Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  As we headed toward the museum, she said, “Your uncle is a dear man, sure as the day is long, but he is a wee bit stubborn, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. She didn’t know the half of it.

  We arrived at Shepherds in the middle of a “row,” as Helen would have called it. The door to the office behind Reception was ajar, and voices were easy to hear.

  “We just got back! Don’t I get to take a breath before you put me to work?” The petulant Enya, no doubt.

  “I have to go to the market.” Grace’s calmer voice. “Little Jimmie will wake up any time now, and I’m just asking you to take care of him till I get back. He’ll need his snack. You know the routine, Enya. It’s not so hard.”

  “We’ll see to Little Jimmie. It’s not a problem, Mam.” Patrick’s voice.

  “It is a problem! You never take my side,” Enya complained.

  “We had a night in town, Enya.”

  “So I’m being punished for having some fun? And where’s Colin, by the way? He’s always sneaking out somewhere.”

  “My God, Enya!” Patrick raised his voice.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Grace came out of the room and closed the door behind her. By this time Alex and I were nearing the top of the stairs. We might have already been out of earshot, but I was following Alex, who was taking each stair with a heavy step, slowing our progress. Doreen had entered the other wing by a door that stayed unlocked during the day.

  Grace saw us and called up to us. “I apologize. Just trying to get away to buy the week’s groceries. I usually shop on Friday, so I’m running out of everything.”

  I stopped on the stairs and turned to look down at her. Friday morning had started with the police at the door, asking for Bridget. Grace had spent much of the day waiting, wondering whether her daughter would be arrested for murder. No wonder she hadn’t bought groceries.

  “Would you like for me to go to the market with you?” I said.

  “Jordan, you simply won’t behave like our guest.”

  “I thought we’d covered that. As a matter of fact, I need some fruit and water and granola bars to take on our day trips, to keep our energy up.” My mind flashed back to Alex’s damp brow and flushed cheeks. I saw he had gone on to his room. “Let me tell Alex where I’m going.”

  Grace didn’t object. She simply said, “I have to get my list.”

  I knocked on Alex’s door, and he called for me to come in. He was already sitting on the bed, taking off his shoes. I fussed over him for a minute, worried that the visit to the Rock of Cashel had been too much, but I gave up when he lay back on top of the covers and said, “I’m taking care of myself, Jordan. Now please—stop acting like my nursemaid. I just need you to go, so I can take a nap!” He sounded quite vigorous.

  I left him to his rest and turned in the hall to see Ian Haverty in his doorway.

  “I’ve been listening for you to come in,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Molly has a ticket for you, so we’re on for tonight.” I walked over to him, keeping my voice just above a whisper. Alex’s door was closed but sound carried easily through the thin walls, a product of the renovation Colin had described. “Alex is trying to nap.”

  “I heard,” he said.

  I studied his face, his tousled hair. He looked as if he’d spent the day in bed.

  “How’s your arm?”

  He touched his sleeve. “Sore is all. Grace cleaned the wound again today.”

  Ian’s expression was worrisome. He must have needed to tell me something, but I knew Grace was waiting for me. I said, “Grace and I are going to the grocery, but I’ll check with you when I get back—when I find out what time the performance starts.”

  “Ah—sorry.” He stepped back into his room. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  And then I couldn’t resist asking, “Is something wrong, Ian?”

  I was surprised by his answer: “Yes, I think so.” He added, “But it can wait till tonight. I’m looking forward to getting out of my room.”

  On the way to buy groceries, Grace said, “How could Enya say that Colin is always ‘sneaking off’? What a little bitch she is! Forgive me for that, Jordan, but Colin has been nothing but kind to our spoiled daughter-in-law. As for sneaking off today, he went out into the country to see someone about a used mower. Ours keeps breaking down. It doesn’t make sense to keep buying parts—but used mowers aren’t cheap.” This was another time that Grace had stopped before delving too deeply into their financial situation. She’d lifted her shoulders and laughed—a laugh without much merriment in it. “Oh, the joys of running a country inn!”

