by Rhys Bowen
The dining room was more conventional, except for a huge bronze statue of a Chinese goddess in the corner and some very modern paintings on the walls.
“That's one of Gus's recent efforts. Isn't it heavenly?” Sid asked.
It seemed to be a painting of a woman and a dog, but it was hard to tell. I nodded politely. “Interesting,” I said.
Up a flight of stairs and I was shown into a bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed piled high with an assortment of pillows. The walls were draped with purple velvet and flying cupids. It was the most oudandish room I had ever seen and I only just stopped myself from blurting out, “Holy Mother of God!”
In contrast the other rooms on that floor were a study lined with books, another, more conventional, bedroom and a bathroom with the biggest tub I had ever seen.
“I do a lot of my best writing in the bath,” Sid said, as if this were a normal thing to do.
Then I was led up another flight of stairs. Up here there were just two rooms. The room at the front of the house was an artist's studio, bare-floored, with easel and a half-finished painting. The room behind, with a view out over the gardens, was full of old furniture and boxes.
“What a pity you're not using this room,” I said. “It has the best view.”
“We always intended to do something with it but we've been too lazy,” Gus said. “And as you can see, we've dumped our unwanted clutter in here.”
“What we needed was an impetus to make us clear it out,” Sid said, looking at me. “If you'd like to help us, Molly dear…”
“I'd be happy to,” I said.
She held up her hand. “You didn't let me finish the sentence. What I was going to say was, if you'd like to help us clear it out, you'd be welcome to use it.”
“To use it?”
Gus laughed at my surprised face. “Come and live with us.”
“Oh, but I couldn't think of imposing…”
“Who said anything about imposing?” Sid said. “We talked it over last night. We like you. You need a place to live. We have a spare room that needs cleaning. What better use for it?”
“But—but I'm afraid I don't have a regular source of income at the moment. It might be hard for me to pay the kind of rent you could expect for this lovely room.”
“Who said anything about rent?” Gus demanded. “Bring us a bottle of Chianti from time to time and we shall ask for nothing more.”
“Oh, but I couldn't possibly,” I said but I was weakening.
“Look at it this way,” Gus said. “We need the impetus to clean out our room, and what better impetus than to help a fellow free spirit get her start in the Village?”
“Why don't you give it a try?” Sid added. “If things don't work out, then you can always look for another place.”
“You are too kind,” I said, blushing furiously, “and I would love to live in such a delightful place. I can't tell you what a relief it will be to have a room of my own, with no interference.”
Sid and Gus were giving their benevolent parent smiles again.
“Good, then it's all settled. We'll start cleaning today and you can move your chattels in as soon as it's done.”
Thus, by the end of the week, I had bid farewell to Seamus, Nuala and the O'Hallarans and moved into my own little patch of heaven. Nuala hadn't been able to conceal her delight at seeing me go. “Off to live with your fancy man, I've no doubt,” she exclaimed.
“On the contrary, I'm moving in with two highly respectable women friends who would never dream of entering a room without knocking and where my possessions will be safe from pilfering,” I replied, staring her straight in the eye.
My only concern was leaving Bridie and Shameyboy in the hands of those terrible relatives. I promised to bring them to see my new place as soon as I was settled in and told Seamus he could always send Shameyboy or one of his cousins to fetch me if he needed me. Having thus appeased my conscience and discharged my obligations, I set off into the unknown. And, after all, I reminded myself again, I wasn't family.
I set myself up comfortably in the top-floor room, augmenting my meager possessions with some of Sid and Gus's cast-offs—a fringed lamp with the base in the shape of a nude woman, some luxurious-looking velvet draperies, and a curled-wood hat stand. Gus insisted that I help myself to the despised clothes that hung in the wardrobe in the back bedroom. I didn't like to express too much joy when Gus and Sid so obviously hated them, but there were some lovely garments there. If ever I met Miss Arabella Norton again, we could be on equal terms!
