Buried in a Bog (15 page)

“That’s awful. So that’s why no one had the time to talk to me this morning. Was he a local man?”

“He was. Just come from the cash point, but no money was found on him. Someone dragged the body out of sight, so he wasn’t discovered until this morning.”

Maura wondered if he was talking about the same ATM she had noted earlier—in plain sight, on a busy street. Hardly the place she would have expected a mugging. Impatient car horns behind her reminded Maura that she was still in the driveway. “Look, I’m not sure where to park. Will it take long for someone to see Jimmy?”

“If he’s not at death’s door, it could be a while—hours, at least. Were you planning to wait?”

“I…don’t know. I’m making this up as I go. Can you point me toward a cheap parking lot?”

“Of course. Go halfway round the building again, and you’ll see it on your left.” He stepped away from the car.

“Thanks for the help,” Maura said as she pulled out and followed his directions, and was rewarded with a parking space. She sat for a moment, turning over what Sean Murphy had just told her: two men dead, in the course of two days. Well, the first one didn’t count, because he’d probably been dead for a while. Still, she felt a chill go through her, then shook it off. One problem at a time: right now she had to deal with Jimmy’s. She headed for the nearest entrance, followed the signs to the A and E, and found Jimmy and Rose seated on hard plastic chairs in a crowded waiting area.

“What’s the word?” she asked.

“Do yeh see that board, over the glass there?” Jimmy said.

Maura looked up to see a digital board with scrolling letters in bright red. “And?”

“I’m number 257. They’ve reached number 193. I may be called by Christmas.” He winced as he shifted in the hard plastic chair.

Rose piped up, “You should go back to the pub, Maura. No point in waiting—it’ll be hours yet.”

“How will you get home?”

“They’ll call a cab for us. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. Go on back, help Mick out,” Jimmy said.

Briefly Maura wondered why he’d be worried about that, until with a start she realized that this second death that Sean Murphy had told her about would probably boost attendance tonight; Jimmy was more right than he knew. “I guess I’ll leave, then, if you’re sure.”

“Go on, then. Don’t worry,” Jimmy said. Rose smiled weakly and made shooing motions.

“Then I’ll see you later, or maybe tomorrow. Take care, Jimmy—I hope it’s not too bad.”

Back on the road again, Maura concentrated on remembering the route, only in reverse. Once she’d reached relatively open road past all the roundabouts, she relaxed a bit. She didn’t know a whole lot about the Irish health care system—nothing, in fact, except that it covered a lot of people for not much money. Did people here have insurance? Or were services, or at least emergency treatment, free to everyone? Her grandmother’s last illness had drained her meager savings, even though she had had basic insurance coverage. Could Jimmy afford to pay for whatever he needed? He and Rose didn’t seem to have much. Did the pub face any liability for his accident, or was that just American thinking, planning a lawsuit before the ambulance had even arrived? Only there weren’t a lot of ambulances, apparently. She might even suspect Jimmy of having manufactured his accident to get out of doing the heavy work, but she’d seen his arm, and there was no way to fake that.

Maura arrived back at the pub just as darkness was falling. The lights inside Sullivan’s glowed warmly. There were already several cars parked in front, and she could see people inside. Smoke eddied from the chimney, so someone had lit the fire. She decided to park back at the bed and breakfast, to leave room for customers’ cars in front of the pub. When she walked back and pushed her way into Sullivan’s, she was greeted with smoky warmth and the sound of many voices. Mick Nolan looked up, then beckoned her over.

“What’s the word?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’m not sure—I left Jimmy and Rose in the emergency room, or whatever you call it around here. They said they would be there for a while, and that I’d be more useful here. Looks like I was right.”

“It’ll be a busy night. There’s been a killing in Skibbereen.”

“Oh,” she said. News sure traveled fast around here, so clearly she didn’t need to worry about keeping it a secret for Sean Murphy’s sake. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here.”

“It is that.”

