Irish Stewed (An Ethnic Eats Mystery)

by Kylie Logan

  “The front door wasn’t messed with.”

  Sophie’s gaze darted that way. “It wasn’t.”

  “But we never checked on the back.”

  “We didn’t have time.”

  “So, for all we know, this Lance character could have broken in.” It made sense, at least until I took the thought to the next level. “Why break into an empty restaurant on a Monday night? That seems a little weird.”

  “Well, he is on TV.” This, apparently, was enough of an explanation for Sophie.

  It did little to satisfy me.

  Before I had a chance to think about it, Detective Oberlin stepped into the waiting area and crooked a finger in my direction. “We need to know which lights were on,” he told me. “And if the door was locked when you got here.”

  Automatically, I nodded. “It was. Sophie unlocked it. And the lights . . .” I thought back to what had happened just an hour earlier. It seemed a lifetime ago. “No lights.” I knew this for sure because I had a clear image in my mind of Declan Fury coming in the front door to the waiting area, then peeking into the main room of the restaurant where it was dark. “No lights,” I told the detective. “Not until we walked in there and turned them on.”

  He nodded, but I had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Something told me he wouldn’t have bothered to explain even if he’d had the time. The way it was, before he could say another word, a fresh-faced cop poked his head out from the restaurant.

  “Hey, Sarge,” the cop said, “Lantana says you should come back in here right away. The window on the back door is smashed in. That’s got to be how the killer and the victim got in here. But this is weird. The door that leads from the outside directly into the basement has been broken into, too, and it looks like someone was down there trying to swipe the copper.”

  Detective Oberlin had been taking notes about what I’d told him about the doors being locked and the lights off, and now his mouth pulled into a smug smile. He flipped his spiral-bound notebook closed.

  “So that explains it.” He tucked the notebook in his pocket. “The Lance surprised someone who was here to steal the copper. The thief knew he’d been seen. He killed the Lance to keep him quiet.”

  “But what was the Lance doing here in the first place?” I asked him. “And how did he get in? The restaurant’s been closed since Saturday. You don’t think he’s the one who broke in the back door, do you?”

  “Huh? What?” Oberlin’s shaggy brows veed over his eyes and that smile of his faded in an instant. When he turned to head back into the restaurant, he was grumbling.

  And I was left feeling just as confused as I had been since I found the Lance of Justice.

  I sat back down next to Sophie, but she was so busy craning her neck to see what was going on out on the street, I wasn’t sure she noticed. That is, until she provided the narration to the scene outside the Terminal’s front window.

  “There’s Kitty from the beauty shop,” she said, pointing to a woman whose hair was the same honey blond as mine and who was wearing a pink smock. “And that’s her husband, Pat. The big guy with the broad shoulders who’s standing next to her. Nice people.” She slid me a look. “Kitty and Pat Sheedy are Declan’s aunt and uncle.”

  I might have asked what on earth that had to do with anything, especially a murder investigation, but she didn’t give me the time. “And there’s Kim Kline. She’s still here.” Sophie rose out of her seat, the better to get a gander at the reporter, who had a microphone in her hand and was back in front of a camera. “I guess I should have been more prepared, huh? But when I knew the camera was filming, well, I just couldn’t get any words out of my mouth.” She swiveled around in her seat for a better look. “I thought she’d be taller. And look . . .” She pointed to the far end of the dead-end street and a redbrick building with a canvas awning over the front door.

  “That’s John and Mike from the bookstore.” She was referring to two middle-aged men who might have been clones. Both were tall and thin, both had receding hairlines and wore wire-rimmed glasses. They watched the proceedings at the Terminal, worry etched on their faces.

  “Carrie’s already gone for the day, of course,” Sophie said, turning from the bookstore to look across the street at a place called Artisans All. “The arts and crafts crowd,” she confided. “They don’t shop late. And then there’s Barb and Myra and Bill, of course.”

