“Mam,” Kate said quietly, finally looking up from her phone. “Marty’s six-five and built like a brick—”
“Language!”
“I said nothing! All I was saying was Marty’s built like a tank and Gerry Reynolds spends all his time in the betting shop or in the chipper. He’d only hurt Marty if he sat on him and I don’t think that’s about to happen.”
“I don’t like that character,” Francis McCabe said, forking a lump of boiled potato.
It was a wonder any of them managed to eat at these family dinners, Fiona thought, for the amount of talking they did—usually all at the same time.
“Like I said, he’s never caused trouble before. He was giving me lip and Dec called him up on it. He zeroed in on Dec then; started giving him a hard time about how he’s the big hardman now.”
“Dec did seem different,” Marty said through a mouthful of roast beef.
Fiona shook her head. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was no denying it. Three months in jail had changed Dec Hanlon from cheeky and happy-go-lucky to sullen and serious. She had seen it in his eyes.
“Maybe he’s still catching up on sleep and getting used to being out,” she offered.
“Nah,” Ben said. “He’s been out a good while now. I’ve seen him around town. Barely said two words to me. Sounds like he’s mad to get away from here.”
Fiona sighed. “And all because of Sergeant Brennan.”
“Robocop,” her father said automatically.
Fiona had given him that name and it had stuck—at least within the walls of the McCabe household. None of them was foolish enough to call him that to his face—they had seen what happened to those who angered Sergeant Brennan.
“I don’t understand why nobody reports him,” Ben said. “They must have HR policies that prevent behaviour like that. He’s a bully.”
“Ah, sure,” Francis said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure they do. But which unfortunate is going to take a case against the son of one of the Garda Commissioner’s closest friends?”
It was true. Fiona had discovered the link long before Alex Brennan descended on Ballycashel and began his iron reign. No one in her family knew how she had learnt the truth—and she wanted to keep it that way.
“Oh and we went and protested, Francis. Brennan could have me in jail next!”
“But you knew all about his connections, Margaret,” her husband said. “We all tried to tell you, but there was no stopping you.”
She sighed. “Ah, it was for poor Declan. What were we supposed to do? Quake in our boots? No, we needed to have our voices heard—for all the good it did us. Will you visit me when he finds a way to throw me in the women’s prison?”
Fiona rolled her eyes. Her mother was well known around town for her dramatics.
“Never, Mammy,” Ben said. He was the youngest boy and his mother’s clear favourite, though she denied it to the hilt. “Sure you can’t keep a good woman down—they’d have to release you.”
Fiona expected the others to jump in and protest that her mother was being overly-dramatic, but nobody did. She knew Sergeant Brennan better than any of them—not that she could let them know that.
“Do you really think he’s capable of throwing her in jail because she protested against him?”
Her father lowered his paper and looked at her as if she was mad. “There’s no love lost between me and Declan Hanlon, I’ll tell you that for nothing. But when you think about what they put him in for… I don’t know who’s safe around here anymore.” He turned to his wife and smiled. “Don’t worry, love. If you do get sent to jail I’ll take you up some of those magazines you like.”
3
THE NEXT DAY WAS FRIDAY, meaning Fiona had no chance of getting away early for family dinner. She was thankful for it too. She hadn’t gotten back to the flat until well after eleven the night before and there had been no let up in their fussing. The last thing her mother said to her on the way out was that she’d never be able to sleep knowing Fiona was spending her evenings alone in that bar.
She glanced around. Things were picking up. Of course, a relatively busy evening for McCabe’s meant a small handful of customers instead of none. Her mother had nothing to worry about, as she had tried to explain the night before.
“You look very deep in thought.”
Fiona smiled. Dec was sitting on the same bar stool as he had occupied the previous evening. “Ah, just daydreaming. It’s good that you’re getting out and about,” she blurted, not able to think of anything else to say. She immediately cringed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be awkward—words just seem to shoot out of my mouth without me having any control over them.”
He looked amused. “I know. You’ve always been like that. You’re grand—I’m not offended.”
“That’s good,” she whispered. “I mean it. Good that you’re not letting it get you down. I suppose coming to a bar is the biggest challenge. Hopefully we’ll see you around here more often now.”
He flushed the colour of beetroot. “To be honest, Fi, I couldn’t face seeing all the aul boys in Phelan’s.”
She tried not to laugh. Fiona was long past the point of being offended when people chose to avoid her bar in favour of one of the more traditional pubs in the town. “Fair enough,” she admitted. “You’re not the only one. I should market this place to the new age crowd for the solitude. Meditation and margaritas.”
“I thought that shower didn’t drink? You’d have to change your food as well.” He pointed to a spot over her head. “No more meat or cheese. Or anything nice, really.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “No way am I changing it up to offer lettuce burgers and quinoa bowls. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? How about some Turkish bread and hummus? Both made fresh this morning.”
“No thanks,” he smiled.
“Are you sure? They’re really good, if I do say so myself.”
He laughed. “I said I was fine! Just because I mentioned food doesn’t mean I’m starving. You’re turning into a feeder, just like your mother.”
