“I’ll do that. Walk me out?”
Maura led the way to the front and waved as Sean walked back to his car. Rose asked, “Any luck?”
“A couple of ideas—he thinks I should talk to the people at Crann Mor.”
“Sure, and why didn’t we think of that?” Rose exclaimed. “And you with connections!”
“I think Sean was thinking more of people who don’t quite reach the standard expected by a fancy hotel but could still use a job. Maybe I’ll do that in the morning. Unless we all collapse from exhaustion.”
“Just hang on a little longer—we’ll figure something out,” Rose said.
Or die trying, Maura thought grimly.
Chapter Sixteen
After another long day with a depressingly low number of customers, Maura dragged herself home—remembering at the last minute to grab her cake from its hiding place. She felt less guilty knowing that the cake was something she would never make, no matter how many lessons she took or how much effort she put in, so she could justify buying it. She’d be glad to match Gran’s cooking skills—Gran had always made simple food that tasted good and was easy to stretch for unexpected guests, or a second meal if they were both too tired to cook—but that wasn’t likely to happen.
She stumbled up the stairs after locking the front door, dropped onto her bed, and fell asleep as soon as she was horizontal.
The next morning the sun was shining—again. Wasn’t it supposed to rain a lot in Ireland? Either there was some sort of drought going on, or she was spending so much time at the pub that she wasn’t noticing the weather outside. Maura wasn’t sure which explanation she preferred, but it must have rained sometime, because everything was very, very green. She got up, pulled on a sweater against the morning chill, and wandered downstairs. There was no more food than there had been the day before—except for the cake. All right, she’d have cake for breakfast, and enjoy every bite. Why not?
When she’d finished her sketchy breakfast, she showered and changed clothes—reminding herself that she had to do some laundry soon or she’d drive people away with the smell. She wondered how much a washer cost and if she could afford one. Not right now, not until things were a bit more settled at the pub. If they ever would be.
Fed, clean, and dressed, she decided to stop in at Bridget’s cottage before heading into Leap. She didn’t expect that Bridget would have any insights into finding more staff, but it was always nice to talk with her, and she did have a network of friends, some of whom might have grandchildren looking for work. When she reached the end of her lane, Maura stopped: there was a battered caravan—what she would have called a small house trailer back in Boston—parked in the field opposite, uphill from Bridget’s cottage. She was pretty sure the field belonged to Bridget, though she didn’t use it for anything except maybe grazing the occasional horse. But in the year she’d spent at her own place, Maura had never seen any regular activity in that field, although somebody mowed it now and then. Did Bridget know about the ramshackle vehicle? She thought she should find out.
She was still on edge about the unknown, unseen killer, she realized. Stupid, she knew, because nothing about the place had changed. Her home was still shabby, and there was nothing to steal. There was her fragile connection with the death—why had the killer dumped the body next to her property, even being bold enough to pass through her own gate?—but she hadn’t even been there at the time, and she didn’t know anything about the who or the why. And she hated being a weak silly woman, jumping at shadows. But she’d be devastated if something happened to Bridget and she could have done something to prevent it. She patted her pocket to make sure she had her cell phone, then strode briskly down the hill and rapped on Bridget’s door. “Bridget? It’s Maura.”
She heard the sound of laughter from inside—from two voices, Bridget’s and a man’s. Then the scrape of Bridget’s chair as she struggled to get out of it, then the soft footprints as she approached the door. A smiling Bridget opened it.
“Fáilte a Mhaira! Come in, come in. I was just telling Peter here that I seldom get many callers here, and now I’ve two at once. Let me introduce the two of yiz.”
Bridget stepped back to let Maura in, and Maura tried to study the other guest without being too obvious. Midthirties, shabby but clean, slight, and smiling. Not exactly threatening. Maura stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Maura Donovan—I live up the hill. Is that your mobile home up there?”
