Malarkey (4 page)

Kennedy stared at me. His black-fringed eyes were suddenly
very shrewd indeed. "Well, now, what do
you
know of Eoin
O'Duffy and the Blueshirts?"

"Senior seminar on William Butler Yeats," I muttered. A
good fifteen years ago; I didn't mention that. "In the thirties, Yeats
had a flirtation with a group of fascists. O'Duffy was the local
Duce
." I gestured toward the shed. "Are you saying this guy
was a neo-Nazi?"

"'Twas just my pet name for him. He liked to dress up like
Rambo and play little wars games with his mates. They shoot at each
other with polythene guns full of paint."

"Squirt guns?"

"Yes." After a moment he added, "Neo-Nazi? His politics was
no business of mine."

"But his games were?"

"He recruited some of the lads from the High School. I had
complaints."

"Wonderful." My mind drifted back to my own situation.
"Then you can identify him?"

"And so could herself." He jerked a thumb upward toward
the cottage. "Slade William Wheeler, thirty-one, U.S. passport. Queer
names you Yanks have."

"Like Lark?" I am hypersensitive about my name.

He didn't comment. "Wheeler was the bursar—as you might
say, the business manager—of Stonehall Enterprises."

"The business manager! He's...he was too young."

"They're all unhatched chicks," he said sourly. He was about
my age. He met my eyes, and we exchanged wry smiles. His faded.
"You called Stanyon Hall. Who else did you telephone?"

A damp gust ruffled my hair. I smoothed it. "Since I found
the body? No one. The Steins own the cottage. I thought they should
know, but I didn't describe the dead man to Barbara, and I didn't
bring her down here either. I thought that might compromise the
physical evidence. My husband was a policeman," I added when his
eyebrows rose.

"Was? Are you widowed, then?"

A chill ran up my spine. "No! I mean he was a policeman for
many years. Right now he runs a college-level police training
program."

He frowned.

"I called Jay, my husband, that is, before I found the body. I
left a brief message. My father also called home." Horrors, I was
going to have to tell Jay I'd stumbled into another crisis. I
shuddered.

"Are you cold?"

"No, it's just reaction." The wind was damp and had an edge,
but I was wearing wool pants and a heavy pullover.

"We can go in now. You need a cup of tea. I'll take it as a
favor, Mrs. Dodge, if you say nothing of the red paint for the time
being."

I nodded.

"It's the sort of detail newspapers love to exploit."

I thought of the English tabloids. Was there an Irish
equivalent? I shuddered again.

Kennedy cocked his head the way Barbara had when she'd
heard his car drive up. "That'll be the ambulance coming." He led me
back up the slope to the front entrance. By the time we reached the
door, the square white ambulance was jouncing down the lane
toward the cottage. I wondered if I ought to have my hearing
tested.

"Poor devils," Kennedy murmured as the driver set the
brake and the doors opened.

"Why so?"

"They'll have to wait, won't they, while I send for the boys
from Dublin."

I made tea for the paramedics, and Kennedy called his
equivalent of the CID. I wondered how Criminal Investigation
Department translated into Irish.

The crisp air outside temporarily revived me. Barbara Stein
was still waiting in the kitchen. She kept asking me questions, and I
kept temporizing. Perhaps the medics read her suppressed hostility-
-the air was charged with it—for they took their mugs outside with
mumbled thanks.

I sat down at the table.

Barbara declined another cup of tea. "Why won't you tell me
what's going on? Did that block of a policeman know who it
was?"

"It's your man Wheeler," Kennedy said from the doorway.
"Dead as a mackerel and laid out on the floor of the potting shed." He
didn't mention the paint. "When did you last see him alive, Mrs.
Stein?" He was watching her intently.

She turned the color of Devon cream, the freckles standing
out in bold relief. Her mouth opened and closed. I thought she was
going to faint and half-stood to catch her if she fell over.

Kennedy took a notebook and pen from his breast pocket.
He pulled the chair opposite Barbara's and sat with his back to the
front door. He repeated his question.

