“Yes, I heard,” I said.
“Terrible thing,” he went on. “I was just talking to him the other day. The club won’t be the same without him.”
“What happened?” asked the skinny guy, sitting up and swinging his legs over the chair.
“They’re not saying,” replied the first, “but I’d lay ye five that it’s . . .” He stopped himself and said to me, “Was Frank a friend of yours, then?”
“We were some kind of cousins, many times removed.”
“I wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, you know, but odds are someone did him in. Frank wasn’t content to keep it at the club. He tomcatted all over the island, so plenty of husbands were ill set toward him. No offense,” he added, looking at me. “But that’s how it was.”
I shrugged and said, “I hardly knew him.”
“Wasn’t he running around with Betty O’Shea?” asked the skinny one.
“Sure, that was common knowledge.”
“And Bryan O’Shea has a black temper. He nearly destroyed Keene’s Pub last year.”
“He’s a bad egg, that one, but he’s not the only one wanting to bust Frank’s dial. Our man was sneaking behind the back of that American partner of his who turned up dead.”
“Bert Barnes?” My voice came out squeaky.
“That’s the one. You’d never guess the wife would go for a fella like Frank, but isn’t that the way sometimes with the quiet ones? There’s a story there, and it will come out, I’ll tell ya.”
“Is that right?” I asked, struggling to sound only mildly interested.
“He told me so himself. You’d think he’d be satisfied with the goods here at the club, but some men can’t help courting trouble.”
“Speaking of which,” said his friend, ogling me, “Can I interest you, my dear, in a visit upstairs?”
“No, thank you. I’m not quite ready for that,” I replied.
“How about the hot tub, then?”
“I’ll come too,” said the bodybuilder, with the implication that his offer should close the deal.
“You guys go ahead. I’d like to relax here a little while longer, if you don’t mind. I might join you later.”
“It’s a date,” said one.
“See you there,” said the other.
They left, leaving me to recline with my eyes closed, thinking about Aunt Laura and Frank Hickey. My mind went back to the condolence call on the morning of Uncle Bert’s death. The front door was closed, but Frank came into the house without knocking or ringing the bell. That suggested he was used to coming and going. If Frank and Aunt Laura were having an affair, what implications did that have for Uncle Bert’s death? Did Bert try to have it out with Frank and get killed in the bargain? Or did Aunt Laura use Frank to rid herself of Bert? Maybe she hated Bert more than Mom did. Now that was an unsettling thought.
I sat up on the recliner and took another shock. A man who looked awfully familiar was entering the steam bath. Toby! I would know that backside anywhere. What was he doing inside the club, prancing around buck naked? He was supposed to be out in the car. I bounded up, almost losing my towel, and circled around the hot tub to the steam bath. I pulled open the door and looked in, but the room was opaque with billowing steam.
“Don’t stand there with the door open. You’re letting out the steam,” boomed a male voice, not Toby’s. “If you’re coming in, come in. And lose the towel.”
I stepped forward, pulling the towel up under my arms, and closed the door behind me. “Toby?” I asked.
“I’m Ryan,” said the voice. “Have a seat.”
“Join the party,” said a female voice. “I’m Sheila.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said in a faltering tone. “I’m Nora. I was looking for my husband.”
“Why?” asked Sheila. “You can have him at home. What’s the point of coming to the club?”
I peered through the steam and could make out, just barely, two naked figures sitting side by side, Ryan and Sheila I presumed. I made bold to call out, “Is anyone else in here?”
“No,” croaked a low voice from a corner of the impenetrable fog. That scared me out of my—well, I was already out of my clothes. I tightened the towel around me.
“Toby, is that you?” I asked. I felt like Winnie-the-Pooh calling into the rabbit hole, X-rated version.
“Ribbit,” the voice croaked.
“Sorry to bother you,” I replied. Backing out the door might make me look like a prude, but I had no intention of staying and meeting the croaker. That weirdo couldn’t be Toby; I must have been mistaken. It was too bad my phone had been confiscated, because now would be the time to use it.
