Malarkey

by Sheila Simonson

  "I see. How long did you wait before Mrs. Stein appeared?"

  "Not long. She came in almost at once. She told me she and Alex would have to wait for Miss Wheeler and drive to the pub in their own car. She knew I had guests sitting outside in my van."

  "The three of you were alone in the drawing room?"

  "No. Mr. Novak was reading in a corner. He had greeted me and made a few remarks. He, er, commented on Miss Wheeler's propensity to drink deep. It was well known."

  "Novak was there?" Kennedy's voice rang sharp.

  Maeve blinked. "Employees are often there in the evening."

  "Working?"

  "It's not a conventional workplace."

  "It was Saturday night."

  Maeve said nothing and looked rather alarmed. After a moment, she added, "Mike Novak and Alex had been talking when I entered. Casually, I thought. Alex seemed to take Mike's presence for granted."

  "Did you see other members of the Stonehall staff, or of the household staff, when you were in Stanyon Hall?"

  "No. I left at once."

  "Thank you." He shut off the machine and swore. "Novak. The Steins didn't mention him. We accounted for the chef and the housekeeper. I wonder who locked the front door and when."

  "Mike had probably gone home by the time you were called." Maeve sounded worried, as if she had betrayed Novak or the Steins, or both. "I daresay they forgot him."

  Kennedy scowled. "Would the Steins have locked the door before they left for the pub?"

  "I don't know, Joe. Ask them."

  "I shall." He rubbed the back of his neck. "The housekeeper had secured the other doors by half seven, and there's an electronic alarm in place. Why install an elaborate security system if you mean to leave the front door wide to the world?"

  I winced. Until that moment I had forgotten the security system at the cottage. We had not rearmed it that evening.

  "It's inconvenient to be jumping up and answering the doorbell every five minutes," Maeve said. "Wicklow's rural. My father has never locked his doors in daytime."

  "You father has a bloody butler."

  "My father is a bloody Butler," she rejoined. The more irritable the sergeant got the sweeter Maeve sounded. She turned to me with a confiding air. "Like the Steins, Papa has a resident housekeeper. Barbara told me they locked the place up and activated the alarms twenty-four hours a day when they first came— because of the computers. They had false alerts every half hour."

  I sighed. At least I locked the door whenever we left.

  Kennedy sighed too. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small notebook. Apparently he used the recorder only for official statements. "In a general way, an open door would be understandable. This isn't Dublin. I remember the false alarms, God knows, but you'd think Slade Wheeler's murder would have registered at Stanyon. The neighbors are locking their doors."

  When no one replied he went on, "This death puts a different complexion on the first one."

  "The wargamers are out?" I had trouble with that. I remembered the daub of paint on Wheeler's forehead too vividly to discount it.

  "Not out." Joe frowned. "But the motive seems less apparent. Also—" He hesitated. "The modus operandi was different this time." He looked at Jay, still frowning.

  Jay didn't react. His impassivity had begun to annoy me.

  "How was she killed?" I asked the obvious question. Maeve leaned forward, her eyes on Joe.

  He looked at me. "Not with a choke hold. Sure, I can't give you the details, Lark, though the press will be hot on the trail soon enough. The coroner will adjourn the inquest on her brother. I can tell you that much."

  "But I'll still have to give evidence?"

  "He won't keep you ten minutes."

  "Pity there's no other Wheeler heir about." Maeve was fidgeting, buttoning and unbuttoning her short coat, as if she meant to leave.

  Joe flipped the notebook open. "Why?"

  "Cui bono? You need a fresh suspect."

  "There is another Wheeler heir," I said. "Grace's child."

  Maeve drew a sharp breath. Had she forgotten Grace? Perhaps she didn't take Grace's claim seriously. "Caitlin says the child's rights will be disputed even if the DNA establishes paternity. Our laws are no more generous to bastards than they are to women. But Wheeler was an American national. Caitlin wants to make a test case." She glared at Joe.

  He was impassive. "We'll have to speak to Gracie. I...that is, Mahon thought the killer was out to wreck the war games. It may be he's out to wreck Stonehall."

  "Or exterminate Wheelers," Jay said dryly.

  "The press will play that up, too."

