by Mary Daheim
“It wasn't.” Jack Mullins had come up behind me. “What do you think of our Irish rituals so far, Emma?”
“So far, they're relatively tame.”
I'd spoken too soon. The three younger O'Neills and a couple of older people I didn't recognize had joined Lona and Meara at the caskets. Yet another stranger was placing a half-dozen extravagant bouquets behind the trio of gray coffins. Virtually all the mourners were now sobbing, but the worst was yet to come. Within seconds, it did.
The Wailers arrived, three black-clad women who showed up at every funeral, interment, or other grief-related event. Long black coats, voluminous black veils, black cotton stockings, black shoes, black gloves, and black purses made them look like three black crows. Even their faces seemed dark, the wilted veils turning their natural pallor into featureless masks of gray.
As if joined at the hip, they glided together toward the coffins. Jack, who had been joined by his wife, Nina, nudged me. “This is a real bonus. How's Father Den going to say the rosary over the shrieks of the Wailers?”
Apparently, he wasn't. At least not immediately. As if on cue, the three women began to moan and keen. Apparently they struck some atavistic chord in the other mourners. They, too, began to groan and shriek.
Meara's baby joined in, crying and thrashing in his mother's arms. I caught Vida's eye from across the room. She looked as if she were about to commit Alpine's next homicide on the spot.
Father Den was trying to edge his way in front of the caskets. He looked like a slow-motion replay of a running back squirming and twisting his way to the goal line. Dan Peebles tried to run interference for him, but was partially blocked by the large form of Brendan Shaw, whose back was turned and who was apparently trying to sell life insurance to somebody I didn't recognize.
“That's it,” Jack declared, and assumed the role of law enforcer without benefit of his official uniform. “Can it, everybody! Let Father say the prayers. Come on, pipe down, or I'll clear the room.”
Everyone but the Wailers complied. The black-clad trio kept up their grieving noises until Vida marched over to confront them. She spoke very softly; I couldn't hear what she told the women. But they stopped and withdrew to the floral stands with their masses of gladioli, roses, and calla lilies.
Father Den announced that those of us who were Catholic were about to say the rosary, I got down on my knees. Luckily, the O'Tooles' carpets were fairly plush. Fingering the mother-of-pearl beads that Adam had given me for Christmas, I made the sign of the cross with the silver crucifix.
Just as we got to the rosary's First Glorious Mystery, someone tapped my shoulder. Awkwardly, I turned around and found myself staring up at Spencer Fleetwood.
“Have I missed anything?” he whispered.
I wanted to say, Yes, you missed finding another corpse. Ha-ha. Instead, I practiced charity and merely shook my head. After all, I was praying.
Unlike some priests I've known, Father Den doesn't race through the decades of the rosary as if he were reading off the entries in the feature race at Emerald Downs. We finished about twenty minutes later, after Den had offered a few prayers for the repose of the O'Neills' souls. The Wailers were poised over the caskets, about to shriek and moan again, but Father Kelly asked for silence as we prayed privately for the dead men and their survivors.
“How long does this stuff take?” Spence whispered as he bent down closer to my ear. For once, he'd dispensed with the designer sunglasses.
I shrugged. Forever, I hoped, despite the growing stiffness in my knees. Maybe Spence would get bored and leave. His mere presence rankled me.
But after no more than five minutes, Father Den announced that the period of reflection and mourning could begin. People got to their feet, half of them moving away from the caskets, the other half moving nearer. A few soft sobs and gentle sniffs could be heard, along with the clearing of throats. Dan Peebles, looking slightly diffident and a trifle flushed, raised his hands.
“This is a quiet time, set aside to remember the loved ones who have passed on,” he said in his rather high voice. “We're here to honor the beloved dead and keep their earthly bodies company.” He paused to clear his throat. “Our thoughts and remembrances accompany them to their heavenly home. Let us observe these moments in silence.”
The Wailers conferred. It seemed that they'd never been to an Irish wake, though I found it hard to believe. Surely they could have tracked one down in Sultan or Skykomish or even Monroe. After further consultation, they left in a sea of black disapproval. Their disappointment was palpable, and I was sure I heard one of them snort in disgust.
