7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  Sure enough, a Ferris wheel caught Sam’s attention. A pathway on that side of the river was crowded with people and lots of children. It was easy enough to join the flow toward the water taxi and take the short ride. At the park they opted to walk a graveled path along the shoreline while most of the crowd followed their insistent children and headed for the colorful carnival rides. The stroll was an easy one, the grass brilliant in the late afternoon light, small waves lapping at the earth beside them.

  At the very tip of the point of land, Beau grabbed Sam’s hand and spun her toward him. “I’m glad I met you, darlin’. It’s going to be a great life we’ll have.”

  They kissed and didn’t care who might be watching.

  “Newlyweds, eh?” A short, stooped old man they hadn’t noticed had rounded the stone pillar that marked the end of the point. He wore a porkpie hat and a green vest, dark trousers and a pale yellow shirt.

  Sam laughed. “How did you know?”

  The old man gave her a wink. She smiled up at Beau and when she looked back the old man was gone.

  “Tell me I didn’t just see a leprechaun,” she said, looking all around for the stranger.

  Beau shrugged. “My back was to him, I didn’t see where he went either. He probably ducked behind that pillar, playing a little joke on us.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll let him have his laugh.”

  They held hands and strolled back along the waterway. The water taxi was on the opposite shore, fully loaded.

  “There’s a bridge just up there.” Beau pointed to a crossing a couple of blocks in the distance. “What do you say? We could use the exercise.”

  Sam agreed. It was pleasant walking past small waterfront houses with gardens of roses and neatly trimmed shrubs. People sat out in their lawn chairs and said hello as they passed.

  “It’s nice here,” she said to Beau. “I’m glad we got out, it was time to think of something besides that dusty bookshop.”

  “Except that, obviously, you are thinking about it.”

  “Only a little. I promise. I’ll figure out something and deal with it tomorrow.”

  “If it were me,” he said. “I’d just hand over the whole place to the employees. I’d bet it’s what that Ambrose fellow would want anyway. Probably, that’s the reason he’s not exactly been a warm and friendly guy toward you.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. And, as usual, you are the voice of common sense. Solves both my problem and Ambrose’s.” She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it earlier. “I’ll call Daniel Ryan in the morning and find out what I have to do. Surely there’s some deed I can sign over, right?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Yep. Meanwhile, how about some dinner? This place looks pretty good.”

  The sun set so much later here that Sam hadn’t realized it was already past their normal dinner hour. If they were going to adapt to the time change they’d better start eating and sleeping on a regular schedule.

  The pub Beau pointed out seemed a popular spot. People stood two deep, in places, at the long bar and many of the tables were filled. But there were a few empty seats and a small band was tuning up in the corner.

  They ordered Guinness and the Irish stew, then found a table at the window where they could see the musicians.

  “I liked your idea for the bookshop,” Sam said. She filled him in with what she’d seen in the written records, until a waiter approached with a laden tray. The stew—steaming, meaty, and delicious—came accompanied by a hearty bread.

  “This is definitely the opposite of that lightly grilled salmon we had at the hotel,” she said. “But, wow—so good!”

  The music went into double-time about then, a lively Irish traditional piece and people came out of the crowd and formed up to dance. Four couples paired off, similar to American square dance, and began doing some intricate moves that involved heavy stomping on the wood floor, passes through and under arched arms, and the occasional shout. Obviously, they knew the song and the steps well. Others, gathered at the bar, began keeping time with stomps and claps. Sam noticed that it was a crowd of all ages. Most of the dancers were in their forties or fifties, but several men at the bar looked very young. She mentioned it when the waiter came to bring them more bread.

  “Oh, yeah. The legal drinkin’ age here is eighteen. But the local ones, they been comin’ with their parents all their lives. Most of these is university kids. Lots of Americans study there, and they think it’s fun to stand at the bar, get a Stout and act all grown up.”

  Sam could see the thoughts running through Beau’s head. At home, his department had their hands full with underage drinking, as she supposed happened in a lot of small towns. She wondered if a lower drinking age was a good idea. But at the moment it was easier to become engrossed in finishing her stew.

  By the time they’d finished eating, the band was into a fourth song that sounded very much like all the others and the rapid dance steps were beginning to thrum in her head. They agreed it was time to set off for their hotel.

  They kept to the well-lighted streets, all of which seemed busy and populated even though it was well after ten o’clock. Police in glo-striped jackets made a visible presence, but no one seemed to be out for trouble at the moment. Soon, the hotel area appeared ahead. A few of the moored boats’ owners sat on their decks in canvas chairs, sipping from cans, stretching their legs out. A horn sounded somewhere in the distance.

  As Sam and Beau reached the section of boat slips that bordered Dock Road, they felt a change in the atmosphere. Voices went quiet. Someone nearby shut off a loud radio. They looked up to see a Coast Guard cruiser moving slowly into the marina, its movements so still as to barely cause a ripple. Tied behind was another boat, rigged with fishing gear, completely dark, without a soul aboard. It felt eerily abandoned.

  The lead boat chugged to an open spot against the dock, near where Sam and Beau stood. As the empty boat came closer, Sam realized that people were quietly drifting over to stand nearby.

