7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  “I really feel pressed to get things settled,” she said. “Yesterday, I put the idea in Keeva’s head about making some changes so the place doesn’t simply settle into a pile of old stones and papers. I’ll be interested to see whether she’s talked to Ambrose about it. Plus, I’d like to be sure Bridget’s okay.”

  “I think I’ll wander by the police station,” Beau said. “Maybe I can find out what was going on last night.”

  Sam smiled at him. That was what he’d wanted all along.

  Outside, they could see heavy clouds scudding in from the sea. Sam dug into her pack and handed Beau one of the umbrellas.

  “Come by the shop if you get the chance,” she said. “If I get ready to leave before I see you, I’ll text you and set up a plan.”

  At the corner, he gave her a kiss and headed the opposite direction. By the time Sam got to the bookshop a light mist had enveloped that part of the city.

  “Ah, it’s a fine soft day, it is,” said Keeva when Sam paused at the door to close her umbrella.

  “I see you’ve started to rearrange things,” Sam said, eyeing the two large tables in the middle of the room, which were now empty.

  “T’wasn’t I,” Keeva said. “And the others don’t claim the work either.”

  Confirming that, Bridget shook her head.

  “Where did the books go?” Sam’s glance darted around the room.

  Keeva pointed upward. At the very top of the bookcases that circled the entire room, haphazard piles of books leaned outward over empty space. The slightest touch would send them crashing to the floor. Ambrose appeared from the storeroom just then, pausing in the doorway.

  “Be careful,” Sam cautioned. “Don’t walk near the shelves.”

  He started toward the sales counter and as he passed, one stack of books toppled and hit the floor.

  “Who put them there?” Sam felt a sharp edge in her voice.

  The three employees looked at each other, then at her. “None of us,” Keeva said. “It had to be the mischief of the faeries.”

  Seriously? Faeries? Even in her head she mimicked Keeva’s pronunciation.

  “Ah yes,” Bridget said. “When they get angry they’ll destroy your things. Sometimes they even steal babies.”

  Sam looked at Keeva, who was nodding in agreement. She took a breath. “Okay, let’s say that this was done by faeries. What’s made them angry? Why would they take it out on the shop?”

  “Well, ye can’t be sure,” Keeva said. “Could be they’re unhappy with one of us. Maybe with your uncle. Maybe someone ate an egg and didn’t destroy the shell. Bridget, check the waste bin. Faeries love to live in empty eggshells,” she said by way of explanation to Sam.

  Okay. She’d heard that the Irish were superstitious but never dreamed the extent of it.

  She gazed back up at the shelves, but saw no mystical explanation for the tippy stacks of books. She saw only a lawsuit waiting to happen if a customer happened to be smacked by a tumbling pile of them.

  “Let’s get to work bringing them down,” she said. “There must be a stool or stepladder here somewhere.”

  Bridget fetched a short ladder and Sam climbed to reach for the first stack.

  “As long as we’re moving them, let’s try a different arrangement for these,” Sam said, handing down four hardback books. “Rather than just piling them on the tables again.”

  Ambrose gave her a hard stare but she ignored it. The man seemed determined to disapprove of her ideas, no matter what they were.

  “How about if we designate one table for items that we can price at a discount? It seems to work for other bookshops, brings the customers in to look for bargains.”

  She’d often seen her neighbor, Ivan, set up a sale table out on the sidewalk; however, that tactic would only work in a dry climate. Here, they would have to get people into the shop to discover the bargains.

  “Keeva, can you locate some poster board or art paper and design some signs? Ambrose, you know the stock better than the rest of us. Choose the titles that have been here a long time, gathering dust, and we’ll mark them at the greatest discount.”

  Gathering dust, indeed. Everything in this place had been gathering dust for a century.

  Ambrose shuffled forward to take the books Sam handed to Bridget, grumbling something under his breath. Sam ignored it, focusing on the surge of energy that coursed through her as she worked. She remembered handling the wooden box this morning and decided she better tone down the energy before the others became suspicious.