Spencer Fleetwood had gone up to the caskets, where he made a show of bowing his head for a few seconds in front of each corpse. Then he began to speak quietly with Kathleen and Mickey O'Neill. It was only then that I realized he was miked up. Not wanting to be outdone, I scanned the premises for Lona O'Neill, but Vida already had her cornered by the buffet in the dining room. Instead, I made a beeline for Meara, who was rocking her baby in her arms and avoiding further communion with the body of her father, Stubby.
“Boy or girl?” I asked in what I hoped was my friendliest voice.
“Boy,” Meara replied, not looking up from the baby.
“What's his name?”
“Cornelius,” she said. “That was my father's real name.”
“I didn't know that,” I said. “By the way, I'm sorry about your father's death. And your uncles', too.”
Meara gazed at me with eyes the exact shade of blue spruce. “Why?”
“Why?” I was caught off guard. “Because they're dead. You were crying for them just a few minutes ago, weren't you?”
Meara shook her head. She'd let her auburn hair grow out in the year since I'd last seen her in the Hartquist kidnapping incident.
“I wasn't crying for my dad or my uncles,” she said.
“Oh?”
The blue-green eyes began to fill up with tears again. Meara jiggled the baby in her arms. “I cried for him,” she asserted, brushing her cheek against the baby's tufts of brown hair. “Because he has no father. Even a bad father is better than none at all.”
I smiled gently. “I raised my son without a father. He's turned into a wonderful person.”
“Your son Adam?” Meara blinked back the tears. “Isn't Adam a priest?”
“Not yet,” I said, still smiling. “He'll be ordained next spring.”
Meara appeared to mull over my words. Maybe she was thinking that her son could be a priest someday, too.
But that wasn't what was on her mind. “I heard Adam's father is still around. Wasn't he in Alpine a while ago?”
“Ah … yes.” I felt my smile waver. “But he was gone all the time Adam was growing up.”
“That's different,” Meara declared, her lower lip thrust out.
“It didn't seem so different at the time,” I said quietly.
“One of these days Cornelius's father may come back to you.”
Meara, however, shook her head. “He won't. He can't.” She took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Cornelius's father is dead.”
Meara O'Neill was sixteen years old, and I scarcely knew her. I had only known her father and her grandfather and her uncles on sight and by reputation. Upon occasion, I had run into her mother, Lona, at the Grocery Basket, Parker's Pharmacy, or St. Mildred's. Meara and I were a full generation apart. I honestly didn't know what to say.
“I'm sorry,” I repeated. “I didn't know.” Seeing Meara's quizzical expression, I thought perhaps she'd misunderstood me. “That is, after you and your mom left town, I never heard—”
“Excuse me,” Meara broke in, drying her eyes once more, “I have to rescue my mother. That awful Mrs. Runkel is talking her ear off.”
Sure enough, Lona O'Neill looked as if she was wilting under Vida's interrogation. As Meara and the baby left me, I noticed that Father Den was shaking hands with Jake and Betsy O'Toole. I hurried to the door.
>
“You're leaving?” I said to Den as he stepped across the threshold.
Den nodded. “I haven't gotten started on my sermon for the weekend,” he said. “I don't like to rush through the writing.”
Father Kelly didn't like to rush through the delivery, either. His homilies were always intelligent, always spiritually grounded, and always exceedingly dull. At least he gave them in the context of the proper era, unlike our former pastor, Father Fitzgerald, who, in his dotage, harped on the dangers of bathtub gin and flappers in short skirts.
I decided that I was leaving, too. Vida would gather all the news and gossip available. Besides, I had a question for Dennis Kelly.
“I'm not prying, I hope,” I said as we made our way to the sidewalk, “but I was just talking to Meara O'Neill. I didn't realize that the father of her child was dead. Do you know anything about the circumstances?”
A slight frown crossed Father Den's smooth, high forehead. “How do you mean, ‘the circumstances’?”