  I groaned. My relations with the fourth estate in an investigative mood have sometimes been less than cheerful. Surely Irish journalists would not be as adhesive as the staff of the Daily Blatt, my favorite English tabloid.

  I caught Jay suppressing a grin. Remembering my earlier media disasters had cracked his blank façade. He said in a warmer voice, "We'll set the security alarm here—"

  "If you please." Joe apparently missed the byplay. His tone was heavy. "I've a constable on duty at the station. Better a false alarm than none. This is an isolated house, and I don't like its proximity to Stanyon Woods."

  Jay's eyes widened then narrowed. "Do you think there was action in the woods today?"

  "Action? I don't know. The estate is an odd place altogether, house and grounds." He hesitated. "It had unsavory associations in the last century."

  Maeve made a rude noise. "Sure, it's the Orangemen out to get us."

  Joe gave her an unloving glance and turned back to Jay and me. "For a time there was a sort of Hellfire Club convened at a folly in the woods. Scandalized the local gentry. The folly was torn down long ago."

  "In the woods?" I asked. I was thinking of the incised stone. "Where?"

  He shrugged. "I'm not certain. The place has been planted with conifers since then. An Orange Lodge met on the grounds during the land wars."

  Jay frowned. "Orange?"

  "Ultra-Unionist, anti-Catholic fanatics."

  "Ian Paisley types?"

  Joe flipped his notebook shut. "Exactly, except that that lot were in power at the time. The army and the constabulary were riddled with Orangemen, and old Stanyon, the man who built the hall, was a ringleader. His son played a prominent role in the Curragh Mutiny."

  Jay said mildly, "You may take my ignorance for granted."

  Maeve clucked. "Americans."

  "The Strange Death of Liberal England," I murmured, citing a good popular history. "I read it because it dealt with woman suffrage."

  "And Home Rule for Ireland." Maeve bestowed an approving nod on me as if I were an apt pupil. "In 1914, the Liberal Parliament passed a bill that would have given Ireland self-government."

  "Limited self-government," Joe growled.

  Maeve ignored the interruption. "Army officers stationed at the Curragh—that's in Kildare—swore an oath they would refuse to obey orders if Parliament directed the British army to withdraw from Ireland. The officers were Anglo-Irish, of course. Technically, they were in a state of mutiny."

  Jay raised an eyebrow. "As if an American officer had refused a presidential order?"

  Maeve frowned, considering parallels.

  Joe said impatiently, "Close enough. They were traitors, but well-connected Protestant traitors. The English hanged Catholics who defied the law like pictures in a gallery."

  "True enough." Maeve spread her hands. "The Great War broke out a few weeks after the Home Rule Bill passed, so Parliament suspended the bill for the duration. They couldn't deal with the Germans if the officer corps were in a state of mutiny. Most of the officers were killed in France."

  "And by the end of the war it was too late for a peaceful settlement," Joe said flatly.

  I ransacked my memory. "The Easter Rebellion?"

  "Sure, it happened in 1916."

  "'A terrible beauty is born,'" Jay quoted.

  Maeve looked surprised, as
if she thought cops shouldn't read poetry.

  Joe rose. "Stanyon's two sons were killed at the Somme. There were grandchildren, but his executors sold the estate after the Civil War. A wonder the house wasn't burnt."

  Maeve said, "You know very well it wasn't burnt because the Irregulars were using the woods as a munitions depot."

  Joe's lips clamped together.

  Jay looked from one to the other. "I deplore ignorance of history including my own, but has it occurred to anyone that Ireland might be better off with a case of collective amnesia?"

  The Irish contingent looked at him without expression. After a moment, Maeve gave a short laugh. "Better off, perhaps, but not half as Irish."

  They left shortly after that, Joe first. Maeve waited until we could hear the car engine whine and the gravel crunch as he pulled out. I think she was avoiding any possibility of private conversation with him.

  She stood up and looked at me. "My mother is English," she announced with an air of detachment. Without further ado, she collected her handbag, buttoned the short coat, and headed for the door.

  Jay said, "Thank you for the concert, Maeve. I'm sorry fetching us embroiled you in this."

  She cast a brilliant smile over her shoulder. "Ah, I was bound to entangle myself in it one way or another. I like the Steins. If you think of a way I can help them, be sure to let me know. I'm off to Dublin after the inquest. I've lectures Tuesday and Wednesday, but I shall bring the first lot of students down to the site the next day. If you'd like to drive over to see the dig on Friday, ring me up at my father's."

