Malarkey (26 page)

On one wall, Grace had hung a framed photograph. It was
the only wildcard in the decor—the black and white scene of a bridge,
Renaissance or earlier I thought, with a town rising behind it. If
Grace had hung a picture of the Sacred Heart, or a photo of one of her
boyfriends, or a rock poster, I would scarcely have noticed it. This
scene, however, baffled me. I thought Grace was not a great traveler,
yet there was something vaguely Mediterranean about the bridge
and the town. The photograph itself was handsome and handsomely
mounted.

At the first long pause in Barbara's monologue, I said, "I like
the photo, Grace."

She beamed. "It's me cousin Liam's work. He gave it me
when I left school."

"Our Liam?" Barbara got up and came over for a closer look.
"Yes, I've seen a copy of that one. It's in his portfolio. The Bridge on
the Drina." She turned back and went on with a discussion of Irish
versus American higher education.

Grace nibbled another biscuit.

I turned the implications of Grace's kinship to Liam
McDiarmuid over in my mind. I had thought he might have been
drooping after her romantically. Mere cousinhood was less
interesting. I didn't think an Irish man would feel obliged to defend
his cousin's honor by killing her seducer. Italian or Spanish, maybe,
not Irish. Besides, I recalled Liam's look of surprise when Grace
proclaimed her pregnancy. He hadn't known she was bearing
Wheeler's child at that point—and Slade was already dead.

But Liam might have known of the relationship and
disapproved of it. I considered. Disapproval was inadequate fuel for
murder, surely, yet Grace's father had responded to the news with
violence. A cousin is not a father...

"Time for us to go," Barbara announced. "And be sure to eat
plenty of leafy green vegetables, Grace. You're eating for two."

Grace looked mutinous, but she was too polite to snap at the
hand that was, I supposed, feeding her. Perhaps the women's aid
group had arranged for the equivalent of welfare, but I thought
Barbara had probably paid the rental deposit at the very least.

I said, "Cheer up, Grace. You have a lovely place of your own.
Do you like it?"

"Sure, it's grand." Her face clouded. "But I miss jarring with
me sisters."

We took our leave and went back to the street. It was a nice
day, so I told Barbara we could walk up the street to the bank. We
could look at the shops.

She made a face. "They're poky. And I don't want to cause a
sensation. I'll sit in the car."

Please yourself,
I reflected, and unlocked the door for
her.

I had spotted a bank with an ATM machine, so I walked to it
and had fun watching it spew out Irish punts instead of American
dollars. Traveler's checks would soon be outmoded.

I didn't dally long. When I returned and settled behind the
wheel, I looked over at Barbara. Her nose was pink. I thought she had
been crying.

I fastened my seatbelt and started the engine. "Are you all
right?"

She blew her nose on a tissue. "Yes, sorry. I just get
depressed, thinking about Grace. Alex and I talked of offering to
adopt the baby that night she came to the house. We talked for
hours."

I eased out into the traffic and headed for the harbor. I could
turn around there. "Did you suggest the possibility to Grace?"

Barbara gave a watery giggle. "She told me to feck off."

After a pause for translation, I laughed. "Cheer up. The kid
might turn out to be a big flatfooted Irish cop."

"Better that than Tay-Sachs." She blew her nose again.

After a constrained moment, I said, "Are you a carrier?"

She gulped. "The gene's present in Alex's family, too. We
decided not to have children after my little cousin died."

I eased the car right at the non-functional stop light. "I'm
sorry, Barbara. I lost a baby last spring. We've been trying for
years."

"George told us the baby miscarried."

I drove with fierce concentration. The baby miscarried. I had
said that myself a number of times, but my thought was always that I
had lost her. And yet I had done nothing the doctors disapproved of.
Language can tell the truth or lie. Something in my mind shifted.

I deposited Barbara at Stanyon before noon without
incident, though several suspicious-looking cars were parked near
the house. She thanked me briefly and went in the back way.

"Can you drive me to Dublin?" Jay asked without
preliminaries as soon as I entered the door of the cottage.

"What's wrong?"

