7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  Get the big picture, she told herself. She looked out at the flat horizon. I can do this all day. My father gave me a zillion of these little pep talks. She focused westward, down the shoreline that seemed to go forever, around one curve and then another. She sighed and took yet another step forward.

  And there, not another ten feet away, she spotted it. A black bag, with straps. Not quite the same as the dream, but she registered a moment of shock that she’d actually gotten it fairly accurately. She scrambled over the rocks and picked it up, dodging the incoming wavelet that splashed over the bag.

  Her heart raced as she stood up and turned to face toward Beau. His familiar form moved in the distance, now a small stick figure.

  I better be sure before I call him away, she thought. She held the bag close to her body and tugged at the zipper closure that ran the length of it. It was caked with sand and wouldn’t move. She thought of dunking the zipper in seawater, hesitated because, after all, there were probably diamonds inside. Then she chided herself. The thing had been in sea water for days. She couldn’t possibly do it any more harm.

  She held it in a firm grip and swished it in a small tide pool that had formed with the last outgoing wave. Most of the sand came off. She stepped a little higher, away from the waves, tried again to open it. This time the zipper slid, just a little.

  With small tugs she finally got it open enough to poke her fingers inside. She felt plastic bags, pulled one out. It did, indeed, contain diamonds. She stuffed it back inside, pulled the zipper shut and raised her fingers to whistle for Beau.

  “Don’t even try it,” said a voice from her left.

  Quinton Farrell stood there and he had a gun aimed at her.

  Chapter 27

  Screw this! The thought formed in the same instant that she blew the longest whistle she could muster. Beau turned. He was probably a half mile away. Over the rocky ground he would never make it to her in time.

  Farrell came at her, slowly, limping but keeping the gun aimed at her heart.

  Sam watched his eyes. The man was cold and dead-set on getting the bag of gems. For a split second she considered simply handing it over, letting him get away. Bridget’s face flashed before her—Quint Farrell had shattered that family’s peace. Not to mention the potential of young Sean Bareth or the loss to the Goldman family in New York. She couldn’t do it.

  Farrell’s eyes never left her face as he covered the twenty-yard gap. She weighed the possibilities but no matter what she came up with, she would never outrun a bullet. A wave lapped at her heel, the chill soaking into her sneaker.

  She could stall, but only until the sea took her feet out from under her.

  “Hand over the bag,” he said.

  Sam gripped one of the bag’s straps and held it at arm’s length, letting the pouch dangle over the foamy wavelets.

  “I’ll throw it into the sea,” she said. “Put the gun down or I’ll do it.”

  He was calculating the distance, wondering if he could make it to the bag before it would be carried away.

  “You do that and you’re dead,” he promised.

  Sam glanced toward the dangling pouch but she really wanted to catch sight of Beau. So far Farrell hadn’t acknowledged the sheriff, but Sam had no illusions that Quint wouldn’t shoot her and then take aim at Beau once he had the pouch. Another murder or two wouldn’t make much difference at this point. But Beau was out of sight. Where had he gone?

  “How did you figure out the pouch would be here?” she asked. “This country has a lot of coastline.”

  “You led me to it,” he said with a smirk. “I knew it had to be along this particular coast. Those gypsies told me where they found me—some old guy and his wife took me to their motor home. Once I chased around and figured out that they didn’t have my bag, it made sense that I’d lost it in the water or on this shore.”

  “So you bailed out of the trawler and just started to swim for it?” She had a hard time picturing the scene. The Glory Be had been found adrift miles south of here.

  “There was a dinghy tied to a private pier on some little island. I grabbed that, towed it along until I had the bigger boat well out to sea. Got in the dinghy along with my stuff and started her up. It was a good way to put myself miles from where the old guy’s fishing boat would have been bashed against those cliffs.”

  She waited, wanting to edge her gaze to the side to see where Beau was.

  “Stupid little thing ran out of gas. Like a mile offshore. But I’ve always been a good swimmer. Figured I could make it. I thought the suitcase with the cash would float, but it sank right away.”

  He stared out to sea for a moment and Sam briefly thought of running. But his attention was back on her in a few seconds.

  “I strapped the pouch around me, headed in. Damn rocks—by the time I got to shore I was so weak. Next thing I know I’m waking up in this couple’s camper and I got this huge cut on my leg.”

  Quint had regained his strength and stolen Deirdre’s car and now here they were.

  “You didn’t say how you knew to follow us.” Her eyes went to the right—where was Beau?

  “Your FBI guy—I’ve seen him go in and out of the police station. I saw you both show up at Deirdre’s yesterday.”

  He thought Beau was FBI. And they’d missed him by minutes.

  “An hour ago I started down from the road up there, saw you both prowling around . . . figured, what the heck, let you two do the work. Not strain this stupid leg of mine. I get my stuff back and I’m outta here. Won’t bother you a bit more once you give me what’s mi—”

  The fierce blast of an auto horn sounded, long and hard. Then a series of short blasts in a pattern. It might have been Morse code, for all Sam knew. She only knew that Beau had reached the car and was signaling someone.

