Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  But Finn did suggest stopping in the town for pizza. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until we entered the lively little pizzeria and smelled the aromas. When we dug into our pizzas, I noticed that the only one who didn’t seem to be starved was Alex. Ian was quick to consume two slices and most of a glass of Guinness, and then he flattened his palms on the wooden table, splayed his fingers, and said, “I need to get something out in the open. About Tim Sweeney.”

  Expressions ranged from skeptical—Finn and Doreen—to sympathetic—Molly and Helen. Alex simply looked ready to listen, and I hoped Ian saw the same openness in my face. Apparently, he had something weighty to tell us, but I refused to believe that he’d had anything to do with the death of Mr. Sweeney’s son. I just would not believe it.

  “Let me say first that I had no idea who Mr. Sweeney was. I did not recognize the name. Many boys have come through my classes, with all the Irish names you’d expect.” Ian looked at Finn. “I know I’ve had several Finnegan boys.” Finn nodded, appearing more receptive to what Ian was about to tell us.

  “Tim Sweeney was a good student, maybe too quiet in the classroom, but he wrote fine papers. He was a bit of a loner. Not disliked or bullied or anything like that, just not social. You know, the way boys of that age form their packs and laugh and jostle around with each other. Tim didn’t seem to be part of any particular group. I did notice that. I remember something now about the violin—I can see him, carrying the case from the classroom—but I swear it didn’t click at all with me that morning at breakfast when Mr. Sweeney said his son played the violin.” Ian turned up his beer and finished it off. He caught the eye of the girl who was delivering a pizza to another table. He raised his empty glass, and she nodded.

  “What I said to Mr. Sweeney today was the truth,” Ian said. “When the school term was over, a year ago, I went to Chicago and spent a month with my sister and her family. Our headmaster sent out a schoolwide e-mail about Tim’s death, must have been right after I’d left Dublin, but as I was on holiday, I didn’t check my school e-mail for a couple of weeks. The headmaster did not say suicide, of course, just announced that we’d lost one of our boys, sadly, and he told when the mass would be. By the time I read about it, it was all over, and I didn’t know any further details about Tim’s death till I got back to Dublin.”

  “How did the boy kill himself?” Doreen asked.

  “Shot himself in the head,” Ian said.

  “Oh, merciful God!” Helen said. “Just like Mr. Sweeney.”

  “That might shed some light on what Mr. Sweeney did,” I said. “Do you know where Tim got the gun?”

  “What I heard was that his father had a number of firearms in the house, all properly registered. Again, I had no idea who his father was. I’d never met him.”

  “Mr. Sweeney had to have felt terrible guilt that the gun belonged to him,” I said.

  Ian’s beer was delivered, and he took a thirsty drink. “There’s plenty of guilt to spread around. I hate to admit that I did nothing. Nothing, unless you count contributing a few Euros to the fund at school. Books for the library, in Tim’s memory. A very nice collection it was, but—I should have made contact with the family. I should have sent a note. It’s too easy to just let something like that slip by, you know.”

  “We’ve all done things like that, Ian,” Helen said. “It’s difficult to know what to say or do when you’ve never met the family members.” There was a mumble of agreement.

  Ian’s worried expression didn’t alter. I didn’t think he’d told us this just so we could say comforting words, as Helen had done. I thought there had to be more, and there was.

  “I was aware—I don’t know any other way to say it. Tim had a crush on me,” Ian said, enunciating the word crush as if it had a bad taste. “It’s not just girls that sometimes get fantasies in their minds about their teachers. It’s happened before with boys at the school, but never to that extent.”

  With his forefinger, Ian made streaks in the condensation on his glass. We waited, and finally Molly asked, “What did he do, Ian? How did you know?”

  “Oh, I knew. Just a number of things that give one a feeling—but there was a particular incident that made it clear. Tim wrote a story and submitted it to our literary magazine. I’m the editor. When I read his story, I knew he was writing about himself—and me. All in his imagination, you understand, but it was so—vivid. His characters so descriptive, anyone could see it. And the setting, my classroom, down to the poster I have of Seamus Heaney’s poem, ‘Digging.’ That poster was right in front of us, the day I spoke with Tim.”

