“What about the third man, Farrell?” Beau asked. “Isn’t the FBI still after him?”
“I’m sure they would accept our help, but we’re understaffed. The man might not even be in Ireland by now. He could have hijacked another boat and got his way to England or the Continent by this time.” Lambert gave a frustrated sigh. “Right now my Chief Superintendent is pressing to charge the two we have and get on with it. Greenlee already said in questioning that Furns shot the captain. Furns may turn on Greenlee before it’s all said and done, but I’m ready to put paid to the whole mess. Either way, doesn’t matter who actually fired. They’ll both go to prison and I’ll have the time to work some of the other cases that are stackin’ up on my desk.”
Sam thought about the missing cash and diamonds and felt disappointed—she had pictured what it would be like to come across a bag of gemstones and open it to find all that dazzle.
Chapter 15
“I better call Bridget,” Sam said when Lambert had hung up.
Before Sam found the listing among the thousand or so O’Henrys in the directory, the room’s telephone rang. Bridget’s small voice seemed tinier than ever.
“Beau and I are so sorry about your loss,” Sam said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Thank you. We’ll get through it. Mum and Dad are at the funeral home now, making arrangements. The removal will be this evening. It’s something like a viewing or a visitation in America, I think, if you’d like to come.”
She gave the name of a funeral home and its location, which seemed easy enough to find. Sam promised to be there and ended the call with reassurances that Bridget not worry about taking a few days off work. She placed the receiver in its cradle and turned to Beau.
“So. Now what? The police are content with their suspects. And I’m not especially in the mood to go to the bookshop.”
Beau had been shuffling the sightseeing brochures that had lain all week on the desk. “It would be a shame to waste a sunny day. Take a drive?”
They ran through some of the itineraries but most were day-long trips and they were already getting a late start. Getting back in time for the visitation might be tough.
“How about this walking tour through the city’s historic areas?” she suggested. “It wouldn’t hurt us to learn more about the town.”
“And a charming old cathedral or fort would be more interesting than a police station.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say it.” She laughed and reached for her pack.
Beau pulled out the brochure and they oriented themselves, discovering that they could walk the two long blocks toward the train station and large park known as Eyre Square to start where the brochure’s author suggested they should.
Most of Galway’s population seemed to have the same idea about the beautiful day. The sidewalks were crowded and every restaurant that could eke out a space for outdoor tables had done so. They came to the popular square ringed by vendors with food stands and bright flags fluttering in the light breeze. Beau read from the brochure—the area had once been the public market and in medieval days was the site of public hangings. Over the years it was renovated many times and, in 1965, had been officially renamed for John F. Kennedy. They took a moment to read a plaque at the site of the old gallows before walking on.
“Watch ahead for a bank,” Beau said, checking the brochure again. “It was actually a castle that dates back to the 1300s.”
It was easy to spot and, once inside, Beau became fascinated with a series of panels that described the castle’s history, but Sam found herself thinking again about her inheritance as they got closer to the shopping district.
“So, now that it appears the police are done with the mysterious Glory Be, I guess the other pressing thing is for me to decide what I’ll do about the bookshop,” Sam said as they left the bank and walked side by side along the wide pedestrian mall. “I brought the papers the lawyers want me to sign, but for some reason I haven’t brought myself to do it yet.”
“Isn’t that their building?” Beau asked, pointing with his brochure toward the glossy black door beside the jewelry shop.
Sam stopped, regarded the door, felt disgusted with herself for being so indecisive. Even more so, she felt impatience with the whole situation and the lawyers for being so cagey about it. “Let’s pop in,” she told Beau. “I feel like a confrontation with Mr. Ryan.”
“Good idea.” He led the way and they walked into the law offices to find Mick O’Connor talking on the phone at the front desk. The receptionist was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll call you back later,” O’Connor said to whoever was at the other end. “Samantha, good to see you again.”
She thought it came out much the same way he might tell his dentist he was happy to arrive at an appointment.
“I thought you were in London,” she said.
“I was, and I’m due back there in the morning.”
“I need to talk to you,” she said with a glance toward the hall that led to the private offices.
“Sure, sure.” O’Connor motioned for them to precede him. When they’d seated themselves he spoke again. “Now, what may I do for you?”
“I still want the copies of the shop’s financial records. I should have the right to examine them in detail before agreeing to accept ownership.”
The lawyer tented his fingertips and smiled warmly. “All the records will be yours, Samantha. It’s no problem. But one of the provisions of the will is that you sign the agreement before taking possession of any of the assets. Those records are one of the assets. I am truly eager and willing to help you with this.”
She felt her frustration rise again. “Mr. O’Connor— Let me donate the shop to the charitable trust my uncle set up. I don’t need it for myself, I would be happy to help out a good organization . . .”
Beau piped up. “I’d like to know more about this charitable trust. You haven’t even told us the name of it—what charity it benefits. There’s no valid reason I can see to withhold the name and certainly no reason not to let Sam donate her portion of the inheritance to it. It’s charity, for pete’s sake.”
