by Zara Keane
Silence fell over the assembled company. At Bridie’s table, Helen’s perfectly made-up cheeks paled under the rouge.
Seán’s expression turned grim, his stance defensive.
Without pausing to consider the wisdom of her actions, Clio marched over to the soon-to-be ex-guest. “Shut your gob before I chuck you out on your arse. No one speaks about my mother like that. Who the hell do you think you are?”
The old man’s gray-stubbled jaw jutted. “We don’t like Tinkers around these parts, and we like Tinker-lovers even less. I’m just saying what other people are thinking. I believe in calling a spade a spade. Colm MacCarthy has the right idea. Drive the feckers out of town.”
“I have no time for obnoxious bigots.” She placed her hands on her hips and stared him down until his defiant gaze dropped to the floor. “Given your disdain for the Travelling community, I’m surprised you accepted my mother’s invitation. Or did the promise of free booze make you temporarily forget your prejudice?”
“Cliona, that’s enough.” Her mother stepped forward. She held her champagne glass so tightly that Clio was sure the stem would snap. “Sergeant Mackey, would you escort Inspector O’Shaughnessy from the premises? Please make sure he doesn’t drink and drive.”
“With pleasure, Ms. Havelin.” Seán took hold of O’Shaughnessy’s arm. “And I intend to learn more about Colm MacCarthy and the Travellers while we’re waiting for his ride. Not to mention”—he took a sniff of the older man’s hip flask and recoiled—“where you got this vile concoction.”
The retired inspector wrenched his arm free, breathing heavily. “I don’t need a police escort, for fuck’s sake. I can find my own way to the door.”
“You’re not driving after drinking poitín and goodness knows whatever else.” Punching a number into his phone, Seán turned to Helen. “I’ll call him a taxi and make sure he leaves.”
After Seán followed the old man out of the ballroom, Helen smoothed down her dress. “Let’s put that unpleasantness behind us and enjoy the evening. Waiters, can you make sure everyone’s champagne glass is topped up? We’ll be going down to the pool area soon for the performance.”
A few minutes later, Seán returned. “The man’s a prick,” he said, catching Clio’s strained expression. “Ignore him. Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
“You know my biological father came from a Traveller family, right?”
Seán started visibly. “No. I had no idea.”
“It’s not relevant to my life. He came from a Traveller community but left the life to take up acting in Dublin. That’s how my mother met him. She did some stage acting before her television career took off. Anyway, they married and had me, but my father died when I was still a baby. I don’t remember him, and I’ve never had anything to do with his family. Larry Havelin was the only father figure I had. All the same, it pisses me off when idiots make racist comments about Travellers. As long as they’re not harming anyone, let them live their lives.”
“I agree.” Seán rubbed his jaw, where the barest hint of stubble shadowed his skin. She longed to reach out and stroke it, yearned to rub her nose against his bristly cheek and inhale his scent.
His eyes met hers, held her gaze. The intensity of his look seemed to strip her of all inhibitions. The ballroom and its occupants receded into nothingness. All that remained was him, her, and their red-hot connection.
The gong sounded, sending Clio’s heart straight to her throat.
“Jaysus,” Seán said. “Helen has a gong?”
“An affectation left by the previous owners, apparently.”
“Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention?” Phoebe, Helen’s hapless assistant, squeaked into a microphone, looking as though she wanted the marble floor to split open and swallow her whole. “Please proceed to the pool area downstairs, where a well-known local singer will perform for us.”
“Ugh,” Seán groaned. “Why did I let my inner imp take over? I never should have suggested my uncle to your mother. His act is going to be a flaming disaster.”
“It’s a cross between the Chippendales and an Elvis tribute, right?”
“That’s right.” He sighed. “Thankfully, he stops at his swim trunks. Unless he gets drunk. In which case I’ll have to arrest him for indecent exposure.”
“My mother is expecting some sort of Tom Jones–style act. This sounds a lot more interesting.”
Seán laughed. “Oh, it’s interesting, all right. Helen will be livid.”
