He shrugged. "I know when I'm outnumbered."
Someone knocked.
Jay was nearest. He rose, coffee cup in hand, and opened the door. "Good morning, sir."
I heard the rumble of a male voice.
"I see," Jay said. "Come in. You're at it early."
I stacked dishes until the kettle hummed. When it shrieked, I unplugged it and stuck my head through the door arch. "Coffee or tea, inspector? I have both."
Mahon said, "Tea, Mrs. Dodge, if it's no trouble."
"None at all." I looked at the other men and they nodded. Tea. Following the leader.
Mahon was taking Jay through the events of the previous evening and sounded rather stiff. I wondered if the inspector's nose was out of joint. Sgt. Kennedy's absence was conspicuous.
When I brought three mugs on a tray with sugar and cream, Mahon gave me a faint, approving smile, but he continued to direct his stiff questions at Jay. I served the three policemen tea and sat on the fireplace ledge to listen. After all, Dad and I were witnesses, too. Dad was playing solitaire with the computer, but I thought he was also listening.
"Have you questioned Tierney?" Jay asked when Mahon had finished the second run-through.
"Not yet," Mahon said bleakly. "His solicitor arranged bail last night, after I'd driven back to Dublin."
"Quick work. Then he's free?"
"Yes." Exasperation tightened Mahon's face muscles. "Tierney has political connections, you see."
"I gathered that when he told us he'd arranged his son's disappearance."
"The old network. It's still in place." Mahon took a swallow of strong sweet tea and set his mug on the tray. "If the boy's guilty we've seen the last of him."
Jay was standing by the fireplace. I twisted my neck so I could see his face. He frowned. "Tierney believes his son is innocent, inspector. That was my impression. He was looking for a magic bullet."
"I don't follow you."
"He came to me because he imagined I'd know of some new technology, some 'test' Tommy could take that would exonerate him. I told Toss that was nonsense, of course, that what he needed was another plausible suspect. I suggested the other wargamers."
"They've been questioned."
"And?"
"Young Tommy is still the likeliest bet. There's one other lad with no alibi for the relevant times, but he also seems to have no motive."
"Whereas Tommy was challenging Wheeler's leadership." Jay nodded. "There's the girl, too."
"Grace Flynn," Mahon said without joy. He rose and his subordinates followed suit, the constable with a mournful look at his half-full mug. "The case against young Tierney seems clear-cut, but I don't like this business about the key to the cottage. You say Toss insists he didn't enter the cottage, yet the body was here, inside, for six or eight hours."
"Have you accounted for all the keys?"
"There's a set at Stanyon on a whacking great board in what used to be the butler's pantry. The keys are in place, labeled Bedrock Cottage for the convenience of passing burglars. Apart from Professor Dailey's keys, which Alex Stein posted to him in Dublin last week, Tierney's are the only other set."
"Besides the Steins, who has access to the pantry?"
"Easy access?" Mahon shrugged. "Murtagh, the chef, and the kitchen staff." He turned to me. "Refresh my memory. You're sure the outside door downstairs was locked?"
"I tested the handle. It was locked."
Mahon sighed. "I'd best tackle Tierney. He has to be lying."
"Does he?" I thought he was telling the truth most of the time. Not that I'm an expert.
Mahon's brows snapped together. After a moment, he said, "It's the daub of red paint on the dead man's forehead, d'ye see, Mrs. Dodge? If it weren't for the paint I'd take a closer look at the Stanyon lot and the sister. Wheeler was a heavy investor in Stonehall Limited, and he liked to throw his weight around. What's more, he was on bad terms with Miss Wheeler. She admits that. But the paint is plainly symbolic. The man was killed because of his game-playing."
It seemed silly to point out that anybody can shoot a squirt gun at an unmoving target, or make a wax copy of an ordinary Yale key, so I didn't say anything. The Gardai were professionals. Whatever Mahon's favored theory, I was sure they were following all leads in the methodical way of police investigators.
Shortly thereafter, Mahon took his leave. He had an appointment to interview Toss Tierney—with the solicitor present. When the police had gone I told Jay and Dad to clean up the kitchen, lest they imagine dishes were women's work. I took a run into Arklow to buy Sunday supplies.
