The trip was shorter than he remembered but just as difficult. He sat as near the middle of the salon as possible, which helped with the forward motion but not the swing from side to side. He watched the spray wash over the deck and splash against the windows, scored and salt-sodden from so many passages. He remembered the time his brother lost a gas can overboard to a particularly bad wave and smiled. You really did have to want to get to Rathlin Island, he thought.
The sun was full out from the scanty clouds when the ferry docked. He slung his pack over his shoulder and started out for the farm. Nothing on Rathlin was very far from anything else, and it took little time to hike the distance to the far end of Ballycarry Townland where the Connor cottage stood on the northeast corner of the island, close enough to Scotland to spit. After so much time in Colorado, the climb up the crest of the island bothered him not in the least. He took his time, enjoying the wild desolation of the island now that only the most tenacious of the inhabitants were in residence. He loved Ireland when it was caught in the chains of winter, not so much green as umber, showing the melancholy side of the Irish spirit. A melancholy that, today, fit his own.
He walked up the path to the cottage door, his boots splashing mud from the rains of the last few days. He’d no sooner opened the door than he heard Molly’s voice. “Eoin Connor, scrape those boots! I just mopped the floor!”
He smiled, glad to be home again, doffed his boots and went in stocking feet to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some consolation.
Breakfast lasted more than an hour, between Molly’s good food and catching up on what was happening with the farm. He enjoyed a pipe before going out to walk the grounds. Terry, as usual, had everything well under control. The farm was making quite a bit of profit these days, thanks to his good stewardship and the fact that Molly rented out one of the rooms during the summers.
“So how is it all working, with this new bed and breakfast idea?” Eoin asked as he and Terry approached the old byre that had served as a storage shed for years. The Connor farm kept no cows. Sheep were enough of a problem.
“It was booked nearly solid between her cooking and the fact that we sit overlooking the sea on one side and the East Lighthouse on the other. Fits the tourist’s desire for the exotic to look at.” Terry was manipulating his own pipe, hoping to coax it back into operation. He finally succeeded. A plume of smoke drifted up, tentative at first, then strong and blue-gray. He puffed once or twice to be sure, then took the pipe in hand as he added, “There’s always a stream of hikers up this way looking for Robert Bruce’s cave.”
Eoin laughed. The cave was only accessible by boat, something he knew all the island literature mentioned, and he said as much.
“Ah, but who pays attention to that? Anyway, Molly’s thinking of putting up a sign and offering tea and sweets to passersby. But you didn’t come here to talk about the farm, Eoin. What’s on your mind?”
As briefly as he could, he outlined his predicament. “I need help, Terry. I need to run down all the witnesses who might help me. I mean to marry Jane Wallace. I assume you’ll speak for me.”
“Of course, yes. I never could understand why you weren’t granted that petition in the first place. I suppose I am glad it was not filed, rather than the Church doing wrong by you.”
“I need to connect with some of our old mates, especially those who knew Fiona before I did. Have you kept up with any of them?”
“A few. Morris, Paddy, Declan. I’ll give you their information. Declan and Morris are still in Belfast. Paddy moved to the Republic a few years ago. Somewhere near Limerick, I think.”
“Thanks.” Eoin surveyed the dim interior of the byre. The shelves held a variety of bottles, jars, cans, and boxes, all containing odd bits that once might have been useful in repairs but had long since passed their utility. Eoin picked up a jar of nails, rusted and bent. He laughed and shook it at Terry.
“Remember how Da always had us foraging nails and straightening them? We used them for practice.” His mind went back to his childhood days, when his father patiently taught him to measure, saw and join wood so well that the joints held fast, and the resulting structure was safe against North Sea gales. Learning to make them beautiful, as well, had been Eoin’s own touch and had ultimately landed him a job in Belfast when both Da and the farm were but a recent and painful memory. “Hard to believe this survived.”
“I suppose. They didn’t do much with the farm apart from leasing the pastures out. There’s a lot here left from when we were young. Remember this?” He held up a yellow box.
“Wound powder. I do indeed. That and black salve was about all either Ma or Da needed to cure anything in man or beast.” Eoin took the box from his brother’s hands. “Sure looks like the same stuff. Remarkable.” He handed it back. “Then again, I ought to know that. All the times I’ve been here working, and yet I never noticed.”
“Not like you, Eoin.”
“Not like me at all.” He picked up a bottle from the far end of the shelf, tall, with a label bearing the skull and crossbones. “I guess they didn’t touch anything here. This stuff has been off the shelves for years. Nasty stuff, but it worked for the garden.” He put the bottle back and wiped a smear of dark, smelly liquid onto his handkerchief and put it in his coat pocket.
“I remember. Molly still uses it from time to time. It still works. Black Leaf 40 did a good job for us. Still does. Probably always will, at least until we run out.”
Eoin tapped his pipe out onto the dirt floor of the byre and stepped on it for good measure. “I think I’ll take a bit of a walk, Terry. I’ve some things to mull over. If you’ll get those names for me, I think I will head back to Belfast on the first ferry tomorrow.”