  By the time Farrell turned around to see what was going on behind him, a dozen Garda officers were racing over the berm. Quint began to hobble toward Sam, his eyes on the bag. She snatched it close to her body and dodged his lunge. His toe caught on a rock and he went facedown into the shallow water. Without a thought she kicked his right wrist and jammed her knee into the small of his back.

  “Sam! Sam, let him up. You’ll drown him.” Joe Lambert was there, huffing.

  It wasn’t exactly true. The wave had receded enough for Quint to catch a breath, but it wouldn’t be long before the next ones came and the tide rose to cover the whole area. She let the detective take over. He directed two uniformed officers to handcuff Farrell and drag him up the bank.

  Sam followed. Once she reached the flat area on top, she saw that a dozen police cars had congregated. Beau’s eyes were scanning, looking for her and she ran toward him.

  “Oh, I guess you’ll need this,” she said, handing the black pouch to Lambert when he walked over to join them. “He thought you were with the FBI, Beau. That’s why he was both dodging us and keeping an eye on our movements.”

  Lambert opened the pouch and let out a whistle when he saw what was in it. “Begorra! This’ll make our evidence safe a richer place, at least until someone comes to take custody of it.” He pulled the zipper shut again.

  Across the grassy way, Farrell glared at them from the back seat of a cruiser. Its lights came to life and it roared off to deliver the master jewel thief and killer to his just reward.

  Chapter 28

  The debriefing, in which Sam had to relate everything Farrell had told her during the standoff, took far longer than she liked so it was with a quick step and a bit of fluster that Sam rushed into Hardiman’s Funeral Home for the viewing. She and Beau had raced through showers and quickly donned their only sets of mourning wear in order to be there.

  As Terrance O’Shaughnessy’s only relative, it fell to Sam to greet the visitors and observe the proprieties that had been missing the first time Terry died.

  Bookshop customers, employees, and a large contingent of those who had done business with Terrance O’Shaughnessy over the years crowded the fun
eral home. Blatantly missing were the former directors of the charitable trust Terry had formed and subsequently dissolved. Having their endowment snatched away had evidently caused some hurt feelings.

  Ambrose got his wish for the chance to say a proper farewell to his longtime friend and mentor. Sam left him alone with Terrance in the viewing room and he stayed quite awhile. Keeva, Anna and Bridget acted as hostesses, offering tea to those who’d already said their goodbyes.

  Sam caught up with Mr. Hardiman in a quiet alcove.

  “So, how did my uncle pull this off the first time, a fake funeral, I mean?”

  Hardiman shifted from one foot to the other, stalling. When he finally answered it made perfect sense.

  “He paid. I visited his sickbed at the house and he called in his caregiver and lawyer. He told me what he wanted to do and the witnesses confirmed it. I was aghast at first. Simply shocked. But—what can I say?—he pulled out a check and paid for two funeral services. I told him what we absolutely could not do—that was to file a false death certificate or to bury an empty coffin. His friend, Mr. Piggott, was very unhappy about it all, and I thought we might have a spot of trouble over it.” He cleared his throat a little uneasily. “I don’t want to say that I’m happy to see Terrance dead at last . . .”

  “But it’s made an honest man of you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I wish I’d had more chances to spend time with him,” Sam said. “He seemed a very caring person.”

  Ambrose emerged from the viewing room and approached Sam. Hardiman vanished into the woodwork somewhere.

  “Thank you, Sam. I’m so grateful for your thoughtful treatment of the situation. I’ll be happy to stay on at the shop and offer whatever help I can.”

  She thought of the will but didn’t reveal anything, thanking Ambrose for his part in making the funeral arrangements.

  The next day crawled—the funeral Mass at the church, burial beside his dear Maggie which touched everyone’s emotions, and finally gathering at Terry’s home for the remembrances and reading of the will. Sam had asked Daniel Ryan to wait until everyone but those actually named in the will had left.

  Now, gathered in Terry’s study with a collection of chairs from other parts of the house and the lawyer seated at the desk, Sam watched the reactions as each bequest was read. Ambrose nearly wept when he learned that he would own the bookshop, and Keeva and Bridget were thrilled with their financial bonuses. Those who received Terry’s collections and small items seemed pleased with the elderly man’s choices.

  When Ryan got to the part about Sam receiving Terry’s home and the remaining contents a hush settled over the room.

  Ever since she’d read the will, Sam had thought about this. As lovely as the place was, she knew she would never be able to give it proper care. Nor was it likely that she would get to Ireland often enough to spend time enjoying it. Home and family were simply too far removed from the island republic. She stepped forward.

  “I am so grateful for the chance to meet all of you, for having you as part of my life these two weeks. It means a lot to me, and to my family, that all of you were here for Terry during the years we had lost touch.”

  A sniffle from Bridget, but the others merely looked at Sam expectantly.

  “I’ve made a decision about the house. Since my uncle gave me sole discretion over the house and its contents, I would like to make my wishes known, here and now.”

  Bottoms shifted in chairs, fingers fidgeted on laps.

  “I will be unable to give this home the care and attention it deserves. That much is clear and will be even more clear once I leave for the States again. I would like to claim some small item as a remembrance for myself and something for my sister and a few American relatives who knew Terry in his lifetime. Beyond that, please let me pass along the house, the property and Terry’s vehicle to Ambrose Piggott.”

