Irish Stewed (18 page)

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.

A
t 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.”

“Even you?”

I laughed. “I don’t have any secrets,” I told him, and, yes, I did emphasize the
I
just so he’d know that I hadn’t forgotten
what he’d told me about the Food Pantry Robin Hood. “My life’s an open book.”

“But not everyone’s is.”

He was right. He was also hungry, and while he looked over the menu and ordered appetizers—mussels with miso sauce and wonton wrappers baked into crispy little boats and filled with pulled pork and candied jalapeño peppers—I thought about what else I’d learned back at the food pantry, namely that there was not now and never had been an AA group that met at St. Colman’s Church.

“You’re thinking about the case.” Declan’s voice snapped me to. “You’ve got that look in your eyes. Like you’re putting two and two together.”

“And coming up with five,” I admitted, and hated doing it. “George lied to me about his alibi for the night of the murder.”

“He’s got every reason in the world to hate Jack Lancer.”

“Agreed. But . . .”

He sipped his wine. “But?”

“I can’t imagine George actually killing someone.” I drowned the thought with a sip of caipirinha because actually, yeah, I could imagine George as a killer. It was because he never looked me in the eye for long, and because he was always so darned surly. It was because I knew he hated Jack Lancer. He admitted it.

But he wasn’t the only one who had a motive to off the newscaster.

“And then there’s Maxine, of course.” I filled Declan in on what Jack Lancer’s exes had told me about his current girlfriend. “If they’re right, she could have been angry enough to want to do Jack in.”

“See, you are getting somewhere.” Our appetizers arrived and he bowed his head for a second, then dug in. “Mussels?”

“We were only supposed to be coming for drinks.”

“You might be serving Irish food over at the Terminal, but you have yet to learn nearly what you need to know about the Irish character. You don’t just go for drinks. You drink. You eat. You talk. A lot. It’s all part of an evening out, and when I’m with a date—”

In spite of the fact that I’d just taken a drink, my mouth went dry. “Is that what this is? A date?”

“If you’re afraid your Hollywood friends will find out you’ve gone out with a lowly attorney from Hubbard, Ohio, I can be sworn to secrecy.”

He was kidding. Maybe. I wasn’t when I told him, “That’s not it at all. For one thing, I don’t have any Hollywood friends. Not anymore. And even if I did, who I choose to date—”

“See? It is a date!” The argument settled—at least in his mind—he piled mussels on my plate and with the tip of his fork, urged me to start eating.

Since the mussels were fabulous and the wonton wrappers had just the right amount of crunch and the filling was delicious, I was glad I did. I finished the mussels and spooned a few more from the serving platter onto my plate. “I may have found my new favorite restaurant.”

“Not the Terminal?” His eyes sparked with mischief.

“I have you to thank for giving me the idea for the Irish food,” I admitted.

His smile was as genuine as it was enticing. “I’m glad. If there’s ever anything else you’d like my help with, you’ll let me know, right?”

There was something about the purr of his voice combined with his shimmering smile that made my knees weak. I guess that means it’s a good thing that I didn’t have much of a chance to think about it. There was a bar at the
far end of the restaurant, a little jut-out to one side of the wine cellar, and from in there, we heard a whoop.

“You hear that?” a man’s voice called out. He stuck his head out of the bar so everyone in the restaurant could hear him. “We’ve got the TV on in here. Just saw a report. Kim Kline, she’s going to announce it on the news tonight. She says she knows who killed Jack Lancer!”

A buzz of excitement ran through the restaurant, and I guess I could see why. Upscale or not, the patrons of the Rockworth Tavern were as caught up in the drama of the Lance of Justice’s murder as the rest of us.

Declan and I exchanged looks. “What do you think?” he asked. “Is there any way she could be that far ahead of us?”

I thought about Kim of the too-shiny hair and the too-big nose. She was young, sure, but she must have had some qualifications to land the job she had. If she had the reporter’s instincts to go along with them . . .

Suddenly, the mussels and the wontons didn’t taste so good anymore. I pushed my plate away. “She said Jack might have been looking into the story of the Food Pantry Robin Hood,” I told Declan. “She knew that Jack Lancer sat at the same table every day and that he had his eyes on your place. What if she decided to run with the story? If she breaks the news that—”

“Impossible.” His voice rang with conviction, but he pushed his chair back from the table and offered me his hand. “Come on,” he said.

“We’re going? Where?”

