The Delaney Woman (4 page)

“I want to know if his death had something to do with his investigation.”

The two men glanced at each other. Marsh spoke again. “We have no evidence that would lead us to believe so.”

She stood, praying her bluff would work. “I see. Thank you for your time.”

“Please, Miss Delaney, sit down.” Marsh hesitated. “We're in something of a bind. Connor was working on a lead. He was killed before he had time to deliver his report. Any information you have would be appreciated.”

He was killed
. Kellie drained the last of her tea. It was difficult to swallow. She couldn't get past the words
he was killed
. Connor and Danny, innocent Danny, were killed, murdered. “I could use the same consideration, Mr. Marsh.”

Again the two men looked at each other. Griffith shrugged and turned to gaze out the window. Marsh cleared his throat “The brake cables on your brother's car were cut.”

“How is that possible? He drove several hours before the crash. Surely he would have noticed that he had no brakes before climbing the mountain road.”

“We believe the brakes were partially cut before he started out that day. He stopped for petrol and a bite to eat at a convenience store. When he came out the brakes were gone.”

Kellie closed her eyes. Pain leaped to life in her chest, radiating outward until her entire back and stomach were on fire. “Why?” she whispered.

“We're not disclosing this to upset you further, Miss Delaney,” Cecil Marsh assured her. “We could use your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Anything you can give us would be a start— names, locations, anything?”

“Will you find who killed my brother and his son?”

Cecil Marsh leaned back in his chair. Lines of weariness etched his cheeks. “Honestly?” He shook his head. “It's doubtful. These people are clever and the situation complicated. It isn't likely one person acted alone. The odds aren't good, Miss Delaney. They never are. I'm sorry. Can you help us at all?”

They wanted her help, these men who treated murder as blandly as they did the morning weather report. Rage loomed in her chest. Connor and Danny were dead, killed by assassins and it was merely
an unfortunate circumstance
. Kellie bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her eyes were blank, her words expressionless. She had a single name, a common name. It was all she would give them. “Tom Whelan,” she said quietly. “My brother was communicating with a man named Tom Whelan.”

John Griffith spoke for the first time. “There are thousands of Tom Whelans. Do you have a location?”

“No,” she lied. “All I have is his name.”

Marsh stood. “Thank you for your information, Miss Delaney. We'll let you know if anything develops.” He had his arm under her elbow, leading her toward the door. “These things take time. It's best to get on with your life and let us do our business. Connor would have wanted that. He understood how things worked.”

Kellie stood outside the door closed firmly shut against her. The interview was over. She had been swatted aside, an annoying fly in the path of a steamroller moving in the opposite direction.

There was nothing left to do but take matters into her own hands and go to Banburren, check into Tom Whelan's guest house and find out what she could. Fortunately she had already booked her room. Two weeks had never seemed shorter. Connor's house would have to be listed and her flat sublet. There was no time to lose.

H
e opened the door, took one look at the woman on the porch and his breathing altered. She stepped out of the shadows into the light and his heart resumed its natural rhythm.
She wasn't Claire
. The revelation came to him immediately, with the speed and surety of an epiphany.

Mustering the practiced skill acquired through years of renting rooms to boarders, Tom Whelan summoned a warm smile and reached for her bag. “Come in,” he said easily. “You must be Kellie Delaney.”

“Yes. Thank you for taking me on such short notice.” Her voice was smoky, seductive, so like Claire's it shook him to the core.

Once again he recovered quickly. “It's no problem. There isn't much activity here in Banburren this time of year. Would you like a pot of tea?”

She smiled. “Yes, thank you. I'd like it very much. I've forgotten how hospitable the Irish are.”

“You're not Irish?”

“Actually I am, from here in
the Six Counties
. But I've been away for a long time.”

He led her into the kitchen where he filled a kettle with water and assembled the tea tray, all the while maintaining a steady flow of light conversation.

Tom cleared his throat. “I thought you'd be more comfortable if I made up the room overlooking the garden.”

“Thank you.” She sat down at the table and sipped her tea. “Do you have another job or does this take all your time?”

He was surprised at her bluntness, odd for an Irish woman. Claire was like that, quick to the point, not worrying about appearances. But Claire was a girl without education from a working-class family, with a bit of a chip on her shoulder. This woman was not. Still, there were similarities, enough to intrigue him. He sat down across from her. “I play a bit of music and I write poetry. Why do you ask?”

She ignored his question. “Poetry? Have I heard of you?”

“I don't think so.” He grinned. “We're all poets here.”

“We've a few where I come from as well.”

“Ah, Seamus Heaney. I'll not be forgetting him.” He changed the subject. “Where did you say you've been living?”

“I didn't.”

He recognized a rebuff when he heard one. Apparently she was a woman who preferred asking the questions.

“That was rude,” she said, surprising him with a lovely smile and more of her bluntness. “I live in Oxford.”

Rude, perhaps some would call her so, but honest and straightforward she was as well. He liked that.

“On the phone you said you had a daughter.”

