Murder at the Monks' Table (13 page)

 

Liam O'Dea was knackered. He had led a small army of gardai called up from Galway City on a search of every yard, every lane, and every field in Ballyclarin. They had looked beneath
every hedge and down every alley. They had spent the remaining daylight trying to find the missing I Believe costume.

Dogs barked and a cloud of crows wheeled into the air as they tramped through muddy pastures, peering behind stone walls. They had even sifted through household trash left out for the trash man. They had found not a thing.

“Would we know it if we saw it?” one weary fellow asked as the lights began to go on in the houses up and down the main street of the village. Smoke from chimney fires rose into the damp air.

“Sure enough,” said Liam, although he was not at all sure. “It looks like a very long bedsheet.”

“Next thing you know, the chief inspector will be having us search the beds,” one fellow joked.

“Or the clotheslines. Maybe the murderer washed it and hung it on the line to dry.”

Even Liam laughed.

“Very funny, lads.” In the settling darkness, they had not seen Detective Inspector White approach the group. “You've had no luck then?”

“None, sir,” Liam answered.

A soft rain had begun to cover them all. “Good work, lads,” White said, although Liam wasn't sure what was good about a search that turned up nothing. “Time to go home for a hot supper and a good night's sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” the gardai answered in unison, then headed for their cars before he changed his mind.

After a quick hot shower, Liam decided to go to Rafferty's Rest for a pint and to have his supper. The food was decent, cheap, and fast—three qualities that Liam always looked for in a restaurant.

Besides, Carmel Cox had practically invited him to the dance there tonight. It was only right that he should go.

 

 

When the two Sisters arrived at the dining room of the Bally-clarin Hotel, it looked empty. In fact, Mary Helen began to wonder if it was open. Even the maître d' seemed surprised to see them. And the young man behind the bar looked as if he'd just stepped out of the shower.

“What is it?” Mary Helen asked, once they were seated in a comfortable booth by a window. “Where is everybody?”

“We're early,” Eileen explained. “Nobody but a tourist eats this early in Ireland.”

As if to prove her point, a party of Americans was the next to arrive, followed by a small group of Germans.

Eileen had been right about the salmon. It was delicious—the entire meal was. The rain began as they waited for their dessert. The dining room and bar were starting to fill.

A tall man in a dark rain slicker passed their table, his movements strong and sure, like the gait of a prowling cougar, Mary Helen thought. His straight black hair, wet with rain, was combed back and reached the collar of his jacket. Something about him was familiar. Where had she seen him before? The gala, was it, shouting at Owen Lynch?

“How ye keeping, Jake?” the barman called.

The man shrugged, shook his head, and straddled the bar stool.

Silently the barman pulled a pint and set it before him. “This will be good for what ails you,” he said.

Mary Helen leaned toward Eileen. “That must be Jake, the tinker,” she whispered.

It took Eileen several seconds to peek without appearing to be peeking. “I think so, too,” she whispered finally. “I wonder if someone's told him that he tied for first prize with the Lynch twins?”

“From the look of him, I'd say somebody did.” Mary Helen tried not to stare.

From nowhere their waiter appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Sisters,” he said with an apologetic smile. “But the crème brûlée is taking a little longer than the chef intended. While you are waiting, may I get you more coffee or, perhaps, some Baileys Irish Cream?”

“No, thank you,” Eileen answered for both of them.

“Anything a'tall ye want?” The waiter gave a toothy grin and was preparing to leave.

“Anything?” Mary Helen asked.

The waiter paled a bit but nodded good-naturedly.

“Would you mind asking Mr. Jake to join us for a moment?” she asked.

The waiter seemed surprised, but not as surprised as Eileen. “What in the world … ?” she muttered, watching the waiter approach the bar.

“I'm very interested in purchasing one of his photographs to bring home as a little gift for the convent. I'm simply going to ask him if they are for sale and the price.”

Much to Mary Helen's delight, Jake came right over. In fact, he looked almost happy to have been invited. Pint in hand, he smiled down at them.

“The Yanks I've been hearing about all day,” he said without a bit of reticence.

Meeting his eyes, Mary Helen was struck by how enormous they were and how blue and sparkling, as if they were taking in everything.
The eyes of an artist,
she thought.
No wonder he can capture such detail in his photographs.

Quickly she introduced Eileen and herself. “Will you join us for dessert, Mr….” Suddenly she realized that she had no idea of the man's last name. All she'd ever heard was Jake, the tinker. Calling him Mr. Tinker would never do!

“Powers, Sister. My name is Jake Powers, but please, just call me Jake,” he said, his brilliant blue eyes seeming to look right through her. “Everyone else does.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jake,” she said, feeling a little foolish. She probably should have found out where he lived and made an appointment with him.

“Won't you join us? Perhaps you'll have some dessert or a cup of coffee? Or another Guinness?”

Jake examined his nearly empty glass as though he were seeing it for the first time. Then he sat down in the booth next to Eileen. “That would be grand,” he said, lifting his glass so the barman could see it. “A bird cannot fly on one wing alone.”

That settled, he turned his enormous eyes on Mary Helen. “What is it you want, Sister, besides to buy me a pint?” Jake asked, a broad grin on his face. “To ask me if I murdered Willie Ward?”

