Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5

by Zara Keane

  Did her mother want the unvarnished truth or a bland platitude? “Put it this way,” she began, searching for the diplomatic approach, “I’m pretty sure I’d find your picture next to the dictionary definition of ‘perfectionist.’”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I do like things to be just right.” Her mother bit her lip. “I want the three of us living together to work out, especially come the summer.”

  The duster hovered over a selection of porcelain figurines. “Why? What’s happening in the summer?”

  Helen blinked, her lips parting in a small O of surprise. “My retirement, of course.”

  “What?” Clio felt as though the air was being forcibly removed from her lungs with suction force. “You’re retiring? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I assumed you knew. It was all over the news. Everyone knows this is my last season doing the show.”

  “Clearly ‘everyone’ does not know. I certainly didn’t.” If Emma had heard about Helen’s plans, she would have mentioned it before the move to Ballybeg.

  Her mother sighed and tilted her head to one side. “That’s what you get for watching British TV and international streaming services. If you paid more attention to Irish television and current affairs, you couldn’t have missed the announcement.”

  A sinking suspicion weighed in Clio’s stomach. “After you retire, where will you live?”

  “Why, here, of course. That was the entire point of buying this house. I’d always planned to move back to Cork when I retired. Once I realized my days at the station were numbered, I began house hunting.” Helen’s slim shoulders stiffened, and her expression grew strained. “I assumed you were aware of this before you moved into Clonmore House. Is it going to be a problem?”

  Yes! a voice in Clio’s head screamed. “When I agreed to live here and act as your housekeeper, it was on the understanding that you’d be away during the week.”

  “I’ll be away Monday to Friday. Until I retire.”

  She gripped the handle of the duster so tight she was sure it would snap. “I can’t imagine you giving up work. How will you cope?” Without the limelight, Helen would wilt.

  A curious expression settled over her mother’s fine-boned features. If Clio didn’t know better, she’d have identified it as insecurity. “I don’t exactly have a choice. The TV station execs decided not to renew my talk show. They’ve commissioned episodes until June but not beyond. Over the past few seasons, ratings have fallen steadily.” Her lips trembled briefly, then settled into a hard line. “Much as it pains me to admit, I’m not getting any younger. My shelf life for television is nearly up, and I was lucky to survive the last budget cuts.”

  Frankly, Clio was surprised her mother hadn’t gotten the chop years ago. The views she espoused were old-fashioned by most people’s standards and totally out of step with modern Ireland. “Don’t you want to try to do something else? Perhaps behind-the-camera work?”

  Helen gave a dry laugh. “Not where my talents lie, I’m afraid. Besides, I’ve spent years working. I missed much of your childhood and Tammy’s. I’d like to spend quality time with my granddaughter before she’s grown and gone. That was one of my hopes when you agreed to move down to Ballybeg.”

  “If you’re planning on developing a relationship with Tammy, you might start by easing up on her. You harp on about her appearance and about how clumsy she is, just like you do with me. I can cope with you belittling me all the time, but I won’t stand for it with Tammy.”

  Helen appeared to be genuinely shocked. “Is that what you think I do? Belittle you? All I want is the best for you. I happen to think that the best includes making the most of your appearance, regardless of what Mother Nature has seen fit to bestow on you.”

  Clio rolled her eyes. “Even that sounds like an insult.”

  “If I cared so little about you, I’d hardly have invited you and Tammy to live with me, not to mention accepting your sudden change of mind with good grace.”

  She stiffened. “How do you mean?”

  “You made it very clear that hell would freeze over before you’d accept my offer. Then within a week, you were suddenly desperate to move to Ballybeg.” Her mother gave a theatrical sigh. “I don’t know what caused you to change your mind, but when you asked me for help, I gave it to you without question. All I want in return is a rapport with you and your daughter. Surely that’s not expecting too much.”

