I hewed to the point. "Tell me what Kennedy said."
"He told me the investigation was dead in the water. The Gardai put out the equivalent of an APB for the two men who are missing—what's the name?"
"Tierney."
"That's it. Kennedy said they waited too long, the trail's cold. No leads. The older man—"
"Toss. Short, I think, for Tomas." I pronounced the name Spanish-style since I didn't know what the Irish phonetic system required. "The son is called Tommy."
"Right. Toss is an old-time nationalist with underground connections. Mahon thinks the boy killed Wheeler, and the father helped dispose of the body. Toss meant to work on the cottage and had keys to it. They may have left the body in the downstairs hallway overnight then carried it out to the shed, hoping Toss would have time to move it before you and George arrived. They miscalculated."
"That sounds logical."
"Wheeler was killed Sunday or early Monday morning. Tierney knew you were due to arrive some time Tuesday."
"But not as soon as we did?"
"Right. He also knew the gardeners were set to plant the lawn and would rake over inconvenient footprints. Mahon thinks Tierney intended to move the body again in his van, but you and George arrived before he could get back to the cottage. That's the theory. It's speculation, of course, though there's some evidence to support it. Wheeler wasn't killed at the cottage. He was definitely carried to the shed. There's post mortem bruising, particles of floor wax on Wheeler's fatigues. The brand of floor wax," he added with a clinical air, "is also used at Stanyon Hall."
I digested that. "Alex says Toss is chronically late."
Jay hunched his shoulders in the anorak. The chill mist was penetrating. "Maybe so. Maybe it just took him longer to arrange for his son's disappearance than he thought it would."
"Do they have any idea where the boy could be hiding?"
"In England, probably. The father may have been shipping him out of Dublin Airport as you were coming in."
"A nice thought."
"Isn't it?" We were within hailing distance of the cottage. The kitchen light showed, fuzzy in the fog. Jay stopped again. "Kennedy told me all that. Then he suggested that the Gardai hire me as a consultant. He was only half joking."
"Why would it be a joke?"
Jay grimaced. "I don't know Irish rules of evidence, Lark, and I damned well don't want to hang around here playing the amateur sleuth. I told him that." He cocked his head. "I think he was relieved."
I reflected. "Maybe Mahon was afraid you were going to try to horn in."
"And told Kennedy to butter me up. Hence the charade with the textbook."
"I don't think that was a charade. I think Joe had read the book and wanted you to know he had."
"Did you mention it?" He sounded paranoid.
"No, but the Gardai had two days to check up on me, and checking up on me would lead them to you and the book."
"I suppose you're right." He gave a short laugh. "And now Stonehall Enterprises wants to turn my sorry little volume into a CD ROM disk. Life is full of weird connections."
"Fractals."
"What?"
"Elemental chaos theory," I said loftily. I owed him.
We ate our spaghetti a little late. Afterwards, Dad and Jay coaxed the modem to life. They had read Jay's e-mail and were playing with the Internet, and I was pottering around the sink, when Toss Tierney showed up at the kitchen door.
The knocking was so tentative I didn't hear it at first over the swish of sudsy water. When the sound penetrated, I dried my hands on a towel and strode to the door thinking irritable thoughts. I yanked it open.
The solid middle-aged man standing on the front step pulled his tweed cap off and gave me a disarming smile. His eyes were wide and childlike in the dim light. The mist had thickened to fog. "Sure, you must be Mrs. Dodge. Me name's Tierney."
"Toss?"
"The very one."
So nice of you to call. I am rarely nonplussed but I stood gaping at him too long for politeness. The man was a fugitive and very likely an accessory to murder. He had to be aware that the police were looking for him. I didn't know what to do.
He cleared his throat. "Me mates tell me your man's a grand American detective."
I said, "Er."
"I'd like a word with him, missus."
"Good heavens, why?"
He squeezed the cap in one beefy hand. "About my son."
"Tommy."
"Aye, Tommy. The lad's innocent." The guileless eyes pleaded with me. The cap twisted.
I sighed. "You'd better come in, Mr. Tierney. It's a cold night."
"It is." He made to wipe his boots on the nonexistent mat.
I stood back. "Please sit down at the table. I'll get Jay."
