Night of the Dark Horse (An Allegra Fairweather Mystery) (2 page)

“I can’t...” He panted. “I’m going down.”

We descended rapidly, crashing the last few feet into long grass. Casper was beneath me so he bore the brunt of the crash, landing face down in soggy ground. I rolled off him. He lay still.

“Casper?” I poked his shoulder. “You awake in there?”

He groaned and rolled onto his back. “Looks like I can’t fly with a passenger. At least not until I’m stronger.” He looked embarrassed. “A guardian angel who can’t help his morsub isn’t much use.”

When Casper mentioned help, he didn’t mean in terms of solving a case. That kind of help was forbidden by the Powers-That-Be because Casper could zoom about invisibly and learn things I couldn’t, which would give me an unfair advantage. Apparently the Power-That-Be didn’t consider the many times Casper had saved me from certain death as being an unfair advantage. Once I used to discuss this with Casper and try to understand. Now I accepted that the Powers-That-Be weren’t always logical. They danced to their own tune, and I just had to deal with it.

So, when Casper mentioned help, he really meant
protecting
me.

“I can look after myself.”

“That defeats the purpose of having a guardian angel. Anyway I’m no use to you at the moment. I—”

“Can it, Casper. I’m in no mood for a pity party.”

“Angels don’t do pity. I was trying to be practical.”

“Forget it. Just concentrate on getting well.”

“I’ll still watch over you.” He got to his feet as though to emphasize the watching over thing. “Even though I might not be able to help you out of a dangerous situation.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Ouch.”

I hadn’t meant to sound snarky. I tried again. “What I meant was that I appreciate you watching over me. Look you’d better get back to Cloud 9 and take a nap or something. I can walk back to Ronan’s.”

Casper’s big shoulders hunched as though he was totally pissed off with his weakened state.

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You’ll get better.” When he didn’t reply, I patted his muddy cheek. “Even if you don’t, I’ll still love you.” It was a throwaway line. Too late I realized I shouldn’t have mentioned the L word. The Powers-That-Be didn’t like romantic relationships between angels and their morsubs. If they suspected I cared more for Casper than I should, we could be separated permanently. “I mean I love you as a friend.”

Casper held my eyes. “I know what you mean.” My heart skipped a beat.

The tension stretched between us until I had to break it or kiss him. I chose the sensible option and asked, “You sure you can fly by yourself?”

“It’s difficult, but so long as I don’t have a passenger, I can stay airborne.”

“Guess I’ll see you ‘round, then,” I said.

“Don’t count on it.”

“It’s okay. I really can take care of myself.” I waited for his wings to appear, fully intending to watch him take off, but nothing happened.

He looked kind of embarrassed. “Do you mind turning around?”

I grinned. “Does this mean you’re about to strip?”

“You should be so lucky,” he quipped. Then his face fell. “I’d rather you didn’t see me take off in my weakened condition.”

“I don’t care what you look like. Anyway, I thought angels weren’t vain.”

“This has nothing to do with vanity.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know how to explain. My weakness makes me feel bad. Especially when I’m with you. Please turn around.”

I did as he asked. And, though I was tempted, I didn’t look back. I knew he was gone when the beating of his wings died away.

It was a cold lonely march back to Ronan’s house. When I arrived at his door, gray dawn was shoving the night aside. I had no key, but he’d waited up for me. Taking in my muddy hair and dripping clothes, he said, “The pooka threw you in the bog.”

Resisting the impulse to say
no
shit
,
Sherlock
, I headed for the shower. When I emerged clean and dressed in fresh clothes, he had made coffee. I barely had time to take my first sip before he said, “I thought the pooka was targeting the people of Dingaleen. Why did it call
you
to ride?”

“Oh that. Scare tactics. To stop my investigation.” The pooka hadn’t said that in so many words, but I’d kind of gotten the message.

“Will you stop?” Ronan asked.

“Of course not. Do I look like a wuss? I’ve tackled worse things than a pissed off pooka.”

“Why has it come to Dingaleen?”

