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The Lost Traveller

Page 17

by Sheila Connolly


  Had her resistance to cooking been a sign that she didn’t feel she was here to stay? She hadn’t done much with her cottage, taking things as Mick had left them—and he’d been an eighty-year-old man. She had, of course, gotten a new mattress and a lamp or two, but that was about all. Had she been so unsure when she arrived? And what did she think now?

  The answer came through loud and clear: the place felt like home. Yes, she’d been raised in Boston, mainly in one neighborhood, and she’d had some happy times there. But she’d had few human connections, apart from her gran. No friends in the neighborhood. No friends at school, really—she’d hung out with a vague and shifting group, but after they’d all graduated, she hadn’t seen any of them. Maybe once or twice, by accident. But here? In this tiny town at the far end of nowhere? She had friends. And Mick. People knew who she was and actually seemed to like her. They greeted her by name, which after being anonymous on the streets of Boston was kind of unsettling. And she knew them. She knew their families’ names and where they lived. It wasn’t just that the place was so small that it was hard not to know, but it was because she wanted to know.

  Maura, get your bleeping sandwich before you start crying on the street! What had Ireland done to her? She’d gone soft. And, she realized, she kind of liked it.

  When she got back to the pub, Billy was settled in his chair, and she waved to Mick and Rose and dropped into the one next to him. “Hey, we missed you earlier. Everything okay?”

  “Don’t worry yerself, Maura. There’s days when I feel old, is all. Shame to waste this nice weather, though. Have I missed any news?”

  “About the dead man? No. The gardaí are stumped. Seamus and his gang are stumped. You have any new ideas?”

  “I don’t get about as much as I used to, yeh know. My memory’s grand fer the people I met half a century ago, but I don’t often have the chance to meet the young ones comin’ along now. And now they come from all over, not just the townlands here. Still, it’s a sad thing, to die with nobody to mourn yeh.”

  “I know what you mean, Billy. But nobody’s given up yet. Well, maybe Seamus and his pals—he told me the wives were getting mad that they were all spending so much time hanging out in pubs ‘investigating’.” Maura made air quotes. “And they’ve come up with nothing.”

  “Might be we’ll never know who he was, or who killed him,” Billy said softly.

  “I hope somebody figures it out!” Maura said. She looked up to see Sean Murphy come in. “You need another pint yet, Billy?”

  “Nah, I’m grand fer now. Go talk to yer garda friend.”

  She stood up and approached Sean. “Are you on duty or can I get you a pint?”

  “Coffee’ll be fine. We’re all workin’ round the clock at the station on this murder, but we’ve little to show for it after a week. I’ve had an idea, though.”

  Maura slid his coffee across the bar and took the stool next to him. “And that would be?”

  “Yer friend Gillian. The artist? Well, maybe I should start from the beginning. Yeh know the man’s face was damaged.”

  Maura shuddered at the memory, and she hadn’t even gotten very close to him. “Yes, of course. Where does Gillian come in?”

  “She’s an artist. I was wonderin’ if mebbe she could take a shot at rebuildin’ his face on paper.”

  “I thought there were computer programs that could do that now,” Maura said.

  “So I’ve heard, but that doesn’t mean our little station has the money to get one.”

  “Okay. But what could you give her to work with? I don’t think she’d be happy to look at pictures of what’s left of the head and face.”

  “And I wouldn’t ask her to,” Sean hurried to tell Maura. “But we’ve got enough measurements and such to give her something to work with. Things like how close together the eyes were. How high his cheekbones were. Did his ears stick out. Most of the teeth were messed up, but we can say they didn’t look like a rabbit’s. I know the chances are slim she’ll come up with something we can use, but we’re that desperate.”

  “Are you going to ask her?”

  “I was hopin’ you’d do that, seein’ as you know her better. And she’s out near you. I don’t want to disturb her if she’s busy with the baby and all.”

  Hadn’t Sean spent any time around babies? “Do you have a list of the details like you were telling me about?”