  The man’s face went white and Sam was momentarily afraid he would swoon right there in his chair. Tears began to run down his face and his shoulders shook. Sam walked to his side and embraced him.

  “You meant so much to my uncle,” she whispered.

  The others gathered around and soon Ambrose was on his feet, receiving hugs from everyone. Sam and Beau stepped aside, and in a few minutes Daniel Ryan announced that he’d brought a bottle of good whiskey if anybody was interested in retiring to the parlor.

  Stories began to flow as glasses were drained. Sam noticed that Beau limited himself to a few sips, since they had to drive back to their hotel tonight. In the morning they would pack and ride back to Shannon for the long flight home.

  While the others remembered Terry in story and song, Sam thought about her choices. The carved wooden box called out to her. As the bigger brother to her own, she felt a pull to take it as her own keepsake. She removed it from the bookcase and set it on the desk.

  Flipping through the postcards she saw that they were correspondence between Terrance and Maggie in their younger years, well before email and even in a time before telephone usage was common. The cards came from a variety of European cities, showing that both of them had been well-traveled people. Her mother, Nina Rae, collected family history and would enjoy those.

  For her sister Rayleen, Sam spotted a shamrock pin. By its size it must be green glass—surely there was no emerald that size. Certainly not one left in a bookcase rather than locked in a bank vault. But it was the kind of bling her sister would love.

  She remembered a beautiful English riding saddle among the items in the garage. It would be perfect for her cousin Wilhelmina—Willie—who worked with, lived with, and loved horses more than nearly anything else.

  Among some boxes in a cabinet in the dining room, while they were recruiting serving dishes for the wake, Sam had found two exquisite Waterford Christmas ornaments. They would be perfect for her aunt Lily, the other niece Terry used to remember at Christmas when Lily and Nina Rae were children. She walked into the dining room to collect them.

  Daniel Ryan was putting his coat on when she came back into the hall. She told him about the items she wanted and he offered to see that they were packaged and shipped. She left the little collection on the desk, except for the wooden box.

  “I think I’ll carry this one on the airplane with me,” she said. “I’ll put it in the car and get the addresses for the others.”

  She walked out into the misty evening and set the wooden box on the back seat of their rental. Her pack was in there and she retrieved her cell phone with all the family addresses in it. When she stood up, Saoirse the Traveller woman was standing at the end of the driveway.

  “I wanted to come to the funeral,” the woman told her. “To pay respects.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew my uncle,” Sam said.

  “I didn’t.” Saoirse gripped the strap of her big red purse. “It’s just that . . . I’ve only learned what a good man he was. He’s done something incredible to help us.”

  Sam felt her brows flex. What was the woman talking about?

  “A lawyer came to our camp today, and he told us that a teacher’s bein’ paid to come to us and start giving classes for the adults. I’m finally going to learn readin’ and writin’.”

  “You don’t know how to read and write?” Sam knew her amazement was showing. “But your daughter sent text messages.”

  “Ah, well. I know my numbers and some letters. She makes up little codes to give me a message sometimes. I’ve learned to fake my way through a lot of things. It’s just that proper schoolin’ wasn’t considered necessary when I was a girl. The government made laws to require it but a lot of us ignored them. At least the young ones today are gettin’ some basics.”

  “And my uncle is paying this teacher?”

  Saoirse nodded, giving Sam a big smile.

  “Come in then,” Sam said. “Join us.”

  But Saoirse was already walking away. “I only wanted to thank you, Sam.” In a few seconds she was out of sight in the mist
.

  Sam walked back inside where Daniel Ryan was organizing his papers in the study.

  “My car and driver can take you to the airport tomorrow,” he said. “If you’d like I’ll arrange the return of your rental car and drive you back to your hotel now.”

  “Thanks, but I want to make a little stop along the way.”

  “Fine, then. Shall I take these items for shipping?”

  She gave him the instructions and thanked him again. Beau walked in as they were winding up the details.

  “About ready?” he asked.

  The long day was taking its toll on their energy and Sam nearly dozed as they drove back toward the city’s center. She came awake in time to tell him what she had in mind. He parked as close as he could get to the pedestrian-only Shop Street and they got out.

  They walked through the evening mist, toward the streets of shops that were closed now. Within five minutes rain began to come down earnestly and they dashed back to the car to avoid becoming completely soaked. Sam opened the back door, knowing she’d left an umbrella there. Terry’s wooden box was gone.

  “Oh no!”

  Beau pulled out the umbrella and opened it over their heads.

  “The box. It was the one gift I had asked my uncle for.” Her spirits sank. “He never got the chance to tell me the story about it. And now it’s gone.”

  Beau brought her close and she rested her forehead on his chest.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’. I don’t know what to say.”

  When had it disappeared? Sam thought of Saoirse walking away into the night. Then again, they had just now left the car, accidentally unlocked, for ten minutes. They’d seen no one on the street, but anyone could have spotted the box and taken it. She stared toward the nearest row of shops and the scene blurred before her teary eyes.