Malarkey (18 page)

Come all you fair and tender ladies,
Be
careful how you court your men...

American folk song

I woke late. I am the sort who annoys everyone else by
rising spontaneously at 6:00 a.m. Whether it was jet lag or going to
bed at half past two I can't say, but I slept until eleven. I gathered
from the dent in Jay's pillow that he had tried to sleep at some point,
but I had no memory of his presence beside me.

I felt sluggish and stupid, even after a long hot shower.
When I drifted upstairs, my father greeted me mournfully from the
computer. He was playing solitaire again.

"Where's Jay?"

Dad placed a red five on a black six. "He went out for a
walk."

"A run?" I wanted a run. I needed a run. Resentment stirred.
Jay should have waited for me.

"A walk," Dad repeated, swiveling the office chair around to
face me. "He told me about Miss Wheeler's death."

Memory rushed back. I felt my stomach knot. "I'm sorry,
Dad. It's a shocking thing. Sergeant Kennedy came over last night
and took a statement from Maeve before she left. He says they'll
adjourn the inquest tomorrow."

He was nodding. "Jay told me. Are you all right?"

"Are you?" We eyed each other warily.

Dad sighed. "As you see, daughter. When I heard of the
murder, I didn't fall on the floor in a stroke or foam at the
mouth."

"Dad—"

"I'm well enough, Lark, though I find the situation
depressing, and I can't seem to concentrate on my notes."

"Shall we drive to that Quaker village near Waterford?"

"Portlaw?" His face brightened. "If you feel up to it."

"Of course." After all, I had come to Ireland to drive my
father to the historic sites he wanted to see. Besides, it was Sunday.
As in Britain, things closed down in Ireland on Sunday. Might as well
drive around gawking at half-deserted villages.

"What about Jay?"

"He can come with us or not, his choice."

Dad frowned, watching me. "You sound cold. Have you
quarreled with Jay?"

"Not yet." I relented when I saw his anxiety. "I'm feeling a
little annoyed with him. He seems to think I can't take care of
myself."

Dad's mouth relaxed in a small smile. "Now you sound very
like your father. I'm glad Jay is here, and not just because we may
find time for a little fishing. He's a good man, Lark, and good
company. As far as I can see, he's a good husband, too. Make
peace."

"Is that an order?"

"Heavens, no."

He looked so distressed I went over and kissed his cheek.
"Have you had breakfast?"

"Bacon," he said. "And two eggs. Jay cooked."

I fixed myself toast and scrambled eggs. I didn't feel
sufficiently righteous to eat porridge.

Jay returned around noon with a newspaper and a healthy
glow from his long walk. I fixed the men sandwiches while Dad read
the news stories aloud. There were two in Friday's Irish
Times
, which does not publish on the week-ends. One article
was a factual report based on police releases, and one a profile of
Stonehall Enterprises with an accompanying photo of Stanyon
Hall.

Mahon was playing it close to the chest. Neither the specific
cause of death nor the daub of red paint on Wheeler's forehead was
mentioned. The news story didn't use my name in connection with
the discovery of Slade Wheeler's body, either, but the cottage figured
prominently. We were in for a press siege which would intensify
after I gave my evidence at the inquest. The thought filled me with
gloom.

Jay didn't want to come to Portlaw with us. He claimed he
was working on the student reports. He offered to cook dinner. I
thought he had probably never dealt with a hunk of authentic Irish
ham,
très
saline. Neither had I. Maeve had said I should
boil it mercilessly, so I put it in the spaghetti pot, cranked up the
Rayburn, and left Jay to deal with the consequences.

Traffic was light. I drove south on the N11 through mild
showers and listened to Dad reflecting on time, chance, mutability,
and the fate of Kayla Wheeler. He sounded almost tearful.

The gorse was in full bloom, intense yellow against gray and
the multitudinous green. By the time I cut off to the west at
Enniscorthy, aiming for Waterford, Dad was cheering up. At New
Ross, I sweated through a traffic jam generated by construction on
an approach to the bridge over the Barrow, but the congestion was
purely local. By then Dad sounded almost jolly. He was telling me all
about Quaker grist mills. I kept my eyes on the road and let the
details wash over me. My father is a master of details.

