Night Of The Blackbird (26 page)

“Dad!” she cried with alarm, rushing to him.

He didn't protest, but he didn't seem to notice that she had his arm.

“Dad? Dad, are you all right?” she asked. “What is it?”

Patrick was standing, as were Andrew and Josh, everyone looking at Eamon.

“I need a chair,” he muttered.

Patrick was instantly at his other side. They walked their father to a chair at a table. Andrew moved back instantly, allowing Eamon to sink into the chair.

“Do you need your pills?” Moira asked anxiously. “Is it your heart?”

“My heart is fine, girl.”

“I'll get Mum.”

“No, not yet.” He waved a hand dismissively in the air.

“I'll get a whiskey,” Patrick said.

“That I need.”

“Dad, please, what is it?” Moira asked anxiously.

Patrick set a shot glass of whiskey on the table before his father. Eamon picked it up, put it to his lips, cast his head back and swallowed the shot whole.

He set the glass down, staring at it.

Then he looked at the foursome surrounding him.

“Seamus is dead,” he said softly.

L
ong moments of disbelief followed Eamon's announcement.

“Dead!” Moira exclaimed.

Seamus, dead? No. Seamus, so good a friend, a man who had been in their lives like a family member, dead. She didn't speak words of denial. She knew by her father's face that it was true. Tears stung her eyes at the loss. What had happened to him? Had they not paid enough attention to his health? Had he been ailing? What?

Then a niggling of fear and suspicion swept through her sorrow. She looked at her brother accusingly. “Patrick, I told you to walk him home last night.”

“I did walk him home, straight to his door,” Patrick said, staring at his father. “He was fine. He was certainly not drunk, and he…he was fine.”

“How? What happened?” Jeff asked.

Eamon shook his head, staring at Moira. “Don't go blamin' your brother, now, Moira. I'm sure he did as he said. Seamus died trying to help another, so it appears. It was the strangest thing. His neighbor, the old fellow downstairs, must have been having a heart attack and known it. He was found right outside his door, dead as well. The best the police could piece it all together, Mr. Kowalski must have called out for help, trying to get Seamus to come down. Seamus…Seamus apparently fell down the stairs in his hurry.” Eamon was quiet for a moment. “He broke his neck. They say it must have been instant. He didn't suffer. That's all the good they could tell me. He didn't suffer.” He buried his head in his hands for a moment. “They were just lying there, the two of them. If the UPS man hadn't needed a signature for a delivery, they might have lain there…well, until one of us went to find out why he wasn't in the pub tonight.”

“A UPS man found them?” Patrick asked, his voice strange.

Eamon nodded. “He saw them through the glass door and called the police. The police arrived and called the medical examiner's office. Apparently they died in the wee hours of the morning. When the police…when they'd investigated and taken the bodies away, they called me. Seamus was an organized man, neat with paperwork. He'd left my name and number right in his wallet and by his phone upstairs. I'm Seamus's executor. He had no family. We were his family. The pub was his real home. Here in America.”

“Kowalski had relatives,” Patrick said dully.

Eamon looked at his son. “No, not really. Like Seamus, he never married. That's what the police said. There's a grandnephew in Colorado somewhere.”

“Strange,” Patrick murmured. “Maybe Seamus was more addled than I thought. He told me that Kowalski had kids and that there were people in and out all the time.”

“No,” Eamon said, frowning slightly. “Not according to the police. I was there awhile with them, answering what questions I could about Seamus.”

“You told them that Seamus was here last night, right?” Jeff Dolan asked.

“Well, of course. I hadn't known, though, that you walked him home last night, Patrick. I'm glad to hear it. He had friends with him to the end.”

“I left him at his front door—on the street,” Patrick said. “I think he was a little put out. He didn't think he really needed an escort, he'd been watching his drinking. I asked him to let me walk him to his door, but he kept insisting he was fine.”

