Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5)

by Lyle Nicholson

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking a few questions,” Bernadette began.

  “Not at all, my dear. I’m sure you have so many about the Callahans.”

  Bernadette decided not to lead with her questions regarding the whereabouts of Cahal. She didn’t want to put the old girl on the defensive.

  “Cahal showed me a picture when he was in Canada. It was of me with my dad and Cahal. We were standing outside a pub in Kildare.”

  Aideen sipped her tea and pushed a biscuit to one side of her plate. “Oh, yes I do remember that day. It was the day your father came to take you home.”

  “Was I staying with you or Cahal?”

  “Oh no, it was when your birth mother decided to finally give you up.”

  “Ah, excuse me. What are you saying?”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m so sad you didn’t know. Your father had a bit of a fling with a traveler, we call them Tinkers and I think you call them Gypsies in your country. You were the result of that little love affair. We had to bargain with that woman something awful to get her to give you up. But in the end, it worked out. She saw the reasoning.” Aideen leaned forward. “Which was in the form of money, I dare say, but she came to her senses and your father came here to claim you.”

  “Is this lady still around?”

  “Yes, she is, her name is Francine Dooley. She lives in a camp on the west side of town. The place is bit run down, but that’s their way of life.

  Bernadette finished her tea. “Well, that’s interesting. I’ll have to check it out. Now, Aunt Aideen, have you seen Uncle Cahal?”

  Aideen dropped her teacup into her saucer. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here? I know you’re a Canadian detective. You’re here to capture my poor brother. You know he’d never do anything of what they’ve charged him with. And you his kin, after him to put him in shackles and take him like a criminal back to Canada. Are you not ashamed of yourself?”

  Bernadette stood up. “Not in the least, Aunt Aideen. I’m an officer of the law and your brother—my uncle has broken that law. I will do everything in my power to take him back to Canada. I’m sorry we had to meet this way. Thanks for the tea.”

  Bernadette walked out of the little house and got into her car. “Well, that was a pleasant family reunion,” she said as she started the car.

  She reversed round and drove down the road. Two men were parked by the side of the road. One was red-haired the other dark, they looked away as she passed—a dead giveaway. She drove on.

  39

  Bernadette drove down the road towards the Gypsy camp, occasionally glancing into the rearview mirror. The car was a small blue Volkswagen. It came into view about ten minutes into her journey. The guys in the car were rank amateurs in tailing someone but that suited Bernadette just fine. She would have been worried if they were more careful.

  The thought crossed her mind of the thumbnail sketch of the men being sought for murder. Small car and red hair came to mind. Then again, red hair and small cars were everywhere in Ireland. She’d wait to see what the car did next before she made any judgments or got worried. She could call Sullivan for backup if she thought killers were stalking her.

  The camp of caravans or trailers, as it would be called in North America, appeared on the left. There was no sign of what it was, two white posts stood on either side with reflectors so you could find the entrance at night.

  A small hill rose up behind the caravans that were nestled into barren trees. They looked forlorn, well used, and some had been kept up and some not at all. Columns of smoke rose from a few outdoor campfires where children were playing with sticks and throwing things into the flames.

  Bernadette drove in and parked. The blue Volkswagen stopped down the road. She tried not to laugh as she stepped out of her car. The worst tail ever. These two seemed more like chaperones than killers. If they were meaning to kill her, they would surely have made a move by now.

  Three small children approached. “Watcha wan?” a little boy asked.

  Bernadette shook her head, the language was incomprehensible. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”

  A little girl with dark hair and blue green eyes came forward, “We want to know what you want?”

  “I’m here to see Francine Dooley. Is she here?”

  “Where are you from? You speak funny,” the little girl said.

  Bernadette knelt down beside the little girl. “I’m from Canada, and my name is Bernadette Callahan. What’s yours?”

  The girl smiled. “My name’s Naomi. You have an Irish name, but you don’t sound Irish.”

  “No, but my father came from this area. I was born in Canada,” Bernadette said.

  Naomi took Bernadette by the hand and led her to the back of caravans through a crowd of people who’d come out of their trailers to stare at the stranger. A single caravan stood on its own. It was no more than fifteen feet in length; two old chairs were parked at the front door with a piece of plywood that might serve as the veranda. An old kitchen table with a peeling vinyl surface was covered in pots and pans full of water that looked like they were used to collect rainwater.

  Naomi knocked on the door and called to Francine. The language she used was totally foreign to Bernadette; the only thing she recognized was the word Francine.

  The door creaked open only enough for the woman to peer out. Then the door swung wide. A woman of Bernadette’s height with red hair fast going gray, green eyes and full round face stared down at her.

  “Are you Francine Dooley?”

  “Ai, that be me, and you are?”

  “Bernadette Callahan.”

  Francine’s’ shoulders dropped. “Ah, shite, they said you might be coming round. Come in, come in. I’ll make tea.”

  “Who said that?” Bernadette asked.

  Francine dropped her eyes to the floor and went to the kettle. She poured some water into it from a plastic jug and plugged it in. A gas generator hummed outside and the kettle boiled.