It was still misting out, and I drove with paranoid care. I had anticipated that everyone in County Wicklow would be shopping at the same time, so the congestion at the High Street roundabout didn't surprise me.
At Quinnsworth I ran into Maeve. I told her my father wanted to come to the concert and warned her that he tired easily. She nodded, smiling. Though she was perfectly courteous, she seemed preoccupied, so I disengaged and went on my way. As I was drooping over the cabbages in the produce section, however, she came up to me again.
"Is it true Toss Tierney surrendered to your husband at the cottage last night?" She kept her voice low because we were surrounded by shoppers, male, female, all ages, alone and in family clumps. Every cart in the store was in use, most of them in produce.
I said, "He wanted to talk to Jay. He surrendered to Joe afterwards. Didn't Joe tell you?"
Spots of color burnt on her admirable cheekbones. "He did not. I shall have words with that man."
"I imagine Chief Inspector Mahon is leaning on him. We had a visit from the Dublin contingent this morning."
"Even so..." Maeve's eyes flashed.
"Do you mind?" An impatient housewife gestured to the cabbages.
"Sorry," I murmured, moving my cart out of her way.
"I'll come for you at half eight," Maeve hissed.
"We'll be ready to go." I picked one of the leafy green cabbages at random and tossed it into my huge cart.
Maeve darted off, swifter than I because she was unencumbered by a cart. She was carrying a small basket with a loaf of bread in it. I drifted over to the potatoes. They were interesting colors—purple and tan and red, varieties I hadn't seen at home. I took a fancy to the purple kind.
A customer among the oranges pointed out to me that I was supposed to weigh my produce choices at a clever little computer- scale device. When I pressed the right buttons, it emitted a bar code on a sticky label. I fiddled with the machine for a while—a technology that hadn't yet reached the Pacific Northwest. It would save the clerks time and memory when it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Before I took my laden cart through the check stand, I found a replacement bottle of Jameson's for my father. It seemed odd to be buying whiskey in a supermarket. The state of Washington confines hard liquor to government stores.
When I got back to the cottage, the kitchen was spic and span, and Jay had heated soup. Dad took a long nap after lunch. Jay worked at the computer. I read Trollope until it was time to cook dinner. Life was just one damned meal after another.
When Maeve turned up, on time, in a battered van, she was alone. No sergeant. I wondered if they had had words. She made no reference to Kennedy, inserted Dad in the front passenger seat with considerable charm, and went round to the driver's door. Jay and I climbed in the back.
She slid in, slammed the door, and hooked her seatbelt. "The Steins may be coming, too."
"Grand," Dad said.
I scrunched against the far side. There were two rear seats. Jay and I sat in the narrower, middle one. Maeve explained over the thrum of the engine that she used the van to haul her students back and forth to excavations. It looked as if she had been carrying people with large muddy boots.
Maeve's van trundled up the drive and back down to Stanyon.
She went inside and returned within ten minutes. "They've decided to take their own car. They're waiting on la Wheeler."
"Kayla's coming? Horrors."
> Maeve made no comment. She engaged the gear, and we chugged off. Dad asked about her current project, and she said her digs usually took place in summer. She was surveying a tumulus out of season because it lay in the path of a proposed highway ramp. The EU were funding a motorway project to connect Wexford and the French ferry with Dublin. The dig sounded rather dull. Maeve's voice sounded dull, as if she were tired.
I hadn't yet driven through Killaveen so I was curious about Kennedy's turf. It seemed like a pleasant village. One post office, a Protestant church with a tall belltower and an aggressively modern Catholic church, one tiny grocery, one bookie. I caught a glimpse of the Garda station on a side lane as we whisked down the steep high street. The station looked like an ordinary two-storey house, except for the illuminated sign. A patrol car was parked in front and lights shone upstairs.
Maeve turned into the lot of a large brick pub. When she had parked and set the brake, she loosened her seatbelt and turned around. "I brought you early so we can snaffle a table in the saloon bar. The public's apt to get a bit noisy between sets."
Dad said, "Do they still divide the drinking space into public and private bars? Surely ladies can be seen in the public these days."
