by Zara Keane
Seán squinted. Like its owner, the costume had seen better decades. It was white—or had been in a previous life—with fraying cuffs and a velvet trim. Its appeal was not enhanced by bird excrement.
“Times are hard.” The older man’s shoulders sagged the slump of defeat. “ I had a gig, see. First one in months.”
“The Elvis impersonation business slow in West Cork?” Seán asked, deadpan. A nation in the depths of recession was unlikely to have much call for professional performers at private parties, let alone a sexagenarian gyrating in Speedos.
His uncle’s mouth formed a petulant pout. “No money to pay the mortgage ain’t no joking matter. I got a wife to support.”
“You wouldn’t be financing the mortgage ¬¬by taking on a few side jobs of, shall we say, dubious legality?” ¬
“Eh?” John-Joe danced a nervous jig on the thread-worn carpet, like a toddler fighting the urge to pee. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone has been shooting out tires at the Travellers’ caravan site,” he said with icy casualness. “With an air rifle.” He took a step closer to his uncle. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
John-Joe appeared to shrink inside his swimming trunks. “I don’t have anything to do with the Tinkers.”
“Travellers,” Seán corrected, “or Pavee. Gypsies, if you must.”
The man’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t go in for politically correct shite. They’re Tinkers to me.”
He took another step closer to the man who’d once been his favorite uncle. “Has your un-PC self been taking potshots at their caravan tires?”
John-Joe’s head gave an uncertain shake.
“In that case, I’ll be having a word with Buck.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “So…we done here?”
He gave him a tight smile. “No, we are not done. I’m charging you with possessing a firearm without a license, discharging said firearm in a residential area, and for generally being a blight on society.”
John-Joe’s jaw slackened. “You can’t do that!”
“Not the last part,” Seán said with regret, “but the rest I can.”
“Air rifles are legal. Have been since…since…they changed the law.”
“Since 2006, air rifles with a muzzle energy less than one joule don’t require a license.” He placed the bagged-and-tagged weapon by the sofa. “This air rifle exceeds the limit. Even if it didn’t, you’re only allowed to fire them in designated areas. Newsflash, John-Joe: that excludes your living room.”
“How was I supposed to know?” John-Joe’s voice rose in a panicked whine. “Buck said he bought it off the Internet.”
“I’ll be asking Buck about that when I invite him to join you at Ballybeg Garda Station for a lecture on the Firearms Act.”
John-Joe’s feet stopped their nervous shuffle. “Down the station? Do I have to?”
“Yes, you do.” His voice held a note of steel. When he’d been disgraced, demoted, and sent to rusticate in a country police station, Seán had been determined to keep his distance from his estranged family. Within days of moving back to Ballybeg, his uncle’s propensity for petty crime had scuttled that plan. “I’ll need a statement from you, too, Nora,” he said in a gentler tone.
His aunt glared at her husband, cheeks quivering. “You blaggard. Because of your tomfoolery, I’ll be hauled off in handcuffs.”
“Don’t be daft,” Seán said with a touch of impatience. “All I need is a statement. You’re not being charged with anything.”
“Handcuffs!” Nora screeched as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “What will the neighbors say? I’ll never live this down.”
John-Joe was clearly at the end of his hungover tether. “Ah, would you ever quit your moaning, woman? Only peace I get is when you’re at mass.”
Nora’s hands fluttered to her forehead, and then to her chest, in a subconscious sign of the cross. Her gaze flickered toward the swimming trophies on the mantelpiece, souvenirs of John-Joe’s days as a champion swimmer.
Seán regarded the trophies with a pang of regret. Hard to believe his uncle had once been the town hero, before his drunken antics and Swimming Elvis act had turned him into the town joke. “Stop arguing. Let’s go and get this over with. If John-Joe cooperates, you’ll both be home by noon.”