If he narrowed his eyes and listened to her voice, she could almost be Claire. He caught himself. Not even seven years could change a woman so completely. “Aye. Her name is Heather,” he said. “She's seven years old. Her grandmother is keeping her tonight.”

“Where is her mother?”

Again, that shocking lack of formality. And yet it didn't offend him, not yet.

“She doesn't live with us,” he said shortly. “And what is it that you do for a living, Kellie Delaney?”

“I'm a teacher.”

“Isn't school in session?”

“Yes, it is. But I've taken a leave. I've had a—” she hesitated “—a loss.”

“I see.” He wouldn't probe, even though he imagined she would have had no difficulty doing so if the tables were turned. “Will you be here long?”

She fixed her eyes on his face. They were large and fight light gray, nearly colorless except for the odd dark flecks in the centers. Her hair was lovely, too— brown with strands of copper, so fine and wavy it sprang out with a life of its own from around the sculpted bones of her face.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “Perhaps. Can you accommodate me?”

He smiled. “Stay as long as you like or as long as you can stand it. Banburren isn't Dublin. It isn't even Oxford. You might find yourself with too much time on your hands.”

She ignored his comment and drank the last of her tea. “If you don't mind, I'd like to rest for a bit. It's been a long drive.”

He stood. “I'll take you up. The water runs hottest in the morning, just to let you know.”

“Thank you.”

He led her up the stairs and down a long hall. Dropping her bag inside the door of her room, he stepped back to allow her inside. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

“I'll do that.”

Tom hesitated. There was no polite way of asking. “Why did you choose Banburren?”

“I'd nowhere else to go,” she said matter-of-factly. He was more than a little intrigued. Her resemblance to Claire was truly remarkable. Perhaps they were related and the woman had come to find her roots. People were always looking up their lost Irish families. Deliberately, Tom suppressed all thoughts of his wife. He didn't want to think about her now, or ever. “Surely that isn't true,” he said instead.

She shrugged. “It doesn't matter.”

She stood behind the door and stared at him. Tom knew she wanted him to leave. He would never have believed another woman could have eyes like that, with the same shape, color and clarity. He opened his mouth but the words froze in his throat. Christ, years had passed. What was the matter with him?

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

Outside on the road, he heard the sound of a horn. In the warm, peat-scented kitchen the stew he'd started earlier in the day bubbled in its pot. Rain tapped against the windows misting the panes, cocooning them in a world of silence and memories and awkwardness. In the distance, the bells of Saint Isadora's tolled the hour. Seven o'clock and all of the night to get through.

“No,” he said, mentally shaking himself. “I'm off to take the dog for a walk. Good night.” Suddenly Tom was in a hurry to be away from her, but his feet wouldn't move. He didn't want this stranger in his house, this woman with his wife's voice taking up space, asking questions, prying into his life.

“Have a pleasant walk.” She closed the door in his face.

It was a dismissal, subtle but firm, and he was more than pleased to take her up on it.

With renewed energy, Tom ran down the stairs, shrugged into his jacket and let himself out. The woman was odd. Perhaps she was hiding something. He recognized paranoia when he saw it. More than likely it was her upbringing. She was from the North and of the Catholic persuasion or she wouldn't have used the term the Six Counties. He would have known without her telling him. Her accent placed her, even if it was an educated one. He'd never heard anyone duplicate it successfully. One either was or wasn't from the North. If so, it couldn't be denied or escaped.

He shook his head. She was very like Claire.

Kellie waited at her window, watching until he disappeared around the corner with the dog. Then she opened the door and walked back down the stairs to explore. Walking through the house she ran the tips of her fingers across the polished wood, the runner on the table, the buttery, half-smoked candles on the mantel, the pictures framed in wood on the shelves. There was only one subject in all of them, a little girl with lovely eyes and fawn-colored hair, posing at various stages of her life. This must be Tom's daughter. Kellie's heart skipped a beat. Would she ever be able to look at a child and not think of Danny? She closed her eyes and practiced the meditation ritual that had seen her through the last few weeks. This time it helped.

Kellie loved looking at photographs, but time was slipping away. How long did it take to walk a dog, ten minutes? An hour? Quickly, she walked down the hall, peering into the various rooms. Most were bedrooms, starkly decorated, but clean and well maintained. She would find nothing here. Proceeding to the end of the hall, Kellie found a small room with a desk, a comfortable chair, a reading lamp, shelves filled with books, filing cabinets and a computer. Tom's study. A gold mine.

Kellie checked her watch. The computer would have to wait until she was sure of how long he would be gone. She opened the top drawer of the desk and found nothing but office supplies. The next one was empty except for a stack of white paper. The bottom drawer looked more promising. Scraps of paper with names and dates in no particular order. Kellie sorted through a handful. Tom's handwriting, although legible enough made no sense to her. The words looked like some sort of code.

The front door clicked. She heard steps on the wood floor. Quickly she closed the drawer, switched off the light and stepped back into the hall. She was outside the first guest room before he saw her.