I was sitting in the back garden resting after carrying the final load of my belongings up the stairs, when I was reminded with a jolt that I had done no work on Paddy's case for several days now. It was true that I was waiting for a chance to be introduced to Ryan O'Hare, but surely there were other things I should have been doing. Falling into paradise like this had dulled my senses. Living here was like being on a sweet and powerful drug. One had no wish to venture past the front door into the real world outside.
“Next week,” I said firmly to myself, “I will be all business again.”
I had just said the words when the doorbell rang. I waited, then realized that Sid and Gus were not back from the market. They made a pilgrimage there every morning, returning with exotic fruits and armfuls of flowers. I jumped up and ran to answer the door.
I found myself staring up at the beautiful face of Ryan O'Hare.
He looked as surprised as I was. “You're not Sid or Gus. Don't tell me I've come to the wrong address.” He looked around him. “No. I recognize the bay trees. And you can't be the maid. You look most unmaidlike. So what have you done with them?”
“They're—out at the market,” I stammered. “I'm Molly, their house guest.”
“Confound it,” he said, his face falling. “And here am I, about to die for lack of nourishment, desperate for a cup of their Turkish coffee.”
“I don't expect they'll be long,” I said. “Won't you come in and wait?”
“Why not—especially when there is the opportunity to be entertained by such a delightful fresh face. I'm Ryan, by the way, and I've seen you before.”
“In O'Connor's saloon,” I said. “You winked at me.”
“And you blushed. It was quite charming. Lead the way then, Molly.”
I opened the front door wider and he stepped inside.
“I don't suppose you know how to make Turkish coffee?” he asked expectandy as I led him through to the conservatory.
“I'm afraid not.”
“But you could possibly find me a morsel of something to eat before I pass out.” He smiled endearingly. He had the most enchanting smile. His whole face lit up and his dark eyes flashed.
“There are some rolls left from breakfast,” I said. “And I can furnish butter and jam. Will that do?”
I went into the kitchen and came out with a tray for him. As I set it in front of him he took my hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. “You are an absolute angel,” he said. “I am your devoted servant for life.”
I was annoyed at myself for blushing. How did one learn to become worldly?
“I knew I'd be fed and nurtured here,” he said. “I haven't been out all week, you know, trying to finish the blasted play. I've barely stopped to eat or drink. In fact, if good old Lennie hadn't brought me a pastrami sandwich last night, it might have been too late. My whitened bones would have been discovered on the floor of my hotel room.”
I laughed, making his attempted woeful expression dissolve into a smile.
“So tell me about yourself, Molly. To be sure but you're from old sod itself, begorra and all that sort of thing?”
Still smiling, I told him I was newly arrived from county Mayo.
“And were sensible enough to come straight to the only part of the city worth living in,” he finished for me. “The rest of America is full of boors and philistines who don't know a good play from a piece of trash. Show a few legs, make a few suggestive jokes an
d they'll call your play a hit. But anything subtle, anything that delves into the true depths of human nature the American public will pronounce boring and suggest it needs a buffalo stampede in Act Two to liven it up.” He leaned back in his wicker chair, studying me. “Lovely hair,” he said. He reached over and lifted a strand. “The color of fire. Dangerous hair. Are you dangerous, Miss Molly?”
“Only to those who betray me.”
“Ah, then I had better profess my lifelong devotion right now. So tell me, Miss Molly, what do you do with yourself, or are you a creature of leisure?”
“I'm hoping to establish myself as a writer,” I said. I was tempted to add that I was currently involved in solving the murder of a dear friend, but lost my nerve at the last minute. Besides, I found it hard to imagine this delightful man leaping out with a knife and delivering one efficient and fatal blow.
“I knew the moment I set eyes on you that we had much in common,” he said, still gazing at me. “A fellow Irishwoman and a fellow writer too. Our paths were truly destined to cross. It was fated in the stars.” He took another bite of roll, wiped the crumbs from his black velvet jacket, then asked, “So is there a great love in your life at the moment, Molly, my darling?”