"I...uh, Saturday, I guess. Sunday was Easter. That's right.
The staff were on holiday. Alex and I drove down to Wexford Sunday,
to the Boltons', and stayed overnight." She gulped. "S-slade said he'd
check the answering machine for us. We were expecting a big order.
But he was taking Monday off. He'd scheduled one of those stupid
role-playing games for the Bank Holiday—"

Kennedy raised his pen and his eyebrows. He had been
taking rapid shorthand notes.

"Was that..." An odd expression crossed Barbara's face.
Relief?

The pen hovered.

She went on in a cooler voice, "When Slade didn't show up
yesterday I was annoyed, but I had to drive Alex to the airport. What
with one thing and another, that took most of the afternoon. I called
Slade's girlfriend, Grace Flynn, this morning. She hadn't seen him
since Sunday evening."

"Had she expected to see him?"

Barbara wrinkled her nose. "Slade's games were for boys
only." She deepened her voice. "Men's business."

"And you didn't like that?"

She shrugged. "He was about twelve emotionally. I found his
obsessions tiresome, but he was an efficient manager and a genius
with software. If he wanted to run around Stanyon Woods with a
bunch of teenagers..." She hesitated. "I suppose he quarreled with
one of them."

"Why do you say that?"

"Isn't it obvious? One of them must have killed him."

"Killed him," Kennedy mused. "I wonder why you say
that."

She sat up, eyes wide. "But you said—"

"There's no evidence of foul play, Mrs. Stein, apart from the
attempt to conceal the body. He may have died of natural
causes."

Barbara stuck out her jaw. "He was only thirty. People that
young don't just pop off."

"Barbara, my dear," said my father from the doorway. "How
thoughtful of you to call. It's a grand place, just the thing for a
decrepit scholar." He looked at Kennedy.

I cleared my throat. "Sergeant Joseph Kennedy, Dad."

Kennedy had risen.

My father held out his hand. "I'm George Dailey. I do
apologize, sergeant. It's all my fault, as Lark will tell you."

Barbara and Kennedy gaped at him.

I said, "It wasn't the security alarm, Dad. I disabled it in time.
It's something else. Will you sit down?"

His hand fell, and he frowned at me.

"There's a stone shed attached to the cottage," I began. "You
gave me the keys. I went outside for a moment and saw that the door
of the shed was open a crack. When I looked in, I found the body of a
man lying on the floor. He was dead."

Dad sat slowly in the chair at the end of the table. "Dead, you
say?"

I nodded. "I called Sergeant Kennedy."

"And you didn't wake me?"

"Dad..."

"Upon my word, Lark, that's the outside of enough. I may
have had a little stroke—not a serious one, mind you—but I'm not a
child or a fool. You should have called me at once. What were you
thinking of?"

"I'm sorry," I said miserably.

He slammed both hands on the surface of the table. "I will
not be wrapped in cotton wool."

The display of temper was so out of character I forgot to
defend myself.

"I beg your pardon." Dad gave Kennedy a regal half-bow.
"This is a bad business, sergeant. How may I assist you?"

Kennedy looked from my father to me to his notebook. He
fiddled with his pen. I think he was embarrassed. "I'll need a
statement from you, sir, and from Mrs. Dodge. Sure, it's just a
formality. I've sent for Chief Detective Inspector Mahon and his
investigation team, though I may have jumped the gun. As I was after
telling Mrs. Stein, there's no sign of violence. The dead man is an
American, though, a foreign national, and the death is at least
questionable."

"I see. Do you know who the man was?"

"Our business manager," Barbara said glumly. "Slade
Wheeler."

"Wheeler. I don't remember a Wheeler in your class—"

"Alex and I met him later at Stanford," she interrupted. "You
don't know him, George."

Dad looked relieved. "I see. I'm sorry, my dear."

She blinked hard. "So am I."

The telephone rang.

Kennedy started to rise.

I said, "I'll get it." I reached the desk by the fourth ring and
picked up the receiver. "Bedrock Cottage. Lark Dodge
speaking."

"Who?" A male voice, tenor.

"We're leasing the cottage. Who is this?"

"Mike Bloody Novak. Where is everybody? I want to speak
to Barbara Stein or that prick, Slade Wheeler."

"I'll call Barbara. Just a moment."

The voice grumbled on.

I set the receiver on the desk and walked to the doorway.
"Barbara, someone named Novak."

She jumped up. "Oh god, Mike! We're supposed to be
holding a staff meeting!"

