7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  O’Connor pulled a small key fob from his pocket and used the single key on it to open the front door.

  They stepped into a wide, dim foyer with glossy hardwood floors. Beyond, she could see a formal living room with windows that showed gardens behind the house. A staircase rose to the left, carpeted with a floral-patterned runner and bordered by a heavy railing and balusters. Other doors along the foyer were closed.

  “Beautiful,” Sam commented. “May we have the full tour?”

  “Oh, no. The charity, you see. If your shop records exist, they’ll be found in the study anyway. No need to bother with the rest of it.” He opened the first door on the right and ushered Sam toward it.

  She bit back a retort which, she had to admit to herself, was half based on envy anyway.

  Terrance O’Shaughnessy’s study revealed itself to be a real man’s room. Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, heavy red drapes, and a massive desk. The latter held a telephone and blotter with a matched set of pens in a stand. Otherwise, the top was bare. Bookshelves lined two walls, but they were hardly jammed with rare editions. Most of the titles seemed to be about real estate investment, economics and politics. Between the books were a variety of little collectible objects, all tucked behind glass doors with locks on them. A small fireplace in one corner looked as if he had used it regularly.

  Sam felt another twinge of jealousy. Why had she, as the favorite niece, been left a crummy old store in severe decline, while the real value of the estate had gone to some charity that no one would name? She stopped herself. She certainly didn’t begrudge the charity anything that would help them, and she couldn’t very well lay claim to her uncle’s possessions when she hadn’t even known he existed until a few weeks ago.

  “Now just here,” O’Connor was saying, “in these drawers would be the business records.”

  He pulled open one of the four file-sized drawers, running his thumb through the tabs. “No, this one appears to be household bills.”

  The next drawer revealed what he was looking for, so he left that one standing open and indicated that Sam could sit in Terry’s leather swivel chair and take a look. On the mantel, a clock ticked—the only sound in the room.

  Sam sat down and pulled out the first folder from the drawer. O’Connor bustled about, getting Beau to sit in one of the leather chairs, then he took the other one—the one closest to the door. Sam suppressed a sigh and directed her attention to the contents of the folder. The top page contained a list of the bookshop’s furniture and fixtures, something Sam could have almost produced herself after a day in the shop. It was dated a year ago. Behind that sheet she found others, each dated December of the preceding year, each nearly identical but for the addition or subtraction of an item or two.

  The next folder in the drawer had an inventory of the books, but as it was dated nearly two years earlier there was no way it could be very accurate now. Another folder held a sizeable stack of paid bills—two years’ worth. Since he had owned the shop close to forty years, there must be boxes of such receipts in storage somewhere—perhaps in the attic of the house—unless older ones were destroyed after the passage of some time.

  At last she came to a folder of financial records, standard profit and loss reports prepared—judging by the signature line at the bottom—by Tom Mitchell, the accountant she’d spoken to. She scanned to the bottom line. The little business had netted less than ten thousand euros per year, after expenses, for its entire existence.

  Sam glanced up at the men, who were quietly conversing about fishing. Apparently, O’Connor was right—Terry had owned the store because of a love of books, certainly not for the income.

  One thing was certain, she couldn’t justify even so much as one trip to Ireland per year to keep the shop going. The weight of the obligation settled over her.

  “Mr. O’Connor?”

  He chuckled at Beau’s last comment and looked up at Sam.

  “Since the business is mine, I assume these records are too?”

  “Absolutely. The minute you sign the papers accepting title to it.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small folded sheaf.

  She sighed. This question just wasn’t going away. She nodded. “Okay. Give me the documents so I can study them thoroughly tonight.”

  She began stacking the files on top of the desk.

  “I can’t release these—”

  “We can come back for them tomorrow, if it’s that important.”

  His mouth twitched for a second. “I’ll locate a box. The files will be at my office.”

  The moment he left the room, Sam looked at Beau. His eyebrows flicked up and down a couple of times. He mouthed the word ‘later.’

  She turned away, noticing for the first time some of the items inside the glass-enclosed bookcases. A wooden object caught her attention but before she could get out of the chair and take a look, O’Connor was back.

  “Here we go, then,” he announced. He set a large cardboard carton on the floor beside the open drawer. “Load up whatever you need.”

  What I need is to know how I’m going to operate a no-profit business without actually being here. But she tamped down the thought and began stacking manila folders into the carton. At least this was a start on figuring out what to do. When it came time to sell the business, after her two-year sentence was up, she would need these records.

  The lawyer watched her but didn’t offer to pitch in. When the carton was full he stood back so Beau could pick it up, then he herded them out of the study, out the front door (which he locked immediately) and down the stone front steps to the car. He opened the trunk and watched Beau set the carton in.

  “All right then,” he said as he started the engine once they were all safely inside. “Where can I drop you? Bookshop? Hotel?”

  Sam felt the long day weighing on her. “The Harbour Hotel, I suppose.”

  They got out at the curb and watched the silver car pull away.

  “You’re pooped, darlin’,” Beau said, rubbing at the back of her neck. “Do you want to go straight to the room or grab some dinner first?”

