Murder at the Monks' Table (5 page)

Mary Helen was glad to see the raisin scone that accompanied the tea. Despite the enormous breakfast they had eaten, she was beginning to get a little hungry.
Why not?
she thought, checking her wristwatch. It was nearly four o'clock.

“They're coming,” someone shouted.

Without another word, Moran's emptied. The nuns, infected by the crowd's enthusiasm, finished up their tea and hurried outside, too.

The cheering crowd filled the ridge overlooking the water. “Over here, Sisters,” Paul called, leading them to a spot where they had a view.

Thin dark clouds had formed and were fast-forwarding across the late afternoon sky, changing the water to steely gray on their way. One white mast was seen, and the crowd roared and waved and pushed forward. Ward's Donegal tweed cap waved above the rest. The noise was deafening.

“That Willie Ward really gets around,” Mary Helen said, although she was sure no one could hear her.

“Insufferable man!” someone answered.

Paul Glynn laughed. “Sister,” he shouted, “have you met Oonagh Cox?”

They were suddenly pushed together. Although they had not met formally, Mary Helen recognized her as the woman
who had claimed her daughter's prize for the best Irish soda bread at last night's wine and cheese tasting.

“How do?” Mary Helen said.

Enormous drops of rain began to fall. Squealing, Eileen dashed into Moran's with Mary Helen close on her heels. Oonagh Cox followed them. The rest of the spectators, seemingly oblivious to the storm, stood on the ridge and shouted.

Only old Mick Moran remained at his bar stool. “Ah, the widow Cox and the nuns,” he mumbled, releasing a narrow stream of smoke from his mouth.

“Mind your manners, Mick,” Oonagh cautioned.

He looked puzzled. “How's that, Oonagh?”

“Shut your gob!” she said, which to Mary Helen seemed quite clear.

The three women huddled near the roaring fireplace. “Fools don't know enough to come in out of the rain,” Oonagh said, shaking her short gray hair. Flicks of water shot around and hissed when they hit the flames. “And that old fool out there doesn't know when enough is enough.”

The wind caught the front door when it opened and flung it back. Willie Ward stood there bareheaded, a condescending smile on his face. “Aha,” he said, “if it isn't Mrs. Cox.”

Sister Mary Helen saw the woman stiffen. “Mr. Ward,” she acknowledged with a cursory nod. “What mischief will you be up to today?”

Willie's face darkened but his smile never faded. “Just doing my job,” he said lightly. “As always, just doing my job.”

“And what is that, Mr. Ward?” Oonagh's blue eyes flashed. “Making other people's lives miserable?”

Willie put his hand to his heart. “That hurts, Oonagh, dear, that you think such a thing.”

Oonagh held her tongue, but her eyes shot fire. If the
woman had her way, Mary Helen thought, there would be a mere cinder where Willie Ward now stood.

The tavern door opened again, and Mary Helen was relieved to see their driver come in. “Morrissey won,” he shouted.

“Were you rooting for him?” Mary Helen asked.

“Any thinking man was,” Paul said with a smile. “Morrissey wins every year.”

Sensing the tension he'd stumbled into, Paul hesitated. “Are you ready to go home, Sisters?” he asked, draining his pint. “You don't want to miss the I Believe Team from Guinness. They should be arriving in Ballyclarin soon.”

Mary Helen had no idea what the I Believe Team was, but at the moment she was ready to leave Moran's Tavern.

As they made their way out, the jubilant crowd was, once again, spilling into the bar. Mick Moran sat on his stool, eyes half closed, drawing on his cigarette.

“Good day, Mr. Moran,” Eileen said pleasantly as she passed him.

“Bitchy bunch,” he muttered, tipping his cap.

 

 

Rain beat down on the hackney while the windshield wipers worked furiously to clear the view.

Paul followed a line of cars on the way back to Ballyclarin. “Did you enjoy yourselves?” he asked, happily. Obviously, he had.

Shouting over the noise of the storm, Mary Helen said, “It was interesting.”

Paul turned toward her. It was all she could do not to tell him to keep his eyes on the narrow rain-drenched road.

The line of cars stopped suddenly. Brakes screeched, but Paul seemed not to notice. “How so?” he asked.

“How so, what?” Mary Helen's fingernails were biting into the palms of her hands. She unclenched her fists.

“How so was it interesting? I was afraid you'd hardly seen the race at all. You spent most of your day in the tavern.”

“That is what I found most interesting. The people in Moran's.”

“My friend is a student of human nature,” Eileen piped up from the backseat. “And there was plenty of that to study in there today, starting with Mick Moran.”

“Right ye are.” Paul nodded, warming to the topic. “And you'd need to be blind,” he said, “not to notice the bad blood between Oonagh Cox and Willie Ward.”

“I was wondering about that,” Mary Helen said. “Oonagh didn't try to hide her animosity toward him at all.”

“Hide it?” Paul's laughter filled the cab. “She flaunts it every chance she gets. Despises the man.”

“Does anyone know why?” Mary Helen asked, hoping her question didn't sound too intrusive.

“Everyone knows why,” Paul said. “It is no secret that when her husband was dying of cancer she managed to get a little cannabis to relieve his pain. Sure, if old Willie didn't hint at it in his column. No names, mind you, but everyone in the village knew he was talking about the Coxes. If the garda from Galway City had got wind, Oonagh would have been in serious trouble. As it was, her husband insisted she get rid of it. Poor man would rather suffer the torments of the damned than put his wife in that position.”

“Why would Willie do such a thing?” Mary Helen asked, genuinely puzzled.