  “That I do.” Sean reached into his front pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded in quarters. “It’s not much, but it’s the best we’ve got. Will yeh do it?”

  “Sure, I’ll ask her, and I’m sure she’d like to help. I can stop by in the morning, before I come into Leap. But you’ve got to remember that she doesn’t really do portraits of people. Mostly sort of abstract landscapes, or something like that. And pictures that tourists will like. I’m pretty sure there are no faces.”

  “If she’s willing, it’d be grand. If nothin’ comes of it, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

  “Okay. Maybe she’d like the challenge. Or maybe anything that doesn’t involve diapers and such would be a nice change for her. I’ll take this to her tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Maura.” Sean drained his coffee mug. “I’ll get back to checkin’ the other pubs around. Might be somebody’s remembered somethin’. Ta.”

  When he’d gone, Mick asked, “What was that about?”

  “The gardaí’s latest brainstorm is to try to get an artist’s drawing of what the dead man looked like. Sean thought of Gillian, who’s probably the only local artist he knows.”

  “I thought there was little left of the man’s face.”

  “So did I, but they’re getting desperate. They’ve taken measurements, although I don’t want to know how, and he’s hoping that Gillian can make something out of them. I guess there’s nothing to lose. I’ll drop off what they’ve got at Gillian’s in the morning.”

  “What’re the odds that she’ll come up with something that looks human?” Mick mused.

  “Hey, Gillian is a good artist, but I can’t say how she handles faces. If I’m realistic, slim to none that she comes up with a guy that people could recognize. But you never know.” Another group of people came in, and they were both swept up in pouring drinks.

  The rest of the night was no more crowded. Billy took himself off after a couple of hours, and Maura watched with concern: was he really all right? He was moving slowly, but he smiled and raised a hand to her as he left. Other people came and went, but by midnight the place had cleared out, well ahead of closing time.

  “Should we close?” Maura asked. “Anybody who comes in this late won’t have time to finish his pint.”

  “True,” Mick said, swabbing down the top of the bar. “Might as well. Yeh said yeh’d be stopping at Gillian’s in the morning. I’ll be picking up Bridget fer church around then—we can wave at each other as we cross on the road.”

  “Will do,” Maura said. She left before him, and didn’t pass another car on the road to Knockskagh. As she chugged up the hill to her cottage, she saw the lights of the Sheridans’ caravan, glowing golden in the night. That reminded her that she’d seen Peter prevent a small theft earlier that day. Had he known Sean was watching? Or had he done that simply because it was the right thing to do? She still had a lot of questions about the Travellers. What was their organization like—if there was one? Did they have a leader? A council? Some sort of justice system? She’d liked Peter, but maybe she had simply accepted Bridget’s opinion of him.

  She shook her head. Maybe she’d ask Gillian what she knew about Travellers when she stopped by in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sunday was another sunny bright day. Where was all the Irish rain? Were the farmers worried? Or the dairymen whose cattle were proudly “grass-fed”? All the fields looked as green as ever. Maura couldn’t complain—she preferred driving in sunny weather. Driving at night on the small winding roads still made her nervous. Driving at night in the
rain was white-knuckle time.

  It was still early, but she figured Gillian would be up and about—baby Henry would see to that. She didn’t plan to stay long anyway. Right now she wanted to get out and walk—up over the hill, down the other side, and then a short distance to the old creamery. Would it always be called that, now that there were people living in it?

  She had herself a quick breakfast and studied the page of details Sean had given her. It gave basic information like height and estimated weight. White male, probably in his twenties. Dark hair, brown eyes (Maura was surprised there were still two, after what she’d seen, but maybe the plural was what the form required). No obvious scars or marks. No tattoos—did that mean he wasn’t a gang member anywhere? He had all his fingers and toes. His teeth were another issue—what with the deliberate bashing, some had gone missing, but there had been no obvious dental work done on the ones that remained.

  Then there were the additions that Sean had mentioned—the dimensions and distances between parts of the ruined face. Maura had no idea what Gillian would make of this mess.

