Buried in a Bog (30 page)

Maura came up and stood beside him, trying to see his face. “Help me out here. You knew who it was, and you didn’t tell anyone? Why not?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I had my suspicions. Denis McCarthy was my great-grandfather. Bridget’s father.”

Oh.
Maura was stunned into silence. She leaned against the wall and tried to work out what that meant. The most important question was, did Bridget know? But if she had, wouldn’t she have said something days ago? Either she was a darned good actress, or she really was in the dark about this. And why had Mick known?

She took a deep breath. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain. First, does she know?”

Mick shook his head, without looking at her. “She does not. I’d hoped she would never know, because it will cause her pain—she doesn’t deserve that.”

“She doesn’t know that her father disappeared?”

Now he turned to look at her. “You find that hard to understand, no doubt. Bridget was a very young child when her da went missing—you do the math. Her sisters were a bit older, but young still. Her mother wasn’t a strong woman, and then Jeremiah McCarthy more or less stole the land from under her, and she had no choice but to take the girls and go back to her own family. She broke off all ties down here. Worse, she took back her family name and never told the girls they were McCarthys. She forbade her family from mentioning Denis McCarthy, thinking he’d run off and abandoned them all. Bridget was too young to know what was going on, and if her sisters did, they were frightened into silence.”

“But why do you know this?” Maura pressed.

“Would you be content if I said no more than ‘curiosity’?”

Maura regarded him steadily. “No, not really. What made you look?”

He returned his gaze to the timeless landscape. “I was checking some property titles and the like—I wanted to be sure that Grannie was taken care of. After a bit I realized that no one in my family had looked for some of the basic documents like birth certificates and marriage licenses, which seemed odd to me.”

Maura digested that. “But…didn’t her mother have to
sign them up for school? Or tell your grandmother her real name when she married?”

“Things were simpler then. I have no idea what the priest knew, but he made no trouble for her. Grannie only came back here as a married woman, and nobody remembered the old story, or if they did, they didn’t mention it, out of kindness. When her husband—my grandfather—died, she inherited the land, and she has enough to live on, so there’s no government meddling. She could easily never know.”

“Except for me sticking my nose into it? I was just trying to help.”

“I know. It’s no fault of yours.” Mick fell silent.

After a moment, Maura said, “Shoot—that means we’re related too, you and I.”

“I make it third cousins,” Mick said with an amused smile.

Maura turned to face him. “Do you know how many people I’ve added to my family tree in just one day? This is ridiculous! I’m going to have to start assuming I’m related to everyone I meet around here.”

“It happens,” Mick said. “You won’t tell Grannie any of this?”

“She already knows about finding the Bog Man, obviously. Will it be possible to hide his identity from her?” Maura felt a stab of guilt: she didn’t want to hurt Bridget Nolan, but she was the one who had figured out the connection.

“I hope so.”

“Did Bridget’s mother ever remarry?” Maura asked softly.

Mick shook his head. “How could she? There was no proof that her husband, Denis, was dead—until now.”

“So Bridget never had a father,” Maura said.

“Her mother’s people lived in a townland much like this one—all the families clustered together. It was a happy place, to hear her tell it.”

And Maura didn’t want to spoil those memories for Mrs. Nolan. “Mick, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, but don’t you think it’s bound to come out, one way or the other? And if there’s a funeral for Denis, won’t that stir up more memories around here?”

“I’m trying to keep it quiet. For her sake.”

Maura wondered if that was Mick’s real reason, but she couldn’t find another one that made sense. But if it had been her…she would have wanted to know the truth, even if it was unpleasant.

Just like you’ve gone looking for the truth about your mother?

That thought stopped Maura in her tracks. All right, Bridget had led a long and happy life, and Mick wanted her to end it happy, not mourning a father she had never known. Was there anything wrong in that? And it certainly wasn’t her place to question his decision—it was his call. But that still left one question.

“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut—about everything. She doesn’t know about the guy trying to run me off the road?”

Mick shook his head.