  It felt a little like a girls’ afternoon out. Grace was more relaxed by the time we returned. Patrick and Enya were in the backyard, swinging Little Jimmie. Grace said in a near-whisper, “You might be right, Jordan. Maybe Enya would like a baby of her own.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” I said. “You can’t do anything about that.”

  “No, I can’t!” This time her laugh was bright.

  In my room, as I was choosing what to wear to the concert, my phone jingled. I checked the caller ID. Though “Caller Unknown” appeared, I recognized the string of digits, the country code—France—and the city code—Paris.

  The number belonged to Paul Broussard.

  I let the phone ring and ring and ring, and then I let the message go to voice mail.

  Monsieur Broussard, wealthy and charming patron of the arts—how complicated it was with this man! We’d had an adventure and almost a romance in Provence. Almost. We’d danced under the stars. He’d saved my life. Our time together ran out, but there would be another chance for us—there was supposed to be another chance. In Savannah, his calls made me a little woozy, like a teenager, the sound of his voice: It won’t be long now, Jordan, and this time we will not be foolish. We will not let anything get in our way.

  In January he came to the States to promote an extraordinary young artist named Emil. The first gallery showing was in New York. With Alex’s influence, a gallery in Atlanta also showed Emil’s work. There was a fabulous, highly successful reception. Emil was there, smiling his shy smile, expressing great appreciation for everyone’s helpfulness. Alex was there. I was there. I had waited three months for that night. But Paul Broussard was not there.

  An urgent personal matter, he had said.

  Another call two weeks later, and he had said, It is not possible yet to explain everything, but please trust me.

  Now I went to voice mail and felt that familiar stitch in my chest when he spoke. Jordan, I hope you will not be too angry with me. I called your home in an attempt to reach you. Your daughter said you were in Ireland. Do not blame her. If you must, blame me for my insistence. It is not a long flight from Paris to Dublin, and I want very much to see you. Please, call me.

  A pause, and then Au revoir, Jordan. My lips formed a silent, “Au revoir, Paul.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The concert was magnificent. Alex expressed what I’d been thinking when our little group of four stretched our legs during intermission. “I think I was expecting to hear what the Atlanta Chamber Music Society plays—or what they played when I used to buy season tickets. I would have enjoyed that, but this is a delightful surprise!”

  “And Molly—I can’t say enough about her talent,” I told Doreen. “She’s made me fall in love with the violin.” It wasn’t empty flattery. Molly’s performance was flawless, not only the classical pieces we had expected, but the pop, light rock, and jazz pieces she had played with just as much skill. Billed as “an eclectic program for a large ensemble,” the concert expanded on the string quartet Alex and I both had associated with the violin. In addition to violins, viola, cello, and bass, the ensemble featured trumpet and saxophone, clarinet and flute, harp, piano, and one female voice, a soprano who would sing the operatic arias we had not yet heard.

  “Molly’s very good,” Ian said. He’d been quiet—distracted—but now he smiled at
Doreen. “Ah, to play an instrument the way she does, any instrument, it would be such an accomplishment.”

  “Or to write a book, Ian. Writing stories is a gift, too,” Doreen said. She patted his arm. “Oh, that’s not your sore one, is it? Thank God.”

  It was refreshing to see Doreen like this, not so self-absorbed. The lights flickered. We made our way back to our seats, four together in the center, not more than a dozen rows back.

  Molly, as first violinist, had a solo part on the Mozart concerto that introduced the second half, and then the soprano came out for an aria from one of Bellini’s operas. The extensive program allowed for smaller groupings of instruments so that each section got to shine on one piece or another, but Molly’s violin was rarely excluded. When the strings performed Beethoven’s String Quartet in D, Alex gave me a nod, as if to say, This is the kind of chamber music I know something about, and I approve. The soprano sang another lengthy operatic aria. A suite of Beatles classics might have ended the evening on a high note, judging from the enthusiastic applause, but the Celtic music, saved for the finale, took it all up a notch. The audience, faces all aglow, clapped in time with a merry Irish tune. A colorful jig followed, with more wild applause. The final piece, performed by the entire ensemble, was “Londonderry Air.”