“Peter Sheridan. Yes, it is—my family’s gone into the town to get some supplies, and I thought I’d stop in and say hello to Bridget here, since she’s kind enough to let us use her field now and then. You’d be American?”
“I am. If you’ve been coming around for a while, you’d have known Old Mick. I inherited the cottage from him, and the pub in Leap as well, last year.”
“How’re you settling in?”
“It’s been interesting,” Maura told him, relaxing just a bit. He seemed pleasant enough, and harmless. And Bridget didn’t seem worried.
“Shall I put on the kettle?” Bridget asked, beaming. “Have you the time fer a cup, Maura?”
“Sure. Need any help?”
“It’s all but ready. You and Peter chat while I fix it. Sit down, you two.”
“Are you on holiday?” Maura asked politely.
Peter smiled to himself. “Yeh haven’t been around here long, have yeh? Do yeh know of the Travellers?”
“I’ve heard the name mentioned, but it seems like I spend all my waking time in the pub. What should I know?”
Peter seemed to relax just a bit. “Ah, ’tis a long story, but I’ll give you the short version. We Travellers are a particular group of Irish, related to the rest but different, and as the name suggests, many of us have no fixed home—we travel about the country. You might have heard some of the other names people call us—pavees, tinkers, even gypsies. Though we’re not gypsies, and the term is seldom used kindly. Mostly we live in or near the cities—there’s a settlement east of here, although that may be closed down soon. Some of us are settled, as it’s called, but many of us still roam about during the warmer months. That’s how I came to meet Bridget here. We needed a place to park, and she was kind enough to let us use her field fer a time. But I’ll warn yeh up front: we’re not always welcome. There’s those who think we steal or take advantage of those who are kind to us. If I tell yeh now that me and my family are honest people, would you believe me?”
What Peter said matched what others like Seamus had told her. “I try not to judge people too fast,” Maura said. “And Bridget vouches for you, and I trust her. So I’ll believe you until you show me I shouldn’t. You and your people just kind of wander around the countryside? You’ve got kids? Do they go to school in the winter?”
“We’re comin’ around to that, slowly. It was only in 2017 that the government saw fit to recognize us as true Irish, and that means we’re entitled to some public privileges, like health care and education, but that’s been slow to take effect, for if people don’t trust us, neither do we trust the government.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but how do you support yourselves?”
“We breed dogs and horses. We collect scrap and sell it. Whatever work we can find, short term. But we don’t want to lose our traditional lifestyle, so it’s been hard to juggle the old and the new. Changing times we live in.” He accepted a cup of tea from Bridget, took a sip, then asked, “So how does a lovely young American woman like yerself come to be running an Irish pub?”
“Old Mick left it to me. Bridget probably knows more of the story than I do. My grandmother was a friend of hers, before she left for America.”
“The luck of the Irish, eh? You’ve landed on yer feet here.”
“Looks like it. It’s been an interesting year, but it seems to be working out.”
The sound of children’s voices could be heard outside, and then a woman telling them to be quiet. Peter stood and opened the door. “Nan! Come say hello to a new nei
ghbor of Bridget’s—she’s from America.”
Maura could hear the woman issuing orders to the children—“Now, take this back to the caravan, and we’ll be there directly”—before she joined Peter at the door. She turned out to be a slender woman, taller than Maura, her hair tied back loosely. Peter said, “This is Maura Donovan, who lives up the hill in Old Mick’s place now.”
“Oh, is he gone? He was always kind to us. Good to meet you, Maura. How do yeh come to be here?”
“My grandmother knew Old Mick, years ago, and between them they fixed it so that when he passed away I inherited the cottage. And his pub in Leap.”
“Will yeh be stayin’, do yeh think?”
Nothing like coming straight to the point, Maura thought. “I hope so. Certainly for now. It’s all very different than Boston, which is where I came from.”
Nan seemed anxious. “Peter, we’d best get the kids fed. We said we’d meet up with the Butlers at the Carbery fair today.”
