Bailey's Irish Dream

by Debby Conrad

  “I try to, but sometimes she makes me mad.”

  “Last night, when I gave you that high-five, I was just playing around.”

  Dillon scowled. “Yeah, I know. My dad said you were just being a jerk.”

  Quinn nodded, trying not to look offended. “Your dad was right.”

  “I asked my dad if you were such a jerk, then why would Aunt Bailey want to marry you.”

  “And what did your dad say?”

  A serious look fell on his face. “He said, sometimes people see the good things in someone that others can’t see.”

  Quinn was about to comment when he saw Doyle standing in the doorway.

  “I think your dad mentioned going for ice cream,” Doyle told his grandson.

  Dillon grinned, wadded the dishtowel in a ball, and tossed it on the counter. He turned on his heel to leave, then stopped. “Uh, do you still need my help?”

  Quinn waved him off. “Go ahead. I can handle the rest by myself.” Turning his back on Doyle, he went back to the dishes.

  “He’s a good kid. Smart too.”

  “Uh, huh.” Quinn slid a dinner plate into the bottom rack.

  “So,” Doyle said, “who gave you the other shiner?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  “That’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”

  Quinn gave the man a sideways glance, but didn’t bother to respond. What did Maguire think? That they were going to be good buddies, now that they shared a secret?

  “What I can’t figure out is, why you’re going to all this trouble; cooking for all of us, working in the kitchen. Who are you trying to impress? Bailey? And if so, I want to know why.”

  Turning off the faucet, Quinn turned to look fully at Doyle. “I’m not trying to impress anyone, especially not Bailey.”

  Doyle squinted his eyes at him. “You could have fooled me.”

  Quinn picked up the towel and ran his hands through it. “Look, I’m concerned about her, that’s all. And I plan on hanging around for awhile, so you’d better get used to it.”

  “Does Bailey know that?”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Quinn said, “She knows.”

  “I see,” Doyle said. After a moment’s silence, he picked up a mug from the counter and placed it in the dishwasher. “I may as well help with the dishes. Everybody else went for ice cream.”

  “What?” Quinn stammered, flying out of the kitchen to see for himself. “Damnit, I told Bailey not to leave my sight!” He realized too late that Doyle had heard him. Releasing his breath in a whoosh, Quinn pushed past the man and went back to the kitchen.

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on here.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  “What are we looking for again?” Doyle whispered, shining his flashlight at the door to Stanley Davenport’s house.

  Looking over his shoulder, Quinn said, “Diamonds. And maybe a lead to where Stanley the Jerk disappeared to.” Reaching under the mat on the front porch, he pulled out a key and slid it into the lock.

  He’d come clean with Doyle. Told him about the thugs and the trip to the FBI. But he’d left out the part about almost making love to Bailey in his recliner.

  “What if Stanley’s dead? What if Stanley’s inside? And dead?”

  “If he was dead, Harry and Shorty wouldn’t have been looking for him,” Quinn said matter-of-factly, turning on his own flashlight. The front door made an eerie squeaking sound when he opened it. Stepping inside the foyer, he waited for Doyle to follow, then shut the door.

  A huge built-in aquarium illuminated the far wall of the sunken living room. The sound of the pump hummed, tiny mountains of air bubbles exploding on one side. A dark polished Steinway grand piano took up most of the space in the room.

  “I can’t see,” Doyle complained. “Turn on the lights.”

  “No. No lights.”

  “Well, how are we supposed to search for dead bodies and diamonds in the dark?”

  “That’s why we brought flashlights.” Quinn shined his down the dark hallway. No sign of any dead bodies or diamonds there. “You take the upstairs, and I’ll look down here.”

  “Oh, sure. You’ll be closer to the door that way, in case those thugs show up.”

  Quinn gaped at him. “If you hadn’t been looking all over town for me this morning, those guys wouldn’t have found me and mistaken me for that piece of slime Davenport.”

  “All right,” Doyle said. “You’ve made your point. And I’ve offered to help you. But only because I don’t want any harm to come to Bailey, or my grandchild.”

  Jesus. Bailey, the pregnant virgin. “There is no baby. Bailey concocted that whole story.”

