by Zara Keane
Seán paused, forkful of cottage pie halfway to his mouth. “She didn’t imagine the memorial card.”
“True, but the story seems farfetched. I know she has a few rivals at the TV station, but most people regard her as a has-been.”
“Out of touch with the times?” The corners of his mouth twitched.
“Out of touch with reality.”
“Not much support for conservative Catholicism these days,” he said in a dry tone. “Not after all the Church scandals.”
“No. I don’t know how much my mother believes in it all, to be honest, but her old-fashioned slant on topical issues is the basis of her career.” It certainly hadn’t prevented Helen from having affairs, she thought cynically. Not that her stepfather had been a saint, either. If she were the marrying kind, theirs wasn’t the sort of marriage she would want to emulate. Picking up the empty tray, she said, “Enjoy your meal. I’d better get back to the kitchen to collect more orders from Marcella.”
She turned to walk back to the bar, and her stomach lurched. A big, burly man lacking a discernible neck slid onto a bar stool and ordered a pint from Ruairí.
He spoke not a word and barely touched his drink. His eyes were trained on Clio. She could feel their menace as she moved around the pub, taking and delivering lunch orders with shaking hands. She didn’t recognize his face but she didn’t need to. He had to be one of Ray’s enforcers. His presence in Ballybeg could only mean one thing: bad news.
Heart pounding, she glanced at her latest drinks order. The tonic water was located in a small fridge underneath the counter—directly beneath where No-Neck was sitting. Taking a deep breath, she kept her eyes down and crouched to open the fridge. When she stood, he grabbed her arm.
“Hello, Clio.” Mr. No-Neck’s fingers dug into her forearm, making her grateful for the thin pullover that prevented him from touching her skin.
She tried to pull free from his grasp, but he held tight. “What do you want?” she asked in a shaky voice.
His teeth-baring sneer made her pulse pound. “Just checking up on you. My boss was wondering how you’re doing.”
With a quick wrench, she disentangled herself from his grasp. “As you see, I’m doing.” She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You can tell your boss he’ll hear from me soon. If he wants this job done properly, he’d better stop breathing down my neck. I told him I’d be in touch when I had news.” With a bit of luck, Emma would dig up something useful soon. Her latest text message hadn’t been promising though.
“Is there a problem, Clio?”
She spun round at the sound of the deep, gravelly voice. Seán was eyeing No-Neck with suspicion.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She forced a smile, aware that her wobbly tone was not giving the firm and confident impression she wanted to exude.
No-Neck took out his wallet and placed coins on the counter. “Keep the change.” Although he’d lost the sneer, his threat-laced tone sent an icy trickle of fear down her spine.
Neither she nor Seán spoke until the pub door closed behind the man.
He raised an eyebrow. “Still going to tell me nothing’s the matter?”
“Yep.” She busied herself with swiping a cleaning cloth over the counter, avoiding eye contact.
“Looked to me like that man was threatening you.”
She tossed the cloth into the laundry bag beneath the counter and straightened. “You’ve been assigned to guard my mother against a stalker who may or may not exist. Your duties don’t extend to me.”
He leaned closer, near enough for her to catch the spicy scent of his aftershave. A shiver of awareness shook her like a tremor. “That’s where you’re wrong, Clio. My duties extend to everyone who falls under the jurisdiction of Ballybeg Garda Station.”
“I don’t need protecting,” she whispered.
“You sure about that?” His warm breath tickled her neck, making her nipples pebble.
Taking a steady breath, she gripped the edge of the counter. “I can look after myself.”
“What are you running from?” He’d dropped his voice to a low rumble, presumably so that other customers wouldn’t overhear. “Why are you back living under your mother’s roof?”
Her eyes flew to meet his, brimming with fire. “What do you know about my life?”
He stared back at her, a determined tilt to his jaw. “Enough to know you’re not at Clonmore House willingly.”
For a moment, panic froze her tongue. Did he know what had happened in Dublin? About her accusations against O’Leary? Or even worse, what Ray had done to him?
