7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

Bridget seemed apprehensive when Sam and Beau arrived at the shop and asked if they might speak privately.

  “Is there news of Uncle Darragh?” she asked when they’d stepped into the storeroom.

  Beau shook his head. “Not much. I’ve seen the boat.”

  “I know my mum and dad would want to know whatever you have.” Bridget’s small voice seemed almost frail when she talked of serious subjects, Sam noticed. “Please, could you both come to our house and speak to them?”

  Without really waiting for their answer, Bridget picked up her coat and purse. Ambrose gave Sam a long stare but he didn’t comment on Bridget’s leaving early. She led the way, a confusing series of turns for several blocks, before she came to a plain yellow door on a rather modern three-story building.

  Her key opened the street-side door and they stepped into a tiny vestibule. A hallway led toward the back of the building but Bridget headed for the stairs at her right. She didn’t say anything as they climbed to the third floor. They passed numbered doors painted in primary colors, mainly red or blue or yellow, made two additional turns and she came to a bright turquoise one and unlocked it.

  “Home,” she said.

  They stepped into a small, rectangular living room, made tighter by a large sofa, two overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table. A television perched atop a little cabinet full of DVD movies, and an end table held a reading lamp and a bud vase with a red silk rose. A framed photograph of two men stood beside it.

  “They’re twins,” Bridget said, handing Sam the photo. “Dad and Uncle Darragh.”

  The two smiling faces were nearly identical, even in their forties. Sam set it back in place and glanced around the apartment.

  To the left, off a tiny vestibule, two bedrooms were visible. A third door was closed. On the right a dining table was set with three places, and Sam could see into a tight kitchen with appliances that would be small compared to their American counterparts.

  “Mum? I’ve brought someone home with me,” Bridget called out. A plump woman peered around the kitchen door. Her blond hair was faded but otherwise she was simply an older version of her daughter.

  “Where’s Dad? Mr. Cardwell here may have some information for him.”

  “Oh, lord, is it about Darragh?” She came forward, drying her hands on her apron.

  In answer to Bridget’s question, they heard a toilet flush behind the closed door and the doorknob rattled as a man stepped out. He seemed a little flustered to find two extra people in his home.

  Bridget made quick introductions—Maeve and William.

  “Come in, come in,” Maeve insisted. “I’ve just put the kettle on for a cuppa. Have a seat.”

  William O’Henry was nearly as tall as Beau, with a bit of a belly on him, and he greeted them with the same hospitality as his wife. He, too, immediately asked about his brother. There was something about Beau—people recognized his authority and trusted that he had answers.

  William waved them toward the sofa and took a seat in one of the armchairs. Maeve stood near the kitchen door.

  “I’m afraid there’s no real news,” Beau said, “as far as locating your brother. The police have talked with the woman who works at his office, trying to piece together who all was aboard the boat when it went out. None of them have been seen since.” He filled in the few details he’d already told to Sam.

  “Sean’s family must be half-frantic,” Maeve said.

  “If you know anything about where he might have gone,” Beau said, “his favorite fishing locations . . . I’m sure the police could use any information.”

  William rested his forearms against his knees, staring at a spot in the middle of the room. “He’s got his favorite spots, for sure. Darragh’s a brilliant man. Born at the stroke of midnight, he was. I came fifteen minutes later. Darragh keeps his fishing secrets guarded well, not wanting the other captains to crowd him.”

  “Does the boat have some kind of navigational equipment that records where he’s been?” Sam asked. “I don’t know much about this stuff—is there anything that maps his route and transmits it back?”

  William shook his head. “They make equipment like that but Darragh, he couldn’t afford it. He’s got the basics, that’s all.”

  “Detective Lambert said the boat was found adrift near the shoreline. He mentioned some cliffs on the north side of the bay,” Beau said.

  “Oh, saints preserve us!” Maeve said with a small cry.

  William’s mouth went tight. When he spoke, it was with fear in his voice. “It’s a dangerous stretch of the coast. Without power, the Glory Be would have been dashed to pieces at the next high tide or if the wind come up. Darragh wouldna’ have chosen it for fishing.”

  “Maybe that’s the answer, then,” Bridget said. “Their engine quit and they all had to take to the lifeboat. They’ve made it to a safe spot but haven’t been able to get word to us.”

  The teakettle whistled, distracting Maeve and Bridget. William continued to contemplate the center of the carpet.

  Sam glanced at Beau. He hadn’t mentioned the bloodstains or the fact that the boat’s engine had started right up for the police this morning. He gave a tiny shake of his head. Let the family hold on to hope, at least until the police decided to share all the facts.

  Maeve came back, carrying a tray with steaming cups of tea, pots of sugar and milk, and a plate of cookies. She set it on the table in front of them.

  “How’re you findin’ Ireland?” she asked, after Sam commented on how tasty the cookies were.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, “The rain is something to get used to. We come from a very dry climate.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s where all the green comes from.” Maeve gave Sam a warm smile. “I’m understandin’ that you might have your hands full with the bookshop, though.”

  Bridget spoke up. “You know, Mum, trying to get Ambrose Piggott to try anything new could take donkey’s years.”

