Yes, it was official – I hated this man. I hated him more than my third foster-father (a tuba player who insisted that I, too, become a tuba player and join the family’s travelling band – it was the one time I asked to leave a family).
‘What’s it to me? I’m covering this story, Detective Quinn. And I find it a bit odd that you’re arresting someone, considering Bathsheba’s death was supposedly caused by an allergic reaction.’
He shoved the waiter into a nearby car and locked the door behind him. Then he turned back to me, his lips curled into the most irritating smile I’d ever seen.
‘I don’t like the way you said supposedly there, Lois Lane. It was an allergic reaction, plain and simple. No supposedly about it. And as for Mr Lucien over there.’ He cast a sneer towards the car. ‘I’m arresting him on a different matter. A matter that’s none of your business.’
I took a step towards him. I was no Amazonian, sure, but he couldn’t intimidate me with all of his handsome tallness. Wait – strike that from your memory. I’ll rephrase my previous utterings to something more like … he couldn’t intimidate me with his irritating everything.
‘I’m a journalist, Detective Quinn. Which means I go out of my way to make everything my business. I want to know more about this arrest.’ I pulled my notebook and pen from my front pocket. ‘The young man’s name is Gunnar Lucien, I know that much.’
He looked like he was chewing on his tongue, desperately trying to bite back some choice words. ‘He’s a thief, okay. It’s a petty crime, not worth writing about.’
‘Oh?’ I kept my gaze steady on his. Which was kind of difficult, seeing as his dark eyes were blazing. ‘What is he being accused of stealing? Do you intend to charge him or issue a warning? Does he have previous convictions? Have the stolen items been returned?’
A low growl came from the detective’s throat. He turned to Greg, who had suddenly appeared beside me. ‘Tell the new girl I’ll submit my usual report to the newspaper when I’m good and ready.’
The detective climbed into his car, slammed the door, and took off out of the carpark.
For a moment I stood there, flabbergasted, staring after the car. It wasn’t until I heard Greg clear his throat and say, ‘I think we’d better get on with the photographs, maybe,’ that I remembered I wasn’t alone.
I kept my gaze on the car. A car that was now speeding past the garda station. ‘Yeah, right. The photographs,’ I said absentmindedly, running up onto the bridge, standing on the apex again where I’d get a better view. ‘Oh, Greg,’ I said sweetly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d happen to know why Detective Quinn is driving the suspect out of town?’
Greg stayed firmly planted on the platform. ‘I imagine he has a perfectly good reason. A reason that he’ll explain in his report to the newspaper later on. So why don’t we just get on the train and get these photos taken?’
I grunted, still staring at the car. It had gone past the lighthouse now, and was speeding towards a hazy horizon. I narrowed my eyes. There it was, that area I’d spotted from my bedroom. It was still hazy, more than an hour later. The detective’s car took a left turn and disappeared from my view.
‘What’s over that way?’ I asked Greg, pointing to where I meant.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked back towards the train. ‘Does it matter? Come on, Ash. We’ve got work to do.’
Feeling like I had a wasp hive in my stomach, I followed him into the dining car. The place had been cleaned up since I’d last been inside. There wasn’t so much as a piece of crime-scene tape in sight. Greg began fiddling around with camera filters and taking photos.
‘Why so many filters?’ I asked as he stopped shooting and changed the filter yet again.
‘I’m artsy,’ he said.
Artsy my behind. But I’d already concluded that no one was going to answer my questions, so I left Greg to it and looked around the dining car. A young woman was placing fresh flowers in the vases. I cast a quick glance at Greg to make sure he was still busy being artsy, and sidled towards the girl.
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ I said in a low voice. ‘About Bathsheba, I mean.’
She nodded, swallowing, pulling a strand of her dark brown hair out of her eyes. ‘She was such a lovely woman. Always left me a big tip.’
I sighed sympathetically, patting her back, keeping a side-eye on Greg. He’d stopped taking photos and was now waving that long black gadget around. A green light was blinking on the gadget, and Greg seemed exceptionally excited by the fact.
