7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  “Ambrose was just—”

  “He was rude—no excuses.”

  She regarded him from the corner of her eye. “How did you know this? A fly on the wall?”

  “Ah—nearly that good. Two gossipy women. Anna was charged with getting information on my behalf.”

  “But I never saw her in the shop.”

  “She and her sister enjoy a glass of stout together almost every night. Anna would see me to bed after my supper, slip out for an hour or so for a break, come back in time to stay the night in her room here and tell me all about what was going on in my shop the next morning over breakfast.”

  Sam had another thought. “The pranks. Once we began fixing up the shop, there were two occasions where our work was torn apart. I kept looking for signs that Ambrose was secretly doing it to run me off.”

  “Anna again, my dear. All part of the test. I was curious how each person would react. Would they fall upon each other, blaming all around? Would the incidents escalate as one of them tried to outdo the other? Would you throw up your hands and flee the country?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t help my case if I admit now that I nearly did walk away from it.”

  “You, my dear niece, passed every test. You showed calm in the storm, organization in the face of chaos, unflappability when it seemed the place was infested with leprechauns and faeries. Yes, even that little bit got back to me. Keeva and her superstitions—ha!”

  Sam sat back in the chair, shaking her head in amazement. “You are quite the orchestrator, for a man in his nineties.”

  “Ah—I was quite the orchestrator in my younger years, too.”

  “So, what happens now? Is it still a condition that I own the shop for two years?”

  “Samantha, I know better. I would never ask it of you, to make you leave your new husband behind and stay here to keep a bookstore running.”

  “He will be most appreciative of the consideration.”

  Terry chuckled again and set off another small coughing fit. “I’m an old man, Sam,” he said after another sip of water. “I wasn’t supposed to last this long, and I can promise you, the next time you hear of my death it will be the real thing.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re so sharp. You have a wonderful sense of humor.”

  His eyes rested for another moment. “If one could only live a hundred years on one’s humor. Unfortunately, the body gives out and believes otherwise.”

  “You’re tired and I’ve stayed too long,” she said. “I want you to tell me what to do, but we should save the talk for another day. Maybe I can come back tomorrow?”

  “Do not wait too long,” he said, his eyes coming open again.

  She considered that. “Okay, there is one question that I have a feeling only you can answer for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “There’s a wooden box in your bookcase in the study, carved, with some small inset stones.”

  A smile crept over his face. “I know the one. It’s special in some way, isn’t it?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Ah, a rather long story.”

  She could tell his energy had completely faded. “Tomorrow, then. I want to hear all about it when I come back.”

  His eyes closed again and he nodded.

  Sam stood and kissed his cool forehead. “I’ll get Anna, in case you need anything before you go to sleep.”

  Downstairs, she found Anna and Daniel Ryan at the kitchen table, empty tea cups in front of them. The daylight had faded and Sam was surprised to see that it was nearing mid-afternoon. She’d missed lunch with Beau and hadn’t heard from him—he must have stayed busy somehow.

  “Anna, my uncle may need you. He was getting very tired and I hope we didn’t overdo the visit.”

  “I’m certain he loved every minute of it,” she said. “It was the reason he’d gotten out of bed in the first place. He heard voices and when he learned it was you, he wanted to go down and find you.”

  Clearly, Terry’s trying to negotiate the stairs would have been impossible.

  “How did we not know he was here the other times I came to this house?”

  “When you were with Mick O’Connor it was arranged that the visit would take place during Terry’s nap.”

  “Mick was very secretive with me. Now I understand his obstinacy about not letting me see the place.”

  “When you and your husband drove along that other time, it gave me quite a fright. I wasn’t certain Terry would still be asleep. I couldn’t be sure but I hoped that you didn’t figure out that you hadn’t seen nearly all of the upstairs rooms.” She stood and went to the door. “I’ll be seeing to Terry now.”

