The road branched in a Y. One lane led down to Stanyon Hall. The other curved past a clump of rhododendrons at least twenty feet high. They were budding out. I nosed the Toyota around the curve.
The graveled surface thinned. There were potholes. The car jolted along. Conifers closed in, some overhanging the lane. After perhaps five minutes, we emerged into a clearing. There on a fresh patch of gravel stood our goal, the cottage my father had leased from the Steins, a neat stone box with white trim and a slate roof. I had been expecting thatch. Yellow and scarlet tulips glistened in the weak sunlight.
I drew up by the varnished front door, set the brake, and killed the engine. A ceramic plaque on the stone wall announced "Bedrock Cottage." Cute. "I can't believe we made it."
Dad had already opened the door and released his seatbelt. He swung his long legs out and pulled himself from the car slowly, like an old man. By the time I extricated myself, though, he had found the key to the cottage and was at the front door.
"Wait! The alarm..."
He glanced back in the act of opening the door. "Oh, dear."
I dashed past him, found the alarm box, and punched in what I hoped was the right code. If it wasn't, we were due for a visit from the local Garda. However, no bells sounded. After a panting moment, I decided I had disabled the security system.
Dad said, "Sorry. I need to use the loo." He was on diuretics, blood-thinners and analgesics. He headed through the door to the right.
The front door opened into the kitchen. I looked around. It seemed larger than it was because of a high ceiling. A trestle table took up most of the center of the room. Directly behind it lay the Rayburn cooker, a heater fired by kerosene. It was supposed to warm the house, heat water, and cook our meals, all in one. From the chill in the room I deduced that the Rayburn was not working. Light came from a high window to the left, above the sink, and another slim window beside the door. I found the light switch and flipped it on.
By the time Dad returned, I had my head in a broom closet that concealed the thermostat and the switchbox as well as a backup electric water heater with yet another set of switches.
"The plumbing works."
"Small blessings. I turned the Rayburn on and nothing happened." Two buttons, obviously controls, lay just below eye-level. I squinted. One was marked "Reset." I pressed it and the cooker rumbled.
"It's coming on," Dad said.
"That's good. This place is colder inside than out. Shall we unload the car?"
"Yes. Then I have to take my medication and lie down for a while, I suppose. Nuisance."
I yawned. "I may nap, too. Is there any food?"
Dad opened the door of a small refrigerator that was tucked into the corner next to a heroic sink. The sink had to have come from a dairy. It was deep enough to hold a steel milk can. The drainboards were varnished wood. "Bread, milk, eggs, cheese, ah, and some real Irish bacon."
"You're not supposed to eat bacon."
"Nonsense. There's a microwave, too, coffee and tea in this cupboard, and a cottage loaf in the bread box."
"Then we're in business." Except that I could have used a beer.
"Smithwick's Ale in the fridge." Dad took a bottle from the refrigerator and rummaged through a drawer below the sink.
"Lead me to it." Someone should do a study of the merits of beer as a tranquilizer. I skirted the table, took the tall brown bottle from Dad's hand, and pried the cap off with the opener he'd dug out. "Cheers."
Dad smiled but didn't follow suit. He doesn't like beer. "This is cozy. I can work here. There's a desk in the next room."
"Excellent. Is there a telephone?"
"In the desk, Alex said."
I took another swallow of beer and headed through the door. I found the telephone and plugged it into the jack. When I lifted the receiver, it emitted a noise I decided was a dial tone. I dug my address book from my purse, found the code for international calls, and dialed home. I got our answering machine. In a way, that was a relief. I left a message to the effect that I was alive and well and would call later. Then I hung up.
Dad poked his head through the door. "How's Jay?"
"I got the message tape." Jay was my husband. He was fine. At least I hoped he was. Whether our marriage was fine was another question. I handed Dad the phone, finished my beer, and went exploring.