"Convenient." Kennedy made squiggles in his notebook.
"Please tell your people Inspector Mahon and his colleagues will
want to interview them."

Barbara said something rude under her breath.

"I beg your pardon?" His face was bland.

"I said when?"

"When CDI Mahon and the boys make their way south
through the purlieus of Dublin," he murmured, dulcet, "like the
salmon itself lepping down the weirs of the Shannon."

"Oh God, it's rush hour."

"It is."

She edged between Dad and me and dashed for the front
door. "And I have to meet Alex's plane."

I said, "The telephone."

"Tell Mike I'm on my way," she called over her
shoulder.

Kennedy made no move to stop her. He was smiling to
himself. When I went back to the telephone Novak had hung up. I
reported that.

The sergeant clucked his tongue. "An impatient lot, aren't
they?"

"Like the darling nags itself gnashing at the bit," I
murmured, taking a tentative step in the direction of Kennedy's
style. "Or the hogs shoving at the swill bucket."

Both men gaped at me, and then Sgt. Kennedy laid down his
notebook and whooped.

When he had subsided into the occasional chuckle, I said
mildly, "I thought salmon leapt
upstream.
"

"You've twigged me." He wiped his eyes on a large white
handkerchief. "I can't help it, you know. She's so sure I'm an idiot, I
have to pull her leg." He said idjit without affectation. I had been half-
convinced by his verbal imposture because the lilting accent was
genuine.

"I'll admit Barbara's a tempting target, but your diction is
strictly ersatz."

"By U-2 out of Cathleen ni Houlihan?" His mouth
quirked.

"Or John Millington Synge out of Sinead O'Connor."

My father said plaintively, "Will someone tell me what's
happening?"

Kennedy smiled at him. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dailey. Your
daughter caught me in a bit of unprofessional persiflage. I'll take
your statement when you're ready, and Mrs. Dodge's too, if she's
speaking to me. I'll need your passport numbers."

When Dad volunteered to go downstairs for our passports, I
restrained myself from jumping up and saying I'd get them. I told
him where to find mine.

The idea of anyone going downstairs raised the problem of
the scuffmarks. They might or might not be evidence of an intruder,
and, if so, the whole basement area would be part of the crime
scene.

Kennedy went down to inspect the marks, and Dad trailed
after him. I fell asleep. I dozed with my head on the kitchen table and
dreamed I was driving. When I woke with a snort the two men were
at the table talking quietly.

"...and I've known both of them for years," Dad said. "They're
fine young people from good families. Manny Stein was general
counsel for the AFL-CIO until Clinton appointed him to the federal
bench, and Alex's mother teaches mathematics at Columbia. I believe
Barbara's father is a neurosurgeon. Alex and Barbara met in my
seminar on Southern Reconstruction, so I like to think I brought
them together. They come to see me whenever they're in Childers."
Childers was my hometown in upstate New York. "So few students
trouble to do that."

"I see." Kennedy's hand paused. "You've been very helpful,
sir. Thank you. Back with us, Mrs. Dodge?"

"Mmmn. Like a salmon lepping into the net."

He smiled. "I'll just take you through your version of things
the one time. I already have a fair idea of what happened." And so he
did, crisply and efficiently. He read what I'd said back to me. Then he
rose. "I've a phone call or two to make now, if you've no
objection."

"Help yourself," Dad said cheerfully. "Hungry, Lark?"

"Ravenous." I'd eaten an airline breakfast hours before, and
it was nearly six local time. So I fixed scrambled eggs on the Rayburn.
The bacon was salty but lusciously lean, and the eggs tasted like
eggs. Dad chowed down, too, which made me feel guilty. I was going
to have to find a market and buy some healthy food. As we ate, he
apologized for losing his temper. That also made me feel guilty.

"I really wasn't trying to hide anything from you, Dad."

He sighed. "I know."

"I promise to be open and direct from now on, but you have
to promise to rest when you're tired. And not to blame me for fussing
if I remind you."

He sighed again. "I think the role reversal is part of what's
troubling me. I'm your father. I'm supposed to take care of you, and
here you are driving for me and carrying my suitcase and
summoning the police."

"And wrapping you in cotton wool. I'm sorry." I blinked back
tears. I was still very tired.