“Sadly, it wasn’t in the mood to share, but I didn’t expect the case to be solved so easily. Now, I’d like to go over a few things with you.” But first I had to get comfortable. My butt was bruised black and blue. Taking my coffee cup, I headed for a group of softer chairs near a display cabinet. It was weighed down with trophies and awards for dance. Along the wall were heaps of photos, professionally taken and beautifully framed. Ronan: dancing solo, dancing with the
Irish
Dance
! troupe, being congratulated by celebrities, winning awards. There was even a photo of Michael Flatley with his arm around Ronan. Across the photo were the handwritten words
To
a
worthy
successor
.

“I’ve been meanin’ to store those in a box in the cupboard.”

Words of sympathy leaped into my mouth but I held them back. I’m not a great dancer, but I love it and I have a talent most people lack. Not rhythm or grace or elegance, but the talent to dance like there’s no one watching. I don’t care if I look like a total dork, so long as I can move to the music. I couldn’t imagine not being able to dance.

Moving on to happier things, I headed for a group of amateur pics. Family groups, with captions like
To
my
brother
,
the
best
groomsman
ever
and
Uncle
Ronan
meets
baby
Jack
. Several photos featured a pretty girl with honey-blonde hair, pixyish features and a dancer’s body.

Ronan followed the direction of my gaze. “Ah, feck. I meant to put those away too. More for the box in the cupboard.” He tried to sound light-hearted and failed.

“Girlfriend?” I asked.

“Once,” he murmured, rubbing his leg. “But it was just a tourin’ thing. You know, you’re away from family and friends, relationships form. They don’t always mean much when you stop tourin’.”

“But she meant something to you.”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “Does your nosiness ever get you in trouble?”

“All the time. But it’s good for business—the nosiness, that is, not the trouble.”

“Look, if I was still dancin’ my relationship with Nessa might have ended amicably, but the way it happened, it feels like she left me. I know that’s not true, but it feels that way. It’ll take time to get my head around it.” Ronan sank into a chair, his back to the cabinet. “What do you want to go over? I’ve told you everything I know.”

Sure, he’d put it in an email, but you can’t see body language in an email. “Tell me again,” I said. “What happened when you were called to ride?”

He sighed, as though it was a big effort. “I should have been on tour, but I got swine flu. Almost died. When I came out of hospital, I was ordered to have time off. I’d just begun to get my strength back when the pooka called me to ride. It threw me. I landed awkwardly and this is the result.” He gestured at his knee. “I need a drink. There’s whiskey.” He pointed to the sideboard in the adjoining dining room. I got the bottle and poured him a small measure.

“Not very generous,” he muttered and swallowed it in one gulp.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning. Besides I need you sober for now. What were you doing when the pooka called you to ride? Be precise.”

“Warmin’ up. Like I said, I was just gettin’ my strength back after the flu. I wanted to try a few steps but I never got the chance. The feckin’ pooka called me to ride. At first I ignored it, but the next thing I knew I was surrounded by broken glass and the pooka was in my livin’ room. It threatened to break my legs if I didn’t ride. I was terrified of losin’ my career. So I rode and look what happened. I lost my career anyway.”

I couldn’t afford to get emotional. I’d be no use to Ronan if I blubbered over his lost career. “Can you remember anything the pooka did or said? Did it give you any clue why
you
were targeted?”

He shook his head and a lock of dark hair flopped onto his forehead. “The beast didn’t say anything during the ride. At least, I don’t think so. It was hard to hear over the noise of the storm. It laughed when it threw me. Right before it galloped away, it said, ‘This is a warnin’. Leave me alone.’ It was a strange thing to say. The pooka had made contact with
me
, not vice versa.”

I made a note of what the pooka had said. Then, “I want a list of all the others who’ve been called to ride. Name, age, occupation, marital status and anything else you know about them. I want to build up a picture of the type of person who interests the pooka.”

Ronan got to work right away. He wrote quickly and soon handed me a list.

I read the names:
Nola
O’Malley
,
Derry
Boyle
,
Siobhan
Whelan
. “Only three?”

“Five, including you and me. I assumed you didn’t want us on the list.”

“No, this is fine.”

As I perused the names and information, he asked, “You want breakfast?”