  I could imagine the scene. The look in Ian’s eyes said he was seeing it, a movie playing in his mind. He gave a deep sigh. “I tried to be very careful with my words. I told him his story was well written, but it simply could not be published in our magazine, for our students and faculty. ‘It would cause the wrong idea,’ I said, and then he said some things about how he’d thought I would understand. I said, ‘Tim, I am not gay, and even if I were, I could never have a relationship with one of our boys. That just wouldn’t do. It would be wrong.’ And I went on to say that his story, if people at school read it, would make things very difficult for him. He said, ‘And for you.’ I had to say yes. Mother of God, I’m a schoolmaster at a boys’ school! It could mean my job—my entire career—if rumors had it I was being inappropriate with one of the students.”

  Ian took another drink, a sip this time, took a long time swallowing, and looked in the glass as if he might find an answer there. “I suppose the truth—the painful truth—is that I was more worried about myself than I was about Tim.”

  “How did he take what you told him?” I asked.

  “He said, ‘It’s just fiction.’ His way, I thought, of backing down, of saying, ‘You don’t really think I have those feelings for you, Mr. Haverty!’ and I can tell you I was a bit relieved, then, thinking that was a way out of it. I just said, ‘I understand. You have quite an imagination, Tim, and you’ll be a great writer someday.’ And I sent him on his way, as if nothing had happened. That was in the winter. The rest of the term, Tim just sat in the back of my class, looking distracted—looking forlorn.” Ian shook his head as if it was inconceivable that he’d left it at that. “I should’ve known he needed someone to talk to about his sexuality. Boys have come to me before, and I’ve listened, and tried to help them sort things out, but it was always theoretical, not personal.”

  Finn drained his beer. He’d had just one, which was a good thing since he was our driver. He stood up and said, “I imagine it’s a heavy load, being a schoolmaster, trying to say and do the right thing for every lad that walks through your door.”

  His words of wisdom brought a weak smile to Ian’s face, the first I’d seen since morning. “I just wanted you to hear the whole story, because you know Mr. Sweeney,” he said to us. “And because I needed to tell it.”

  Helen’s phone rang as we made preparations to leave the pizzeria. “Looks like my husband decided to return my call at last!” she said. A minute later, her face had a glow. “You’re a darling to worry,” she crooned, “but really, everyone is taking good care of me.”

  I didn’t deliberately listen in, but I stood near the table where she was still sitting, so I could help her to the van when she was ready. It was hard to miss Helen’s end of the conversation. “Are you at Shepherds now?” A pause. “I understand. We can talk about it tonight,” she said, and then, “Just put her on, dear, and I’ll tell her myself.” It was apparent that Grace came on the line. Helen described the injury to her ankle, making much more of it than she had earlier. “A crutch? Why, yes, it might be just the thing! You and Colin are simply too kind!”

  I mouthed, “May I speak to Grace?”

  Helen nodded. After a moment in which Grace must have been expressing her shock, Helen said, “Yes, we all do, and now Jordan is here, and she’d like a word.” She handed me her phone, but not before she told me that Grace and Colin had been
calling around and they’d heard that a medical helicopter had transported Mr. Sweeney from the Limerick Regional Hospital to a trauma center in Dublin.

  I took the phone. Finn was standing just inside the door, arms folded, so I made it quick. “Grace, I think you should check Mr. Sweeney’s things. He has a notepad. I can’t say for sure that he wasn’t carrying it with him today, but it might be hidden somewhere in his room. It’s worth a look.”

  “A notepad?” Grace said.

  “That’s the word he used.” I said I thought it would be a small notebook that he’d carry in his pocket, one of those with the spirals at the top. “He may have kept a record of his activities since he’s been in Thurles. Private investigators do that. Now I have to go. Finn’s waiting.”

  Helen grimaced as she stood. “What in heaven’s name do you think Mr. Sweeney’s notepad will reveal?”