  Sam gave Daniel Ryan a steady stare. “It’s a good thing I got this chance to hear all this from my uncle. I wouldn’t have appreciated the humor, once I learned the truth, if I’d gotten it from you or Mick.”

  He started to say something but when Sam’s phone rang he got busy clearing the tea things. She didn’t recognize the number on the readout.

  “Is it Sam?” the female voice said over the phone. “It’s Saoirse here. In Tuam.”

  Sam walked out to the front hall, hoping to keep the call private.

  “Yes. Have you got new information for us?”

  “I believe so. It’s about that American man, the Farrell.”

  Daniel Ryan had come into the hall, jacket over his arm.

  “I’d like to call you back later, if that’s all right,” Sam said. Saoirse agreed.

  The lawyer stayed quiet during the drive back to the center of town, and she was too busy mulling over everything Uncle Terrance had told her to initiate conversation. As they came to the dock area, she informed Ryan of her intention to visit Woodgrove Lane again the next day. He delivered Sam to the curb in front of the Harbour, offering to drive her in the morning if she wanted him to.

  Over-helpful after stonewalling all this time? She gave a noncommittal response and went up to the room, which was dim and empty. Beau must have found an errand to keep him busy. She filled the kettle with water and flipped its switch, setting up a mug and teabag, looking forward to a few minutes’ quiet. She was eager to tell Beau about her afternoon but still had a lot of information to process.

  While the water heated, she dumped the contents of her pack on the bed, determined to lighten the inevitable clutter that seems to grow inside every purse or bag that a woman carries. Spotting her cell phone she remembered that she’d promised to call Saoirse back. She looked at the number but dialed it on the room’s landline rather than incur the high international rates on the cell.

  “You asked me to let you know if I heard word of the Farrells,” Saoirse said as soon as Sam identified herself. “My son tells me he heard they’ve taken up with another camp on the north side of Galway. Or maybe it was the northeast . . . we come from the Limerick area, ourselves, and I’m not so familiar with the popular places here. I don’t know if the one you’re lookin’ for is with them, but maybe this helps.”

  Sam thanked her for the information, a little surprised that a Traveller would talk so openly.

  Chapter 22

  The kettle let out a ribbon of steam and shut itself off. Sam poured the boiling water over her teabag and dunked it up and down with the string. Maybe Saoirse was so willing to talk to them because she wasn’t a native part of the Tuam group? Or maybe she was just hoping to be included in the article Sam was supposedly writing. Either way, it was potentially good information that Beau could pass along to Detective Lambert, especially if they had a way of establishing for sure that Quinton Farrell was with the Travellers, before they gave the lead to the police.

  She looked up to see the door opening.

  “Hey, darlin’. Glad you’re back. I’ve got a lead on Quint Farrell—want to come along?” He rushed into the room and picked up his jacket, his face alight with the excitement that she recognized whenever he felt that a case was breaking. She scooped everything back into her pack, abandoned
the freshly brewed tea and trotted to keep up with him on the way to the parking garage.

  “I never did like the story Deirdre Athy gave us when we talked to her the first time,” he said as he unlocked the car. Twice, she opened her mouth to tell him about discovering her uncle alive, but Beau had already started the engine by the time she opened her door. Her news would keep awhile longer, she decided.

  He went on, almost breathlessly. “So I went poking around the docks and found where she’s working now. Got the chance to talk a little more.”

  “So she knew more about Quint Farrell this time? Did she tell you where he is?” If so, why wasn’t he handing this to Detective Lambert, rather than checking it himself?

  He circled the block around the parking garage and pulled to the curb across from the marina, where masts of sailboats bobbed gently on the early evening swells.

  “The little white building up there,” Beau said, pointing. “Seaward Charters. It’s where Deirdre works now. They close in fifteen minutes and I’m betting she’s going to lead us to something interesting.”

