The Kilternan Legacy (28 page)

“Which reminds me, Kieron, have you seen a man around here, saying he’s looking to buy my field?”

“There was a man nosing about yesterday.”

His choice of phrase was a bit unsettling.

“You know,” Kieron went on, staring off in a middle distance for a moment, “I’ve seen that lot before … in the church … today!”

“I went to the auction today, and I saw him there. He followed my car. If he really wanted to buy that property, as he told the postman, why didn’t he turn in after me? Do the police really believe what we told them? Or do they think I bashed Mrs. Slaney in the head?”

“Jasus, no, Rene.”

“Well, that man is obviously shadowing me.”

“I’ll give Sean the Garda a shout, just to clear it up.”

Any clearing up got postponed then by the return of Simon and Jimmy, festooned with bike parts. I’d only time to beg Kieron not to mention Nosy when the boys were in the door. Nothing then would do but that they get the bike set to rights. “So I’ve got transport of my own, Mom. Isn’t Kieron the greatest?”

I handed Simon his mail, concurring with his opinion while Kieron grinned sardonically. We all went out to Kieron’s workshop. I still didn’t want to open my mail alone, so I perched on a convenient surface and stoutheartedly slit Mother’s envelope.

Mother had received my news, dismissed the sisters with a choice qualifying remark, and advised me to enjoy the male companionship with a free heart (I thought that “free” had been penned in a broader, admonitory line) and to look into the matter of a good school for the twins in Ireland. She’d heard rumors that Teddie-boy was still acting the fool.

Hank’s letter was brief: Teddie-boy had not paid this month’s support money, and a telephone conference with his lawyer disclosed that the omission was deliberate, so Hank was taking instant action.

I wasn’t as depressed by these newses as I’d thought I’d be. I supposed that I’d half expected Teddie to stop the support money out of pique. The joke was on him, however, if he thought that action would force me back to the States. Sometimes Teddie had a hard time recognizing the Empty Gesture.

I stuffed the letters into my handbag, and was then asked to admire the newly refitted bike.

AS I COOKED DINNER, I found my mind doing some “what-ifs,” mainly financial ones. The days when I could cheerfully or reluctantly refer the matter to the man of the house were long gone. Like Harry Truman, the buck now stopped with me. And the loss of this month’s support money disorganized my careful plans. I had, fortuitously, it now appeared, paid the July rent on the apartment before I left, but I’d be down to a nervous-making $10.75 in the checking account. I did have my half of the sale money of the “matrimonial” home, but that was in mutual funds sacred to college for the twins.

Although Hank had already set in motion the legal machinery to force Teddie to pay the support money, better best I not count on that money. Which left me nibbling away at the trust fund. I didn’t like that sort of pilfering any better, because if Rene’s Law came into effect the death duties might well turn out to be more than the trust fund. Still, for Teddie’s benefit, I was finally ahead of the game. I chuckled to myself.

“What’s so funny, Mom?” asked Snow, busily writing letters at the dining table, which I was setting.

“I’m winning.”

“Huh?”

I was, but I didn’t explain it out loud. Yes, I was really overcoming Teddie’s latest machination. Stopping the support money was only going to land him in trouble. After all, I
could
work the caretaker routine.

I’d better contact George Boardman in the morning for a firm answer. Michael, too, because I wanted to know what to do about Mrs. Slaney’s house. And the place should be cleared of her belongings—not a task I relished, but it had to be done before I could arrange something for George. I should also find out what could be done about bribing Fahey out of his place and leaving the way clear for Shay’s candidate for … what could I call it? investiture … into the queendom. “How much should I bribe Fahey to leave?” Simon looked up from his letter-writing and exchanged a meaningful twinnish glance with his sister. I wished I could interpret those cryptic exchanges: I’d know what was going on in their little minds.

“Well, Mom, I’d ask Shay or Michael or Kieron. Not us. But I’m really glad to hear it.”

“Why?”

Simon had that “I won’t answer you now” look on his face.

“Why?” I repeated, coming back into the room with our dinner plates. I was a little irritated with my obtuseness and their subtlety.

“Oh, because …” Snow began, paused, and then added “it’s good you’re involved enough here to get him out.
He
drank. Almost as much as—” Then she did shut up.