  “Sort them as you set them down,” Sam said. “Please? I want—um, let’s try putting only newer stock into the bookcases, sale items on the one table, and maybe we can create a theme or special display for the other table.”

  The faeries might have thought they were creating havoc in here, but it could turn out to be just what Sam needed to move the staff off center and get them thinking of new ideas. She reached for another stack, handed it off, then moved the ladder farther along the wall.

  She and Bridget developed a rhythm for moving the books along, and Keeva had found construction paper and markers. She seemed pleased with her first effort at a sign that said BOOK SALE. She taped it to the front window and started on another.

  Ambrose moved like molasses, but he’d managed to sort the first dozen books Bridget handed him into three piles. Sam hummed as she approached the next section, hoping a cheery mood would be contagious.

  The door opened and a white-haired man came in. “There’s a sale on books?”

  See? Sam wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Ambrose, could you show the gentleman the ones we’re marking down to half price?”

  He looked a little startled but the customer perked right up. “Half price? That’s a bargain I’ll take.”

  If the pricing in Ireland worked the same as in the States, Sam knew that selling at half price meant taking a loss on the item. She’d once listened to one of Ivan Petrenko’s rants in his peculiar Russian/French/American dialect, the gist of which was that his discount from the list price was nowhere near enough. But, she reasoned, O’Shaughnessy’s faced an extraordinary situation. They simply had to clear some of the outdated stock to make room for new things that would draw in more business. And if giving away some of the junk was the way to do it, then fine.

  She’d finished removing the precarious stacks from one long wall and was moving to start on the next by the time the customer left with a sack full of books, only two of which had come from the bargain table.

  Keeva closed the cash drawer and said, “This might work.”

  Ambrose continued to shuffle along like a turtle but Sam and Bridget didn’t slow down. Within thirty minutes they’d removed the immediate danger.

  “Help Ambrose go through these,” Sam suggested to her young assistant. “Keeva, what do we have that would make a good window display?”

  “Children’s books? They’re bright and colorful.”

  Sam pondered. “Are there any about Halloween? It’s coming up in a month, and kids love it.” She thought of the hundreds of cookies and cupcakes she moved through the bakery during October.

  Keeva brightened. “I like that idea. I’ll find them.”

  The only thing going for the children’s section of the shop, Sam discovered, was that someone had thought to shelve the books in the lower spaces so kids could actually see them. She joined Keeva and started pulling everything out, sorting by age group as she went. They pulled a few classics that Sam remembered reading to Kelly as a child, along with an assortment of picture books that had especially bright covers.

  “I think we should clear everything out of the front window and fill it with these,” Keeva said. “What if I make a sign that says ‘Children’s Book Week’? We can create our own occasions, can’t we?”

  Thank you! Some fresh ideas.

  Sam let Keeva work on the window while she rearranged the children’s book section, placing the covers facing out on as many books as possible
and grouping them by reading level. She was nearly finished with them when she felt a presence behind her.

  “They look nice,” Keeva said. “Your uncle used to do little things like that. I suppose we all grew to depend on him for ideas and when he could no longer stretch and bend as he once did . . .”

  “You will find lots of new ideas, yourselves,” Sam said, loudly enough for all to hear.

  “I thought you had no bookshop experience,” Bridget said, walking over to admire the new arrangement.

  “It’s not so different from a bakery, when you think of it. We display the things with the most eye appeal, make new items according to the seasons and holidays—you know, that sort of thing.”

  Keeva’s new signs were getting some notice and soon two young mothers were browsing the children’s books while another customer worked her way across the expanse of discounted titles. Even Ambrose’s surly expression had relaxed into something that nearly resembled a smile.

  Sam put the stepladder away and discovered a teakettle in the back room. She filled it with fresh water. Treating someone to a cup of tea was as well accepted here as at home, she’d discovered.