The layout of the cottage was rather odd. We had entered the main floor at ground level. That whole floor was taken up with two big rooms, the kitchen and a large living room, a corner of which held the desk and telephone. It was a handsome space, high- ceilinged, the stone walls offset by blonde woodwork and comfortable-looking Danish furniture upholstered in warm shades. A batik wall hanging of a stylized dragon hung against the fireplace wall. A bucket full of little black cubes stood on the hearth. Turf. I thought about starting a turf fire.
At the far side of the living room, a flight of stairs led downward. I went over to the window above the sofa and looked out. The land behind the cottage sloped steeply down to a terrace that looked as if it had been planted in grass that day. Beyond lay stone outbuildings and a pond surrounded by willows. The cottage was going to be a splendid investment for the Steins when the landscaping took hold. Right now it had a raw look. Below the window, a small slate roof jutted out into the embryo lawn. A tool shed?
I trotted downstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath. The bedroom below the kitchen held twin beds, a tall wardrobe, and, concealed in what had once been a closet, a tiny en suite bath- -toilet, sink, and shower. The larger bath stood in the center of that storey with a front-loading washing machine against its outer wall. A narrow hall led to a door that had to open onto the lawn. I twisted the lever-style handle, but the door was locked. Scuff marks on the floor suggested that workmen had been in and out of the house recently.
The other bedroom held a double-bed futon folded into couch configuration on a blonde frame, a chest of drawers, and a closet. The bedside reading table looked low enough to serve with the futon laid flat. My relationship with futons is ambivalent. I sleep well on them, but not long. After about six hours, a futon repels the human body. This is a fact. Dad needed access to the en suite bathroom, however, so the futon was mine, like it or lump it.
I mused for a moment on the oddity of Japanese Danish Irish style. Then I strolled back upstairs to find my father wrestling his luggage—an old-fashioned leather portmanteau and a modern wheeled suitcase full of books—through the open front door. I took the portmanteau. "How's Ma?" He had called my mother.
"Mary's fine." He jerked the handle of the book bag up and pulled the bag into the living room. "I wish she wouldn't fuss."
I didn't comment. Dad's stroke had frightened my mother. Ordinarily she doesn't fuss, but she had been as fluttery as a hen with one egg over the Irish trip. She was scheduled to run a major poetry workshop that spring. And Dad had not allowed her to cancel it when he decided to do his research. She would join him later.
It was Ma who had convinced me to leave my bookstore in the hands of my very competent clerk and fly to Dad's rescue. Watching him drag the heavy suitcase across the polished oak floor, I could see Mother's point. He was not jet-lagged, but he was gray with weariness.
I lugged the portmanteau downstairs after him and installed him in the room with the bath. "Time for a nap?"
He didn't even argue.
I helped him stow his clothes and switched on the electric space heater. "Do you have a key for the door that leads to the back lawn?"
He fumbled in his jacket. "Where? Oh, yes." He handed me a key ring with two keys, ordinary Yale locks. "Here, madam. I dub you chatelaine." The words were jaunty but his pronunciation blurred. A muscle on the side of his face had contracted—not obviously, but enough so I noticed.
"Keeper of the keys?" I stood tiptoe and brushed his cheek with a kiss. "See you in a couple of hours."
"But your bag..."
"I'll get it."
I had a suitcase and a carry on. I brought them
down and unpacked, yawning as I began to relax from the strain of the drive. When I had flattened the futon and made it up with linen, a duvet, and pillows from the closet, I came close to collapsing into a nap of my own. But I knew that the longer I stayed awake, the quicker I would adjust to local time, so I fished the keys from my pocket and went to the locked door.
It opened easily onto a flagstone patio. A stone shed sheltered the patio from the east. I supposed some of the nastier weather must blow in from the southeast. The shed looked unfinished. I stood for a while admiring the masonry, but I could see that the door was unpainted. There was a hole where the lock and knob should be. The door stood open a crack.
Though the pond across the way looked interesting, I didn't want to walk to it over the newly planted lawn, so I yawned and stretched and decided to go make tea. On impulse, I shoved the door of the shed open. It caught on something. I stuck my head in to see what the obstruction was and found the body.