Maura sighed. Neither Mick nor his grandmother knew about what had happened at the Keohanes’ house the night before, and she wasn’t going to tell them. Although it was hard to keep such stories quiet around here, she was finding. “Are we going to go see Mrs. Nolan now? And who’d you leave in charge of Sullivan’s?”

“Jimmy’s there, and Rose. It’s a quiet day, so they’ll manage.” He straightened up, pushing away from the stone wall. “You can go now—I’ll explain to Grannie why you didn’t stop by.”

“Can I visit her tomorrow? After I’ve had time to think about all this?”

“Of course.”

T
he rain had finally made up its mind and was falling heavily. If Maura hadn’t had to drive in it, she might have enjoyed watching it: clouds scudded across the sky in the distance, dragging curtains of rain. The gullies alongside the road filled rapidly, creating their own little streams. Maura was thankful that she could follow fairly well-paved roads back to Leap.

Mick had stayed on to talk with his grandmother, saying he’d be in later. Maura parked the car in front of Sullivan’s and dashed for the door. When she opened it, the place smelled damp and smoky; the small peat fire in the fireplace was not enough to disperse the clammy air, and there was nowhere for it to go anyway. Old Billy was dozing in his usual chair. Rose was behind the bar, Jimmy was nowhere
in sight, and there were a few customers, mostly minding their own business. It was not a day for cheerful chat.

“Hi, Rose.” Maura greeted her, and stashed her bag behind the bar. “Anything going on?”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen more excitement than we have. I hear you laid out a burglar with a lamp last night.”

“I hit him, but it was Sean Murphy who scared him off. Anyway, we found him again, over in Clogagh, and he’s been arrested. Do you know, that all started right here in Sullivan’s?” When Rose raised her eyebrows, Maura explained, “The guy and his friend were in here the day I opened that letter from Denis Flaherty—remember, we were talking about it? What I hadn’t figured out was that Bart Hayes, the man who died in Skibbereen, was here when they were, and when he left, the other guys followed him, thinking he’d be an easy target. One of the guys saw me later going to the garda station and thought I could put them all together. They were worried that I’d make trouble for them.”

“So instead they made trouble for you,” Rose said.

“Exactly. If I’d been a regular tourist, I probably would have packed up and left, which is what they wanted. They were kind of surprised when I didn’t.” Rose had to hear the whole story, and then Maura had to repeat it to Old Billy. Finally Rose said, “Good for you! No doubt we’ll have a busy night, if the story gets ’round. You’re a local heroine.”

“Shoot, I didn’t think of that. I really didn’t do all that much. You know, it seems that every time I open my mouth I end up saying something I shouldn’t, or spilling somebody else’s secrets. I hope there aren’t any left.” Except for Mrs. Nolan’s.

Jimmy emerged from the back of the building, carrying some tools, awkwardly bundled in his good arm. Before speaking, he gave her a long look, one that Maura couldn’t interpret. “There’s someone wants to talk with you,” he said, nodding toward a woman seated at a table in the far corner.

“Oh, right, I was to tell you that, but your news drove it clear out of my mind,” Rose said, contrite. “Sorry, Da, I forgot.”

“Uh, okay. You mean she asked for me?” Maura said. “Do you know why?”

“You’d best ask her,” Jimmy said.

Maura went over to the table. When the woman looked up, she said, “I’m Maura Donovan. You were looking for me?”

“Maura Donovan, from Boston?” When Maura nodded, the woman gestured toward the chair across from her. “Please, sit down.”

Maura sat and studied the woman, who was in her thirties, and better dressed and groomed than most of the people who came through Sullivan’s. She had to be some kind of professional. What could this woman want from her?

“Your grandmother was Nora Donovan, nee Sullivan, correct?”

“Yes. You know she died recently?”

“I do now. But in fact it was you I was looking for. I sent a letter to the last address I had for you, but it was returned, stamped ‘not at that address.’”

“That’s right. I just moved out, and I didn’t leave a forwarding address because I didn’t know where I’d be, and I wasn’t expecting any mail anyway—I’d settled all the bills before I left. Why were you looking for me?”

