Irish Stewed (An Ethnic Eats Mystery)

by Kylie Logan

  “Really? And your mother, she thinks you’re the Food Pantry Robin Hood?”

  “Not really.” He grinned. “But it’s just the kind of thing she would fantasize about. Mom, she’s imaginative like that.”

  “So, are you the Food Pantry Robin Hood or aren’t you?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know about you, but I stayed up late last night. It was a heck of a party, wasn’t it? And I got up early this morning so I could get to church. I really do need a cup of coffee.” He marched to the back of the store and when I didn’t budge, he never even bothered to look back at me.

  He brought out one mug of coffee for himself and another for me. Since I still had my arms hugged around myself, he set my cup of coffee on the nearest counter. “Who have you been talking to?” he asked.

  “Kim Kline, for one,” I told him. “She tells me the Lance of Justice was working on a story about the Food Pantry Robin Hood.”

  Thinking, he sipped his coffee. “I don’t see why. There’s nothing very sensational in it, is there? Somebody leaves food at the pantry now and again.”

  “The same somebody who orders the food through Sophie’s suppliers.”

  His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “She told you that?”

  “She didn’t have to. I’m pretty smart.”

  “And pretty nosy. The emphasis being on the pretty.”

  I blew out a breath of frustration. “If you think I can be so easily distracted by your lame compliments, you can think again. I know Sophie was at the restaurant the night of the murder.”

  “Sure she was. She was with you when you found the body.”

  “Before I got here.” I stared at him hard when I said this, the better to let him know I wasn’t about to put up with his attempts to distract me with his charms or the chemistry that bubbled between us like Irish stew on the boil. “She came early. She parked out front. She walked in through the front door.”

  “And you think she, what, invited Jack Lancer to meet her and killed him once he got there?”

  “I can’t imagine Sophie killing anyone.” It was the truth, so of course my voice rang with conviction. “She’s not that kind of person.”

  “And why would she feel the secret of the Food Pantry Robin Hood was worth killing for, anyway? Whoever Robin Hood is . . . well, he must be a wonderful guy, don’t you think?”

  Yes, I noticed that his shoulders shot back a fraction of an inch when he said this. Since I didn’t acknowledge the question, Declan went right on.

  “He must be generous and charitable. Practically a saint! If he’s paying for the food and Sophie is ordering it for him and then he’s sneaking it over to the church . . . I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking the guy is like Mother Teresa and Gandhi all rolled into one. With just a touch of Pope Francis thrown in for good measure.”

  “And a great big dose of hogwash!”

  He laughed. “You think?” he asked, but he didn’t give me a chance to answer before he asked another question. “Why would someone so wonderful and generous and kind and compassionate and—”

  “Cut the bull.”

  His expression sobered. “Consider it cut. So, why would someone like that kill Jack Lancer just because Lancer was thinking about doing a story about him?”

  “Exactly what I’ve been asking myself.”

  “And the answer you’ve come up with?”

  I grabbed my coffee cup and took a good, long drink before I said any more. Between my early-morning visits to the food pantry and Serenity Oaks, the Irish music that raced through my bloodstream all night long, and the fact that I didn’t get much sleep thanks to being nervous about that attempted break-in at Sophie’s, I needed all the time I could get to clear my head.

  “You’re right,” I finally said.

  Declan’s expression brightened. “Two little words I thought I’d never hear from you.”

  “And you might not hear them again. But this time, you are right. As much fun as it might be for Jack Lancer to expose the Food Pantry Robin Hood, it’s not exactly a story that would make or break his career. And it’s certainly not worth getting killed over.”

  Satisfied, he nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So, there has to be more to the story than just that.”

  He was just about to take another sip of coffee, and over the rim of his cup, his eyes flickered to mine. “You think?”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking a lot. About what Sophie was doing at the restaurant early that evening. About how you just happened to arrive on the scene once we got there. About how someone is using her suppliers to order goodies for the food pantry. And about Jack Lancer.”

  I strolled to the front of the shop and looked across the street at the Terminal. “You know, he’d been coming in every afternoon for pie and coffee.”

  “Sophie has great pie.”

  Declan had come to stand at my side, and I slid him a look. “That’s not why he was there.”

  “The coffee’s not that good.”

  I ignored the comment. “Jack sat at the same table every day,” I said.

  “A creature of habit. I think habits are boring, don’t you? Me, I’d rather be spontaneous. You know, passionate.”

  I ignored this, too, because it was an attempt to knock my train of thought off its tracks and because I knew if I let that happen, it would lead to a train wreck. “The table Jack sat at”—I pointed out—“from there, he had a perfect view of this place.”

  “Really?” Declan pursed his lips. “What do you suppose that means?”

  “That he had a line on something interesting. That he was watching you. He knew you were the Food Pantry Robin Hood and I think he knew something more, like maybe about how you were funding your little charity project. There’s plenty of speculation around here about you and your family, especially your uncle Pat. If Jack Lancer knew—”

  “First of all,” Declan was quick to point out, “Jack Lancer didn’t know anything. He might have suspected a thing or two, but truth be told, he wasn’t a good enough reporter to really find out anything of value. He was a hack, a showboater. And even if he did uncover anything interesting . . .”