No, he couldn’t possibly know anything. She needed to get a grip and control her reactions, or she’d truly ignite his suspicions.
“What’s so strange in me taking a job as my mother’s housekeeper?” she parried. “The job market in Dublin isn’t exactly booming.” This, at least, was true. “I agree that living with Helen isn’t ideal, but I have a daughter to support. I swallowed my pride and accepted my mother’s offer of a home and a job.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “How’s it working out for you?”
“I’m sending my daughter to a good school, and we have food on the table and a roof over our heads. I’d say it’s working out fine.” For now, at least.
He toyed with a beer mat, flipping it deftly between his fingers. “You planning on living at Clonmore House long term?”
“Define ‘long term.’ Once I have money saved, I’ll look for a place of our own.”
“Not in Ballybeg?” he asked in surprise.
“I don’t know. I’m not keen on Cork, but I’m reluctant to force Tammy to move schools again.”
Seán returned the beer mat to the counter. His gaze was direct, its intensity riveting her in place. “If something’s bothering you, you can talk to me. On or off the record.”
“Thank you,” she said, touched by his sincerity.
“I’d better get back on the beat.” He pushed back from the counter and replaced his police hat. Normally she didn’t like hats on men—or uniforms, for that matter—but Seán wore his police blues to perfection. “See you soon, Clio. Good luck with the job, and remember what I said.”
“Bye, Seán.”
He strode toward the exit—strong, sexy, dependable.
Ruairí appeared at her shoulder. “Hey, Clio. Marcella needs you to collect food from the kitchen. You gonna serve my customers or stand here flirting?”
“I wasn’t flirting, I was…” Her cheeks grew warm. “Sorry, I’m on it.”
“Steady on, kid.” The big man grinned, lessening the harshness of his strong, uncompromising features. “I was teasing you. You did well today. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
“Thanks, Ruairí. I won’t let you down.” She released a breath, and her shoulders sagged with relief. Thank goodness. She’d be able to pay Emma back soon. Now if only finding a solution to the Ray situation were so simple….
Chapter Thirteen
BY THURSDAY, Clio had worked three shifts at the pub and was becoming a passable pint-puller.
John-Joe Fitzgerald—one of the pub’s most faithful customers—took a cautious sip from his glass. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Much better than the shite you served me on Tuesday.”
Clio laughed. “High praise indeed, coming from such an experienced Guinness drinker.”
The man patted his considerable beer gut. “Given the amount of time and money I’ve invested in the company over the years, they ought to give me shares.”
“Do you do anything besides drinking pints?” Clio asked, polishing glasses with a cloth and arranging them neatly on a shelf. “You’ve been in here every shift I’ve worked so far.”
“I’m an entertainer.” He jerked a thumb at a poster on the wall—the same one she’d observed on the day she’d first visited the pub. “I cover Elvis songs and dance.”
“You’re the Swimming Elvis?” A vision of a half-naked John-Joe performing “Jailhouse Rock” sprang
to mind. Ugh. She reached for the mental eye bleach.
The man beamed with pride. “That’s me. I was a champion swimmer in my youth and sang at all the best clubs. These days, business ain’t as rosy as it once was, but I still get the odd gig.”
Right. Clio gave an internal shudder. That was one act she’d pay good money not to see.
Ruairí emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with soup and thickly cut soda bread. He seemed like a nice bloke, albeit gruff and not particularly inclined to chat. Clio put it down to stress about his pregnant wife.
“How’s it going?” he asked when he returned from serving the food. “Did you figure out the cash register yet?”
“Yeah. Marcella showed me all the programs yesterday.”
The man nodded, distracted by the beep of an incoming text message. A frown line formed in the center of his brow when he scanned his phone’s display. “I need to get home. Jayme’s not feeling well. I’ll call Sharon to cover for me, but I don’t know how long it’ll take for her to get here. Can you manage on your own until then? Marcella prepared most of the food before she left for her course. All you need to do is warm it up.”