  “You might have a rapport with me if you’d stop criticizing who I am and everything I do. Are you so perfect that you feel qualified to criticize everyone else?” A small nagging voice in Clio’s head—one with a nasty nasal tone reminiscent of Ray Greer—reminded her that the events of the last few weeks had erased all the hard work she’d put in over the previous several years to build a stable life for her and Tammy.

  “I have high expectations of myself but I don’t feel my expectations of you are unreasonable. At your age, I already had a successful advice column and was starting my television career. You’re unmarried, unemployed, and a single parent.”

  “Technically, you were a single parent.” A fact her mother preferred everyone to forget, especially her viewers.

  “Only briefly. You were little when I married Larry. By marrying him, I ensured a comfortable lifestyle for both of us.”

  Clio laughed. “How romantic. I don’t consider nannies and boarding school a substitute for an emotionally engaged parent.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Helen protested. “I did my best. I know I made mistakes—”

  “You threw your pregnant seventeen-year-old daughter out of the house.”

  “—which I’ve regretted ever since. We’ve been over this before, Cliona. Had I known you’d end up on drugs, I would have come after you. As for your current predicament, I don’t understand it. You appeared to have gotten your life together over the last few years.”

  The vein in Clio’s temple throbbed. “You have no idea about my life.”

  “So tell me about it. I might not have kept in touch as much as I should have, but I’m trying to make up for lost time.”

  “Whenever I try to talk to you, your phone rings or there’s a reason you need to run off.” An idea formed, blurry at first, but sharpening with each millisecond. She’d arrange to cook dinner for her mother and tell her about the Ray situation. Just blurt out the whole mess and hope for the best. Coming clean to her mother and explaining the whole situation—warts and all—had to be better than this stomach-churning guilt, not to mention the nail-biting terror whenever Helen neared the safe in spite of the fact that she’d returned the money in full. “If you want us to build a relationship, we’re not going to manage by sniping at one another.”

  “I do not snipe,” Helen said, bristling.

  “Mother, I’m trying, and you’re not making it easy.”

  “Oh, all right. Why don’t I cook dinner for us one evening? I can start with a light supper this evening, before you go to work.” Helen returned her attention to her makeup and applied a lashing of inky black mascara.

  Clio glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. If they didn’t leave soon, she’d be pressed for time later. “Are we taking your car or mine?” It was a rhetorical question. Helen wouldn’t be seen dead in Clio’s banger of a car.

  “We’ll take mine. Seeing as that fool of a reserve policeman has failed to show up, Superintendent O’Riordan will be along shortly to escort us.”

  Ah-ha. That explained the extra war paint. Clio gave a wide grin. “Got a thing for the superintendent? I suppose the silver hair is sort of dashing in its own way.”

  Helen packed her cosmetic case into her handbag and rose gracefully from her seat. “Don’t be absurd. Superintendent O’Riordan is merely a friend. We were at school together many years ago.”

  “Is that so?” Well, well. Clio had dismissed Helen’s flirtation with the older policeman as pure show. Perhaps she had a genuine interest in him.

  Her mother peered through the window. “I see a po
lice car coming up the drive. Will you entertain the superintendent while I fetch my handbag?”

  “Won’t that one do?” Clio asked, gesturing to the powder-blue suede bag clutched in Helen’s hand.

  Her mother gaped in horror. “Of course not. It doesn’t match my outfit.”

  “My bad.” Clio swallowed a laugh.

  Tammy poked her head round the door. “When you two are done bickering, that policeman is waiting to give you a lift.”

  “I’ll be ready in a moment,” Helen said. “Cliona, go down and offer him a cup of coffee.”

  How long did it take to fetch a different handbag? Clio opened her mouth to object but caught Tammy’s eye. A look of sympathy passed between them, the first one in months. It warmed her insides to see a small smile of understanding on her daughter’s lips.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll entertain the dashing superintendent while you finish tarting yourself up.”

  Helen went upstairs, and Clio headed toward the kitchen with Tammy. “Are you sure you won’t come shopping with us?”

  “I’m positive.” The girl shuddered. “I’d rather tackle my chemistry homework than trail after Helen all afternoon. I can’t imagine she’d darken the door of any of my favorite shops.”

