A Turn for the Bad (9 page)

“How long do you keep looking?” Maura asked quietly.

Sean shrugged. “That's not my decision to make.” He lapsed into silence, and Maura was called away to serve someone at the other end of the bar. The next time she looked up, Sean was slipping out the door, his shoulders slumped. He gave her a wave on his way out.

Mick came up behind her. “No word?”

Maura shook her head. “Nothing new. We were talking about how you officially declare someone dead over here—sounds about the same as in the U.S. I wondered why seven years is the magic number to wait.”

“No idea. But the search is still on?”

“So it seems, and I guess that comes from higher up. And
if no body shows up, then John's wife has to wait for a whole court procedure to happen—and that's the best case. Seriously, how would you survive for seven years with four kids and a herd of cows?”

“I can't say,” Mick admitted. “But we shouldn't lose hope yet that John may be found.”

“Oh, come on, Mick. People have been searching for him for three days. If he went into the water, what're the odds anybody will ever find him?”

“I can't tell yeh that. But that's not the only possibility.”

“So what else is there?” Maura countered. “He got fed up and walked away to a new life somewhere else, leaving his son alone on the beach? Nobody who knows him has suggested that the man would do anything like that. Or maybe he was hit by a black fit and just walked straight out into the water and drowned? If he was that close to shore, there'd be a body, right? Maybe he was abducted by aliens? Has anybody noticed a spaceship hovering over the coast of West Cork? He's been kidnapped? Why? He's got no money to pay for a ransom. What am I missing?”

“There are other things that might have happened,” Mick said, avoiding her eyes. “But this is neither the time nor the place to be talkin' about them.”

Maura stared at him, confused. “I don't understand.”

“We can't talk about it here. I'll stop by in the morning on my way to me grannie's, and I can explain. Is Gillian still stayin' there?”

“She'll be there tomorrow morning. You going to tell me she can't hear this either?”

Mick actually considered that for a moment. “No, she
can be trusted. That's fine. Say, before nine? I'll see Grannie after, and you can open here.”

“Okay, I guess,” Maura said, still mystified. “Oh, and bring that list of some people who sell oil. Or at least show me how to build a fire.”

“That I can do,” Mick said, smiling.

Maura sneaked home close to midnight. It was hard to approach quietly when driving a car—and Maura's car was far from new and not exactly silent—because there was little other noise in the fields around her house, except for the cows now and then. Gillian had left a light on downstairs, and there was a plate on the table, covered with a tea towel Maura didn't know she had. She peeked under it: brown bread and butter and a small bowl of blackberry jam. Actually Gillian had guessed well: Maura didn't want to eat any more than that, so late. Old Mick hadn't gone in for anything as modern as a microwave, so she couldn't have reheated anything more elaborate even if she'd wanted to. She dropped into one of the creaky pine chairs around the table in the center of the room and helped herself.

As she munched on the bread she tried to sort things out.
A local man had been missing for three days now, and it looked like the police were no closer to finding him than they had been on the first day. From all that she'd heard, from his friends and neighbors and from the gardaí, he was a good guy with no enemies and no reason to cut and run. The wild card was the small boy he'd left behind on the beach. It occurred to her that no one had said the boy was traumatized by anything he'd seen. Did that mean he hadn't watched a man or men bludgeon his father to death in front of him? Or had John just walked calmly into the sea? as she'd asked Mick. Would that have disturbed young Eoin? Or had he just wandered off looking for cast-up junk or seashells and returned only when his father was gone?

On the other hand, Eoin had talked about a boat. Eoin had grown up around boats and he liked them. He might not have been able to put a specific name to any of them, but he would know if it was big or small. If John and at least one man had gotten into a small boat, either John had gone quietly or he'd been subdued somehow. A hand-to-hand fight in a small boat would probably have ended up with all of them in the water.

So, say it was a midsized boat, like an ordinary fishing trawler, something Eoin would be familiar with. Seeing his father get on that kind of boat would have seemed perfectly normal, especially if John had said something like
Be a good boy and stay there until I get back
. Eoin
had
been a good boy and had waited for a long time until Uncle Conor had come along looking for him.
Surprisingly patient child
, Maura thought, based on what little she knew about three-year-olds. Had the gardaí listened to what Eoin had to say? Or didn't they trust the word of a young child? She'd have to ask Sean, if John hadn't appeared by morning.