“I’ll be fine. I hope your wife is okay.”
Tension oozed from his every pore. “So do I.”
Soon after Ruairí left, the lunchtime rush began in earnest. Being in the heart of Ballybeg, MacCarthy’s did a roaring trade with workers from nearby shops and offices looking for a quick bite to eat. Everyone wanted food and a drink, and everyone wanted them served within seconds of placing their order.
After an hour of being rushed off her feet and still no sign of the other MacCarthy sister, disaster struck. The Guinness tap ceased to flow. Clio fiddled with it, swore, and crouched under the counter. Was a tube blocked? Or was the barrel empty? If so, how was she going to replace it? Feck!
“Problem?” asked a voice from above. A very familiar masculine voice.
Clio jumped in fright, bashing her head off the edge of the counter in the process. Stars swam before her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Seán lifted up the counter flap and came to kneel beside her.
“I’m fine,” she lied, wincing from the pain.
He raised a questioning brow.
“Okay, I’m not fine, but I soon will be.”
He touched her head gently, massaging the area she’d injured. “You’ll have a bump and a headache to keep it company.”
“Frankly, my head is the least of my worries at the moment.” Clio nodded toward the empty beer barrel. “Ruairí meant to check the kegs earlier but he had to leave in a hurry.”
“Need help?”
Clio wiped sweat from her brow. “This is my third shift, and I wasn’t supposed to be working on my own. We haven’t covered changing the barrels yet.”
“Not a problem. My grandfather ran a pub in Dublin. I spent my teenage years changing barrels and pulling pints.” Seán stood and helped Clio to her feet. “Why don’t you sit down for a sec until your head settles? Brian and I can take care of the customers.”
“Do you know your way around the kitchen?”
“I don’t, but Brian does. Sharon MacCarthy is his girlfriend. He’s helped out at the pub before.”
Seán waved across the pub to his partner, and Brian ambled over to the counter. “Problem?”
“Can you help Clio serve customers while I change a barrel?”
“Sure.” Brian shrugged off his uniform coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where are the food orders?”
Clio shoved the notebook toward him. “Here, complete with table numbers.”
The younger man scanned the list. He wasn’t as classically good-looking as his partner but there was something appealing about his earnest freckled face and soft Donegal lilt. “Okeydokey. I can manage this. Do you know where the cellar is, Seán?”
“Yeah. I helped Ruairí move barrels once before.” Seán gave Clio a bone-melting smile. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
She stared dreamily after his retreating back. It had to be the blow to the head. She never mooned after men.
“I’ll hit the kitchen,” Brian said. “Are you feeling up to serving drinks?”
“I’m a little dizzy, but I’ll be fine.”
Brian checked his phone. “Sharon sent a text to say the bus from Cork City was delayed, but she should be here in fifteen to twenty minutes.”
With the policemen’s assistance, Clio managed to keep the tide of customers satisfied for the next quarter of an hour.
“Thanks for helping out,” she said when the crowd finally thinned. “Am I keeping you from important police work?”
“We’re on our lunch break,” Seán said, “and it’s been a quiet day.”
“Do you have much to do in Ballybeg? Apart from babysitting my mother?”
His disillusioned expression was eloquent. “The fire at the halting site is a dead end, and not much else is happening. The odd bar fight to break up. A few stray sheep to herd. That sort of thing.”
“Doesn’t sound particularly exciting.”
He screwed up his nose. “No.”
“I love Ballybeg,” Brian said, emerging from the kitchen with a neatly sliced fruitcake. “There’s a sense of community here that you don’t get policing a big city. Everyone knows everyone else by name, and people are willing to lend one another a hand. I’d miss that if I moved to a bigger station.”
Clio smiled at Seán. “You don’t agree?”
“Well…everyone does know everyone else’s name, not to mention his or her business. I prefer more anonymity, you know?”
