by Zara Keane
The car jolted over the uneven surface of the road and sloshed through a puddle. “Not far now,” Gavin said. “Have you seen the new station yet? It’s the absolute pits—a three-room hovel with peeling paint and a leaking roof. I’d say they’re having fun in this weather.”
The mundane conversation was a welcome distraction from the jumble of confusion performing somersaults in her head. “Why did they close the old station? I remember they used to be in a quaint building off Patrick Street. Funny I didn’t notice its absence on my recent walks through the town.”
“Police cuts.” Gavin shook his head. “They razed the old place to build houses during the boom years and intended to erect a small building to house the station. It never happened. The local Guards are still stuck in their so-called interim solution, with the staff cut to half and their jurisdiction increased threefold. It’s a flipping disaster. Frankly, it’s a wonder any crimes get solved in these parts.” He flipped on the indicator and slowed the car. “Here we are. You’ll get to see it for yourself.”
They eased to a halt outside a small house with an old-fashioned tin roof.
She peered out the rain-splattered window. “I see Ruairí’s car is already here.”
“Bailing his little sister out, no doubt.” Gavin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “And not for the first time.”
“Sharon’s no saint, but I can’t see her doing this. She’s cheeky and irreverent, but she’s careful with the money and has a quick head for numbers. Besides, why would she want to risk losing her job? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but let’s see what the police have to say on the matter.” He cut the engine. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“I can handle it. Thanks for the lift, Gav.” She fidgeted with her umbrella before leaning sideways and brushing his cheek with her mouth. His stubble tickled her lips, and his spicy scent sent her erogenous zones into overdrive.
They stayed like that for a moment, each frozen in an awkward silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’ll stay here until you’re ready to go home.”
“Okay, I won’t be long,” she said and stepped out of the car straight into a puddle. Feck. She could add wet feet to her list of woes. The wind rendered her umbrella more a hindrance than a help. She pulled up her hood and made a run for it.
A young man in a Guard’s uniform held open the station door.
“Thanks,” she said, shaking out her umbrella.
“Terrible weather,” the young man said in a Donegal accent. “Outside and in.” He pointed to the array of strategically placed buckets catching the leaks around the station. “I’m Garda Brian Glenn.” He pumped her hand hard enough to crush her bones.
“Fiona Byrne,” she said and shrugged off her wet coat. “I’m here about Sharon MacCarthy. She’s suspected of vandalizing my aunt’s bookshop.”
“Oh, aye.” Garda Glenn said in a tone flavored with irony. “Sharon’s a frequent visitor—as is the rest of her family. If there’s a crime committed in these parts, ten to one it’s either the MacCarthys or the Tinkers.”
“Oy,” said a deep voice. “Cheeky pup. You’ve never arrested me.”
Ruairí MacCarthy was sitting on a chair in what passed for the reception area, thumbing through a newspaper. His faded Rugby shirt was strained at the shoulders, making him look even more bear-like than usual.
“Hey.” Fiona nodded at him. “Are they seriously going to make you post bail? I can’t imagine Sharon trashing the Book Mark. It doesn’t make sense.”
“She says she didn’t do it,” Ruairí said gruffly. “And I believe her.”
“Let me out of this fucking room!” Sharon’s screech penetrated the hard wooden door separating the neighboring room from the reception area.
“Stop your caterwauling,” said Garda Glenn. “I’ll let you out if you promise to behave. I’m not having you trashing the place again.”
“She’ll behave,” said her brother in a voice that brooked no argument. “Won’t you, Sharon?”
An answering sob came from behind the door.
“Sharon, I know you didn’t vandalize the Book Mark,” Fiona said softly. “Will you please tell us what happened?”
“Okay.” Her assistant sniveled and hiccupped.
Garda Glenn sighed and extracted a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door, and Sharon launched herself out of her prison and into Fiona’s arms.
Fiona patted her peroxide hair. “There, there, pet. It’ll be grand.”
