Malarkey (25 page)

I looked up Stanyon Hall in the guide without result, and
paged through Sights of Scenic Wicklow. Glendalough sounded
worth a daytrip, though the founder of the monastery appeared to
have been sainted for misogyny. Liam had mentioned the gardens at
Powerscourt. Another pleasant excursion. Dad was bound to run out
of Quaker sites fairly soon, and my mother wouldn't arrive for ten
days. I began planning an itinerary.

"Tea?" Dad beamed at me. He was carrying the tray.

I sat up. "Heavens, such domesticity. No sugar, thanks."

Jay went to the computer and plugged it in. It made its
dialing sound, so he was going on the Internet again. At home it was
almost time for his one o'clock seminar. He sat and sipped from a
mug and made an occasional entry, while I told Dad about my
adventures of the afternoon.

Around half past nine a car drove up. Jay answered the door
and ushered in Joe Kennedy. That provoked another round of tea. Joe
had come to give us an update, he said.

Results of a preliminary
post mortem
on the body of
Kayla Wheeler had revealed no surprises. She had eaten dinner, she
was drunk, and she had been strangled with a cord. There were no
skin fragments under her nails, so she probably hadn't scratched her
killer. It was early days for an opinion on whether Alex Stein's
bruises could have been inflicted in a struggle with the taller, heavier
Kayla. The inquest was set for Friday, and we wouldn't have to
attend. That was a relief.

Dad listened to the concise, edited account of the medical
consequences of violent death with such obvious discomfort I was
doubly relieved when Joe finished. Joe was franker with us than the
police generally are after such a crime. It may have been that Mahon
was deferring to Jay's status as an expert and had told Joe to be
open—or just that Joe trusted us not to talk. He clearly needed
to.

"You interviewed young Tierney?" Jay poured him a fresh
cup of tea.

Joe nodded. "This morning. Declan said you called the
station." He took a test swallow of the tea and added a lump of sugar,
stirring. "I didn't have much joy of Tommy. Obstruction runs in the
family. However, he says he was with friends of a cousin in Leeds the
evening Miss Wheeler was killed. The friends will back him, so
Mahon is inclined to rule him out in the first murder, too."

"Do you agree?"

He sighed. "We had only two murders in the county last
year. Whatever the Yank media may suggest, killing is a rare thing
here."

"Then you think two murderers are unlikely."

"I think Mahon was right to leave Tommy at liberty." He
took another swallow and set his mug down. "Not but what it goes
against the grain. I told the little perisher Mahon had a full team
watching his every move, God forgive me for a liar. We haven't the
manpower. And speaking of that, I'm relieved to hear you called the
locksmith in." He dug in his tunic and produced a business card.
"That's the security firm I mentioned, the one out of Wexford. The
local boys say they'd rather not take the job on. They don't like the
woods. The place is airy."

It was a moment before I realized he meant eerie.

Dad had been very silent, sipping his tea and brooding. At
the mention of the woods, however, he brightened and told Joe of
Maeve's discovery.

Joe listened with an air of polite skepticism. The possibility
of finding a neolithic site in Stanyon Woods had no interest for him.
Either that or he was still so angry with Maeve he wouldn't entertain
any idea that originated with her.

"So her ladyship's gone up to Dublin, has she?" He rose. "Did
she mention when she'll grace us with her presence again?"

I decided to put him out of his transparent misery. "She's
bringing a crew of student archaeologists down Thursday, and she's
having tea with us. Around five, if you'd like to join us."

He forced a smile. "I don't want to curdle the cream. We had
words last week, and she's still on her high horse."

I said, "I'm sorry," and avoided looking at Jay.

Joe sighed. "Women are the devil. Saving your presence,
Lark."

"You sound like St. Kevin." Kevin was the holy founder of the
Glendalough monastery.

His eyes widened, and he began to laugh. "Sure, if I shoved
Maeve Butler into the water wouldn't she bob up again and scold me
like a fishwife? Good night, sir. I hear you're a dab hand with a fly
rod."

Dad smiled. "It's grand country for trout fishing." They
shook hands. Jay went out to the car with Joe. They must have
conferred, because Jay was gone a good ten minutes.

When Joe had driven off, Jay said, "What was the business
about saints?"