  Francine placed two mugs on the table and sat down across from Bernadette. A soft light from the window highlighted her face. Her eyes darted back and forth; she wouldn’t look Bernadette directly in the eyes.

  “You said someone told you I might come here—who was it?” Bernadette asked.

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Was it a recent conversation?”

  Francine reached for a packet of cigarettes on the table. She pulled a cigarette out and put it to her lips. She struck a match, inhaled deeply, and blew smoke upwards into the air.

  “I think I got a bit confused just now. It was years ago. That’s it. Someone said the mistake I made in having you would come back to me. Here you are,” Francine said, pulling the smoke into her lungs and letting it exhale slowly.

  Bernadette could see she was using the smoke as a cover. She filled the air as if she was trying to hide behind it.

  “Cahal and Aideen Callahan both told me a story of my being born to an Irish woman near their town.”

  “They say I’m an Irish Gypsy?”

  “I do believe so. You want to tell me how I was supposedly born here?”

  “There’s no suppose about this, dearie. Your father, Dominic Callahan, gave me a right good shagging outside the pub one night. There was no proper romance, just a knee trembler up against a wall in the alley and nine months later out you come to add shame to my stupidity.”

  “I see. And you gave me up for adoption? Is that it?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it. I went to Aideen and Cahal straight away, told them what that little bugger Dominic had done. They agreed to give me cash and I handed you over. There, that’s the story.”

  “Interesting story. How did you meet my father?”

  “He was a singer in a band. A lovely voice, he had. I was young, I got as near to the band as I could and flashed me eyes at him. The rest is…well, the rest is you…”

  “I guess that’s a believable story,” Bernadette said.

/>   “Why wouldn’t you believe it? Maybe you don’t want to because you’d be the child of a Gypsy woman. We have a long and good tradition in this land. You could do worse than have the blood of my ancestors in your veins.”

  Bernadette raised her hand. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. You have to understand this is all new to me. I was raised in Canada by a native woman who I always assumed was my mother.”

  “Well, the Callahan’s have a way with lies now, don’t they? Your father would have sung a sweet song to weave his story he would.”

  Bernadette sipped her tea. “Tell me about Cahal Callahan.”

  Francine’s eyes flashed, before she closed them and then looked away. “What’s to tell? He’s a Callahan, just like your father.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Years ago, I saw him at a market. I remembered him from hanging about with your da so he could get some girls. He wasn’t the looker your da was. But he could talk the girls’ nickers off just as well.”

  Bernadette paused. She let the silence fall over the little trailer. She stirred her tea and looked at the table. Looking down at the matches, she noticed something. There was a Canadian maple leaf on the front of the packet.

  Francine saw her staring at the packet. She swept her hand over them and pulled them towards her.

  “I must go,” Bernadette said. ‘Thanks for your time.”

  “That’s it then?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Bernadette said.

  “Will you not leave your mother a few euros?”

  Bernadette got up to leave. “You said you were paid by the Callahan’s for dropping me off over thirty years ago. What do you want to get paid for now? Your story?”

  “But I’ve told you, I’m your birth mother.”

  “No, my mother is a full Cree Native. She was born on the Lone Pine Reservation in Northern Canada. I was raised by her and my grandmother. Those are by true parents.”

  “You’re ungrateful, you are.”

  “No, I’m very grateful. I know who I am, and if I am somehow related to you, I’m so glad I didn’t grow up bitter like you. I’m sorry for you. That’s all I have. Goodbye.”

  Bernadette walked out of the trailer. The children clustered around her and tried to keep up with her as she walked to her car. They found they had to run to do so.

  She got in her car, revved the engine, and popped the clutch making the car fish tail out of the dirt parking lot throwing grass leaves and dirt from the tires.

  The car hit the road, she accelerated, and looking in her rearview mirror she could see she’d lost the little blue Volkswagen. She smiled.

  40

  Bernadette was going over the speed limit. It felt good; the little mini Ford took the corners well. Nothing about the conversation with Francine made sense. It didn’t jive with Cahal’s story, but then lies never do.

  Cahal had said he’d put her father on a freighter when he was young and never seen him again, and then he said he’d come back to Ireland. Francine’s story of her father playing in a band made sense, but it would have to have been over thirty years ago.

  “Okay, Bernadette, give your head a shake. You’re here to find Cahal. Not to examine your birth,” she said to herself. Having given herself a talking to, she felt better.

  Making her way to the James Nolan Pub in Kildare, she pulled up across from it and parked. Checking to see if she still had the picture of Cahal in her pocket, she entered the pub.

  The place was old, the sign said established in 1906. The floor was wood, with wood paneling on the walls. The place had a makeover with comfortable chairs and new tables, but it still had the pervading aroma of beer in the air.

  Bernadette walked up to the bar and sat on a well-worn wooden bar stool that had been smoothed by a century of bottoms.

  The barman was in his mid-fifties, round and stocky with a full beard and bald head. He looked like he’d always been there, born into it as a youngster with the beard to match.