We were heading down the street. Apparently Den had parked his car at quite a distance, too. “For instance, who the father was and how he died. I know this sounds like I'm being a snoop, but it could have a bearing on the O'Neill murder case.”
“The Hartquists killed the O'Neills,” Den said. “I don't understand why there's any mystery about that.”
“I wouldn't think so, either,” I said, “but Milo's the one who's being mysterious. He and his deputies found something suspicious at the O'Neill house, and the sheriff refuses to say what it was.”
Father Den chuckled. “I can't help you there. Sherrif Dodge doesn't confide in me. As you know, he's not part of my flock.”
“But there could be some other factors,” I persisted. We had stopped at the corner, and it appeared that we were about to go our separate ways. “There seem to be a lot of dead people tied into the O'Neill clan. I wonder who little Cornelius's father was and how he died.”
For the first time since I'd met him, Dennis Kelly didn't look me in the eye. Instead, his gaze roamed in the direction of John Engstrom Park, searching somewhere among the trilliums and rhododendrons and maidenhair ferns. If he was seeking the answer to my question, if he'd in fact found it or already knew it, he wasn't going to tell me.
“I can't help you, Emma,” he said, finally looking at me again. “I'm sorry. Goodnight.” With a rueful expression, he turned and walked away.
Father Den had never lied to me. I didn't believe that he was lying to me now. I thought there must be a solid reason why he wasn't telling me the truth.
I had a feeling that it was something I needed to know.
MY LIPSTICK ZIGGED and my eyeliner zagged as I readied myself for Tom's arrival. The unsteady hand was the result of nerves, a double dose. I honestly still didn't have an answer for Tom, and I was unsettled by Father Den's evasion of my question about the father of Meara O'Neill's baby. Looking in the mirror, I saw that my makeup could qualify me for a spot as a clown in the summer solstice parade. I was about to start over when the doorbell rang.
“Damn!” I gasped, checking my watch. It was only nine o'clock. Surely Tom couldn't be here so soon. Maybe, I thought, as panic set in, his dinner meeting had been canceled.
But when I looked through the peephole, I saw a black silk toque and disorderly gray curls.
“Vida,” I said in relief as I let her in, “I thought you were Tom.”
“Ha!” she exclaimed, tromping over to the nearest armchair and plopping down. “He won't be here for at least an hour, correct?”
“That's what he told me,” I replied. “Hold on, let me get my makeup mirror from the bedroom. Would you like some tea?” I called over my shoulder.
“No, thank you,” Vida responded. “I had plenty of tea at the wake. That—and coffee—was all they served. Leo
was correct when he informed me that liquor isn't permitted at a wake. Very smart.”
Vida's clear, strong voice carried from the living room. I returned with the mirror, a bag of cosmetic puffs, a jar of face cream, and my makeup kit.
“So what happened after I left?” I inquired, plugging the mirror into an outlet by the sofa.
“Not very much,” Vida said, making no effort to hide her disappointment. “Apparently, after the prayers are finished, an Irish wake consists primarily of sitting or standing or kneeling around the deceased. There was very little conversation and no food. Now, I don't mean to criticize Jake and Betsy, but they do own a grocery store, and a bit of cake or some nice cookies wouldn't have been amiss.”
“What about Lona?” I asked, cleansing my face with cream.
“Lona.” Vida spoke the name as if the Widow O'Neill was a millstone. “She's not the brightest person, you know. Lona insisted she had no idea why the Burlesons have been asked to leave the rental house, at least temporarily. I had much better luck with Erin Burleson.”
“Erin?” I almost dropped my mascara wand. “Was she there, too?”
Vida shook her head. “No, but it's only a short walk from the O'Tooles' to their place. I caught them just as they were leaving for the college dorms. As I'd suggested, they were able to find lodging there to tide them over until the sheriff is done with the house or their new home is ready, whichever comes first.”
“And?”