“As Daddy?” I finished for her. I didn’t miss the look, which needed no interpretation, between Simon and his sister. (SHUT UP, SIS.) “Both of you used to love your father.” They were eating at a rate guaranteed to fill their mouths too full for answers. “You used to love doing things with him. What happened?”

They ate in deafening silence.

“All right, kids, something happened at the Harrisons’ party …” Not even a look passed between them. “I know your father got stoned drunk that night. Did he embarrass you?”

“You can say that again,” muttered Snow.

“Mom,” began Simon in that ‘let’s be reasonable’ tone, “do you really need chapter and verse on Dad drunk?”

I caught the shudder Snow gave, and the revulsion on her face. I knew that something very deep and disturbing had happened.

“Let’s just say, Mom,” Simon continued, “that he was the worst he’d ever been.”

“I’m your mother. I have certain rights. I can’t protect you …”

“You did,” said Snow in an implacable voice. “You divorced him. If you hadn’t…”

What I heard then shocked me:
They
would have left. I knew that they couldn’t have maneuvered me into divorce; that distressing solution had been in my thoughts long before the Harrisons’ party. But it was after that night that I’d noticed a distinct reluctance in the children to do anything, go anywhere, even chat with their father. And he had become almost defensively insistent on their company, lavish with his gifts and affectionate demonstrations. I suppose their attitude toward him had been a subconscious factor pushing me toward divorce.

“Well, I did divorce him, and that’s that.” Even a clod could have felt the relief in the room, and I decided not to press the subject further. We finished our dinner in a less awkward mood.

“Say, Mom,” Snow asked in a more normal voice, “has Daddy stopped the support money?”

“However did you guess?” There wasn’t much point in hiding that fact, although I wouldn’t have been so frank half an hour ago.

Snow giggled. “It figgers.”

“Will it matter much, Mom?” asked Simon, worried.

“Not in terms of eating …”

“Don’t you dare knuckle under to that kind of blackmail,” said Snow, hard-voiced again, scowling at me.

“Hank’s already applying pressure.”

“That’ll annoy Dad,” said Snow cheerfully.

I couldn’t reprimand her—that would have been sheer hypocrisy—but I sighed. I had refused to have it on my conscience that I had turned Teddie’s children against him. (Try to Preserve the Image!) However, I didn’t have to worry: He had done the job all by himself.

“Mommy, what if Hank doesn’t get Daddy to pay?”

“
If
that should happen, there is more than enough in the trust fund to get us home and maintain us come September. You do have to be back in time for school, you know.”

“What? And let Daddy think you caved in?”

Humph! I hadn’t thought of that aspect.

“Yeah, we know,” said Simon, grinning. “And there are good schools here in Dublin.”

“You’ve been checking?”

“Sure.” Simon’s grin got broader. “Why not? Plan ahead!”

I leaned back in my chair, as if the inanimate wood could give me moral support.

“Now look, you two …” Even as I framed it, my argument about continuity in education/friends/homes seemed weak… opposed as it was to the fact that Teddie-boy would think he’d won the game.

“Yes?” drawled my children encouragingly.

“
You
may like Ireland but
you
haven’t been accused of murder, or gaining an inheritance under false pretenses.
You
don’t have to bear the brunt of outraged elderly aunts, and—”

The doorbell wheezed.

“Speaking of outraged elderly aunts,” said Snow maliciously, “what odds will you give me on our caller?”

“I wouldn’t,” and I listened fervently for a friendly voice.

The male mutters I heard .were encouraging. Shay? I half rose in expectation, berating myself soundly for that notion. I was both pleased and disappointed to see Michael Noonan, tall and very attractive, striding into the dining room.

“I was hoping to find you home, Rene. Can I persuade you to have a few jars with me this evening? I couldn’t reach you by phone this afternoon.”

I heard that Michael wanted to talk to me, away from the ears of my adoring children.

“I’ll change and be right with you. Snow, show Mr. Noonan what we’ve done with the living room and the kitchen.”

You know, it was really fun at my age to dress up for an unexpected date, without resorting to the pretenses of indifference or keeping him waiting, so as not to appear unpopular.

