Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “Here you go,” Gillian said, handing her a hot mug. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “This is fine, thanks. These paintings are great, all of them.”

  “As I told you before, the pretty watercolors are mostly for the tourist trade. People like to take home a nice souvenir of the Old Country, and I’m happy to oblige. I sell them through a couple of shops in Skib, and a gallery in Schull, which gets lots of summer people. I’m trying to sweet-talk my way into something at Glandore, or even Rosscarbery, for the corporate types who visit. The oils are more personal. I use some acrylics too.”

  “I’d be happy to hang a couple in Sullivan’s, if you want,” Maura said before wondering if Jimmy and Mick would see that as “fancying up” the place, something they had argued against.

  “That’d be grand,” Gillian said. “Sit.” She motioned at Maura. “Talk to me. Sometimes when I get to working, I lose track of time. I can go days without even exchanging a word with a living soul. So, tell me about yourself. How on earth did an American girl like you arrive at the ends of the earth here?”

  Maura smiled. “It’s a complicated story. My father was born up the hill there, but he and my grandmother went to Boston when he was a child. He died when I was very young—I barely remember him.”

  “Sorry,” Gillian said. “We’ve lots of stories of people who went away. Nowadays some of them or their kids come back to visit, looking for their history, but there’s not much to be found. Do you see yourself staying?”

  “I never planned on it, but then, I never had much of a plan back in Boston either. I’m still getting to know the place, but I like it. I think. It takes getting used to. What about you? Did you say you spend part of the year in Dublin?”

  “I do, when it’s too cold to stay here. I’ve done a show or two there—you can guess there are more places for that kind of thing in the city—but the competition is wicked. I know my limitations as an artist, and I guess you’d say I’m not terribly ambitious. I like it here. I come here to clear my head.” Gillian stared out at the view. “Truth be told, this is home. I can come and go as I please. Paint all night, if I want, or not at all. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Things are easy.”

  “I’m beginning to see what you mean. I grew up in a part of Boston where there were always people around, and they weren’t exactly quiet. And then there were cars and trains, and planes overhead. I don’t think I knew what real quiet was like until I got here. But it’s not scary, just peaceful.” Maura took a swallow of tea. “Listen, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Gillian said quickly.

  “Do you know the Townsends?”

  Gillian’s mouth twitched. “Are you asking, do I know Harry?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Gillian laughed. “Tell me you haven’t fallen for him too?”

  “Nope, not my type. Too pretty.”

  “Good for you. The bottom line is, Harry’s a fine thing, as you noticed, and he knows it, so he can have almost anyone he wants. But he really likes women, too much to settle on just one. I’ve known him all my life, and we usually get together every couple of months.”

  That was more or less what Mick had said. Maura guessed that they did more than play darts on those occasions. “Does he spend much time here?”

  “Harry lives in Dublin most of the time. Drives down when the spirit moves him. He gets to play lord of the manor and impress the local girls.”

  “He won’t go after Rose, will he?”

  “Of course not. He’s not a bad person, just easily distracted by a pretty face. He does have some scruples.”

  “What about a job?”

  “That too, to his credit. He’s an accountant.”

  Maura almost spit out her mouthful of tea. “Really? No wonder he likes it better here. Playing lord of the manor beats number cruncher any day. I understand he manages whatever’s left of the estate and takes care of his—what is she, great-aunt?”

  “Right. He’ll probably be around for a few days now, sorting things out.”

  “What’s Miss Eveline like?”

  “The last time I saw her, last summer, she seemed frail, and her mind travels to the past a bit, but given her age, I’d say she’s doing well.”

  Interesting that Gillian had actually spent time with Eveline. “Not senile or feeble?”

  Gillian smiled. “Not at all. And I’m pretty sure she knows about Harry’s girls and doesn’t approve—she’d rather see him settled. Why do you ask, if you’ve no dog in the hunt?”

  Maura wondered briefly whether she should ask her next question, but she decided it might save her some trouble. “You saw Harry with Althea last night, didn’t you?”

  “She the one with fancy shoes, who left with him?”

  So Gillian had noticed. Did she care? “That’s her.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No, but she is a fellow American.” Maura had a lightbulb moment. “Hey, you may be able to help her—if you don’t hold it against her for hanging all over Harry.”

  “How’m I supposed to help?”

  “She’s here looking for what she says is a long-lost painting—a Van Dyck, I think she said—that will wow the New York art world and save her career, and she thinks it may be at Mycroft House. That’s her story, at least.”

  “Wow. That would rock the art world,” Gillian said with something like admiration. “So Althea thinks it’s a real possibility?”

  “She does. Have you ever been inside the manor?”

  “Yes, but not all of it. But we’ve had tea there on occasion.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if there was a rare and valuable painting lurking somewhere in the house?”

  “Not personally. Harry might be able to tell you, but he’s an eejit about art, much less historical art—to him it would just be something that’s been hanging on the wall as long as anyone can remember. And under the terms of Eveline’s father’s will, she has the right to live in the place for the rest of her life, and she has complete control of the furnishings until she goes. I guess her father felt sorry for his poor unmarried daughter. So even if Harry knew of such a treasure, he wouldn’t be able to do anything with it until Eveline’s gone. What’s Althea’s game?”

