Murder at the Monks' Table (4 page)

“If I let everyone who threatened me stop me, I wouldn't write a word,” Willie replied with a touch of bluster.

“Just exactly what do you mean by that?” Zoë O'Dea asked, her mouth forming a tight, straight line.

“Not a thing, dear Zoë,” Ward said with a supercilious grin. “Now who did you say won the baking contest? My readers will want to know all the details.”

“What kind of a column does that Willie Ward write?” Mary Helen asked, once Eileen and she were out of earshot.

“As far as I can tell, it's a bit of a local news mixed with a little local gossip,” Eileen said.

“An Irish Herb Caen?”

Eileen nodded. “At least a wannabe,” she said. “From what I hear, his column is quite popular, even if he himself is not.”

“Do you really think he gets many threats?” Mary Helen was finding it hard to believe that anyone would take the man that seriously.

“Doesn't he wish,” Eileen said with a smile.

 

 

May
the neighbors respect you,
Troubles neglect you,
The angels protect you,
And heaven accept you.

—Irish blessing

 

T
he full deep tolling of the church bells awakened Sister Mary Helen. She realized with a start that her bedroom was bright.
What time is it?
she wondered, fumbling on the nightstand for her glasses and staring at her travel alarm. Eleven o'clock! She had slept for over twelve hours.

“Eileen,” she called softly.

“I'm just putting on the coffee,” she heard her friend say.

Struggling up, Mary Helen slipped into her bathrobe and mules and padded into the small kitchen. To her surprise, Eileen was fully dressed.

“What time is Mass?” Mary Helen asked with a yawn.

“Twelve noon,” Eileen said, popping sliced soda bread into the toaster. “That bell is a reminder. If you don't hear that, the next thing you'll hear is Gabriel's horn.”

Mary Helen laughed. “Just one Mass?” she asked, surprised.
The parish Church of the Annunciation was an enormous edifice. Its tower dominated the entire village.

Eileen nodded. “One on Saturday night and one on Sunday. The village has only one priest,” she said, “and he has to minister to several other villages, as well.”

Even Ireland is having a priest shortage,
Mary Helen thought, staring sleepily into the toaster.

 

 

Although the country was having a priest shortage, there was no shortage of Catholics. The noon Mass was packed: the nuns were lucky to find a seat. And they had to walk clear to the front of the church to do that.

Mary Helen recognized a number of people she had seen yesterday at the village market. She was not surprised that during his homily, Father Keane urged all the faithful to participate wholeheartedly in the Oyster festivities but to “stay on the dry” if they were driving. Nor was she surprised to find that the parish bulletin listed the events of the week.

The Oyster House Hotel advertised a hearty Irish breakfast for festivalgoers at half its usual price. Since the hotel was within walking distance, the two nuns decided to take advantage of it.

“Hearty” scarcely described the meal. Scrambled eggs, rashers, sausages, grilled tomatoes, Irish soda bread, butter, jam, and a mound of hot toast followed orange juice and coffee.

“I'll never eat again,” Mary Helen said, scooping up the last of her eggs.

“Until our next meal,” Eileen commented wisely. “What shall we do today?” she asked, reading aloud Sunday's festival schedule. It included a yacht race ending at Moran's Tavern on the Weir, an illustrated lecture on the history of the village at the school hall, and tonight an Oyster Gala at the Monks' Table.

“A yacht race sounds like fun,” Mary Helen said. “But what is a weir and how do we get there?”

“It's a small dam,” Eileen answered, then dug in her pocket and produced the card Paul Glynn had given them. “And here's how,” she said with a delighted grin.

 

 

Within minutes after they rang, Paul arrived in his hackney, his straight, dark hair still wet from the shower.

“I hope we didn't interfere with your plans,” Sister Eileen said as they climbed into the car.

“No, indeed,” Paul assured her with a crooked smile. “The wife and son are going to the lecture at the school. I was happy to have an excuse to get out of it.”

Mary Helen couldn't help wondering as he banged the car door shut just how happy his wife must be.

Whistling, Paul zipped along the country road. Tall full bushes of red fuchsias ran along each side, making the road seem narrower yet. Mary Helen was relieved when he finally pulled up behind a line of cars waiting for entrance to Moran's car park.

“Looks like a good crowd,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “And up there is your tavern.” He pointed ahead to a lemon-colored building with a thatched roof.

It looks like something right out of an oil painting,
Mary Helen thought. In the water in front she counted thirty-six swans and a blue heron, all seeming perfectly indifferent to the gathering crowd.

“Why don't you two get a table inside?” Paul suggested when a young lad finally directed them into the crowded car park. “It can get windy and fiercely cold out here.” He shivered as if to make his point.

“What about you?” Mary Helen asked.