“Later. I’m going to study this list and work out the best way to proceed.” I went to Ronan’s guest room, where clothes spilled from my suitcase.
Must
hang
them
up
sometime
. But I didn’t do any hanging or even list studying. I had good intentions when I flopped on the bed with my list, but I ended up dozing for hours. It was after midday when I awoke to the smell of frying food.

After eating a super tasty brunch of eggs, sausage and bacon, I headed off to conduct my first interview. The storm had passed and the weather had perked up to something resembling summer. I tried hard not to mourn the blazing heat I’d left behind in Spain.

I set out at a brisk pace, which lasted only a few steps before my muscles protested. I had more strains than a virologists’ convention. In addition to my torn and damaged muscles, my inner thighs were covered in bruises. This called for a special massage from Dexterous Dermot, the fourteen-fingered elf, who worked at the Day Spa on the edge of Fairyland right here in County Wicklow.

You couldn’t just phone Dermot for an appointment. Elves don’t work that way. To make a booking I had to find a fairy at the bottom of a garden. Trouble was not all Irish gardens boasted fairies. You had to find a particularly pretty garden with lots of flower beds, little paths, and maybe a wishing well or some plaster gnomes. I found what I was searching for at the end of a country lane, which was actually called The Lane.

An elderly woman was clipping pale pink roses and depositing them in a basket at her feet. She glanced up. “Good mornin’ to you. Allegra, isn’t it? Everyone’s talkin’ about you. Sure, there are no secrets in small villages.”

I returned her grin. “Pleased to meet you...um...?”

“Oh, how rude of me. I’m Deirdre. Have you come to ask me about the pooka? I hear it’s caused all manner of havoc. But I can’t claim to have seen the beast.”

“Then I won’t need to question you.”

“No, I suppose not.” She seemed disappointed.

I went on quickly. “Your garden is really pretty. Mind if I take a look around?” I’d never get away with that request in the city, but out here it was no surprise that Deirdre offered to give me a guided tour. I told her I’d prefer to wander around alone, if that was okay by her.

She quirked an eyebrow. “If you’re lookin’ for the fairy, he’s at the bottom of the garden behind the wishin’ well.” She winked. “Don’t tell anyone. He’s my little secret. I’m only sharin’ with you because you’re a paranormal investigator.”

The fairy was asleep, mouth open and snoring softly. I gave his little shoulder a prod. “Wake up.”

He groaned and opened one dazzling blue eye. Smoothing down his long white beard, he got to his feet. He was less than a foot tall. Certain types of fairies—the delicate ethereal purebloods, not the crude-fairies, like leprechauns—shrink and age when they’re in our world. It was way past time for this little guy to return to Fairyland and put on some height and youth.

I bowed, showing proper respect, which is really important when you want a favor from a fairy. After introducing myself, I said in my best and most formal Fae, “May I make an appointment with Dexterous Dermot?”

“Of course, dear one. Give me a moment.” He closed his eyes and began to hum. I knew better than to interrupt, but I couldn’t help tapping my foot as I waited for him to respond. His eyes suddenly popped open. “Many apologies, but Dermot cannot see you today. The Fae Olympics have recently concluded and he’s very much in demand. His first available appointments are in two days, but they will fill fast.”

“I will take the earliest,” I said.

He closed his eyes and hummed again. Just for a few seconds. “It is arranged. Do not be late.”

After putting the time and date into my phone, I thanked him and bowed again.

“My pleasure.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wishing well.

“Excuse me.” I poked his shoulder again. “I do not like to be rude, but you might want to consider a trip back to Fairyland before you get any older.”

He looked alarmed. “Am I aging?”

“Yes, indeed.” He could support a plastic surgeon’s family for decades.

The fairy struggled to his feet. “I must go. Thank you for the advice, dear one.”

I made my way back to the front garden. After calling goodbye to Deirdre, I set out again to interview the people who had ridden the pooka. I had only gone a few paces when I heard footsteps behind me.

Chapter Two

Casper moved toward me, leaning heavily on his cane. His golden hair seemed tarnished, his cheeks sunken.

“You should be resting on Cloud 9,” I said, when he finally drew level with me.

“I wanted to be close to you—in case of danger.”

“Am I in danger?” I looked up and down the peaceful village street—two old ladies strolled arm in arm, a man walked his little poodle. Any more boring and we’d all nod off.

