7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  She stayed in the bookshop long enough for Keeva and Ambrose to each take a lunch break, then made her excuses and set out to meet Beau. His text message had said: hotel or lunch? She’d replied with: meet at dock 2:00. So that was where she headed now.

  She spotted him, half a head taller than most of the other men on the sidewalk, walking toward the bench where she’d decided to sit when she arrived first.

  “Hey, darlin’,” he said, his familiar smile grabbing her heart.

  “I’m guessing that you have some good news,” she said.

  “We got the identities on the two Americans.”

  By the way he said ‘we’ Sam could tell he was enjoying the fact that Lambert was letting him in on the local case. She spotted a hot dog vendor about a block away and suggested they grab a snack since they’d both worked through the lunch hour. They set off in that direction.

  “So, the black guy’s name is Hank Greenlee. Age twenty-one. One conviction for participating in the armed robbery of a convenience store in New Jersey. He was nineteen at the time and the judge went pretty easy on him. Two years, part of it suspended, and a little time off for good behavior in Rahway.”

  And he ends up in Ireland, hiring and then abandoning a fishing trawler? She pondered it while they ordered hot dogs and the old man behind the counter handed them over. They carried their food to a bench that faced the water.

  “The guy with all the tattoos is Ted “Trucker” Furns. Thirty-two years old, born in Brooklyn,” Beau said through a bite of hot dog. “He has a long rap sheet—the guy’s been in trouble since his teens. Served two simultaneous sentences for bank robbery and got out six months ago.”

  “Did Hank and this Trucker guy meet in prison?”

  “The US authorities are still checking on that. At first glance it wouldn’t seem as if they served time together, but you never know. Guys like that gravitate toward each other. They might have been in a holding cell somewhere, or maybe they just met up on the streets.”

  Sam nodded. She took a bite of her hot dog. It wasn’t the best she’d ever had, but it would tide her over until dinner.

  Beau scarfed his down, probably without tasting. “Get this. During the interrogation, Hank said something about a third man, a guy named Quint. Naturally, when Lambert asked Trucker about this Quint, he wouldn’t say a word.”

  “But still—”

  “Birds of a feather and all that . . . yeah. It’s quite possible that the three know each other. The New York police are checking a variety of databases to see if there are warrants out on any of them.”

  “So maybe Hank Greenlee gave a good lead?”

  “Could be.” He wadded up the hot dog wrapper. “We should be able to piece it together soon.”

  “We?” she teased. “So Detective Lambert is hiring you?”

  Beau made a face at her. “Let’s just say he hasn’t kicked me out yet. I actually think I’ve been of some help to him. The New York jurisdiction seemed more willing to work with a small town American lawman than a small town Irish one. For whatever reason.”

  “You’re having fun at this!”

  “Well, yeah. It’s good to see how another department works. I’m learning things too.”

  She grinned at him.

  “But I’m not going to work through our honeymoon,” he said. “As long as you don’t.”

  She was not going to allow this to become a controversy between them. Even though she had to devote some time to the bookshop, if only to figure out how to get rid of it, she had no plan to spend all of her days there.

  “Tell you what,” he said, draping an arm across her shoulders. “Let’s get that rental car and check out the countryside. We have the rest of the afternoon and evening for a quick trip somewhere. Then tomorrow we’ll plan a full day away.”

  She answered him with a kiss.

  The concierge at the Harbour was happy to get them a car, which was delivered almost as quickly as Sam and Beau gathered a few things from their room. The man provided them with maps and directions for a few sights along the way.

  “The coastline is spectacular,” he told them. “Take the N67 to the R478 to get to the Cliffs of Moher. The view is spectacular. From there you can go through Doolin, get on the 477 and follow the coast for miles. Or you might want to circle back, just so,” he said, drawing a line on the map, “and visit the Burren. People are always astonished when they see it. Just be careful—some of those tour buses are quite large and places in the road are fairly narrow.”

  Beau spent a few minutes getting accustomed to the right-hand drive controls before he pulled out into traffic. Shifting with his left hand and watching for traffic from the right kept him alert, and Sam pressed tightly into her seat until they’d cleared the tight streets of the middle of Galway and made their way to the first of the highways where traffic moved as quickly as on any American interstate. By the time they’d reached the open countryside they had both relaxed into simply enjoying the vivid green scenery.

  A little more than an hour later they began to emerge on the rise that revealed the stark gray-brown cliffs, which dropped more than seven hundred feet to the sea. They parked and walked to the viewing area. A visitor center with gracefully sloping windows peeked out from the hillside behind them, a building nearly hidden in the earth. In the distance Sam could see the Aran Islands and a ferry boat heading toward them. Heavy gray clouds hung low over the horizon and a brisk wind came off the sea. Up the coast toward Galway waves crashed against the massive rocks.

  Standing at the barrier at the edge of the cliffs, Sam was struck by the sheer force of the ocean and the vast length of the coastline. Whatever had happened aboard the Glory Be, there were literally hundreds of miles of open water where the crew and passengers might have ended up.

  Beau placed an arm around her shoulders. “Wow, huh?”