Eamon put a hand on his son's shoulder. “And he probably was fine, then. The officers investigating the accident seemed certain they'd pieced it together right. Kowalski had come out to his doorway, right in the midst of his heart attack. Seamus must have been up the steps already when he was called back. You were with him, Patrick, just remember that. He loved you kids, our family.” He sighed, looking around. “He loved this place. He spent his last night here. We were his family, and he'll have us through the last respects, as well. His funeral will be what he wanted. I don't know what will be happening with Kowalski. The nephew will be coming for his body. There's to be an autopsy on both men—there always is when there's a situation like this—but we should be able to wake Seamus by Wednesday night and have his funeral on Thursday morning. Saint Patrick's Day. That would have pleased him. He had a great faith in God, and he loved Saint Patrick's Day.”

They all sat there in silence, watching Eamon, not knowing what to say. Moira was afraid to look at her brother. She wasn't sure what she would see. Her eyes kept filling. She remembered the times she had given Seamus a hard time. Arguing with him that they were Americans. Insisting that he get over it and quit reliving the Easter Rebellion. She could see him on the bar stool, telling her that he could well handle another Guinness. She remembered when they had all been younger, when he seldom came to the pub without some kind of special chocolate in his pockets for the kids.

And still, somehow, no matter what her father said, something about his death wasn't right. She was hurt and angry…and suspicious.

She felt ill. Absolutely ill.

“Well,” Eamon said, “I'm going to have to go up and tell your mother and grandmother. Colleen and Siobhan. And the kids.” He looked at Moira as if he'd been reading her mind. “And the kids,” he added. “He loved it when the kids were here. He said he could stuff his jacket with candy again and see little eyes light up. He should have had his own family. He would have been a fine father.” He shook his head. Then he looked around the pub. There was a single man on a bar stool and one couple at the back having a late lunch or early dinner. “And things go on,” Eamon said. “The place will be jumping tonight. Without Seamus. Still, it would be the old Irish way. Death is a passage, and the fullness of a man's life is to be celebrated at its end.”

“Dad,” Moira said, “you go up and see Mum and Granny Jon, and we'll manage down here.”

“Ah, now, daughter…”

“She's right, Dad,” Patrick said. “Spend the evening getting some rest. With Mum. You can talk about celebrating a man's life all you want, but I know how you're feeling. You lost one of your best friends. Tomorrow you'll be making his funeral arrangements.”

“Flannery's,” Eamon said, nodding. “Flannery's. That's where he wanted to be waked. Actually, in the old days, we might have waked him right in the bar and lifted a pint or two over the coffin. Now that, Seamus would have liked. But Flannery's. That was his choice. His coffin was chosen, his plot bought. He didn't leave me much to do for him but be there.”

“I'll take you on up, Dad,” Patrick said.

“I can make it,” Eamon said.

“Dad, let me go up with you,” Patrick insisted.

Before any of them could move, the pub door opened again. A wild gust of wind blew in, and Michael and Danny were there, silhouetted in the dying afternoon light. “Evening, folks,” Danny said. “I've been teaching Michael here a few good Irish drinking songs. He's got them down pat. Ready, Michael? Here we go…come on, Michael, join in.”

Danny began to sing, Michael joining him and doing the Irish accent quite well right along with Danny, who purposely deepened his brogue.

“The dear old lady, God bless her! She jumped into the drawer of her dresser. For the north wind blew and sailed, and the black-heart banshee wailed, oh, that dear old lady, God bless her, a-lying in the drawer of her dresser!”

They finished the ditty together. Michael seemed very proud and pleased.

The group in the pub stared at them both.

Danny frowned, stepping in the doorway, bringing Michael along with him, his arm around the other man's shoulders. “We're not really wasted, you know. We stopped in a few pubs along the way,” Danny said, “but honest, Moira, I didn't bring your Michael home drunk.”

Michael was frowning, as well, as he stared at Moira. “We did a great job, I think. You and Josh will have to see the tape, of course. And we did stop in a few pubs, but…” He trailed off as he realized she was clearly upset. “Are we late? Did we miss something?”

Danny was suddenly dead sober and serious. “What's wrong? What's happened?” He asked.

“Seamus is dead,” Moira said.

“My God,” Danny breathed. “What happened?”

“Seamus?” Michael murmured.

“My dad's friend, seventh stool down, you met him,” Patrick said briefly.

Danny walked straight over to Eamon, kneeling at his side. “Eamon, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?”