Once I deciphered the signage, I nosed across the high
bridge over the tidal Suir and down into Waterford. From the looks
of it, Waterford was a late Georgian and Victorian port town, though
it had to be much older. Dad said it was a Viking foundation, like
most of the seaports of Ireland. I knew I'd enjoy a walk through the
historic center, but I pushed west, past a large technical college and
the ultramodern glass factory. I thought we'd better save the factory
until my mother arrived. She collects Waterford crystal.

Dad liked Portlaw. Though I saw nothing to dislike, my mind
was prying at the puzzle of Kayla Wheeler's death. Thinking about it
was an exercise in futility, because I had so little information, but I
knew enough to feel anxious for the Steins. Kayla would have
inherited her brother's interest in Stonehall Enterprises. Apart from
the universal response to her negative charm, that was the only
motive that made sense of her death.

When he had filled his mind and a small notebook with
impressions of stolid Portlaw, Dad mentioned a dolmen, the largest
in that area. Since the site, Leac an Scail, lay a few short kilometers to
the west, I couldn't resist driving to it. Again, I experienced the
ambiguous
frisson
that had stirred me at the other
monuments.

"Impressive," Dad murmured as we walked back to the
car.

My tongue locked. It was in my mind that the dolmen,
impressive though it indeed was, had been a tomb, a death symbol.
Ireland was rife with monuments to death.

I stuck the key in the passenger door and opened it. "We
could drive to Clonmel."

Dad sank by stages onto the low seat. "Another time, Lark.
I'm tired. Let's head home."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just tired."

I inserted myself behind the wheel and started the engine. "I
hope Jay didn't forget to change the water in that kettle." Maeve had
suggested tossing the water from the first boiling.

We reached the cottage before six. Dad dozed most of the
way, so I had too much time to think. I didn't know how Kayla had
died, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the first death was
curiously stylized, almost, you might say, symbolic. That insight led
my suspicions to the Stonehall staff—the Steins, Alex especially, who
was so focused on his work he couldn't stop thinking about ideas for
new projects, and Barbara, with her open hostilities; the ebullient
Tracy, like Alex an enthusiast; Liam with his talent, his scruples, and
his nightmare memories; volatile Mike Novak who had been on the
scene last evening.

They were bright people, gifted people, capable of elaborate,
symbolic ironies. The more I thought about the Wheelers the more
incongruous their presence at Stanyon seemed. Sludgy, dreary Kayla
embodied pointlessness. I had never met Slade alive. Why had the
Steins taken on so incompatible a business partner? A genius with
software, Barbara had said, and "fiscally responsible," at least in the
counting of paperclips, but emotionally immature and invincibly
ignorant. An idea man? If the war games typified his ideas, I couldn't
help thinking his creativity was a dead end. I meditated about
computer nerds.

My brother-in-law, Freddy, Jay's much younger half-brother,
had been immersed in virtual experience since childhood. His
obsession left him a little backward socially, but Freddy had come
over to the human race in recent years, and he did not lose his touch
with computers, nor his enthusiasm for them, in the process.

Without humanizing social interaction, though, Freddy
might have followed a pattern similar to Slade Wheeler's—technical
brilliance allied with arrogant ignorance. Freddy had learned how to
love. Had Slade? He didn't love his sister. Had he loved Grace Flynn—
or just made love to her?

Make love. What a misleading euphemism that is. Any rapist
can fuck. Loving is more difficult.

I thought of Jay, about whom there was nothing virtual,
except his report writing class. He loved me. I loved him. So why was
I miserable? I parked in front of the cottage and set the brake.

"The windows are steamed up," Dad observed, unhitching
his seatbelt.

In fact, the ham was boiling away cheerily, but Jay had
vanished. His computer was on. I touched the space bar and got a
screenful of text. He was not downstairs, Dad reported on his way to
a proper nap. I went outside and walked as far as the rhododendrons
that hid Stanyon from our view. A patrol car sat in front of the house,
but I saw no sign of life and no sign of my husband. He wasn't
walking by the pond, either. When I returned to the kitchen, I was
steamed.