  He wiped his hands on his apron and came over to Bernadette. “What can I get you?”

  Bernadette looked over at the long row of beer handles that pumped beer. There were so many. It was hard to choose.

  “I’m new to Irish beer, what do you suggest?’

  The barman’s face brightened. “Ah, a tourist to our fair Isle. I always suggest a Kilkenny, as a Guinness may be a wee bit harsh at the first.”

  “Sounds good, just a small one. I’ve just got off the plane.”

  “A half it is.”

  The barmen pulled the pint at the handle and smiled at her again. “Where are you visiting from?”

  “Canada.”

  “I have relatives there, in Toronto. Are you close to it?” he asked as he placed a coaster and the beer in front of Bernadette.

  “No, I’m from about thirty-five hundred kilometers west of there.”

  “Oh, that is a big country.”

  “Very big,” Bernadette agreed, taking a sip of the beer. It was creamy and smooth with a bit of hoppy taste. With her jet lag it was just the thing to take the edge off.

  “We don’t get many visitors this time of year. What brings you here?”

  “Looking for a lost relative,” Bernadette said, pulling a picture of Cahal out of her jacket pocket and placing it on the bar.

  The barman walked over. He looked at it for a second. “Kind of looks familiar.”

  “Have you seen him in the past few days?”

  “No, not recently, but a month or so ago, I think I saw him come in here.”

  “Is this his regular pub?”

  The barman paused for a moment. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am a cop. I’m a detective in Canada. I have no authority here. But this is my Uncle Cahal Callahan and I need to get in touch with him.”

  The barman chuckled. “Did he win the lottery back in Canada?”

  “Yes, you could say that,” Bernadette said. She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and wrote her cell phone number on it. “Here’s my cell phone number. If you see him in here, give me a call.”

  “Should I tell him you’re looking for him then?”

  “No, I want to make it a surprise,” Bernadette said. She dropped a five Euro note on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  The barman smiled. “Come back again.”

  She walked outside. It had stopped raining. The beer was wending its way nicely into her brain and smoothing her jetlag. It was now just past noon. She thought she might find lunch somewhere on the way back into Dublin, then her hotel and a bed. The bed sounded like a good idea.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw two men approach. One had red hair. Her reflexes came on. She turned to face them.

  41

  Bernadette quickly assessed her situation. She had no weapons, only her hands and feet. There was nothing around her but the brick wall of the pub. She took one step closer to it.

  The men came up and stopped three feet away. “We want you to come with us,” the red-haired man said.

  Bernadette stood there. Raised both her hands with palms towards them. “I don’t see that happening.”

  The red-haired man opened his jacket to reveal his gun. “But Mr. Smith and Wesson says it is. Get in the car.”

  Bernadette stared at the man, locking eyes. He didn’t have his hand on the gun. His mistake.

  She lunged forward stomping her size eight boot on the top of his foot. His face registered the pain. With open palms she slapped his ears as hard as she could, hoping to break his eardrums. He staggered forward. She grabbed his ears with both hands, pulled his head down to meet her knee. His nose made a crunching sound on her knee. She followed the move with her right elbow to the back of his head. He hit the ground.

  The second man stood paralyzed by her actions—then he came at her.

  She turned to face him, the brick wall behind her.

  He charged at her, placing his hands around her neck. Her hands came up be
tween his arms grabbing him by the collar. In one swift move she pulled his head forward towards the wall while ducking down and moving her right foot one step to the right. His head made a crunching sound with the wall.

  The barman came out of the pub and stared down at the two men. “What’s this then?”

  “Sorry for that,” Bernadette said. “These two wanted to offer me a ride, I refused.” She reached down, taking the gun from the red-haired man’s waist. It was a Smith and Wesson 986 center model, called a wheel gun by some.

  She got into her car and threw the gun in the glove compartment. She put the car in gear and shot out of the town.

  It took a half hour to get back into Dublin. The traffic was light on the Friday afternoon. She decided to make a delivery before going into her hotel. Checking her Google maps, she found a donut shop in downtown Dublin. She ordered a half dozen donuts but asked for a one dozen box. The young man behind the counter was happy to comply.

  Punching the address of the Special Detective Unit of the Garda into her maps, she arrived outside the building fifteen minutes later. She dropped the donuts off with the gun underneath the first layer. She placed a note to Detective Sullivan to check the gun as the possible murder weapon and included the license number of the car the men had been driving. Only then did she head for her hotel, which was easy to find. It was finding a parking space for her car that took a half hour.

  The hotel was, as Sullivan had said, a bit ‘shite’ but it was clean, with some almost usable towels and bar soap that lathered. She took a shower and decided on a quick nap. Her body was now vibrating it was so tired. Her watch read two o’clock Dublin time. A bit of shuteye for a half hour might be called for. She lay on the bed and was soon fast asleep.

  When her phone rang, it seems to pervade her consciousness for a long time. She kept telling someone to answer the phone, but no one seemed to hear her. Finally, she opened her eyes and grabbed her cell phone beside the bed.