Murder at the Monks' Table (2 page)

Both Sister Anne, whom she helped at the homeless center, and Sister Patricia, the president of Mount St. Francis College, where she lived, were delighted that she had the opportunity to go. Too delighted, in Mary Helen's opinion, but there was no sense getting into that. After nearly sixty years in the convent, she had learned that there were some things you were better off ignoring.

“We'll be there in no time,” the hackney driver called out.

Paul. That was his name, Mary Helen remembered. Paul Glynn. He had introduced himself at the Shannon airport where he had met her, holding a big sign with her name neatly printed on it.

“No hurry, Paul,” she answered, closing her eyes again as he passed the hearse.

When she had first spotted him, he had reminded her of pictures she'd seen of the young James Joyce—slight, with straight black hair and rimless glasses on a thin face. Just add a patch on the left eye and a mustache …

“Only another thirty or so miles,” Paul said, whizzing past a stretch of cars, “and we'll be in Ballyclarin.”

Ballyclarin, located on the Clarin River, Mary Helen had discovered on the Internet, was home of the Oyster Festival. In fact, the village slogan was, “The world is your oyster and Ballyclarin is its home.”

It seemed that Paul, a distant cousin of Sister Eileen's niece by marriage, had been recruited to be their driver. And zipping along the narrow roads, past signs that warned “loose chippings,” and around the roundabouts, Mary Helen was becoming more and more grateful that neither Eileen nor she would be at the wheel.

According to Paul, the family had rented a small mews in the village where the nuns were to stay and enjoy the week-long festivities. For festival events as well as for any side trips, he was at their service.

Slowing down, Paul entered the village and Mary Helen spotted her friend immediately. Eileen stood in front of an impressive Georgian house, smiling and waving.

After a few hugs and several pats on the back, the two old friends studied one another at arm's length.

“You look none the worse for wear,” Mary Helen said.

“Nor you, old dear,” Eileen returned. “And we probably both need our glasses changed.”

Quickly Paul brought Sister Mary Helen's suitcase into the small, cozy mews in the back of the house, then handed Eileen a card with his name and phone number on it. “Ring when you need me,” he said and slipped away, leaving the two old friends to catch up.

And there was a lot of catching up to do. Eileen fixed them each a cup of tea and they settled on the sofa. Mary Helen leaned forward and patted her friend's hand. “I know how hard these last two years must have been for you,” she said. “You and Molly were always in my thoughts and prayers.”

Eileen's gray eyes suddenly filled with tears. Quietly she began to talk about her sister's death and how difficult it is to suffer with someone you love. Mary Helen listened, knowing that was all she could do, as Eileen poured out her grief and pain.

A long streak of dying sun shot across the carpet of the mews when Eileen finally checked her wristwatch. “You must be exhausted,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Don't even go there,” Mary Helen said. All she knew was that her head was beginning to ache and that she could scarcely keep her eyelids up.

“Let's pop next door to the Monks' Table for a bite to eat and then it's to bed with you.”

“Pop where?” Mary Helen wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

“The Monks' Table.” Eileen smiled. “It's a pub-restaurant and has delicious homemade soup.”

Once inside, Mary Helen followed Eileen through a jumble of small, dark rooms and alcoves, past signs cautioning patrons to “Mind Your Step.” The only things, in her opinion, that faintly resembled a monk's anything were the high-back benches where the diners were seated. Conceivably they could
be recycled choir stalls. Was that why it was called the Monks' Table?

“Is soup enough?” Eileen asked once they were seated in a small room.

“Plenty,” Mary Helen said, wondering if she'd even stay awake to finish that.

“Let me tell the waitress, so she doesn't fuss with all the silverware.” Eileen excused herself.

Leaning her head back against the bench, Mary Helen closed her eyes. The room was quiet. Only one other couple was nearby. They were seated at the table behind the nuns.

Mary Helen had noticed the pair while the two nuns were being seated. The woman was small and wiry with chestnut brown hair, courtesy, no doubt, of Lady Clairol. The man, on the other hand, was big-boned and ran to fat. A tuft of gray hair formed a ring around his bald pate.
Must be husband and wife,
Mary Helen had thought when she'd seen them.

The woman, whose voice was high and whiney, was obviously complaining about something. Although between her brogue and her whispering, Mary Helen had no idea about what. Then without warning, her words came through loud and strident. “I am surprised someone hasn't killed you already,” she said.

Mary Helen's eyes shot open.

“What is it?” Eileen asked, sliding onto her bench.

“Behind us,” Mary Helen whispered. “I just overheard the woman say that she was surprised that someone hadn't killed that man already.”

Eileen leaned forward. “She was probably joking,” she whispered.

“It didn't sound like it.”

“You are a little oversensitive to murder,” Eileen said. “Not that I blame you,” she added quickly, “what with the bad luck
you've had stumbling into them. But this is Ireland. There are only about fifty murders a year in the entire country with a population of 5.8 million. What are the odds of one happening in Ballyclarin?”

“About as good as winning the lottery,” Mary Helen conceded, adjusting her bifocals, which had slipped down the bridge of her nose.

“Right,” Eileen said as the waitress put down two bowls of steaming hot chowder and a basket of fresh, warm soda bread.

“Now eat up, old dear,” she said. “Tomorrow we have a big day.”

 

 

May you always have walls for the wind,
A roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
Laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
And all your heart might desire.

—Irish blessing

 

S
ister Mary Helen awoke long before the dawn. As hard as she tried she could not fall back to sleep.
Jet lag, no doubt,
she thought, refusing to even look at her travel clock.

