover,
either. "What did Joe Kennedy tell you?"

"Eh?"

"Cut it out. After he got your autograph, he took you aside
and spoke to you at some length. There's nothing wrong with
my
short-term memory."

"I'm not chummy enough with the sergeant yet to call him
Joey."

"Are you jealous?"

"Hell, Lark, he's your age, and he looks like a Marine Corps
recruiting ad. Of course I'm jealous. Also curious. You didn't phone
me. Is it possible you were distracted?"

"It's possible I'm going to swat you upside the head if you
blather on like that. I didn't call you because I was embarrassed to
tell you I'd found another corpse." That was partly true.

"It is getting to be a habit."

"See? I knew you'd say something snide." I thought of Slade
Wheeler's eerily peaceful body and shivered.

"Was it bad?" Jay didn't sound sarcastic.

I stopped and blinked at him through the mist. He was
frowning at me, eyes dark and intent, as if I were a difficult puzzle he
had to solve.

"It was strange," I said. "Very strange. This is a strange
place." I thought of telling him about my incised stone and the
watcher in the woods, but the whole experience was so odd I
hesitated to expose myself to further satire.

"It's a foreign place, sure enough." Jay walked on and the
moment passed.

I caught up with him in a few steps. "Now, about Sergeant
Kennedy—"

"Lover Boy was very respectful of his seniors."

"I don't know why you're on this age kick, but it's boring.
You're a mere six years older than I am."

"They were the wrong six years."

I hewed to the point. "Tell me what Kennedy said."

"He told me the investigation was dead in the water. The
Gardai put out the equivalent of an APB for the two men who are
missing—what's the name?"

"Tierney."

"That's it. Kennedy said they waited too long, the trail's cold.
No leads. The older man—"

"Toss. Short, I think, for Tomas." I pronounced the name
Spanish-style since I didn't know what the Irish phonetic system
required. "The son is called Tommy."

"Right. Toss is an old-time nationalist with underground
connections. Mahon thinks the boy killed Wheeler, and the father
helped dispose of the body. Toss meant to work on the cottage and
had keys to it. They may have left the body in the downstairs hallway
overnight then carried it out to the shed, hoping Toss would have
time to move it before you and George arrived. They
miscalculated."

"That sounds logical."

"Wheeler was killed Sunday or early Monday morning.
Tierney knew you were due to arrive some time Tuesday."

"But not as soon as we did?"

"Right. He also knew the gardeners were set to plant the
lawn and would rake over inconvenient footprints. Mahon thinks
Tierney intended to move the body again in his van, but you and
George arrived before he could get back to the cottage. That's the
theory. It's speculation, of course, though there's some evidence to
support it. Wheeler wasn't killed at the cottage. He was definitely
carried to the shed. There's post mortem bruising, particles of floor
wax on Wheeler's fatigues. The brand of floor wax," he added with a
clinical air, "is also used at Stanyon Hall."

I digested that. "Alex says Toss is chronically late."

Jay hunched his shoulders in the anorak. The chill mist was
penetrating. "Maybe so. Maybe it just took him longer to arrange for
his son's disappearance than he thought it would."

"Do they have any idea where the boy could be hiding?"

"In England, probably. The father may have been shipping
him out of Dublin Airport as you were coming in."

"A nice thought."

"Isn't it?" We were within hailing distance of the cottage.
The kitchen light showed, fuzzy in the fog. Jay stopped again.
"Kennedy told me all that. Then he suggested that the Gardai hire me
as a consultant. He was only half joking."

"Why would it be a joke?"

Jay grimaced. "I don't know Irish rules of evidence, Lark, and
I damned well don't want to hang around here playing the amateur
sleuth. I told him that." He cocked his head. "I think he was
relieved."

I reflected. "Maybe Mahon was afraid you were going to try
to horn in."

"And told Kennedy to butter me up. Hence the charade with
the textbook."

"I don't think that was a charade. I think Joe had read the
book and wanted you to know he had."

"Did you mention it?" He sounded paranoid.

"No, but the Gardai had two days to check up on me, and
checking up on me would lead them to you and the book."