“Ah, forgive me, I’m doing this backward. My name is
Elizabeth Flynn. I’m a solicitor in Skibbereen. It’s a happy chance I found you here! Did you know Michael Sullivan?”

“You mean, the former owner here? No. I gather he died not long before I showed up, so I never met him. Why?” Did this woman enjoy spinning out a story? Maura had to keep reminding herself that things moved more slowly in Ireland than she was used to, but she wished this Elizabeth would just get to the point.

“Not long ago Mr. Sullivan came to me and asked me to draw up a will for him. As you might know, he was not a young man. He never married, nor had children, and his brothers and sisters had passed on. He didn’t know most of their children or grandchildren, who are scattered all over. He came to me to ask what restrictions there might be as to leaving his property to someone not of his immediate family. I told him that would not be a problem, so long as he was still fit and able, and I was sure that he was. Together we drew up a simple will for him. He named you his heir.” The woman sat back in her chair and beamed, having delivered what she must have considered good news.

“What?” Maura wasn’t sure she’d heard the woman right. “He never even met me! How did he even know I existed?”

“Ah, well. It seems that Michael Sullivan and your grandmother kept up a correspondence over the years. He was her uncle, on her father’s side. Did you not know that?”

Maura shook her head vigorously. “No, I did not know that. My gran never talked about anyone in Ireland.”

“He knew all about you, and he knew she’d had a hard life and had little to leave you. Hence, the will.”

Maura was almost afraid to ask the next question. “What did he leave me?”

“All he possessed—his house and land, and this pub, both the building and the business. And what money he’d put away, enough to cover the costs of burial and taxes.”

Maura couldn’t breathe. How could some old man she’d never met just hand her everything he owned? Had Gran known about this?

“But, how…I can’t.” Maura stopped herself and took a deep breath. “I don’t even know if it’s legal for me to own something in Ireland, much less run a business here.”

“I understand that you have Irish citizenship already?” Maura nodded, and the solicitor went on. “There’ll be some formalities, but I’ll be glad to help you sort that out.” The woman looked ready and eager to take on any such pesky problems that might arise.

Maura was not ready to begin to think about it. What about Mick? She thought he’d had some expectations of inheriting the pub. And Jimmy Sweeney? No doubt he’d pinned his hopes on the pub as well. Had he already guessed why the lawyer—solicitor—was asking for her? She stood up abruptly, just catching her chair before it fell over. “I have to think about this. I can’t…I can’t do it right now. Sorry.”

She fled, leaving everyone in the pub gaping after her. Out into the rain, into the late afternoon gloom. She passed Mick climbing out of his car, but if he called out she didn’t hear him. She didn’t know where she wanted to go, but she knew she couldn’t stay in the pub, not with people watching—people whose livelihood could depend on her, people who were likely to be disappointed or, worse, angry that she had somehow snatched an opportunity away from them. She couldn’t take it all in, not on top of all that had already happened this day. It was too much.

She darted across the street, blessedly empty. She couldn’t face going back to the Keohanes’. Who else knew about this inheritance? Oblivious to the rain, she stalked past the house, down the hill, and kept going along the path that followed the shoreline. When it ran out at the water’s edge, she dropped down, her back against a tree, and gazed blindly at the harbor, half-hidden in the rain.

Oh, Gran, did you know? Is that why you sent me here?

All these people she hadn’t even known existed, yet they’d known all about her. Why had Gran never shared any of it with her? Maura felt naked and exposed, yet claustrophobic at the same time, like things were closing in on her, forcing her in directions she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. But what
did
she want? She had no idea. Ever since Gran’s last illness and her death, she had been running on autopilot. She’d taken care of the funeral. She’d paid all the bills, closed the accounts, given away or thrown out most of the pitifully few possessions she and her grandmother had kept. And she’d honored Gran’s last wish, to make what she had thought would be a quick visit here. Maura hadn’t even bothered to look past that, because her future was a big blank.