Sharon released her and fished a tissue out of her pocket. “I dunno who did it,” she said between sobs, “but it wasn’t me. I swear.”
“I believe you. Tell me what happened.”
The girl dabbed at her mascara-streaked face and honked into her tissue. “I was walking along Patrick Street on my way to the bus stop. When I passed the Book Mark, the alarm was blaring and I noticed the smashed windows. I went inside to check if anything was nicked. I was about to call you when that buffoon showed up and put me in handcuffs.”
“One of the tenants above the Book Mark reported a break-in in the bookshop,” Garda Glenn said, eyeing Sharon with distaste. Obviously there was no love lost between this pair.
“When I arrived,” he continued, “I found Sharon inside. She’d busted open the cash register and was rooting through it. What was I supposed to think?” He crossed his beefy arms and tried to look stern and authoritative.
“Bollocks,” Fiona said. “Sharon knows we don’t keep any money on the premises. Besides, why would she bust the till open when she knows the code?”
The policeman’s thick lips parted, but no words came out. “I’m sure we’d find her fingerprints all over the place if we checked.”
Jaysus. If Brian Glenn was representative of up-and-coming policemen, Ireland was fucked.
She gave a hiss of impatience. “Of course you’d find Sharon’s fingerprints all over the shop. She works there. You’d also find my fingerprints, Bridie’s fingerprints, and the fingerprints of goodness knows how many customers.”
“We done here?” Ruairí tossed his newspaper aside. “Because it doesn’t sound like you’ve got anything to warrant keeping my sister in custody.”
Garda Glenn muttered something under his breath. “Fine. Take her home. I might have more questions, mind, depending on what I turn up.”
By Fiona’s guestimate, Garda Glenn was going to “turn up” sweet shag all. “I’ll continue going through the shop this evening,” she told him. “I’ll make a list of anything missing. So far, though, everything looks to be present and correct.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call round the shop sometime tomorrow morning.”
Fiona said good-bye to Ruairí and Sharon on the station steps before heading back to the SUV. Inside the car, Gavin was listening to nineties rock on the radio. She slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
“How’d it go?” he asked, his eyes creasing in concern. “I take it the police have no leads other than Sharon?”
She snorted. “Leads? That fella Brian Glenn couldn’t win a game of Cluedo, never mind solve a real case.”
“Did he let Sharon go?”
“Yeah. Ruairí’s driving her home.”
“By the way, Liam called while you were inside. He’s going to meet us at the Book Mark with the plywood and Wiggly Poo.”
“How soon will he be able to replace the glass?”
“Couple of days.” Gavin reached across and took her hand. “Listen, we need to talk about what happened.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “I know we do. It was a one-off, right?”
“Do you want it to be a one-off?” he asked softly. “Seriously?”
She took a steadying breath. His hand on hers was warm, comforting. “Gavin, we’re getting divorced. Up until a few weeks ago, you were set to marry my cousin. How can this be anything other than casual sex?”
His laugh tickled her neck. “
Casual sex isn’t synonymous with a one-off.”
“You want a repeat?”
“Hell, yeah. Don’t you?”
“Yes…,” she said slowly.
“But?”
“How can you even ask that? Our situation is beyond screwed up.”
He stroked her hand, sending electric shocks skittering over her skin. “Then let’s establish a few ground rules—assuming we both want this to continue. We’re friends who happen to be sleeping together. If either of us wants to change the status back to friendship alone, there’ll be no hard feelings.”
She stared out the window but could see nothing through the rivulets of rain running down the glass. “I’m only in Ballybeg for a few months. Once Bridie’s back on her feet, I’ll leave.”