"I suppose you're right." He gave a short laugh. "And now
Stonehall Enterprises wants to turn my sorry little volume into a CD
ROM disk. Life is full of weird connections."

"Fractals."

"What?"

"Elemental chaos theory," I said loftily. I owed him.

We ate our spaghetti a little late. Afterwards, Dad and Jay
coaxed the modem to life. They had read Jay's e-mail and were
playing with the Internet, and I was pottering around the sink, when
Toss Tierney showed up at the kitchen door.

The knocking was so tentative I didn't hear it at first over
the swish of sudsy water. When the sound penetrated, I dried my
hands on a towel and strode to the door thinking irritable thoughts. I
yanked it open.

The solid middle-aged man standing on the front step pulled
his tweed cap off and gave me a disarming smile. His eyes were wide
and childlike in the dim light. The mist had thickened to fog. "Sure,
you must be Mrs. Dodge. Me name's Tierney."

"Toss?"

"The very one."

So nice of you to call.
I am rarely nonplussed but I
stood gaping at him too long for politeness. The man was a fugitive
and very likely an accessory to murder. He had to be aware that the
police were looking for him. I didn't know what to do.

He cleared his throat. "Me mates tell me your man's a grand
American detective."

I said, "Er."

"I'd like a word with him, missus."

"Good heavens, why?"

He squeezed the cap in one beefy hand. "About my
son."

"Tommy."

"Aye, Tommy. The lad's innocent." The guileless eyes
pleaded with me. The cap twisted.

I sighed. "You'd better come in, Mr. Tierney. It's a cold
night."

"It is." He made to wipe his boots on the nonexistent
mat.

I stood back. "Please sit down at the table. I'll get Jay."

He perched on the chair nearest the door.

I, and I suppose he, could hear Jay and Dad talking in the
next room. I had once admitted an armed and distraught shootist to
our house in Shoalwater. Jay was not pleased. With a mental shrug, I
ducked through the arch into the living room.

Dad was sitting with the laptop on the desk in front of him,
peering at the screen, and Jay was leaning over him, showing him
something. Jay glanced around as Dad manipulated the "eraser-
head" control.

I said, "Toss Tierney's in the kitchen. He would like to talk to
you about his son."

Jay straightened, eyes on mine. "Tierney. Is he—"

I kept my voice low. "He seems calm and unarmed, but
worried about his son."

Dad turned the desk chair around. "What's the matter?"

I explained—softly.

"Good heavens, should I call—?"

I put my finger to my lips. Dad stopped midsentence.

Jay murmured, "Slide over, George, and let me back out of
the program." With the modem on, we couldn't telephone the Gardai.
Dad scooted his chair sideways. Jay bent to the screen and
fiddled.

"Is it one of them new laptops?" Tierney was standing in the
archway.

Jay said, "Toshiba. Nice machine. Weighs four pounds." He
blanked the screen and disconnected the modem cable.

I breathed.

Dad creaked to his feet. "Mr. Tierney? I'm George Dailey. I'm
glad of the opportunity of meeting you. You've done very fine work
on the cottage." He walked over and shook hands. "Alex sent me
photos of the place as it was originally. You've performed a miracle."
Beaming, he backed Tierney into the kitchen.

I glanced at Jay. He picked up the receiver, frowned at it a
moment, then set it back on its cradle. I could hear Dad offering
Tierney a drop of Jameson's.

Jay caught my eye and grinned. "George to the rescue. I
guess I'd better hear what Tierney has to say for himself."

I gestured at the phone. "Shall I..."

He shook his head. "Not yet. Time to negotiate."

I followed him into the kitchen. There is a great deal to be
said for ceremonies of courtesy. Jay introduced himself. Dad poured
generous shots of neat whiskey into four small glasses, and we all sat
at the table, I with my back to the Rayburn, which was rather warm.
Dad raised his glass. "
Slainté
."

Tierney ducked his head in acknowledgement and took a
substantial gulp. "Ah, that's the stuff on a cold night."

"It is indeed." Dad sipped. His hand was perfectly steady. I
admired him. I raised my own glass and tasted. Jay turned his,
tracing a circle on the smooth surface of the table.