I rinsed the teapot. "St. Kevin had a hermitage at
Glendalough where he went off by himself and thought holy
thoughts. A beautiful woman kept intruding on him, so he pushed
her into the lake."

"I may make a pilgrimage."

"According to some accounts," Dad said, "she
drowned."

I murmured, "We do but jest, murder in jest."

Dad stared. "What's that,
Hamlet
?"

"I think so."

"It might almost be the war gamers' motto."

Jay said, "I wonder..."

"What?"

He shook his head. "A fugitive thought." He went over to his
computer. "I'd better close this down. With the modem running, no
one can get through on the telephone."

"Boil the Breakfast Early"

Irish air

"Stuff tastes like glue." Jay stirred his porridge. "And I what's
that?" He pointed with the handle of his spoon.

"Smoked haddock," I said with dignity. "A local delicacy."
The delicacy had a strong fish odor. It was also a sulphurous shade of
yellow. I had found it at the fishmonger's in the High Street.

Dad was delighted. "Haddock! What a treat. I haven't tasted
it in years." He transferred a generous portion to his plate and ate it
with evident enjoyment. I tried a morsel and returned to my soda
bread.

"What's on the agenda for you two?" Dad asked in the hearty
tones of one who has no intention of stirring from the house. He had
already announced he meant to spend the day with his freshly
organized notes.

I dolloped marmalade on the soda bread. "I may go for a
walk in the woods."

Jay gave me a sharp frown.

"Just pushing your buttons."

Under ordinary circumstances that would have rated a
smile. He shoved his porridge away and rose. "I have to call the
security people and the airline."

"A bit early for business, isn't it?"

"Maybe
I'll
walk in the woods."

"If you're bored, you could hold a press conference."

His mouth eased marginally. "I wouldn't have far to look for
reporters." He paused at the door arch. "Do you want me to clear
up?"

"We haven't finished yet. Relax."

He slid around the corner, and I heard the computer hum to
life.

Dad took a last bite of haddock.

"More coffee?"

"No, thanks. Why don't you give yourself a respite, Lark?
Drive to Dublin."

"Eek."

"Well, drive to Dun Laoghaire or Bray, and take the DART
train in to Pearse Station. It's near Trinity and the big museums. The
National Museum has a fabulous collection of gold artifacts of the
pre-Christian era." He smiled. "Of the Christian era, too."

"I'm tempted..." I started to say, "but I already have that on
next week's itinerary," when the phone rang. So Jay wasn't using the
modem.

He brought me the instrument. "Barbara Stein. For
you."

"Hello," I said with caution. Barbara asked about the
garbage, and I reported Jay's encounter with the TV crew.

"He answered them in Spanish?" She gave a short laugh like
a bark. "Brilliant. Uh, will you do me a favor?"

I went on full alert. "I'll try." No rash promises.

"I want to visit Grace Flynn this morning, see if she needs
anything, but if I take the Mercedes the press will trail after me like a
funeral parade."

"Do you want me to drive you in the Toyota?"

"Will you?"

"Okay. What time?"

"Ten, I thought. Drive around behind the house to the
kitchen. It's in the stubby wing on the river side. I'll slip out the
kitchen door—"

"And hide under the seat. Sounds good. See you then."

"Thanks." She sounded genuinely grateful.

"That takes care of the morning," I announced as I took the
phone back to the desk. I explained Barbara's mission.

"Grace Flynn." Jay cocked his head. "Wheeler's
girlfriend?"

"No, you cannot come. It's girl stuff."

He started to say something, changed his mind, and turned
back to the computer. "Will you get me some cash? I'm short."

"How much?"

"I dunno. Fifty pounds?"

"Punts. I'll use an ATM machine," I assured him, lest he
imagine I was going to cash my own traveler's checks for his
purposes. I hadn't planned on paying for Jay when I budgeted for the
trip.

"Mmm." He was unimpressed. He did something with the
mouse, and the computer dialed.

I went back to the kitchen. Dad poured himself an illicit
third cup of coffee and drifted off with no sign of a bad conscience,
leaving the kitchen in a mess. Jay was better trained.

Though there were no reporters or television crews visible
when I approached Stanyon, I drove behind the house anyway, found
what I thought was the right place, and tooted the horn. Barbara
dashed out and ducked into the car with no wasted motion.

