I don’t know what Angie felt, but she acted in high spirits, taking us from this shop to that, encouraging purchases. She led by example, buying a present for her convent: a white altar cloth embroidered with Celtic crosses. Without her prodding, I would have passed up a gallery of bogwood sculptures. What a depressing name, I thought. But I found them bewitching, redolent of Achill earth, carved from wood preserved for thousands of years in peat. I selected an arching dolphin, who would link my memories of Achill to my hometown, Rockport, where dolphins have always played, as well as to my current home, Bodega Bay, where dolphins have recently arrived.
At every gallery, Mom took photos of displays. She was getting ideas for her tourist shop back in Rockport. When the kids were young, Mom worked there part-time, for fun and money. But when Angie went to middle school, Mom got career-serious and made it to manager. Before Angie was a sophomore Mom owned the shop, employed her two best friends, and was proud of it.
Since the Beehive sold tourist items from key chains to crystal, Mom wanted to compare its wares with those in her shop. It was after one o’clock, and the logical thing was to lunch there. I would have to forget the last time I visited the Beehive, when I had examined the sweaters for buttons like Mom’s. I didn’t quite succeed in putting it out of my mind, but lunch was good—a hot fish chowder, suited to the cool day. We talked about friends in Rockport, Grammy’s illness, and my brother’s coming baby. Nothing about Bert or murder.
Mom wanted to start in on the crafts and trinkets, and the Beehive had three rooms of them. I stayed behind to pay the bill. I didn’t see Angie or Mom in my first walk through the salesrooms, but I found them on the second pass, in the back of the last room, in front of a full-length mirror. Angie had her hands on Mom’s shoulders, adjusting the fall of a hip-length sweater.
Spotting me, Angie said, “This looks great, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t disagree. The close-knit wool glowed green, with blue low-lights, becoming tones for anyone, and splendid on Mom. The cut was stylish, a far cry from the lumpy mass of the sweater with the missing button. I checked the buttons on this one. There weren’t any. The fabric fell in an open drape from a softly rolled collar.
“No buttons,” I said. “Will that be warm enough for winter?”
“Sure it will,” Angie said. “She can pull it close, like this.”
“That won’t be as warm as your blue sweater,” I warned. I had come around to look Mom in the eye, but she gazed at herself, in the mirror.
“I’m sick of that old thing,” she said, still not looking toward me. “It’s ready for the dustbin. Besides, the buttons are falling off. I’ve already lost one and the others are loose.”
My ribs knit. It looked as if Mom meant to get rid of the blue sweater, now sitting at the cottage with one missing button. Was that because she feared the button would be found near where Uncle Bert was murdered? I tried to work out her plan. She could dispose of the old sweater, but where? Maybe she had done so already.
“That’s too bad,” said Angie. “Did you lose it here?”
“Somewhere on the trip,” Mom replied in an offhand manner. “Do you really like this on me?” She looked at herself sideways in the mirror.
“I do,” Angie said.
“I’ll take it,” said Mom, setting her jaw decisively.
For me the day’s bright moments darkened.
16
BY EVENING, I HAD MADE UP MY MIND about the swingers’ club, but I hadn’t yet told Toby. He was tired from a day of fishing and welcomed the idea of an evening at home while Maggie and I took a girls’ night out. When he asked where we were going, I couldn’t hold it back.
“To that swingers’ club you’re always talking about,” I said.
“Very funny.”
“No, it’s true, but it’s not what you think.”
“Wait just a minute.” Toby sprang up from the couch. “You mean to tell me that my happily married wife of seven years—”
“Eight.”
“Eight. But I got the happily married part right, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely. Deliriously happy.”
“Good. Let me start over. So my deliriously happy wife of eight years is planning to sneak off to the swingers’ club without me?” Toby had his palms extended out, like a picture of St. Francis talking to the birds.
“I’m not sneaking off. I’m pre-confessing, right now. Let me explain.” I sat him down and related everything that Maggie had told me about the club, stressing the possibility of picking up a clue about the murders, through loose talk. “Think of it as undercover work,” I said.