  After washing her lone plate and cup, Maura set off on foot over the hill, enjoying the sun on her back. There were no cattle on this steep hill, but once she reached the crest she could see a small herd grazing down below. And plenty of flowers, most of which she couldn’t identify, apart from the gorse, which she knew was prickly. She was surprised once again to see fuchsia blooming in tall tangled hedges. Back in the States, the stuff sold for ten bucks and up for a single basket. Here it was more or less a hedgerow weed. There was a small lake below to her right, on the near side of the road, and straight ahead she could see a few rowboats with fishermen out on larger Ballinlough.

  It took her no more than ten minutes to reach the creamery, and she went around to the back to find Gillian sitting outside on a rickety chair, watching the fishermen and nursing the baby.

  “Hey there,” Maura called out. “Flashing for the crowd?”

  Gillian turned her head without disturbing the baby. “I take my fun when I can. Mostly they’re interested in the fish, though. What brings you here on such a bright and lovely morning?”

  “Official police business, if you can believe it. Something they want you to do.”

  “Ooh, tell me! How do they think I could help? This is about that murder, right? They still haven’t arrested anyone?”

  “Yes, and no. Sean had this brilliant idea that since you’re an artist, you could do a reconstruction of the face of the dead man.”

  Gillian sat up straighter, jostling Henry, who complained briefly before returning to his breakfast. “Seriously? I thought his face had been smashed. And aren’t there computer programs for that?”

  “That’s what I said, but Sean told me they couldn’t afford such a thing here. More likely they’ve never needed one before. And Sean told me they took detailed measurements of what they could of the face. So you don’t have to look at any pictures.”

  “I’m glad of that!” Gillian shuddered, and the baby opened his eyes in protest. “There, there, mo stór. You just finish up while I talk to Maura here.” Henry complied.

  “That’s Irish?” Maura asked.

  “Mo stór? Yes. It means my darling or my treasure. I figured the kid should grow up hearing some Irish. He’ll probably have to take it in school anyway, so he should get used to it. So, this idea of Sean’s—they want it, like, yesterday?”

  “Of course. The man’s been dead a week tonight. Look, I didn’t promise Sean anything. If you can’t do it, I’ll tell him. I’ve never seen anything of yours with people in it, much less a portrait.”

  “We all learn in art school, but that doesn’t mean I can do it from some measurements. Now, if the man was sitting in front of me, I’d have a better chance.”

  “Trust me, you do not want to see him in his current condition,” Maura said vehemently.

  “That bad?”

  “Yes,” Maura told her. She did not elaborate.

  “So. No indication that he came from somewhere outside of Ireland? Tags on his clothes? Tattoos, scars, fingerprints—all the usual stuff?”

  “Nope. He’s a clean as the day he was born, although Sean didn’t say whether x-rays might have shown anything, like he’s missing a rib or his leg was broken. But I’m pretty sure the gardaí have done the easy stuff like that. And here I was thinking everybody in Ireland knew everybody else.”

  “It does feel that way sometimes.” Gillian looked down at her son. “Sleeping now. Why don’t we go in, and I’ll put him down and we can sit at the table in the kitchen, and I’ll see what I can come up with?”

  “That fast?”

  “I’ll know what I can manage quickly. I don’t suppose you’ll be looking for the mole under his left eyebrow?”

  “I doubt it. By the way, he didn’t have any facial hair either, unless the killer was a real pervert and gave him a shave before dumping him. Nobody’s mentioned whether there was any DNA under the dead guy’s fingernails, but it might take a while for whichever lab it is around here to process that.”

  “Huh.” Gillian stood up carefully, to avoid disturbing the baby, and Maura followed her into the house. Gillian and Harry had little money for improvements right now, but they’d cleared out the place, bought essential furnishings with clean simple lines, and hung some of Gillian’s pictures around. Maura liked it. It was light and airy, and the lake cast flickering reflections on the walls.

  Gillian settled baby Henry in a low cot, then led Maura to the kitchen table. “What’ve you got?”