  Maeve nodded in agreement.

  Beau set his empty cup on the tray. “We’d best leave you to your evening.”

  “Please, Beau,” said William, “If you get any further word on Darragh . . .”

  Beau nodded. “I will. And I’m sure the Garda will be in touch as they learn anything new. We’re very sorry for your—for this worry in your lives right now.”

  Out on the street, Sam reached for his hand. “It’s nice of you to try to reassure them.”

  “I didn’t have much to say. The authorities here certainly don’t need to share any information with me.”

  “At least we can offer support. The sooner this gets resolved, the sooner I’ll have Bridget’s full attention at the shop. I have the feeling she’s my one hope for turning the place around with some modern ideas and a fresh look.”

  They worked their way back toward the shopping district, more by instinct than by remembering the winding route they’d taken to reach the O’Henry’s apartment. They found themselves at a corner where each of the four streets had a different name.

  “Let’s go across that bridge and make a bit longer walk out of it,” Sam suggested, pointing to their right. “I need to work off those extra potatoes. And don’t let me stop in at a pub. Another of those dark brews would not do me any favors.”

  Beau laughed and checked the traffic before they crossed. Standing in the center of the bridge, watching the river rush under their feet, made Sam a little dizzy.

  “Okay, ready for steady ground again,” she said.

  They cleared the bridge and were debating whether to take the next lane and double back toward their hotel or to keep going forward. At the moment Sam couldn’t say for sure where they were—it seemed that waterways were all around them. As she looked around to get her bearings, a familiar figure walked down the steps of a nearby building and turned toward them.

  “Look, Beau. It’s Detective Lambert.” He had on an overcoat now, but otherwise was dressed exactly as he’d been at the dock earlier in the afternoon.
/>   Lambert spotted them.

  “Sheriff Cardwell,” he said to Beau. “On your way home?”

  Beau returned the detective’s smile. “In a roundabout way, I guess. We aren’t quite sure where all these streets lead.”

  Sam noticed that the gray stone building Lambert had just left sported a distinctive blue glass lamp with the local Garda insignia on it. The police station.

  “You’re working late,” she said.

  “Ah, it’s not done yet for me.” His voice seemed weary. “When I start a day in the wee hours, like today, doesn’t mean I get away earlier in the evening. Just takin’ a little dinner break now. Care to join me?”

  She almost refused, but Beau spoke up quickly. “We might grab something light.”

  Very light, Sam thought as they ducked into a pub two doors away. Like a glass of wine and some information for Bridget. Lambert rattled out something quick and unintelligible to the barkeep, which translated to drinks for the three of them. They settled at a corner table.

  “We saw Darragh O’Henry’s brother and family this afternoon,” Beau said. “I think I had mentioned that the brother’s daughter works in Sam’s bookshop.”

  Lambert nodded, his dark hair falling across his eyes.

  “They, of course, are nearly frantic with worry about Darragh,” Beau said.

  “Yes, as they would be. I wish I’d some better news for them.”

  “Has he been located?” Sam blurted out.

  “No, there’s really no news,” Lambert said after taking a long pull on his Guinness. “I put the crime scene investigators right to work and the lab will get the evidence processed as quickly as they can.”

  “The blood—it’s definitely human?” Beau said.

  “It is. We knew that from the immunochromatographic test at the site. We’ve got loads of fingerprints. Have to rule out those of the two crew and see if we can come up with identities of the Americans. It doesn’t seem likely that ‘Smith’ and ‘Jones’ were their real names, and Ms. Athy admits that she didn’t ask to see any identification.”

  “What if they were? If Smith and Jones were really their names?” Sam asked.

  “We’ll still have to identify them. It’s a bigger job but if they’ve vanished we have to find out who to notify.” He looked up as the waiter delivered a large bowl of stew for Lambert and a small plate of fried potatoes to Beau, who set the plate between them and indicated that he intended for Sam to share them.

  Sam speared a small chunk of potato, thinking of what Lambert had said about the men. Someone back in America would be worried if their relatives went off for an Irish vacation and never came back.

  “Someone’s got to answer for that bullet casing, as well,” Lambert was saying. “We only found the one, which makes me wonder if there were more and someone picked them up. Might have just missed that one.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Sam said. “Sounds like you definitely think there was some sort of foul play.”

  “Can’t think of a logical reason for Darragh to carry a .45 caliber pistol aboard his trawler. Especially since we found no gun.”

  “That wouldn’t even be legal here, would it?” Beau asked.

  Lambert scoffed. “Legal? No. Possible—you know very well that illegal gun ownership is possible nearly anywhere. Private ownership was curtailed a few years ago, but it doesn’t mean that everyone registered theirs when the new law passed or that all the guns are legal hunting equipment or small caliber weapons. If someone wants one here, they’ll find a way to get it.”

  Sam regarded him carefully.

  “But do I think Darragh O’Henry had an illegal gun? Not really. The man has no record of trouble. Seems a law-abidin’ sort all around.” He focused his attention on his dinner for the next few minutes.

  “So, it seems more likely that one of his passengers brought it aboard,” Beau said.

