7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  Sam leaped out of the rental car and made a dash, calling out as she approached. “Excuse me?”

  The dark-haired woman stopped at the open garage door, a cloth bag over one arm and a plastic one in hand. Inside the old carriage house Sam saw another parked car, in addition to the one the woman had driven. The walls were lined with garden tools and expensive riding gear, all neatly hung up and organized. The woman looked up at Sam with a quizzical expression. Sam came up short—this surely was Keeva’s sister.

  “Are you Anna?” she asked, working to breathe normally after her little sprint. “I’m Samantha, Terrance O’Shaughnessy’s niece. I’ve been working with your sister at the bookshop.”

  “Oh, yes,” Anna said in a neutral tone. She glanced toward the house but turned her back on it as Sam spoke.

  “I was here the other day, with Uncle Terry’s lawyer, looking for the business papers on the shop. I guess you weren’t here at the time.”

  Anna continued to look at her.

  “I told the man I wanted to see the rest of the house, but there wasn’t time that day.” Sam hoped she was fudging the truth well. “So . . . could I see it now?”

  Anna’s eyes darted back and forth as she searched for an answer. “I’m really not supposed—”

  “Certainly. You want to keep the place clean and in good condition for the trustees, I’m sure. But I’m a relative and I was named in the will. I can show you my identification.”

  “That’s all right. I believe you. It’s only that . . .” Anna’s thought trailed off and she finally gave a what-the-heck shrug. She thumbed through the keys on the ring in her hand and aimed one of them for the lock on the back door. “Follow me.”

  The door opened into a service room, lined with wood shelving that held packaged household goods and large cooking pots. From there they entered the kitchen, modern by 1960s standards. Anna set her packages on a worktop and turned to Sam and Beau.

  “Well, I’m not certain what there is to see. It’s never been a grand house, by any means. I believe it was built around the 1930s and updated sometime later, when Mr. and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy bought it. I understand they never had children, so it was a somewhat large place for the two of them. I never knew her, myself. Only came to work for the mister here near the end.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “On behalf of our family, we’re grateful that you were here for him.”

  Anna actually blushed. “Well, here’s the kitchen, as you can see.”

  She opened a door into a large, formal dining room and let them take a peek. “These are the back stairs,” she said, turning to a smaller door at one end of the kitchen, “up to the bedrooms.”

  Sam started up them and Anna quickened her pace to lead the way. A long hall spanned the house.

  “These doors were always kept closed,” Anna said. “They go to bedrooms and bathrooms. A nursery that was never used.”

  Sam opened a door and peered in, seeing an average-sized room furnished with quality furniture as a guest room.

  “They’re all about the same. Quite nice, but not grand.” Anna opened a linen closet and showed them a small sewing room. “Ah, here we are at the main staircase.”

  She clutched the newel post, ushering Sam and Beau toward the stairs. A series of botanical prints lined the wall on the way down and they found themselves in the foyer where they’d entered on their previous visit, facing the leaded glass front door.

  Anna waved an arm in each direction. “Formal parlor, there. Dining room, just there. And at the back, a garden room—I suppose the English would say it’s a conservatory. It leads out to the gardens in back. Of course, by the time I came here Mr. Terry wasn’t well enough to go out much.”

  “What do you think the trustees of this charity will do with it?” Sam said.

  “Oh, I’ve no idea. Don’t know much about that at all. I’m just to keep the place dusted and tidy until someone comes along, I suppose.”

  They passed the closed door to Terry’s study on their way to the front door. Sam stopped and opened it.

  “There was something in this room that caught my eye the other day,” she said to Anna. “May I take a look?” She headed for the bookcases without waiting for permission.

  She hadn’t imagined it. There, behind glass, was the box. Carved of wood in a quilted pattern, with small stones mounted at the intersection of each X in the carving. It was about double the size of hers—the box given to her by the old woman in New Mexico. Otherwise, the two were nearly an identical pair. Sam felt the breath go out of her.