“The thing is...” Casper studied his feet, which were still clad in the flip-flops he’d worn in Spain, “...I’m not as fast as I used to be. If you got in danger five minutes from now, it would take me twice that long to reach you. It’s best if I hang around for now.”

“You’ll heal quicker on Cloud 9.” Not that I didn’t want him to hang around, but if a temporary separation would ensure his recovery, I could live with that.

He didn’t answer. His attention returned to his feet.
Honestly
,
those
flip
-
flops
must
be
the
most
interesting
pair
in
the
world
.

When the silence became uncomfortable, I filled it with, “Okay, I’m on my way to do some interviews. You can tag along, but don’t interrupt. Just keep quiet and look pretty.”

“Pretty?” Faint color stained his cheeks.

I winked at him. “You’re even prettier when you blush.” I’d have liked to tease him some more, but there was a case to be solved. I set off down the street, slowing my pace to match his. Once his cane lodged in a pothole and he pitched forward. I caught him before he hit the ground, but it was a near thing.

It was a relief to reach the home of Nola and Brian O’Malley. My knock was answered by a woman in late middle-age. With her clear skin, round rosy cheeks and ample hips, she was the perfect picture of a healthy country woman. I introduced myself and explained that I’d been hired by Ronan to get rid of the pooka.

“Sure, everyone’s been talkin’ about you.” She switched her gaze from me to Casper, extended her hand and said, “Lovely to meet you. Please call me Nola.”

“Casper,” he said, shaking her hand.

“My partner,” I clarified. Flashing him a warning glance, I said, “He doesn’t say much.”

Nola invited us in and offered tea and cake. I preferred coffee, but I’d settle for tea to make a witness feel comfortable.

“Would you like to eat outside?” she suggested. “The weather is so pleasant.” Not sure I agreed with her on that, but I obediently followed her through a neat cottage to her large back garden. A man with balding gray hair and a slight beer belly sat at a table, studying a crossword.

“My husband Brian,” Nola said.

“Good mornin’ to you.” He gave us a brief smile before returning his attention to the puzzle.

Casper and I pulled up chairs and joined him at the table. Brian was too busy filling in squares to pay us much attention, but that was fine by me. Casper stretched his long legs in front of him. It wasn’t long before his eyes closed. Sunlight haloed his hair, which, for a moment, was bright golden again. I was reaching out to smooth the locks off his forehead when Nola reappeared with a tray of cups, saucers, plates and a whole cake.

“This is my famous honey and ginger cake.” She handed around plates of the sugary treat.

I was still full from brunch, but I could always find room for cake. I took a bite. “Wow, this is good.” The only time I’d tasted better was the angel cake from Casper’s Angel Awards goodie bag.

She beamed. “That’s because of my secret ingredient, so it is.”

I knew better than to ask about ingredients. Cooks don’t give away their secrets. Not that I’d borrow her recipe anyway. My idea of preparing food was picking up takeout.

Nola wasn’t done boasting about her cake. “It took first prize at the local fair two years in a row. It would’ve won this year too if that bird hadn’t got to it. The bloody thing flew right into the house on the mornin’ of the fair and started eatin’. By the time I shooed it away, the cake was destroyed.”

“You did more than shoo it away,” Brian teased. “The creature was lucky to escape with its life.”

“Now then, Brian O’Malley, you’d be angry too if a bird attacked your crossword.”

He looked at the sky as though expecting a bird to dump on him. When he saw there was nothing flying overhead, he relaxed and bit into his cake.

I got out my pencil and notepad. “Nola, tell me about your experience with the pooka.”

More than happy to share her story, she began, “There was a terrible storm that night, wasn’t there, Brian?”

“Mmm.” Eleven down commanded his attention.

“It was very much like the storm we had last night,” she went on. “Strange weather we’ve been havin’. Dingaleen rarely had bad storms before this year.” She paused to sip her tea and savor a mouthful of cake. “It was around midnight when the pooka arrived. I’d been up late reading. I’d only just turned out the light when I heard a man—or so I thought—call my name. ‘Nola Ashling O’Malley.’ I thought it was old Derry comin’ home from the pub.”