Tierney killed his shot and set his glass down. "I've come to
ask your help, Mr. Dodge. The guards have a warrant out for my
son's arrest in the death of Slade Wheeler, the
spalpeen
.
Tommy never killed him, never touched him. It's true they had
words."

"They quarreled?" Jay sounded politely interested.

Tierney nodded. "Easter it was, after Mass, in the car park at
Jack White's."

Jay kept his hands on the table, and his gaze didn't stray
from Tierney's face. "Jack White's?"

"That's a pub a wee bit north of Arklow. There was others
heard them, more's the pity, and blabbed to Joe Kennedy. Joe's down
on Tommy, you see."

"What did your son and Wheeler quarrel over?"

"Some nonsense about them wargames of Wheeler's."
Tierney shifted in his chair. "Tommy fancies himself a strategist, but
that git Wheeler always had to call the tune. Tommy threatened to
take the Killaveen lads out of the club."

"And..."

Tierney flushed a deeper red. He was sweating a little. "Ah,
as I said, there was words. The thing is, Mr. Dodge, Tommy come
home. We'd a fine Easter dinner at me sister's, and wasn't all the
uncles and aunts and cousins buzzing about like bees in a bottle?
Tommy was laughing and joking, showing off his new cycle, and devil
a word did he say about Wheeler the whole evening. He come home
with his mum, too, afterwards, meek as a lamb."

Jay said mildly, "The Gardai think Wheeler was killed very
late on Sunday or early Easter Monday morning."

Tierney said, "You don't take my point, Mr. Dodge."

"Then tell me what you mean."

"Tommy's state of mind." He ran a hand through his
thinning hair. "He'd got over his snit, d'ye see? He wasn't angry. I
know my son." He shot a defiant glance around the table as if we had
contradicted him.

Dad gave him an encouraging smile. "You know his
temperament."

Tierney heaved a sigh. "That's it. When Tommy's angry he
broods. He was merry as a grig all evening, my oath on it."

Dad said, "Another glass?"

"I won't say no."

Dad poured.

Jay hadn't drunk any of his whiskey. He said, "Where is
Tommy, Mr. Tierney?"

Tierney's eyes shifted. "On the run. 'Tis a sad, unsettled kind
of life. I'd a taste of it meself in the old days."

Jay raised his glass, sipped, and set it down. "If your son
didn't kill Wheeler—"

"Whhsht," Tierney interrupted. "You're after saying if
Tommy's innocent he should turn himself in. I'll let him do that when
I can prove he's innocent, Mr. Dodge. I can hold me own with the
guards, but they're down on the family itself, d'ye see? And Tommy
has a hot temper. He'd a row with Joe Kennedy last summer, and
doesn't Joe haul him over the coals whenever there's a rude word
scrawled on the pavement?" He shook his head. "Tommy didn't kill
Wheeler."

"He told you that." There was no satire in Jay's voice. He was
just verifying.

Tierney looked uncomfortable but held his ground. "Aye, he
told me. Wheeler didn't turn up when the lads assembled in the
woods Monday morning, so they splashed each other with paint,
larking about, and when they tired of that they went on to Wexford. I
meant to attend the Sinn Fein gathering meself..."

"Sinn Fein?"

"'Twas Easter Monday." He sounded impatient. "The local
lads always meet at the cemetery. We've a by-election coming up. I
didn't want to miss the speeches, so I drove over to the cottage early.
I found Wheeler in the potting shed—"

"Not in the cottage?" Jay interjected, sharp.

"Eh? In the cottage?" Tierney blinked at him. I thought the
man was genuinely bewildered.

"You have a key."

Tierney rubbed his nose, eyes narrowed. "I do, but I'd no
reason to enter the house Monday morning. Alex Stein told me to
finish me work on the shed before Mr. Dailey arrived. I was set to
install the knob and lock Saturday, but what with one thing and
another I didn't get to it. So I came over early on Monday," he
repeated, "and found your man Wheeler lying in the shed. I didn't
touch him. When I saw the daub of red paint..." He touched his
forehead.