"I could hardly wait to escape. It's awful." She hooked the
seatbelt. "I really appreciate this, Lark."

"No problem." I eased around and headed back the way I
had come.

As I drove past the house and up the long driveway, Barbara
slid lower in the seat. She was wearing a pair of California sunglasses
that would make her the magnet of all eyes, though her jeans and
pullover were anonymous enough.

"I didn't see any sign of reporters," I ventured.

"They're here. One of them walked in with the data
processors this morning and strolled around taking notes for a good
half hour before Mike discovered him and threw him out."

"Where was he found?"

"On his way to Kayla's room," Barbara said grimly.

"Is the Garda still in residence?"

"No. The crime scene people finished their work last night.
It's pretty horrible."

"The bedroom?"

"Yes. I told my housekeeper to burn the bedding and scrub
everything down with Lysol, but her...Kayla's stuff is still there. I
don't know what to do with it."

"Box it up and ship it to her next of kin."

"There doesn't seem to be anybody."

"Give it to Oxfam. Yeow." That in response to a very large
lorry that careened past me going fifty. I was so far onto the shoulder
of the road I scraped the stone wall.

"Where does Grace live?" I asked when my breathing went
back to normal.

"She has a bedsit in Arklow."

I negotiated the turn onto the highway and drove south
through the sparse traffic to the bridge over the Avoca. "It's nice of
you to concern yourself for her."

"Somebody has to," Barbara said absently. "It's off the High
Street. Turn left."

I complied.

Grace's nest looked unappealing from the outside. The
walkup entry squeezed between a betting shop and a greengrocer. I
parked in a vacant spot on the street, and Barbara led me up the
stairs.

There was no sign of security, no buzzer. The stairway was
narrow and badly lit, but a long skylight brightened the drab hall,
and it didn't smell of urine, just of ancient dust. Barbara looked at the
slip of paper with Grace's address and knocked on the third
door.

No response.

When she knocked again, we heard a groan and the creak of
springs. The door opened. Tousled and heavy-eyed in a bright pink
nylon negligee, Grace blinked at us. For a nanosecond, I wondered
whether we were interrupting a Moment of Passion, but Grace was
just having a lie-in. A Murphy bed thrust rumpled bedclothes into the
living area.

She blushed and said, "Oh, Mrs. Stein. Is it ten? I'll just put
the kettle on." She stepped aside, and we entered.

There were two upholstered chairs vintage 1955. Barbara
perched on one and began talking lawyer. Grace wandered from the
Pullman kitchen to the bed, eyes blurry. I wondered how much she
was taking in. She folded the duvet and stuffed the pillow into a
cupboard. Barbara was making negative comments about Irish
inheritance rights.

I stood by the window and saw that the flat had a million
punt vista of the Avoca and the boat harbor. I heard the word
amniocentesis. The Murphy bed slid up the wall.

Grace ducked into the loo and performed various liquid
chores. The toilet flushed.

Barbara said, "This place is a pit. They should have found
something better."

"They?"

"The women's aid group."

"I like the view."

She got up, craned around me, and sniffed. "Nice."

Grace reappeared, brushing her curly blond hair, in jeans
and a sweatshirt that claimed allegiance to Louisiana State
University. She wasn't showing yet, at least not in the
sweatshirt.

I smiled at her, and she gave me a shy grin. "Me stomach's
upset."

I felt a pang, remembering my too brief experience of
morning sickness. "Eat a saltine...a biscuit."

"Ta." The kettle was shrieking, and she went to silence it. All
three of us sipped tea, and Grace nibbled a biscuit while Barbara
mapped out the rest of Grace's life. I thought that Grace would do
exactly what Grace wanted to do.

Midway through the education of Junior Wheeler, I got up
and strolled around the room. With the Murphy bed back in the wall,
the flat was surprisingly spacious. Someone had repapered it and
painted the woodwork, though the carpet was icky gray. The place
had to have come furnished, but there were some signs that Grace
had tried to make it hers. Stuffed toys of the kind people win at fairs
peeked from an otherwise empty bookcase. There was an old telly
with rabbit ears. A tiny figure of the Infant of Prague stood on the
mantle above the gas-log fireplace. The tea table displayed a bunch
of daffodils in a fruit jar.