“But it wasn’t,” I prompted.

She shook her head, making wisps of gray hair dance. “That evil black horse was lookin’ up at my window. Snortin’ fire and brimstone. Eyes like glowin’ coals. I thought I was dreamin’. ‘Go away,’ I said, and drew the curtains. But it didn’t leave. I heard it clompin’ through our garden then the sound of breakin’ glass. From my kitchen! All my recipes were in there. I didn’t stop to put on my dressin’ gown or slippers. I just ran down the stairs like I had a banshee at my heels.

“When I got to the kitchen, rain was blowing through the broken window. The pooka kicked at the door. ‘Nola Ashling O’Malley,’ it shouted, ‘I call you to ride.’

“Pardon my language, but I told it to feck off. Sure, and that made it angry. It shouted, ‘If you refuse to ride, I’ll kick your door in and wreck the kitchen.’ Well, no nasty pooka was going to destroy
my
kitchen. I grabbed my recipe folders and put them in the living room, out of the rain. Then I went outside. If I had to ride to save my kitchen, I’d ride. Isn’t that right, Brian?”

“Nola loves her kitchen,” he answered automatically. All his attention was on the final clue of his crossword.

Nola wasn’t bothered by his distraction. She went right on with her story. “I’m too short to mount such a large creature, but it came over to the stone wall and I scrambled onto its back. ‘Hang on,’ it said with an evil laugh. It took off like a shot, so it did. There were no reins, but I grabbed its mane. It raced around the village and across the fields with me bouncing on its back like a sack of potatoes.

“Racin’ through the woods was terrifyin’. The pooka dodged around trees, makin’ my stomach feel as though I was on one of those amusement park rides. It ducked under some low-hangin’ branches and...that’s all I remember until I woke up on the ground with Brian kneelin’ beside me.”

Brian snapped his fingers. “Amusement. That’s the word.” He filled in the last clue and flung down his pencil with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Welcome back to the land o’ the livin’,” said Nola.

He smiled contentedly and sipped his tea. Nola patted his thigh.

I switched my attention to Brian. “How did you find Nola?”

“I followed the pooka in our car. It wasn’t easy trackin’ the creature across fields. Especially when I had to keep to the road, but I managed it, so I did. When it reached the woods, I got out and tracked it on foot. Couldn’t keep up with it, o’ course, but the beast had left a trail of destruction. I followed that and found Nola lyin’ on the ground, unconscious. At first I thought she was dead. Then I saw those big bosoms rise—”

“Brian! Stop it.” She playfully swatted him. “Just tell Allegra what happened.”

He returned his attention to me. “I’m guessin’ she hit her head on a tree branch and fell off the horse. There was bark in her hair, a graze and a lump on her forehead. It was a miracle she wasn’t badly hurt.”

Nola couldn’t resist adding. “There was a lump on the
back
of my head, too, from where I fell, and my neck is still sore with certain movements, so it is.”

“Did you fall near a bog?” I asked.

“It didn’t dump me in the muck.” Nola smiled, self-satisfied. “Looks like I got the best of it in the end, because I saved my recipes and the damage to the kitchen was easily repaired.”

Brian put in. “There are bogs deeper in the woods. The pooka was probably headin’ that way when Nola fell. She was very lucky.”

“Did the pooka explain why it chose you?” I asked.

“I don’t think it had a reason,” said Nola. “Other than to make mischief.”

Okay, that was the traditional belief, but my gut was telling me there was more to it than that. “How long has the pooka been hanging around Dingaleen?” I asked.

Brian answered. Despite the traumatic experience, his voice was tinged with pride. “Nola was only the second person—after Siobhan Whelan—to ride in a hundred years. Nobody believed pookas were real before that.”

“We thought they were just tales for children,” Nola added. “Then, when Siobhan was called to ride, we thought it was because she’d meddled with those graves.”

“Whose graves?”

Brian and Nola exchanged a glance. He shrugged. She said, “We don’t know who’s buried there. As far as we’re concerned, it’s best to keep away from graves in unconsecrated ground.”

Pencil poised, I asked, “They’re not in the churchyard?”

“No,” Brian said, “they’re out in the woods somewhere.”

