Malarkey (6 page)

The telephone rang. My father answered it, though the
constable made a move to cut him off. I gathered from what Dad said
that the caller was someone from Stanyon Hall. I glanced at my
watch. Eleven fifteen. Three in the morning at home. Still too early to
call Jay, thank God, though he could advise me about Tierney. I
decided to speak to Jay before I said anything to the Gardai.

Dad hung up and came over to the couch. "That was Alex.
They want us for dinner tonight."

The funeral baked meats? I felt little enthusiasm but could
think of no reason to object.

"His...er, the dead man's sister is flying in from
London."

"London?"

"She lives there."

"And the Steins want moral support?"

He frowned. "Something of that nature. He said it would be
an informal buffet—nothing fancy."

"I imagine we'll be back by dinnertime."

"Heavens, I hope so. Ballitore can't be more than sixty miles
from here."

Less, I thought, as the crow flies. More on those little
wiggling lanes. But I didn't object. I wanted to be elsewhere, though I
wished we could make the trip to Ballitore by train or
helicopter.

Mahon returned. "Forensic will want to keep your boots for
a day or two, Mrs. Dodge."

"That might prove inconvenient."

He gave an apologetic shrug.

"You'll have to allow us to retrieve our bags from the
bedrooms, then. I need shoes right now, and we'll both need a
change of clothes for this evening."

He didn't want to allow us downstairs and finally agreed to
have the constable bring the luggage up to us. I wished him joy of
Dad's book bag. It weighed a ton.

As it turned out, Mahon also wanted to search our suitcases,
though it wasn't clear why. A matter of routine, he said. Since we had
nothing to hide, we didn't object, and the search was perfunctory.
The constable's ears turned red as he riffled through my undies. He
copied out the titles of Dad's books. The Republic had been known to
censor books. I trusted my father had not brought anything
salacious. It seemed unlikely. I replaced the suede boots with my
ancient sneakers.

It was one before Mahon finally allowed us to go. He had
been relieved when Dad told him we intended to stay another night
with Mrs. O'Brien. "That'll be Ballymann House," he murmured,
looking faintly envious. The constable squiggled a note.

"Will we be able to use the cottage tomorrow?" I asked.

He said something polite and diplomatic. I gathered he
wasn't sure.

The long-suffering constable helped us load our luggage,
including my father's book bag, into the Toyota. I strapped in and
looked over at Dad. "Where to?"

He checked his watch. "It's late."

"It's lunchtime." I thought of the O'Brien breakfast. "On the
other hand, I may never eat again."

Dad smiled. "Why don't we postpone the trip to Ballitore
until tomorrow? I'm not sure how long the museum stays open, and
it will take us at least an hour to get there."

"More like two."

Dad nodded. "I have some reading to do. You could drive in
to Arklow. There's a famous hand-weaving establishment at Avoca,
too."

I cheered up. "I need to cash a couple of traveler's checks
and buy some real food for the cottage."

"Black pudding."

I looked at him again.

He gave me a puckish smile.

"Just yanking my chain?"

"Something like that."

I deposited him and our bags at Ballymann House. Then I
drove without major mishap to Arklow. It was a pretty town with an
almost idyllic setting, but I could see that I was fated to regard it as a
shopping center. Oddly enough, I found an American-style
supermarket, Quinnsworth, at the top of the town near the
roundabout, so I accomplished my shopping in jig time. I even
bought a bottle of decent French wine for the Steins. The bank took a
bit longer. I drove to the cottage and, watched by the suspicious
constable, bestowed the groceries suitably. By three, I was free to
wander.

I think I suffered a residual spasm of jet-lag. I got lost along
the seacoast. The road wound between stone walls with glimpses of
steep headlands and golden sand far below. Except for one cramped-
looking park, the beach was in private hands, a disappointment.
Ocean beaches in Washington State, where I live, have public access.
I wanted to run on the sand. I needed a good run.

I gave up on that idea somewhere between Arklow and
Wicklow. It was time to go back to Mrs. O'Brien's for a shower and a
change of clothes. After half a dozen false starts, I pointed the Toyota
west and drove until I hit the N11 north of Suicide Lane. From there
it was plain sailing, but I was a little frazzled when I drew up at
Ballymann House. Which may explain why I forgot to call my
husband.