If Seán’s hunch was right—and they usually were—he finally had a lead on their mystery shooter. He gave a mental fist pump. This was the part of the job he loved. If he solved the case quickly, his Dublin transfer was in the bag, but he hoped to goodness the culprit didn’t turn out to be someone close to his uncle. John-Joe had neither the patience nor the brains to carry out a stealthy operation over a period of months, but one of his regular partners in crime might.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. Before he could react, Nora grabbed a swimming trophy from the mantelpiece and chucked it at her husband, hitting him square in the beer belly.
“Ow,” Joe-Joe roared. “Have you lost your mind, woman?”
“Yes,” she screamed, tears of anger running down her face in mascara-tinged rivulets. “I lost it the day I was stupid enough to marry you.”
Ouch. Seán placed a steadying hand on his aunt’s arm, but she wrenched it free, hysterical by this point, cursing and flapping and whacking John-Joe with whatever missile came to hand.
“For crying out loud, Nora.”
She ignored him, moving down the row of trophies with impressive speed.
Patience had never been Seán’s strong suit, and the little he possessed had run dry. “That’s it,” he snapped. “I’m cuffing the pair of you.”
After a short struggle, during which John-Joe’s undershirt developed another rip, he managed to slap handcuffs on his aunt’s and uncle’s wrists. “You have no one to blame but yourself, Nora. I told you I only wanted a signed statement from you.”
He dragged one air rifle and two protesting relatives down the hallway and out the front door. On the way, he grabbed a Mack for John-Joe and chucked it over his shoulders. The combination of tight swim trunks, wifebeater, and raincoat made the man look like a flasher. Sweat beaded on Seán’s forehead. Jaysus. What a start to my day.
A crowd had gathered by the gate of the Fitzgeralds’ two-up two-down terraced house. Several pairs of eyes unpeeled Seán’s layers as though he were an onion. Heat burned a path from his scalp to his toes. Too many people in Ballybeg knew his family history. What he wouldn’t trade for blissful anonymity…
Seán pictured the baton in his utility belt. He missed his SIG. He missed Dublin. He missed a lot of things. With a bit of luck, Frank—his former partner—would have news of a place on the vice squad. Their lads’ weekend couldn’t begin soon enough.
A second squad car pulled up behind Seán’s. Garda Brian Glenn climbed out of the vehicle, a beam of delight spread across his freckled face. “Quite a turnout. I haven’t seen a crowd this big since Ben Driscoll held up the post office with a banana.”
“This sort of caper always brings out the curtain-twitchers.” Seán wrestled John-Joe and Nora into the backseat of his squad car.
Before he closed the door, Nora put a hand on his arm. It was warm, solid, familiar. “You don’t have to arrest us,” she said in a beseeching tone. “Please, Johnny.” Her breath floated in ghostlike wisps through the crisp February morning.
He dragged cold air into his lungs, past affection warring with everything that had happened since. Had the maternal look she was giving him not reminded him of what he’d lost, he might have caved. “I ceased to be Johnny twenty-five years ago, Nora.”
He slammed the door. If only shutting out the past was as easy as shutting a car door. Cutting short the question hovering on Brian’s tongue, Seán added, “If that pair of eejits represent domestic bliss, I’m staying single.”
The younger policeman rolled with the deflection and turned his attention to the air rifle. “I’ll lock the gun in my car
. There are five registered firearms in Ballybeg, and this isn’t one of them.”
“John-Joe got it from Buck MacCarthy. I’ll haul him in for questioning later. Hopefully, it’s a viable lead on the Travellers case.”
Brian’s grin faded. “Speaking of the Travellers, there’s been a development.”
Seán was instantly on the alert. “Another incident?”
“One of the caravans had its tires blown out with the occupants sitting inside. As you can imagine, they’re none too pleased.”
“That brings the tally to four attacks this month.” Seán frowned. “Hell on wheels, no pun intended. When was this latest attack?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
He exhaled in a hiss. That put John-Joe in the clear. Was that a disappointment or a relief? He jerked a thumb at his car. “I’ll drive by the Travellers’ site once I’ve dealt with the miscreants.”
“It’s all happening today,” Brian said, waggling his red eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion. “While you’re dealing with drunken Elvises and mystery shooters, I’m on my way to meet our local celebrity with Superintendent O’Riordan.”
