The Haunting Ballad (29 page)

“What in God's name are you saying?” I asked.

Audrey matched Mr. O'Nelligan's smile. “He says I'm coming with you.”

*   *   *

TWO DAYS BEFORE,
Mr. Escobar had been the one stationed outside the grocery overseeing the produce stands. Today, conveniently for us, it was Hector. The kid's focus, though, plainly wasn't on fruit and vegetables but on the petite, pretty girl whose hand he was holding and whose eyes he was locked into. Once he saw us approaching, Hector released the girl's hand and stared us down.

“Why are you here?” His defiant tone was clearly meant to impress not only us but his girl as well. “I already talked to you people.”

“We enjoyed it so much the first time, we came back.” I was feeling fairly defiant myself, especially with no Toro in sight.

Hector turned back to his girlfriend, and they shared an exchange in Spanish. Without understanding a word of it, I think I caught the gist: Hector wanted Rosalia—that's how he addressed her—to leave him to his enemies, but she refused to do so. I glanced from the girl to my fiancée. Apparently, Rosalia was a small Puerto Rican version of Audrey.

Once he realized that his young lady was immovable, Hector faced us again. “So, what do you want?”

Mr. O'Nelligan took on the narrative duties, explaining how Cornelius had once again insisted he'd seen the teenager that night and adding Mazzo's confirmation for good measure.

Hector took it all in, then shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no! I told you, that was not me.”

I started to lay into his denial but was promptly cut off by Rosalia.

“Can't you see he's telling the truth?” Though obviously upset, she kept her voice steady and strong. “Hector is not someone who likes to make lies. He has a very good heart. Hector! Swear on your cross. Then they'll know you're speaking the truth.”

Rosalia reached over and drew out a thin silver chain that was hidden under Hector's shirtfront. She placed its tiny crucifix into his palm and nodded at him.

Hector looked at us, quietly said, “I swear,” then kissed the cross and slid it back under his shirt.

“It belonged to his
abuela,
” Rosalia told us. “His grandmother. He loved her very much and would never swear on it if a thing wasn't true. He just wouldn't.”

I didn't know how to respond to that, but apparently Mr. O'Nelligan did.

“Of course he wouldn't,” my partner said gently. “Thank you for clearing that up. We'll leave you young people to this lovely spring afternoon.”

He gave them a little bow and led us away.

*   *   *

AUDREY AND I
were leaning against Baby Blue, about two blocks from the grocery, as Mr. O'Nelligan paced slowly before us, his brow knit and his hands folded behind his back.

“So, what's going on in that multilayered brain of yours?” I asked my colleague.

“All brains are multilayered,” he answered absently. “Mine need not be singled out.”

“Fair enough. What rollicking thoughts are filling yours right now?”

Mr. O'Nelligan stopped in his tracks. “I'm attempting to arrange the particulars of this case in a useful order. To separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were.”

“Well, I don't know if Hector's the wheat or the chaff here,” I said. “Just because your girlfriend defends you doesn't make you a worthwhile person.”

Audrey turned to me. “I feel like I should say something biting. I'm just not sure what.”

“Please don't overexert yourself.”

“Anyway, I think Hector's being truthful,” she stated firmly. “That's my opinion.”

I was on the verge of asking Audrey when exactly she'd obtained her private investigator's license, but, for the sake of my health and well-being, I didn't.

Instead I said, “If Hector is on the up-and-up, that means it's Cornelius who's lying.”

Suddenly, Mr. O'Nelligan made an announcement. “I'm going for a stroll. Lee, may I borrow the list of phone numbers pertinent to this case?”

“Sure, I suppose.” I handed the list over. “Why do you—”

“Everyone we've spoken to is accounted for here?”

“Yeah, I've been gathering numbers since we started.”

“Excellent, excellent.” My colleague gestured across the street. “Over there's a pleasant-looking—though oddly named—little eatery, Trenchard's Tomato Tavern. Why don't you two take your lunch and I'll meet you there in an hour or so's time?”

With that, he spun on his heel and strode away.

Audrey seemed somewhat shocked. “What just happened? In the middle of an investigation, Mr. O'Nelligan goes off on a private little promenade? I thought he'd be much more dedicated than that.”