Vida wore her Cheshire cat expression. “Well, now. I told them I was interested in their house as a possible future rental for one of my nephews who's moving back here from Tacoma. Of course, that's a bit of a fib—Allan only went to Tacoma for an overnight meeting—but I thought I was acting in a good cause. Anyway, Erin couldn't see the harm, so she let me in. A good thing, too, because Sam Heppner showed up just a few minutes later. But I'm getting ahead of myself.”
“Yes, you are, Vida,” I agreed. “Let's have it.”
“The Burlesons had to leave most of their things behind,” Vida said, still taking her time with her tale. “It's not a very large house—I can see why they want to move, I believe Erin may be expecting again, she looks rather round—so it didn't take me long to go through the rooms. Nothing struck me as unusual until I got to the basement. That was where I found the padlocked steel cabinets.”
I stared as Vida paused for effect. “What was in them?” I asked.
“I don't know,” Vida confessed. “They were padlocked, and not by the Burlesons. Erin informed me that they came with the house and that Lona had said they were for storage and not to be disturbed.”
“Describe the cabinets.”
“Slightly taller than I am, about six feet, dark gray steel, four in all, a foot and a half wide.” Vida stopped, and fretted her upper lip. “They were rather like gym lockers, but no vents. Can you picture them?”
I could. “So Erin and her husband had no idea what was in them?”
“That's right. What's more,” Vida continued, “Erin had the impression that Lona didn't know, either.”
“Huh?”
Vida nodded solemnly. “Erin said that Lona was rather nervous when she told them about the cabinets. I guess she and Andy thought it was rather odd, and pressed Lona for information. But she—Lona—became all atwitter and said it was just family heirlooms, things that belonged to Stubby and the rest of the O'Neills.”
“That doesn't sound right,” I remarked.
Vida agreed. “What do you think? The cabinets are what Milo wants out of that house? But why?”
“Well,” I said dryly, “because of what's in them. Whatever it is, maybe it's the same thing that was in the chests up at the O'Neill house on Second Hill.”
“Possibly,” Vida conceded, removing her black cotton gloves and flexing her fingers. “Drugs, perhaps?”
Strangely, that idea hadn't occurred to me. “Maybe. There's been more of a problem with drugs in Alpine since the college opened.”
“So far,” Vida noted, “the suppliers have been primarily college students. Unfortunately, they sell not only to their peers, but to much younger children, even of grade school
age. So horrible, so tragic. It makes me wild.” She paused, apparently reining in her wrath. “But none of that means that the O'Neills might have been trafficking in drugs. It's just the sort of thing they might do, though. Ugh.”
“Yes,” I agreed, feeling a trifle distracted. My ears were pricked up, listening for Tom's arrival. It wasn't yet nine-thirty, but he could be early. “By the way,” I said, trying to refocus on the O'Neills, “I spoke with Meara at the wake. She told me that her baby's father is dead.”
“Goodness!” Vida exclaimed, then her jaw dropped. “Oh, good grief—you don't think …” She stopped and stared at me from behind her glasses.
“Think what?” I was puzzled, then, judging from the dismayed expression on Vida's face, I realized what was going through her nimble mind. “Not … one of her uncles?”
Squaring her shoulders, Vida sat up very straight. “Such things happen, loathsome as they may be. On the other hand, the Hartquists are the ones who kidnapped her. The problem there is that they're still alive.”
“Meara was pregnant before the kidnapping,” I pointed out.
“True,” Vida murmured, putting her gloves back on. “Yet it would be more acceptable if the father of her child was a Hartquist, rather than one of her relatives. It's a shame, really, that Rudy or Ozzie wasn't killed in the shoot-out. It would make things so much … tidier.”
“When's the funeral for the O'Neills?” I asked. “I thought Father Den would announce it at the wake.”
“Oh, dear!” Vida shot me a sheepish look as she stood up. “I forgot to tell you. It's a Mass, tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. Father Kelly's secretary called it in to me late this afternoon. The O'Neills apparently want to be buried in Ireland with their father. Dan Peebles said the bodies would be shipped from here tomorrow morning right after the service.”
“Another burial abroad?” I said in surprise. “What is this, some new fad? Are we running out of room at the cemetery?”