It crossed Sam’s mind that there might not be a charity—what if the lawyers had found a way to split the house and property away from the rest of the estate? But that didn’t make sense either. They could have stolen it all without ever contacting her in the first place. She certainly would have never known the difference.
“All will be revealed, in time,” O’Connor said, his friendly smile turning oily.
“There isn’t much time,” Beau said. “We leave Ireland in a few more days, and I’m pretty certain that my wife doesn’t want to travel back here to haggle over this any further. If the estate has to go into some sort of court process, well, so be it.”
For the first time, the lawyer’s smile slipped a fraction.
“Good day, Mr. O’Connor,” Beau said, rising.
Sam stood and they saw themselves out, ignoring the half-hearted sputters from the lawyer.
“He’s definitely hiding something,” Beau said once they were out of the building. “Did you see the way he put that smile quickly back in place but there was worry behind his eyes? He doesn’t want to see the thing go to court, but he’s under some kind of pressure to get you to sign those papers.”
A band of steel tightened around Sam’s head. “I need a coffee. Can we get something and just continue our walk?”
Nothing about this inheritance made sense, she thought as Beau went into a small café and ordered two takeaway coffees. Either the laws were very different here—a possibility—or her uncle’s lawyers underestimated the American drive to understand what they were getting into. Or, perhaps Terrance O’Shaughnessy didn’t have much of a head for business and really thought that his American niece would be so thrilled with the bequest that she wouldn’t mind signing anything they asked of her. At any rate, the whole thing made her head pound.
“Here we go,” Beau said, ha
nding her a cup. “You okay?”
“Just a headache. Nothing that this coffee, three aspirin and being done with the bookshop wouldn’t cure.”
He steered her toward a bench in a shady spot near a candy shop. “Do you have pain pills in your pack? I can go back in and get some water.”
“I’ll be all right. I should have known that I wouldn’t get anything out of O’Connor. It’s not like I haven’t already tried that. I’ll have to decide—maybe I should just sign the stupid papers and deal with the consequences later.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’m not doing anything rash. As you said, those guys want this thing finalized way worse than I do.” She sipped the strong brew and felt her tension ease. “Let’s finish our walking tour. Maybe there will be time for a quick nap before we have to change clothes and go to the funeral home.”
By the time they’d seen two cathedrals and finished a nice lunch on Quay Street Sam’s head was much better and she almost felt relaxed.
“Let’s just head back to the hotel,” Beau said. “The only thing on the walking tour that we haven’t done is to walk out Nimmo’s Pier.” He pointed. It was the area where they had walked a few nights ago, this time teeming with people out to enjoy the wide grassy areas in the sunshine.
By the time they reached the Harbour, Sam felt her feet dragging. She pulled the drapes to darken the room, crawled under the duvet and was out almost immediately, leaving Beau to watch some kind of action show on TV with the volume turned to nearly nothing.
She awakened to a quiet room, Beau snoring softly beside her and she realized with a start that the viewing at the funeral home would begin in a few minutes. She rolled over to give Beau a gentle kiss before she got up and headed for the shower.
* * *
Funerals were so difficult. Sam cringed, all her life, every time she had to attend one, and it wasn’t only the various church services that set her teeth on edge. Call it a funeral, memorial, wake or removal—it was the whole process of saying goodbye to someone you loved dearly or, as in this case, watching others stricken by grief.
A small crowd stood outside Hardiman’s Funeral Home, mostly salty men with sun-creased faces who chatted in low tones and smoked cigarettes. Beau nodded to them as they passed through the group and walked up two stone steps into a room of dark wood paneling and plush carpet. Sam spotted Bridget and her mother, greeting newcomers and pointing them toward a side room where she caught a glimpse of a closed casket and several rows of padded chairs.
Bridget hugged Sam and shook hands with Beau. Maeve offered her hand and gave a stoic smile. “Dad’s with Aunt Ava, in there,” Bridget told them. “Sean’s family are gathering in the other viewing room.”
Sam’s gaze followed the tilt of Bridget’s head and she saw another space, identically set up. Beside the closed casket she could see a large framed photograph of a young man who looked barely out of high school, with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. An innocent, after all. Sam felt a momentary twinge for having briefly suspected him.
“We’ll go in and pay our respects,” Beau said to the women, taking Sam’s elbow.
“Thank you for coming,” Bridget said.
William O’Henry’s face had settled into a basset-hound arrangement of deep creases in recent days. His eyes looked puffy, more so than Sam remembered from their first meeting. He rose from his chair beside the casket and shook hands with both of them, thanking them for coming.
Next to him, a thin woman swathed in black introduced herself as Ava O’Henry. Darragh’s widow’s face clearly bore the ravages of recent days—waiting through days and nights when he was missing, to receiving the awful news yesterday. She raised tired eyes and accepted their condolences quietly.
Sam noticed that the other mourners would walk over to the polished wood box—some placing their hands on it—and pause for a few moments of prayer or silent thought. She followed suit, hoping during her private moment that those responsible for the fisherman’s death would be brought to justice.