I retreated to my safe haven on the recliner, but no sooner had I made myself comfortable than I faced another difficulty. Larry and Jonathan had entered the spa. I pulled the towel up over my face, hoping the guys hadn’t spotted me yet. I didn’t want to extend the acquaintance that Maggie began in the bar, but where to escape? The steam bath was out. The hot tub was unthinkable. The locker room was too far away. My best option was the sauna, a few feet behind me.
I pivoted and stepped inside, the towel still shielding my face. A blast of hot, dry air almost sent me back out again—that and the realization that I wasn’t alone. A man was sitting in the corner with a towel draped around his neck and everything else exposed. He was big, bald, and hairy. Uh-oh, I thought.
“Hello there,” he greeted me. “I’m Simon.”
I gave my name and sat on the bench opposite. I intended to watch his every move.
“You’re going to be hot in that heavy towel,” he observed.
“I’m fine as I am,” I replied.
Nothing more was said for some time. The heat burned through my skin and melted my muscles, or that’s how it felt. Just when I thought my bones were softening, Simon the Bald crossed over and sat next to me, very next to me. “Why don’t you take that off,” he coaxed. “You’ll enjoy it more.”
I clenched the towel to my chest and edged my rear down the bench. He put his hand on my knee. I took it off. “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m not interested.” He persisted. “No means no,” I said. “It’s a club rule.”
“Is that so?” he said, trying to slide his hand up my thigh.
I shoved him away, and my towel came off in his grip. “That’s better,” he said, tossing it aside and leering at me. He had me squeezed into a corner, and I was scared.
“Get off,” I cried.
“Or what?” he said, pawing me. “I know what you want.” He mushed his face into mine.
Just then, the door to the sauna flew open and Toby, wearing only a scowl, launched himself at my attacker, prying him off me and slamming him into the wall. As Simon bounced off, Toby seized him by his shoulders and forced him into a sitting position on the bench. “That’s my wife,” said Toby, standing over him. “Leave her alone.”
“How was I to know?” sputtered Simon. “Besides, what’s she doing here if she doesn’t want to play?”
Toby ignored him. “Come on,” he said to me, grabbing my towel. “Put this on and let’s get out of here.” Toby put his arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the locker room.
“Boy, am I ever glad to see you,” I said, stumbling a little. “How did you get into the club?”
“There’s a back door. Declan told me about it when we were playing darts. I took my clothes off and left them in the back hall, behind a chair. I don’t think anyone saw me.”
I explained why I hadn’t been able to use my phone.
“I realized something was wrong when I called and you didn’t answer. Where’s Maggie?”
I told him we had agreed to rendezvous in the bar at eleven thirty.
“Okay, we’ll wait for her,” said Toby. “You get your clothes on. I’ll get my stuff and change in the men’s locker room. Then we’ll meet in the bar. I’ll be the guy in crinkled clothes.”
Over drinks, still shaken from my ordeal in the sauna, I told Toby w
hat I had heard about Frank Hickey.
“Well, that gives us a new lead. If your aunt was involved with Frank, we’ve got a whole new set of possibilities. Where there’s a triangle, there’s trouble, every time.” Toby took a long draught of his beer. “I have to hand it to you. Your gambit of sleuthing in the nude has paid off.”
“I don’t know if it was worth almost getting raped,” I admitted. “It’s a lucky thing you came along when you did.”
“It wasn’t just luck,” said Toby, putting down his pint. “I planned to sneak in all along. You don’t really think I’d let you loose in a swingers’ club by yourself, do you? I kept tabs on you from the start.”
“So that was you I saw going into the steam room. I thought I recognized your rear!”
“Sorry, but I went upstairs first, in case things had gone too far for my comfort. When you weren’t in the den of iniquity, I came down to the spa. You weren’t in the hot tub, so I opened the door of the sauna, and there you were, battling with that hairy beast.”