  For a moment, I thought I must be imagining things. Was that really perpetually cheerful Sophie sounding as sour as if she’d just bitten a lemon? I looked where she was looking, at the store just to the right of the empty storefront next to Artisans All where three people stood just inside the front door, coffee cups in their hands and their gazes trained on the Terminal.

  “Caf-Fiends?” I read the name painted on the front window.

  Sophie sniffed. “Stupid name for a coffee shop, isn’t it? New in the neighborhood. I don’t know about you, being from Hollywood and all, but I have to say, I don’t trust people who charge three dollars and fifty cents for a cup of coffee. Three dollars and fifty cents!” Another sniff emphasized her outrage. “It ought to be illegal.”

  “We’re going to have to talk to each and every one of them.”

  Sometime while I’d been looking out the window, Detective Oberlin and the young cop had come back out to the waiting area, and at the sound of his voice, I turned in time to see the sergeant send a laser gaze around the neighborhood. “Who saw what, where they were, what they know about the deceased. You know the routine. Statements, contact information, blah, blah, blah. And when you’re done with that—”

  Before he had a chance to finish, the front door of the restaurant opened and Declan hurried over. He crouched down in front of Sophie and took her hands in his.

  “I saw the police cars. Is everything all right?”

  “Obviously not.” I shouldn’t have had to point that out, so really, I didn’t deserve the condescending little half smile he shot my way.

  “Well . . .” Oberlin stepped back, his weight against one foot, and aimed a look at Declan. “Doesn’t it figure? There’s trouble, and look who’s here.”

  When he got to his feet, that funny little half smile never faded from Declan’s face. “Nice to see you, too, Gus. What’s going on?”

  “A murder, that’s what’s going on.” Since they were pretending I was invisible, I stood up and stepped between Declan and Oberlin. “Some guy called the Lance of Justice.”

  Declan pursed his lips and let out a long, low whistle. “That ought to stir things up around here.”

  “You would know.” Over my head, Oberlin glared in his direction.

  Declan was nearly as tall as the detective, and though he was broad, he wasn’t anywhere near as burly. That didn’t stop him from trading the cop look for look.

  “Just being neighborly,” Declan said.

  “As always,” Oberlin shot back.

  “Just like you were neighborly earlier tonight?” I asked, and don’t think I didn’t notice that this got Oberlin’s attention.

  He shifted his gaze from Declan to me. “What are you talking about?”

  “He stopped in,” I said, indicating Declan with the tip of my head. “About an hour ago. Right before we found the body. He said it was because he saw the lights on and he wondered what was going on.”

  “That would be because I saw the lights on and wondered what was going on.” Declan crossed his arms over his chest and his black leather jacket creaked.

  “He also said he was going to go back across the street when he left here, but when he did finally leave—”

  The clink of metal on metal interrupted me as the paramedics wheeled a cart out the door of the restaurant. There was a black body bag strapped to the gurney, a round hump at the end where Jack Lancer’s head was and the squared-off outline of his feet showing at the other end.

  Instantly, the TV camera lights outside swung our way and we all squinted.

  Except for So
phie. She looked like she was about to be sick.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way around this,” Oberlin grumbled. “Vultures, every one of them.”

  He opened the door, then stepped back and out of sight of the cameras, allowing the paramedics to leave with the body. The cameras followed the gurney to the ambulance and when they did, Oberlin looked back my way.

  “So what was it you were saying?” he asked me.

  “I was saying that while you’re taking statements, you might want to take his.” I didn’t have to point to Declan; he was standing right beside me. I looked up at him. “He was here earlier this evening, too. And when he left, he went—”

  “I know you’ve got plenty to do.” I would have thought Declan had forgotten me completely, I mean, what with the way he talked to Oberlin as if I weren’t there, but his hand clamped over my arm. “And I’m sure you need to talk to Sophie and Laurel some more. But they’re going to be in the way here and they don’t need this crazy publicity.” He tugged me toward the door. “I’ll take them across the street and you can be sure I’ll keep the newshounds away from them. When you need them, you’ll find them over at the Irish store.”