  Clio laughed. “I feel your pain. You can think of me while you’re getting to grips with the periodic table.”

  “Oh, it’s much worse than that,” Tammy dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “We’ve started organic chemistry.”

  “There’s chocolate in the kitchen if you need some moral support.” She linked arms with her daughter. “Apart from the horrors of organic chemistry, how’s school? Have you made any friends yet?”

  Tammy’s cheerful expression faded. “School’s okay. The teachers are nice. The kids…It’s early days, I guess.”

  Clio gave her a hug. For the first time in forever, Tammy didn’t pull away. “You’ll settle in soon.”

  “I hope so, Mum.”

  Seeing her daughter hesitant and unsure of herself hurt like a thousand paper cuts. “It’s getting harder to hug you now that you’re so tall. Be glad you didn’t inherit my height, or lack thereof.”

  The girl laughed and patted Clio on the head. “I like having such a little mother.”

  Clio drew back and pulled a face. “I suppose I’d better entertain our guest until your grandmother finds her bag.”

  “Have fun shopping. Said with complete sincerity, natch.” Tammy grinned and headed in the direction of the library.

  Still laughing, Clio trudged downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, she sucked in a breath. Seán stood in the entrance hall, devilishly handsome in his police blues. Her heart lurched at the sight of him in his uniform. He looked strong, heroic, and dependable. The kind of man she should want in her life. The kind of man she tended to scare away. “My mother is expecting your boss.”

  The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Your mother will have to make do with me.”

  “How is the Traveller boy?”

  His smile evaporated in an instant. “In a coma. The doctors don’t know if he’ll pull through.”

  Clio’s fingers fluttered to her throat. “How awful. Do you have any idea who attacked him?”

  “No. Not so much as a whispered rumor.” He raked her outfit, pausing to peruse her figure-hugging skinny jeans. “It’s good to see you, Clio. Or what name are you going by today?”

  Heat crept up her cheeks. “Clio. Just Clio.”

  “You’re never just Clio. Remember that.”

  A look passed between them, loaded with silent significance. She wanted to reach out to him, to kiss him, to blurt out the whole sordid tale. The words surged up her throat. She tasted them on her tongue, tantalizing, enticing. Unfortunately, she couldn’t risk losing her nerve. Not now. Not when she was so close. And certainly not in front of a cop.

  “I’m ready,” Helen called from the top of the stairs. “Oh. It’s Sergeant Mackey.”

  “Indeed.” Seán’s tone was stiff and borderline unfriendly.

  Clio had noticed he wasn’t Helen’s greatest fan, but his hostility seemed odd.

  “After you.” He gestured for her to exit the house before him.

  In her jacket pocket, her phone vibrated. Thank goodness. Emma had promised to send her a progress report this afternoon. She pulled the phone out and checked the display. The text message was from Ray. A spiral of panic coiled through her body. Be ready on the 28th.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A SHOPPING TRIP. Superintendent O’Riordan wanted him to accompany Helen Havelin on a flaming shopping trip. A Traveller boy was left in a coma, and his superiors didn’t seem to give a damn. They’d decided a diva demanding a chauffeur-cum-pack mule should be given priority. Seán gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt. Dublin transfer or no, this was bollocks.

  From the passenger seat, Helen looked down her nose at him and arched a pencil-thin eyebrow. Over the past week, he’d grown to seriously hate that eyebrow.

  “You needn’t look like I’m sending you to the seventh circle of hell, Sergeant Mackey.”

  “Fourth,” Clio said from the backseat.

  Helen jerked around. “What?”

  “I think you mean the fourth circle of hell, Mother. The seventh represents violence. The fourth is greed.”

  “Well, well,” the older woman drawled. “So you did learn something at that frightfully expensive boarding school.”

  “Actually, I gleaned that info from reading Dante. In the original. I picked up a few languages during my time gallivanting around Europe.”

  A laugh escaped Seán’s lips.