  “Once I sit down I’ll never want to get up again.”

  “I spotted a little Italian place, about a block from here,” he said. “We could try that. Or I would be happy to order room service while you’re in the bathtub, if you’d rather.”

  He was so considerate. She dithered for a second. “You know, a walk would do me good. I’ve been inside my head too much today. It would be good for me to clear it before I have to sit down with this document.”

  She tucked the pages O’Connor had handed her into her pack and they set out. The scent of tomatoes and oregano wafted out of the restaurant before Beau opened the door. Inside, the place was tiny—eight small tables—but the patrons seemed happy and the food in front of them looked wonderful. Within minutes they had a bottle of red wine and had placed their orders.

  “This afternoon was a little weird, didn’t you think?” Sam asked after they toasted each other.

  “Those lawyers are hiding something. Holding back access to the records, pushing you to sign the papers, and then not even showing you around your uncle’s house.”

  “Yeah, what’s with that?”

  He bit at his lower lip. “I don’t know. I wish I had some way to do background checks on them. It’s hard. I’m used to having a lot of resources at my fingertips. Here, it’s not so easy. This charitable trust, for instance—did you see any mention of it among the paperwork you looked at today?”

  “Not a thing.” She fiddled with her silverware. “I don’t really have a concrete reason to believe this whole thing is shady. I mean, we did check out the law firm through the American attorney who first notified me about the inheritance. On the other hand . . .”

  He nodded. Their waiter showed up with steaming plates—lasagna for Beau, ravioli for Sam. At the first bite, Sam nearly wilted with pleasure. The sauce was exquisite.

  “I know,” Beau said. “I jus
t can’t figure out why all the tippy-toeing around.”

  “Maybe it just seems that way because things are done differently here.”

  “Or maybe because neither of us ever had an inheritance. We don’t know what the procedure should be. It just feels odd.”

  She grinned at the truth in that. The wine and good food were relaxing her.

  Above the small bar at the back of the restaurant a television set had been broadcasting the Irish news, the volume muted. Sam glanced at it once in awhile, happy to have other topics break her constant train of thought on the lawyers and the bookshop. Her ravioli were perfectly cooked, the cheese melting in her mouth with each bite. She gave one of the pasta disks to Beau. When he didn’t immediately respond she realized that his attention had drifted to the TV.

  “Huh,” he said. “Look at that.”

  The written dateline showed New York, and the running commentary at the bottom read: Jewel theft believed to top $14M.

  Sam realized her plate was empty and the wonderful meal had settled her into a tranquil cloud. She drained her wine glass and watched Beau finish his lasagna, then they strolled back to the hotel. With every intention of studying the papers Mick O’Connor had given her, Sam stretched out on the bed but it only took moments before she drifted off.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Sam was already seated at the room’s small desk when Beau emerged from the shower. The sheets of legal paper were spread out in front of her.

  “It looks pretty simple,” she said, enjoying the view as he dressed. “I agree to accept ownership of the bookshop for a minimum of two years. I’ll receive no operating money other than what the store generates, and I relinquish any and all claims to any other part of the estate.”

  “Which could leave you with a giant money drain if you can’t make the store profitable.”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s the thing . . . from the quick glimpse I got of the profit reports it looks like the store has always made a small profit. My guess is that while Terry was there to oversee things, it was a popular place. I just can’t figure out why Ambrose hasn’t kept it up. He’s been there long enough to know what to do.”

  Beau reached for the document she’d been reading. “This looks like something that was drawn up by the law firm, but your uncle’s signature isn’t on it. It’s almost like anyone could have written this up and asked you to sign it. At the very least there should be a reading of the will or you should get to see a copy of it, to be sure these terms are definitely what your uncle had in mind.”

  Good point. She refolded the sheets and placed them in the room’s safe, searching her jewelry box for a pendant while she was there, and locking up after everything was stashed away.

  He continued, “Last night I was thinking about Ryan and O’Connor and wishing I could get more background on them. Well, since I’ve got a connection now with the police department, maybe we should pop by there. Lambert might let me do some research with their computers.”

  “I like it. Let’s go.”

  They decided to stick with the lighter offerings at the breakfast buffet this morning and to walk the six blocks rather than take their car. Sam noticed her jeans becoming harder to button each day while Beau, as always, had no trouble with his. She growled a little as she put an apple and dry toast on her plate.

  Forty minutes later, they were on Bridge Street, crossing the Corrib, with the Garda station in sight. When Beau asked for Detective Lambert they were told he would be out of a meeting in a few minutes.

  “Place seems to be buzzing this morning,” Beau said under his breath.

  True, Sam sensed the energy in the air as plain-clothes detectives and even the uniformed officers bustled about with purpose in their steps. Joe Lambert came out of a room at the far end of the corridor and ducked into another. After five minutes he came out and headed their direction, giving Beau a weary smile as he approached.

  “It’s fair hoppin’ here, I’ll tell you.” He held out a hand to Sam.

  She noticed that the skin around his blue eyes seemed puffy, as if he hadn’t slept.

  “C’mon back,” Lambert said, turning to lead the way.