  I didn’t know. I just had an eerie feeling that there were still gaps.

  Finn let us out at the front door of Shepherds, all except Ian and Molly, who were going on with him to the pub. Doreen darted a wistful look as the van pulled away and said, “I guess he’s not a bad sort, Ian Haverty. Seems he does have a conscience.”

  “I think you can trust him. And trust Molly,” I said.

  “She doesn’t know much about the ways of the world. Sure, I’m mostly to blame for that.” Doreen took a long breath that seemed to speak of a greater weariness than today’s events had brought on. She said, “I’m going straight to bed.”

  Charles met Helen with open arms and held her for a long moment. “I was so worried,” he said. “Let’s get you to the room and look at that troublesome foot.” I could imagine Helen might say it was well worth her sprained ankle to get such loving attention from her husband.

  Colin and Grace met us, distress in their faces. Grace fussed a little over Helen and gave her a crutch that they had borrowed from Father Tierney. He had once broken his foot, falling from a ladder, and he’d kept the crutch at the church ever since, lending it to anyone who needed it. “The Father was very excited to see me on the church grounds,” Colin said. “He seemed to believe I might eventually make it to the confessional.” Assuming a more serious tone, he said, “I told him if Bridget got well and came home, he just might see me at mass, if not the confessional.”

  Alex’s steps were heavy on the stairs. “Goodnight, all,” he said.

  We bid him goodnight. Grace waited until he’d disappeared on the second floor to ask, “Is Alex all right?”

  “Exhausted, I expect. He’s taking all of this especially hard.”

  Grace motioned for me to follow her, and we went to the keeping room. There was a glitter in her eyes that answered my question before I asked: “Did you find the notepad?”

  “It was between the mattress and springs. A little spiral notepad. Pocket-size, like you said.” She went to the bookcase and pulled out a manila folder from between two books. “This probably seems very cloak-and-dagger, but I got to wondering if the Guards might come to Mr. Sweeney’s room to investigate. Do you think?”

  “There’s no reason for the Guards to know about the notepad, but you may be right,” I said. “Even in a clear case of attempted suicide, I suppose they’ll conduct some kind of investigation.”

  We sat on the loveseat, and Grace opened up the folder on the low table in front of us. It contained several letter-size pages. “Just in case, I made copies and put the notepad back where I found it. Finished only a few minutes ago, so I haven’t had a chance to do much but browse. I know that Mr. Sweeney followed Ian to Shepherds. He mentions Ian’s website. There’s something about Mr. Sweeney’s son—and Ian, I think.” She gave me an inquisitive look.

  “Ian explained to us,” I said. “Tim Sweeney had imagined something between himself and Ian. Mr. Sweeney blamed Ian for his son’s death. That’s what it was all about, out there on the ledge today.”

  “It sounds—complicated,” Grace said. I agreed. A good word for it—complicated.

  She said, “I do want to hear all about it, but let’s see what’s in these pages. Seems like something that calls for a pot of tea.”

  Grace went to the kitchen to make tea for us, and I began to read. Each letter-size page contained one of the small pages from the notepad that flipped from the top. Part record of activities and part diary, the entries had started a month earlier when Mr. Sweeney had written: Went through Tim’s things at last. Found writings that I had to destroy. A vulgar story about his literature teacher and verses must be about the same man. Now I understand. Better that his mother died not knowing this about her boy. On her grave, I swear I will make the perverted schoolmaster pay.

  CHAPTER 25

  Colin opened the door of the keeping room and stuck his head in. “Any discoveries?”

  “We just got started,” Grace said. “Come on in.”

  “Patrick’s home,” he said, opening the door wide for his son.

  Colin joined us for tea. Patrick declined the tea but sat down with us and ate a biscuit. The younger men and women of Ireland did not seem quite the tea-drinkers that their parents were. We put the copies of Mr. Sweeney’s notepad aside for a time. Patrick had spent the afternoon getting Bridget settled at the rehab center. He was anxious to report, and his parents were anxious to hear. “Bridget’s remembering things, a little at a time,” he said. “She’s saying the night she went to Dr. Malone’s, he had a call from someone, and he was very angry.”