The night faded into a blur as more and more people poured into Sullivan’s. There were many new faces, although to Maura most faces in town would be new: the youngest seemed to be in their twenties, the oldest anywhere from seventy to ninety. The latter group included Billy Sheahan, reigning from his customary chair by the fire. He raised a hand to her but didn’t seem to expect any conversation, since it was clear she didn’t have the time.

She caught snippets as she moved through the crowd, delivering pints and picking up empty glasses. It didn’t take her long to hear the name of the dead man: Bart Hayes. She froze in place, shocked.

Mick noticed quickly. He came over, grabbed her arm, and guided her back to the bar. “What’s wrong?”

She swallowed. “The dead man, Bart Hayes—he was just here yesterday, late afternoon.” He’d been so happy. It was hard to take in that he’d been killed only a few hours later.

Mick nodded. “He’s a regular. He drives by here most days, stops in now and then. He was a good man. Are you all right?”

Maura nodded. “I will be, I guess. Such a shame.” She picked up the next round of drinks. After a couple of hours she had pieced together most of the story. Bart Hayes had been on his way home, had stopped to celebrate at another pub or two. It must have been later when he stopped at a bank ATM to take out some cash, well after dark. Someone had hit him on the head and dragged him out of sight near the river, then emptied his pockets. Maura could guess how few people there would be out on the streets late in the evening. The blow had proven fatal. There was no useful evidence (at least, none that anyone in the pub knew of), and robbery seemed to be the only motive. The man was local and generally well liked. And now he was dead. So far there were no suspects, and the gardaí were interviewing anyone who admitted to having been in town anytime after six p.m. The opinion among the crowd at Sullivan’s was evenly divided between those who thought an arrest would come quickly and those who believed they’d never find the attacker. In the latter camp, there was agreement that the attacker was not a local man and was probably long gone. Wishful thinking? Maura wondered.

Mick finally shut down the lights shortly past midnight and hustled out the last patrons, locking the door behind them. “Long day,” Maura said, sitting gratefully on a stool at the bar. “Any word from Jimmy?”

“Rose left me a message that they were on their way home. He’s meant to take it easy for a day or two—it was a clean break—but Rose said she’d cover. Can I get you something?”

“You mean, a drink? Are you having one?”

“I’ll join you. A half-pint?”

“Okay.” Maura watched as he poured two smaller glasses from the Guinness tap. When he finally slid it across the bar, he raised his own and said,
“Sláinte.”

“And to you,” Maura said, raising her glass. Then she reminded herself to go slow: she’d missed dinner again. Had Jimmy managed to bring in any food before his accident? “Mick, what’s going to happen with this place? Or maybe I should ask, what do you
want
to happen with it?”

“It’s been here for a long time. There used to be music, in the back room. Old Mick ruled the place like his own little kingdom, and he had plenty of loyal subjects.”

“Will they keep coming?”

“Hard to say. Many of the old regulars are gone now, except Old Billy.”

“How do you attract new people to replace them?”

“I don’t know. But that wasn’t your question, was it?”

“Not really. What I’m asking is, do you expect to stay on, whatever happens?”

“Maybe. It depends. I’m hoping…”

“What?” Maura asked.

Mick looked down at the bar and moved his glass around in small circles. “Old Mick never married, although there are plenty of relatives around. I’m pretty sure Jimmy’s hoping that he’ll get at least a piece of the place, if there’s a will to be found.”

“And you? You want a share?”

“It’s a good business. Could be better if it’s handled right.”

He kept ducking the question, Maura noticed. No simple “yes” or “no” answer. “Do you stay around Leap because of your grandmother?”

He looked at her then. “You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re right—I do. But Gran was the only family I ever had, or ever knew, and I couldn’t leave her alone. Not that I had any big ideas about what I wanted to do. But I bet you have other options.”

“We all have choices. I’ve made mine, for now. My gran’s well into her eighties. There’s time to decide later. For now, this is a decent place to be.”