The three of them whirled round when the pub door burst open. In hurried the young blonde Clio had seen talking to Seán earlier in the week. She’d replaced the fake-fur coat with a fuchsia-pink puffy jacket and the towering heels with matching furry pink boots. “I think you’re needed out at the halting site, lads,” she said in a breathless voice. “I saw an ambulance drive up there when I was on the bus. There was quite a commotion.”
As if on cue, Seán’s phone began to play “Bat Out of Hell.” He exchanged a loaded look with Brian and held it to his ear. “Mackey speaking. When was this? Right, sir. We’ll head straight to the hospital.”
“What’s happened?” Brian asked when he rang off.
“A young Traveller boy was found badly beaten. He’s been taken to the hospital with severe head injuries. The super wants us to question the family.” Seán turned to Clio. “Will you be okay now that Sharon is here?”
“Yes. Thanks again for your help. Before you go, I gotta ask, what’s with the funny ringtones?”
Brian snorted. Seán’s worried expression turned into a grin. “It’s a habit of mine,” he said. “Everyone gets an assigned ringtone.”
“Usually a song from his ridiculously large vinyl collection,” Brian said with a chortle. “Our Seán hasn’t embraced CDs, never mind downloads.”
“We’d better get a move on. I’ll see you tomorrow, Clio.” A wry smile brought a twinkle to his eyes. “I believe I’m to escort your mother to Cork City.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and a tingling sensation skittered over her skin. “I believe you are.
Chapter Fourteen
SEÁN’S FRIDAY MORNING began with a throbbing head, a bruised ego, and no leads. He swallowed a groan. He’d been in law enforcement too long to assume his day couldn’t get any worse.
The squad car bumped over the dirt track. Each bump jolted Seán’s joints, sharp reminders of his underslept, undercaffeinated condition.
“You okay?” Brian asked from the passenger seat.
“I’ll be grand.” He stretched his neck from side to side, hearing the stiff bones creak. “My body’s objecting to my night on a hospital chair.”
“Rather you than me, mate,” Brian said. “So do the Travellers have any idea who attacked Jimmy Murphy?”
“If they do, they’re not talking, and Jimmy’s in no state to be questioned.”
Wha
t an understatement. The poor lad was in a coma, his fate a hovering question mark. Getting info out of his relatives had been about as successful as a donkey winning the Grand National. In other words, they’d said sweet feck-all. Seán’s fists balled in frustration. He hated feeling helpless during an investigation and having the sense that he was chasing his own tail.
“Do you think Peig Murphy will talk to us?” Brian asked.
Seán slid a glance toward the passenger seat. “Unlikely. I’ve been out to the halting site five times since the attacks began, but Peig’s always…away.” He drew out the last word, rolled it on his tongue.
“The Tinkers take the piss,” Brian said. “Think they’re above the law.”
“In their eyes, they are. They have their own code, moral and judicial. As far as they’re concerned, our laws are irrelevant. If we’re to have any hope of getting info out of them, don’t let them hear you call them Tinkers.”
The car continued its bumpy ride. At last, the trees parted to reveal a field dotted with caravans, cars, and assorted junk. The majority of the caravans were old and shabby, but one or two modern mobile homes were perched at the edge of the field.
“Would you look at the state of the place?” Brian’s tongue dripped disgust. “The county council’s had over a decade to put in sanitation facilities.”
A crackle of laughter bubbled up Seán’s throat. “Ah, the infamous Traveller Accommodation Act. Brian, my lad, I saw very few Traveller halting sites with the promised parking spaces and plumbing before the Irish economy imploded. Now that we’re well and truly screwed financially, I doubt they’ll ever follow through.”
Seán shifted gears and eased the car to a stop a few meters from the first caravan. He took a last swig from his energy drink, then climbed out of the vehicle.
No sooner were they out of the car than they were surrounded by a gaggle of curious children and excited dogs. The older kids hung back, wary of people from the settled community, especially those wearing police uniforms.
Seán locked eyes with one of the older boys. “I’m looking for Mrs. Murphy.”