“So we did. Bridget, thanks fer the tea and the chat. Maura, good to meet you.”
“Will you be around long?” Maura asked.
“We seldom know. There are plenty of fairs in West Cork in the summer, and we try to follow them when we can. If we’re still around, we can talk more. Let’s go, Nan.”
When they’d left, heading up the hill, Maura turned to Bridget. “Well, that was interesting. Have they been coming here long?”
“You mean, to my field? That they have, and Peter’s father before him.”
“Does Mick know about them?” Maura asked carefully.
“He does. Are yeh askin’ if he’s not happy havin’ them here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Look, if he has a problem with them, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Are they really, like, outcasts or something?”
“They lead an odd lifestyle, but it’s an old one that goes back centuries. There aren’t so many of them. But I’m told there are even some in the U.S.”
“And I didn’t know that either. Sometimes I feel like I grew up in a Boston bubble—I didn’t even get out of the city much. I certainly didn’t see gypsy caravans in the city.”
“Well, now that yeh know they’re here, at least fer a few days, mebbe you can get to know them better. Any news on that poor dead man?”
Maura shook her head. “Nope. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Wait—you think he could be a Traveller? That would explain why people around here wouldn’t know him.”
Bridget considered. “It could be. Easy enough to find out—ask Peter. These folk may ramble about, but they do keep up with each other’s news, mostly by talking to each other when they cross paths. Family is important to them, and you’d be surprised how news gets around among them. If I see Peter first, I’ll be sure to ask. So what other news have you?”
“I’m trying to find more people to work at the pub, at least for the summer months. I don’t suppose any of the Travellers would want a short-term job?”
“It’s not their way of life. A week or two, mebbe, but not anythin’ measured in months.”
“I’m not surprised, from what Peter said. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of them before.”
“They follow their own calendar. There’s usually those who pass through here every year or two.”
“I talked to the woman who runs the new café in Skibbereen about where she finds staff—Rose got us together because she’s taking classes at the place. She said it’s mainly schoolgirls, around Rose’s age. But it sounds like she’s got first claim on them, and maybe they even fight to work there—Rose tells me the place is getting a good reputation. And I talked to Sean Murphy about what’s legal and what’s not quite legal, but the gardaí will look the other way. If you hear anything from your friends about someone who’s looking for work, please let me know. At this rate, I think we’ll all be worn to a frazzle in a month or two. And I can throw in a room if they need it. It’d be just for the summer, or maybe longer if things work out well.”
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Should you be on your way?”
Maura checked her watch. “Darn, talking with Peter took longer than I thought. But I’m glad I met him. Should I say anything to Mick?”
“Only if he asks, I’d say,” Bridget said. “He worries enough about me without adding Peter and his lot. Even though we’ve known them for years and I trust Peter.”
“Okay. I won’t lie if he asks, but I won’t mention them. Take care of yourself, Bridget. And thanks for the tea.”
“Stop by whenever yeh like. And send Gillian by as well, will yeh?”
“Of course.” Oops, she hadn’t even mentioned Gillian’s hunt for child care, but that could wait for another day. Although Bridget might be a better source than some, since she knew so many of the local people. And their children and grandchildren. “Bye now.”
Maura went back to her place and retrieved her car, then set off for Leap in a thoughtful mood. As she had admitted, she hadn’t known Travellers existed. She’d been living here more than a year, but she hadn’t seen any caravans, or at least hadn’t recognized any that might belong to Travellers. She hadn’t heard anyone mention the group. She didn’t read papers or own a television, so there were probably plenty of public events, both in Ireland and in the rest of the world, that she hadn’t heard about at all, unless they were filtered through the patrons at the pub. She wasn’t going to pretend that was unbiased, but she had no clue which way the bias went most of the time. She had to wonder what other things she had missed in her first year.