  “It’s the Glory Be,” someone whispered. It was a good-looking boat—a trawler, Sam thought—with a red hull, modern navigation equipment, wide windows all around the bridge, and a white wheelhouse capped by a matching red roof. She guessed its length at fifty or sixty feet.

  “Where’s Darragh? This ain’t right,” came another quiet voice.

  She glanced up and saw that a crowd of two dozen or more had filled in behind them. She tugged at Beau’s sleeve and they moved aside.

  A man wearing the clothing of a boat captain stood close by, staring down at the empty vessel. His face was solemn. “Nothin’ good’s gonna come of this.”

  The hair rose on her arms when he said it.

  Police arrived within minutes, giving orders and dispersing the crowd. Sam and Beau didn’t see any reason to hang around.

  “What do you suppose that was about?” she asked when they were alone in the elevator, headed toward their room.

  “No idea. But I didn’t like the looks of it. Did you notice, near the wheelhouse, those marks?”

  She shook her head.

  “They looked like blood.”

  Chapter 5

  Sam spent a restless night, remembering people’s reactions to the abandoned boat—dark, lonely, spooky—reliving the chill she’d felt. Beau’s guess that he’d seen bloodstains on it only added to her disquiet. The heavy meal probably didn’t help either.

  She lay still in the early morning half-light, trying not to wake Beau. In her mind, she made a plan for the day. One: meet with Daniel Ryan to sign away her inheritance. Two: come back and celebrate with Beau. Maybe they would get a car today and take a drive up the coast. It would be a shame to be in Ireland and confine themselves to seeing only one city. At some point her eyes closed again; when she awakened Beau was facing her, his fingertips toying with the lace on her nightgown.

  The touches turned to strokes, kisses became urgent, clothing fell away . . . and they were too late to catch the hotel’
s breakfast buffet by the time they got out of their room.

  “Good thing I remembered to hang out the Do Not Disturb sign,” Beau said, noticing that the maid’s cart sat outside the room next to theirs.

  They decided to get a brisk walk done before finding a spot to eat. As they passed the marina they noticed that the red and white Glory Be was tied up there, but a ring of yellow police tape circled its deck. Beau looked as if he wished he could find out what had happened, but no one was around at the moment. They walked on past it.

  Four blocks later they noticed a coffee house that promised a Full Irish Breakfast at a reasonable price, so they ducked in and placed their orders.

  “I guess I might as well find out if my cell phone is going to work here,” Sam said, digging in a side compartment of her small pack to find it. “Hopefully, it won’t cost a fortune for a quick call.”

  She came up with the phone and Daniel Ryan’s business card then spent a few minutes figuring out what sequence of numbers she would need to press to make the connection. When a secretary answered she said that she would like a few minutes with Mr. Ryan as soon as possible. In return, she got an eleven o’clock appointment and directions that depended on being able to locate a certain department store.

  “I’m finishing my eggs and sausages before I try to figure out all this,” she said when their plates arrived.

  Eyeing the silver-dollar sized black disks on the plate, Beau left them alone and cut into his egg yolk.

  “Ah, those’d be your puddings,” said the waitress who brought coffee refills, at his inquiry. “The dark ones are blood pudding.” She breezed away.

  Sam took a taste but decided she could pass them up. Beau declared that he was full after two eggs, two sausages, toast, a scone, and a broiled half tomato, so he pushed his puddings aside. By the time they’d finished the food and a full pot of tea she realized it was after ten and they had no idea how long it would take to reach the lawyer’s office.

  A query to the cashier and they learned that the department store was about six blocks away, fifteen minutes if they didn’t dawdle. That was easier said than done—all the shops had enticing wares, and Sam caught herself eyeing gifts to take home and trying to remember where she’d seen each item. Aran sweaters, Irish linens, Celtic knot jewelry and a beautiful greenish marble—her friend Zoë would love one of the worry stones made of that. Beyond the tiny shops they came to the large department store, its windows filled with slim mannequins wearing European styles. The building addresses were a little confusing but when she consulted her notes, she’d written down that the street-level entrance to the law offices was accessed by a shiny black doorway beside a jewelry store. They located it and walked up to the second floor.

  Daniel Ryan greeted them warmly and asked Sam how she was enjoying her bookshop.

  “Daniel, please. It isn’t mine yet. I haven’t signed anything. Besides, I’ve decided to give it away. To the employees.”

  He had escorted them from the small reception area to his private office and now he closed the door. Indicating the two guest chairs in front of his desk, he waited until they sat down and then took his own seat.

  “Sam, I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. I’m sorry but you aren’t allowed to give it away.”

  “What? If it’s mine I can do anything I want with it, can’t I?”

  “Only after two years.” He pressed his fingertips together and leaned on his elbows. “It’s a provision in the will.”

  “But—”

  “It’s the way your uncle wanted it. He felt that you would need time to adjust to owning the shop and to see it become profitable again.”

  “There’s nothing in his records to show that it has been very profitable yet,” she said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. Taking a breath she started over, with the part about how she’d taken the scanty financial records to study last night. “I can’t do this, Daniel. I have a life at home.”