He perched on the chair nearest the door.
I, and I suppose he, could hear Jay and Dad talking in the next room. I had once admitted an armed and distraught shootist to our house in Shoalwater. Jay was not pleased. With a mental shrug, I ducked through the arch into the living room.
Dad was sitting with the laptop on the desk in front of him, peering at the screen, and Jay was leaning over him, showing him something. Jay glanced around as Dad manipulated the "eraser- head" control.
I said, "Toss Tierney's in the kitchen. He would like to talk to you about his son."
Jay straightened, eyes on mine. "Tierney. Is he—"
I kept my voice low. "He seems calm and unarmed, but worried about his son."
Dad turned the desk chair around. "What's the matter?"
I explained—softly.
"Good heavens, should I call—?"
I put my finger to my lips. Dad stopped midsentence.
Jay murmured, "Slide over, George, and let me back out of the program." With the modem on, we couldn't telephone the Gardai. Dad scooted his chair sideways. Jay bent to the screen and fiddled.
"Is it one of them new laptops?" Tierney was standing in the archway.
Jay said, "Toshiba. Nice machine. Weighs four pounds." He blanked the screen and disconnected the modem cable.
I breathed.
Dad creaked to his feet. "Mr. Tierney? I'm George Dailey. I'm glad of the opportunity of meeting you. You've done very fine work on the cottage." He walked over and shook hands. "Alex sent me photos of the place as it was originally. You've performed a miracle." Beaming, he backed Tierney into the kitchen.
I glanced at Jay. He picked up the receiver, frowned at it a moment, then set it back on its cradle. I could hear Dad offering Tierney a drop of Jameson's.
Jay caught my eye and grinned. "George to the rescue. I guess I'd better hear what Tierney has to say for himself."
I gestured at the phone. "Shall I..."
He shook his head. "Not yet. Time to negotiate."
I followed him into the kitchen. There is a great deal to be said for ceremonies of courtesy. Jay introduced himself. Dad poured generous shots of neat whiskey into four small glasses, and we all sat at the table, I with my back to the Rayburn, which was rather warm. Dad raised his glass. "Slainté."
Tierney ducked his head in acknowledgement and took a substantial gulp. "Ah, that's the stuff on a cold night."
"It is indeed." Dad sipped. His hand was perfectly steady. I admired him. I raised my own glass and tasted. Jay turned his, tracing a circle on the smooth surface of the table.
Tierney killed his shot and set his glass down. "I've come to ask your help, Mr. Dodge. The guards have a warrant out for my son's arrest in the death of Slade Wheeler, the spalpeen. Tommy never killed him, never touched him. It's true they had words."
"They quarreled?" Jay sounded politely interested.
Tierney nodded. "Easter it was, after Mass, in the car park at Jack White's."
Jay kept his hands on the table, and his gaze didn't stray from Tierney's face. "Jack White's?"
"That's a pub a wee bit north of Arklow. There was others heard them, more's the pity, and blabbed to Joe Kennedy. Joe's down on T
ommy, you see."
"What did your son and Wheeler quarrel over?"
"Some nonsense about them wargames of Wheeler's." Tierney shifted in his chair. "Tommy fancies himself a strategist, but that git Wheeler always had to call the tune. Tommy threatened to take the Killaveen lads out of the club."
"And..."
Tierney flushed a deeper red. He was sweating a little. "Ah, as I said, there was words. The thing is, Mr. Dodge, Tommy come home. We'd a fine Easter dinner at me sister's, and wasn't all the uncles and aunts and cousins buzzing about like bees in a bottle? Tommy was laughing and joking, showing off his new cycle, and devil a word did he say about Wheeler the whole evening. He come home with his mum, too, afterwards, meek as a lamb."
Jay said mildly, "The Gardai think Wheeler was killed very late on Sunday or early Easter Monday morning."
Tierney said, "You don't take my point, Mr. Dodge."
"Then tell me what you mean."
"Tommy's state of mind." He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "He'd got over his snit, d'ye see? He wasn't angry. I know my son." He shot a defiant glance around the table as if we had contradicted him.
Dad gave him an encouraging smile. "You know his temperament."
Tierney heaved a sigh. "That's it. When Tommy's angry he broods. He was merry as a grig all evening, my oath on it."