“Siobhan told you this?”

Nola shook her head. “It was Fiona Mullan, who got it from her daughter Teagan, who got it from Siobhan herself.”

“And none of them know who’s buried there?”

“I suppose Siobhan does,” said Brian. “You should talk to her.”

“Brian’s right,” said Nola. “Go to the source.”

Instead of repeating gossip like Nola? Good idea. I scribbled a note to find out more about the graves when I interviewed Siobhan, adding a reminder to check whether Ronan or Derry Boyle had seen them. Nola, who could apparently read my handwriting upside down, said, “Derry never went near the graves.”

“Derry makes the best damson wine in the country,” Brian said. “Must be near two hundred proof.”

“Good to know.” Just in case I wanted to get wasted.

Nola said, “Ronan didn’t go near the graves either. Poor young man. His career had barely begun and now it’s over. Tragic, simply tragic.”

“Dancin’.” Brian sniffed. “Not a man’s profession. If he’d had to give up football—now that would’ve been a tragedy.”

“Have some sympathy,” said Nola. “Ronan will never walk properly again, let alone dance. It’s so sad. So young.”

I couldn’t do anything about Ronan’s injury, but if—
when
—I solved this case, I could stop the pooka from hurting anyone else.

Leaving Nola and Brian to finish the cake, we headed for Siobhan’s place. I wanted to find out more about the graves, and her ride, but Siobhan wasn’t home. A neighbor told us she’d gone to Dublin for the day. In the meantime, Derry Boyle’s place was only a short walk away. His cottage was tiny, but the window trims and front door had been freshly painted. His yard was like a farm with vegetable gardens, fruit trees and even a chicken coup. He poured damson wine while I held my breath against the stink of chicken poop. Brian O’Malley had been right about the strength of the wine. Casper and I sipped slowly. Derry knocked back his own drink like a shot, sighed with pleasure and dragged his hand across his lips.

“You’ll want to know about my ride on the pooka,” he said.

“Start with what happened before that, when it first called you to ride.”

“I told it to feck off.”

“Really? How did that go?”

“Cost me some apples and a row of peas. I took a shovel to it. Great shite of a beast kicked the shovel right out of my hand. Broke two of my fingers.” He winced, cradling his hand as though it still hurt. “It threatened to do worse if I didn’t ride. So I climbed on its feckin’ back, slapped its flank and said, ‘Give me your worst.’

“It wasn’t the first time I’d been on a horse and I kept my seat even without a saddle. Even with broken fingers. If the pooka hadn’t stopped dead, I’d never have landed headfirst in the bog. Luck was with me. I landed near the bank. Didn’t take much effort to grab a bush and haul myself out. I ended up with pneumonia, but I lived to tell the tale.” He gave a chuckle that ended in a cough. “It’ll take more than a pooka to kill me.”

“Has it returned?”

He shook his head. “If it does, I’m ready for it. Got a brand new shovel.”

Just in case you’re wondering, there is no evidence that a shovel is the best weapon to use on a pooka. Even a gun isn’t much use. Pookas are so tough they could probably survive a nuclear blast. Along with cockroaches.

“So, Mr. Boyle...” He hadn’t said I could call him Derry, and older people are often more responsive if you show them respect. “...do you know why the pooka targeted
you
?”

“There’s no rhyme or reason. The world’s gone crazy. Violent storms. Eagles eatin’ my berries. It’s wrong.”

“I thought eagles were carnivores.”

“So they are. But just two days before the pooka showed up, I had to take my shovel to an eagle. Not that I’d have killed it. You may not know this but eagles died out in this part of the world. There’s a program to reintroduce them. Mind you, this wasn’t a golden eagle or even a white-tailed eagle. It was black as good soil with bright yellow tips on its wings and claws. Never seen anything like it before—must be a new species. Some experiment with genetics. I don’t approve of dabblin’ with nature.”

I glanced at Casper, wondering whether he knew anything about the strange eagle, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Mainly because he was leaning against a wall of Derry’s house, eyes closed. His skin had a gray tinge. The lines in his face seemed even deeper than Derry’s. The sight of him in such poor condition was like a knife through my heart. I turned back to Derry, focusing on the case.