  “Nothing requires you to be on-site at your shop here in Galway,” he said. “You can certainly manage it from anywhere you like. Terrance trusted the employees implicitly to handle the daily business.”

  Was the man blind? Did he not see the shoddy condition of the merchandise, that nothing new had been added in ages? That Ambrose Piggott resented her presence and would surely do everything he could to drive her out?

  “Terrance’s accountant handled the tax forms and our firm managed all legal matters. It’s really only the shop itself that needs your touch.” He spread his hands, palms up. “It should be quite simple to keep it going.”

  Aye. Sam closed her eyes for a few seconds. He just didn’t get it.

  “But why? I do not see why I can’t sign a deed of some kind . . . we would call it a quit claim deed in the States . . . something that lets me give up ownership. I don’t want any money from it.”

  He fixed his face in an expression of supreme patience. “It’s what your uncle wanted, Sam. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  She searched wildly for an answer but the best she could come up with was to ask for the accountant’s name.

  Ryan became very accommodating, offering to place the telephone call for her. Tom Mitchell had a kindly voice which grew cautious over the speaker when Ryan explained who Samantha was and that she wanted more information about the bookshop.

  “All I can say is that I prepared the required tax forms each year for Mr. O’Shaughnessy, based on the income and expenses he told me about. He kept his own records. I never saw anything more than the totals. I’ve not received those figures for this most recent year yet, seeing as there was the unfortunate event of Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s passing.”

  Daniel thanked him and hung up the phone. “If Ambrose can’t give you more complete records, I suspect it’s that Terry kept a lot of the business knowledge in his head.”

  The head of a man in his nineties. Sam began to feel a wave of despair.

  “Come on, Beau. We better leave.” Getting out was better than telling Ryan what she was really thinking.

  Out on the street again, the sky had become a dark gray, mirroring her mood. She strode purposefully along, making even Beau’s long stride work to keep up with her. When she came to the Oscar Wilde statue she paused and stared at the bench he sat on.

  “Darlin’, let’s think about it rationally,” Beau said, breathing a little hard.

  “What’s to be rational about? I’ve got a business that’s failing, it’s five thousand miles from home, the employees love the place but are letting it slide into a pile of dusty ruin, and there are no current financial records to be found. I might already be in deep trouble with the Irish authorities and I don’t even know it.” She clenched her fists down inside her jacket pockets. “God, Uncle Terry, what have you done to me?”

  Beau stepped forward and pulled her close to him as fat raindrops began to pelt them. “Let’s get out of the rain. Something will come to you.”

  She let out a rueful laugh. “Yeah, the last time someone said something was coming to me it turned out to be a surprise I didn’t exactly want.”

  He kept one arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the awning of a nearby music store. A display of fiddles, guitars and flat drums reminded her of the lively music they’d heard last night, of the fun atmosphere and friendly people. She couldn’t let the drab bookstore and gloomy weather dampen their honeymoon. It was her attitude that was ruining the trip, and she determined to turn that around.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I have to make the best of this. Somehow.”

  Beyond the awning, the downpour drilled at the autumn flowers in their baskets and water splattered in the puddles that rapidly formed in low spots in the uneven stone paving.

  “We didn’t bring our umbrellas, did we?” said Beau with a little chuckle.

  Sam patted her backpack, but she knew the answer. She shook her head. Suddenly the whole situation seemed ridiculous and they both started laughing. An old woma
n wearing a heavy headscarf hunched under her black umbrella and hurried past them.

  Ten minutes went by and the torrent became merely a pour.

  “The bookshop is closer than the hotel,” Sam said. “And I really need to go back and see how things are going today anyway. Shall we head over there?”

  She tucked her pack under her jacket and they dashed to the next shop that had an awning. Half a block at a time, they made their way to O’Shaughnessy’s Books and stepped up to the door. Shaking off as much water as they could, they went inside.

  Keeva stood at the register. “It’s bucketing down out there,” she said when she saw Sam’s wet jacket. “And you, did you just leg it over here?”

  From the back room Sam heard Ambrose utter an expletive, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. She hurried to the doorway and saw him stooping to pick up a massive dictionary.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Aye, just lost my grip on it,” he said with a wince as he stood up straight.

  “Can I help you with it?”

  “No, no. I’ve got it.” He pushed past her and carried the large book to one of the cluttered tables, where he edged a stack aside and set the dictionary down.

  “Ambrose, I need to talk to you about the shop’s finances.”

  He sent her a wary look and turned back toward the storeroom. She followed, noticing that Beau was standing at the shelves and seemed to be keeping himself busy.

  “I went through all the receipts and the ledger you gave me yesterday,” Sam told Ambrose. “But they don’t begin to cover it. There are no entries at all for the past six months. I spoke with the accountant and he says he never received the tax information he needs for the current year.”

  “Well, that ain’t my doin’. Your uncle took care of it all.”

  “Okay.” She took a very deep breath, working to think what Ivan Petrenko might do with this place. “Okay. It is what it is. But now I have to deal with it. We can probably think of some things to boost the business back up. Can’t you give me a little help here, Ambrose?”