Fiona gasped in mock outrage. “How could you say a thing like that? Of all the things to say to a woman. It’s charm school they should have sent you to, not jail.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “God it feels good to have someone say that word without apologising and getting all awkward.” He shook his head and reached over to the little box on the bar. “What are these?”
Fiona sighed. “You’ll get a great laugh out of this. They’re matchbooks. I thought they’d give the place a retro feel. You know, people write their phone numbers on there to give to someone they like.”
He frowned, running the little folder of cardboard through his fingers and staring at it. “Why would you do that, though? Would you not just put your number in their phone?”
“Practical, Dec,” Fi conceded. Her siblings had said pretty much the same thing.
“Sure what do I know?” he said, shrugging and putting it down beside his drink. “You’re ahead of your time, Fi McCabe. They’ll be down here begging you to open a branch in Ballyjamesduff and Tullamore in no time. You’ll be a cocktail bar tycoon.”
She snorted with laughter. “Yeah right! Can you imagine? I’ll get really full of myself and start wearing a fedora with a feather in it and some kind of cape and—”
“Excuse me?”
Fiona spun around and came face-to-face with a man she had never seen before. He was dressed all in black with the exception of his tortoise shell glasses. He reminded her of a college professor.
“Can I get some service here?”
“Sorry,” she smiled. “I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”
He rolled his eyes. “If you had bothered to look then I’m sure you would have seen me.”
“Fair point,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” he said with a pinched expression.
“So
rry, I’m all out.”
He seemed affronted. “All out of gin? Or is it tonic? Not both, heaven forbid. This is a bar—correct
“I’m out of gin. The supplier was supposed to come yesterday but he never showed. I can make you something else, but it’d have to be with another spirit.”
“What kind of bar runs out of gin?”
“This one, I suppose. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
He didn’t respond. She turned and looked up to see what had riled him now. She was surprised to find him staring intently at Dec.
“It’s yourself,” he said, as if he was remarking on the weather.
“It sure is,” Dec said, taking a long swig of his drink.
“Let me buy you a drink,” the stranger said, moving around the bar unbidden and taking a seat next to Dec.
Fiona looked warily at her old friend, wondering what on earth was going on. To her surprise, though, Dec didn’t bat an eyelid. She wondered if he knew the guy. Maybe Dec had gotten used to people recognising him as the fella who’d gone to jail. She frowned. But this man wasn’t a local. And cases like Dec’s—however unjust—didn’t make the national news.
“How about a…” the man squinted at the array of bottles behind her. “A spiced rum and coke? Can you manage that?”
Fiona forgot her curiosity and turned so the stranger wouldn’t see the expression on her face. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Well that’s reassuring,” the man replied in the same obnoxious tone.
“Yeah, go on so,” Dec said. “I’ll have the same.”
Fiona felt confident she’d lose the plot if the man made one more snarky comment. She moved around the bar to clean up the few tables that had been used that day, telling herself the customer was always right.
4
THE TWO MEN were still deep in conversation when Fiona returned to the bar. Things were getting busier—there were a few customers waiting at the bar.
“What can I get you?” she asked Will Connolly.
“A pint… I mean a bottle of…” he squinted to see in the fridges behind her. “Is that Richer’s pale ale?”
She nodded.
“I’ll have one of those please.”
“How’s the business going?” she asked, turning to retrieve the bottle from the fridge. “If you ever decide to turn some of those apples into cider let me know—I’m always looking for new local producers I can stock.”
He laughed. “I wish. It’s hard enough finding the time to get everything picked and packed and shipped off. Though cider production might be better paid than selling to the supermarkets, that’s for sure.”
“Worth a thought, Will. Those guys who set up Abbott’s Ale are doing really well—they’re supplying loads of bars now.”
“Aye, I heard that.” He turned and stared down the bar. “Who’s your man with Hanlon?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I’ve never seen him before.”
“They look pally.”
They did, now that she thought about it. The strange man hadn’t introduced himself to Dec, so she would have assumed Dec knew him if it wasn’t for the fact that he paid the man no heed until he spoke first. Maybe, she thought, Dec had been too busy chatting to notice him.
She handed Will his beer and glanced at the door when the bell went off. It was an old-fashioned touch—her family had had a great laugh—but it was something Fi wouldn’t be without. It stopped people sneaking in or out without her noticing if she had her back to the bar. She couldn’t remember seeing Dec’s friend come in, but put it down to having been too distracted by their conversation.
Gerry Reynolds sauntered in the door and looked around as if he owned the place. A chill ran down her spine as she thought of something that had struck her late the night before. What if Gerry was after money? She had no idea what business he was in—town gossip had him involved in a range of nefarious activities from robbery to betting rings. What if he had a protection racket going too? She could barely afford the overheads as it was without handing money over to Gerry—in fact, she’d rather shut down for good before she did that.
“Evening, Gerry,” she said with a nod, forcing herself to sound cheerful. There was no way she was going to let him see she was intimidated.