We couldn’t see into the bar from there, but he glanced that way, anyway. “We’ve got to talk Kim Kline out of airing some story she shouldn’t. If she blows the cover of the Food Pantry Robin Hood, she’s not only going to accuse somebody who shouldn’t be accused, but a lot of hungry people are
going to suffer, and Uncle Pat . . .” He whistled low under his breath. “If Uncle Pat catches wind that his ill-gotten gains are going toward spaghetti sauce and Cheerios, he’s going to be one pissed-off Irishman!”

*   *   *

If Kim Kline was planning on breaking a big story about Jack Lancer’s murder on the eleven o’clock news that night, I figured she’d be at the station.

I was right. Sort of. The receptionist at the desk in the lobby of the offices of station WKFJ told us that Kim would be back, but that she’d left there a couple hours earlier after she’d recorded that snippet about breaking news we’d heard at the Rockworth. She’d gone home to freshen up and get changed.

“You heard her spot earlier, right?” The phone on the receptionist’s desk rang off the hook. No doubt, there were plenty of people as excited about what they’d heard from Kim as we were. All for different reasons. “We’re going to scoop all the other stations tonight. Kim, she’s going to be a star because of this. You watch. You’ll see.”

I told her I had no doubt of it and shot Declan a look. “We need to talk to her,” I told him on our way back to the car.

“Already working on it.” He tipped his phone so I could see the text message he’d just received. “Kim Kline’s address,” he informed me.

I glanced up at him. “How did you—”

We got into his car. “Let’s just say that there are a couple cops around here who owe me favors.”

“Let’s just say that makes me a little nervous.”

“What?” Declan laughed. “You don’t think an attorney can be on the right side of the law?”

There was no use arguing the point with him so I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I watched the scenery zip by. The offices of the TV station were in Youngstown, the region’s biggest city and, like so many northern industrial cities, Youngstown’s glory days were long gone. We passed closed factory after closed factory, shuttered buildings, and neighborhoods of homes that looked as worn-out as the area’s economy. Farther from the center of town, the lot sizes got bigger, the homes were better kept. Still, the whole area seemed as if it were holding its breath, waiting for the world to change back to the way it was when American steel was king and the men who worked to manufacture it lived the good life, thanks to overtime pay, fat benefit packages, and pension plans they thought would take them through their golden years.

In the meantime, cities struggled and made do with what they could to cobble together some kind of economic viability for their residents. In Austintown, near where Kim lived, there was a new racino, and the parking lot was packed. Driving by, I could just about feel the vibes coming off the place like smoke from a three-alarm fire.

Hopes and dreams.

The chance to hit it big.

The opportunity to turn lives around.

I guess there’s no better place for dreaming than a town where so many dreams had already been dashed.

Seems like Hollywood and Youngstown have a whole lot in common.

“This is her street,” Declan said, drawing me out of my thoughts at the same time he made a left turn. I admit I was a tad disappointed when he’d picked me up at Sophie’s in a late-model Infiniti instead of his Harley. Then again, the leather seats were cushy. I sunk back and, through the
growing darkness, helped him read the addresses on the mailboxes out near the street.

Kim’s house was a single-story brick ranch with geraniums planted out front around a lamppost and a red Cooper Mini in the drive.

The front door was wide open and light spilled from inside and onto the front step. One look and relief washed through me.

“She must still be home. She’s probably just leaving. Now all we have to do is think of what to say, what to tell her so that she doesn’t run that spot about Robin Hood.”

When I got out of the car, Declan did, too. “You could present your theories. You know, about other suspects. Once she realizes Robin Hood couldn’t possibly have killed Jack Lancer, maybe she’ll decide not to say too much too soon. If you get her excited about those other suspects . . .”

His words dissolved and, as if we’d choreographed the move, we both stopped cold five feet from Kim’s front door.

It was wide open, all right, and there was a pool of something fresh and wet and very red on the beige carpeting, and Kim Kline lay right in the middle of it.

Her arms were thrown out to her sides and those glossy ringlets of hers were a mess. Her eyes were wide open. They stared up at the ceiling, cold, unseeing, and very dead.

*   *   *

One murder is more than enough for one lifetime.

Two in one week is just plain wrong.

I leaned against the blue and white patrol car that had come racing to Kim’s when Declan called. Someone—maybe one of the paramedics who was now bent over Kim’s body?—had thrown a blanket over my shoulders, and I tugged it tighter around myself and watched the cops go
through the motions of the beginnings of their investigation. Declan and I had already answered what questions we could—who we were, what we’d seen, how long we’d been there—and now, Declan spoke to a detective who stood nearby. They knew each other. I could tell from the easy way their conversation bounced back and forth, and when they were done, Declan came to stand next to me and slipped an arm around my shoulders.