Mrs. O'Brien had an instinct for succoring distressed
tourists. She greeted me at the door and asked if I fancied a pot of tea
in the lounge with my father. I could have kissed her feet.

Dad and I drove back to Stanyon at half past six. Alex Stein
wanted to show us the house before dinner. Alex was a good-looking
man with dark hair and eyes and an endearing cowlick. He was
short, by Dailey standards, but half a head taller than Barbara, and,
like Barbara, he was intense. He so clearly idolized my father I was
inclined to like him.

Alex took my bottle of wine, shook hands, and gave me a
brief smile. Then he turned to Dad. "This is a bad business,
George."

"The dead man?" Dad shook hands, too. "If he was your
business manager, I imagine his death does leave you in fix."

Alex led us into a foyer that was in the throes of restoration.
"I'm more concerned about the legal situation. The police are talking
as if Slade was killed by one of the kids who were role-playing in the
woods Monday."

"An accident?"

"Maybe."

Or manslaughter. That was interesting, though not
surprising. I said, "How was he killed?"

"The Garda inspector used a lot of technical jargon. What it
boils down to is that they think somebody used a choke-hold on
him."

I blinked. "Do people use choke-holds in Ireland?"

"Somebody did. Slade liked to think of himself as an expert
on the martial arts. He may have showed the kids how to use the
choke-hold to subdue an attacker."

"Those are fast results for an autopsy," I observed.

Dad stared at me as if he found my knowledge of autopsies
distasteful. Perhaps he did.

Alex said, "They're not sure that's what happened.
Preliminary findings. They're going to hold a coroner's inquest."

That was consistent with British law. American courts rarely
require an inquest. "And you're worried about liability?"

He sighed. "The Irish are not as litigious as Americans in
these situations. I suppose I'm worried about moral liability."

Dad nodded, approving.

Alex went on, "I didn't like Slade's little games. They
smacked of hate groups and white supremacist militias. He swore his
had no political overtones, but everything has political overtones,
especially in Ireland."

My father said gravely, "If there's anything I can do to help
you, Alex, don't hesitate to ask. I spoke with Chief Inspector Mahon
this morning."

He gave Dad a dazzling smile. "Thanks, George. We need all
the support we can get. Do you want to see the house first or have a
drink?"

"The house." Dad didn't hesitate.

I was less enthusiastic, but I tagged along.

The interior of Stanyon Hall in its heyday must have caused
a sensation among the landed gentry. Most Irish manor houses were
reputedly Georgian. Stanyon looked as if it had been generated by a
cabal of Black Forest gnomes.

When I was an undergraduate I went on a six-week
European tour between basketball clinics. Among the chateaux and
galleries and cathedrals we visited, I recalled the stately home of a
German industrial family, folks who helped bring us World War One.
The house had been built in the 1880's, when the fake-Gothic craze
was already in decline, and it looked much like Stanyon. The interior
of the monumental German house was done in stained wood and
wood paneling with clots of tormented wood carving to liven things
up. It felt like an overdose of Wagner.

Stanyon wasn't quite that bad. For one thing, the carvers
had been Irish, so harps and shamrocks and Celtic curves lightened
the angst. At some point most of the wood had been covered with
institutional gray enamel. As a rule I dislike gray enamel but it took
the curse off all that dour paneling. The Steins were in the process of
stripping the wood. I had done a bit of that myself, so I sympathized
with the process if not with the goal. The substance you use to
remove stubborn paint has to be classified as toxic waste.

Up an intricately carved stairway we went and through a
maze of Toss Tierney's hurdles and tarps to the library. The
muniment room, Alex said. He sounded half-ironic, half-
impressed.

"Lots of wood," I said feebly.

"Yeah, in a country that was deforested by the seventeenth
century."

I live in a region where the big lumber companies are busy
exporting the last temperate-zone rain forest to Japan in the form of
logs. I didn't feel competent to criticize. "I like the stained
glass."