“Don't knock those promenades. It's when he gets his best deducing done and earns his dime—so to speak.”

“Speaking of dimes, Lee, when are you going to start paying Mr. O'Nelligan for his work?”

“I've tried! Time and time again, I've insisted he take something, but he refuses. He just prattles on about quests and knights and all his usual quackery. So don't blame me.”

Audrey laughed. “You're no match for that old rapscallion, are you?”

“I certainly am not.”

*   *   *

OVER SOUP AND
sandwiches, I quickly brought Audrey up to speed on the investigation. Since she was refusing to abandon me, she might as well know what we were up against. Once I'd gotten the storyline up to today's events, Audrey leaned back in her chair and brought her fingertips together in a contemplative pose.

“Lorraine Cobble certainly seems to have been a contentious woman,” she observed. “With many enemeies.”

“Many enemies, one killer,” I said.

“What is that, an old Eastern proverb?”

“Yes, one I just made up. Maybe I should perch myself on some mountaintop and dispense wisdom to truth seekers.”

“Maybe you should confine yourself to just babbling to your fiancée. At least I'm used to it.”

I wagged a soup spoon at her. “You know, some people consider me quite the wit. I'm not sure exactly who those people are, but I'm positive they exist.”

Audrey giggled and shook her head. “Oh, brother…”

The restaurant owner, gray-haired and congenial, approached our table. “Are you Lee?”

“I am.”

“A friend of yours just called.” He glanced down at the scrap of paper he was holding. “O'Nelligan. He said he was in a rush but wanted to get a message to you. I wrote it down.”

“How'd he reach you?”

“Not many Trenchard's Tomato Taverns in the phone book, I guess.”

Of course, Mr. O'Nelligan wouldn't likely forget such alliteration. Mr. Trenchard of the Tomatoes passed me the note and departed.

I read it aloud. “‘Meet at Mrs. Pattinshell's apartment as soon as possible.' Mrs. Pattinshell's? Why there?”

“She's the ghost chanter, right?” Audrey asked. “Maybe she's got another song for you.”

I moaned a little. “Lord, I hope not. Getting sung to by dead people is not my idea of entertainment. I'll take Nat King Cole over Casper the Friendly Ghost any day. You sure you still want to keep going with this?”

My fiancée grinned and slapped the table. “Aye, aye, Captain! Where thou goest, I go, too.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

Having made short work of our lunch, we walked briskly the few blocks to our destination. Just outside the building, we encountered Cornelius Boyle, dressed in his usual white and leaning on his gnarled walking stick. Apparently, he was setting out on one of his life-lengthening jaunts.

“I already talked to your pard,” Cornelius told me. “He says he's got things all figured out.”

“Mr. O'Nelligan?” I must have looked surprised. “What things has he figured out?”

He gave me a dismissive wave of the hand. “Not sure. Go talk to him. I'm off for my constitutional.” Then, taking notice of Audrey, he added, “You're welcome to join me if you'd like, young lady.”

My fiancée declined with a smile. “I think I'll stick with this fellow here.”

Cornelius nodded. “I understand. ‘You've got to dance with them what brung ya.' That's what my grandpap used to say.” With that, he began making his way slowly down the block.

Watching him go, Audrey half-whispered to me, “You know, as old as he is, his grandpap could have danced with Dolley Madison.”

“I heard that, missy,” Cornelius called over his shoulder. “Like I tell everybody, I've got good hearing.”

*   *   *

PAUSED IN THE
hallway outside Mrs. Pattinshell's apartment, we were greeted by a man's voice raised in anger. Without bothering to knock, I flung open the door and entered. The lights were all on—no candlelight this time—and there before us stood Mr. O'Nelligan facing off against Patch Doonan. Patch, unsurprisingly, was the one testing his vocal cords. His two brothers were also in attendance, as usual attempting to calm their combustible sibling.

“For the love of God, Patch.” Neil had on his patented look of exasperation. “Leave the man be.”

“Not when he's catapulting his threats at me!” The barrel-chested Patch was all but shouting into my partner's face. “Don't provoke me, O'Nelligan!”