“I almost hope he does go for the full monty,” Clio murmured, linking her arm through his and following him down the stairs to the pool. “It would certainly liven this shindig up. With the notable exception of Bridie and a couple of others, I’ve rarely seen so many pompous gits in one place.”
“Olivia’s cooking is a redeeming feature,” he said, snatching a savory pastry from a tray before they exited the ballroom.
“The food is delicious. I’m hoping I can persuade my mother to ask Olivia to cook a takeaway meal for Tammy’s birthday.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “She’s threatening to cook dinner herself.”
He pulled a face. “I take it your mother’s cooking isn’t an improvement on her sandwiches?”
“Gosh, no. Unless she’s planning on casting a magic spell, it’s bound to be disgusting.”
“Come on, everyone,” Helen trilled. “Time to go downstairs and enjoy the show.”
Seán and Clio exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TAKING CLIO’S ARM, Seán escorted her down to the swimming pool area. The beaded tassels on her dress swished as they descended the stairs. The outfit looked even better on her tonight than it had in the boutique. The green material clung to her figure, accentuating her delicate curves. A long necklace wound about her throat, and dangled down to brush against the hint of exposed cleavage. Seán’s mouth grew dry and his trousers tight. Memories of last night loomed large. He’d far rather drag her upstairs to find a bed than watch his uncle disgrace himself.
The swimming pool was located in the basement of Clonmore House. The area surrounding the swimming pool reminded him of a Roman bathhouse. A makeshift stage had been erected near the exit to the showers. John-Joe, clad in his Elvis costume, was already strutting his stuff. He’d managed to get himself tangled in wires from the speakers, but appeared to be oblivious to his predicament. A bottle of water stood at the side of the stage. Somehow, he doubted water was all it contained. Feck. If O’Shaughnessy’s drunken rant while waiting for the taxi was accurate, he’d need to question his uncle again, but that could wait for another day.
“Oh, dear,” Clio said. “I’d better disentangle John-Joe from those wires before he lands on his face.” She strode toward the stage, dress swishing sexily.
Seán’s aunt Nora spotted him through the crowd and made a beeline for him. Wafting cheap perfume, she leaned close and squeezed his arm. “Thanks so much for putting in a good word for your uncle, Johnny. He hasn’t had a gig in ages.”
He resisted the urge to ask her, once again, not to call him by that name. “No problem, Nora. Although I don’t think Helen knows what she’s letting herself in for.”
His aunt laughed hard enough to set off her rasping smoker’s cough. “I’m looking forward to seeing the look on her face when John-Joe starts undoing the Velcro of his costume. Helen was a couple of years ahead of me in school. She was always a prig. That’s why we were all so shocked when she married that Tinker boy.”
“Clio says he died when she was a baby.”
“That’s the story Helen told. Killed in a bar fight, supposedly. I guess it must be true. She couldn’t have married Larry Havelin without a death certificate back in those days. Divorce wasn’t legal in Ireland until ninety-six.” Nora leaned in, treating Seán to a generous view of crinkly cleavage turned orangey brown by tanning solution. “Rumor has it that Helen was involved with Larry Havelin before her husband died. Whe
n Larry gave her a job working for his TV production company, she kicked her husband out. Helen always had a thing for married men.”
Seán stiffened beside her and yanked his arm free. Breathing hard, he turned away from his aunt.
“Feck,” Nora said in an earnest tone. “I’m sorry, Johnny. It just slipped out.”
“Forget about it,” he said roughly. “What else do you know about Clio’s father?”
“Not much. He had the good grace to get himself knifed to death in a bar fight, leaving Helen free to marry Larry Havelin and preach conservative family values with a straight face.”
“Given that Clio uses his surname, I’m assuming Havelin adopted her.”
Nora nodded. “That was one of Helen’s stipulations when she married him, but I don’t think he ever liked the child.”
Which would explain the man’s callous treatment of Clio when she got pregnant. Seán felt an irrational urge to punch the dead man.