‘I just love people like Bathsheba,’ I said to the waitress. ‘I admire their bravery when faced with a condition like that. The way they can still manage to be decent, generous people, no matter what they’re going through.’
‘Exactly!’ she said with a sniffle. ‘Most people become so hopeless when they get the diagnosis, and I can’t say I blame them. I mean, look at Detective Quinn. He used to be such a lovely man, back when he was just our plain old Dylan. But now … I mean, Gunnar looks shady I know, what with the Vlad’s Boys tattoo and everything. But I hope he’s not really like that. He couldn’t be, could he? Not deep down. He’s probably just easily led. He would never have killed–’
‘Oh, there you are, Miriam!’ Greg called out loudly, interrupting us. ‘So sorry, I should have introduced you to Ash. Where are my manners? This is the new reporter on the Daily Riddler, Miriam. The very new reporter, working on the daily edition. The reporter who has just moved to town and has never lived anywhere like Riddler’s Edge before.’
Miriam bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes widening.
‘Forgive my colleague’s rude interruption,’ I said pleasantly. ‘You were telling me you couldn’t believe Gunnar would have killed Bathsheba?’
Miriam blinked, staring at Greg, opening and closing her mouth. ‘I …’ she said eventually. ‘I …’
A crazy smile took over Greg’s face. ‘What? Killed? Wow, Ash, you must be in need of a bit of rest, what with getting the early morning train and all.’
I kept my expression even. ‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, hey, I bet you were wondering about this thing,’ Greg said, pointing to the black gadget he’d been waving about a moment earlier. He had since placed it back on his belt-loop, and the green light was still blinking. ‘Well, it’s a pager,’ he went on. ‘I like old-school tech. I could probably get you one, if you wanted. Oh, and I could do some amazing stuff to your computer when I’m setting it up, too. Why don’t we go back to the office and get started on that now?’
I narrowed my eyes. That thing was not a pager. No way, no how. Greg was trying to distract me, and he was doing a pretty bad job. ‘Yeah, I’d love a pager,’ I said. ‘Y’know, for when I take my time travelling machine back to the nineties. Hey, why don’t you just run off and call whoever was paging you, then? While I keep talking to Miriam here about why the detective thinks Gunnar killed Bathsheba.’
Greg swallowed, the crazed smile still on his face. ‘Miriam never would have said Gunnar killed Bathsheba. Why would she? He stole some money from the cash register. How could he kill a woman who died from an allergic reaction to peanuts?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The things you come out with. I can tell you’re going to be an absolute hoot to work with.’
Miriam wore a smile mad enough to rival Greg’s. ‘Yeah, that’s hilarious, Ash. I never said Gunnar was a killer. I said he was a tiller. It’s … it’s slang around here for people who steal from cash registers.’
‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘That’s what you said. Of course that’s what you said.’ I cast a tense smile at Greg and held up my notebook. ‘I guess I’ll have to correct these notes, then. It’s a pity I never went modern, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have to make half as many corrections to my mistakes if I only used a recording device.’
‘Yeah,’ said Greg. ‘But y’know – maybe the old ways are the best. You should definitely stick to the notebook.’
‘Like you and your pager. You still haven’t responded to the
message you got there a minute ago. In fact, I think you must still be getting messages, because that green light is flashing a lot.’
He pulled his jacket across his so-called pager. ‘Oh. Yeah. Yeah – that’s just my mother. I’ll call her as soon as I can. Listen, why don’t we head on over to the Vander Inn? Get an interview with Bathsheba’s husband. Grace said she wanted the human interest angle, right?’
I smiled sweetly. ‘Sure, Greg. Whatever you say.’
7. Undying Love
When we arrived at the Vander Inn, Donald was sitting out on a stunning deck, watching the sea. He was wearing sunglasses, I noted. At least he was wearing them by day instead of by night. He was also wearing the same ring as Pru and Greg.
I pictured Bathsheba’s body in my mind, and my heart began to drum. I’d been so focused on trying to figure out how she died that I hadn’t taken it in at the time, but one of her gloveless fingers had definitely sported one of those green-stoned rings.