His eyebrows rose. “Did you need something?” he asked.

“The house is lovely.” Her voice sounded breathless, quivery. “I wanted to see the other rooms.”

It seemed as if an eternity passed before he answered. “You've got the best one, but you're welcome to change if you like.”

“My room is fine. Thank you.” She went on the offensive. “You're back soon.”

“I came for Lexi's leash. She runs after everything that moves when I take her across the bog.”

“Do you have anything to read? I'm not sleepy after all.”

He walked past her to the door of his study and flicked on the light. “Feel free to choose anything you like from here,” he said, gesturing toward his well-stocked bookshelves.

It was too much to hope for, this carte blanche into his personal study. “Thank you,” she managed to reply.

“Good night, Kellie.”

She was tempted to take up where she left off, examining the contents of his bottom desk drawer, but she wasn't stupid. Selecting a book of Yeats's poems from the shelf, she turned off the light and left the room. If he came home again, he would find her in the sitting room reading his book.

Ten minutes later she hadn't yet turned a page. Her anxiety had returned in full force. It was always with her. At best it was an anxious fluttery feeling in her stomach. She could manage that. It was the gripping terror she couldn't face, the hideous screaming, the searing heat and melting flesh and then the emptiness and an ache so deep and bottomless and complete that it loosened her bones, caved in her chest and dry- sucked her heart. In the first few days after the funeral, the only help for it was a Xanax, two pills at once, washed down with one ounce of Irish Mist, straight up, no ice. Relief was immediate, followed by a twelve-hour stupor that left her weary and brain- dead and blissfully imagination-free. Thankfully, that part, the helpless desolation, so severe she needed drugs, was behind her. Now, it was manageable. Now she had a goal.

Tom Whelan didn't look like a murderer, but then what did one look like? Perhaps like this man— priestly, a clean-cut boy scout with fine, sharp features, dark hair that fell over his forehead and clear blue-green eyes. He was just above average height and quite thin, rather like Connor. Kellie knew the type. She came from a long line of chain-smoking, hard-drinking Irish men who consumed their food whole because their bodies demanded fuel, but took little pleasure in the process.

She bothered him. She could see it in the tense line of his upper lip and the set of his shoulders when he looked directly at her. She traced the final picture on the mantel, a small snapshot of a man, a little girl and a dog, a red-boned Irish setter with a sweet face and dark eyes. The child was two, maybe three.

The phone rang. She tensed and waited through three full double rings before she realized there was no answering machine. What if it was Tom? Quickly, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. Her stomach fluttered.

“Hello?”

A woman's voice spoke. “Who is this?”

“Who is this?” Kellie returned.

“I'm Susan Whelan, Tom's mother.”

Kellie's cheeks flamed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have answered the phone. I'm a guest. My name is Kellie Delaney.”

“Tom wouldn't mind,” the woman said. “Is he around?”

“He's out for a walk.”

“Isn't that a man for you? Shame on him. I raised him better than that, I did. Do you need anything, love? I can run over if you do. I've a hot stew bubbling on the stove and apple crisp in the oven.”

Good lord, these people were friendly. “No, thank you, I've eaten.”

“Where are you from, lass? You sound a bit different from those of us from the country.”

She couldn't afford to like this woman. “Originally, from Belfast, but I've lived in England for quite some time.”

“That's where it comes from, that crispness. I've a good ear. Tom gets it from me. That's why he's so clever at the pipes. Get him to play them for you. He's not at all bashful when it comes to his music.”

“He isn't bashful at all.”

“Really, now. I thought he was. How old are you, Kellie, lass?”

“Thirty-five,” Kellie replied without thinking. Susan reminded her of her own mother. It never occurred to her to hold anything back.

“Thirty-five, you say, a mere babe in arms.” She laughed. “Tell Tom that Heather's had her supper and she's nearly asleep. She'll be home bright and early in the morning.”

“I'll do that.”

“Don't be too hard on Tom. He's been alone now for seven years and isn't always the best company. What he needs is a good woman to take Claire's place although he wouldn't admit it You've a lovely, clear voice. Are you married, Kellie?”

“No,” Kellie stammered.

“Why not?”

“I'm not sure exactly. It never worked out.”

“I'm sorry, love. It must be hard to be on your own when you're so young. Well, perhaps you won't be alone for long,” said Susan. “I won't keep you any more tonight. Give Tom my message and tell him we'll be over in the morning. I've enjoyed our chat and I'll see you tomorrow.”

Kellie replaced the receiver and leaned weakly against the wall. How could this be? She had no backup strategy, no alternative plan to accommodate goodness. Who was Tom Whelan? Surely not a man involved in a murderous plot. A man who was raising a seven-year-old daughter, a man who walked his dog and wrote poetry and answered to the likes of Susan Whelan couldn't possibly know anything about murder. And yet Connor had carried his number in his coat pocket. There was a connection somewhere, if only she could sort it out. More than ever she was grateful for her instincts to keep her plans to herself.