  She had a feeling he was thinking the same thing about the fate of the small trawler.

  They walked toward the visitor center where they found comforting cups of tea. “I wish we had time to stay and explore all the displays,” Sam said as they carried their paper cups to the car. “Maybe on another day, before we go home.”

  Inside the car, Beau studied the map while they sipped their tea.

  “I think there’s time to get around to this Burren area before dark,” he said. “Shall we?”

  Sam found herself wishing they had more time to see everything. Of course, Beau could ignore the fact that he’d become involved in the case of the Glory Be and completely turn tourist, but how could she walk away from the bookshop her uncle had willed to her? She really needed to resolve that situation before she left the country.

  Beau put the car in gear and they started east toward Doolin, a charming crossroads town of B&Bs and hostels, with the bragging rights of being the capital of Irish traditional music. With no time to check out that attraction, they made a southeasterly loop, following a road that took them directly north.

  “Somewhere along in here is a dolmen called Poulnabrone . . .” he said, scanning the sides of the road. A small car-park appeared with only one other vehicle in it. “Out there, I think.”

  The sun was low in the sky behind them as they walked across the flat, rugged landscape that made up most of this area known as the Burren. A lone shaft of light came out of the clouds, illuminating the rock dolmen ahead of them. Two upright stones held a larger, flat one on top, as if the structure were a giant’s trestle table.

  “According to the brochure, this was excavated in 1986 and they discovered the remains of about twenty adults and six children. None of the adults had lived beyond the age of forty,” Sam said, reading from the pamphlet he’d brought with them. “I imagine that was an eerie find.”

  While they stared at the gray rocks, clouds again obscured the sun, almost in answer to her observation.

  “Can you imagine how hard a life it would have been here?” Beau said, surveying the miles-wide expanse of flat, rocky ground.
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  A chill wind came from the north and they felt the first spatters of rain. They made their way back, noticing tiny purple and white wildflowers that struggled in the small cracks between the rocks. Back in the car, they turned the heater on and started north. Rain pounded the windshield and it was slow going as darkness set in on the narrow road. Beau visibly relaxed when they came to the main highway again and he turned toward Galway.

  “Want a little break from driving?” Sam asked. “Ballyvaghan is just ahead. We might grab something to eat.”

  The tiny town seemed to consist of restaurants, hotels and gift shops, with a sprinkling of homes for the local people. Its location was apparently the ideal spot to catch everyone who’d spent a day hiking the cliffs or walking the rugged Burren, and a signpost with multiple arrow-shaped markers directed drivers toward various sights, shops, and nearby towns. They quickly found a pub that didn’t look too crowded and within minutes were settled at a table near a cozy fire.

  “I know I said that I had to cut back on the meat and potato meals,” Sam said, looking at the menu. “But there’s something about that shepherd’s pie that sounds irresistible.”

  “You’re right—I’m having it. I guess all that fresh air did a number on my appetite.” Beau went to the bar and ordered the pies.

  Outside, darkness had fallen, creating blurs of light as rain streamed down the windows and bounced reflections from passing vehicles. Their meals arrived and they lost themselves in the enjoyment of the hearty food.

  “I love it, but I can’t finish all this,” Sam finally said. She glanced over at Beau’s plate. He didn’t seem to have the same problem.

  A lively band was tuning up in the opposite corner but Beau suggested they get back on the road. They probably had at least another hour to drive.

  “Luckily, the rain has stopped,” Sam said as they walked toward the car. They’d discovered it was tricky enough negotiating the roundabouts in clear daylight; many of them didn’t have a lot of information posted.

  Beau stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pointed toward an open field about a half-block away. “Look at those.”

  Under the protection of a large tree sat a wagon of some sort. It looked like a big round barrel set upon a square wagon bed with large wooden-spoked wheels. A set of wooden steps led up to a door, which had a small curtained window near the top and a round metal knocker in the center. The whole thing was painted bright red, with decorative wavy lines done in white, and yellow trim around the roofline. Sam’s first thought was carnival attraction but as she watched, a little girl came out, pushed the door shut behind her and raced over to another, similar wagon, this one painted yellow with blue trim.

  “They’re like old-fashioned campers,” she said.

  “Those’d be the Travellers,” said a passing woman. Her tone turned derisive. “Gypsies. Tinkers.” She hurried on, away from the small encampment.

  Sam looked at Beau with raised eyebrows. Obviously, these Travellers weren’t always well regarded, even though their homes were quite picturesque.

  Beau tilted his head toward their rental car and they were soon on the road again. By the time they reached the outskirts of Galway, Sam was nodding in her seat, waking every few seconds and wondering if Beau was feeling the drowsy aftereffects of their comfort-food dinner in the same way. He located the hotel’s parking garage and guided Sam toward the elevators.

  In their room she took time for a hot shower before bed, wondering where those Travellers normally stayed. Maybe nowhere specific—it was probably why they were thought of as gypsies. While Beau showered, she hung their clothing in the closet and got her wooden box out of the safe so she could store her earrings and bracelet.