‘Hello again, Donald,’ I said softly. ‘Do you remember meeting me this morning? I’m Aisling Smith, the new reporter from the Daily Riddler.’
He looked up at me, smiling sadly. ‘Of course. It’s the daily edition you’re working on, isn’t it?’
I kept my smile in place, nodding. There it was again – all the proof I needed that, should I ever get through this week-long trial, I’d be discovering a whole different newspaper.
‘You’ll have heard about my wife, I suppose,’ Donald went on. ‘You’ll be wanting to ask me some questions too, I imagine. So the fine folks who live in Riddler’s Edge can put their curious little minds at rest and stop wondering why there was such a hive of activity at the train station.’
I nodded again, sitting down across from him with my notebook in my hands. ‘This is my least favourite part of being a reporter,’ I admitted. ‘It makes me feel like a vulture, preying on people’s raw feelings, right after they’ve lost someone. All so I can write a few words in some paper that’ll – most likely – be used to wrap up Christmas decorations or light the fire.’
He looked at me with interest. ‘Funny, that’s what I’ve always thought about newspapers myself.’
I laughed. ‘That’s what most people think, Donald. Especially when a loss is raw.’
‘So then why do people talk to journalists?’ he wondered.
I shrugged. ‘Many reasons. If a death is suspicious, maybe they hope that reading about it in the newspaper will jog someone’s memory.’
He looked away. ‘Yes, but Bathsheba’s death wasn’t suspicious.’
‘Of course not,’ I replied quickly. ‘But there are other reasons, too. It can help to talk about the person you’ve lost. Grace said that Bathsheba had lived a long and interesting life. Perhaps you could tell me some stories about her. We could do a piece on a life well lived, sort of thing.’
He looked at Greg, who was hovering a few feet behind me, fiddling with his filters again. ‘A life well-lived? Perhaps. I mean … I feel quite comfortable speaking to you, Miss Smith. I believe you’d do an admirable job telling Bathsheba’s story. But stories of a life like Bathsheba’s, well, they’re more evening material, don’t you think?’
Greg cleared his throat. ‘Probably. Listen, Ash, I’m not sure Grace had the right idea in sending us here. But maybe … maybe we should just leave Donald alone for now, yeah? If he wants to do some sort of memorial piece when he feels more up to it, he knows how to get in touch with us.’
I stood up without argument, hiding my confusion. I was positive that Donald would have given me an in-depth interview, had Greg agreed. So why hadn’t Greg agreed? Why was I sent here by Grace, only to be dragged off as soon as I was getting anywhere? Was this all part of the mysterious trial? Because if it was, I had no idea whether I was passing or failing.
Just as we were about to leave the deck, I turned back to Donald. ‘Y’know, there’s another reason why people talk to reporters. Same reason they can talk to therapists, or a stranger in the pub. Sometimes it’s easier, when you’re grieving, to talk to someone you don’t know.’ I squeezed his shoulder. ‘You know where I am, if you want an off-the-record chat.’
As I went to walk away, he called after me. ‘Wait – Miss Smith. There is something I’d like you to write, about my Bathsheba.’
I turned back. ‘Yes?’
‘You can write … you can write that she always had my utmost, undying love.’
8. Norman Normal
I wandered around the shop, while Greg bought himself some lunch at the deli counter. For a convenience store in such a small town, it certainly had a lot of lunch-time customers. A lot of vegan food on the menu, too.
With my enormous breakfast still filling me up, I doubted I’d be hungry again until dinner time. As more people filed in, the shop began to get a little crowded, and I decided I’d be better off going outside to wait for Greg.
As I stepped outside I looked across the road, only to see yet another kaleidoscope-haze.
‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ I turned to a grey-haired man sitting on a bench behind me. He was reading the Daily Riddler.
‘What’s weird, love?’
‘The way the mist is settling in very specific areas only.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘What mist?’
‘Across there.’ I pointed.
‘Don’t see any mist there, love. I see a stretch of lovely green, with sheep grazing on it stretching all the way down to the beach. Maybe you need glasses?’
