Finally, through the gloom of the late afternoon in March, Maura could make out a large painted sign by the road: Sullivan’s of Leap, with a dashing highwayman riding a horse straight out of the sign. It was no more than a minute later that the bus driver called out “Leap” (which he pronounced “Lep,” as in “leper”), and Maura gathered her belongings, which consisted of a battered duffel bag with her clothes plus an old school backpack with everything else, and waited while a few other women climbed down. The women appeared to be regular riders; they exchanged farewells and vanished quickly in different directions, leaving Maura standing in the rain looking at the dilapidated facade of Sullivan’s.
Despite the rain she took a moment to study the town and get her bearings. Actually “town” was probably not the right term, since she could see most of it from where she stood on the main road. There was a string of brightly painted houses along each side of the road, with a glimpse of the occasional cow grazing on the hill behind. Two churches―one Catholic, one Church of Ireland―faced off across the road from each other. One school, next to the Catholic church. A small hotel, and a couple of shops. And she counted three pubs, including Sullivan’s, huddling together where the road widened.
From what little she’d read online at the local library in Southie, Leap’s population had been hovering around two hundred people for more than a century. Once the ladies from the bus had vanished, there was no one in sight, though she spied a few lights on here and there, including one inside Sullivan’s. Gran had always said that making a good first impression was important, but Maura didn’t have a lot of options: she hadn’t brought much with her, and she’d left even less behind. Now she was wet and rumpled. She ran her fingers through her hair, then hoisted the straps of the two bags up on her shoulder, approached the door, and pulled it open.
Inside it seemed barely brighter than the dusk outside. A black-and-white dog lay sprawled on the floor near the entrance. It lifted its head as Maura approached, then decided she wasn’t worth bothering about and went back to sleep. There was a small, smoke-stained fireplace at one end, surrounded by shabby upholstered chairs, and what Maura guessed was a peat fire glowed dimly. The smell of the peat smoke helped to conceal the other, less pleasant odors: a mix of stale beer, staler cigarette smoke, unwashed bodies, and just a hint of urine. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she took in the bar that occupied half of the back wall and the complete absence of customers, except for a bulky figure slumped in the chair nearest the fire. Maura wasn’t sure he was breathing.
A young girl was swabbing the top of the bar with a damp gray rag, her eyes on whatever sitcom with laugh track was playing on the television mounted over the end of the bar. Her hair was carelessly tied up in a ponytail, with a few curls escaping, and her delicate face was lightly sprinkled with freckles. She looked up eagerly when Maura came in, and said, “How can I help you, ma’am?”
Maura would bet that she was no more than ten years older than the girl, who looked about fifteen―when had she become a “ma’am”? And why wasn’t the girl home doing her schoolwork on a weekday in March? Not that it was any of her business. But at least the girl was polite and welcoming, and Maura was cold and tired and hungry. She couldn’t even remember when she had eaten last. “I’m Maura Donovan,” she said. “Bridget Nolan said I should stop by here?”
The girl looked perplexed for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Ah, you’d be the American, come to visit. She left a note for you―I know it’s here somewhere.” The girl turned and shuffled through odds and ends on a shelf behind the bar. “Here it is.” She smoothed the slightly crumpled folded piece of paper before handing it to Maura. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or coffee? Americans do like their coffee, don’t they?”
To Maura’s experienced eye, the coffee she spotted on a hot plate behind the bar would probably be suitable only for sealing asphalt. “Tea would be fine, thank you.” How far wrong could she go with a tea bag and hot water?
As the girl hunted up the cup, the bag, sugar, milk, a spoon, and a napkin, Maura took a seat on a creaking bar stool and read the note Mrs. Nolan had left for her. She recognized the handwriting from the letters Gran had kept, although now it was much more shaky. In the note Mrs. Nolan apologized for not being able to come out and meet her right away, and instructed her to cross the street and talk to Ellen Keohane, who would fix her up just fine. Maura shook her head, trying to decipher what Mrs. Nolan could mean by that.
The girl proudly set a steaming mug in front of Maura, with a tea bag tail dangling. At least it was Barry’s Tea, which her gran had loved―Maura couldn’t fathom crossing an ocean just to get a cup of Lipton. “Thank you. What do I owe you?” She’d gotten some euros from what she’d finally identified as an ATM at the airport, after a bit of wrangling with numbers—at least her debit card had worked, not that there was a lot in her bank account. It was funny, putting in the card and getting out a handful of bills with pretty pictures on them—it was like play money. Just to reassure herself, she had broken a few bills, buying something to drink and a bun, to have coins on hand, but after paying for the bus ticket she wasn’t sure how much she had―or how long it would need to last. She’d seen neither a bank nor an ATM in Leap so far.
“Seeing as you’re a friend of Mrs. Nolan’s, it’s on the house,” the girl said, flashing a dimple. “By the way, my name’s Rose Sweeney.”
“Nice to meet you,” Maura said. “I can’t say that I exactly know Mrs. Nolan, but my grandmother did.”