“Aye, son, I'm good, thank you. He'd lived himself a full life, a good life. Could have been longer…but he was, at the least, up in his years. Doesn't seem to matter how old a body is, though. When he's gone, he's missed. There's just an emptiness, you know?”

“Aye, Eamon.” Danny was frowning. “Did his body give out? I didn't know his exact age, but he seemed a fine and healthy man.”

“I'll explain,” Moira said, rising. “Patrick was taking Dad upstairs. My mother and grandmother and the others have to be told.”

“Come on, Dad,” Patrick said softly.

Eamon stood. Moira felt the tears stinging her eyes again as she watched her father. He suddenly seemed old. The loss hit her again. She gripped the back of her chair. “Dad, you go on up. You and Mum need each other tonight.”

Eamon touched her cheek, then allowed Patrick to lead him to the rear. He stopped suddenly, looking back. “Danny?”

“Aye, Eamon?”

“You'll host the place tonight for me, eh? There will be the usual customers coming in, and you know the right way. We'll do his wake and his funeral proud, but there must be words for his friends tonight.”

“I'll see to it, Eamon. I swear,” Danny promised.

Patrick and Eamon disappeared through the door behind the bar. Danny stared at Moira.

He might have visited a few pubs, but he was stone cold sober now. “What happened?” he demanded.

Moira watched him closely. “According to the police, the man who lived on the first floor—”

“Kowalski?” Danny interjected.

“Yes. Apparently he started having a heart attack. Maybe he had just heard Seamus come in. He called to him. Seamus tripped on the stairs in his hurry to reach him. Kowalski was found dead of a heart attack. Seamus was found by him at the foot of the stairs. His neck was broken.”

Danny looked down for a long moment. Moira saw that he had gripped the back of the chair her father had just vacated. His knuckles were as white as her own.

“When did it happen?” he queried.

“Sometime early this morning.”

Danny still wasn't looking at her. She couldn't see his eyes, but when he looked up at last, she couldn't even begin to read his expression. Suddenly he pushed the chair away and started striding toward the door.

“Where are you going, Dan?” Jeff asked.

“You just told my father you'd be the host here tonight,” Moira called after him.

He paused, his back to her for a minute. Then he turned. “I will be. I'll be back within the hour.”

He started out once again, then swung around, returning to the table.

Andrew McGahey had been sitting there, awkward and silent, through it all. Now Danny stopped dead right in front of him. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“Danny!” Moira said, horrified.

“Andrew McGahey, Irish Educational Charities,” McGahey said flatly. He didn't offer Danny his hand.

“Oh,” Danny said. He stared at the man a moment longer, then exited the pub with long strides.

Moira found herself taking the part of the stranger she had so mistrusted. “I'm really sorry, Mr. McGahey,” she said. “This isn't Danny's place. He had no right to be so rude.”

“He loved old Seamus,” Jeff said quietly.

“It's quite all right, and please, just call me Andrew,” McGahey said. “Look, I'm going to get out from underfoot right now. Please extend my deepest sympathies to your father and the rest of your family, and tell Patrick we'll talk at a better time.” He reached for Moira's hand. She allowed it to be taken. He shook it briefly, nodded to the others, then departed the pub.

Moira felt Michael's hands on her shoulders. Strong, supportive. Guilt didn't even kick in. She was still feeling too stunned.

She offered him a weak smile but moved away, walking to the pub door. Above the etched Kelly's in the cut glass of the upper part of the door, she could see the street.

Danny hadn't gone that far. He was across the street, looking from the pub door down the street to the corner where a turn would lead to Seamus's house.

As Moira watched, Andrew McGahey walked over to him. Danny watched him come. Then McGahey blocked her view of Danny. She could only assume the two men talked. Then they walked off in opposite directions, McGahey to the right, Danny toward the corner. Moira couldn't see exactly where he went without the opening the door, but she didn't need to. She knew he was walking toward Seamus's house.

She felt Michael behind her once again. “Tell me what I can do,” he said softly. He turned her around to face him. She started to cry. The tears she'd been blinking back streamed down her face. Michael took her in his arms very gently. “It's all right, it's all right,” he said softly. “Sounds as if he departed the world in a very noble way. He led a good life.”