by Zara Keane
Finally, after Helen had tried on a hundred outfits, she turned to her daughter. “Do you see anything you like?”
The expression of horror on Claudette’s face was priceless.
Noticing her disdain, Clio stiffened. “These clothes aren’t exactly my style.”
“I’m offering to buy you a dress,” Helen said. “Surely you can find a few you’d like to try on.”
“Perhaps mademoiselle would feel more…comfortable…shopping elsewhere?” Claudette began hopefully. “I’m not sure—”
The sight of Helen’s glacial expression froze her vocal chords midsentence.
“I would like my daughter to have a cocktail dress suitable for a casual but select gathering. Either you find her something to wear, or we will take our business to another boutique. I believe Janine’s on Oliver Plunkett Street has an excellent reputation for quality clothing and customer service.”
Claudette looked as though she’d swallowed her tongue. “Non, non. Janine’s is not as good as my shop.” The petite woman grabbed Clio’s elbow. “Come with me, mademoiselle. I have the perfect dress for you.”
Clio’s resigned expression morphed into one of alarm. “What party? You never mentioned any party.”
Helen flicked an invisible piece of fluff from her trousers. It was a habit of hers, Seán had observed, and generally came before she launched a grenade into the conversation. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m hosting a little soirée. A sort of housewarming event.”
Her daughter looked aghast. “When?”
“The Saturday after next.”
Clio’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened. “The weekend of the twenty-eighth? But you said you’d be away then.”
“That was the original plan, but my filming schedule changed.”
Clio’s features tensed, then relaxed into a small grin. “The twenty-eighth is an excellent date for a party.”
Her mother nodded. “As I’ll be at a loose end, it’s the perfect opportunity to invite some old friends down from Dublin to see the house and get to know some of our new neighbors.”
Show off to them, more like. No doubt he and Brian would be expected to stand guard while she played hostess.
Helen regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Do you find my choice of cocktail dress amusing, Sergeant Mackey? I wouldn’t have thought you were an expert on women’s fashion.”
He hadn’t paid attention to which dresses Helen had chosen. “Hardly. I was thinking of something else.”
She eyed him suspiciously but turned back to Claudette, who’d sent her assistant scurrying upstairs in search of dresses for Clio. “I don’t think red suits my daughter. A nice shade of green or blue to bring out the color of her eyes would be preferable.”
Claudette rooted through the row of dresses her assistant had arranged neatly on a portable clothes rack. “Alors…” She extracted an emerald green beaded twenties-style dress and held it against a protesting Clio. “Oui, c’est parfait.”
Parfait indeed. Clio would look stunning in that dress.
“Try it on,” Helen urged. “Claudette and I will look for matching shoes and accessories.”
Clio’s large eyes grew larger. “I don’t accessorize.”
“Nonsense. You can’t wear a dress like that without the proper jewelry and handbag.”
A few minutes later, a bashful Clio shuffled out of the changing room. As Seán’s eyes trailed over her figure, his mouth grew dry. The green dress molded her slight curves to perfection, reminding him of what lay beneath the beaded fabric. She wore an emerald necklace wrapped around her slim neck a couple of times, leaving an oval of beads hanging between her cleavage.
Seán let out an involuntary whistle. To say she looked stunning would be an understatement. She looked…enchanting? Beguiling? Simply fucking gorgeous? “It suits you. I can imagine you as a Twenties flapper.”
That brought a smile to her lips. “I’ve spent too long growing out an ill-advised buzz cut to contemplate going for a bob.”
“Buzz cut?” He eyed her face critically, examining her high cheekbones. “You know, you could probably pull that look off. You have the bone structure.”
Helen glided across the shop floor, holding a pair of delicate beaded green shoes with dainty heels. “Given that you’re not used to wearing high heels, I thought these would be suitable.”
“Not red this time,” he murmured beneath his breath. “A pity.”
Helen gave him an odd look, but Clio laughed. “I think these heels are manageable,” she said, flashing him an impish grin. “Even for me.” She slipped on the shoes and took the handbag Claudette’s nameless assistant had found to complete the outfit.