"The burglar stole his passport and airline ticket," Dad said.
Both men were hovering in the kitchen, obviously waiting for
me.

"I should have checked more thoroughly yesterday," Jay
growled. He looked embarrassed. The great detective.

I didn't say anything, but he went on, defensive, "The
downstairs looked undisturbed, and I was in a hurry to shut the
damned alarm off. When I decided to phone Aer Lingus today I
couldn't find the ticket. Or the passport."

"What about my stuff?"

"It seems to be in order. He went for mine."

It was possible the thief hadn't been able to find my ticket
and passport. I had zipped them into a pocket of my suitcase and left
the case in the room's tiny closet, whereas Jay's had reposed at the
back of the top drawer of the dresser. The burglar must have gone
straight to the dresser when he found the computer missing—with
the alarm sounding in his ears. If he'd had that much presence of
mind, why the melodrama with Dad's notes?

I looked at my father. "Is
your
passport
missing?"

"I don't think he entered my room at all."

"What about traveler's checks?" I asked Jay.

"Mine are gone. Yours are still in your suitcase. I'm glad I
kept my Visa card and driver's license in my wallet. This is going to
be enough of a nuisance without having to cancel credit cards."

"Did you call the embassy?"

"Yes. If I come in this afternoon with four passport photos,
they may be able to issue a temporary passport by Friday. They said
George could vouch for me. There's a fee, of course. Did you get
money?"

I described the ATM machine and handed over the cash.
"Dublin traffic. Aargh."

"My sympathies," Jay said with only mild sarcasm. "I'm not
allowed to drive the Toyota, remember?"

"I want lunch."

"We can grab a sandwich in Dublin."

"Well, hang on while I change." Like Barbara I was wearing
jeans and a grubby pullover. That might do for Arklow but it didn't
suit my idea of what was appropriate for Dublin. I took the tags off
the turquoise tunic and wore it with the skirt of the gray suit. It
looked classy.

On the way up the N11 we debated the merits of taking the
DART train, as Dad had suggested, but I wound up driving in. The
traffic was horrendous. We found a sandwich shop somewhere near
Merrion Square and a place that took passport photos. While Jay was
saying 'cheese' for the camera I bought a science fiction paperback at
a newsagent. I like sf, and the book weighed less than
Phineas
Finn
. Dad bought a newspaper.

Fortunately, my father had had occasion to visit the
embassy, so he was able to navigate for me. Inside the cylindrical
building, a monument to Federal taste of the early sixties, the
process was slow. It was also complicated by the fact that, when the
clerk found out the passport had been stolen, she demanded to know
the incident number of the police report. That meant I had to call Joe
in Killaveen from a balky pay phone. It accepted my AT&T credit
number eventually. Joe was in.

When we drove south at last, all three of us were cranky and
the rush hour was well under way. I got lost because I couldn't
change lanes in time for a crucial turn. I finally decided the hell with
it and headed south by east. Sooner or later I'd hit either the N11 or
the Irish Sea.

I'm sure some of the southern suburbs of Dublin are
interesting places, but I was greatly relieved when I finally stumbled
on the N11 near the Bray roundabout. At six-thirty, as we were
coming up on Arklow, I spotted Jack White's, the pub in which
Tommy Tierney had had words with Slade Wheeler on Easter. I
pulled into the car park.

Dad jerked awake in the front passenger seat. "What?"

"A beer," Jay said. "Sounds good."

"A beer and a sandwich," I said firmly. "I refuse to
cook."

In fact, the roomy and pleasant pub served dinners, so we
ate a real meal early. Afterwards, in the car park, a reporter came up
and asked us for a reaction to the murder of Kayla Wheeler. I
unlocked the car doors as fast as possible while Jay and my father
dealt with the man, who was polite but persistent. He asked Jay
about an article in the
Times
.

When we got home, I brewed a pot of tea and brought it into
the living room. Jay had gone onto the Internet straight from the car.
I brought him a mug and leaned over his shoulder.

He was loading the Irish
Times
.

"I didn't know that was online."

"I stumbled across it last night. Oh shit. Look at that."