Dad said, "Another glass?"
"I won't say no."
Dad poured.
Jay hadn't drunk any of his whiskey. He said, "Where is Tommy, Mr. Tierney?"
Tierney's eyes shifted. "On the run. 'Tis a sad, unsettled kind of life. I'd a taste of it meself in the old days."
Jay raised his glass, sipped, and set it down. "If your son didn't kill Wheeler—"
"Whhsht," Tierney interrupted. "You're after saying if Tommy's innocent he should turn himself in. I'll let him do that when I can prove he's innocent, Mr. Dodge. I can hold me own with the guards, but they're down on the family itself, d'ye see? And Tommy has a hot temper. He'd a row with Joe Kennedy last summer, and doesn't Joe haul him over the coals whenever there's a rude word scrawled on the pavement?" He shook his head. "Tommy didn't kill Wheeler."
"He told you that." There was no satire in Jay's voice. He was just verifying.
Tierney looked uncomfortable but held his ground. "Aye, he told me. Wheeler didn't turn up when the lads assembled in the woods Monday morning, so they splashed each other with paint, larking about, and when they tired of that they went on to Wexford. I meant to attend the Sinn Fein gathering meself..."
"Sinn Fein?"
"'Twas Easter Monday." He sounded impatient. "The local lads always meet at the cemetery. We've a by-election coming up. I didn't want to miss the speeches, so I drove over to the cottage early. I found Wheeler in the potting shed—"
"Not in the cottage?" Jay interjected, sharp.
"Eh? In the cottage?" Tierney blinked at him. I thought the man was genuinely bewildered.
"You have a key."
Tierney rubbed his nose, eyes narrowed. "I do, but I'd no reason to enter the house Monday morning. Alex Stein told me to finish me work on the shed before Mr. Dailey arrived. I was set to install the knob and lock Saturday, but what with one thing and another I didn't get to it. So I came over early on Monday," he repeated, "and found your man Wheeler lying in the shed. I didn't touch him. When I saw the daub of red paint..." He touched his forehead.
"You thought of the wargamers and went looking for your son?"
He nodded. "And a fine time I had of it with the holiday scattering his mates from Cork to Drogheda. When I finally traced Tommy to Wexford, I borrowed my cousin Seamus's Fiat, seeing my van's a bit conspicuous. I winkled Tommy out of a pub near closing time Monday night and drove him...drove him to a safe place. And made arrangements."
Jay said, "You've put yourself in an awkward position."
"Aye, accessory's the word." Tierney didn't seem to find the thought unbearable. "I need your advice, Mr. Dodge. I need to know how you'd go about it to prove it wasn't Tommy did the murder."
Jay said, "Supply Chief Inspector Mahon with an alternative."
"Eh?"
"Find out who killed Slade Wheeler." When Tierney just blinked at him, Jay went on, "Your son was an associate of the dead man. He quarreled with Wheeler. He's gone into hiding. Those things make him the prime suspect. Unless you can prove that Tommy was elsewhere during the crucial hours, or that he's physically incapable of committing the crime—"
"How was it done, then? I didn't see a mark on the body, saving the smear of red paint."
"You'll have to ask the Gardai." Jay took a sip of whiskey. "I don't think the method has been made public yet."
"But you know."
"Yes. The coroner's inquest is set for Monday, so you'll know, too, soon enough. Hire a good lawyer," Jay added. "You're not in the clear yourself, Mr. Tierney."
"Of the killing? True for you." He heaved another sigh. "Jaysus, what a coil. I can always confess, come to that, but I'd sooner not. Are yez sure there's no test Tommy could take to prove he's not guilty?"
"Test? Like a lie-detector test?" Jay shook his head. "They're unreliable. If Tommy came forward and volunteered to take a lie detector test, it would be a step in the right direction—"
"But not proof."
"Not iron-clad. You know the war-gamers, Mr. Tierney. They're more likely to talk to you than to Chief Inspector Mahon. Ask them what they saw. Tell them if Wheeler was killed as a result of horse-play, they won't face a capital charge. See if you can trace Wheeler's movements, who he was seen with, that sort of thing. Maybe you'll turn something up."