“Perfect,” her mother said with a sigh of satisfaction. “You look beautiful, Cliona.”
Given Clio’s look of astonishment, Seán suspected compliments from her mother were a rarity.
Helen wore a self-satisfied expression on her face. “I booked the caterers this morning. Now that we’ve found dresses for the party, the last item left to arrange is the entertainment. I was thinking of hiring a local singer of note. Garda Glenn mentioned him when he was at the house last weekend. A fellow by the name of Fitzgerald. Have you heard of him, Sergeant Mackey?”
Seán struggled to maintain his composure. Behind that placid demeanor, Brian Glenn was a rascal. “Indeed I have, Ms. Havelin. John-Joe Fitzgerald is well-known in these parts.” A vision of Helen’s reaction to the sight of John-Joe cavorting in his swim trunks brought a gurgle of laughter surging up his throat.
“Do you think it’s short notice to book him for the twenty-eighth?” she mused, checking her calendar. “I like the idea of hiring someone from Ballybeg.”
Seán thought of his aunt and uncle’s shabby house and the look of genuine tension on John-Joe’s face when he’d spoken of his financial woes. He thought of the fine John-Joe would have to pay as a result of the bird shooting incident. “Why don’t I give him a call and ask? Perhaps he’s had a cancellation.”
“Would you?” She beamed. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s one less thing to take care of before the party. I want to make it an event to remember.”
Seán caught Clio’s eye. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. A wicked smile curved his lips. If John-Joe was involved, Helen’s “event” would indeed prove to be memorable.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN THEY RETURNED to Clonmore House after the shopping trip, Clio retreated to her room, using the excuse of needing to change for work. Ruairí’s efforts to get his staff to wear T-shirts with the pub’s logo on them were halfhearted and respected only by Clio. The MacCarthy sisters ignored their brother, Sharon sticking to sequins and exposed cleavage, and Marcella to whatever outrageous T-shirt slogan caught her fancy. Clio, as the only nonfamily member on staff, couldn’t play the sibling card.
After a quick shower, she changed into black jeans and one of the pub’s long-sleeved T-shirts. Then she fired up her laptop and sent Emma an instant message.
Hey, Em. Do you have time for video call?
Within seconds, Emma’s pretty face appeared on the screen. Her outfit was pure Forties glamour, right down to scarlet pout.
“Wow,” Clio said with a laugh. “What job has you dolled up like a slightly-more-dressed version of Dita Von Teese?”
Her friend stuck out her tongue, revealing a very un-Forties-like tongue ring. “A suspected blackmailer. He’s attending an Old Hollywood–themed party at the Irish Film Institute tonight. I wrangled an invitation.” Emma took a sip of her ever-present energy drink and leaned closer to the screen.
“What’s up? Have you heard from Ray again?”
“Yeah.” Clio scowled. “The weasel sent me a text message to set the date for the break-in. He wants to do it on Saturday the 28th, but the date’s a no-go. My mother is planning to host a housewarming party.”
“That’s good news, right? It gives you a legitimate excuse to stall him. And just as well.” It was her fri
end’s turn to pull a face. “I haven’t discovered anything we didn’t already know. Ray’s a careful bastard, and his men are loyal. The sole reason he’s in a position to hold the attack on O’Leary over your head is that the guys he sent to do the job aren’t part of his core crew and have a reputation for being loose cannons. He’s as happy to have something to use against them as he is to have dirt on you.”
“Crap. You’ll keep digging, won’t you?”
“Of course. In the meantime, ask Helen to elaborate about her stalker. Perhaps there’s a connection.”
“It seems unlikely,” Clio mused, “but it’s an angle worth pursuing.”
Emma glanced at her watch. “I’d better log off or I’ll be late to this party.”
“And I’d better get going to the pub. My new boss took me up on my suggestion of a cocktail hour. Tonight is the first one.”
“Best of luck,” her friend said, giving her the thumbs up. “Talk soon.”