  When she had gone it occurred to me that I had no idea what her father's first name was. There was bound to be a surfeit of Butlers in the telephone directory.

  Jay was fussing around the kitchen, tidying things.

  "So how was Kayla killed?"

  He shrugged. "Kennedy didn't say." He sounded irritated.

  I yawned and stretched. "Bed?" It was two-thirty, or, in Irish usage, half two. I was pooped or knackered, take your pick, too tired, at any rate, to pursue a quarrel.

  "I'll be down later. I want to look at my e-mail."

  Pouting? "Suit yourself." I yawned again.

  He said, "I had a cup of coffee and a cup of tea, Lark. I'm wired."

  "Okay. G'night." Trudging downstairs, I told myself that may have been the truth. While not exactly a caffeine virgin, Jay was sparing of the stuff. Maybe he was wired—and maybe he was pouting. I was too tired to sort it out.

  I surprised myself by not falling asleep at once. I lay alone on the futon and listened to the creak-creak of the floor joists as Jay walked around upstairs. Perhaps I was wired, too.

  Kayla was dead. Poor graceless unhappy Kayla. I would have to think of a way of telling my father what had happened, but I didn't know what had happened.

  Eyes closed, I chased the possibilities around until, at last, I drifted into an uneasy sleep. I had a nightmare in which Kayla, dressed in mourning black, fell down the long Stanyon stairway. I tried but was unable to stop her fall. She drifted like a dark leaf on an autumn wind, spiraling down to the heart of the stone.

  Chapter 10

  Come all you fair and tender ladies,

  Be careful how you court your men...

  American folk song

  I woke late. I am the sort who annoys everyone else by rising spontaneously at 6:00 a.m. Whether it was jet lag or going to bed at half past two I can't say, but I slept until eleven. I gathered from the dent in Jay's pillow that he had tried to sleep at some point, but I had no memory of his presence beside me.

  I felt sluggish and stupid, even after a long hot shower. When I drifted upstairs, my father greeted me mournfully from the computer. He was playing solitaire again.

  "Where's Jay?"

  Dad placed a red five on a black six. "He went out for a walk."

  "A run?" I wanted a run. I needed a run. Resentment stirred. Jay should have waited for me.

  "A walk," Dad repeated, swiveling the office chair around to face me. "He told me about Miss Wheeler's death."

  Memory rushed back. I felt my stomach knot. "I'm sorry, Dad. It's a shocking thing. Sergeant Kennedy came over last night and took a statement from Maeve before she left. He says they'll adjourn the inquest tomorrow."

  He was nodding. "Jay told me. Are you all right?"

  "Are you?" We eyed each other warily.

  Dad sighed. "As you see, daughter. When I heard of the murder, I didn't fall on the floor in a stroke or foam at the mouth."

  "Dad—"

  "I'm well enough, Lark, though I find the situation depressing, and I can't seem to concentrate on my notes."

  "Shall we drive to that Quaker village near Waterford?"

  "Portlaw?" His face brightened. "If you feel up to it."

  "Of course." After all, I had come to Ireland to drive my father to the historic sites he wanted to see. Besides, it was Sunday. As in Britain, things closed down in Ireland on Sunday. Might as well drive around gawking at half-deserted villages.

  "What about Jay?"

  "He can come with us or not, his choice."

  Dad frowned, watching me. "You sound cold. Have you quarreled with Jay?"

  "Not yet." I relented when I saw his anxiety. "I'm feeling a little annoyed with him. He seems to think I can't take care of myself."

  Dad's mouth relaxed in a small smile. "Now you sound very like your father. I'm glad Jay is here, and not just because we may find time for a little fishing. He's a good man, Lark, and good company. As far as I can see, he's a good husband, too. Make peace."

  "Is that an order?"

  "Heavens, no."

  He looked so distressed I went over and kissed his cheek. "Have you had breakfast?"

  "Bacon," he said. "And two eggs. Jay cooked."

  I fixed myself toast and scrambled eggs. I didn't feel sufficiently righteous to eat porridge.