  The old woman had told Sam on her deathbed that the box was destined to be hers. That with it she would be able to accomplish good things. When she’d first handled it, though, the thing had sent something akin to an electric shock through her. And her life had not been the same since. Had the Irish uncle, about whom she’d known nothing, also been destined to receive one of these? The hairs on her arms prickled.

  “Can you open this glass door?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have a key,” Anna said, looking as if she wanted to herd Sam out of the room.

  “Maybe there’s one in the desk.” Sam started to turn toward it but Anna was in the way.

  “I’ve never seen one in there.”

  Sam edged past and pulled the center drawer open. Pens and pencils, an eraser, a notepad, a small calculator. She pawed through the drawer and the one adjacent to it. No key.

  “Sam?” Beau’s voice caught her attention from across the room. “Maybe we better be going and let Anna get back to her work?”

  The woman was looking a bit flustered and Sam realized that she’d probably come on way too strong.

  “Sorry. Of course. We’ll let you get back to your day.”

  Beau and Sam walked out to the car. “You were awfully quiet in there,” she said as he opened her door.

  “Just taking it all in.”

  “Did I get out of line in the study, trying to get into that bookcase?”

  “You were pretty enthusiastic,” he said with a chuckle. “What was in there anyway?”

  How could she explain being drawn to a carved object and the possibility that it could contain the same kind of magic as the one she already owned? More to the point, since she didn’t especially want the responsibility of the wooden box she had now, why on earth would she want another?

  “Just a keepsake,” she answered.

  “Well, I suppose if we can ever find out who to contact with this charitable trust, you might ask if they would trade their keepsake for a cute little old bookshop.”

  She laughed because he expected it, but she felt oddly drawn to the suggestion.

  “Look at that,” Beau said, aiming a finger at the dashboard clock in the car. “What time is the funeral?”

  Sam had forgotten her promise to Bridget that they would come to the wake, which was being held at Darragh’s home. What had she been thinking? Now they were locked into the Mass and burial as well, since they had no idea where the O’Henry home was or how to get there unless they followed the other mourners. The series of remembrances started at two o’clock.

  Beau steered back toward the hotel, where they quickly changed into their only somber clothing and they left again, heading for the cathedral across the river. After the formal service, the graveyard seemed full of quiet weeping as William O’Henry gave an emotional eulogy honoring his twin, not shirking the fact that Darragh had died before his time, at the hands of violence. Sam found herself holding her breath in hopes that he wouldn’t talk about how it was Americans who’d killed him. He didn’t.

  Keeva edged near to Sam at the adjoining cemetery. “If you’d like to ride with me to their home, you’re both welcome.”

  Sam glanced at Beau, who suggested they could follow Keeva in their own car. Relief. At least they could leave on their own schedule.

  Darragh’s and Ava’s third floor apartment demonstrated to Sam exactly how alike the twin brothers had been. Similar floor plans and f
urnishings, even a familiar smell to the place—furniture polish and lavender. Sam had noticed the resemblance between their wives when she met Ava at the funeral home but now, seeing the two talking quietly in one corner of the living room, she realized that they even chose the same style of clothing.

  Beau had remained behind to say hello to the men who’d gathered outside the front door, so Sam signed the guestbook for both of them. The home exuded mourning—draperies drawn shut, mirrors covered in black cloth, hushed voices. Women in the small kitchen were organizing sandwiches on platters and slicing cakes that had apparently been brought in by neighbors.

  Keeva had walked upstairs with Sam and she spotted her sister across the room. Anna walked over to join them.

  “I wanted to thank you again,” Sam said, “for being my uncle’s caregiver. I know you must have been a comfort to him. And thanks for showing us around the house earlier. I’m sorry if I said the wrong things, there in the study.”

  Anna gave a sideways glance toward Keeva.

  “It’s not a problem. Mr. O’Shaughnessy has always been a pleasure to work for. A fine man.”