  “Bet you’re relieved.”

  “I’m only going to say this once more, Maguire. Your daughter and I are not . . . involved.”

  Snorting, Doyle said, “Yeah, right. What do you think, I’m blind? I see the way you look at her. I used to watch Mimi the same way.”

  Quinn wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. What was all this crap about the way he and Bailey looked at each other? Okay, so he liked looking at her. So what? That sure as hell didn’t mean anything. And the fact that he’d almost made love to her earlier didn’t mean anything either. He’d gotten carried away, was all. Bailey had been right. He’d probably been confused, delirious even, after he’d had his face smashed in.

  “I guess I’ll take the upstairs then,” Doyle murmured, traipsing up the stairway. “You want me to yell if I find Stanley stuffed in a closet?”

  Quinn shook his head and made his way down the hall to the kitchen, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the walls, countertops and floor. On one counter sat a glass fish bowl. Inside, two goldfish swam as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Bach and Beethoven. Spotting a container of fish food, he picked it up, held it upside down over the bowl and gave it a couple shakes. “Now, don’t be pigs,” he said quietly. “Save some for later.”

  He nosed inside cupboards and drawers, not really expecting to find anything, but hoping just the same. Nothing. As he moved through the dining room, he heard the floorboards creaking softly above him. Doyle.

  Where Bailey’s house was mostly stark white, Davenport’s house was trimmed in oak and decorated with blacks, browns, dark greens, and a jungle accent. He’d never seen so many potted plants in one place, he thought, shining the flashlight at a Boston fern, taller than him. Finding nothing of interest in the formal dining room, he made his way into the oak study. Animal heads made of clay, he assumed, adorned the walls. A rhinoceros, ram, giraffe and panda stared back at him in the dark. Quinn turned on the computer and, while waiting for it to boot up, rifled through drawers and papers.

  He found a title to a ‘98 Five-series BMW, two unpaid parking tickets, and dozens of used airline tickets. The concert pianist had not only been to Ireland in the past year, but he’d also been to Spain, Singapore and Johannesburg, South Africa, not once but twice. Wasn’t South Africa where all the diamond mines were?

  In the top desk drawer, Quinn found a Smith and Wesson revolver. A .38 Special, similar to the one Harry had threatened him with, and similar to the one Quinn kept behind the bar. Just in case. But why would a concert pianist need a gun?

  Sitting in the chair in front of the computer, he tried to log on, but failed repetitiously trying to guess at passwords. “Damn.”

  Leaving the computer on, he started across the hall when he heard a noise outside. Looking up, he saw Doyle coming down the stairs. The old man must have heard the same noise because he switched off his flashlight and stayed still. Quinn followed suit, flattening himself against the wall.

  Because of the light from the aquarium he could see the doorknob turning slowly, then opening. The loud squeak echoed as a man’s shoe touched the gleaming marble. Quinn dove for him and pinned him to the floor, before the second shoe touched down.

  “I’ve already called the police,” the man yelled beneath Quinn, squirming to get fre
e. “They’re on their way.” The man’s voice sounded familiar. Sort of like Bailey’s brother-in-law, Mark Lowell. Shit.

  “Mark?” Doyle said, turning on his flashlight and shining it in both Quinn’s face and Mark’s.

  “Dad? What are you doing here?” Mark asked.

  Quinn rolled off him, and got to his feet. He found the light switches on the wall behind him and flipped one on.

  “Stanley?” Mark pushed off the floor and stood, brushing imaginary dirt from his khaki slacks and white oxford shirt. The marble foyer was so shiny you could eat off it. Not that he had any intentions of doing so. “What are you guys doing? I saw flashlight beams through the window when we came back from getting ice cream. I thought someone had broken in. I told Bailey to call the police.”

  Great. That was all he needed, to get arrested for breaking and entering.

  Doyle came to the rescue. “I was just helping Stanley find something he’d lost.”

  “In the dark?” Mark asked, blinking at them both.

  Quinn shifted his eyes to Doyle, waiting for him to get them out of this mess.