"I won't shop the lads." Tierney's eyes narrowed, suddenly shrewd.
"You're a hard man to advise, Mr. Tierney. You won't bring your son in for questioning, you talk about making a false confession, and you don't want to pressure the other likely suspects. It's a good bet your son or one of your son's friends killed Wheeler. Everything points to it. You say Tommy's not guilty. Find out who is. That's my advice to you."
"'Tis possible one of the lads killed Wheeler, but there's others might have wanted him dead." He jerked a thumb in the direction of Stanyon.
Jay gave a slight smile. "At least you're thinking. The staff at Stanyon or the sister?" He spoke easily, without emphasis, and Tierney's face muscles eased. Jay slipped his next question in without a pause. "Who did Wheeler cut out with Grace Flynn?"
"Tommy."
In the moment of charged silence, the Rayburn clanked. Dad shifted on his chair.
Tierney rubbed his jaw, rueful. "She's—" He shot me a glance. "She's a friendly lass is our Grace."
"Who else? Artie?"
He snorted. "Him with the ring in his nose? Not likely, but she's took up with half a dozen boyfriends since she left school."
"Then look to the boyfriends. The lady is pregnant with Wheeler's child."
"Do you say?" He scratched his jaw again, ruminating. "That puts a different light on things. Thank you, Mr. Dodge. I'm that grateful..."
"I think you should turn yourself in." Jay kept his voice easy.
Tierney stiffened. "Eh? Now?"
"Yes. Call your lawyer first, if you like. The police will arrest you and question you, but the bail will be lower if you come in of your own accord."
Tierney scowled. "Did you ring up the polis?"
"No. However, I'll call for you now, if you like, and put in a good word."
He hesitated.
"Would you prefer to surrender to Mahon or Kennedy?"
Tierney gave a rueful chuckle. "The devil and the deep sea, is it? Ah, Jaysus, lead me to it. I'll phone my solicitor. You can ring up Joe Kennedy for me afterwards. I've never met Mahon."
Better a devil that you know.
To my surprise and intense relief, Tierney was as good as his word, though he wheedled another drink out of my father. The litre bottle was almost empty.
Outside the mist had coagulated in a dense fog. Kennedy and the lawyer arrived simult
aneously to escort Tierney to the Killaveen station. Tierney drove his daffodil yellow van, the lawyer followed, and Kennedy brought up the rear in his white patrol car. All three of us stood on the gravel in front of the door and watched as the procession disappeared, tail lights turning the fog as red as venous blood.
Jay and Dad had gone downstairs, hors de combat, and I was putting the last of the dishes away when the phone rang. It was Maeve Butler inviting Jay and me to a concert of folk music, a ceili, the next evening. It was clear she had no idea of the latest development in the Wheeler case. I didn't enlighten her. I did accept the invitation. Jay hates folk music.
Chapter 8
Jambalaya and a crawfish pie...
Hank Williams, "Jambalaya"
"A what?"
"A ceili," I repeated, passing the marmalade. "Folk music."
Jay groaned.
"A hooley."
Both of us stared at my father.
He took another spoonful of virtuous porridge. We were all eating porridge for breakfast. "In the early sixties there was a fashion for folk music." His spoon clacked on the bowl. "My students called their impromptu concerts hooleys. I wonder if that's an Irish word."
"I thought they were called hootenannies." I cut three more slices from a loaf of soda bread and took one. I was not crazy about Irish oatmeal, but I did like the bread. I lavished my slice with butter and reached for the bitter-orange marmalade. "It was thoughtful of Maeve to invite us. I said yes."
Jay grimaced. He had lately returned to drinking coffee after a ten year abstinence, but he liked it strong, so I was fairly sure his grimace was not a comment on the brew.
"No doubt the inquest will be a truly Irish experience." I brushed crumbs onto my plate. "But I'd like to witness a more typical happening. And we should do something social. Saturday night is Saturday night."
"How kind of Miss Butler." Dad finished a nibble of bread. "I'll look forward to it."
I was disconcerted. Maeve's invitation had not specifically excluded my father, but I thought she was expecting Jay and me sans papa. "She says it's held in a pub in Killaveen," I offered, thinking that might discourage him.
Dad beamed. "All the better."
I looked at Jay.
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