“None at all, sir,” I said, then, emboldened by his familiarity, I asked, “How about you?”
“Alas not. I am between affaires, as the French say. Unfortunately they never last long with me. I am destined to fall madly in love only to become bored to tears a week later. Of course, if I ever meet my true soul mate, it will be different.”
“I’m beginning to wonder whether soul mates exist,” I said.
“Such cynicism in one so young and lovely. I've been out in the world longer than you have and still entertain the forlorn hope that one day I will find true and lasting bliss.”
I was disappointed to hear the sound of voices in the front hall and Sid and Gus swept down on us.
“What did I tell you?” Sid demanded. “I said he'd only last a couple of days before he was round here cadging food again!”
Ryan turned wounded eyes on her. “I'll have you know that I have written all of twenty-five pages this week, day and night, not stopping for food or water, until I was on the brink of collapse.”
“You and your Irish blarney.” Sid chuckled. “I just met Lennie and he told me he had been supplying you with brandy and sandwiches.”
“I didn't say anything about going without brandy,” Ryan went on. “There are some things without which existence is meaningless.”
“I see you've met our new friend, Molly,” Gus said. “I hope you haven't already corrupted her with your wicked ways.”
“Not at all. I have been most well-behaved and gentlemanly, haven't I, Molly?”
“Most,” I said. “And very charming.”
“I'm always charming.” Ryan gave us a beneficent smile. “Even stone-hearted women like Sid and Gus here can't resist me.”
This was true. They pretended to grumble, but they fussed over him as much as I had done. And by the time he left, later that day, I was already a little in love with him myself.
Nineteen
On Sunday morning Gus and Sid informed me that it was their custom to go for coffee and pastries to Fleishman's Bakery on Broadway. It was the only thing to do on Sunday mornings. I think the priest back home in Ballykillin might have disagreed with them, but I was not about to argue. Now that I no longer had the responsibility to see that Bridie and her brother attended mass, I was free as a bird and had no great desire to attend mass myself—even if it was supposed to be a mortal sin.
We set off arm in arm across Washington Square, past the silent university buildings and on to Broadway. Fleishman's was buzzing with activity, full of fashionably dressed people as well as the more eccentrically dressed inhabitants of the Village. There was even a crowd waiting to be served.
“Why aren't all these people in church, where they should be?” Gus demanded. “We can't have New Yorkers getting lax about their religion, or we'll never get a table at Fleishman's again.”
Sid was scanning the depths of the large room. “Wait—there's Lennie in the corner. Let's see if we can squeeze ourselves around their table.”
She forced our way through the crowd. There were three other young men at Lennie's table. One of them was Ryan.
“I’m sure you've got space for three slender females,” Sid said, “especially females who are dying of starvation and might faint if they have to wait in that long line.”
The young men had risen to their feet. “You've never fainted in your life, Sid darling,” Ryan said and kissed her on the cheek.
I felt a great surge of jealousy.
“True, but Gus and Molly have been raised more delicately than I and are capable of a swoon when necessary.” Sid sat on the chair that Lennie had brought across for her.
The other young men were finding seats for Gus and me. “I don't think we've met.” A pale, shy-looking boy dusted off the chair before he offered it to me.
“You haven't met our sweet Molly yet?” Ryan asked. “Then let me do the honors. Molly, these disreputable gentlemen are Lennie, whom I think you already know, Hodder, who professes to be a poet, although none of us has ever been allowed to see his poetry, and Dante, who has just returned from Paris and is making us all wild with jealousy at his descriptions of the salons there. He actually dined with Monet. Imagine that.”
The pale young man gave me a shy smile. “And with a new man called Matisse,” he said. “Ffis paintings are so daring—all those primary colors and distorted shapes. I'm having a go at it myself.”
“Does this mean you've finished the last act of your play, Ryan?” Gus asked, putting her arm around his shoulders as she perched on a chair beside him. “I seem to remember you swore you would not leave your selfimposed exile until it was done.”