  An ironic smile twisted Helen’s mouth. “Touché, my dear. What a shame you didn’t put that sharp mind of yours to good use and get a decent job.”

  “Nothing wrong with being a translator, Mother.”

  Seán’s gaze met Clio’s in the rearview mirror. He smiled at her, and a look of understanding passed between them.

  One thing he’d learned over the past few days was that Helen Havelin wasted no opportunity to belittle her daughter, and Helen always had to have the last word. Whatever tied Clio to her mother, she wasn’t in Ballybeg willingly.

  Seán drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel and seethed. He had more than enough to do at work without this bullshit.

  “Pull over here,” the diva said. “I have an appointment at that boutique.”

  Was she out of her mind? “It’s a bus lane, Ms. Havelin. I can’t stop here.”

  “Why ever not?” Helen’s tone was cold, clipped, and less than courteous. “My Dublin driver uses them all the time.”

  “I’m not your Dublin driver, Ms. Havelin. I’m a member of An Garda Síochána. I obey the rules of the road.”

  “I don’t understand why you won’t let me out here.”

  “Because it’s a bus stop.” Jaysus. It was like talking to a truculent toddler. “See the markings? The only vehicles permitted are buses and emergency vehicles.”

  “You’re the police. Doesn’t that entitle you to stop there?”

  “Only when there’s a legitimate reason for me to do so.” Seán turned to face Helen, glowering at her. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’ll come along on this farce of an expedition, but I’m not your servant. I’m not bending the law to suit you.”

  “Sergeant Mackey—”

  “Mother, leave it.” Clio leaned forward in the backseat and placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder. “He’s just doing his job. More than his job, actually.”

  Helen stiffened under her daughter’s touch and cast Seán a withering look. “Very well.” She sniffed. “Find a spot as near to the boutique as possible. I suppose my umbrella will have to suffice. If I catch cold in this deluge, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  Seán found a free space in the parking lot of a nearby shopping center.

  Clio let herself out of the back, pulling up the hood of her worn raincoat. Helen waited for him t
o open the passenger door for her. He and Clio exchanged glances.

  Accepting his chauffeur duties with a modicum of good grace, Seán reached for the handle.

  Helen stepped out of the car daintily. Her spindly heels were ill equipped for the driving rain. Holding her umbrella aloft, she glared at Seán. “You could have at least let me out of the car in front of the boutique.”

  He bit back an acidic retort and counted to ten—first in English, then in Irish.

  Clio cast him a look of sympathy. “Mother can be difficult,” she murmured after Helen strode ahead. “She’s used to getting her own way.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said grimly. “Doesn’t anyone ever say no to her?”

  Clio laughed. “Rarely. It’s generally not worth the hassle.”

  Their first stop during Seán’s Afternoon from Hell was Les Oiseaux, a French boutique specializing in obscenely expensive evening wear. This information Seán garnered from the doorbell at the entrance and the conspicuous lack of price tags inside. The shop door was opened by a man in a tailored three-piece suit.

  “Madame Havelin. Welcome.” He didn’t spare Seán or Clio a glance.

  A tiny woman materialized from behind a mass of puffy evening gowns, trailed by a pretty blond assistant. “Helen,” the older woman said in a breathy French accent. “Always a pleasure.”

  Air kisses and hand gestures followed. Seán and Clio exchanged eye rolls—hers obvious, his discreet.

  “What delights have you in store for me today, Claudette?” Helen asked, gesturing around the shop.

  “We have wonderful new stock just in from Paris.” She pronounced it Paree.

  Clio caught Seán’s eye and grinned.

  “How long has she lived in Ireland?” he whispered. “I’m no expert, but her French accent sounds a tad…stagey?”

  She leaned in close enough for him to smell her shampoo—something fruity and fresh. “I suspect she amps it up for the customers. According to Marcella at the pub, Claudette’s lived in Ireland longer than Marcella’s been alive.”

  Following her doorman’s example, Claudette completely ignored Clio and Seán, focusing all her attention on the person with the platinum credit card.