  They walked into a situation room where the energy zipped through the air. White boards on the walls were filled with scrawled notes, and photographs were tacked alongside. One board seemed devoted to the case of the abandoned Glory Be. Sam noticed photos of the boat, the missing Darragh O’Henry and his crewman, plus the two suspects who’d been found drifting in the trawler’s lifeboat.

  Another wall, it seemed, was becoming the focus for a new case. Fewer notes, no photos, yet a half-dozen men and women—detectives, Sam assumed—milled about, taking notes from the information on the board, talking among themselves. A younger man, dressed similarly to Lambert in dark slacks and tweed jacket, approached with proper deference. He had a plain face with ruddy cheeks and abundant blond hair combed back from his forehead and tucked behind his ears.

  He handed a sheet of fax paper to Lambert, who introduced him as Sergeant Aiden Martin before stopping to read the page. When Lambert looked up he turned to Beau.

  “Bit of excitement in America in recent days,” he said.

  Sam went blank for a moment but Beau remembered. “The jewel robbery? We saw the headline on TV.”

  “The media are all over it,” Lambert said, “but the police in New York are trying not to let all the information get out. What they’re saying is that a diamond wholesaler, Jacob Goldman, was nabbed on the street and forced to let the robbers into his shop to open his safe for them. The thieves had enough information to know what time to do it so that the time lock wouldn’t keep them out. Completely cleaned out the poor old man, beat him badly and left him for dead. His son, who’s a business partner, was away at a trade show and didn’t discover the robbery until he got back to the city that night. The senior Mr. Goldman is in hospital now, still unconscious.”

  “And what they’re not saying . . .?” Beau asked.

  “These guys were good. The robbery happened days ago and police still don’t know for certain how many thieves there were. At least two, possibly three or four. They left precious little trace evidence. They got away with millions in diamonds and other gemstones, plus a lot of cash. The number that’s being bandied about by the reporters doesn’t come close. The total take was probably over twenty million dollars.”

  “Marked?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The firm had just made several large transactions and hadn’t logged the serial numbers on the cash. According to the son, Richard Goldman, his father was taking the cash to the bank that morning as soon as he arrived at the shop. Richard says he’s been trying to get his father to switch to electronic fund transfers for their sales but the old man is very old-school in his attitude about those things. We’ll hope that doesn’t prove fatal for him.

  “The other thing they’re not saying on the news is that there was one crucial piece of evidence. A tiny piece of latex glove. And a blood stain on the doorknob. The blood wasn’t Mr. Goldman’s. It belongs to one of the thieves.”

  “So they’ll have DNA evidence to convict the guy if they can just catch him,” Beau said.

  “Precisely.”

  Sam wondered why the Galway police were even following the case but Lambert seemed to have read her mind.

  “There’s more. A partial fingerprint was taken from the piece of latex glove. It’s only a wee bit but they hoped to match it.” He held up the fax page. “That’s what this is about. The print is about sixty percent certain to match a known felon named Quinton Farrell. Farrell is in his fifties, last known residence is New York, and he tends toward high class stuff like financial fraud and he is known to travel internationally.”

  Beau glanced around the room. “You think he may have come to Ireland?”

  “Possibly. Farrell has family in Ireland, so we’ve been put on alert throughout the republic that he might contact them.”

  Lambert lai
d the fax on his desk and reached for a stained mug. “Oh, sorry. Terrible manners. Would you like a cuppa?”

  Sam and Beau both declined.

  Aiden Martin, the young sergeant, rushed over as the senior detective was setting his tea mug down.

  “This just came by fax,” he said a little breathlessly. “Shall I put it on the board?”

  Lambert reached out to take what Sam could see was a photograph. He studied it a moment and handed it over to Beau.

  “That’s him. Quinton Farrell.”

  Sam edged closer and looked at it. There was something vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place the man with the ruggedly handsome face and dark hair with touches of gray at the temples. It could simply be that she watched too many Robert De Niro movies. Beau handed the sheet back and Aiden carried it to the wall where information on the new case was slowly being fleshed out.

  Beau started to tell Lambert the real reason they’d shown up this morning—to see if he could use a computer to run some background verification on the law firm representing Sam’s uncle—and Sam found herself drifting in the direction Aiden Martin had taken. The collection of information about the jewel heist was still skimpy but filling out as information specialists added new tidbits that came in.

  In contrast, the boards with information on the abandoned Glory Be had quite a lot of forensic information, along with the photos of the trawler and the lifeboat, maps showing where the two craft had been located, and the shots of the two survivors who’d been picked up. Were they innocent fishermen who’d somehow been caught up in a boat trip gone wrong? Or did they have a hand in the disappearance of Darragh O’Henry and Sean Bareth? A close-up shot of the blood on the wheelhouse attested to the probability that there wasn’t an innocuous explanation for the fact that the boat’s captain and crewman had never come home. Sam thought of Bridget and her parents, the worry on their faces.

  Behind her, she heard Beau’s voice; he would be at Lambert’s desk using the computer. As she turned toward him, something else caught her eye. Quinton Farrell. Hank Greenlee. Ted “Trucker” Furns.