  “Yeah. It’s one of those glow-in-the-dark thingamajigs. He wanted to show it to the kids, but then he couldn’t find it . . .”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Mark murmured, looking put out. “Tell it to the cops when they get here.”

  Suddenly the door flew open. “Dad?” Dillon poked his head around the corner. Mark whirled on him. “I told you to stay at Aunt Bailey’s.”

  “What’s going on?” the boy asked, ignoring his father. “Did you catch the burglars?”

  “No, they got away.” This from Doyle.

  “Darn!” Dillon stepped in front of the window, pressing his nose to the glass. “Cool! Here come the police.”

  Outside, blue lights flashed, probably alerting the entire neighborhood. From the window, Quinn watched as the squad car pulled into the drive. An instant later, two uniformed policemen hurried to the door, guns drawn.

  “Everybody get your hands up in the air!” the officer with the flattop ordered.

  Dillon threw his hands up, grinning broadly. “Cool!” he said again.

  “Officer, there’s been a mistake,” Quinn intervened.

  “I said, get your hands up!” Flattop yelled. “That means everyone.”

  Quinn, Mark and Doyle raised their hands. Quinn could see it now. Standing behind bars, cursing the day he’d first laid eyes on Bailey Maguire.

  While Flattop kept his eyes pinned on Doyle, the officer with the huge mustache spoke, pointing a finger at Dillon. “You,” he said, “You look like the only one in the bunch who can be trusted. What’s going on here?”

  Dillon beamed brightly. “My dad thought he saw burglars over here and so my Aunt Bailey called you guys. But when we got over here, my grandpa and my Uncle Stanley--well, he’s not really my uncle yet, but I still call him uncle--they were already here, and they scared the bad guys off. This is my uncle’s house.”

  “Uh, huh. You can put your hands down now, kid.” Dillon dropped his hands, looking a little disappointed. “Which one of these guys is your uncle?”

  “That one,” Dillon said, pointing proudly at Quinn.

  Quinn forced a smile and lowered his hands.

  “Get your hands back up!” Mustache yelled. “No one said you could drop ‘em. I said the kid.” He glared at each of the adult males, then raised his eyes to Quinn’s hands above his head. “Why the flashlights?”

  “I--” Quinn stammered, not quite sure what to say.

  “They were looking for the glow-in-the-dark thingamajig,” Mark said. “They were worried the burglars might have gotten it.”

  “Who are you?” Flattop asked Mark.

  “Mark Lowell. I’m his lawyer, and future brother-in-law,” Mark answered, nodding in Quinn’s direction.

  Quinn couldn’t believe how easily the Maguire family lied. In fact, he’d never told so many lies himself, until he’d met Bailey. But he was tired of it. Tired of the whole stinking mess. He should just come clean with these guys. Certainly they’d understand once he explained.

  Mustache turned his attention back to Quinn. “Is this your house?”

  “Yes,” he lied. On second thought, he wasn’t going to jail if he didn’t have to. Better to be a liar.

  After a considerable amount of persuasion they’d managed to convince the police that the whole thing had been a terrible mistake, and the officers finally left.

  “Can I play with your computer, Uncle Stanley?” Dillon asked, moving toward the study.

  Quinn followed behind the boy. “Sorry, but I forgot my password, so you won’t be able to get--”

  Before he’d had a chance to finish his statement, Dillon’s fingers tapped the keys and the computer came to life.

  “It’s Bailey,” the boy said.

  “What?”

  “Your password . . . it’s Bailey.”

  “Right.” Quinn left him be and went in search of Doyle and Mark, finding them in the kitchen. Mark stood, nursing a beer, resting his hip against the round oak table.

  “Help yourself,” Quinn said sarcastically.

  “Do you two have any idea what the punishment is for breaking and entering?” Mark admonished. “I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake. I could be disbarred for aiding and abetting felons.” He shifted his eyes from one man to the other, looking sternly. “Now, who’s house is this?”

  “Stanley Davenport’s,” Quinn answered honestly, unless Bailey had been lying about that too.

  Mark rolled his eyes, his expression clouding in anger.

  “Only I’m not Stanley Davenport.” The confession felt good, a cleansing of the soul. “My name is Quinn.”