Say Daddy had gone away in a big boat: Where? And why? Since he'd left his son behind, he couldn't have expected to be gone long. Maybe he'd been borrowing money from a fisherman to make ends meet. But that seemed hard to believe, since from what she'd heard, fishermen didn't have much money to spare, any more than dairy farmers did. Conor hadn't mentioned seeing John earlier that day, much less floating him a loan. Maybe John was tangled up in something else and he had thought that leaving Eoin on the shore was the lesser of two evils.

And who the heck was the other man who'd been hauled out of the water, who
was
dead? All she knew was that the body was male, was shorter than John Tully, and was clearly dead, and had been for a couple of days. Which meant he'd died right about the same time as John Tully had gone missing. Maybe he'd been in that boat that Eoin said had taken his father away. Maybe John had attacked him, killing him either on purpose or accidentally, and then fled, trusting the tide to take care of the evidence, and been afraid to return home after? Although Eoin hadn't said anything about a fight.

Maura shook her head. It was late, she was tired, and her brain was foggy. She had too little information to work with. Mick was coming over early to talk about something mysterious and, she hoped, to help her move forward with getting some heat back into the house. She was definitely going to have to buy some more sweaters before winter set in.

*   *   *

M
aura heard noises coming from the kitchen before eight o'clock the next morning and could smell something cooking. It must be Gillian, for burglars didn't make
breakfast for themselves, as far as she knew. She threw on some clothes and wandered down the stairs to find Gillian frying something and juggling a second pan. She half turned when she saw Maura out of the corner of her eye.

“I'm sorry—did I wake you?”

“It was the smell of whatever the heck you're making that did it. Smells great, by the way. But I thought artists were night owls.”

“Yes and no. I do my best work when the sun is high—the color values are more accurate. But now I guess I have to say ‘did' since my place isn't mine any longer. But more than that, in my current state my internal clock is messed up, so I wake with the sun—and I'm starving. All as it should be, the books I've been reading tell me. Here, eat this or I'll have to eat both plates.” Gillian set a plate of food on the table, and Maura sat in front of it and began forking up eggs and sausage.

“I don't remember buying eggs,” Maura said between bites. What had Gillian done to the eggs? Hers never tasted like this.

“You didn't. Maura, you're living like a teenager. You've got to look out for yourself, what with the hours you keep.”

Maura shrugged. “I don't care all that much about food.”

Gillian brought her own plate to the table and sat down. “Did your gran cook? Or should I say, cook well?”

“The food was okay. She never had the time for anything fancy, so she stuck to plain food. You know, what meat she could afford, potatoes, lots of cabbage. Typical Irish cliché, I guess. She was always telling me I was too skinny, but I think that was in my genes.”

“You miss her, don't you?” Gillian asked softly.

Maura nodded. “She was all the family I had. And if she
hadn't had to work so hard all her life, maybe she'd still be around.”

“You blame yourself for that?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I know if she didn't have me to worry about, she might have had better chances, more choices.”

“And she chose you,” Gillian said. “I think she did right by you, as well. But if you're staying on here, you've got to look out for yourself.”

“Okay, okay. And I am staying, at least for a while.”

“When did you decide that?”

Maura ate some more eggs before answering. “When I saw what happened with the music at Sullivan's.”

Gillian cocked her head. “I've only heard about it, and I hope to see what it's like, if you'll be doing it again. But why did it mean something to you?”

“Well, for a start, it brings in more business and more money. Which we need if I'm going to keep paying Mick and Jimmy and Rose and replace or repair the things that really need it. But”—Maura hesitated, afraid of sounding sappy—“there really was something special about watching the place come back to life. Seeing the musicians playing together, not because of a paycheck but just for the love of it. And the audience eating it up. It made me happy to be a part of it. So I decided I wanted to see if I could keep it going, like that. If it was a onetime thing, I'll have to rethink it.”

Gillian smiled. “Maura Donovan, I do believe Ireland's having its way with you.”

“Whatever,” Maura said. Enough sharing or bonding or whatever it was they were doing. “What about you? Things have kind of changed, haven't they?”

“What with the baby and all? I'd say so.” Gillian's smile wavered.

“You still haven't seen Harry?”

“No.” Now her smile was gone.

“Why not?”