For a brief moment I thought one of the workmen was taking a nap on the flagstone floor. A man, well-fleshed, as they say, and about thirty, lay on his back with his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing combat fatigues and boots, and his toes pointed out at equal angles. Someone had closed his eyes. A round red circle marred the center of his forehead and trickles of red had run down over his eyelids.
After a frozen pause, I cat-stepped around him and bent down to touch his neck. No pulse. He was cold, dead for some time. Close to, the "wound" in his forehead looked phony. It was too red. When I touched it, it felt slick. Some kind of paint. Apart from the red mark I could see no sign of violence. With a shaking hand, I took a tissue from my pocket and wiped red off my finger.
I must have made noise. I did not feel cool and collected, but at least I didn't scream. By the time I had reentered the cottage, I was capable of thought, and the thought that was foremost in my mind was that I must not do anything to shock my father. A tall order, under the circumstances.
Chapter 2
Isn't it grand, boys, to be bloody well dead?
Irish music hall song
I stood in the narrow hall and listened. I heard a bedspring creak, then slow even breathing, so I crept upstairs and headed for the telephone.
A neat printout on the blotter listed useful phone numbers. I could, I saw, dial 999 in an emergency—police, fire, or medical. Or I could call the local Garda station, the one connected to the cottage security system. I tapped out that number.
Irish phones ring twice—brrng-brrng—while ours ring once. I waited.
"Garda. Sergeant Kennedy."
I pitched my voice low. "My name is Lark Dodge. I am a visiting American. I'm at Bedrock Cottage on the Stanyon Hall estate. Do you know where that is?"
"Sure and don't we have it on our security list?" He sounded good-humored.
"I've just found the body of a dead man in the tool shed."
"What are you saying?" His voice sharpened.
"Please listen to me. There's a corpse in the tool shed. My father is here in the cottage with me. He's recovering from a stroke, and I don't want to shock him. Can you come quietly, without sirens? Dad's napping. I'll take you down and show you the shed, then wake my father and explain, but I don't want him disturbed until he's had a chance to rest."
Silence. "You're very calm, Miss Dodge."
"Mrs.," I said. "No, believe me, I'm not calm. I'm a seething cauldron of emotion, and suffering from jet lag and driver-shock on top of that, but I am not going to do anything to upset my father. Can you come quietly?"
After some hemming and hawing, he agreed that he could. He questioned me about the condition of the body and told me not to touch anything in the shed. I promised. He said he'd tell the ambulance not to use the klaxon. That was a relief. There are few sounds more horrible than an emergency klaxon.
When Sgt. Kennedy hung up, I looked at the printout again. Then I dialed the number listed for Stanyon Hall.
An impatient female voice responded. "Stonehall Enterprises."
"May I speak to Alex Stein?"
"Who shall I say is calling?"
I swallowed a wild urge to laugh. "My name is Lark Dodge. I'm George Dailey's daughter. We're at the cottage—"
The voice warmed to cordiality. "Welcome to Ireland, Lark. You're the book dealer, aren't you? This is Barbara, Alex's wife. I'll tell him you and your father are here."
"Thank you, but I think you ought to know that I just found a dead man in the shed at the back of the cottage."
Squawk. "Did you say dead?"
"Very. I called the Garda."
"My God, who is it, one of the workmen?"
"I have no idea, Mrs. Stein."
"I'll be right over."
"I wish you wouldn't." I explained about Dad's stroke. It was news to her. I wondered why he hadn't discussed his illness with the Steins. Dad was the soul of honesty.
"I'm so sorry." It wasn't clear whether she was sorry about the dead man or sorry about Dad's stroke. "Alex is in London. He's due back this evening. I'll call him, and then I think I'd better come over."
"Well, don't knock or ring the bell." Was there a doorbell? I hadn't noticed. "I'll be watching for you." I hung up. And waited and shivered while the Rayburn hummed away, radiating warmth.
Barbara Stein showed up before Sgt. Kennedy did, though she walked. By that time, I was peering out the small window beside the front door and checking my watch every ten seconds. I let her in.