“Bye, Em. Go catch your blackmailer.”
After she disconnected, Clio grabbed her phone from the nightstand and punched in Ray’s number.
While the ringtone sounded in her ear, she focused on the hideous floral patterned wallpaper—the previous owners of Clonmore House had had a penchant for Victorian-style patterns. She was on the verge of disconnecting when he finally answered.
“Clio,” he purred. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Taking a deep breath, she got straight to the point. “Saturday the twenty-eighth won’t work.”
An ominous silence echoed down the phone. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans and swallowed hard.
“Why won’t it work?” Ray’s voice was sharp and clipped, not his usual high-pitched squawk. “I’ve given you plenty of notice to get rid of your mother and daughter.”
“My mother is planning a housewarming party for that evening.”
“Persuade her to cancel.”
“I’ve tried, but she’s invited half the country.”
He fell silent for a while, each second dragging by like a tension-filled hour. “Half the country?” he asked finally. “Perhaps we can make this work in our favor. Tell you what. Why don’t you nick the leopard aquamanile while the party’s in progress?”
She almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. There’s no way I can manage that.”
“Try.” Ray’s tone turned glacial. “I’ll send Tank to help you. I believe you’ve already made his acquaintance at MacCarthy’s pub. He’s been seen in the neighborhood. All you need to do is introduce him as a friend of yours.”
“God, no.” The notion of hanging out with that no-necked low-life made her skin crawl.
“Would you rather I went as your date?”
An image of Ray at her side, clutching her waist, turned her stomach inside out.
“Of course, I could send Delaney,” Ray mused. “I believe you’re very well acquainted with him.”
Clio ran a shaking hand through her hair. No fecking way. Delaney at large in Ballybeg was the absolute last thing she needed to add to the mix of her train wreck of a life. “Don’t send anyone. I can handle this myself. I’ll check my mother’s schedule and send you alternative dates.” Alternative dates as far in the future as she could manage without being too obvious…either she or Emma had better come up with the goods on Ray fast.
“Good girl, Clio. You were always the best worker I had.”
Hazy memories of the bad old years when she’d done jobs for Ray surfaced. “Stick to threats,” she said coolly. “You’re better at them than flattery. Besides, my time working for you ended years ago.”
“There’s a job opening for you whenever you change your mind. You have a particular gift for your line of work.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Over her dead body. Her days of safe-cracking and petty thefts ended the moment she’d received a suspended sentence on the condition she attended rehab.
His laughter echoed down the phone. “I thought not, but it was worth a try. I’ll be in touch about the handover. I’ll probably send Tank. One of the Ballybeg policeman knows me and several of my men from his previous posting, but Tank’s new.”
The Ballybeg policeman he was referring to had to be Seán Mackey. Feck. The pulse in Clio’s neck throbbed painfully. She had to figure out a way to get out of Ray’s clutches. Having Seán and Brian Glenn hanging around was bad enough. Knowing Seán had a connection to Ray was even worse.
“I asked you if the plan sounded good to you?”
“What?” In the fresh shock of discovering Seán had a connection to Ray, she’d tuned him out. “Why do you care what I think? What choice do I have but to go along with whatever diabolical plan you come up with?”
“Absolutely none,” he said cheerfully. “I think this partnership is working out splendidly. Don’t you?”
For him, perhaps. For her, not so much. Fortunately, he’d rung off before she could formulate a suitably cutting response.
A knock sounded, making her jump. Helen peered round the door. “I’ve made sandwiches. You said you’d like one before you headed to work.”
“Uh, okay. Thanks.” Her mother let loose in the kitchen was a frightening prospect, but surely even Helen couldn’t screw up a sandwich. Plus it would be an opportunity to have a chat with Helen, sound out if telling her about Ray was a smart move.
When she entered the dining room, all plans to talk to her mother evaporated. Seán sat at the table, wearing a pained expression. In the seat next to him, Tammy regarded her sandwich with the trepidation one might feel when approaching a vicious animal.