  “She told me that when I visited her—was it just yesterday? Hard to believe,” Grace said. “She remembered that she was very angry but didn’t remember why.”

  I didn’t add to the conversation. Bridget had told me in confidence why she was furious, that she wanted money from Dr. Malone, Jimmie’s father, to take the baby and go away. She’d mentioned that Dr. Malone had been angry with the caller. I waited to see if Patrick knew any more about who the caller might have been or what the doctor had said.

  “She says Dr. Malone was shouting, ‘No! No more!’ and telling whoever it was that he would not be there—he was leaving that very moment, like someone was wanting to come to the office. Bridget says she’s almost certain the doctor said he was going out to Red Stag Crossing and he may have even said her name.”

  Colin slapped the table with his palm, making the teacups and items on the tray rattle.

  “Colin! What is it?” Grace said.

  “Don’t you see? Somebody wanted drugs. Dr. Malone was providing drugs for Bridget, wasn’t he? That’s surely the way it looks, with all those drugs she had in her. So maybe he was more of a drug dealer than a healer. Sounds like he was trying to cut somebody off who wanted more. Someone who might have come back the next morning to try again, and had to commit murder to get what he wanted. Wouldn’t that person—the one on the phone—be a good suspect? Bridget would be in the clear for sure.”

  The kind of person he was describing didn’t sound like the kind of murderer who would be logical enough to take the body out to Red Stag Crossing. Wouldn’t he just murder, snatch the drugs, and flee? Maybe if it was someone who knew about Bridget, I considered—the only name that came to mind was Davin Callahan, and I just couldn’t see that young man as a drug addict.

  “You have to understand, Dad, that Bridget’s memory is fuzzy,” Patrick said. “She has no real concrete details to offer, just impressions. And even though we may believe her—I do, for a fact—the Guard would have to take her compromised condition into account. It might sound as if she’s making it all up.”

  “Patrick’s right,” Grace said. “Also, I think the word would have gotten around if drugs had been stolen from Dr. Malone’s office. The theory of the drug user has problems.”

  A moment passed as everyone mulled this over. The only sounds were the clink of teacups and spoons, and a loud-ticking clock on the bookshelf.

  “The way Bridget’s memory is coming back is promising,” I said. “She may eventually remember something that is concrete—something t
he Guard can use.”

  “The good news is that she’s doing so much better,” Grace said.

  “Much-needed good news,” Colin said. “After today—much needed.”

  As if the thought had just occurred to her, Grace said to Patrick, “You heard about Mr. Sweeney at the Cliffs of Moher, didn’t you?”

  “Dad just told me when I got home. Unbelievable! I suppose I should call Enya.” Patrick rubbed his temple, making slow circles, as if the very thought was stressful. Probably the thought of having to be the bearer of such horrible news, I told myself, rather than the thought of having to make any call to his wife. I couldn’t help remembering how Enya had flared when I’d started asking questions about Mr. Sweeney.

  “Something else I found out when I spoke with Enya’s mother about Mr. Sweeney this morning,” Patrick said. “I was curious what she might remember about the man. Enya had said they lived on the same street with the Sweeneys until five years ago. She was sixteen when they left.”

  So Enya was twenty-one now, just a little older than Bridget, several years younger than Patrick. Her age did explain some things about—the phrase that came to mind was her worldview.

  “Ian Haverty taught Mr. Sweeney’s son in ninth grade—a year ago,” I calculated out loud, “so five years ago, that would have made him about eleven.”

  Patrick nodded. “Enya’s mam said the same. She thought Tim Sweeney was eleven when they moved away and had no more contact with the Sweeney family. She said Mr. Sweeney was an excellent marksman, and he used to take Tim out to the shooting range with him. He was teaching him to shoot at that young age.”

  “People do that,” Colin said. “Hunters, especially. Boys learn to use hunting rifles early.”

  “I, for one, am glad you didn’t try to teach me to shoot when I was eleven,” Patrick said.