“Sounds more like ‘no cover’ work to me,” Toby snapped.
I tried to address his concerns. According to Maggie, we could spend the evening as spectators rather than participants, so long as we looked ready for action. She didn’t specify what that meant. Wrapped in a towel? Stripped to the skin? Clad in black leather and carrying a whip?
“Why can’t I come too?” Toby asked.
I explained the entrance policy that excluded men who weren’t members. “Don’t worry. Maggie’s going with me. She’ll have my back.”
“I’m worried about who’ll have your front,” said Toby. Now that he was wisecracking, I knew I was making progress. It’s Toby’s way of overcoming discomfort. We talked the idea through, and he finally relented. “But I want a full report,” he warned. “No touching. And no looking, just listening.”
“I don’t know about the looking clause,” I said, “but I’ll do my best.”
“And keep your phone with you at all times,” Toby insisted. “That way you can call me if you get into a tight spot. I’ll be right outside, waiting in the car.”
Having a getaway car at the ready seemed smart, but how was I supposed to carry a phone? If you’re naked, do you hold it behind your back? Maybe I could grab a towel and twist the phone into it.
When Maggie arrived, she wasn’t pleased to learn that Toby was coming, but he promised her he would stay out of sight and avoid spoiling her evening. “Just don’t crash the party,” Maggie cautioned, “or we’ll be booted out.”
“Understood,” Toby replied. “But I’ll be there if you need me.” Having agreed on the ground rules, we set out in Maggie’s car, with me in the passenger seat (left side) and Toby head-down on the back seat, in fetal position.
The Achill Arms—or as Maggie calls it, the Arms & Legs—stands on the Dugort road on the outskirts of the village, where the beach gives way to a high spit of meadow. The wide, two-story building sits at the center of this meadow, with its back to the sea and its face shielded from view by a high wall of fuchsia. In summer, the shrubs are thick with red and purple flowers, sparing passersby from any glimpse of shenanigans inside. The hotel’s heyday was the 1920s, but when train service to Achill ended, tourism dropped off and the island’s grandest hotel went into decline. It was abandoned by midcentury and stood empty for decades, until a publican from Keel bought it at auction rates and renovated it for use as a private club. One wing of the hotel was turned into a spa with a communal hot tub, a hickory-paneled sauna, and a steam bath lined with Italian tile. The other wing, which once housed a restaurant, was transformed into a disco with a stage, dance floor, and discreet nooks. Upstairs, of course, were the bedrooms.
It was just getting dark when we arrived. We parked at the end of a line of cars and prepared to leave Toby in the back of Maggie’s Toyota with the windows rolled down. He had his backlit Kindle to keep him occupied, but it was not going to be pleasant lying scrunched up on the cloth seat covered with dog hairs. Just before I closed the car door, Toby raised his head to whisper, “Remember!” He pantomimed a phone call, with his pinky extended and thumb to his ear.
“Will Declan be here tonight?” I asked as we walked up the path to the hotel.
“I doubt it,” Maggie said. “He spent the day at the garda station and came back exhausted. It seems the Paul Henry painting was missing when the gu
ards searched Frank Hickey’s house. Declan claims he doesn’t know anything about it, but the detectives questioned him for hours. It’s just as well he won’t be here,” she added.
At the entrance, we rang the bell and waited. “How do I look?” I did a slow turn. I had spent some time wondering what to wear.
Maggie nodded her approval. “You look like someone going to an orgy.”
My suitcase hadn’t carried hussy clothes to Ireland, so I was reduced to adapting my one sexy nightgown, which I had brought to encourage vacation romance (with my own husband). It was a wedding-shower gift from my girlfriends, who had splurged at Victoria’s Secret on a black knee-length number, which fell in slinky folds from string straps. I added fake gold earrings and the real gold necklace that Toby’s mother gave me as an engagement present. To solve the phone problem, I slung the strap of a black purse across my chest, thereby accentuating my best bits while housing my escape alarm.