  Chapter 3

  Declan opened the front door of the shop and stepped back to allow first Sophie then me inside.

  “Welcome to Bronntanas,” he said.

  I glanced up at the giant shamrock over the front door. The word he used—one he pronounced BRON-tuh-nuss—was nowhere to be seen on the sign.

  “It means gift in Irish,” he told me because he could either read minds or my look at the sign spoke volumes. “That was supposed to be the name of the place. But no one could remember it. Or pronounce it. So everyone just calls it—”

  “The Irish store.”

  We finished the thought together and we might have laughed about it the way people do when they happen upon the same words at the same time if I could have gotten past that image of poor, dead Jack Lancer that was stuck in my head—and of the receipt spike that was stuck in his.

  Another memory followed close behind. That one was of Declan insisting he’d have a look around the restaurant before we found the body. And slipping into the parking lot on the side of the Terminal after Sophie told him we didn’t need his help.

  Maybe Declan was doing his mind reading thing again and knew exactly what I was thinking, because without another word he made his way down the center aisle of the small, well-lit shop and all the way to a counter where kilts and tams and tweed caps were displayed along with shawls and cabled sweaters. There was an open door behind the counter and when he closed it, I saw the white ceramic sign decorated with green shamrocks that hung from the door: OFFICE.

  “What can I get you ladies?” he asked, and when Sophie answered, “Tea, if you have it,” he ducked into another back room. While he rumbled around in there and she went to sit at a table next to the small sink and ministove and fridge where he prepared the tea for her, I took the chance to look around.

  The Irish store (I’d never remember its real name or pronounce it properly even if I did) had a little bit of everything: jewelry in the front counter, including claddagh rings and brooches along with emerald-studded necklaces and earrings, paintings of quaint country cottages, T-shirts and sweatshirts that featured rainbows and leprechauns, teapots covered with shamrocks, and even a curio cabinet filled with Waterford and Galway crystal along with Belleek pottery.

  The shop was spotless. The displays were tasteful and appealing, and there was an interesting mix of handcrafted and kitschy souvenirs.

  It didn’t strike me at all as the sort of place a man like Declan would work.

  “So?” After he delivered Sophie her tea in a mug with a picture of a castle on it, he handed a similar mug to me. “What do you think of Bronntanas?”

  “I think having a name no one can remember must cut down on your Internet sales.”

  I wasn’t going for funny, but he laughed. “I don’t much care for online sales. I think it’s more important for me to get to know my customers, face-to-face. That way, I can learn what they like and help them make their gift choices.”

  “Like this tea?” I sniffed. The tea was dark and strong, and Declan had added milk to it.

  “Let me guess, you like your tea to be herbal. And organic. Am I right?”

  He didn’t really care, so I figured I really didn’t have to answer. Instead, I strolled over to check out a display of pretty painted pottery. “Is this your shop?” I asked him.

  “It’s a family business.” He hadn’t bothered with a cup of tea for himself. He leaned back against the nearest glass display case, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just keep things in order.”

  “So what did that cop mean? When he said when there was trouble, he wasn’t surprised to see you around?”

  A small smile played around his mouth. “You don’t think gift shop managers can get in trouble?”

  “I think trouble doesn’t track with expensive crystal wineglasses and recordings of Irish folk songs.”

  “Ah, you’ve never heard some of the really good, old songs. They’re all about trouble!”

  A lesser woman might have been distracted by the heat of his smile and the way his eyes—as gray as the marble candleholders displayed nearby—crinkled up at the corners. I was immune. Six years with the Beautiful People will do that to a girl.

  “It all must look incredibly boring to you.”

  There he was, reading my mind again even if he wasn’t exactly accurate.

  I sipped my tea and found it surprisingly delicious even though I wasn’t used to sugar in tea or in much of anything else. “I’ll come back someday and do a little shopping.”