Maeve smiled at him. "They can, and upstairs and downstairs and in their nightgowns into the bargain. Shocking I call it."
Dad laughed, and we all got out.
The pub, the Stanyon Arms, had been tarted up, though the gleaming oak bar looked like the real thing. Maeve said there was quite a good restaurant upstairs. She led us around the long bar to the small, dark saloon. We found a table free, though a multi- generational family with at least two underage children were chattering away around another table. They fell silent as we entered. The children stared. Maeve gave them a big smile and went over to greet a woman in the group.
My father held a chair for me. Jay scooted around to the built-in bench where he could sit with his back to the far wall. Typical. Dad sat on the bench beside him, and we waited. Eventually Maeve returned.
"What's your tipple, Professor Dailey?"
"Whiskey."
She shook her head, sad. "They're not licensed for the water of life, I'm afraid."
Dad's face fell. "Lager, then."
"There's quite a good selection of wines."
"White bordeaux?"
"Bordeaux it is. Jay?"
"A pint of Guinness."
"What else? Lark?"
"Smithwick's," I said firmly. Guinness looked as if it would float an egg.
She wheeled and strode to the bar, and we could hear her bantering with the bartender.
Jay got up. "I gather there's no table service." He made his way to Maeve's side, and the two of them stood with their backs to us. Evidently Maeve was introducing Jay, for the bartender set Dad's glass of wine on a tray and shook hands before he began pulling levers. Beer foamed.
The noise level in the public was rising. I couldn't hear the bar dialogue over that and the chatter of the family party, but I watched Maeve reach for her purse and Jay take out his wallet. A pantomime debate followed and Jay prevailed. He paid while Maeve carried the tray over to us.
"He's a golden-tongued devil," she said gaily. "I'll get the next round."
"Ah, no," Dad said. "Let me."
I didn't offer to buy drinks, and I wondered how stiff the drunk driving laws were in Ireland. Clearly the booze was going to flow free.
I could see Jay and the bartender telling each other their life stories. Maeve seated herself, took a sip of her wine—it looked like sherry—and eyed the table. "Room for the Steins?"
"The Steins, yes," I said. "They're small. Kayla isn't."
"She can sit on the bench by your husband and pat his knee." She winked at me. "Cheers."
"Cheers," I muttered and took a swallow of Smithwick's.
Dad tasted his wine. "Ah, that's grand." He gave the impression of a man determined to enjoy himself. I was glad he had taken a nap.
Eventually the bartender turned back to his clamoring patrons, and Jay returned to us. He sat and sipped Guinness and looked smug. The first musicians were tuning up on a tiny platform at the near end of the bar. I was going to be able to hear the concert, but visibility was somewhat impaired by beer glasses dangling from the bar overhang and by a large tweedy man who sat at the end with his nose in a glass of Guinness.
I gave Jay a gentle kick under the table. "You and the bartender must have hit it off."
Jay licked foam from his lip. "He was telling me about the local trout streams. The pub owns fishing rights on that creek that runs behind the place."
Dad sat up. "It's early for flies."
"True. He rents gear, though. And there's coarse fishing in the pond outside of town."
Dad's eyes gleamed. Maeve listened to their fish talk with an indulgent air. I swallowed Smithwick's.
The Steins and Kayla Wheeler did not arrive for the opening set. The musicians, two thirtyish brothers with guitars and a friend who played the pennywhistle, launched into a series of music hall songs. Their voices were pleasant but ordinary, and the accompaniment more rhythmical than interesting, but they sang with rowdy enthusiasm and the crowd responded.
I knew some of the songs and not others. I was particularly taken with a little number called "The Night before Larry was Stretched," stretched being a euphemism for hanged. By the time the singers got to "Finnegan's Wake," my mood had lifted. I applauded enthusiastically as they bowed off the stage.
"Sorry we're late." Barbara Stein had slipped past the tweedy man at the bar during the last song. "Alex is parking the car."
"Where's Miss Wheeler?" Maeve asked.