When I saw Maggie’s getup, I realized that I had gone too far. She was in tight jeans and a white V neck T-shirt. Wild red hair said all that needed to be said.
The door was answered by an unnervingly handsome man in a white silk shirt and black leather vest. Greeting us with a slight bow, he said, “Good evening, ladies. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you at the club before. How did you find us?”
Maggie brushed by him. “One of the members invited us.” She mentioned Declan’s name. “And we were interested,” she said, smiling salaciously.
“Ah. I don’t believe he’s here tonight. But you’re very welcome.” He returned Maggie’s smile. He had unnaturally white teeth. “May I take your wraps?”
While he was hanging up our coats, Maggie whispered that she wouldn’t mind wrapping herself around our genial host. Maggie could use a little more impulse control.
The host returned, his Cheshire cat smile intact. “My name is Sean,” he said, as if offering us (or rather, Maggie) his calling card. “I’ll be happy to show you around the club and go over our rules—we don’t have many, but they have to be observed.”
“Grand,” said Maggie.
“Right, then. Well, you may have noticed that I didn’t mention my surname when I introduced myself. Here it’s first names only: that’s rule one. And you are?
“Maggie.”
“Nora.”
“Right. You’ll get on fine. Rule two: all acts of intimacy are consensual. If someone approaches you and you’re not interested, just say so. Here ‘no’ means ‘no.’ This rule protects our guests from unwanted contact.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Maggie.
As long as everyone observes the rule, I thought.
“Rule three.” Sean ticked off on his fingers. “Dress code. Clothing is optional throughout the club, but our guests in the bar and disco are usually dressed. At the spa, nudity is the norm. There is also a shower area and locker room, where you may leave your belongings.”
“Do you provide towels?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Just checking.
“And upstairs?” Maggie inquired.
“Upstairs pretty much anything goes,” said Sean. “It’s up to you. One more thing,” he added. “To protect everyone’s privacy, no photographic or recording devices are allowed. You have to check your mobiles at the door.” He extended his palm.
Uh-oh. So much for my communication link with Toby. If I got groped by a masher, I was on my own. Maggie and I fished in our bags for the phones and turned them over.
“Thanks, ladies,” he said. Sean stowed them in a box containing other phones, each with a numbered label attached. “You can claim them on the way out. Your number is fifty-eight, remember that. Now if you come this way, I’ll give you a quick tour.”
We were standing in the entrance to the old hotel. Sean led us into what once had been the lobby, now converted to a stylish bar, with dim lighting, a curved wooden bar, and café tables. “It’s the icebreaker room,” he said. “Most of our guests like to start out here with a drink. I recommend the Cooley 2 Gingers.” Whatever that was. I looked over at several couples and a group of four men, fully clothed, sipping drinks and exchanging conversation. It could have been any hotel bar in Ireland.
We followed Sean into a room across the hallway. “Things start to warm up in the disco,” he said in a raised voice. The room was basically dark but lit in flashes by strobe lights and a pulsing chandelier. Recorded music pounded, singles and couples danced frenetically, and hips bumped suggestively.
Sean led us out. “At the end of the hall,” he continued, “we have the spa: hot tub, steam bath, sauna, and locker rooms.” I noticed the plural. At least there would be a women’s changing room.
The spa had slate floors, warmed by mellow lighting. Yup, everyone was nude, though a few women and a single bashful male had wrapped themselves in spa towels. The focus of activity was a huge hot tub, packed with chattering bathers, not a swimming suit among them. Other guests lounged on recliners, the kind you see at a pool. An area at the back of the room was marked off for badminton. Two well-nourished couples were batting a shuttlecock over a net, flopping and bouncing as they scurried after it. The scene reminded me of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. “This is more like it,” Maggie said.
We’ve all seen naked people before, but a room full of them is something else. Here there were all shapes and sizes, some young, some middle-aged. With their clothes on, most of these folks would be unremarkable, but here they turned heads, displaying parts more interesting than those normally in view.