  Despite her words, she seemed a little uneasy around Sam. Or maybe it was simply a restless energy that had the woman bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She excused herself the minute Bridget walked up.

  “Sam, thanks for coming,” Bridget said. “It means a great deal to my family.”

  She edged her eyes toward her father who seemed eager to get out of the houseful of women and join the men downstairs.

  Sam offered one of those standard platitudes—if we can do anything to help—but felt completely inadequate in the presence of their grief.

  “He’ll be wantin’ his stout—I’ll be right back.” Bridget went into the kitchen and emerged with a bottled drink that she handed to her dad.

  Sam made her way over to say hello again to Ava and Maeve, the two brothers’ wives, who were standing near the laden dining table although neither of them had a plate or cup for herself. Maeve pressed Sam to accept tea, but then Sam found herself hanging at the fringes of the room, knowing only a handful of people in the crowd and unable to escape until she’d finished the beverage.

  “There,” said Bridget. “He seems more at ease with the men.” She’d obviously walked downstairs with her father and come back up. Her petite features were flushed pink.

  “Dad seemed a bit put out with Deirdre Athy, however. I hope she— Oh yes, there she is,” Bridget said, craning her neck and spotting a blond woman who’d come into the living room. “Have you met her?”

  Sam recognized the name of Darragh’s office employee from the information that Detective Lambert had passed along to Beau.

  “No, we haven’t met,” she told Bridget. “Introduce us?”

  Bridget signaled Deirdre over and performed the niceties. Sam registered a woman in her forties with coppery blond hair and features hardened by weather and perhaps a bit of a rough life. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted off her clothes as they shook hands.

  “Your husband the tall chap outside?” she asked. “The one workin’ with the Garda?”

  Sam nodded. “I guess they’ve caught their suspects already. I hope that’s good news for everyone.”

  Deirdre asked Bridget for a bottle of the stout and when the younger woman had left she told Sam. “I hope so. I tell you, I’m not looking forward to giving evidence in court. But I know I’ll have to. They tell me I was the only one to see them when they hired the boat. Well, aside from Darragh and Sean, of course.”

  Her voice was a little too loud and Sam noticed that Ava’s mouth tightened.

  Sam sent a weak smile in her direction and turned the conversation to the fact that the weather had been very nice the past couple of days.

  Deirdre accepted the bottle Bridget brought her, and went into a little lament about how she expected that she would need to start looking for a job now.

  Maeve and Ava were both staring in their direction now.

  “Deirdre, would you like to walk downstairs with me?” Bridget offered. “It seems a bit stuffy in here.”

  Sam wished she’d thought of that sooner. She set her teacup down and followed them. When they reached the sidewalk, Bridget steered Deirdre down the street, pleading the need for a walk.

  William O’Henry’s voice caught her attention. “How can they let the third man get away?” he demanded. Sam noticed he was talking to Beau, but a half-dozen others milled around.

  “One of the suspects they have in custody has already named the other as the one who fired the shots.”

  “And I’d like to know how those Americans got a gun into the country anyway,” said another man, one Sam didn’t recognize.

  That led to some back-and-forth about how nearly all the guns in Ireland were hunting rifles, few handguns, so the Americans must have somehow brought theirs with them. A good question, Sam thought as she stood at Beau’s side, listening, but she also thought it was a little naïve to think that a criminal couldn’t get hold of a gun anywhere if he really wanted one.

  William O’Henry let the others go off on that tangent; he pulled Beau aside and spoke quietly.

  “Please help us,” he said, his voice tinged with desperation. “Even if they put the two away, we know there was this third man and we know he was aboard the Glory Be. He was involved. He should be brought to justice, too. It just isn’t right.”

  Chapter 17

  “What could I tell him?” Beau said that evening as he pulled his boots off in their room at the Harbour. “I tried making the point that I don’t have jurisdiction here or the time to really pursue this case.”

  “And then he begged . . .” She teased, reaching into the safe and putting her bracelet and earrings into the wooden box. A quick memory of its larger twin flashed by.