Barbara rolled her eyes. "She's done a disappearing act. She told us she wanted to come, but she vanished after dinner. We hung around waiting for her. I even went up and knocked at her door. No response, so we said the hell with it and came anyway. How are you, George? Smoke getting to you?" Cigarette smoke hung on the air. Irish smokers have no inhibitions.
Dad smiled at her. "I'm enjoying myself. Can I get you a drink?"
"No, thanks. I'll wait for Alex."
Alex arrived as the next act, a fiddler of about ninety, was tuning up. Dad went off to the bar and returned with red wine— Barbara—and a Guinness—Alex. The fiddler swung into an impossibly intricate jig. By the time he wound down, two men were dancing in front of the stage, and the audience was thoroughly roused. Even Jay smiled. The old fiddler was a true artist. We listened without trying to talk. I wanted to dance.
At the end of the set, the old man called up his great- granddaughter, a child of ten or eleven with braces and straight brown hair. She was carrying a violin. They played a fiddle duel, the old man leading. The music was clearly below the gaffer's talents and a bit above the child's, but they brought the piece to a spirited end and everyone cheered them off the stage. The little girl blushed and looked up at her mentor with shining eyes.
Barbara said in a softened voice, "My mother is a violinist. She and my Uncle Moishe and two of their friends worked up a string quartet concert in our living room every winter. They weren't professional, but they enjoyed themselves."
Dad said, "Perhaps we've lost our tolerance for amateurs in the States. People used to participate in their own entertainment."
Barbara gave him a wry smile. "And now our music is digitally reconstructed."
Alex shifted on the hard seat. "You can't record spontaneity. We've tried."
Jay sipped his Guinness. I wondered what he was thinking. His idea of music is instrumental jazz of the Winton Marsalis class or down and dirty blues. He is more musical than I am. I listen for words.
Maeve said, "This group is popular with my students."
Three young men and a girl in a scarlet mini with blue hair were tuning up. They sang in Irish. The a capella songs were traditional, but a couple of the others sounded familiar. We listened politely. I was straining to recall where I'd heard the last song when my father snorted. I stared at him. He a
ppeared to be choking.
Alarmed, I reached toward him but he patted my hand, grabbed a bar napkin and wiped his eyes. The song ended and everyone applauded, including Dad.
I leaned toward him. "What's the matter?"
"The song..." He chuckled and wiped his eyes again. "Do you recognize it?"
Jay said, "It sounded familiar."
Dad laughed again. "Oh dear, I don't know why it struck me so funny. It's a pop song from the fifties. You may remember it, Jay, from your childhood. 'Jambalaya and a crawfish pie and a filé gumbo...'" He chanted the words. Sure enough, the Irish song had the same tune.
The Steins and Maeve stared. Jay grinned. "Authentic Cajun Irish?"
I turned to Maeve. "Is that usual?"
She shrugged and smiled. "Not usual, but it happens. Young people aren't always traditional-minded, and they're very fond of American country and western music."
I sighed. "Cultural imperialism?"
"Perhaps."
"Country comes out of the same ballad tradition," Jay offered. "Some Appalachian songs exist in English and Scottish variants."
"I thought you hated folk music," I muttered.
He shrugged. "I don't find the music interesting, as a rule. And the folkie milieu didn't appeal to me. I like this stuff, though. Especially the fiddler."
Alex rubbed his shoulder as if it were sore, but his eyes glowed. "We could do an historical disk—alternate versions of the same ballad—and illustrate it with woodcuts."
Barbara groaned. "Geez, Alex, we're taking a break from the business tonight, remember?"
He looked sheepish. By way of apology he bought another round. I thought he moved stiffly when he walked to the bar.
The Cajun choristers were succeeded by a tenor with a formidable vibrato who headlined at a major hotel in Kilkenny during the summer. The tenor did "Kathleen Mavourneen," a song of which I am not fond. It was followed as the day the night by "Danny Boy" and "The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls." I thought the applause was merely polite.
At eleven fifteen there was a break. People got up and walked around, visiting. Alex looked at his watch and his wife. "I think we ought to go home, Barb."
She made a face. "I suppose so. Kayla's probably surfaced by now. She'll be mad as a yellow-jacket at a barbecue."
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