Clio hopped down from the stage and strode back toward him. The subtle sway of her hips and the way her beads jangled made him hard. Thoughts of throwing her against the wall and screwing her senseless were dashed with the efficacy of a bucket of ice water to the groin when Helen materialized at her daughter’s side, dragging Mrs. Carroll in her wake.
Mrs. Carroll clutched the sleeve of Helen’s cocktail dress. “Why are we going to listen to music beside your pool? Why not in the ballroom?”
Helen, already on her fourth glass of champagne, waved a hand and sent a tray of bruschetta flying out of a horrified waiter’s arms. “I have no idea, my dear. Apparently, the musician prefers to play near water. Who knows why? Perhaps it has something to do with the acoustics. Oh, look. There’s Superintendent O’Riordan. I must go and say hello.”
Clio met Seán’s eyes and covered her mouth to hide her smile.
“Your mother is in for a nasty shock,” he said wryly.
“I think we all are,” she whispered. “John-Joe is so inebriated he can barely stand, hence the microphone problems. I’m not sure he’ll make it through the first song, let alone an entire show.”
Helen’s guests continued to troop into the room. Seán recognized Judge Carroll from giving evidence at the Dublin courts. The man was a pompous prick, but good at his job. Several television celebrities of Helen’s vintage were also present. Clio pointed out a few producers, actors, and other Dublin luminaries. There were a couple of photographers hanging about, taking snaps of the more famous guests.
Familiar faces from Ballybeg included Bridie Byrne and her husband, the Major. Jonas O’Mahony stood near the exit chatting to a man Seán had seen around the town but couldn’t put a name to. Helen stood at the front of the stage, clutching Superintendent O’Riordan’s arm in a possessive manner. Judging by the expression on the man’s face, he had no objection to being claimed.
“Where’s Tammy?” Seán asked, searching the crowd in vain.
“Reading in her bedroom. She only lasted a few minutes at the party. I can’t blame her. If I could have done a runner, I’d have been off like a shot.”
The next quarter of an hour passed quickly. The beginning of John-Joe’s act went surprisingly well at first. Despite Clio’s claims to the contrary, the man appeared sober and made the most of his belter of a singing voice. There was a slight hiccup when John-Joe’s hips got stuck doing a dance move, but he made a rapid comeback. Helen and her friends started to dance to the music, their steps faltering at the first rip of Velcro.
Lulled into a false sense of security by John-Joe’s surprisingly good rendition of “Jailhouse Rock,” Seán had almost forgotten the stripping part of his uncle’s Swimming Elvis routine. Up until the moment his shirt came off, John-Joe’s routine had consisted of surprisingly good singing, gyrating, and dancing around the microphone. As the performance progressed, however, it became clear that Elvis had had a few too many drinks. By the time he peeled off his snow-white shirt to reveal a very hairy chest, medallions, and an impressive beer belly, his uncle’s singing was so slurred that the lyrics were impossible to decipher.
Most of the guests were none too sober themselves, and many were busy dancing when the first items of clothing were discarded on the stage, but the sight of John-Joe Fitzgerald topless and gyrating in a tight pair of swimming trunks stunned everyone into instant silence.
“What is he doing?” cried Helen. “Where are his clothes?”
Superintendent O’Riordan patted her arm. “Don’t worry. He usually leaves his pants on.”
Helen wrenched her arm from his grasp, sobering by the millisecond. “What do you mean by ‘He usually leaves his pants on’? What sort of act is this?”
“Well…” The super stared beseechingly at Seán for moral support. “He’s not like the Chippendales, exactly, but—”
“Are you telling me I’ve hired a male stripper to perform at my party?” Helen’s voice rose to a screech. “Did policemen from a station over which you have jurisdiction recommend a lewd performer for my housewarming event?”
The super, slowly but surely recognizing the peril of his situation, blinked owllike and opened his mouth to respond. But before he could utter a word, John-Joe tripped over his microphone stand and flew off the stage and into the throng below.
His fall was broken by a couple of party guests. He was then passed along from one person to the next like a crowd surfer. The guests screamed. Whether it was caused by the weight of a half-naked, sweating Elvis impersonator or with delight at his performance was hard to tell.