  “He did. And then when we went back in the house and the widow—”

  “Ava.”

  “Yes. She came up and thanked me because William said I would be trying to gather more information that the local police were ignoring.”

  “Did you set her straight? Or did you actually agree? I didn’t hear that part of the conversation.”

  His expression said it all. He was never one who could ignore someone in need. But there was something else, some little thing she couldn’t quite read.

  “Beau . . . what’s the rest of it?”

  He pulled on pajama bottoms. “Well, the office employee. Deirdre, I think was her name?”

  Sam nodded.

  “She was getting a little drunk there near the end, didn’t you think? Well, she said something that I’m not sure anyone else caught. She’d been yammering on about what she’d seen on the local news, about how there was still an unknown suspect out there who might be tied to a big jewel robbery in America.”

  “I didn’t realize they’d released the connection.” Sam crawled between the sheets.

  “Me either. We’ve stayed pretty busy without watching much TV news.” He gave her a little leer.

  “Beau—on topic.”

  “She was rambling on, but what I picked up from it was that these gypsy groups that move around the country—what did that other lady call them?—the Travellers? Anyway, Deirdre made it sound like common knowledge that they’re involved with fencing stolen property at times.”

  Sam remembered the brightly colored wagon they’d seen after their drive down the coast.

  “Anyhow, a few pieces slipped into place—Quinton Farrell supposedly having relatives in Ireland, needing a source for fencing the jewelry he’s carrying around with him . . .”

  “And you don’t suppose the FBI has figured this out yet?”

  “Most likely they have. But who knows? Maybe I can do a little checking and give them the tip that would help break the case open.”

  “Tomorrow, though—not tonight.”

  “Not tonight.”

  She rolled toward him and slid her fingers around the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “
Okay, now we can change the subject.”

  * * *

  Beau woke the next morning and declared that he would like to talk more with Deirdre Athy while they had the chance. Not exactly the ideal follow-up to their tender night, but Sam had to admit that she was also curious what Darragh’s former employee might have to say. They found her only a couple of blocks from their hotel, at the offices of O’Henry Fishing Charters, loading a cardboard box with her personal items, a lit cigarette dangling from one side of her mouth. There were puffy bags under her eyes but she seemed otherwise unaffected by the quantity of liquor she’d consumed at the wake.

  “Hi, Deirdre,” Beau said, leaning in through the glass door he’d pushed half open.

  “Well, hello yourself, handsome sheriff.” A tendril of smoke went straight into her eye so she set the cigarette against the edge of an ashtray on the desk. “Howarya today?”

  He ignored the comment and Sam edged forward to stand beside him. Beau eyed the carton and eased into the conversation by saying they’d been sorry to hear that Deirdre was losing her job.

  “Yeah, well, I guess that happens.” She dropped a potted plant on top of the collection in the box. “I’ve found another one already. Another boat captain. His wife isn’t crazy about the idea but he needs the help and she don’t want to answer phones all day. Too menial, I guess, for herself. All I have to do is carry my junk over across the way there and I start the job this morning.”

  Beau nodded. “Look, I know you’ve been over this a lot of times but could I ask you a little more about those men who chartered the Glory Be that day?”

  She gave a weary knock-yourself-out kind of shrug.

  “So,” he said, “two men came in and said they wanted to go fishing.”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me what you remember about them.”

  It sounded like a rote recital of facts she’d already repeated too many times. “Two guys, one black, one white—nice tats on that one.” Deirdre raised an eyebrow in Beau’s direction, until Sam cleared her throat. “Gave their names as Smith and Jones. I wasn’t paid to ask questions about that kind of stuff. Then they tell me they want to fish up around the northern shores of the Bay, but I kind of laugh and say they were misinformed, fishing’s difficult there—Darragh won’t go to places where he’s likely to lose all his gear tangled up in rocks. They kind of looked at each other and then decided to leave it up to the captain where to take them. They handed me cash for a full day’s trip.”