He was staring at her earnestly, his blue eyes gray in the dim light. His hair had grown since the wedding and was starting to curl over his ears. He wasn’t paying the scrupulous attention to his appearance that he had while living with Muireann. “I realize your life is elsewhere,” he said. “I just thought… we get on, you and I, despite our crazy circumstances. We can at least be friends—with or without benefits.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “But any benefits will have to be enjoyed before Bridie comes home. When I have to balance looking after her with running the Book Mark, I’ll be too busy for distractions.”
A grin suffused his face. “So if I were to offer you a… distraction… after we collect Wiggly Poo from the Book Mark, would you accept?”
The electric sensation on her skin shot straight to her groin. She stared at his supple lips and the masculine curve of his jawline. Her hesitation stretched into a few charged seconds. Finally, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Yes, I’ll stay over—on one condition.”
His eyebrows formed a question. “What?”
“Wiggly Poo is not sharing our bed.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
FIONA SNUGGLED CLOSER to her warm bed companion, enjoying his wet kisses, curly fur, and dog breath.
Wait a sec. Dog breath? What the…?
Her eyes flew open. Two brown doggie orbs stared back in blatant adoration. Definitely not the male she’d been dreaming about.
Wiggly Poo licked her face and nuzzled her playfully.
“How did you get in here, you naughty boy?” She scratched his belly.
“Sorry, did he wake you?” Gavin emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung around his hips. He could have dispensed with the towel. Over the past week, she’d become well acquainted with what lay underneath.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “What was that I said about not sharing your bed with Wiggly Poo?”
Gavin grinned at her and rooted through his wardrobe. “Sure, wasn’t he very well behaved the last few nights?”
“Then why is he in the room with us this morning?”
“Because, my dear, you sleep like a stone. Did you not hear him howling outside the door last night?”
“I was…” Warmth crept up her cheeks. “…rather tired.”
“I’d love the opportunity to tire you further, but it’s after eight o’clock and we’re due to collect Bridie at the nursing home at nine.”
“Feck!” She threw off the duvet and leaped out of bed. Naked and blind without her contacts, she scrambled around the floor of Gavin’s bedroom, locating various discarded items of clothing. A sock, a second sock, her bra. Crap. Where were her knickers?
“Looking for these?” Gavin dangled a pair of lacy Brazilian-cut underpants out of her reach.
“Give me those.” She snatched the knickers and quickly put them on. His grin grew wider. “I’m going next door for a shower and clean clothes,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the car in twenty minutes, yeah?”
“Fine.” He zipped up his jeans. She tried—with a modicum of success—not to fantasize about pulling them off. “I can’t wait to see your hair after your blitz shower. It’ll be frizz central.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and closed the door behind her.
They’d developed an oddly comfortable routine over the last few days. She’d spend the night (always at his place—it didn’t seem right having him stay over at Bridie’s). The next morning, they’d have breakfast together before she headed to the Book Mark, and he continued the job search/interview hamster wheel.
Liam O’Mahony had been as good as his word. He’d installed the new window on the Tuesday after the break-in. Apart from the storm-stained walls in the café, the shop looked its old self. Fiona had provided Garda Glenn and the insurance company with a detailed list of the damages. Thankfully, Liam was prepared to wait on his payment until the insurance money came through. Had he not been so accommodating, she’d have been in a serious financial tight spot.
By the time she was showered and dressed, Gavin was waiting for her in his SUV.
She clicked in her seatbelt. “Do you know Muireann’s due home in a few days?” They’d avoided mentioning her cousin, distracting one another with jokes when dressed and sex when not, but they couldn’t avoid the topic indefinitely.
“I heard.” He started the engine and pointed the car in the direction of the nursing home.
“Will you call her when she gets back?” The words stumbled out in an awkward jumble.
He shrugged. “Eventually. We have to find a buyer for Clonmore Lodge—assuming she doesn’t want to buy me out of my share, which I doubt.”
“How do you feel about seeing her again?” Her stomach twisted into knots in anticipation of his answer. She was being daft. They’d already decided their fling was short term. Whether or not he intended to get back with Muireann was none of her business.