I slipped quickly into the lemon-yellow sheath with the matching sandals that Snow had bludgeoned me into buying, found the strand of wooden beads that Snow said “made” the ensemble, pulled a brush through my hair, dabbed on scent, eschewed the eye shadow despite what Snow said about the absolute necessity of that, and was back down the stairs in seven minutes flat. Wishing it were Shamus Kerrigan who awaited me.

“Mom, practice makes perfect,” said my daughter, casting an appraising eye on my costume.

Michael’s expression told me he agreed. Then Simon stepped forward with an exaggerated swagger.

“Now, Mr. Noonan, I don’t want any fast driving, she’s our only mother, and you’re to be home directly after the pubs close. Otherwise we’ll worry. Now have a good time, dear.”

Michael was at first nonplussed, until he recognized the reversal of roles. He made conventional responses in a mocksolemn tone of voice.

“What a pair!” he said as he guided me to his car, a dark blue Spitfire.

“I’m sorry to let you in for that.”

“I’m not,” he replied, with laughter in his voice.

“I guess they’d be considered bold here in Ireland. Or cheeky!”

He gave me a sidelong look as he started the car. “They’re not disrespectful for all they’re vocal, Rene. Then, of course, knowing they’re Yanks changes one’s perspective.” He was not above needling me.

Michael had turned his car toward Dublin as we stopped at the dual highway. He was glancing in his rear-view mirror, waiting to get out into the traffic, which was fairly steady on the main road.

“Any favorite pubs?”

“I haven’t done much searching yet, but I rather had the notion you wanted to
talk
. “

He took off down the highway, easing in between two rather fast-moving vehicles with what I thought was a dangerous want of driving discretion. He appeared pleased with his maneuver, but I hoped he didn’t continue to drive like this. But he did. At the lights in Cabinteely he took an unexpected—though he signaled—right and then almost immediately a left into the parking area for the Bank of Ireland Computer Building. He pulled on the brakes, doused the lights, and glanced back over his shoulder at the road. A car came tearing past the entrance, and almost immediately we heard it braking. I cringed for a crash-bang-shriek.

“Kieron was right. You
are
being tailed. C’mon.”

“Tailed?” I said it to his closed door as he came round the Spitfire to help me out. “Was that what that wild driving was about?”

“I don’t normally scramble, Rene.”

Just as we got to the roadway, a car backed up past us, braked again, and then angled into the one free roadside parking space, its lights briefly full on our faces.

“Is that the man?” I asked, but Michael told me not to look, and hurried me across the street to the pub.

Unexpectedly, the pub was luxuriously appointed, with thick carpets, paneled walls, deep armchairs, and a cheerful fire on the hearth.

“D’you mind sitting here?” Michael asked, gesturing to a table whose chairs had a discreet view of the door.

“Under the circumstances, no.”

We were giving our order when the door opened and in came … Nosy.

“He just arrived,” I told Michael, leaning forward as if to flick my ash, then nonchalantly glancing up.

Michael sat back, rubbing his chin reflectively. Then he adjusted his glasses. “You do have a tail: one of our good private detectives.”

“Does he know you?”

“He might.” Michael sounded doubtful, although he gave me a cheerful grin. “Much of our work deals with estate management, wills, sales …”

“But wasn’t he hired by my relatives?” Even as I said it, the notion didn’t sound plausible. How could a private detective’s checking my movements help to contest the will?

“It couldn’t be about old Mrs. Slaney?” He shook his head. “My ex-husband?”

He nodded.

“But why? Why now? I’ve divorced him. What I do is not his business any more—” I broke off because Michael had that anticipatory look, like someone waiting for the players to hit on the right syllables in charades. “He’s trying to revoke my custody of the children? Trying to prove me immoral or something? He’s out of his ever-loving mind! Just because I came to Ireland for the summer?”

Michael had kept nodding agreement with my various points. “I don’t know the man, of course, but I understand that he was not in favor of your holidaying here. In fact, if I may be candid, I’ve heard from your American solicitor, Mr. van Vliet, asking my advice on custody laws here.”

“
What?
”

Michael patted my hand soothingly. “The Irish courts would uphold your custody unless wilful and excessive neglect of the children could be proved.” I was sputtering with indignation. “And that would mean you’d have to stop feeding them completely, keep them locked up in substandard rooms without toilet facilities, et cetera, et cetera. Or if you were proved guilty of some felony.”