He watched his brother’s back until he disappeared around the corner. Then Eoin Conner walked the gravel road to the East Lighthouse and a bit beyond until he stood on the bluff that he knew was just over the cave in which Robert the Bruce watched a spider toil over and over to spin his web. Bruce found inspiration in that and made another attempt to return to Scotland, ultimately freeing it from English rule.
Eoin took heart at that and started back to confer once more with Terry and to plot out his travels to see who was still around to help him win his own freedom. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tipped his head back, whistling in the wind for the first time in a long, long time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
January 14
The sky was darkening by the time I returned from lunch across the street at Baked in Telluride. With the colder weather, they served an amazing chili, and this was shaping up to be a chili kind of day. I just hoped Sadie’s temporary replacement arrived before the storm that was moving in hit. The Telluride airport occupied the top of a mesa and with the landing strip ending at the steep drop-off. It didn’t take a lot of snow to shut it down.
I started clearing my desk. At the top of the everlasting pile was a pad with the notes I had made regarding Sadie. I debated the merits of keeping them as opposed to throwing them away. I elected to split the difference and send them to my own lawyer as pertaining to a possible lawsuit. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, and I had done everything possible to forestall it. Sadie was hurt, but I’d treated her well. I hoped it was enough. If some judge decided to rewrite my contract to require reasonable cause even though it was drafted otherwise, I’d be in trouble, but I could deal with that later.
I had to admit, I had gotten used to a little free time and some peer-society in the office. I was glad Mike Delatorre took me up on my offer and surprised me when he walked into my office just before two.
“Mike! You’re early — so good to see you!” I came out from behind the desk to give him the requisite welcoming hug. He looked just the same as always: medium height, slim build, a closely trimmed black beard, dark brown eyes and eyelashes any woman would kill for.
“I didn’t want to get stuck in an airport because of the storm. I decided to leave a day early, spent the night in D
enver. Nice place.”
“I assume there was a change fee. Leave it with Tim, and we will take care of it.”
“No worries.” Mike dropped a well-stuffed pack from his shoulder. He always traveled lightly. “You have digs for me?”
“The Sheraton for the next night or two. Then you can stay at the Center in one of the apartments, if you’d like. It will be free by then.”
Mike raised a ruddy eyebrow. “So what was the emergency? Not that I mind being in the Rockies during ski season.”
I debated how much to tell him and settled on the unvarnished truth, realizing that it would undo all my careful, legal toe-dancing if Sadie brought push to shove. “I just couldn’t have her here, Mike. Especially since I am not at all sure we don’t have a problem with assisted deaths here in town, hard as that is to believe.”
Mike shrugged as he pulled off his down coat and tossed it on top of the pack. “Not so hard to believe, but not your problem anymore, either. It’s legal.”
“It’s legal under some circumstances. Gotta be competent and gotta be over 18.”
I had his interest. His watch cap joined the jacket and revealed that his hairline was receding. “Say more.”
“A case I just can’t get out of my mind. A kid died in the local clinic. She had a terminal illness, and I suppose it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that she just reached the end. But I tested the IV she had in her, and there was potassium in the injection port.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward. How did you sign it out?”
“Undetermined. No good chain of evidence, though I probably could gin one up. The person who brought it to me is pretty trustworthy, and he’d stand up under questioning. I can’t bring myself to sign it as a natural death.” I shifted positions. “I am really glad you are here. By big city standards, there’s usually not all that much work here, even with overseeing the remote sites. I just got used to having a colleague here, and to be honest, I want to be able to take a little time off. I have had a rough patch lately.”
I didn’t add that I missed having male companionship, and Mike was no threat to Eoin. His tastes ran in other directions. He and Simon had been together since medical school. “Really, Mike, put on your thinking cap. Or ask Simon. He’s a screenwriter. Maybe he’d have some ideas.” Forensic science and law were turning out to be not much help.
“There’s another one, too. Not a problem exactly; it’s an accidental death, three of them actually, but I can’t connect all the dots.” I briefed him on the coniine deaths.
“For a small town, there’s a lot happening here.”
I laughed. “I moved here thinking it would be quiet, too, but it hasn’t been. At least, not since I got here. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I am the Typhoid Mary of Forensic Pathology.”
Mike laughed out loud, one of those infectious laughs that cheer the soul. “Come on, then, Mary. Show me the ropes.”
***
It was nearly a blizzard when Father Matt finally headed home from a pastoral call in Placerville. He hated driving the road into town in bad weather. Although the plow had been through and the road was decently gritted, snow was sticking to the roadway again, and a thick sheet of ice was beginning to form. He had set the car in four-wheel low when he pulled out of the drive near the turnoff to Woods Lake, and so far he had not lost traction. But the snow was increasing, making it more difficult to see. The white flakes against the windshield and the dark of the sky made him feel like he was in some sort of movie special effect — the sort of thing he was used to seeing as portrayed flashing through time and space by a wormhole or some other such imaginary space accessory. But the visibility and the ice slowed him to not much more than a crawl, even though his mind was sure he was rocketing along. He kept focusing on the road, with only the occasional short prayer present in his mind — Dear Lord, let me get home safely; Saint Frances of Rome, intercede for me! He’d always liked the saint who swept the path with light for the traveler.