“Frankly, I’d rather avoid her indefinitely,” he said, “but there’s no chance of that in a town this size.”
She took a deep breath. “You don’t want to try to patch things up with her?”
“That ship hasn’t only sailed, it’s been shipwrecked.” He gave a bitter laugh. “No, we have no future together. I see that now.”
They passed the rest of the car journey with meaningless chitchat. When they reached Fatima House, Bridie was waiting in the lobby, packed and impatient to get going. “I haven’t felt this itchy to get out of a place since my days at boarding school,” she said, giving Fiona a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll take your suitcase,” Gavin said.
“Thanks, Gavin. You’re a good lad.”
He grinned. “Not really. Just mighty fond of your shepherd’s pie.”
He carried the case in one hand and looped his other arm through Bridie’s. She no longer needed to use a walker, but she loathed her crutches and took every opportunity to avoid using them.
Fiona helped her aunt into the car while Gavin stowed her suitcase in the car boot. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a familiar white-haired figure ascending the steps to the main entrance. “Can you give me a sec? I forgot to ask the nurse something.” She closed the car door before Bridie could react and raced up the steps and into the lobby.
She spotted him immediately. Jack, the elderly porter, was carrying a sweeping brush and chatting to the receptionist. Not Carol this time, but a younger woman. “Excuse me.”
“Yes?” He peered at her through the thick lenses of his bifocals.
“We spoke a couple of weeks ago. I asked you about Ann Dunne.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “I remember.”
“It occurred to me to ask if you remember what time of year Ann won the lottery. I know it seems a strange question, but—”
“Oh, I remember all right.” He leaned on his sweeping brush and narrowed his eyes. “It was before Christmas. We always have a staff Christmas party around the middle of December. Everyone chips in whatever they can afford. Ann was telling people she’d won a fortune in the lottery a few days before we collected everyone’s contribution. She contributed a fiver, the same amount she gave every year. Typical.”
“Do you remember what year it was?”
<
br /> He shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t recall the year, but it was a long while ago. Twelve years at least.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your time.”
“Why are you interested in Ann, anyway?”
“I’d rather not get into specifics. It has to do with a will.”
“A will, eh?” Jack raised a white eyebrow. “Sounds like Ann, all right. Can I give you a piece of advice?”
The hairs on Fiona’s nape sprang to attention. “Go on.”
“If you manage to find her, watch your step.”
On the Friday after Bridie’s homecoming, Fiona woke with a splitting headache. This was the third she’d had in the past five days—a record, even for her migraine-prone self.
Juggling Bridie and the shop was wearing her out, not to mention the weird guilt-excitement-stress combo over sleeping with Gavin. Not they’d managed more than a quickie since Bridie’s return…
In theory, the time apart should have given her the opportunity to come to her senses, to put a stop to whatever was going on between them. In reality, he was on her mind way more than she cared to admit. He’d gotten under her skin, just as he had all those years ago. It would end. She knew that. His life was here, and hers was anywhere but Ballybeg. It was a fleeting moment of madness, stretched by circumstance.
“What’s up with you, missy? Your face is more changeable than the Irish weather. Can’t you decide whether you’re in a good or a bad mood?” Bridie lowered her morning newspaper and regarded her niece with concern.
“A headache,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite her aunt. “I’ll be grand once I have breakfast.”
She grabbed a triangle of toast from the rack on the table and slathered it with butter and marmalade. The rain outside the kitchen window was relentless. If she’d left for her trip on schedule, she’d be in sunny Perth right now. She bit her lip and tasted the bittersweet tang of regret.
“Harrumph!” Bridie said. “I didn’t come down in the last shower. Man trouble is what you have, and I’m betting the man causing the trouble is Gavin Maguire. Come on, spill.”
She jerked to attention. So much for hoping her aunt wouldn’t notice. “There’s nothing to say.” She helped herself to tea from the pot on the table and warmed her hands around the mug.