“One has to eat occasionally—even geniuses like myself need nourishment,” Ryan said. “But the end is truly in sight. You'll be the first to know when I write those magnificent words,‘The curtain falls to tumultuous applause.’”
“You hope,” Lennie said.
“I'll invite all my friends to the premiere,” Ryan said. “I know enough people to create tumultuous applause.”
How wonderful it felt to be part of this noisy, laughing group. I was half-tempted to abandon my plans to be an investigator and really try my hand at poetry or play writing so that I could truly count as one of them. I noticed heads turned in our direction as we made our exit from the cafe around midday. There were still people milling around, waiting for tables. As I was about to pass through the front door, someone grabbed my arm. I started in alarm and looked up into Daniel's face.
“Molly, thank heavens you're all right.” He was still holding my arm, gripping it fiercely. “I've been trying to locate you.”
“Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?”
“I heard there was a fire at Paddy Riley's place. Then I went to your old address and Mrs. O'Hallaran said you'd moved out and she'd no idea where you'd gone. I thought something might have happened to you.”
“I'm very well, as you can see, thank you, Captain Sullivan,” I said. “I have a new life and a new group of friends and I'm very happy.”
“So you've given up this crazy notion of being a detective,” he said. “I'm so glad. I can't tell you how worried I was that you might try and get involved in Paddy's murder yourself.”
“Have the police solved the case, then?”
“It's possible they never will,” Daniel said, “and it's also possible that there's a dangerous element involved. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll ever find any proof now. But it's definitely not the kind of thing I'd want you mixed up in.”
Ryan poked his head around the door. “Come on, Molly. What's keeping you? If you delay me from my garret any longer, it will be all your fault if the play's not finished.”
“Coming, Ryan,” I said.
I could feel Daniel looking
at me. “I have to go,” I said. “So nice to meet you again, Captain Sullivan.”
Ryan put an arm around my shoulders and escorted me from the cafe. I didn't look back to see Daniel's reaction, but I permitted myself a broad smile. The fact that my heart wasn't aching must mean that I was truly getting over him.
As we walked back toward Washington Square, Ryan kept his arm draped over my shoulders, and I did nothing to dissuade him. But my talk with Daniel had reminded me that I had been neglecting the task I had set myself. What better moment to glean some facts from Ryan than during an unguarded moment when we were strolling in the company of others.
“Tell me, Ryan,” I began casually, “someone said that you might know Angus MacDonald, the millionaire's son. Is that true?”
A brief spasm of annoyance crossed his face. “Used to know,” he said.
“So you're no longer friends?”
“We parted amicably enough,” he said. “He a little less amicably than I, but that's usually the way it goes. I told you how I am, I fall in and out of love so quickly, and leave behind me a trail of broken hearts.”
I think the world stopped turning for a second as I tried to digest what I had just heard. Ryan was still chatting away easily. “Poor old Angus took it rather hard, but I always shy away when it's getting too serious. To tell you the truth, I can't stand the thought of having another human being dependent on me—besides, there was a rumor that his wife might be divorcing him and you know how I abhor scandal. Think what harm it would do to the new play. It would have been an absolute disaster. You know how positively puritanical New Yorkers are.”
The blood was pounding through my brain. With my sheltered upbringing in Ireland, it had never crossed my mind that Angus MacDonald and Ryan O'Hare had been more than friends. I think I had heard whispers and insinuations that this kind of thing happened, and my parish priest had once preached an incomprehensible sermon about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, but it had never been part of my world. So it was really true that a man could fall in love with another man! I took this idea one stage further and felt the flood of embarrassment turning my face crimson. It came to me with a shock of realization that Gus and Sid might also be more than friends. I remembered their amused glances when I suggested that Gus still had plenty of time to find a suitable husband, and my bewilderment that there was only one luxuriously decadent bedroom in the house. Now I considered it, they were, to all intents and purposes, a married couple.