  Sam passed along the information she’d just gotten from Saoirse, about the Farrell family relocating somewhere around the north side of town. “Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to have any solid information as to whether Quint would be with them. It does seem funny, though, that they decide to pack up camp right when he shows up in the country, don’t you think?”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes on the front door of Seaward Charters’ small office. “Yeah, but to come to Galway? Scene of the crime . . . local police on alert. Wouldn’t they likely go much farther away?”

  That made sense. Saoirse’s information might be worthless. Or, another thought, it could have been given with the intent of throwing them off the trail. Sam realized her thoughts were going circular—she was hungry and tired. She wanted to slide down in the seat and close her eyes, but she forced herself to snap awake and concentrate. Somewhere along the way, surely she could talk Beau into feeding her.

  “What makes you think Deirdre will contact Quint tonight?”

  “It was more in her manner than what she actually said. She got real edgy when she saw me again. Remember when we talked to her that day, when she was clearing out her stuff, how she seemed very cooperative about all the little details of the charter, up until we started getting specific about Quint? Then she stalled and I could tell she was lying.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Well, this afternoon she really got jittery when I walked in. I could see it in her face that she regretted letting me know that she would be working nearby. And regretted saying as much as she did about the three Americans. I would bet that she’s been in touch with Quint since that day. He’s promised her something . . . I don’t know. But my gut tells me that he’ll try to see her again. He didn’t think twice about putting Jacob Goldman into a coma. Deirdre’s life could be in danger if she knows too much about Quint.”

  Sam considered that. Only a handful of people had direct contact with Quint Farrell since he’d arrived in Ireland—Darragh O’Henry and Sean Bareth were dead. Hank Greenlee and Trucker Furns were in jail, awaiting trial. Only Deirdre was walking around free, with information about Quint in her head. Unless she gave testimony to the police and then went into hiding—soon—her life wasn’t worth much.

  “There she is,” Beau said, starting the engine.

  Deirdre headed up the street, away from their car, crossed at the next light and walked out of sight behind an apartment building. Beau cruised slowly to the corner, turned and spotted her nearly a half block ahead. An impatient motorist tooted his horn at their slow pace, dodging around them when Beau gave him a little leeway.

  “Not easy,” he said, “trailing someone on foot this way. I had assumed she would get into her own car and I could match her speed.”

  In Taos, where people rarely lived within walking distance from of work and where they drove their cars to go two blocks, his idea would have no flaws. Here, Sam realized, Deirdre could do nearly anything: hop a bus or train, stop for food, do some shopping, or simply go into any of the apartments or small row houses that lined the streets. They got their answer when she walked into a pub called O’Leary’s.

  “Now what?” she asked Beau. “Wait for her to eat, drink and be merry? This could take some time.”

  He drove past and pulled to the curb, eyeing O’Leary’s in his mirror.

  “How about this—I’ll go in and get us something to eat,” Sam said, “see if it looks like she’s staying awhile.”

  “Most pub food doesn’t exactly come in takeout boxes,” he reminded her.

  Her hand was already on the door handle. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Sam—don’t let her spot you.”

  True, Deirdre would know her face; they had met on more than one occasion. Sam remembered a scarf among the jumble in her pack. She fished around until she felt it, and draped it over her hair. Carrying only a few euro bills, she hoped the look was different enough that Deirdre wouldn’t immediately pick up on who she was. And even if the woman should spot her, Sam could always make light of it, claim she’d just been out for a walk in the neighborhood.

  The small pub was packed for happy hour or teatime or early diners, or whatever they called it here. A quick scan assured Sam that Deirdre wasn’t seated at the bar, where she would almost certainly be forced into a conversation with the woman. She spotted a display of packets of potato chips, pretzels and such which would provide an excellent excuse for her visit. She walked up to the barkeep and asked for two bags. While he plucked them off the rack and made change, Sam turned to give the room a gander.