  As I listened to the familiar melody, played with the deep emotion that perhaps only Irish musicians could give to the song, I studied the faces around me. Doreen’s eyes glistened. Ian looked as if his heart might break, and he was not alone. Around us, the rapt expressions of men and women alike made me think of the days when sports events all over America began with everyone singing the national anthem. Not a professional, a celebrity, a superstar, a diva, but ordinary people, with hands over our hearts, joining voices in patriotic pride. “Londonderry Air” brought out the essence of the Irish people—the passions, the memories, the shared spirit. I was beginning to understand something that Ian had tried to explain. I felt my own throat tighten. Alex had closed his eyes. The sweet music, like a singing voice, ended, and we all rose to our feet in spontaneous applause that thundered on and on, until the conductor signaled an encore. We sat down again, and the ensemble entertained for another few minutes with another lively tune, “a drinking song,” according to Doreen. More clapping—and laughter this time.

  Hard to believe nearly three hours had elapsed since we’d gathered in the performance hall. We stood around, as did many others, waiting for the musicians to pack up their instruments, recalling the high points of the concert. Doreen was complimentary of the conductor who also served as the music director of the ensemble, and who had arranged most of the music as well. “I hope the college can hold on to him after the great success of this concert season,” she was saying as Molly came into sight. Molly was radiant, still experiencing the performer’s adrenalin rush, no doubt, but I suspected part of her excitement came from knowing Ian had been there to hear her play.

  “You played very well, Molly,” Ian said, and the color intensified in her cheeks as she thanked him. Alex and I lavished praise, too, but she didn’t blush over our compliments.

  “Last night there was a lovely reception,” Doreen said.

  “That was opening night. Nothing tonight. Nowhere I have to go,” Molly said, looking from her mother to Ian to me, and finally to Alex when no one spoke up immediately.

  “Shall we go somewhere to celebrate?” I said, not certain how to read Alex and Ian, neither being quite as transparent as Doreen and Molly.

  “I think I’ll have to ask you to drop me back at Shepherds, Jordan,” Alex said, and then he turned to the others. “How I hate to admit it, but I may have overexerted myself today. You know this niece of mine keeps insisting that I take care of myself. Tonight I think I should.”

  Ian was quick to add, “I’m feeling I should do the same. I’m sorry, Molly. You deserve to celebrate, but I wouldn’t be much fun tonight.”

  The hope fell from Molly’s face, as surely as if the blow had been a physical one. As I was trying to decide whether Molly would have any desire to celebrate with her mother and me, the young woman who had played the cello came by, asking, “Are you going to join us, Molly? Not sure where yet. And you, Mrs. Quinn?” Molly’s friends apparently knew her mother well.

  “Oh, sure! You don’t mind, do you, Jordan?” Doreen said.

  “Not at all.” I hoped I didn’t sound too relieved. “Will you be all right, getting home?”

  “Don’t worry about us.” She took hold of her daughter’s arm. “Come, love!”

  Doreen and Molly left to catch up with the cellist—Molly, looking downcast, and Doreen, oblivious to her daughter’s disappointment.

  Driving to Shepherds, I couldn’t help thinking that last night, at about this time, we were walking along the same dark road, when we heard shots. Or was it just one? I couldn’t recall. Maybe Ian was thinking about it, too. I asked, “Are you asleep back there, Ian?”

  “No, but I could be if the drive were a bit longer,” he said.

  A few minutes later, back at the B&B, Alex remarked, “The O’Tooles must have turned in early tonight.” Reception was dimly lit, two lamps, both turned low. No crack of light showing from under the door to the office.

  “Everyone deserves a night off,” I said. True especially of Grace and Colin.