  “But not anytime soon. If I’m not mistaken, the way you and Sophie were going back and forth over at the restaurant, it means you’re going to walk out and leave that poor, dear lady high and dry.”

  I shot a look toward the back room. Sophie was still at the table, her feet flat on the floor in front of her, her eyes closed, her head back, and her hands wrapped around her tea mug.

  “What I’m going to do or not going to do really isn’t any of your business,” I said, shifting my gaze back to Declan. “And your editorial comments aren’t going to change my mind.”

  A lesser man would have taken offense. This one simply smiled. “You heading back to LA?”

  I took another sip of tea, the better to try and drown the spurt of anger that exploded inside me when I thought about what Declan did—and didn’t—know about me. “How much has Sophie told you?”

  “About her wonderful, fabulous niece, Laurel, who she can’t seem to ever get tired of talking about? Only that you’re some Hollywood big shot. She mentioned some big movie star, but sorry, I’m not much into pop culture so I don’t even remember the name. She also mentioned a cookbook. And a TV cooking show. Now, that I could get into. I love those shows where they go to firehouses and let the firemen do the cooking. Or the ones out in the wilderness where the host is forced to eat grubs and berries. Something tells me that’s not the kind of show you’re going to be doing.”

  “I’m not going to be doing any kind of show.” This was the truth, and I refused to elaborate. If I did, it would bring back the wave of disappointment that engulfed me every time I thought about how I’d had my dreams snatched out from under me.

  “Sophie talks too much,” I told Declan instead.

  “She’s proud of you.”

  “She has no reason to be.”

  “Not even the cookbook and the big-time movie star?”

  “Ancient history!” Because I couldn’t continue to stand there and pretend like it didn’t hurt, I turned and strolled to a corner of the shop and a display of Irish-made beauty products.

  “This stuff should appeal to you,” he said, picking up a bottle with a distinctive blue and white label. “It’s made with all-natural botanicals. Sounds like something a California girl would like.”

  “This Californ
ia girl has plenty of skin care products, thanks.”

  “It’s made with soy and wild oats,” he said, giving the bottle a little jiggle. “Guaranteed to soothe and soften and firm. None of which you need because your skin is perfect.”

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard my share of compliments in my day. Still, I felt my cheeks heat, and before he could notice, I wandered toward the front of the shop and the windows that gave anyone in the Irish store a bird’s-eye view of the Terminal.

  The ambulance in which Jack Lancer’s body had been placed was gone, but the police cars with their flashing lights were still there. So were the TV trucks and the gawking neighbors.

  “Did you know this Lance of Justice guy?” I asked Declan.

  He’d followed me to the front of the shop and I knew he was right behind me because I heard his leather jacket scrunch and figured he’d shrugged. “Everybody in this part of Ohio knows the Lance of Justice. He’s a TV personality. Well, he was.” He paused a moment, no doubt aligning his mind with this new reality. It wasn’t Jack Lancer is a TV personality. Not anymore. From now on, anybody who talked about Jack would use the past tense.

  “The Lance of Justice!” Declan’s chuckle told me he didn’t take the moniker 100 percent seriously. I couldn’t blame him. Even to me, coming from LA, where hype was the name of the game and more often than not, people believed their own PR even when they shouldn’t have, the name came across as overblown and self-important.

  I wondered if the Lance was.

  And if that was what got him killed.

  “Jack Lancer was always on one crusade or another,” Declan explained. “Sometimes, he’d do a story exposing public employees who weren’t putting in their full day’s work. Or he’d investigate companies that provided shoddy products or workmanship. You know, that sort of thing. Jack was big and loud and pushy. At least that’s how he came across on TV. The fearless crusader. He was a publicity hound, too. He’d show up as grand marshal of local parades, or at the openings of stores. A local celebrity. He had a couple charities he backed, too. An animal shelter, the local food pantry. So I guess he wasn’t all bad. Even small towns have hometown heroes.”