  Deirdre Athy was seated at a corner table, her chair facing the room. She looked up, a smile lighting her face and Sam noticed a tall man with dark hair. He approached with a heavy limp and spoke to Deirdre. She laughed at whatever he said and he pulled out the chair across from hers. It was Quint Farrell.

  Sam felt her heart rate pick up. Beau could nab him, right here.

  Her hand shook as she snatched up the two bags of pretzels and took the change the barkeep offered. She concentrated on not running out the door. At the street, she rushed to the car and yanked open her door.

  “He’s in there!” she told Beau. “With Deirdre at a table in the corner—at the right side of the room. She didn’t see me.”

  Beau, to her disappointment, didn’t leap out of the car.

  “What should we do?” she demanded.

  “Hold on. What we should do is call Lambert and tell him Farrell’s location. Get in the car, Sam, so we don’t call attention to ourselves.”

  “But Lambert isn’t even after Farrell any more,” she said as she closed her door. “He said so himself. He’s concentrating on gathering the evidence against the other two.”

  “Yes, but Farrell is still an FBI-wanted felon. They’ll be depending on local authorities to apprehend him on sight.”

  “So, call!”

  He held out his hand for her phone, dialed Lambert’s number, came up with voice mail. “That’s not going to work. The man is just too busy.” He punched 999, the local emergency number.

  “I’m an American law enforcement officer,” he began. After a couple more identifying codes that Sam didn’t really understand, he informed the dispatcher of the suspect’s name and location and told them he intended to keep Farrell in sight until their officers could arrive.

  “It’s the best I can do,” he said, handing Sam the phone. “Was this the only door to the pub?”

  She pictured the interior, trying to remember the layout. “I think so. It’s not a very big place.”

  He chewed at his lip, staring into the rearview mirror. Sam listened for sirens, watched for flashing lights—nothing yet.

  “I don’t like this,” Beau said. “I’m going to stand by the door so I can grab him if he tries to leave.” He leveled his eyes to hers. “You stay here. Do not move.”

  She felt a pout coming on.
r />   “I don’t want you hurt. He could very well be armed.”

  “Okay. But I don’t want you hurt either. Be careful, Beau.”

  She turned to watch him walk toward the lights of the pub. Still not a siren in earshot. She fidgeted and ripped into one of the pretzel bags, stuffing two of the crunchy sticks into her mouth as she kept her eyes on her husband.

  Beau strolled slowly past the lighted windows, trying to look nonchalant, paused outside the door. A couple walked up and blocked Sam’s view for a minute. When they moved, Beau was gone.

  She jammed the pretzel bag into a cup holder on the console, ready to yank her door open, but when she looked up again, Beau was in the doorway of the pub, staring back and forth at the sidewalk.

  “They got away,” he said when she rolled down her window. “I took a quick peek—the table you described was empty. They weren’t anywhere in the place.”

  Sam’s earlier adrenaline rush drained away. “What now?”

  “I’ll talk with the police when they get here, tell them what happened.”

  That part of it took far too long, and Sam had consumed both bags of pretzels and paced the short stretch of sidewalk four times before Detective Lambert arrived.

  “So Quinton Farrell’s back in Galway,” he said. Stating the obvious. And showing up way too late.

  Sam tamped down her impatience.

  “My wife went in to buy a snack and spotted Farrell inside sitting with Deirdre Athy,” Beau said.

  Lambert seemed surprised. Sam wasn’t sure whether he’d worked so many new cases in the last few days that he’d forgotten details of this one, or if he’d never actually considered that Deirdre might be involved with the criminals and therefore partially to blame for Darragh and Sean’s deaths.

  “I’d like to help work on this,” Beau said. “We’ve met a few of the Travellers and might be able to offer some assistance.”

  “I can’t let you take it on your own. The press would have a field day and the courts might disallow some of the evidence.” He made a ‘halt’ motion with one palm. “And I can only spare one man. Aiden can work with you. And we appreciate your help.”