  Upstairs, Alex was first to unlock his door and say goodnight. “Sleep well,” I said. My room was across the hall from his and Ian’s rooms, but I took my time with my key, and when Alex’s door closed behind him, I turned to Ian. “I’m sorry I had to rush off to meet Grace this afternoon. I had a feeling you were going to tell me something.”

  When Grace and I had returned from the grocery, Ian and Charles were bent over the chess board—surely they had finished the game from two nights ago. I’d told Ian to meet Alex, Doreen, and me at seven o’clock and he’d said he would. That was the extent of our conversation.

  “I wanted to show you something, but I think I took it too seriously. It’s probably not important.” Ian fidgeted with the keys in his hand, his room key on a chain with other keys.

  “Are you sure it’s not important?” I said.

  He sighed. “Come in. I’ll pull it up on my laptop.”

  I followed him into his room, to the desk where I had set his tray at breakfast. His belongings were more cluttered than they’d been this morning, but this time he didn’t apologize. He turned on his computer and struck a few keys.

  “This comment showed up on my website at 10:35 a.m. today.” He stepped back, and I moved closer to the desk, leaning in toward the screen.

  The message read: If you were meant to be dead, you would be.

  I caught my breath. “This is serious, Ian,” I said.

  “It could be a joke,” he said, but without confidence.

  “What does that mean—pending?”

  “I have it set up so I can read the comments and make sure I want to post them. And a good thing it is. No one else has seen this.”

  “I don’t think it’s a joke. This message has to be from the person who shot you.”

  Ian breathed a long, deep sigh. “I did not want to believe I was the target. I still don’t understand why. Who would do this? I don’t have any enemies.”

  Obviously, he did have an enemy. I said, “You need to take this to the police.”

  “Oh, Jordan,” he said with a little laugh, “you’ve been watching too many crime shows on American television. I know about CSI. I spent a month with my sister’s family in Chicago last summer. Her husband is addicted to those shows. What’s the other one that has the girl with the pigtails—Abby? And McGee. Oh, sure, Abby and McGee might uncover a terrorist cell from a hotmail account like this one, but you can’t be expecting the same from an garda síochána.”

  “Maybe Patrick could help,” I said. “I hear he’s a computer whiz. He teaches computer networking, doesn’t he?”

  “Something about computers at LIT Tipperary.” Ian closed down his lap
top.

  “I still think you should go to the police. They know about the shooting. If they have a suspect in mind, they could check that person’s computer to see if the message came from it.”

  “And do you believe they have a suspect, Jordan? You really do watch too many crime shows,” Ian said, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half-grin.

  I raised my hands in a helpless gesture. “I’ll let you get some rest,” I said, “but please think about contacting the police—the Guard.”

  “I’ll give it a think,” he said. “At least I know the shooter wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  Not that time, I thought.

  Back in my room, I listened to Paul Broussard’s message again. I want very much to see you, he had said. Meet in Dublin? So tempting. I almost made the call. But I didn’t.

  Sunday morning I was up early again, eager for the scrumptious Irish breakfast that Grace always prepared. Before the performance last night, we’d had cheese, fruit, and tea, not a hearty meal. This morning Colin and Enya were scurrying from the kitchen to the breakfast room and back. I saw Patrick at the kitchen table, tending to Little Jimmie’s breakfast. Not seeing Grace, I wondered at first if she might be sick, but no, she’d gone to early mass. “Father Tierney must be heaping on the guilt this morning,” Colin said. “Grace is usually back by this time—it’s why she goes to the early mass—but the Father’s homilies have been getting a bit long-winded.”

  The coffee was ready. I filled a cup from the coffee urn. Maybe I was too early, but before Enya had delivered all the platters, Alex arrived, and the Prescotts were not far behind. I couldn’t help thinking that Molly would be delighted to see our four-top table filled. She and her mother would have to go to another table, and likely Ian would join them.

  “Was the concert simply wonderful?” Helen asked.

  “It was,” I said. “Simply wonderful.”

  “We should go to one of the performances,” she said to Charles. “I wonder how many more there are?”

  “I know there’s a matinee this afternoon,” I said.