The oldest Irishman in the room stood his ground, staring calmly and unflinchingly into his confronter's eyes. “If you would only hear me out—”

“Bollocks to that!” Patch answered.

“No more of this.” Tim slapped a firm hand on his brother's shoulder. “Mr. O'Nelligan wasn't threatening you at all. If you'd just let him finish—”

“Bollocks!” Patch shook Tim loose and took a step closer to my partner.

Compelled to act, I moved forward and grabbed Doonan by the arm. “You need to relax, chum.” I expected to smell alcohol on his breath but was spared that.

He broke from my grip. “Ganging up on me, are you? I heard about you getting wounded, Plunkett, but that won't stop me from defending myself.”

His hands became fists, and he looked ready to pounce on me. At this point, Mr. O'Nelligan apparently had had enough. With a forcefulness I'd never before seen him display, my partner seized Patch's shirtfront in both hands and pulled him close.

“Hear me well, young man,” Mr. O'Nelligan hissed into his face. “You will cease this coarse behavior at once. In a moment, I'll continue the account I was presenting before you so preposterously overreacted. First, though, you'll hear this.”

“Let go of me,” Patch said weakly, clearly shocked by the older man's controlled fierceness.

Mr. O'Nelligan tightened his grasp. “Shut your mouth and listen. You're a young fellow, Doonan, surely still finding his way in the world. You're full of vigor and wit and song, all estimable things. Alas, you're veering dangerously close to becoming the very parody of an Irishman that you've mocked. The sort one sees in inferior stage productions—the drunken, brawling lout whose blood overheats at the smallest perceived slight. I'm convinced that you're a better man than that pitiful stereotype. The question is, can
you
be convinced.”

He released Patch and took a step back. Doonan started to say something, some denial or rebuttal, but the words died on his lips.

“You are the oldest of your brothers,” Mr. O'Nelligan said softly now. “Your strength and sturdiness will, no doubt, be appreciated in the course of time.”

Patch just stood there, saying nothing for a very long moment. Then he simply nodded.

Mr. O'Nelligan now addressed me. “As you'll soon see, Lee, things have fallen into place quite marvelously. I made a series of phone calls and was very fortunate in reaching all the desired parties. More company is expected, but I'll begin to lay out some particulars right away.”

“So you've unraveled this tangled jumble?”

“That remains to be seen. I do hope so.”

Audrey looked eager. “And I get a ringside seat to see you work your magic.”

“Trust me, dear girl, it may not be as entertaining a diversion as you would desire. Tragedy and Sorrow are the main players here.”

“Where's Mrs. Pattinshell?” I asked.

“She's in her boudoir, having vacated the room when things grew hot. I'll fetch her momentarily.” Mr. O'Nelligan turned back to the Doonans. “Shall I continue with what I was telling you?”

It was Patch who answered, his temper now sapped. “Have at it.”

“Not an hour ago, I managed to reach a man named O'Hallmhurain who clarified some things for me. According to what he's heard—and he hears quite a lot—there indeed was a Doonan involved in the New Year's attack on the Brookeborough police barracks. Here's where you interrupted me before, Patch.”

“This time I'll not,” Patch said contritely.

“Mr. O'Hallmhurain says that this individual was neither your Uncle Michael nor yourself but rather a man named Mykolas Doonan. Have any of you heard of him?”

The three brothers exchanged looks of uncertainty.

Tim spoke for them all. “I guess we haven't. After all, there's a whole flock of Doonans knocking about Ireland. But what breed of Doonan goes by the name Mykolas? There's nothing remotely Celtic in that.”

“Apparently he's of mixed Irish and Lithuanian descent. His involvement in the barracks incident was not central, but enough to be mentioned in certain quarters. The similarity between ‘Mykolas' and ‘Michael' may well have led to the confusion.” He turned to the elder Doonan. “Additionally, Mykolas has a son Patch, which might account for your name being brought up.”

“He knew all this?” I asked. “Your man O'Whatshisname?”

“O'Hallmhurain,” my friend corrected. “As I've stated, he makes it his business to stay informed.”