  “I think she’s making it up as she goes. But I think she made a run at Harry last night to get into the house, not because she’s after him. When she tried to get in on her own, the night before, Mrs. O’Brien barred the door to her.”

  “It doesn’t do to cross Florence O’Brien. She’s very protective of Eveline, bless her. And I’m sure you know there are those who would prey on older folk, particularly during these times, so that’s a good thing.”

  “Can you fill me in on the setup? What I’ve heard so far is that Harry lives in Dublin most of the time. Eveline lives at the manor and doesn’t even go out anymore. The O’Briens look after her and take care of the place. Seamus did the gardening.”

  “Poor Seamus,” Gillian said, and Maura thought she sounded like she meant it, rather than making polite noises. She shook her head, then looked at Maura. “He was a good lad. The O’Briens took in Seamus some years ago, and he lived on the estate, but he seldom ventured as far as the village. They were very kind to him, and he was well treated. I don’t know what they’ll do with the gardens now—let them go wild?”

  Gillian hadn’t offered any reason why the O’Briens would have done any harm to Seamus. Let the gardaí sort out his death. Maura returned to something she could do something about. “So let me ask you this, and you can go ahead and say no: are you willing to help Althea look for this painting?”

  Gillian regarded Maura steadily for a moment. “You think I’d put her off because she’s made a play for Harry? I have no claim on him. Although she did set on him rather quickly, didn’t she, now?” Then she said slowly, “I’m willing to help look for it if it means that there’ll be a bit more money to make sure that Eveline is comfortable for the rest of her days. I’d bet she wou
ldn’t want to sell the painting, if it exists, but maybe Harry could borrow money against it. I know he’s worried about the money running out, and the old place does need a lot of work. As far as I know, the O’Briens are working for no more than a roof over their heads and their meals. So I guess that’s a yes, as long as Althea doesn’t spirit the piece off in the middle of the night and sell it for her own reward.”

  “Thank you—that’s generous of you. Can I tell Althea? And I’ll beat it into her head that she should be grateful to you. She doesn’t seem to get how things work around here. New York and West Cork don’t mix well.” Maura checked her watch. “Shoot, I’ve got to get to town. If I see Althea I’ll tell her, but I don’t have time to go looking for her.” Althea was probably in Harry’s bed, Maura guessed, but she wasn’t about to say that to Gillian.

  “I’ll stop in later. Can I bring you some of my paintings?”

  “Please! I’ll bet they’ll brighten up the place, even if Old Mick is rolling over in his grave.”

  Chapter 8

  Maura and Rose were hip deep in customers later that morning when Althea dragged herself in, wearing the previous night’s clothes, and found an empty stool at the bar. Maura acknowledged her but her hands were full; she noted that Rose took her order and gave her a cup of coffee a minute later.

  At about one there was a lull in the crowd, and Maura wondered once again if providing light lunches or hot food might keep people around. If they had to go elsewhere to find their lunch, they might not come back. Still, she had to keep reminding herself that she shouldn’t make any big decisions without a better idea of how things worked around here—including the regulations about serving food. She asked Rose to cover the taps for a bit, then moved down the bar to where Althea sat, gloomily stirring her coffee. “How you doing?”

  “I screwed up.”

  “Harry?” Maura asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You want to talk about it?” Maura asked the traditional bartender question.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can fix this, and it’s my own stupid fault.”

  “Try me.” Maura tried to ignore the fact that Rose was near enough to overhear. But if Rose was old enough to serve at the bar, she was old enough to hear about Althea’s bad behavior.

  “Harry . . . invited me home with him last night.”

  “I think everyone in the bar figured that out.”

  “Oh, great. I keep forgetting how small everything here is. Anyway, yes, he took me to his palatial estate—which, believe me, needs a whole lot of work. I’d had a drink or two here, and then we had a drink or six when we got there, and you can guess the rest. I can’t say much about Harry’s performance because I don’t remember much of anything.” She looked around the room. “Did you all hear that, guys?” Every man in the room averted his eyes quickly.

  Althea smiled bitterly and continued. “Doesn’t do to burn any bridges, does it? So after our night of passion, the sun came up, and I went down the hall wearing Harry’s shirt and not much more, looking for a bathroom, and ran smack into Aunt Eveline. She started shrieking, and that brought Mrs. What’s-Her-Name and her hubby running, and then she started yelling at me, and then Harry finally woke up and stumbled out in his tighty whities and the housekeeper started yelling at him. So he grabbed me and dragged me back into his room and suggested rather strongly that it might be a good time for me to make myself scarce, until the shouting stopped. I pointed out that he’d driven me there and was I supposed to walk? So we both kind of threw our clothes on and left as fast as we could. He dropped me here, which is where I left my car. I don’t know where he went, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t back to the house.”

  Maura was enjoying Althea’s story more than she wanted to admit. Althea had been asking for trouble, and it looked like she’d found it. “Just to review, you and Harry hooked up last night, right? Did you have a chance to talk about the painting? Or look around the house?”