“No matter, Mrs. Nolan said that we should be looking for you. At least Mick, her grandson, did―he’d be the one who brought the note here for you. We didn’t know when you’d be coming.”
“I wasn’t sure myself—I kind of had to grab the first cheap plane ticket I could get, and there wasn’t time to let anyone know. Is it a problem?”
“Mrs. Nolan knew you’d be here soon, and she let Ellen know. Don’t worry yourself.
“So, who is this Ellen Keohane I’m supposed to find?” Maura asked.
“She takes in a few visitors now and then, in the house over by the harbor there.” Rose gestured vaguely across the road. “It’s a small place, she only rents out the two rooms, but it’s nice. Quiet, and the views are pretty.”
“That was nice of her. Tell me, does Ellen charge much?”
“It’s off-season, and Ellen Keohane’s a fair woman, or so me da says. And cheaper than the hotel, not that there’s any space there. Full of fisherman, it is. Will you be staying long, or are you just stopping for a bit?”
Maura dunked her tea bag a few times, then pulled it out of the water. “I . . . really don’t know. A week, maybe?” She’d booked a return flight for a week later, but only because it was cheaper that way. She looked around the room, darkening by the minute. The clock above the bar said it was only four o’clock. How could it be so dark, so early? “Does this place get busier?” She was the only customer, although the old man sleeping by the fire had a half-full pint glass in front of him. She didn’t remember seeing anyone pass by on the street outside in the time she’d been in the pub.
Rose looked momentarily confused, then smiled. “It’s Tuesday, and it’s early yet. Come Friday, you’ll see the place more lively. Where’re you from, then?”
“Boston, in the States. I guess I’m used to having more people around.”
“I’ve never been farther away than Cork City,” Rose said wistfully. “Is Boston much bigger than Cork?”
“I think so,” Maura said. “It’s more than half a million, I know.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “We’ve only about four million in Ireland, all in. Cork City’s got little more than a hundred thousand and some, but I’m told Dublin is over a million. So your Boston would be more crowded than Cork, but not as big as Dublin.”
“I didn’t get a chance to see Dublin, just the airport.” Which had seemed smaller than Boston’s to Maura. “But yes, it’s pretty crowded, at least in parts. How big
is Leap?”
“A couple of hundred, no more.”
“And you’ve lived here all your life? Are you finished with school?”
“I’ve done my Leaving Certificate.” When Maura looked blankly at her, Rose went on to explain what that meant.
Maura tried hard to follow Rose’s explanation of the Irish educational system. She didn’t mean to be rude, but the long trip was catching up with her, and she quickly lost the thread. She thought she understood that Rose had finished with her secondary education, but apparently had no plans to go on. “Listen, I’d better go see this place of Ellen’s,” Maura finally said. “Is there someplace to eat around here?”
“We’re not doing food here at the moment, unless just crisps will do, and they’re none too fresh,” Rose said dubiously. “There’s the hotel,” she added. “And maybe the café’s open, though they do mostly lunches. You’d be better off in Skibbereen.”
“I don’t have a car. How often do the buses run?”
“Ah,” Rose said. “Well, maybe you should ask Mrs. Keohane. She’d know better.”
“Good idea. Thanks for the tea, Rose.” Maura slid off the bar stool and almost fell over—her muscles had stiffened up, not that she’d been sitting long. She really needed to get some food and some rest, preferably but not necessarily in that order. “I’ll go over there now. Just across the road, you said?”
“Well, across and down a bit. You’ll see the drive off to your right, and then you go down the hill, kinda. You can’t miss it.”
Maura wasn’t so sure, especially now that it was getting darker by the minute—the heavy clouds showed no sign of thinning. At least there wasn’t much traffic. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. Bye for now.”
The straps of her bags were digging into her shoulder—how had they gotten heavier since she had arrived? Outside the pub Maura stopped a moment to get her bearings. She looked both ways—and then looked again, reminding herself that the cars would be driving on the left here—and then headed across the road. Rose had been right: there weren’t many chances to get lost. She followed the graveled drive down and discovered a house with its front door facing the drive. Nowhere did it indicate that there were rooms to let, but at least there were lights on inside. She found the doorbell and pushed it. She could hear it ringing somewhere inside the house, and the bell seemed to precipitate a clamor of childish voices, followed by footsteps. The door was opened by a thirty-something woman wearing an apron; the noise of clamoring children grew louder. The woman pushed her hair out of her face and said warily, “Can I help you?”
“I’m Maura Donovan. Are you Ellen Keohane? Bridget Nolan said I should talk to you.”
“Ah, of course―you’re the American. She mentioned you’d be coming soon. Welcome! I’m just giving the kids their dinner, but come in.”
Maura willingly followed her in, dropping her bags on the hall floor.
“Come on through―I’ll only be a minute,” Ellen said, striding back toward the brightly lit kitchen at the end of the hallway. Maura hesitated, then followed.