  Lambert shrugged. “We’re checkin’ out the mate, too. Sean Bareth. Young hothead, that one was.”

  Sam felt her eyebrows rise.

  “I’ve got someone checking the records. I don’t recall anything recent with him. But you know, he had his share of scuffles and fights. I remember bringin’ him in for boxing with one of the Traveller lads—the fight got out of hand and we thought young Bareth was gonna be done for.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up.

  “I’d best be back at the job. Stay in touch, Sheriff.” He picked up his overcoat from the back of his chair and walked toward the door.

  “Interesting, about the gun. And about the crewman’s record,” Sam said.

  “Interesting, and not something we should be sharing with Bridget’s family. From now on, anything they learn needs to be given to them through the police.”

  Sam drummed her fingers on the table top.

  “Sam? I’m serious.”

  “I know. I won’t say anything. I’m just thinking . . . about all of it. You don’t suppose Sean Bareth might have caused some trouble aboard the boat—gotten into a scuffle with either Darragh or the passengers—do you?”

  “I’m sure Detective Lambert will be investigating all possibilities.” He stood and held up Sam’s jacket for her. “Come on, you. Let’s figure out how to get back to our own neighborhood.”

  A chilly breeze came off the water as they made their way back across the bridge and through the crowded streets. As they neared the docks they saw that people were crowded around the area where the Glory Be was still moored. A single Garda officer stood by, making sure no one attempted to board, but the bustling work from earlier in the day had concluded.

  Sam knew too well what it was like to wait around for lab results and had watched as victims and families anticipated news from a crime scene. She hoped the O’Henrys would get good news, and soon.

  Settled into their room at the Harbour Hotel, she calculated the time difference and placed a quick call to her daughter’s cell phone. It went to voice mail and Sam could envision Kelly in the middle of bathing some reluctant dog at Puppy Chic. She left a message that all was well in Ireland.

  If only it were completely true.

  A second call, this time to her own business, the bakery which had been her lifelong dream. She said a quick hello to Becky, her decorator, who told her that everything was going just fine. At the insistent quizzing about her inheritance, Sam would only give the barest of clues.

  “You’ll have to keep guessing until I get back,” she teased. “It’s too expensive for lots of cell calls from here, so text me if there’s something I absolutely need to know.”

  Before she got home she still hoped to figure a way out of owning the musty bookshop. Much as she loved having a great book to read in her spare time she didn’t want a room full of them, and there was no way she wanted to be responsible for a business clear across the Atlantic.

  Beau had stretched out beside her on the bed while she talked and now he seemed intent on removing her clothing with his teeth. As the top button on her blouse gave up its hold on the buttonhole, she ended her phone call with a giggle.

  “I’m giving you one hour to stop that,” she said.

  Naturally, it was an empty threat. She’d unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off his muscular shoulders in under a minute. The rest of the hour melted away and soon the lamp was out and they lost themselves in the warmth of each other and the deep pile of blankets.

  When Sam next became aware, there were flashes of blue light hitting the ceiling in the room. She realized that they hadn’t closed the heavy drapes before they fell asleep. The clock showed that it was nearly three in the morning. She rolled over and got up, thinking she would close the curtains but realized that Beau was already standing there, staring down at the harbor.

  “Something’s going on,” he said. “A coast guard boat roared in awhile ago. Two Garda vehicles and an ambulance met them at the dock.”

  Sam stared down at the commotion.

  “They’ve put one person ont
o a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. The police seem to be taking the other one into custody.”

  An officer climbed into the ambulance and it pulled away. Before it was out of sight, a car pulled up and a dark-haired man in a tan overcoat climbed out. Flashing a badge toward one of the officers, he was waved through.

  “That looks like Detective Lambert from here,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “So, either this has something to do with the Glory Be . . .”

  “Or he’s really got his hands full this week.”

  Motion on the water caught their attention. Another coast guard vessel came slowly abeam of the first one. In a pile on the open deck lay a massive orange thing.

  Beau squinted and leaned forward. “I can’t read the print on it. But it looks to me like a deflated lifeboat.”

  If this was the missing one from the Glory Be and the two men they’d just seen were the only ones aboard, it looked like at least half of its complement was gone.

  Chapter 8

  Sam went back to bed and Beau soon joined her but it was a restless night. She could tell that he wanted to go down to the dock and see what was happening—law enforcement types tend to want to solve everything. But there was the touchy subject of being too nosy around someone else’s investigation. She snuggled in close to him and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  By six o’clock they were wide awake. While Beau showered, Sam pulled her wooden jewelry box from the safe to look for a different pair of earrings. The gloomy-looking wood brightened at her touch and she held onto it for a minute. In the past the box had helped her with a variety of things—from boosting her energy to fine-tuning her investigative senses. She had no idea how it worked; the special powers had come to her soon after the box was given to her by an old woman believed by some to be a witch. Sam had never bought into that; she only knew the effects the box had on her.

  Beau emerged from the bathroom as she was tucking the box back into the safe.

  “Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

  Downstairs, over coffee and scones—both of them managed to pass up the full buffet—Sam told him she wanted to check in at the bookshop.