  “Speaking of bakeries,” she said when Keeva walked in, “is there one nearby? I’d like to have some fresh cookies on hand. People will stay in the shop longer if we give them a treat.”

  She put on her jacket and followed Keeva’s directions to a tiny place one street over. While she pointed out shortbread, jam thumbprints, and cutouts tipped in chocolate she also had the clerk add a few of their more unusual varieties—research for some new things Sam could include at Sweet’s Sweets when she got home.

  Back at the bookstore, she’d begun to rummage for the tea in the storeroom when she heard a familiar voice.

  She peeked out into the shop to see Beau greeting the staff. Bridget looked a little nervous, perhaps sensing that he brought news of her uncle. Ambrose warmed up when Beau took a moment to compliment him on the neatness of the table display.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Sam said when he walked toward her. “I’m making tea. Did you notice the new window display?”

  “I did. Three kids were standing there, faces to the glass, so I guess it’s working.”

  She made a show of crossing her fingers. The kettle whistled and she switched it off, lining up the cups on the shelf they used as a worktop.

  “So? Was Lambert willing to talk to you?”

  “A bit. The fuss down at the dock was what we thought. The lifeboat from the Glory Be was brought in. He said it had some abrasions on it and was taking on water. One of the American men was treated for mild hypothermia—he’d gotten dunked in the water and it was pretty cold out there.”

  “Any word about Darragh O’Henry?” She lowered her voice to a mere whisper.

  “I should speak privately to Bridget about it.”

  “Oh, no. He’s—”

  “Not been found. But that may be the good news.”

  Sam gave him a puzzled look but he didn’t say more. “Let me get her.”

  She picked up two cups of tea and carried them out for Keeva and Ambrose, then signaled Bridget to join her. Beau found two folding metal chairs and motioned the young woman toward one of them.

  “Your uncle hasn’t been found yet,” he began. “So there’s still hope. The Garda are contacting your father right now, and I offered to tell you what’s being done.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Last night they located the lifeboat from the Glory Be. Two American men were aboard, cold and miserable, but alive.”

  “The passengers Uncle Darragh was to take fishing.”

  “Yes. That’s the story they gave. They also gave false names when they arranged the trip, so the police still have a lot of questions for them.”

  “So they’re being held in custody?” Sam asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s my uncle?” Bridget’s normally small voice became even quieter.

  “We still don’t know,” Beau told her. “That’s why the Garda are holding the Americans. The two of them . . . well, they’re claiming that Darragh and Sean took them out to sea and abandoned them.”

  Sam stared at Beau. Were her suspicions about Sean true then?

  Bridget’s face went white. Then her lip began to tremble. “They’re saying Uncle Darragh left them for dead? It can’t be. He’d never do that!”

  Chapter 9

  Bridget stood abruptly, knocking the metal chair backward. Sam grabbed for it before it clattered to the floor. The young woman’s eyes flashed. “My uncle would never harm anyone!”

  Sam tried to wrap her mind around this new possibility. Of course the O’Henry family would stand behind Darragh, no matter what. They might even think that Beau would automatically believe the Americans, although Sam knew that Beau didn’t automatically believe anyone. His nature and his profession taught him to find out the facts before making assumptions.

  “Bridget, calm down. Let’s think rationally about this.” Sam looked up at Beau and got a little nod of verification. “No logical person would believe that a boat captain would abandon his own boat and turn two strangers out in the lifeboat. I mean, where would Darragh have gone? It doesn’t make sense.”

  She kept her voice reasonable and calm and found Bridget responding in kind. Sam set the chairs in place and suggested Bridget sit, but she was still too keyed up.

  Beau reached into his coat pocket and brought out some folded sheets of printer paper. “The detective made copies of some pictures and asked me to show them to you. He’s showing them to your parents too.”

  Bridget took the pictures and held them apart, shaking her head after a few moments.