He tilted his head. “Local celebrity? I didn’t know we had one.”
“Indeed we do. It’s that ultra-conservative talk show host who used to write a silly advice column for The Tribune.”
Seán’s heart rate kicked up a notch. No, he thought. Please, no. “Not Helen Havelin?” The words came out in a croak.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Brian rolled back on the balls of his feet and grinned, seemingly oblivious to his partner’s inner turmoil. “She’s the new owner of Clonmore House.”
Seán’s world tilted on its axis. The acrid sting of bile rose in his throat.
Helen Havelin. The woman who’d helped destroy his childhood was living in Ballybeg.
Chapter Two
Cork City, Ireland
DELIVERING MONEY TO a gangster with a Napoleon complex was not what Clio had planned for her Friday evening. One lousy favor. That was all she’d asked of Ray Greer, part-time crook and full-time arsehole. Instead of ensuring that she and Tammy would be left in peace, Ray and his goons had managed to both screw the job up and screw her over.
Clio stood on the pavement before the impressive façade of the Sheldon Hotel, feeling snowflakes melt on her nose. Friday night revelers jostled her as they passed. Traffic whizzed by in a blur of taxis, buses, and flashing lights. Cigarette smoke wafted from furtive smokers huddled in doorways, who were bouncing up and down in an effort to keep warm. Laughter spilled out of pubs, taunting and beckoning. These were happy people. Good people. Hadn’t-just-robbed-two-thousand-euros-from-their-mother people.
To think she’d assumed calling Ray for help with Trevor O’Leary would be a smarter move than contacting her ex. Clio’s lungs burned with rage. In the aftermath of the debacle, she’d swallowed her pride and had accepted her mother’s offer of a fresh start for her and Tammy in Ballybeg. Yet within a week of moving into their new home, Ray had smashed her plans to smithereens. The double-crossing toad!
Taking a ragged breath, she pushed through the revolving doors and entered the hotel. The lobby was a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors. Families carrying luggage more expensive than her car. Elegant couples arriving for a luxury weekend break. Businessmen with smartphones glued to their ears. Clio’s frozen hands clutched her handbag. She did not belong here.
Through the moving mass of people, she spied the designated meeting point. An oversized stone fountain with water gurgling up and over the carved fish center. Obscenely ostentatious, but it fit the general ambience. Her mother would love this hotel.
At the thought of Helen, guilt clawed its way from her stomach to her throat. Why had her mother not answered the phone earlier? She could have talked to her. She could have said she needed to borrow the money urgently, for Tammy’s sake. Helen might not have listened, might have refused, but it would have been worth a shot. Yet every time Clio dialed her number, she was greeted by a tinny voice mail message. With an hour’s notice to deliver the cash, there was no time to wait for her mother to respond to a panicked text or e-mail.
Which had left her with precisely one option, and it was a bad one—rob her mother’s safe and race to Cork City to deliver the money.
Pulse pounding, she placed one leaden foot in front of the other. The voices in the lobby rose and fell with snippets of conversation. Luggage carts and feral children darted in front of her. She dodged them, keeping her focus on the fountain.
If she’d had any other option, she’d have told the blackmailing scumbag where to stick his demands. But what choice did she have? The weasel knew he had her over a barrel. The instant Ray had threatened Tammy, she had panicked. She’d put her daughter at risk once before and had to live with the consequences every minute of every day. This time, she’d do anything to avoid putting Tammy in danger.
A hand grabbed her arm, twisting painfully. The man squeezing her arm was big and burly with a walrus moustache. Clio registered his badge. A security guard. Feck. Sweat beaded on her upper lip.
The security guard’s piggy eyes raked her outfit, pausing at her shoes. When his head jerked up, he wore a smirk. “Are you sure you’re where you need to be?”
In other words, was she sure a woman wearing a ratty winter coat, a vintage Ramones T-shirt, ripped jeans, and hooker heels belonged in the lobby of one of Ireland’s most illustrious hotels? Hmm…she was pretty certain the answer to that question was no.