The fact that a miscalculation could send him hurling down a precipice to land on a road below, or worse yet, into the San Miguel River, increased his anxiety. Although he was a native to Colorado, he’d grown up in the flat part of the state. Lots of snow, but easy driving compared to here. He felt his shoulders tense as he hunched forward to peer into the darkness, looking for taillights ahead and snow poles alongside. He recited the prayer for motorists he had learned as a child, then brought his mind back to the road. Just now his concentration on driving would have to serve as devotion.
The snowplow passed him going away from town at a curve he recognized in the combined glow of the headlights as the last big one before the climb into town. He permitted himself to relax a bit and to think about a warm apartment, a glass of wine, and the last of the green chile stew that Pilar had brought by a day or two ago. He rolled his shoulders in an effort to relieve the sharp pain between his shoulder blades. It didn’t work. He tensed again as he felt the Jeep slip sideways a bit before it caught on some grit and stabilized.
He glanced at the clock on the dash as he passed Society Turn, and relief washed over him as the lights of Telluride came dimly into view through the blowing snow. Nearly eight o’clock. Almost an hour to drive a mere ten miles. He rolled his shoulders again; the pain in his back had intensified, and now his forearms ached, as well. He realized he held the steering wheel in a death grip. As soon as he passed through the roundabout, he freed first one hand, then the other, to shake out the stiffness.
Light shone from the apartment window that faced the parking area beside the church. Father Matt saw a short figure pass, glass in hand. Monsignor Jamais was still up. Unusual. He headed to bed almost as soon as the sun went down, though he woke in the middle of the night and had taken to wandering about the small apartment. More often than not, turning on the living room light to wake Matt from his uncomfortable slumbers on the couch. Father Matt switched off the car, gave thanks for a safe arrival, and unfolded himself from the Jeep. He slid once on the sidewalk but didn’t fall. The warmth of the stairway to the apartment was welcome indeed.
Father Matt hung his coat on the hook by the downstairs door and kicked off his snow boots, hurrying upstairs in his stocking feet. He found Monsignor Jamais settled in the big easy chair, a glass of scotch in his hand. Unusual. He rarely drank.
“Matthew!” There was real pleasure in Monsignor Jamais’ voice.
“Hello, Monsignor. I’m surprised to see you up.”
“Couldn’t sleep, dear boy. Couldn’t sleep.”
Not for the first time did Father Matt wonder when he has ceased to be Mister Gregory, delivered in caustic tones, and become Dear Boy. He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders. It did nothing to relieve the pain. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I believe it comes with getting older. I thought a bit of scotch might help.”
It comes from sleeping so much every night and napping twice a day for the last week, he thought unkindly, then reproved himself. It was the fatigue and the hunger. Aloud, he replied, “Probably will,” distracted as he reached down a bowl for the stew and pulled some cornbread from the plastic container on the counter. His mouth was already watering. He was about to turn to the fridge to get out the stew when he noticed a bowl in the sink, the remains of chile stew stuck to the sides and bottom. He gripped the sides of the sink, his knuckles turning white. It only made his shoulders hurt worse. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he fought an irrational desire to scream and throw things. He tried breathing deeply to calm himself, but it had been a long day. Too long.
“I am not sure it isn’t my dinner. I am not sure that spicy food really agrees with me. Please, Matthew, could you arrange for something less exotic for me? Perhaps some good pasta?”
“If you didn’t like it, why did you eat it? I’m cold, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I ache all over from sleeping on a couch, and all I wanted was a nice bowl of stew!” Father Matt ran his hand across his forehead in exasperation. “Why do
n’t you just take over the apartment? I’ll move out. I’ll camp out in Town Park if that’s what it takes to get some peace and my own space. I’ll have Jane send someone in to look after you. I can’t do this anymore. What are you doing here in the first place?” Father Matt listened with horror as the words spilled out, unintended and shameful. He clenched his teeth, afraid that if he did not, more awful words would come out. Sweet Jesus, what have I done?
Monsignor Jamais’ face kaleidoscoped from disbelief to understanding to fear. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. And his lip trembled. He nearly dropped the glass in his hand.
Father Matt shook his head to dispel the images, hoping to shed the disgrace he felt building even as his frustration flared again. “I’m going to get something to eat,” he said as kindly and as calmly as he could. “Don’t wait up.” He ducked his head to avoid seeing that round, confused face and made sure not to slam the door behind him, the only gesture of reconciliation he could muster.
The snow had let up some by the time he got bundled up again. The drifts came to the middle of his calf, and it was hard going. He paused at the edge of the street, deciding where to go to eat. There were only a few hardy souls out, and he suspected that the restaurants were closing early. I need company, he thought. Real company. A coherent conversation. He missed the comfortable presence of Eoin Connor and breathed a prayer that Eoin’s quixotic trip to Ireland would yield something to allow him to marry again. Good friends, he was finding, were hard to find, and right now he was experiencing a sudden dearth of them.
The memory of the green chile stew surfaced again as his stomach growled. “Pilar!” He thought. Smiling, he turned his steps toward the big green house. He could see it through the last diminishing snowfall and quickened his steps.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 12