  Althea shook her head. “Never quite got to that. We, uh, didn’t do a lot of talking, just drinking and . . . other stuff.” She glanced at Rose, who was suddenly very busy polishing glasses.

  “But you’ve managed to tick off both Aunt Eveline and the housekeeper who runs the place? The one who had already thrown you out once?”

  “Yup, two for two.”

  “Did Harry have anything to say?”

  “Beyond ‘Thankyouverymuch, that was grand, I’ll ring you’? Nope.”

  “Well, at least he wasn’t yelling at you, was he?”

  “Nope. But I think he was embarrassed, in front of his aunt. Men don’t like that.” She shook her head again, but gingerly. “I really messed this up.”

  “You still want to find this painting?” Maura asked, even as she wondered how willing Gillian would really be to help.

  “Like I have a chance in hell of getting anywhere near the place now.”

  Maura leaned her forearms on the bar. “I have an idea. But you’re going to have to play nice.”

  Althea looked at her. “You mean, not insult or annoy anyone else?”

  “That’s a good start. I know someone who I think can help you. You may not be able to get into the house, but she can, with Harry.”

  “I will owe her my firstborn child, although she may have to wait a while to collect. And my undying gratitude, which probably isn’t worth much right now. Who is she?”

  “Gillian Callanan. She’s a local artist.”

  “Why would she help me?”

  Good question. “She wouldn’t be helping you, she’d be helping Harry and Eveline. She knows they need the money.”

  Althea thought for a moment, her eyes unfocused, and then she said, “That sounds like the best deal I can hope for, under the circumstances. Okay, what do we do now?”

  “Wait until Gillian comes in. I talked to her this morning, and she said she’d be along shortly.”

  Althea looked frustrated, even though she agreed. “What about this murder thing? Does that screw things up?”

  “Is it related to the painting?” It was only then that Maura realized that there might be other scenarios—ones that involved Althea. “You think someone else could be looking for it?”

  Althea considered briefly. “Believe me, I didn’t go trumpeting this around to all my colleagues. Of course there’s Nate Reynolds, the guy at the auction house who called me in at the beginning. When we met with the woman who had brought it to Nate, all she could tell us was that the woman who’d originally owned the sketch had come from Ireland somewhere. We never talked about whether there was another painting, but Nate could have made the same leaps of logic that I did.”

  “So you did meet with the woman who brought it in?”

  “Dorothy? Yes. After Nate showed me the painting, we met with her once, the three of us together, after I’d done a little digging.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That we both believed her little painting could be an important work of art and worth a good deal of money.”

  “Nothing about a big painting to go with it?”

  Althea shook her head. “The poor woman was confused and overwhelmed enough as it was. I mean, what does she know about art or the art market? It’s a wonder she didn’t sell the thing at a flea market. And I didn’t want to tip my hand to Nate—I hadn’t really thought it all through. It was only after I got home again and did some more research that I realized there might be more to the story. And that’s when I decided to come to Ireland.”

  “What’s to stop this Nate person from doing exactly what you’re doing?”

  “You mean, heading over here on a wild-goose chase?”

  “Exactly. How well do you know him?”

  “We’ve met at various events here and there, and we’re part of the same community, sort of. I don’t know that he’s a friend exactly. He’s someone to hang out at the bar with, after an opening, say. Look, he called me because he knew I was up to speed on Van Dyck an
d he wanted an outside opinion, fast. I was close. When we all met, I didn’t get the impression that he was holding much back. He just wanted to know what he had.”

  “Is he honest?”

  “How should I know?” Althea shot back. “To a point, sure, but dangle a few million dollars in front of someone, and how honest are they going to be?”

  “Wait—where does money come in?”

  “I guess I should explain. Nate is an employee of the auction house. If he brings in an item for sale, like this painting, he gets kind of a finder’s fee. The little painting might do very nicely in the right sale, so he’d see some reward for that. But if he found the big painting that goes with it, you can multiply that by a whole lot.”

  “What’s in it for you? And don’t tell me it will save your job. Would he pay you part of his share?”

  “It doesn’t usually work like that. All I asked for was that he let me exhibit the oil sketch, with a suggested attribution to Van Dyck, before it went up for sale. Period. I know you don’t believe it, but I swear, for me it wasn’t about the money. Though before you ask, even a fraction of what we’re talking about would seem huge to Dorothy Ryan. And no one’s out to bilk her either—it would be a fair auction and she would get whatever the market decided the painting was worth.”

  “Okay, I think I understand better now.” Maura considered for a moment. “Did you tell the gardaí any of this?”

  “I told them why I was here and what I was looking for. Do you think they’ll figure out how valuable the big portrait could be?”

  Maura struggled with how to answer that. “They’re not stupid, but they don’t have a lot of experience in some areas, and probably not when it comes to artworks. Just looking around and asking questions isn’t exactly a crime, and that’s all you’ve been doing, right? Their interest is solving Seamus Daly’s murder. If what you told them—including the value of the painting—helps them with that, they’re interested. Otherwise, probably not so much. Now, if this Nate guy had killed you . . . Seriously, do you think he might be in Ireland?”