  It was Declan’s turn to take a walk around the shop. He straightened the plaid kilts where they hung near CDs of Irish music. He grabbed a feather duster and danced it over the top of a glass display case. He moved a gorgeous pair of Waterford wineglasses to make sure they were sitting square under a spotlight so that when it was turned on, the light would ignite the hundreds of facets cut into the glass. When he was all done, he grabbed something out of a pretty glass bowl, and when he came back, he dropped those somethings on the counter nearby.

  “Irish pennies,” he said, running his hand through the little pile of copper coins. “Look, there’s a harp on this one. That’s the national symbol of Ireland, you know. Here’s a fairly new penny with a picture on it from the Book of Kells, and here’s an older one.” He held the coin between thumb and forefinger. “It’s got a hen and chicks on it because farming is Ireland’s chief economy.”

  “And Irish pennies have what to do with Jack Lancer?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But let’s just say . . .” He whisked his fingers across the coins, neatly dividing them into two piles, one with just a couple pennies in it and the other one piled high. “For argument’s sake, let’s examine the scenario you just mentioned. Let’s say that this pile of pennies . . .” He touched a finger to the smaller of the two piles. “Let’s just say that this is the money the food pantry has for operations. Not much, is it? Not nearly enough to serve all the needs of the people who come looking for food. What are they going to do?”

  I looked over his little example. “Take money from the other pile?”

  “That would not be keeping with the idea of charity, that’s for sure.” He tapped the larger pile. “But let’s say there is someone with all the money the food pantry needs. Here it is. Only
this money, it’s not so easy to spend, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t.

  Declan chose his words carefully when he explained. “Let’s pretend this money came to the person who owns it by means that are . . . well, let’s just say that they’re not exactly legal.”

  Instantly, I thought about everything I’d heard about Declan’s Traveller family and especially his uncle Pat Sheedy, the purported leader of the local Irish mob. He must have known it, because he jumped right in with a disclaimer.

  “Not that I’m saying anyone’s done anything wrong,” he said. “Or that anyone has gotten money by illegal means. You understand, this is all just for illustration purposes.”

  Oh, I understood, all right. And he understood that I understood. I knew this because he nodded once and went right on.

  “Let’s say the person who has all these pennies wants to make sure that everything he has is safe and that no one knows about what he’s doing or how he’s getting the pennies he has. He has to protect it, right?” He took some of the pennies and built a third pile. “He has to put it somewhere.”

  I pushed that third pile farther from the other two. “You mean like offshore accounts. We’re talking money laundering.”

  He winced. “Such ugly words. But if that’s what you want to call it, sure. We’ll call it money laundering. For illustration purposes. Now, let’s say that there’s someone who’s supposed to take care of the details for the person who has all this money.”

  I watched him carefully. “You.”

  Declan rolled his eyes. “It can’t be me. Because it’s not real. It’s just an—”

  “Illustration. Yes, I know. So the person who’s made all this money wants it taken care of.”

  “And the person who’s taking care of it decides it can be put to better use than just sitting in a bank account somewhere.”

  I looked from what was still the largest stack of pennies to that stack I’d sent to an offshore account. “Doesn’t the person who owns the pennies want to know what’s happening to all his other pennies?”

  “He does.” Declan put one finger on the newest stack of pennies and glided it closer. “He hears all about it from the person he’s put in charge of taking care of it for him. And someday . . .” One by one, he flicked the pennies off the counter and into his hand. “Someday when the FBI starts asking questions and the person with all those pennies is backed against a wall . . . well, if the money was in an offshore account or if there was anything havey-cavey going on, then he’d be up a creek. But this way . . .” He had all the pennies from the largest stack in his hand and all the pennies from the newest stack, too, and with a chink he added them to the pile he’d used to represent the food pantry.

  “Someday when he’s up against a wall, the person who owns all this money will thank the person he put in charge of it,” Declan said. “Because the authorities, they won’t be able to prove a thing.”

  I ran my finger through the coins, spreading them out on the counter. “So, if a reporter found out about the pennies, and the person in charge of those pennies thought the truth was going to come out—”

  “The reporter didn’t find out, and the person in charge of the pennies was never worried,” he assured me. “Besides . . .” He swept up the pennies into his hand, dropped them back in the bowl they’d come out of, and came back to the front of the shop, brushing his hands together.

  “It’s all hypothetical, anyway. Just an example.”

  “An illustration.”

  “Exactly.” His eyes gleamed. “But if it was real and if someone found out . . .” The someone he was talking about now wasn’t Jack Lancer. I suspected it from the start, and my suspicions were confirmed when he tapped the tip of my nose with one finger. “Well, it would be a shame to reveal the secret to the world, wouldn’t it? And what good would it do, anyway? The only people who would suffer are the ones who come to the food pantry and find the shelves empty. It would be a shame to reveal the Food Pantry Robin Hood and spoil things for them, wouldn’t it?”

  I gritted my teeth and smiled. “Not if it meant catching a killer.”