Gillian leaned back in her chair. “I suppose because I don't know in my own mind what I want from him. I'd love to be able to say
This is my child and I'll take care of it
, but the reality is, it's not that easy. If I have to mind a child, I can't work, except during nap times, and that's not enough. It's too dark at night, when the baby would be sleeping. If I hire a childminder or find a creche, that'd eat all the money I make—both cost the earth. But I know how little money Harry has, plus his job keeps him in Dublin, where everything is twice as expensive.”

“So, bottom line is, you don't know what you're going to do,” Maura said bluntly.

“Bang on, Maura. I've been thinking of little else for two months now, and then my friend pulls the rug out from under me with the studio here, which hasn't helped matters. And now I'm camping out in your spare room and feeling sorry for myself.”

“You can stay as long as you need,” Maura offered. “It's not like I've got people begging to stay. I never told anyone I was going to Ireland, mainly because there was nobody to tell. Which I guess doesn't make me look good. No family, no friends, no plan—at least, until now.”

“Ah, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're young, you're healthy, you've got a roof over your head and a business of your own. What do you have to whinge about?”

“Not much, if you put it that way.” Maura summoned up a smile. “So, who else knows about this baby?”

“I've told no one, other than yourself, and you guessed.”

“It's going to be hard to hide pretty soon. Although I guess the guys might not notice until you look like a whale.”

“If then. Can't you see them saying,
Give us another pint, luv, and have you put on a bit of weight, if yeh don't mind me askin'?
” Gillian nailed the local country accent, and Maura laughed.

Then she sobered again. “Seriously, you can work at the pub if you want, although I can't pay you much. Or you can stay here and paint. Have you cleared out your stuff yet? Do you need some help to move it?”

“I'm not sure a barmaid with a big belly is the image you want to give, Maura, but thanks for offering. As for shifting the stuff, I could use a bit of help. I was thinking of asking Mick if he has the time. And on that subject, what's going on with the two of you?”

Maura was startled by the question. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Why?” Maura tried to ignore the memory of that one steamy kiss, the night the music had come back. A kiss that hadn't been repeated or even mentioned.

“I've known Mick Nolan most of my life, and he's different around you.”

“Well, I wouldn't know about that, since I didn't know him before. He works for me. If there was something going on, it could get messy.”

“Life is messy, Maura, as you can see.” Gillian looked down at her midsection. “What about Sean Murphy, then?”

“Gillian, what are you, the town gossip? Or are you trying to play matchmaker? Sean and I have been on two dates,
and that's all. He's a nice guy, and I think it's a good thing to have a friend who's a garda when you're running a pub.” And fighting off the occasional murderer. Gillian had missed a lot in the short time she'd been away in Dublin.

“For Sean Murphy to ask you out at all is huge for the man, Maura. Just tread carefully, will you? He doesn't deserve to get hurt.”

“Of course I'll be careful! I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to be involved with anyone. Not now, and maybe not ever. Nothing's happening, with Mick
or
with Sean, or at least, nobody's told me about it.”

Gillian sighed, a touch dramatically. “Ah, Maura, for a smart woman you're not too bright.”

Maura still hadn't come up with a sharp response to that comment when someone rapped at her door. Oh, right, she'd forgotten that Mick was coming over. “That'll be Mick. He said there was something he wanted to talk about, that didn't involve the pub. And don't go jumping to conclusions, Gillian. I asked him about getting my heat back, so it may be that.”

“I'll make some more coffee,” Gillian said. “He doesn't know about the baby, does he?”

“Not from me he doesn't. Tell him or not—that's up to you.”

Gillian stood up and went over to the stove. Maura went to the door to let Mick in. “Good morning. Come on in.”

Mick walked in and greeted Gillian. “So yer still here?”

“As you can see. Good morning to you too, Mick. Maura's been kind enough to offer me her spare room while I get my studio sorted out. And I may need your help to shift some of the heavier things, if you don't mind.”

“Happy to help. What about Harry Townsend?”

“He's in Dublin,” Gillian said without comment, and turned back to making coffee.

Mick eyed her curiously, but didn't say anything more.

Maura pointed at another chair at the table. “So, sit. This is your party. You said you wanted to talk?”

“I can leave if you like,” Gillian said without turning around from the stove.

“I'll wager what I'll be tellin' yeh won't surprise yeh, Gillian. But Maura here, now, most likely hasn't heard what I want to say.”