  “Do you recognize them?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve never seen either of them.”

  She started to hand them back to Beau, but Sam reached out and took them.

  The two men hardly looked like the types who would be buddies off on a fishing trip. The younger one was a black guy, probably in his early twenties, with close cut hair and chocolate eyes. He looked scared in the photo, as if he were completely surprised at being held by the police.

  The other mug shot showed a white man who might be anywhere from thirty to fifty, with the rough complexion that comes from long experience with smoking and drink. His head was shaved; there were silver studs in both ears; the short-sleeved jailhouse jumpsuit revealed heavily tattooed arms. He stared at the camera with an expression that said he wasn’t worried—he’d beaten other raps and would beat this one too.

  Neither photo had a name attached.

  “Smith and Jones?” Sam asked.

  “Presumably. They didn’t have ID on them and so far they aren’t talking. The younger one was taken to the hospital for hypothermia but was being released a little while ago. Lambert felt pretty confident that they would get him to talk. He doesn’t seem to have the same worldly indifference as his cohort. Their prints were taken and I’d bet money that it won’t be long before there’s a match.”

  Sam studied the photos for another minute. Something seemed familiar but she couldn’t pin it down. She handed the pages back to Beau.

  “Beau, you said that the Garda were talking with my parents?” Bridget’s voice had become tiny again. “I should call them and be sure they’re all right.”

  Sam nodded. “Take the afternoon off if you want to.”

  The girl sent a grateful look toward Sam, pulled on her coat and left.

  “So, what next?” Sam asked Beau.

  “You look pretty busy here,” he said. “So if it’s all right, I think I’ll go back to see if the detective could use my help.”

  Sam smiled. She felt very certain that the Galway police could adequately handle their case, but she knew that Beau was at loose ends. He almost never took time off work; law enforcement was in his blood. Lambert would send Beau away if he didn’t want the help. And who knew? Maybe having an American lawman on their side could open some d
oors when dealing with their American suspects. She assured him that she could stay occupied for a few more hours, then sent him out the door.

  She arranged the bakery cookies on a plate and carried a tray of tea things to the other room.

  In the sales area Keeva was happily drawing more signs. “I thought we might try labeling certain of the books as Staff Choices,” she said, holding up some small cards she’d designed.

  Sam complimented her on the idea.

  Ambrose had just completed a sale and Sam was pleased to see that he actually wished the customer a good day as the lady walked out.

  “How are things going?” she asked.

  “Steady.” His mouth did a little twist. “Actually, it’s been a better morning than we’ve had in awhile. Terry would have been pleased.”

  “I wish I’d known my great-uncle. I know my mother has fond memories of him.” She leaned against the counter, toying with one of the bookmarks that some publisher had provided as promotional items.

  “He was a kind man. A good sense of humor. Sometimes, though, he’d put you to the test.”

  “I suppose we all do that sometimes. You worked for him so many years. It must be hard to see things change.”

  The old man’s expression softened a bit, as if he appreciated her acknowledgement of his feelings. “It is.”

  He cleared his throat and opened the cash drawer to put a credit card receipt inside. Sam sensed that the moment of openness had ended. She stood straight and walked over to help Keeva with one of the display tables, pleased to see that the books were now dusted and set out so the covers showed well.

  Apparently, the bright children’s books in the front window were doing their job. Two young mothers, each with two kids, came in and asked about specific titles. Keeva stepped over to assist and Sam took over dusting and setting up books on the big table.

  She found her mind drifting back to the situation with Darragh O’Henry’s abandoned boat. Whose blood was on that wheelhouse? And the two men whose photos Beau had just shown her—why did they look vaguely familiar?

  She and Beau had barely reached Galway before the silent trawler was towed in, so it didn’t seem logical that she’d seen the men here in town. With Bridget in the room awhile ago, Sam hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Beau if the men looked familiar to him. She would have to do that.