The bluntness with which he blurted out the question startled Mary Helen.

“Why, no,” she stammered.

He took a swallow of the dark liquid and looked at her sideways. “No?” he said with a hollow laugh. “Then, I guess, you'll be the only one for miles around who doesn't. You and the murderer, of course. But the rest of them! I'm a tinker, and for any crime committed you have no further to look than the nearest tinker. Besides I had a bit of a brawl with old Willie at the wine tasting.”

Jake finished his Guinness and traded glasses with the barman, who had just arrived with another.

“Certainly, just because you argue with someone doesn't mean you kill him,” Eileen added sensibly.

Jake spread his elbows wide on the table and stared into his glass. “You'd think, wouldn't you?” he said.

Sister Mary Helen was glad to see the waiter reappear with two small bowls of steaming crème brûlée. “What I do want to ask you about, Jake,” she said, anxious to change the subject, “are your photographs.”

Jake frowned, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“I was so impressed with your work at the art show in the old convent auditorium.”

Jake lifted his head and studied her with glassy eyes.

“And I was wondering,” she went on, “if any of them are for sale?”

Jake gave a sharp laugh. “They're all for sale,” he said, “to those who're willing to pay the price.”

Sister Mary Helen was almost afraid to ask the price. Apparently he was done talking. Draining his glass, he set it on the table, then stood and pulled a business card from his pocket. He placed it beside the glass.

“It's there you'll find me tomorrow. All afternoon,” he said, pointing to the card. “We can chat.” Without another word, he left the hotel dining room.

“I'm sure Paul will know where this is,” Eileen said, reading the small card. “Speaking of whom, we had better hurry.”

Mary Helen nodded. Quickly the two nuns finished their dessert. Mary Helen resisted the temptation to scrape the bowl.

 

 

One look at the whist game in progress at Rafferty's Rest and Sister Mary Helen knew there was no room for an amateur. Except for the slapping of the cards and a low mumble of players bidding, the room was eerily quiet.

Standing in the doorway, she recognized a number of faces, although she could not put a name on most of them. Many of
the whist players were the same smartly dressed women who had been at the wine tasting.

Zoë O'Dea sat at a table with a view of the entire room. Her sharp dark eyes swept across it like prison searchlights taking in everything.

She smiled stiffly and waved one hand when she spotted Mary Helen and Eileen. Her partner turned to see whom she had acknowledged.

Sister Mary Helen was surprised that Zoë was playing with Patsy Lynch, although she wasn't really sure why. She didn't know either one of the women, but from the little she had seen, she never would have picked them for friends.

“Now, would you join us?” Owen Lynch's voice startled Mary Helen. For such a large man, he seemed to be able to appear without a sound.

“I think not,” Mary Helen said, catching her breath, then turned toward Eileen. “How about you?” she asked.

Eileen, too, declined. Mary Helen had the strange feeling that Chairman Lynch was relieved. “They're a friendly enough lot,” he said with a chuckle, “until it comes to whist. Then they take no prisoners.”

The sound of a small band warming up lured the two nuns to the back room of Rafferty's where straight chairs lined the walls. At one end of the nearly empty room, a fiddler plucked a few notes while a man with a great mountain of white hair played a quick tune on his flute. A tall thin lad with a happy grin stood ready with his goatskin bodhran.

All three seemed to be following the lead of an ancient fellow with eyes at half mast. He was holding what Mary Helen's old granny used to call a squeezebox. Tapping his foot, he pulled open his instrument and at the count of three, although only a few people were beginning to drift into the room, the band broke into a lively reel.

“We wouldn't have lasted two minutes with the card players,” Eileen said as they settled into two chairs. “They'd have eaten us alive.”

“I hope there will be dancing.” Mary Helen leaned toward Eileen to make herself heard.

“Don't worry,” Eileen assured her. “It's early yet. They'll come along soon.” And the two nuns clapped in time with the music.

Eileen proved to be correct. The music seemed to draw the crowd, and soon the dance floor was full of men and women of all ages.

Quickly they formed small sets, their flying feet moving to the rhythm. Mary Helen watched, fascinated, as the dancers went through the intricate steps, twirling and tapping, never missing a beat. To her amazement, they never ran out of breath either. She was tired just watching.

She noticed Oonagh Cox was on the floor with … She strained to see. Could that be Owen Lynch with her? For a large man, he could dance quite well. She wondered why his wife had chosen whist.

And Paul Glynn and his redheaded missus were twirling with the best of them. After he'd dropped the nuns off he had said he was going to fetch her. He hadn't wasted any time.

A laughing Carmel Cox was a partner with the young red-faced garda. What was his name? Liam O'Dea? Poor fellow looked terribly ill at ease. Despite his shyness, he, too, could dance.

Tara, the Oyster Queen, was still wearing her emerald-green taffeta dress.
Surely, she must air it out,
Mary Helen thought. Tara looked exhausted as she took her place in the set.

When the musicians finally stopped for a break, Oonagh Cox nearly fell into the chair next to Sister Mary Helen. “There was a day, mind you, when I could go on all night,” she
said, pressing a clean handkerchief to her brow. “But, no more. I fear,” she said with a wink, “that I'm getting old.”