“I’m meeting someone.” She wrenched her arm free.
Another smirk, wider this time. “The Sheldon is not that type of establishment.”
With her heart pounding against her ribs, Clio glanced at her watch. Five minutes. If this idiot kept delaying her, she’d be late for the meeting with Ray. “I’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” she said, pointing to her watch. “Ten, max.”
Beefy arms folded across his chest. “I’m asking you to leave.”
“For feck’s sake,” she snapped. “I’m not a prostitute. I’m here to drop something off.”
Too late, she realized the implication of her words. Damn.
The security guard’s smirk evaporated. “We don’t tolerate drugs on the premises.”
“It’s money,” she said in a rush. “I’m…delivering it to my employer. He’s staying at the hotel.”
The unibrow reappeared, and his lips parted as if to argue further.
Clio plunged her hand into her bag and whipped out the envelope. “See?” she said, opening it a crack. “Can I go now? My boss is the impatient sort, especially when it comes to his hard-earned cash.”
“What’s your boss’s name?” he asked, hesitating. “I need to check our register.”
“Bollocks. If a guest has a delivery of cash he doesn’t intend to put in the main safe, the hotel staff have no business knowing his room number.”
He dithered a moment, uncertainty flickering over his fleshy features. “Go on with you,” he growled, “but if I catch you selling anything you shouldn’t, I’ll have you arrested faster than you can run in those heels.”
She pushed past him and hurried toward the fountain as quickly as her shoes allowed. Trust her to rush out of the house barefoot, leaving her with the only footwear she could find in the couple of moving boxes still in the back of her car—scarlet open-toed stilettos she’d bought for a costume party.
She clattered over the slick marble floor and slid to a stop in front of the fountain. She stared down at swirling blue. Koi darted through the water, bright orange and white, glinting like goldfish on steroids.
And then her mind reached back, and the fountain blurred in her vision. Tammy had owned a goldfish when she was little, back in the days before she’d morphed into a moody teenager. Tammy…Oh, God.
There was still time to change her mind before Ray arrived. Not much. A minute, maybe two. She’d retrace her steps, return the money to the safe, and come clean—to her mother and to
the police.
She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a ragged breath. Who was she trying to kid? She could never go to the police. If she hadn’t been let down by the Irish judicial system, she wouldn’t be in this mess.
The clock chimed the hour. Six o’clock. Clio’s witching hour. She opened her eyes and dragged air into her lungs. Last chance to save her soul. Heart hammering an unsteady rhythm, she spun around and headed for the exit.
At that moment, someone knocked into her, sending her reeling. She grabbed the edge of the fountain to break her fall but lost her hold on her handbag. It fell to the floor, the contents spilling over the marble tiles.
“Sorry,” said a gruff Dublin-accented voice.
The hairs on Clio’s nape sprang to life. Of course. Ray wouldn’t come in person. He’d dispatched a minion.
The stranger shoved stuff back into the handbag and thrust it at her.
No, I’ve changed my mind. The words lodged in her throat.
“Ta,” he said and melted into the crowd.
Hands trembling, Clio opened the bag and reached inside.
The envelope containing the money was gone.
***
Seán weaved his way through the teeming lobby of the Sheldon Hotel, mobile phone pressed to his ear. “You can’t make it to Cork this weekend?”
“Nah, no chance.” His friend’s tone was morose. “If I leave the missus in the lurch, she’ll castrate me.”
“Far be it from me to put your balls in jeopardy, Frank,” Seán said dryly. Speaking of balls, he needn’t have busted his getting to Cork City in time to meet Frank at the Sheldon.
“Maybe next month, eh? When the kids are better and Shelia’s mum can help out.”
“Yeah, no worries. Our lads’ weekend can wait. Give me a call when the kids are over their flu. Is there’s any news on—”
Frank’s impatience crackled down the line. “If I knew anything about the Greer bust, I’d tell you, buddy. You know that. No one knows anything. Or if they do, they’re not talking.”