  Mark looked at him, his mouth wide open. “Maybe somebody had better tell me what’s going on.”

  And so Quinn did. Again he left out the part about kissing, touching and almost making love to Bailey.

  Mark dropped into a kitchen chair and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “So, did you find any diamonds?”

  “No,” Quinn said, “but Davenport was in South Africa twice this year.”

  “That doesn’t make him guilty of smuggling,” Mark responded, the lawyer coming out in him.

  “Look,” Quinn said, opening the refrigerator and helping himself to a beer. “This guy is not lily white. We already know he took a bribe from your father-in-law. So who knows what else he’s capable of doing.”

  “I realize that, but he’s innocent unless we can prove otherwise. In the meantime, those thugs might come sniffing around again. I don’t like the idea that they threatened Bailey.”

  “And you think I do?” Quinn snapped, feeling territorial all of a sudden. After a few moments he got his temper under control, and took a sip of beer. “Work with me here. I don’t want Bailey left alone for a minute. But I’ve got a bar to run. I can’t just drop everything to start chasing bad guys.”

  “You don’t have to ask. Dad and I’ll watch Bailey.”

  With an odd twinge of guilt, he said, “I didn’t mean to dump her on you. I plan to stick to her like glue myself. I just want to make sure you guys will back me up.”

  “Ow!” Dillon’s voice exploded, and the three men took off in the direction of the boy’s scream. They found him in the living room, standing in front of the aquarium, holding his hand. “That fish bit me,” he started.

  Quinn read the sign on the glass. “I bite,” it said. He peered into the large tank at the lone gray fish gliding through the water. Multi-colored glass beads decorated the bottom and a plastic treasure chest sat in the corner. “It looks like a baby piranha.”

  Mark grasped Dillon’s hand. “Let me see.”

  “I’m all right. He just nipped me. He looked so nice, I didn’t think he’d really bite. What’s his name, Uncle Stanley?”

  “Uh, Chompers.”

  Dillon laughed.

  By now, the lies seemed to roll right off Quinn’s tongue with ease.

  * * * * *
* * * * *

  Quinn decided to spend the night in Davenport’s house. That way he’d be close enough to Bailey in case anyone came looking for trouble. He figured she’d be safe enough in her own home, surrounded by her family. Mark and Doyle could certainly keep an eye on her there.

  He’d chosen one of the guest rooms in lieu of the master bedroom. Quinn had no desire to sleep in Davenport’s bed. Besides, the room was plastered with animal heads, looking as if they might start a stampede in the middle of the night. No thanks.

  Stripping down to his boxers, Quinn turned off the overhead light, pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed. It was shortly after midnight, and he was exhausted. Sleep should have come easy, but half an hour later he was still awake. Worrying about Bailey.

  Harry had said he and Shorty would be back Saturday for the diamonds. And it was only Wednesday. Surely they’d have no reason to come back before then.

  Wednesday. He’d only known Bailey for two days, he thought, giving his head a shake. At times it seemed as if he’d known her forever, and at other times he felt he didn’t know her at all. Or at least not as well as he wanted to, thinking back to the fiasco on his recliner. He’d wanted nothing more than to explore those soft curves of hers, and to touch her in places he hadn’t yet had a chance to explore. Places he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

  What was he saying? She was a pain in his butt. It would do him well to remember that, before he had any more bright ideas about wanting to get to know her better. Already she’d caused more trouble than she was worth. The FBI had probably made a file on him that said CRACKPOT, DANGEROUS, APPROACH WITH CAUTION. The police had treated him as if he were some deranged lunatic, although he was lucky he hadn’t been arrested. And he had two shiners and a sore gut as a final reminder of his acquaintance with Bailey.

  Pain and suffering were the first things that came to mind when he thought about her. And already, he’d had enough of both.

  Rolling onto his back, he folded his hands behind his neck and tried to relax. Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Exhale.

  It wasn’t working. Maybe it was the safari wallpaper. He felt as if he was lost in the jungle and it was slowly closing in on him. He half expected an elephant to come charging through the walls at any minute.