“He said he was just doing his job. But we all know that at one time he had a soft spot for Oonagh Cox. Bright woman that she is, she would have nothing to do with him.”

As they neared Ballyclarin the rain began to let up. Mary
Helen closed her eyes. They burned as she listened to the windshield wipers beat their steady, soothing rhythm.
Swish, swish. Swish, swish.
Willie Ward. Willie Ward.

The list of those who disliked him seemed to be growing with each passing day. Oonagh Cox, Jake the tinker, Owen Lynch, Zoë O'Dea. And from the little she had seen, Mary Helen didn't care much for the man either.

Swish, swish.
Back and forth. Mary Helen wondered crazily how it must feel to be a man so easy for others to dislike.

 

 

The rain had completely let up when Paul dropped the two nuns in Ballyclarin. “Will you be needing me for anything else?” he asked, sneaking a peek at his wristwatch.

“No, thank you.” Sister Eileen closed the hackney door behind her. “You get on home to your wife. She must be waiting for you to take her to tonight's doings.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Mary Helen said, watching a relieved-looking Paul speed away. For her part, she wanted nothing more than to put her feet up. This napping could get to be a habit.

The main street of the village, still slick from the rain, was crowded with people—some in formal dress, some dressed a little more casually, but all obviously in a party frame of mind. Couples greeted one another loudly and friends waved and called to friends. Pub patrons spilled out into the street and cars slowed to a crawl, ready to drop off revelers.

Magically, the mood was infectious. Tired as she thought she was, Mary Helen felt her spirits lift.

“What fun!” said Eileen, whose spirits had never drooped.

After a brief stop at the mews to freshen up and grab their raincoats, just in case, the two nuns joined the growing crowd. To Mary Helen's surprise, an enormous tent had risen like a
gigantic mushroom on the grassed area next to the Monks' Table.

“Hello, Sisters.” Startled, Mary Helen turned quickly to discover the pastor, Father Keane, behind them. “Are you two lost?” he asked, putting a large hand on each shoulder.

“Somewhat,” Eileen answered. “We were just wondering about tonight's doings.”

“Tonight, you won't want to miss,” he said. “It's the Oyster Gala. That is what this tent is for.” He pointed to the huge white canvas structure on the lawn. “It rose like a miracle this afternoon,” Father Keane said, rolling his eyes heavenward as though to remind them of where miracles come from. “I'm sure that by now, the band has arrived and that for the last couple of hours people have been rushing in and out with dishes and glasses and seafood and, of course, great barrels of Guinness. The I Believe Team should be here any minute. They'd make a believer out of me, for sure.”

As if on cue, the slow, somber beat of drums filled the street. The crowd quieted somewhat, and then it parted as four men dressed in the rough brown woolen robes of friars moved unhurriedly toward the tent.

Their drums, which Mary Helen noted were empty metal Guinness barrels, continued the hollow baleful thuds as the friars chanted in loud ominous voices, “Repent! Repent and believe.”

Right behind them a white shrouded figure with a black skeleton mask, obviously portraying Death, walked on stilts. He peered down at the partygoers. Like the Grim Reaper, which he undoubtedly was supposed to be, he carried a long scythe. With a shrill wicked laugh, he twirled his scythe over the heads of the crowd, barely missing some of the taller fellows. The
swish
of the sharp blade made the hair on Mary Helen's arms stand up.

“Believe! Repent and believe!” the friars chanted soulfully and beat their drums as they led Death toward the entrance to the tent.

“Isn't that a little dangerous?” Mary Helen whispered, watching Death make his way down the street.

“Just good fun,” Father Keane answered, squeezing her shoulder. “We've never lost a head yet.”

“Which is a miracle in itself, if you ask me,” Mary Helen mumbled, watching the priest disappear into the crowd. “What does it mean anyway?”

Eileen shrugged. “It's a promotion for Guinness,” she said, and then she winked. “Although, if you ask me, from the looks of things Guinness doesn't need too much promoting.”

“Sisters, are you ready for the Oyster Gala?” Mary Helen was surprised to see Owen Lynch, who must have left Moran's early or else knew a shortcut back to the village. Lynch wore the stiff smile and spoke with the forced cheerfulness of an event chairman who can hardly wait until the whole thing is over.

“You've tickets, I assume?” He fumbled with several still in his hand.

“Yes, indeed,” Eileen answered. “My nephews saw to that.” She dug into her pocketbook and with a look of triumph produced two tickets.

Death and the brown-robed friars huddled around the tent entrance, urging all who entered to “Repent,” boom-boom. “Repent,” boom-boom, “and believe.”

Quickly Eileen handed Mary Helen her ticket. She wondered at the price. Fifteen euros seemed inexpensive for food and a band.

Once inside, Mary Helen realized that what the gala lost in ticket price, it more than made up for in quantity of attendees. There were easily three hundred people already in the tent
and more waiting to get in. The lines for food and drink were long but seemed to move quickly. The crowd was a happy one, and the band was already in full swing. Couples of all ages circled the dance floor in perfect rhythm….
Like figurines on the top of a music box,
Mary Helen thought, watching several of the older couples. As a matter of fact, it seemed to her that the older the couple, the better dancers they were.

The band played one number after another, varying a waltz with a fox trot and throwing in a little jitterbug. Mary Helen thought she recognized a jazzed-up version of “The Fields of Athenry.”
Can that be?
she wondered. Wasn't there some unwritten law against defaming traditional tunes? If there wasn't one, there ought to be.