“Not to worry,” Paul assured her. “I'll just stay in front and join a few of the lads for a pint.”

Paul pulled back the heavy entrance door and waited for them to step inside. As Mary Helen's eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, she saw that an ornate mahogany bar ran along one entire wall of the tavern. A dozen or so bar stools were already occupied. Men of all ages clustered around them in small noisy groups.
These must be the lads Paul was talking about,
Mary Helen thought, watching the publican, a large smiling man in a white dress shirt, pull one pint of Guinness after another from the tap.

At the far end, sitting apart from the rest, she noticed a small, wizened figure with a stained tweed cap drawn down over his eyes. Mary Helen blinked. If she didn't know better she'd have sworn it was Barry Fitzgerald with a cigarette clamped between his lips.

“What can I get you ladies?” the publican asked, cheerfully. He slapped down two napkins on the bar quite close to the old man who looked up guardedly.

“Ladies.” The old man studied them for a long minute as though he doubted it. “Ye must be Yanks,” he said finally, closing one eye against the cigarette smoke.

“Yes, we are,” Eileen answered sweetly.

“Where are your husbands?” His voice was unexpectedly strong.

“We haven't husbands.”

“Ah, widows, then?”

“No, not widows,” Eileen answered.

Mary Helen wondered uneasily where this was going. By now even the publican was getting curious.

The old man looked at them with new interest. “Divorced, then?” he asked brightly.

“No,” Eileen said, tightening her lips.

The old man, a long gray ash hanging precariously from the end of his cigarette, stared in honest bewilderment. “What the hell are ye, then?”

Paul came up behind them. “They are nuns, Mick,” he announced, a twinkle in his eye.

Mick's face fell. “I've forty cousins nuns,” he muttered, turning his back to them, “and if you ask me, they're a bitchy bunch.”

Amid howls of laughter from the lads on the stools, Paul led the two Sisters into the back of the tavern.

“Don't mind old Mick Moran,” Paul soothed. “He's quite a character.”

“Quite,” Eileen said primly.

In the back of Moran's was a warren of small rooms that smelled of tobacco, beer, and a peat fire. Paul escorted the two nuns to a table by the open fireplace.

“Go on now, Paul,” Eileen said. “Join the lads. We'll be fine.”

“You led the old man right into that, on purpose,” Mary Helen said once Eileen and she were alone.

“Life isn't worth the effort, if you can't have a bit of fun,” Eileen said in her own defense. “Besides, we can dine out on that story for years.”

The two old friends were still laughing when Mary Helen noticed a familiar Donegal tweed cap a few tables away. Willie Ward with his notebook open was deep in conversation with Owen Lynch, the chairman of the festival.
Maybe it's an interview,
Mary Helen thought, although she didn't see the reporter writing anything down.

Owen's face was pale, and behind his horn-rimmed glasses his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He must be exhausted, Mary Helen thought, and she wondered what time last night's wine tasting actually broke up. With this big an
event, there is so much planning, and so much that can go wrong. He didn't look too happy being buttonholed by Willie Ward.

But she didn't need to worry about Lynch. All at once he stood up, and over the noise floating in from the now packed bar, she heard him say, “I don't have time for this right now, Willie.”

“Later then, Owen?”

“I might never have time for it.” The chairman's face turned dangerously dark.

“I'd be surprised to hear that,” Willie said. “I think it would be in your best interest.”

Slamming his glass on the tabletop, Owen Lynch clenched his fists. For a moment it looked as if he might take a swing at the reporter. Ward must have thought so too, for without another word he got up and headed back to the bar.

Mary Helen tipped her head toward the table where Lynch now stood alone. “I wonder what all that was about.”

Eileen's eyebrows shot up, and she shrugged.

“It sounded almost as though Mr. Ward were threatening him, didn't it?” Mary Helen said.

Before Eileen could answer, Patsy Lynch entered the room.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, spotting her husband. She frowned. “What on earth is wrong? You look like a thunder cloud.”

“It's that bastard, Willie Ward.” Lynch spat out the name. “He wants a comment for his damn rag.”

“A comment on what?” Patsy's long face grew even longer with concern.

“Seems he's heard a rumor that the queen competition wasn't on the up-and-up.”

Patsy's high-pitched laughter mingled with the bar noises. “Now we know for certain that the man's an
eejit
,” she said.
“Not to worry, love. He has nothing to go on, nor will he find anything. How about a jar before the boats come in?”

“Sisters.” The publican's voice startled Mary Helen. She hadn't heard him come into the room. “The winner should be rounding the bend soon,” he said. “There's just time enough for a pint before he does. Can I get you one? Or a coffee? Or maybe a cup of tea?”

The two nuns opted for the tea.

“On the house,” he said apologetically. “Pay no mind to old Mick. He's a shirttail cousin. Came with the pub.”