  As she opened the lid of the box, a scene flashed before her—a crowded place with announcements over a PA system. Two men standing in a nearby line looked familiar. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold the vision but it rapidly began to fade. As the scene blurred she focused on the faces, but the man’s tattooed arms stood out. One of them was almost certainly the American suspect from the picture Beau showed her earlier in the day—“Trucker” Furns.

  Chapter 10

  Sam’s cell phone rang while they were eating breakfast. She immediately recognized Bridget’s childlike voice.

  “Sam, are you coming to the shop this morning?” her voice was shaking.

  “I can.” Sam looked at Beau. They had talked about driving toward Dublin today, but hadn’t set a time to leave. “What’s up?”

  “I think there has been another visitation. The things we did yesterday are all in a mess.”

  A visitation? From faeries? Sam held her comment back.

  “I can be there in a half hour. Don’t clean it up yet. I’d like to see just what happened.”

  She clicked off the call and passed along the information to Beau.

  “They trying to pull some kind of leprechaun-sneak on you?” he said with a grin.

  “I don’t know. It could be something like that.”

  She hadn’t told Beau yesterday how she suspected that Ambrose was behind the mischief. As the day went on she’d almost gotten a feeling of acceptance from him. The manager seemed to run hot and cold, though, and she had no idea how far he might go to get Sam to give up on the business. If only it weren’t for that clause in the will, about Sam keeping the shop for two years, Ambrose would get his wish immediately.

  “I guess I should get over there,” she said, laying her napkin across her near-empty plate. “I’ll try to make it quick, so we can still do our tour.”

  He signed the meal tab and stood up. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got time.”

  She gave him a kiss. In truth, she would bet that he would get in touch with Detective Lambert to see what was going on with the mysterious Glory Be and the two American suspects. She’d tried last night to recreate the vision of the man, Furns, and figure out what it meant, but nothing had come to her. She hadn’t mentioned it to Beau.

  The first thing she noticed at the bookstore was that the new front window display was completely gone. Behind the small glass panes a bare wood shelf greeted the eye. She found Bridget and Keeva inside, staring despondently at a large trash can filled with books. Some of the dust jackets were ripped and brown liquid that looked like coffee had been spilled over them.

  “What’s this?” Sam demanded.

  “It’s what they’ve done this time,” said Keeva with a sigh. “We found them like this when we arrived.”

  “They’re the books we’d placed in the front window,” Bridget said. “All those lovely little children’s stories.”

  “Where’s Ambrose?” The question came out more sharply than Sam intended.

  “I’m right here,” he said, emerging from the storeroom with a mug of tea in hand.

  “Who came in first this morning?” Sam asked. “Who found the books?”

  “I did,” said Keeva, “followed shortly by the others. We were all here within five minutes of opening time.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical or to place blame,” Sam said, massaging her forehead. “Just trying to figure out what happened. Does anyone else have a key to the store?”

  “I do,” Ambrose answered, with a challenge to his voice.

  “Terrance had one,” said Keeva. “Mr. Ryan probably gave it to you, Sam. And I do.”

  “I wasn’t issued one,” Bridget said, “but there was no need. The others are normally here first before me anyway.”

  “Aside from this destruction being caused by faeries, does anyone have any ideas?” Sam bit her lip and forced her sarcasm back.

  Ambrose shot her an angry look but Keeva and Bridget only shrugged. She fought back a wave of hopelessness. It was bad enough that the shop wasn’t in good shape; she really didn’t need the employees pulling pranks against her, too.

  “Okay. Let’s get this cleaned up. Bridget, see if any of the books are still clean. Pull them out, wipe off the dirt and . . . what
ever that is.” She pointed to the brown stains. “Put them into two groups—those that are in new condition and those we might be able to sell at a discount.” She turned to Keeva. “Make new signs for the window. We can’t let it sit empty all morning. We all saw how a better window display brought in more business. We have to do it over.”

  The women set about their tasks. Sam stepped over to the counter where Ambrose was sitting on the stool behind the register, sipping his tea.

  “It seems that someone other than any of us has a key to the shop,” Sam told him, keeping her voice even. “I’d like to have the locks changed.”

  “There’s only the one door,” he said. “It should be an easy matter.”

  Well, at least he didn’t argue against the idea or go into a snit, thinking she was accusing him.

  “Would you mind calling someone? Tell them we need the job done right away.”

  “Certainly.” He pulled a telephone directory from under the counter and opened it.

  Sam left him with that task and walked over to the large table where Bridget and Keeva had dragged the heavy trash can and were pulling books from it.

  “Most of them should clean up just fine,” Keeva said. “The brown liquid looks like it’s mostly been taken up into this paper toweling. I’ll get busy re-making my signs.”

  So whoever poured it might have done it only for effect, not to actually ruin the books. Sam dampened some clean paper towels in the bathroom and brought a stack of dry ones to the table. Together, she and Bridget had the books sorted and most of them cleaned up within an hour. It looked like only six books were damaged badly enough to warrant discounting them.

  The locksmith arrived, installing a new deadbolt quickly and asking how many keys they wanted. Ambrose stared defiantly at Sam.

  “Four,” she said. “Please.” She returned Ambrose’s gaze.