As I searched out a paring knife, I told myself to relax, that
Jay wouldn't leave the computer on if he expected to be gone long. I
found the purple potatoes and started peeling. I was doing a lot of
potato peeling these days. Rice, I thought. Pasta. I would lay in a
supply.

I tested the ham, and it seemed done. The water level was
high enough to convince me Jay had followed instructions. I set the
kettle on the cool end of the Rayburn, ladled juice from it into a pot,
plunked the potatoes into the liquid, and set the pan, covered, on the
hot side. I dissected the oddly green cabbage into three equal chunks,
a time-consuming exercise in solid geometry. Still no Jay.

The potatoes boiled. I moved them over by the ham, sliced
fruit, and concocted a yogurt dressing. I put out plates and flatware. I
found a jar of mustard. I was brooding over the garbage pail and
wondering what one did with no compost pile, no disposal unit, and
no apparent garbage service, when the telephone rang. I raced to
answer it and cracked my crazy bone on the door arch.

"Hi," Jay said. "Been home long?"

I rubbed my elbow. "Almost long enough to finish the
cooking of dinner."

He ignored my sarcasm. "Good. I'm bringing Kennedy home
for a meal."

I gritted my teeth. "How fortunate I peeled enough potatoes
for an army. Where are you?"

"Stanyon."

"How long will you be?"

"Half an hour."

"You left your computer on."

"Oh. Well, I was working."

"I'll shut it down."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

I saved his file, turned the computer off, went back to the
kitchen, laid another place setting, and hacked the cabbage into six
pieces. The potatoes were almost cooked. I found red wine and
twisted the corkscrew so fiercely a bit of cork crumbled into the
bottle.

I got out four wine glasses and the tea strainer and poured
with exaggerated care. I drained the potatoes and mashed the
bejasus out of them. I whipped them with butter and beat in a dollop
of yogurt, at which point my sense of humor kicked in. There was
nothing left to pummel.

I was furious with Jay, I decided, partly because I was
relieved. At some level I had been imagining him in the hands of a
deranged killer. He wasn't. He might be inconsiderate and
complacent, but he was alive. He could bloody cook dinner
tomorrow.

Restored to the semblance of good-humor, I went in and
beat the computer twelve times at Klondike. When I heard the patrol
car crunch to a stop outside, I washed my hands at the kitchen sink
and poked the cabbage in with the still-simmering ham.

Jay stuck his head in the door. "Hi. Steamy in here."

"Just like my mood," I said delicately.

He blinked and entered, followed by Joe Kennedy, who
looked as if he needed a square meal. And twelve hours of sleep. I
greeted Joe with a dazzling smile and directed the gentlemen to
wash up and wake my father. They complied.

The meal was a triumph, measured by our appetites. Dad
carved. There was enough ham left for sandwiches. We finished off
the wine. Joe, who was beginning to look sleepy, begged for tea, so I
shooed everyone into the living room and brewed a pot. I brought
the tea and a plate of ginger biscuits to the men and told Jay to build
a fire. Our first turf fire. It burned brightly enough but induced no
visions. It smelled vaguely oily.

We munched and sipped, locked in our own thoughts. At last
Joe set his cup down and wiped his mouth.

"More tea?"

"Thank you, no. Time for me to be off." He rose. "A grand
meal."

"How did she die?" Dad burst out. When all three of us
stared at him, he blushed. "I beg your pardon, but I must know.
Speculation is worse than ignorance."

Joe examined the polished oak boards under his feet.

Jay said, "She was garroted, George."

Dad shuddered. So did I.

Joe cleared his throat. "There was a struggle."

"Mahon wanted me to look at the scene," Jay added. "I'm
afraid I had nothing to contribute."

Joe frowned at him. "He wanted you to confirm my
impression."

"Glad to oblige," Jay murmured. "Without the body, though, I
was guessing."

"Sure, the inspector knows it." The frown eased, and Joe
gave me a small bow. "My thanks for the dinner and the tea,
ma'am."

I considered. "I think 'ma'am' is obligatory only during an
interrogation. As in 'Just the facts, ma'am.'"

He grinned, shook hands all around, and took his leave. Jay
went out to the car with him.

Dad brought the tea tray to the kitchen. He looked gray
around the mouth.