  Maura handed her the paper Sean had given her.

  Gillian read it carefully, then sat back. “You weren’t kidding when you said there wasn’t much to work with. I can reconstruct a simple version of the face based on what’s here, and then look at it. At the risk of sounding biased, it might give us an idea of where he came from, but only in a very general way. I can leave the mouth shut in the drawing, so we won’t have to worry about teeth or the lack of them. I’ll have to guess at a few things. The set of the eyes and nose and chin are pretty well fixed. Or maybe I can make a few different versions, like with different ears. Long or short hair, curly or buzzed.”

  “Do what you can, Gillian. They’re not expecting miracles. How long will it take?”

  “If my darling child will cooperate, I can have something for you by the end of the day. Harry should be back by then, and maybe we can stop by Sullivan’s and drop it off. Unless you think I should take it straight to the gardaí?”

  “The second might be the right thing to do, but I want to see the results first. Maybe I can ask Sean to come to Sullivan’s to pick it up.”

  “Whatever. I’ll call you when I’ve a better idea of how long I’ll need.”

  “Thanks. So, how’re things going with Harry?”

  “Good. How’re things going with Mick?”

  “Pretty good. I think. I have nothing to compare it to. Other than that, we’re still looking for staff for the pub—Friday night was a madhouse, with the music going on.” Maura told Gillian the story of the vanishing bartender and Rose’s sighting of him after. “I’m hoping we can track him down tomorrow. Have you found anyone to look after Henry?”

  “No luck yet. If you run into anyone you think might fit—man or woman, old or young—lock him or her in your cellar until I can get there for an interview.”

  “You getting any painting done?”

  “Nothing important. Pretty little watercolors that the tourists like, which helps pay the bills, but I know I can do better.”

  “I keep forgetting to push the one you gave us to hang in the pub. I’ll try to talk it up.” Maura checked the time. “Shoot, I’ve got to get to work. Mick’s taking Bridget to church this morning. Have you seen her lately?”

  “I try to get over there now and then. It makes her so happy to see Henry, and I enjoy talking to her.”

  “Did you notice the caravan in the field above?”

  “Peter’s?
Yes. I’ve known him and his family for years. When I was young, it was his father who would come by in the summer. My sisters and I were fascinated by the caravan—which was horse-drawn back then—and we kept asking our parents why we couldn’t live like that. That made them angry. They didn’t like Travellers.”

  “Any particular reason?” Maura asked.

  “Not really, or not that I recall. Just tradition. And they’re still coming. Did you meet Peter?”

  “I did, but just for a moment. He seemed like a good guy.”

  “He is, from all I’ve heard. It’s an odd lifestyle, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’d better go—I’ve got to get up the hill and get my car and head to Leap. I hope I’ll see you later today.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Maura trudged up the long hill and stopped at the top, winded. She really did need to get more exercise—walking around the pub carrying pints was not enough. After she’d caught her breath, she started down the far side of the hill toward her cottage. When she reached her lane, she saw Peter Sheridan outside his caravan, trying to fix something mechanical she couldn’t identify. “Car trouble?” she called out. “Or should I say, caravan trouble?”

  Peter straightened up and smiled. “These old ones, it’s hard to find the parts for ’em. This one’s held together with string and chewing gum. Were yeh looking fer Bridget? Her grandson just came by to take her off to church.”

  “I know. I just stopped by to get my car, and then I’m going into Leap.”

  “Yeh own the pub now, I hear.”

  “I do. More than a year now. I never expected to be living like this. I mean, with a business and a house of my own, and in Ireland.”

  “Are yeh stayin’?”

  “Looks like it. I’d better get going—not that I expect business to be too heavy today.”

  “Because it’s Sunday?” Peter asked.

  “Partly. And because of the murder, and whoever dumped the body next to my place.”

  “Sad thing, that,” Peter said, reaching down to the ground and picking up a tool. “But it’s nothin’ to do with you, is it? The gardaí still have no idea who the man was and who might have killed him?”

 

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