I felt my shoulders heave up and down. Yeah. Maybe the ten eye tests I’d had in the last five years had all been wrong. I had a good idea of how he was going to reply when I asked the question. But his answer had confirmed something. He didn’t seem like he was lying. He seemed absolutely convinced that there was a green across the road, filled with happily-grazing sheep. I’d asked Greg about the haze as we walked into the shop, and his answer had been a jumpy, ‘Huh? Yeah, yeah it’s always a bit misty around here.’
So what did that mean? Some people in this town were clearly hiding things, but this man outside the shop, and the woman who’d been knitting on the train … those two didn’t seem like they were hiding anything. They seemed completely oblivious.
‘Are you local?’ I asked.
‘Lived here all my life, my darling,’ he said. ‘This is my shop.’ He pointed to the sign above the door: Norman’s Shop. ‘I’m Norman. But you’re definitely not local, are you love? That’s a Dublin accent I detect.’
I sat down beside him. ‘Yeah, I’m from the big smoke all right,’ I said. ‘Hey, Norman, are there some big businesses nearby or something? Or maybe some big housing development a little way out the road?’
He laughed as though I’d just told a joke. ‘In Riddler’s Edge? Would ya go on, would ya? Sure, what you see is what you get.’
I sincerely doubted that. I cast an eye back into the shop. ‘So … where do all the customers come from, then? The queue is out the door.’
He followed my eyes, shrugging. ‘I imagine they’re just travelling through. We get a lot of people just passing through.’
‘Huh.’ I looked up and down the street. If all of these people were passing through, then why were the parking spaces in front of the shop empty? ‘Is there a large carpark somewhere, then?’
Again, he laughed like I was a prize joker. ‘For what? Sure there’s hardly anyone in the town. I hope you like the quiet life, my love. Because if you don’t, then Riddler’s Edge just isn’t the place for you.’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ I said. ‘Seems pretty exciting to me. I mean, I wasn’t even off the train before there was a death.’
‘My mother told me about that. The lady with the nut allergy. Such a lot of nut allergies, these days.’
‘Are there?’ I certainly hadn’t been made aware of a lot of cases of death by peanut.
‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘My mother, Norma, takes that train up and back from Dublin once a week like clockwork. There’s been
three unfortunate incidents on the train recently. Four now, if you include the last one. People really need to read menus more carefully if they’ve got an allergy.’
9. To the Lighthouse
After an afternoon of being shown the workings of the Daily Riddler, I was thoroughly bored. Everyone there was nice enough, but they were all being just as cagey as Greg and Grace. When I asked about the other recent nut allergy deaths Norman had told me about, they’d been even cagier. I was beginning to think this wasn’t a trial period at all. Perhaps at the end of the week some cheesy TV presenter would appear and tell me I’d been on a hidden camera show the whole time.
When I returned to the Vander Inn, Donald had left the establishment and returned to his own home. A home that was in some unspecified nearby location, just like Malachy’s restaurant. Pru was out for the night, apparently, so I ate dinner alone in the dining room, while Nollaig laid a large table for what she told me was a regular poker game.
‘You’re welcome to join us,’ she said. ‘We usually start around midnight and keep on until dawn.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not much of a gambler.’ I pushed my empty plate away. The meal had been lasagne and salad. Simple but delicious. Nollaig had made chocolate mousse for dessert, but I was too full to have it just yet. ‘I might just head on up to my room. I had an early start this morning, so I’ll probably be asleep before my head hits the pillow.’
Nollaig smiled. ‘Whatever you like. We’ll keep the noise to a minimum.’
≈
I’d fallen in love at first sight with my room. Turned out I was now falling in love at second sight, too. I raced to my bed, kicked off my boots, and pulled my phone from my bag.
I’d love to be able to tell you that I had a large array of friends to call and keep up to date. But when you move around as much as I did as a kid, you learn not to get close. And just like my reluctance to accumulate too many belongings, I’d continued to keep people at a distance long after I left foster care.
A Magical Trio Page 21