She closed her eyes, still unable to realize that she was actually in Ireland. The mews Eileen's relatives had rented was perfect for them, with two bedrooms, a sitting room, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. Best of all, it was in the heart of the village, across from the parish church and close to all the Oyster Festival activities. She'd just rest until she heard Eileen stir.

Sister Mary Helen smelled the coffee even before she heard her friend whispering her name.

“What time is it?” she asked, opening her eyes. Bright sunlight flooded the room. “I must have fallen back to sleep.”

“A little after ten,” Eileen said, “and the village market day starts in about an hour. I didn't think you'd want to miss it.”

“I don't want to miss a thing,” Mary Helen said, pushing herself up.

When the two nuns finally left the mews, the main street of the village was packed with people. The church car park as well as the side streets were full of motorcars. Mary Helen wondered where everyone came from. Ballyclarin must be a great deal bigger than it had looked when she had driven in.

Everyone seemed to be in a festive mood as they moved toward the village green.
What a mixture of people,
she thought, keeping her eye on Eileen, who was being pushed along with the crowd. There were elderly folks and young couples pushing strollers, teenagers and the handicapped, middle-aged men and women, several uniformed gardai on duty, and hundreds of children darting in and out.

The green itself was a large triangular piece of land in the center of the village. A cut stone wall surrounded it. Beech, chestnut, and yew trees grew alongside the wall. There were benches for sitting, a fire pit, and the remnants of what must have once been the village well.

An enormous stone Celtic cross rose from the middle of the green. And a replica, Mary Helen noticed, of the inside of a thatched roof cottage was built for a stage. On it a traditional Irish band was beginning to set up.

Stalls covered the grass. Medieval carts loaded with fruits and vegetables were held to the trees by very modern chains. There were crafts of every kind on display. One woman was churning butter. An older man was thatching a roof while near him a young woman was painting the children's faces.

The farrier, a short stout man who Mary Helen guessed to be in his seventies, was busy at his anvil pounding horseshoes.
Behind him was an eye-catching display of handmade kitchen knives. But possibly the chief attraction was a huge pink sow on display with her twelve piglets.

Sister Eileen stopped next to a tall gray-haired man in a black suit and clerical collar. Mary Helen assumed he was the parish priest. “Father Keane,” Eileen said, “I'd like you to meet my friend, Sister Mary Helen. She just arrived from San Francisco.”

After greeting her graciously, Father Keane could scarcely wait to ask if they had heard all the commotion last night.

“We didn't hear a thing,” Eileen said.

“There was a terrible row,” he said. “The travelers had a wedding and a fight broke out at the party after.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Eileen asked.

“Not that I know of,” the priest said. “The worst catastrophe was a broken mirror at the Monks' Table.”

“Seven years bad luck,” Eileen mumbled.

“Not for the travelers,” Father Keane said. “Most of them are gone.” He looked up to say something else, but someone called his name and he excused himself.

Travelers, if Sister Mary Helen remembered correctly, was another name for the tinkers, a community that was the butt of much intolerance and prejudice in Ireland. They had been accused of everything from stealing pots to cursing brides and kidnapping babies.

The tolling of the noon Angelus rang out across the village, and all activity stopped while Father Keane reverently led the ancient prayer over the loudspeaker. At its conclusion, he announced, “I now solemnly declare the opening of the Bally-clarin Oyster Festival.” He paused. “Let the fun begin!”

To a chorus of cheers, the band struck up a rousing reel. Eileen and Mary Helen began to mill around the booths. They
examined the herbal remedies, the spicy vinegar, the hand-stitched tote bags, and finally decided on some homemade black currant jam.

They were so fascinated by the woman at the spinning wheel that they didn't realize that Paul Glynn, their driver, had moved in next to them. “Let me introduce you to my wife and son,” he said proudly.

The two nuns spent several minutes chatting with Paul's lovely young wife and his three-year-old son, who had hair as red as his mother's.

“Here comes the Oyster Queen,” Paul said, pointing to a young woman dressed in a medieval Irish costume of emerald green taffeta. Her long dark hair was crowned with a rhinestone tiara, and her skin was so white that Mary Helen wondered if she ever saw the sun.

“Tara,” he called as she came closer. “Tara O'Dea, may I present you to two nuns from America?”

Tara smiled and did and said all the gracious things a queen should do and say. Mary Helen was impressed.

“How were you chosen for this honor?” she asked. “Was there a competition?”

Tara's white cheeks flamed. “No,” she said. “I just met with the festival chairman and answered a few questions.” She shrugged. “And I was picked.”

“Why is it you ask?” The question came from behind Mary Helen. She thought the sharp voice sounded vaguely familiar. Turning, she recognized the woman with the chestnut hair from the Monks' Table, looking none too friendly.

“This is Tara's mother,” Paul said quickly. “Zoë O'Dea.”

Sister Mary Helen had just enough time to say, “How do?” when Father Keane's voice came booming out of the loudspeaker again.

“Now, I'd like to introduce our master of ceremonies for the
day,” he said. All attention shifted toward the thatched cottage stage.

The master of ceremonies, a television soap opera personality, told a few jokes, then went on to introduce Tara.

“What was that all about?” Mary Helen asked, watching Tara mount the stage, her mother close behind. “I was just curious.” She shivered. A sudden wind swept through the village green and dark clouds seemed to be bubbling up from the horizon, threatening the sun.

“Pay her no mind,” Paul said. “There was talk of a bit of a fix.”