“You’re sure you weren’t in the steam room before that?”
“Nope. I don’t like wet heat.”
“That’s strange. Some weirdo—never mind. I was just glad to see you when I did. You saved my ass.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Toby.
At eleven thirty, Maggie sashayed into the bar, looking pleased with herself. While she sipped a nightcap, I gave her a rundown of my evening, omitting the incident in the sauna, then asked about hers. “Just grand,” she replied. She had spent most of the time upstairs.
“With Larry?” I asked.
“Get on with you. I ditched him at the disco.”
“Who then?”
“No last names, remember?” And that was all I could get out of her. We reclaimed our coats and phones. Maggie tipped the host. She winked at him too. We got in the car, and damned if she didn’t hum all the way home.
I went to bed exhausted, yet feeling amorous. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the sight of so many naked men prowling for partners. Or maybe it was the sight of my own preferred partner, standing by our bed, naked and at the ready. I drew him to me, and we made love passionately, then tenderly.
Later, drifting off to sleep, folded against his body spoon-style, feeling blissfully content, I whispered, “Good night, sweetheart.”
“Ribbit,” croaked Toby.
17
YOU IDIOT. I knew it was you.”
“You mean, the toad in the steam bath?”
“Who else would pull a stunt like that?”
Toby grinned and spread some marmalade on his toast. The rain, which had held off for most of the week, had come down heavily during the night. Outside it was gray and everything was dripping.
“So, tell me what you thought of the club,” Toby pursued. He took a sip of his coffee. “Would you go to one again, just for fun?”
“By myself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He knew I was teasing.
“With you?”
“Of course with me.”
I reflected for a moment. “Well, seeing you naked in a roomful of your peers was educational.” I paused. “You held up pretty well.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But if you’re thinking of adding swinging to our repertoire, forget it. I’m not excited about sharing you—or being shared.”
Toby actually looked relieved.
“And I’d never consider going by myself. Tell you what, though. If I ever change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I should hope so,” said Toby. “If I were the second to know, it would already be too late.” He rose, leaned over the table, and pecked me on the cheek. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“I want to see Aunt Laura again, to follow up on what I learned last night. But I think it’s best if I go by myself. What do you think?” Toby nodded, waved, and went off to his shower, leaving me to do the dishes.
While cleaning up, I considered what I had learned at the Achill Arms. Island gossip said that Laura and Frank Hickey were lovers, and I could believe it. Frank wasn’t my idea of a match, but he was attractive. Anyone could see that. Nonetheless, at this point the affair was only gossip. What’s more, an affair didn’t prove that Laura and Frank had conspired to murder Bert. Still, I had to pursue every possibility in hopes of exonerating Mom.
It was too early to call on Laura, so I decided to stop at the Deserted Village on the way. If there was no one supervising the crime scene, I would mount the hill and take a look. I wanted to remember exactly how Bert lay within the ruined cottage.
As I approached the village, my eyes went to the tented ruin, standing white and geometric, surrounded by the remains of other houses, half-destroyed by weather and time. I tramped up the hill, over wet grass, losing my resolve with each step. I was loath to confront the memory of Bert’s body.
In the end, the site gave me no data. The officials had tented the scene so thoroughly that I couldn’t make out what I had come to see: the size of the room where Bert had fallen, how close his body was to each wall, how much room the killer would have needed to fell Bert with a blow to the head.
Yet that moment did give me something. My mind made a projection screen of the white sheet before me. I saw Frank Hickey standing at Bert’s back, raising a ragged rock and crashing it onto his partner’s head. That was completely plausible. I imagined Laura sitting at home, erect on her couch, with hands folded, waiting for word that the evil deed had been done. Though it didn’t come as naturally, I tried to transform the picture so that it featured Laura, rawboned Laura, bringing the rock down on her husband’s skull. I realized she wasn’t tall enough to have hit him while he stood. He would have to be bent over or already knocked to the ground. But it could have been done, perhaps by herself alone or perhaps with Frank’s assistance.