In the kitchen, Ellen said, “The three of you, eat up now. This is Maura, come all the way from America. Maura, this is Kevin, Sean, and Patrick, and the baby’s Gráinne. Kevin’s ten, Sean eight, Patrick seven, and Gráinne’s not yet two.” The children looked up briefly, then returned their attention to their fish sticks. Maura guessed that strangers held no particular interest for them: if Ellen welcomed a succession of guests, no doubt they’d seen their fair share.
“Gráinne?” Maura asked, confused. It sounded like “grawn-ya,” and she’d never heard it before.
Ellen laughed. “Of course, you wouldn’t know it. It’s a girl’s name here, and Gráinne’s my little darling. I’m so glad she turned out to be a girl, after this lot.” She smiled affectionately at the children around the table. “Boys, I’ll be showing Miss Donovan here the room, below. I’ll only be a minute. Kevin, you keep an eye on the little ones.” Ellen turned back to Maura. “It’s downstairs, at the back. Kevin’s the only one sleeps down there, but he’ll be no trouble. He’s a quiet one. Shall I show you now?”
“Please,” Maura said. The idea of a space of her own—with a bed—was becoming more and more appealing with every passing moment. She snagged her bags from the hall and followed her hostess down a flight of stairs and around a corner. Ellen pulled a key out of her pocket and opened the hall door, ushering Maura into a midsized room with one double bed and one single tucked in the other corner.
“The bath’s at the back,” Ellen said, “and you can hang your clothes in the cabinet there. I’ll push the heat up a bit, now you’re here. Do you know how long you’ll be needing the room?”
“I . . . don’t really know. A week? And I guess I have to ask how much you’ll be charging?”
Ellen cocked her head at Maura. “The off-season rate is 250 euros a week. Does that suit you?”
Maura tried to translate euros to dollars and thought that came out to something like forty-five dollars a night—if she was right, that certainly sounded reasonable. She could work it out later, and she hoped Ellen would be fair. She desperately craved sleep. “Sure, that’s fine. Listen, I’ll let you get back to your kids. But is there someplace I can get something to eat?”
“There’s the hotel―it’s the closest. You look dead on your feet. Why not get a bite there tonight, and I’ll tell you about some other places in the morning. You’ll be wanting the full breakfast?”
“What’s that?” Maura asked.
Ellen laughed. “And you a good Irish girl! It’s everything you can fit on a plate—eggs, streaky bacon, good Clonakilty sausage, beans, mushrooms, and more. It comes with the price of the room.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Maura said, overwhelmed. Maybe with a breakfast like that she wouldn’t need to eat the rest of the day. She should try it, at least once, on her first day. “Thank you.”
“Grand.” Ellen handed her a set of keys for the room and the front door, and hurried back up the way they’d come, where the sounds from the kitchen had increased in volume. Once Ellen was gone, Maura carefully closed the door and surveyed her temporary home. It was clean and tidy, more practical than elegant. She checked out the tiny bathroom and splashed water on her face, then sat down on the bed: it felt comfortable, and there were plenty of pillows and blankets. She lay down, just for a moment . . .
Maura woke some time later to pitch dark. Real dark; cut-it-with-a-knife dark. And there was no noise: no cars passing, no airplanes overhead, no distant sirens. Where was she? Oh, right: Ireland. She was in a small town her grandmother had never said a word about. All her life Gran had kept quiet about where she had come from, yet in the end she had wanted to send Maura here. Well, Gran, you wanted me to be here, and here I am. What now?
As she lay in the dark listening, she realized she could hear something—the rhythmic lapping of water against the shore. Hadn’t Rose said there was a harbor? She hadn’t seen it, but now she could hear it, and in the end it soothed her back to sleep.
Keep reading for an excerpt of Sheila Connolly’s first Orchard Mystery . . .
ONE BAD APPLE
Available in paperback from Berkley Prime Crime!
“Orchard? What orchard?” Meg Corey stared in confusion at the man standing on her doorstep. He reminded her of a hobbit: shorter than she was, his silvery hair combed forward in an endearing bang now rumpled by the wind, his cheeks rosy, his blue eyes twinkling. “I’m sorry—who did you say you were?”
“Oh, forgive me. I’m Christopher Ramsdell, with the Integrated Pest Management Department, the Small Fruit Management Project, at the university.” When Meg looked blankly at him, he went on. “Of Massachusetts, at Amherst. We’ve been using the apple orchard as an experimental site for, oh, decades now. But I was looking for the Tuckers. Are they no longer here?”
“The Tuckers were only renting. My mother owns this place, and I’m fixing it up to sell.” Or trying to, M
eg amended to herself. Every time she tried to “fix” something, it seemed to generate more problems. Usually expensive ones.
“Well, then, you’re the person I should be talking to!” Christopher beamed at her, and Meg couldn’t refuse the delightful man a return smile. At least he wasn’t some crazy person, as she had wondered when she first opened the door.
An Open Book Page 6