  He puffed out a breath of annoyance. Or maybe it was a sound of surrender. “All right, since you know Sophie was at the Terminal early on the night of the murder, you should know that I was, too. We were discussing the details of something we were working on together.”

  “Ordering from her suppliers for the food pantry.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m not going to say it. I will say that when I was there, I had a list of sorts with me, you know, things we were going to talk about, and when she realized how late it was and how she had to get home because you were scheduled to arrive, she hurried me out and I left my list behind.”

  “That’s what you were looking for when you came over to the Terminal once Sophie and I arrived!”

  “It’s not like it was incriminating or anything,” he told me. “But I couldn’t take the chance of someone finding it. Turns out I didn’t have to worry, because Sophie scooped up the paper and took it with her. Only I didn’t know that, not then.”

  “And if someone did find it?”

  “You mean, like Jack Lancer?” Declan whisked my coffee mug off the counter and took it to the back room. I heard water running and a minute later, he was back.

  “No secret is worth the price of a human life,” he said.

  “So you didn’t kill Jack Lancer.”

  “I’m glad you finally realize it.”

  “And Sophie didn’t kill Jack Lancer.”

  “I think we can both be pretty sure of that.”

  “So we’re back to square one.”

  “Not exactly. We have made some progress today. We know each other a little better. And that makes me wonder . . . if I really was the Food Pantry Robin Hood, that dashing, daring superhero . . . would you have a drink with me tonight?”

  The man was exasperating beyond belief.

  Which didn’t explain why there was a spring in my step when I walked back to the Terminal.

  Or what on earth I was thinking when I agreed to meet him for a drink that evening.

  Chapter 18

  At least I found a distraction right from the start on Sunday evening—and it wasn’t Declan’s easy smile or the way he made me feel as if I were the only one on the planet with him.

  It was the restaurant he chose to take me to.

  Linen tablecloths.

  Flickering candles.

  A wine cellar I could see at the far end of the spacious room with its stone floors, its rustic (but not kitschy) barnwood walls, and two walls of windows that looked out onto what seemed to be a never-ending expanse of trees, their new, fresh foliage glimmering in the last of the evening light.

  I breathed in the heady scent of garlic and sherry and shallots. I listened to the clink of ice cubes in glasses, the satisfying swish of a wine cork being pulled from its bottle, the respectful rumble of a waiter’s voice as he tossed a Caesar salad at the table nearest where we stood waiting to be seated. Oh yeah, I took it all in.

  And my shoulders sagged.

  “What?” Declan didn’t miss a thing. His gray gaze shot my way. “You don’t like it here? We can go somewhere else.”

  “It’s fine.” Truth be told, it was more than just fine. The Rockworth Tavern was the kind of restaurant where I could picture myself comfortably ensconced: showing patrons to their tables, making wine and dinner suggestions, smoothly and efficiently handling the staff in their black pants and crisp white shirts.

  It ought to be. It was the restaurant that Sophie had shown me pictures of over the years, the one I thought I was coming to Hubbard to manage.

  Once we were seated at a table next to the windows and had drinks in front of us—cab for Declan and a caipirinha for me that (in the great no-man’s-land somewhere outside of Hubbard!) even included authentic cachaça, a liquor made from sugarcane juice—I told him the story. To his credit, he laughed.

  �
��Sophie’s really something. She’s got the energy of a woman half her age. I bet she’ll be back at the Terminal in no time at all.”

  I took a sip of my perfectly prepared drink. “The sooner the better.”

  He sat back and studied me. “When she comes back, you’re leaving.”

  My shrug should have said it all. “I never intended to stay. She knew that from the start.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’ve got a couple options.” This was not technically true. Not unless a couple translated to “I have no idea.” Declan didn’t need to know that. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “And if the murder isn’t solved by then?”

  This time, my shrug packed a little more punch. “It’s not my job to make sure Jack Lancer’s murder is solved,” I reminded him.

  “But you’re the only one who seems to be making any progress on the case.”

  I doubted this was true. “I’m sure Detective Oberlin is working very hard.”

  “Gus Oberlin has been over to my mother’s twice this weekend to talk to Owen. He keeps asking the kid the same questions over and over, waiting for him to slip up. Gus is stuck in a groove—he’s such a stubborn son of a gun. There’s not one fingerprint upstairs that puts Owen on the scene, but Gus being Gus, he doesn’t much care. He’s not going to look any further. Not unless you show him that there are other places to look.”

  “Apparently not at the Food Pantry Robin Hood.” He didn’t rise to the bait I hoped would get him talking more about what he’d told me that morning, so I went right on. “And thank goodness, now that the whole food pantry idea is off the table, Sophie as a suspect is, too.”

  “You can’t think she actually might have done it.”

  “Not really. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t really know people. Not wholly. Not completely. And you can’t really know what they would—or wouldn’t—kill for. If Sophie had a strong enough reason . . . well, I don’t know. I suppose if there was something she believed in enough or something she wanted to protect or some secret she had to make sure didn’t get revealed, then, yeah, I suppose she might kill for it. I suppose any of us would.”