That was a subject Alex could enter into with untainted
enthusiasm. He told us all about the local artists he had hired to
replace missing panes, and the small crest he had commissioned for
the tallest window—with the company logo picked out in gold and
rose.

My father admired the glass-encased bookshelves, empty
now, with their little pointy windows. The Stanyon book collection
had been sold off long before.

"Volumes of Debrett's and leather-bound copies of horse
periodicals," Alex said wryly, "and the occasional seventeenth
century divine. I looked at the catalogue."

All the same I would have liked to see the books.

Alex checked his watch. "Barbara should be home from the
airport by now. She went to pick up Slade's sister. Shall we rescue
her?"

Obedient, we followed him downstairs, though my feelings
toward Barbara Stein were not warm enough to warrant a rescue
mission.

Downstairs, Alex ushered us into a room the restoration had
not yet touched. It was vast and gray, with an industrial carpet and
an angry-looking parlor stove in which a fire was burning. None too
soon. The huge house was cold. Barbara and her guest had not yet
appeared.

Alex must have seen my raised eyebrows. "We're still
camping here," he said defensively. "The staff uses this room as a
lunchroom."

"The staff?" I was confused. Did he mean housemaids?

"Our mass production and packaging facility is in Arklow,
but the design staff, the brains of the outfit, work here in what was
the drawing room. I'll show you the computer stations later, if you
like."

Dad said, "Did you have to rewire?"

Alex gave a hollow laugh. "We're still rewiring."

"Thanks to Toss Tierney?" I ventured.

He stared. "You must have talked to Barbara."

I explained.

His face clouded. "The man has never, not once, brought a
job in on time."

"Why don't you fire him?"

"Because old Toss is everybody's friend—or everybody's
cousin. The sucker must have invented networking. The quality of
his work is good," he added, grudging. "When he gets around to
doing it."

"Has he talked with Sergeant Kennedy yet?"

Alex was pouring wine, white for me, red for my father.
"Nobody's seen Toss since Monday."

"Though how that dolt Joe Kennedy could overlook a
daffodil yellow van is a little hard to imagine," Barbara said. She had
crept in through a side door. "Hi, George. Lark. Red for me,
Alex."

He handed her a glass of burgundy. He was pouring from a
rather nice teak drinks trolley that looked about a hundred and fifty
years too recent for the house. All the furnishings were modern,
Scandinavian, and somewhat the worse for wear. When the company
moved to Ireland, Alex explained, they had shipped their own
furniture. He had an agent scouring the antiques shops for Victorian
tat.

Barbara took her drink to a couch that resembled the one in
the living room of the cottage. She collapsed onto the cushions. "My
God, what a ride. They have got to extend DART to the airport."
DART was the Dublin transit system train. "I will not drive through
Dublin at rush hour again, Alex. I swear it. And never with Kayla
Wheeler."

"How is she?"

"Obnoxious." Barbara tossed back half a glass of wine. "At
the best of times, Kayla whinges. It is not the best of times.
Considering that she and Slade couldn't stay in the same room
without bickering, I'm a bit surprised at the display of grief."

Alex frowned. "Barb—"

She made a face. "Yeah, I know. Have a little respect. I notice
you didn't volunteer to make the airport run."

"Damnit, I had to deal with the Netweaver contract."

"Sez you."

They glowered at each other.

I drifted to a window and sipped wine to cover my irritation.
I hate it when married couples rend each other in public. The
window overlooked an expanse of lawn and the river, the Avoca, I
supposed. It was still light out and would be until almost nine. I
reminded myself we were as far north as Juneau, Alaska.

Dad said, "This is a nice burgundy, Alex. A European
Community perk? Are the French going to start using varietal labels
one of these days?"

Alex allowed himself to be led into oenological speculation,
and the tension eased. I ought to have engaged Barbara in similar
chitchat. I was trying to come up with a neutral topic when the
doorbell rang. Barbara jumped up, muttering something about
dinner guests, and left the room.

Alex said, "We asked our friend, Maeve Butler, to dinner to
meet you. She's an archaeologist. And Mike Novak's coming, I think.
Mike and Liam McDiarmuid from the design staff. And Tracy Aspin—
you remember Tracy, George. She was a year behind Barbara and
me."