She was a tiny, intense woman of about thirty with frizzy red hair, freckles, and snapping brown eyes. She wore jeans and a red sweatshirt with the Stanford logo. We shook hands. Before I could launch into an explanation, she began asking questions.
I said, "Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Tea? No. I want to see the body."
"We shouldn't enter the shed until the police say it's okay, and, besides—"
Her eyes narrowed. "It's my house." She moved toward the door to the living room.
I intercepted her. "No, really, you shouldn't. I don't know it's a crime scene, though I doubt that the man just lay down on the floor and expired. He's too neat." Except for the red paint on his forehead. I didn't mention that. If I had known Barbara Stein longer I would have, but her manner provoked caution.
"Who is it?" She made as if to dart past me.
I blocked her. Not for nothing had I played basketball for Ohio State. "I'm bigger than you are." I spoke in my mildest voice. "I don't know who the dead man is. I don't know anyone here. I've been in Ireland less than three hours, and it's my first visit."
Barbara stared at me, then shrugged and sat on the nearest kitchen chair.
I stayed in the doorway. "I started to tell you that my father's asleep downstairs. I'll have to wake him when the police come, but I don't want to until I have to. If we tromp downstairs and fumble around and whoop and holler, Dad will hear us. So we're going to wait for Sergeant Kennedy. Here."
"Kennedy? Oh, Joe Kennedy at Killaveen." She made a face. I deduced that she didn't think much of Sgt. Kennedy. "Well, okay, but describe him for me—the corpse. Maybe it's Toss Tierney." She brooded. "I hope so, the sucker. That's our contractor—builder, they say here. If he doesn't finish the workroom by Saturday, I'll kill him myself."
I didn't rise to the bait, but I was briefly amused. Contractors must be contractors the world over. I went to the sink and filled what looked like an electric tea kettle, but I kept an eye on Barbara. I was ready to tackle her if need be, and she must have known it. She stayed seated.
The tea water heated up. As I hunted out mugs and tea bags, I thanked her for the groceries and chatted about the Rayburn's eccentricities.
"It keeps things warm," she muttered. "Where is that cop?"
"Is the Garda station very far away?"
"Half a mile northwest. He should be here by now, but I suppose he had to feed the chickens or something. He lives above the station."
I considered. "He was going to call for an ambulance, an
d he probably talked to his superiors, too. That would take a while."
"All the same..."
The kettle shrieked. I poured hot water. Tea ensued. We sipped, eyeing each other.
"How was your flight?"
"Fine."
"If George is doing research on Quakers..." She cocked her head, listening.
A car crunched on the gravel and a door slammed.
I set my mug on the table and went to open the front door.
The quintessence of Irish cops came toward me around the back of a white car marked Garda. Black hair, rosy complexion, blue, blue eyes, wide shoulders and a trim body beneath the dignified blue uniform. He was as tall as I am. "Mrs. Dodge?"
I nodded, momentarily bereft of speech. I am susceptible to male beauty.
"Ah, you're only a lass! I was picturing an older lady."
The sheer meretriciousness of that brought me to my senses. He was playing a role. Why?
I shook hands. "Come in, sergeant. Barbara Stein is here."
The smile faded. The blue eyes searched my face. "And how's herself?"
"In the pink," Barbara said from the door, rather waspishly, I thought. "Cut the blarney, Joe. This is serious."
"Certainly, madam." He bared his teeth—very white, very even. He did not like Barbara. "Are you here in your landlord capacity then, himself being off in the big city?"
"Alex is flying back from London tonight."
They glared at each other.
I said, "I'll show you to the tool shed, sergeant. My father's still asleep, though, and the bedroom's downstairs, so please be quiet."
Kennedy nodded and followed me into the living room. He knew the layout, he said, because he had inspected the cottage when the security system was installed. Barbara snorted.
At the head of the stairs, I paused and turned. "There were scuff marks on the floor inside the downstairs door. I noticed when I went out."
Malarkey Page 2