What about Declan O’Leary? Yes, I could picture him killing Bert with a stone, but it seemed a stretch to believe that he would murder Frank just to obtain a painting.
As for Michael O’Hara or one of his crew, there would be no trouble downing the older and less active man. One stroke, and the environmentalists would have had their victory.
But Mom? She was a healthy woman, with the sort of strength built by housework and moving boxes at the store. I had to admit she was stronger than Laura, as well as several inches taller. She might be as fit as Frank Hickey, for that matter. But I couldn’t imagine her striking anyone from behind. She would confront her opponent face to face, I was sure.
That was all I could glean from my stop at the Deserted Village, so I picked my way down the slippery hill and followed the lane to my aunt’s door. She was the one who answered my knock. Her ravaged face hinted that she was grieving over two men. I scotched my prepared script and took a few minutes to take off my muddy shoes and talk about the rain. That done, I offered condolences regarding her husband’s partner. The graciousness of Laura’s response surprised me. She offered me tea and took me to the kitchen to make it. There was no false ceremony, just the homely movements of two women brewing a cuppa with tea bags in mugs. I carried the mugs into the living room, and she brought a plate of store-bought cookies. We were set up for a talk, not an interrogation. I thought I had better let her lead the way.
“You and Toby are the ones who found Frank, I heard,” she said in a hoarse voice.
That was my cue to tell the story, omitting ugly details and softening the rest. She knew less about our discovery of Frank’s body than I expected, but that made sense. She wasn’t next of kin—the officials wouldn’t have felt obliged to give her the details.
“He was a lovely man,” she said wistfully, with her eyes cast down. The tension in her face relaxed, as if those simple words gave her solace. She spoke of Frank warmly, and she hadn’t spoken of her husband at all. That said something.
I watched her pick up her mug in both hands, as if to steady herself. She looked up and said, “Thank you for coming, Nora.
Your parents were here last night. You’ve been so kind, all of you. After all these wasted years.” She said she was sorry that our families had become estranged. As a consequence, Emily hadn’t had Angie and me as friends while she was growing up. Seeing Emily alone in her sorrow, with her cousins so close to hand, made Laura realize what her daughter had missed. It hardly seemed to me that Laura was at fault here, and I said so. As far as I could tell, it was Bert who had alienated our family.
“I could have set it right,” she protested. “I never questioned Bert’s version of things.”
I waited for her to explain, but she stayed silent, shaking her head, with eyes half-closed. To cover for the awkward moment, I stood up and went to the window, hoping to find something to say about the front garden or the weather. With a remark in mind, I turned back toward Laura, and my eye caught something gold behind the antique cupboard by the window. The edge of a frame, I guessed. I couldn’t help asking about it. “Aunt Laura, is that a picture frame behind the cupboard?”
Her lashes fluttered and she leaned back slightly before saying, “Yes, actually. I’ve put it there for safekeeping.”
I remembered the last time I had heard that phrase. It was in connection with a valuable painting by Paul Henry. “I’d love to see it. May I pull it out? I’ll be careful.” I had my hand on the frame before she could reply.
It was wedged in more tightly than it should have been for safekeeping. I had to get my hand in under the bottom of the frame and support it while I moved it around until I found the exact position from which to retrieve it safely. Then there it was, the painting I had seen on Frank’s phone. It was a wonderful work. The photo hadn’t conveyed the subtle tones of the mist-bleached sky, nor the variegations of green and purple in the mountains rising from the waters of a still, slate bay. The realism of that natural background differed stylistically from the impressionist strokes that rendered thatched cottages in the foreground. Yet some artistic force held the elements in tension. There was no mistaking Paul Henry’s unique touch.
So while the guards were questioning Declan O’Leary about the painting, it was here in Aunt Laura’s house, more or less hidden in plain sight.
The Dead of Achill Island Page 14