Clio’s heart thudded in her chest. “Hey, Seán. I thought you were leaving after you dropped us home.”
A half smile played at one corner of his mouth. “My boss made it clear that I’m to stay for another couple of hours.”
Helen struggled into the dining room with a platter of sandwiches. Jeez. How many did she expect them to eat? She’d made enough to feed an army. She dumped it on the table and said breathlessly, “Sergeant Mackey is keeping Tammy and me company until Superintendent O’Riordan arrives at seven o’clock.”
Tammy, Seán, and Clio exchanged amused glances.
“That’s…gallant…of the superintendent,” Clio said tactfully, ignoring her daughter’s choke of laughter.
“He’s a gentleman,” Helen said with prim dignity. “And I think he’s lonely. Did you know he separated from his wife last year?”
Seán’s expression turned to granite. “A man without strings must be a novelty,” he said in a hard tone.
Clio stared at him. His delivery seemed…off. What did he care who his boss chose to date?
“At my age, single men are hard to come by,” Helen replied, seemingly oblivious to the bitter undertone. “Help yourselves to sandwiches. Ham and pickle is on the left,” she said, breathlessly. “Smoked salmon is on the right. Chicken salad is in the middle.”
Clio opted for ham and pickle. One bite and a forced swallow later, her gut rebelled. Her mother had been liberal in the application of mustard. At this rate, her dormant ulcer would come out to play.
“Do I have to be at the housewarming party?” Tammy was making a show of picking up her salmon sandwich and putting it back on her plate but was careful to avoid consuming it.
“I’d appreciate it if you put in an appearance, Tamara. Why don’t you invite some of your little friends from school?”
“I don’t have friends, little or otherwise.”
“Come, now. You’ve been at Glencoe College for a whole week. Surely there’s someone you eat lunch with.”
Tammy’s silence echoed. Clio exchanged a sympathetic glance with her daughter. Helen was one of those irritatingly confident individuals who assumed everyone would like her and collected companions wherever she went. She refused to accept that navigating a new social environment was less straightforward for her granddaughter.
Helen took a bite of her chicken sandwich, gagged, and took
a discreet gulp of water. “You’re not eating, Sergeant Mackey. Would you prefer another flavor? Perhaps smoked salmon and cress?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Seán avoided meeting Clio’s eye. “One sandwich is plenty. I’ve been invited to Garda Glenn’s house for dinner after my shift. Don’t want to spoil my appetite.”
Abandoning all pretense of eating her culinary creation, Helen whipped a pencil and notepad out of her ever-present handbag. “Right,” she said in a determined voice. “Let’s start planning the menu for the party.”
“Didn’t you say you’d hired a caterer?” Clio asked in confusion.
“Yes, but I always come prepared with my own ideas. The caterer then makes suggestions, and we adjust the menu accordingly. Do you have no experience at hosting events?” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “No, I suppose not.”
Clio recalled the impromptu get-togethers she’d hosted in Barcelona. Not exactly on the same scale as her mother’s parties.
Helen spent the next quarter of an hour chattering about hors d’oeuvres and suitable wines. Clio nodded at what she hopped were appropriate intervals and zoned out. Seán made civil-but-disinterested responses when required. Tammy was visibly restless, playing with the string bracelet around her thin wrists.
The mention of food reminded Clio how thin her daughter looked. She’d lost even more weight. The sooner she had her first appointment with the new therapist, the better. After her worrying weight loss earlier in the year, Tammy had gone from puppy fat to gaunt. It didn’t suit her. Clio hoped it was a temporary circumstance and not the start of an eating disorder, but every time she broached the subject, Tammy clammed up. Yet another taboo topic between them. At this rate, the only safe subject for conversations would be the weather.
“Would a dessert buffet be too gauche, do you think?” her mother asked.
Clio shrugged. “I have no idea how people entertain in West Cork.”
“I doubt the locals would know the difference between pâté and foie gras, but my Dublin friends certainly do.”
“Foie gras is inhumane,” Clio said with quiet determination. “I’d rather you left it off the menu.”