Helen stood ramrod straight and slack-jawed. Clio gasped and clutched Seán’s arm. Aunt Nora raised her wine glass in the air and clapped.
Overcome by paroxysms of laughter, Clio leaned into Seán’s chest. She smelled delicious—a mix of champagne, sugary treats, and the flowery scent she always wore. Despite the absurdity of the situation, he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her.
“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “I figured the show would be bad, but I didn’t think it would end like this.”
“Help,” Nora shouted. “John-Joe has fallen into the pool.”
“Don’t worry,” the super said with confidence. “He calls himself the Swimming Elvis. I’m sure it’s all part of the act.”
Seán peered into the chlorine blue water. “Feck. He’s not moving.” He pulled his shoes off, running through water rescue procedure in fast forward.
“Get him out, for heaven’s sake,” Helen shouted. “I don’t want a corpse defiling my pool. Particularly not the corpse of a half-naked, half-witted Elvis impersonator. My reputation will be ruined.”
Seán dove into the water. Ignoring the flash of the photographer’s cameras, he swam to his uncle and dragged the man to the side of the pool. By the time John-Joe was hauled onto the tiles surrounding the pool, he was hacking and spluttering.
“I suppose we had to save him,” the super said with a regretful sigh. “We are supposed to be the keepers of the peace, after all.”
“My poor darling.” Nora threw herself down beside her husband and squeezed his hand. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“No fear of that, Nora my love,” he said between coughs, “I’m hard to kill.”
“Not if I get my hands on you.” Helen’s petite form loomed above them. “You’ve ruined my party.”
“Calm down, woman. Sure haven’t I livened things up?”
“Back in the days when I was at school with your wife, you were a champion swimmer. So when Garda Glenn and Sergeant Mackey mentioned your act, I assumed it would be a respectable show.” Helen danced a furious heel against the tile flooring. “How was I to know you’d turned into a male stripper?”
When Helen rounded on Seán, sparks were in her eyes. “That creature is an absolute disgrace. I want him arrested.”
“He’s committed no crime, Ms. Havelin. You hired him.”
“On your recommendation.” Her screech was nearing Banshee status.
“Actually,” he said, straight-face
d, “Garda Glenn suggested him first.”
“And I backed up the recommendation.” Superintendent O’Riordan tried to take Helen’s arm, but she slapped him away. “I thought you knew the kind of act he performed and wanted to give your guests a laugh.”
“I wasn’t intending my party to be the comedy act of the year. I wanted to make a good impression, mingle with the sort of people I’d like to spend time with when I’m down in Ballybeg, and show off my new house to my Dublin friends. I did not expect the ‘local singer of note’ to be that drunken buffoon. He belongs behind bars.”
“To be fair,” Seán said, “he frequently is behind bars.”
Rage spent, Helen dissolved into tears. “I need a drink.”
Seán whisked a glass of champagne off a nearby tray and handed it to her.
She drank it in one unladylike gulp and thrust it back at him. “I have been humiliated in front of all my friends and my new neighbors. I won’t be able to leave the house.”
“Ah, come on,” he said. “They all had a good laugh, no matter what they’ll say. Anyone who’s a true friend isn’t going to care. As for the rest…feck them. They’ve no sense of humor.”
The super nodded sympathetically to Seán. “I’ll take Helen upstairs and let you get dry.”
Clio strode over, armed with a warm towel. “Get this around you. You’re welcome to use the shower area. There’s shampoo and soap in each cubicle. In the meantime, I can try to dry your uniform, or borrow clothes from one of my mother’s guests.”
“Thanks. Dry would be nice.”
She stepped closer. “Ignore my mother. You’re not responsible for your uncle’s antics. How does your aunt put up with him? She seems a nice woman, in an odd sort of way.”
“I’ve given up asking myself that question. For whatever crazy reason, they’re still together. I don’t know why. Codependency? Can’t live together peacefully, but would be lost without one another? I think they thrive on the drama. And for all Nora’s bitching, John-Joe amuses her. Why else stay with him after all these years now that their sons are grown and gone?”