He had clicked on the Home section. The headline read
Gardai Consult US Expert in Wheeler Case. Though the article was
brief and uninformative, it identified Jay clearly. The source was
Inspector Mahon.

Dad peered over our shoulders. "I ought to check the
Independent
. I haven't really looked at it. I get sick if I read
much in a car. Maybe they covered the story, too."

Jay groaned.

"Yes, here it is. There's a photo."

Jay backed out of the system and disconnected. Then he
picked up the phone and called Joe.

Dad handed him the
Independent
article and Jay read
it over the phone. I took a peek. The photo must have been taken as
the three of us were entering the church hall for the inquest. Dad
looked magisterial, Jay looked worried, and I had my mouth
open.

We may have good men, but we never had
better.
Glory-oh, glory-oh, to the bold Fenian men.

Peadar Kearney, "The Bold Fenian Men"

Maeve was coming.

I decided to bake oatmeal cookies. Right after lunch on
Thursday I went into Arklow and bought the basics. I hadn't brought
a recipe from home, but I remembered the ingredients and thought I
could reconstruct the proportions.

At Quinnsworth I also bought a copy of the
Times
for
Jay, in case he wanted to collect clippings for his scrapbook.

He scowled when I told him that.

"Just kidding." I handed him the paper and started putting
the groceries away.

"You're a great kidder." He was drinking tea. He flipped
through the paper one-handed. "No more Yank Expert garbage,
thank God, though there's a short article about the inquest
tomorrow. The coroner's expected to adjourn that one, too."

I got out the solitary mixing bowl and a tea cup. There were
no measuring cups—or measuring spoons, for that matter.

When I cranked up the oven temperature, the Rayburn
coughed. "Where's Dad?"

"Taking a nap. The trip to Dublin tired him."

"Do you think he's okay?"

He responded to my tone with a searching frown. "George
will be all right, Lark. Don't worry about him so much. When you
worry, he worries."

I thought about that. "What time will they have the new
passport ready for you tomorrow?"

"After two."

I visualized the rush-hour traffic and sighed.

"Why don't we try the transit system? You could drop me at
the station in Bray and come back for me."

"I'd like to walk around Dublin myself."

"Okay, and George can have a peaceful day with his notes.
Lark..."

"Mmm." I began mashing brown sugar into softened butter.
"I hope this is the right kind of sugar. It's awfully lumpy."

He got up. "I'm going for a walk. Are there hordes of
reporters in the bushes?"

"I didn't see any. You should be safe."

He retrieved his anorak from the other room. It was misting
out. "I can always dive into the bushes if I see a journalistic
face."

"Shall I make these with raisins?"

He pondered, one arm in the jacket sleeve. "Half with and
half without. No nuts." He slipped out the door.

Maeve drove up in the van as I was removing the second
batch of perfect cookies from the oven. I stuck my hands under the
tap, wiped them on a dish towel, and met her at the door.

She was laughing. "I didn't even have time to knock."

"I was expecting you."

"Something smells heavenly."

"You did say teatime." I waved my spatula. She took her coat
off and hung it on the back of a chair. When I had removed the
cookies to a rack, I gave her one piping hot from oven. Cookies may
be an American phenomenon, but I've never met a foreigner who
rejected them.

"Mmmm. I brought the book."

"So I should hope." I filled the kettle and set it on the
Rayburn.

"Where's your father?"

"He took a nap, but I heard signs of life a while ago. He'll be
up soon."

"And Jay?"

I looked at my watch. "Taking a long walk. You didn't see a
beleaguered Yank Expert in the bushes as you drove up, did
you?"

She hadn't read the article or heard of our Dublin excursion,
so I filled her in. The kettle screamed, and I made a pot of tea. Dad
came in as I was pouring the first mug.

"Just in time. Do I smell cookies?"

"Oatmeal," I said. "I had to use it up somehow." Both men
had balked at porridge for breakfast that morning.

Dad greeted Maeve. We sat around the table, nibbling
cookies and admiring the book. The heavy rag paper with gilt edges
was going to preserve an undistinguished travel diary longer than
the greatest modern novel. I thought nostalgic thoughts about
nineteenth century book binders. The cover was tooled calf.