Bridget had seemed to take the arrival of Peter Sheridan and his family in stride. Maura trusted Bridget’s judgment, and she’d treated Peter like an old friend, so Maura wasn’t going to start out distrusting them. She couldn’t blame them for being poor and working only now and then, because she’d been in the same boat back in Boston. That they had chosen their kind of odd lifestyle, and raised their children in it? She had no right to criticize, because Bridget had suggested that the lifestyle went back centuries. To gather all the Travellers together and tell them they had to live in houses and send their children to regular schools and get normal jobs would be a wrenching change. Did the Irish government even have the right to do that? The U.S. government had kind of tried that with the Indians, and that hadn’t worked out real well for the Indians, who were still struggling with the results.
Well, she’d learned something today, and it had given her something to think about. But it hadn’t solved her two main problems of the moment: who was the dead man and why was he dead, and where was she going to find more people to work in the pub?
Chapter Seventeen
Maura was surprised to find Seamus and a couple of his pals already in the pub when she arrived. They rarely if ever showed up before noon.
“Did I oversleep, or are you early?” she asked.
Seamus smiled ruefully. “It’s our wives—we’ve been out near every night this week, talkin’ to folk at the various pubs around here, and the women are a bit put out. I’m guessin’ they don’t believe that we’re investigatin’. So we’ve ditched our midday chores to fill you in on what we’ve found.”
“Which is?” Maura prompted.
“Not much, sorry to say.”
Not what she wanted to hear. “Who’ve you talked to?”
“Me memory’s a bit fuzzy after all those pints, but I think it’s safe to say we’ve spent time in every pub in Skibbereen, and then we widened our search to Union Hall and Glandore, and down the road as far as Rosscarbery. Me liver may never recover.”
“What were you asking? Oh, wait, first tell me, had the gardaí been there before you?”
“Mebbe half the places. They’re doing their best. But let’s say me and me lads took a bit more time, and mebbe ordered a pint or two, to soften up the people at each of ’em so they’d talk to us.”
Maura wasn’t surprised, and actually it made sense to her. “A brilliant strategy. So you won’t be wanting another pint until next mont
h?”
Seamus’s mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but it’s still early in the day fer it.”
“So”—Maura went back to where they’d started; she was getting impatient—“what have you learned?”
“Well, we can’t point to a killer yet.” He beckoned to one of his friends, who joined them at the bar. “Jerry, yeh’re our official record-keeper. Help me out if me mind goes blank. The night of the death—Sunday that was, right? Fer it was the Monday that yeh found the poor man, Maura.”
She nodded. “Yes, Monday. And?”
“Sunday’s often a slow night, and the pubs are supposed to close early. Although it might be if there’s a good crowd of tourists, the law could be just a bit more flexible. But no one remembered any big fights, nor small ones. Am I right, Jerry?”
“I’d agree wit’ yeh, Seamus,” he said.
“Tell me something,” Maura said suddenly. “This place usually attracts more men than women, right? Except the nights when there’s music, when it’s pretty evenly split.”
Seamus cocked his head. “And yeh’re thinkin’ that matters?”
“You tell me. Are guys, after a few pints, more or less likely to get into it if there are ladies present?”
“Do yeh mean ‘ladies’”—Jerry made air quotes—“like their wives or girlfriends, or ladies they’d like to impress? Or some other kind?”
“Let’s say female strangers, tourists, maybe some visiting relatives. Keep your minds out of the gutter, guys.”
“If it’s a mixed group yeh’re thinkin’ of, I’d guess there are fewer fights. It’d be in yer average tavern-keeper’s best interests to keep the rowdies under control. Which makes a real fight stand out all the more in people’s memories. Which none does.”
Maura realized she’d been hoping there would be an easy answer, like a bar fight that got out of hand. It was nice to know that there were few serious fights around here, but it didn’t help them find who had killed the man and dumped him outside her pub. “And the gardaí didn’t pick up anybody Sunday night for being drunk and disorderly, if that’s what you call it?”
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