  Jay returned around noon with a newspaper and a healthy glow from his long walk. I fixed the men sandwiches while Dad read the news stories aloud. There were two in Friday's Irish Times, which does not publish on the week-ends. One article was a factual report based on police releases, and one a profile of Stonehall Enterprises with an accompanying photo of Stanyon Hall.

  Mahon was playing it close to the chest. Neither the specific cause of death nor the daub of red paint on Wheeler's forehead was mentioned. The news story didn't use my name in connection with the discovery of Slade Wheeler's body, either, but the cottage figured prominently. We were in for a press siege which would intensify after I gave my evidence at the inquest. The thought filled me with gloom.

  Jay didn't want to come to Portlaw with us. He claimed he was working on the student reports. He offered to cook dinner. I thought he had probably never dealt with a hunk of authentic Irish ham, très saline. Neither had I. Maeve had said I should boil it mercilessly, so I put it in the spaghetti pot, cranked up the Rayburn, and left Jay to deal with the consequences.

  Traffic was light. I drove south on the N11 through mild showers and listened to Dad reflecting on time, chance, mutability, and the fate of Kayla Wheeler. He sounded almost tearful.

  The gorse was in full bloom, intense yellow against gray and the multitudinous green. By the time I cut off to the west at Enniscorthy, aiming for Waterford, Dad was cheering up. At New Ross, I sweated through a traffic jam generated by construction on an approach to the bridge over the Barrow, but the congestion was purely local. By then Dad sounded almost jolly. He was telling me all about Quaker grist mills. I kept my eyes on the road and let the details wash over me. My father is a master of details.

  Once I deciphered the signage, I nosed across the high bridge over the tidal Suir and down into Waterford. From the looks of it, Waterford was a late Georgian and Victorian port town, though it had to be much older. Dad said it was a Viking foundation, like most of the seaports of Ireland. I knew I'd enjoy a walk through the historic center, but I pushed west, past a large technical college and the ultramodern glas
s factory. I thought we'd better save the factory until my mother arrived. She collects Waterford crystal.

  Dad liked Portlaw. Though I saw nothing to dislike, my mind was prying at the puzzle of Kayla Wheeler's death. Thinking about it was an exercise in futility, because I had so little information, but I knew enough to feel anxious for the Steins. Kayla would have inherited her brother's interest in Stonehall Enterprises. Apart from the universal response to her negative charm, that was the only motive that made sense of her death.

  When he had filled his mind and a small notebook with impressions of stolid Portlaw, Dad mentioned a dolmen, the largest in that area. Since the site, Leac an Scail, lay a few short kilometers to the west, I couldn't resist driving to it. Again, I experienced the ambiguous frisson that had stirred me at the other monuments.

  "Impressive," Dad murmured as we walked back to the car.

  My tongue locked. It was in my mind that the dolmen, impressive though it indeed was, had been a tomb, a death symbol. Ireland was rife with monuments to death.

  I stuck the key in the passenger door and opened it. "We could drive to Clonmel."

  Dad sank by stages onto the low seat. "Another time, Lark. I'm tired. Let's head home."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Just tired."

  I inserted myself behind the wheel and started the engine. "I hope Jay didn't forget to change the water in that kettle." Maeve had suggested tossing the water from the first boiling.

  We reached the cottage before six. Dad dozed most of the way, so I had too much time to think. I didn't know how Kayla had died, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the first death was curiously stylized, almost, you might say, symbolic. That insight led my suspicions to the Stonehall staff—the Steins, Alex especially, who was so focused on his work he couldn't stop thinking about ideas for new projects, and Barbara, with her open hostilities; the ebullient Tracy, like Alex an enthusiast; Liam with his talent, his scruples, and his nightmare memories; volatile Mike Novak who had been on the scene last evening.

  They were bright people, gifted people, capable of elaborate, symbolic ironies. The more I thought about the Wheelers the more incongruous their presence at Stanyon seemed. Sludgy, dreary Kayla embodied pointlessness. I had never met Slade alive. Why had the Steins taken on so incompatible a business partner? A genius with software, Barbara had said, and "fiscally responsible," at least in the counting of paperclips, but emotionally immature and invincibly ignorant. An idea man? If the war games typified his ideas, I couldn't help thinking his creativity was a dead end. I meditated about computer nerds.