“The women’s locker room is through here.” Sean pointed, indicating a door. “The bedrooms are upstairs. I’ll leave it to you to find them, when you’re ready.” His job done, Sean bowed again and returned to his post.
“I wonder if we were supposed to tip him?” Maggie said. “You know, like a maître d’?”
“Could be.”
“No matter. We can take care of that on the way out. So, where to first?”
“Let’s get a preview of the second floor so we’ll know what’s what,” I said, “and then go to the bar. I’m not ready for the hot tub, and the disco’s too noisy.”
“Right,” she said. “Em, what’s the plan if we get separated?”
“Separated?” Maggie looked at me impatiently until I got it. “Oh. Well, what time does this place close?” I didn’t relish the idea of being left on my own, but why should I spoil her party?
Maggie said, “I’m not sure, but pubs close at twelve thirty on Saturday night.”
“Then let’s meet at the bar at half past eleven. I don’t want Toby to have to sit in the car all night. Will that give you enough time to, er?”
“It will if I get lucky. Lead on.”
The upstairs bedrooms still had the look of a hotel and hadn’t required much renovation, except that the interior walls of some of the rooms had been knocked down to provide larger spaces for cavorting. A few rooms had glass doors, catering to any voyeurs in the corridor and exhibitionists inside. “Over here,” Maggie summoned me. “This looks like the main event.” In a big room at the end of the hall the beds had been replaced by gray mats on the floor. The mats gave the impression of a gymnastics match or yoga class. Various combinations of men and women were going at it, but it seemed to me there was more effort involved than fun—they were all too busy concentrating on their performances. I pictured a row of judges holding up number cards.
“I think I get the idea,” I said. “I’m ready to go down to the bar.”
“Lead on,” said Maggie.
The bar had filled up while we were touring the club, but we were able to get a small table at the back. Maggie got up to fetch our drinks and returned with a whiskey for herself and white wine for me. In her wake came a pair of lads carrying drinks of their own.
“Hiya,” said Larry, introducing himself and pulling up a chair. “May I?” he asked after the fact.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” said
Maggie pointedly.
“Beg pardon” said Larry, getting up.
“No need,” said Maggie. “I was just codding you. You’re welcome, and your friend too.”
“That’s Jonathan,” he said, breaking into a broad smile. Jonathan said hi and sat down opposite me. Larry was freckled and on the roly-poly side. His friend Jonathan was better looking but shy: the drag-along.
“So, girls,” Larry began, “what brings you to the Achill Arms?”
“Just visiting,” I said.
“Just visiting, eh? Well, what do you say we get the visit started.” He winked. “Which is it to be, the hot tub or upstairs?”
Maggie intervened protectively. “D’ye fancy a dance first, Larry? How about the disco?”
“Delighted.” Larry had focused his attention on me, but now that he had a bird in the hand, he adjusted his sights. Off they went, leaving me with tongue-tied Jonathan. The next ten minutes were painful reminders of my junior high school prom. Eventually I disentangled myself, announcing an unneeded trip to “the ladies.’” I hoped to find a source of information elsewhere in the building.
Thinking the spa might be worth a go, I disrobed in the women’s locker room and emerged in a fluffy spa towel that did a pretty good job of preserving my modesty. I spotted unoccupied lounge chairs on the far side of the hot tub and chose one, doing my best to appear at ease. It wasn’t long before two young men claimed the chairs next to me. The skinny one had a towel around his waist, while the well-built one strutted, swinging his towel provocatively. The friends spread their towels over the chairs, casually exposing themselves, and stretched out. I pretended to doze while I eavesdropped on their conversation.
It was pretty distasteful stag talk, but my eyes popped open when one of them mentioned Frank Hickey. I sat up, tucking my towel under my arms. “Excuse me, do you know Frank?” I asked.
“I do,” replied the muscle man. He gave me the once-over. “Did you hear he’s just died, God bless him?”
The Dead of Achill Island Page 13