He didn’t seem the least bitter about it, Maura reflected. She couldn’t really say whether she was bitter either about giving so much of her life to helping Gran. She’d loved her and believed she owed her something. It had been
her
choice. In any case, she was not one to throw stones at Mick Nolan.

“Sorry, I mean, it’s your life. And I do understand your wanting to be around for your gran. When did she move to Knockskagh?”

“When she married, at seventeen.”

“Wow, that was young. Were there a lot of kids?”

“I had my own share of aunts and uncles. Most are gone now.”

“Gone as in somewhere else, or have they passed on?”

“A bit of each. Before you ask, my father Denis died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago, and my mother lives with my sister Bridget in Clonakilty. Any more questions?”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Maura replied, bristling. “It just seems like everyone around here knows a whole lot about me, but I don’t know them at all. How else am I supposed to find out anything?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you. It’s been a
difficult day, and I’m tired. You must be too, and I’d guess that Jimmy won’t be of much use for a bit, so it’s up to us to handle the place. Are you good with that?”

“I’m used to working hard, if that’s what you’re asking. There’s nowhere else I have to be, right now. Good enough?”

“It’ll do. Drink up now, and go home.”

Maura emptied her glass, wondering just where “home” was.

M
aura was surprised to find herself awake early, after her late night. She had to stop and count how long she’d been in Ireland: this was only her fifth day here, if she counted the day she’d arrived. It seemed like longer. She had to admit, she felt like she’d been thrown into the deep end of the pool, with no warning. As she’d told Mick, everybody around here seemed to know who she was; most of them knew more about her family history than she did. How many years would it take to fill in that kind of information for all these new people she was meeting?

She jumped out of bed and showered quickly, then went upstairs to find that Ellen’s children were still in the kitchen. Oh, right—it was Saturday, which meant no school. She hovered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder. When the children noticed her, they suddenly turned shy.

“You lot, in the parlor,” Ellen barked, and the older children took themselves off, leaving Gráinne, who was seated on the kitchen floor playing with several wooden spoons and looking quite content. Maura wondered briefly what it would be like to be one of many kids, much less the last of many. Or maybe not even the last? Ellen couldn’t be forty yet, so she could have more if she chose.

My own mother hadn’t even wanted to raise one
.

“You’re up early today. You’ve heard?” Ellen said. “Oh, would you rather have cereal, or bread and butter? There’s jam.”

“If it’s the brown bread, I’ll have that. I’m developing a taste for it. You mean about the murder in Skibbereen? I did; everybody was talking about it at Sullivan’s last night. Sad thing. Do you know, I talked to him, the afternoon before he died? He stopped in at Sullivan’s on the way home. You don’t get a lot of murders around here, do you?”

“It’s a rare thing, God be praised. And finding two bodies within the week—even if the man in the bog died long ago—I can’t recall it ever happening before. Did you talk to the gardaí?”

“I went over there, but they were kind of busy with this new death, even though I didn’t know it at the time. I hate to bother them now, with such a long shot. They’ll be busy with this new one, won’t they?”

“No doubt they will. I’m sure the man from the bog will keep, until they get this sorted out,” Ellen said, before turning to her child. “Ah, Gráinne, you’ve made a mess of yourself—I’d better be cleaning you up. Could you hold her a moment, Maura?” Without waiting for an answer, Ellen deposited Gráinne, still clutching a spoon, on Maura’s lap.
Maura and Gráinne stared at each other seriously, then Gráinne offered the spoon to Maura.

“Oh, so you want me to play? All right.” Maura took the spoon and looked around for something to bang it on, that wouldn’t break—and wouldn’t give little Gráinne some evil ideas. She couldn’t find anything within reach, and in the end she simply handed it back to the toddler. Gráinne grasped it as if she’d never seen anything so delightful and waved it at Maura. They repeated the process several times, before Ellen approached with a wet cloth to wipe down her daughter—a process that Gráinne didn’t enjoy at all. Apparently she had already learned the word “no.”