A girl of about thirteen pointed toward a side table where tea and sandwiches were being served. Sam accepted a cup of tea and when she spotted Ambrose, seated in a chair near the back of the room, she walked over to join him.
“Closed casket,” he said with a jut of his chin toward the front of the room.
“I understand the body was—a little roughed up by the elements,” she said under her breath.
A wrinkle formed across his forehead. “Wouldn’t otherwise do it this way, would they?”
“Did you know Darragh O’Henry?” she asked.
“Not well. Only through Bridget and her father, really. But it would be an insult to the family if I hadn’t at least stopped by.” He popped the final bite of sandwich into his mouth. “The same for you, I imagine.”
Sam nodded.
Ambrose carried his plate away and left without saying anything more to Sam. He was out of sight by the time she thought that she might have asked him more about her uncle’s funeral. Sam glanced around, realizing she’d lost track of her husband.
The viewing room had become crowded so she set her tea cup on a table full of empties and set out to find him. In the lobby Bridget and Maeve continued to greet newcomers. Sam spotted Beau near the door to the other viewing room, the one where Sean Bareth was laid out, speaking with an elderly man in a dark suit. By the white flower in his lapel and the discreet gold-tone name badge, she guessed he might be the funeral director. She walked over to join them.
“Ah, here’s my lovely bride now,” Beau said. “He noticed that we are American and asked about our stay in Galway. I’d just told him you were here because of an inheritance from your uncle.”
Sam and Mr. Hardiman shook hands.
“You may have handled his funeral,” she said. “Terrance O’Shaughnessy.”
He blinked quickly. “Ah, yes, and his dear wife Maggie. He purchased a double plot so they would rest side by side, you know. She was a lovely woman, very active in the church I attend. She passed more than twenty years ago. Very sad for him.”
“Where is the plot?” she asked.
“Kew Gardens, I believe.” He sounded a little unsure.
She thanked him and they took a moment to express condolences to Sean’s family before leaving.
“I want to go out to that cemetery,” Sam said. “Let’s drive out there.”
Beau looked at the evening sky. “Wouldn’t tomorrow be better? By the time we find out where it is and then negotiate these streets, driving on the wrong side of the road . . .”
She saw the sense in waiting—a quiet evening at the hotel did sound inviting—but it was difficult to tamp down her impatience until morning.
Luckily, the good weather held and since Beau had spent part of the evening locating the graveyard on a map and plotting out the route, they arrived while the birds were still chirping a daybreak song from the many trees that rimmed the grassy area. A stone wall enclosed the few acres of neatly placed headstones, and a small building of the same material housed a little office. Sam tapped at the door and was almost surprised when it opened.
“I’m interested in locating the grave of a relative,” she said after they introduced themselves to an efficient-looking man in a suit and tie. Evidently, he dressed to impress the mourners more than the residents in perpetual rest.
When Sam gave Terry’s name, the man turned to a very modern metal filing cabinet and opened a drawer.
“Aye, it’s here. Mr. O’Shaughnessy purchased a double plot when his wife passed. He planned to occupy the other half when his time came.”
“Which was about six months ago,” Sam said.
He wagged his head back and forth. “I don’t have that in my records.”
“What do you mean?”
“The file here doesn’t show that we buried Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
“Could he have changed his mind and opted for cremation?”
“I supp
ose it’s possible, but it’s not very common here. Older people, especially, they’re rather traditional in their thinking, you know.”
Sam thanked him somewhat absently as her mind was reeling with the new information. No wonder Ambrose was chafing over the treatment he felt Terrance had gotten at his funeral. What kind of scam were the lawyers trying to pull with her uncle’s estate?
Chapter 16
Back in the car, Sam pulled out her cell phone. She had to get to the bottom of this. She punched in the number for Ryan and O’Connor, made her requests, hung up frustrated.
“Mick O’Connor is back in London,” she told Beau. “Daniel Ryan is supposedly in a meeting. You heard me ask that he call back. Any bets on whether he will?”
He grinned at her and started the engine. “I’m not touching that one.”
“Beau—do you think you could find Uncle Terrance’s house again? Someone is caring for the place, or someone from the trust might be there. Maybe we can just bypass the lawyers and get a look around.”
He’d started to back out of the small parking area at the cemetery but he pulled back into his spot and picked up the map.
“I remember that the street name was Woodgrove Lane. Seems the address was a low number . . . four hundred something, maybe?” She edged over to get a look as he ran his finger over the part of town that they remembered from their one trip there with Mick O’Connor.
“There’s Woodgrove,” he said. “It’s not far from here.”
He traced the route with his finger and put Sam in charge of navigation once they got on the road again. Some of the intersections on the map were roundabouts that were not well marked. After taking a wrong turn at one of them and asking a cyclist for clarification, they found themselves on Woodgrove Lane about thirty minutes after they set out.
Beau cruised slowly along, trying to spot house numbers, until Sam recognized the Tudor. He rolled to a stop at the curb.
“Look!” she said. “A car just pulled into the carriage house.”
7 Sweets, Begorra Page 13