He turned and did a double take, as if he was surprised to see her there. “And what kind of a place do you call this? Is it Dublin we’re in?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Was he going to start making his weekly visits more frequent? She wasn’t sure she could handle the stale jokes. Instead of saying that, though, she simply shrugged. “Don’t I wish. Might have enough money to pay the power bill if that was the case.”
He moved closer to the bar, eyes narrowed. “Sure isn’t there loads of money in pubs? You’ll have the mattress above stuffed full of fifty euro notes.”
Fiona’s blood ran cold. She could see in her peripheral vision that there was no one close enough to be in earshot. She swallowed. “I wish, Gerry. Maybe in dreamworld. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a pint of Guinness, love.”
Fiona smiled and resisted the urge to look around for the hidden cameras. Sometimes she felt like that was the only explanation for some of the goings on in her bar—her family had called in the telly people and told them to mess with her for the nation’s entertainment. But she doubted that was the case now—no TV producer in their right mind would put Gerry Reynolds on the telly.
WHILE GERRY WAS DELIBERATING over the drinks menu, the door opened again. Fiona looked around to see who it was. She didn’t think she had ever seen the place this busy, not even in the leadup to Christmas, when the local lads on their Twelve Pubs of Christmas had no choice but to call into her bar or be forced to drive even further out of town to complete their dozen.
Mary and Pete Prendergast shuffled through the door and over to the closest unoccupied table. Pete returned to the bar as Mary shrugged off her coat and made herself comfortable.
“Howaya Fiona,” Pete nodded. “How’s life treating you?”
“Ah, not too bad, not too bad,” she smiled. “And yourself?”
He winced and Fiona took that as a bad sign. Pete Prendergast never missed a chance to complain about the various things that were weighing on his mind.
In the last few months alone he had suffered from a terrible earache, insomnia, trouble with creditors and a run-in with the revenue department. Fiona looked around, desperately hoping that one of the other customers would down their drink and hurry to the bar for another.
“Ah, well, now,” he said, taking a slow breath in as if it pained him to do so. “I was grand until Wednesday. Finally getting me health back. And then you wouldn’t believe what—”
Fiona glanced up, curious as to why he’d stopped talking so abruptly. She found him staring down the bar at Dec and the stranger. All of the colour had seeped from his face.
“Pete?” she asked, frowning. “Is everything alright?”
She began to feel guilty for being so easily irritated: he looked truly stricken.
“Pete?” she asked again when he gave no indication of having heard her the first time.
He looked at her quickly as if she had disturbed him from a dream. “Yeah?” he said.
Fiona frowned. She had never seen anyone look so harassed or hunted. “You started to say something but you trailed off there.” She had never expected to find herself prompting Pete to tell one of his stories, but something was really wrong here.
He shook his head and waved his hand. “Ah, nothing. Here, I’ll be back in a minute—I just need to talk to Mary.”
He hurried to the table and whispered something to his wife. Mary glanced back at the bar—Fiona looked away before she could catch the look on the woman’s face. She would kick herself for doing so later, but at the time she didn’t want to seem nosy.
Within two minutes, Mary and Pete had stood and hurried from the bar. They were so quiet that Fiona was sure she wouldn�
��t have noticed them go if it wasn’t for her trusty bell above the door.
She glanced along the bar and saw that Dec was still deep in conversation with the man. They had barely touched their drinks. She moved past them and stood in front of Gerry. That encounter with Pete had rattled her and she felt the need to talk to someone—anyone.
“Have you decided, Gerry?” she asked, grabbing a cloth and wiping the bar as she waited for him to answer. Oh, it’d be some smart comment about her bar no doubt, but at least he wasn’t causing trouble with any of her other customers.
He looked up and frowned at her. “Who’s your man with the glasses?”
She looked around the bar and almost leapt out of her skin when she saw Mrs Flannery. The old woman made no attempt to hide the fact that she was glaring at Dec. Fiona had never seen the pleasant octogenarian look so furious.
“Well,” Gerry demanded.
Fiona started, barely paying attention so transfixed was she by Mrs Flannery. She looked around.
“That’s Noel Cassidy,” she said. “His family moved into one of the new houses there about five years ago. He’s a good lad—did his Leaving Cert there last year.” She knew because he’d come in with his CV and asked her if there were any jobs going. She’d had to turn him away, but the upshot was Marty had found some work for him in the hardware shop. He was a good lad with a good head on his shoulders.
“No,” Gerry barked. “I know who Noel is. I live here, don’t I? No, I mean the other guy.”
“Who?”
“Your man with that jailbird friend of yours.”
“If one more person asks me that…” she started, before stopping abruptly mid-sentence. Now’s not the time to get snarky, Fi; not with hard-nut Gerry on the loose in here. Cop on. She forced a smile. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
Gerry pursed his lips, still staring at the man who didn’t seem to notice he had become the centre of attention in the bar. “Do you think he’s a nark?” he leant against the bar, frowning. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Hanlon got out early by singing like a canary.”
Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds: An Irish Mystery Page 2
