An Early Wake (13 page)

“Nah, Ma said they drifted apart years ago, and she never told me her name. Anyway, then me mother died last year, of the cancer. And before yeh ask, she didn’t leave some handy letter behind tellin’ me all the facts. But with her gone, I really wanted to find me father if I could, so I studied music at uni, thinkin’ it might get me closer to him somehow.”

“So what did you hope to find, just showing up here the way you did?”

Tim slumped in his chair, looking drained. “I don’t know. I was running out of ideas, and I had a fortnight free before term starts, and I truly was curious about how this place just kind of happened to become an important place for the music. I mean, what I told you about the research I was doin’, that part was true. So here I am. I figured I’d run into a few old guys and we’d talk fer a while, and maybe I’d get some more names—who hung out with who in the day—and I’d go back to uni and write it up and call it an oral history. I told a couple of people what I was looking for, and I guess they told a couple of people, and then Old Billy stepped in and last night just . . . happened. Like it used to do. I never expected anything more. Certainly not that someone would die.”

“Nobody did, I’m pretty sure,” Maura said tartly. “So how’d you expect to flush out the man who might be your father? And what made you think it was Aidan Crowley?”

“I’d run into the name, now and again. Sometimes along with Niall’s, sometimes with other bands. But the more I read, the more people I talked to, the more it seemed like he’d been in the right place at the right time. He never made it big, so he played a lot of the smaller places in West Cork, where me ma could have . . . seen him. So when he first came by on the Friday, I told him I wanted to talk to him—I never mentioned why. He put me off then, and I thought it was because he was playing and getting reacquainted with his old mates, and he couldn’t be bothered. But I kept after him, and finally last night he said I should meet him after the pub shut down. So I did—outside, partway up the hill overlooking the stream. He was alive when I left him there, I swear.”

And outside, not inside, if Tim was telling the truth
. At least that explained why she and Mick hadn’t seen anyone in the pub when they had closed: Tim and Aidan would’ve been outside then. Except Aidan
had
used the key to come back in later. With someone else? “What time was this?”

“One thirty, mebbe?” Tim said.

“You never came back into the building?” Maura asked, just to be sure.

“No. It was locked up, wasn’t it? So we sat up there and talked, and I worked my way around to who he might have . . . been with at the right time, and he laughed and said he couldn’t remember much of anything from those days. I showed him a picture of my mother and he said he didn’t know her. It’s not that I wanted anything from him, like money or a big ‘welcome to the family, my boy.’ I just wanted to know.”

Was that enough motive for throttling Aidan?
“And he blew you off. Did you get mad at him?”

“No! I mean, I realized how daft I must look, cornering strangers and asking, ‘Are you me da?’ And I didn’t think he was lying—I think he really didn’t remember. So I just said thank you and went back to the Keohanes’ place, and that’s the whole of it.”

“So why were you so hungover all day?”

“I had a bottle back in me room, didn’t I? After talking with Aidan, I finished it, which is not something I do much. I really don’t have any other ideas for looking for my father, and maybe it’s time I give it up and move on. I was feeling pretty sorry for meself, if yeh want to know the truth. Then Rose dragged me out of bed today. I didn’t want to come over, but I figured I’d better—it might get me out of my funk. Then you tell me Aidan’s dead. Is it any wonder I’ve been drinking?”

No,
thought Maura,
it isn’t,
but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Look, Tim, you’ve got to tell all this to the gardaí. Don’t just cut and run, because Sean Murphy already wants to talk to you. If nothing else, it sounds like you were probably the last person to see Aidan alive.”
Not counting whoever might’ve assaulted him.
Maura kept that thought silent.

Tim hung his head. “I know. I will, in the morning. Will that do?”

“That’s fair enough. You’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. You can talk to Sean Murphy tomorrow, early. Deal?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Maura.”

She escorted Tim to the door and watched him cross the street. Then she locked the door behind her and headed home.

A
man died at Sullivan’s.

That thought slammed into Maura’s head when she woke up Monday morning after a short and restless night. She lay in bed worrying while the sun came up. Why had Aidan Crowley died at Sullivan’s? Was it going to affect her business? It seemed kind of heartless to worry about that, but she couldn’t help it. It would help if the gardaí could settle the question of Aidan’s death. The one thing they knew for sure was that Aidan’s heart had given out. But had someone frightened him to death? The bruises on his neck hinted at that, but who could say that had made the difference? Maybe it was just Aidan’s time. She made a mental note to call Sean and have him talk with Tim ASAP. Assuming Tim hadn’t run for Dublin already or disappeared entirely.

Did she believe Tim’s story? Maybe. Maura could understand from her own life wanting to know who your parents were and where you came from. Of course, there was a slim possibility that Tim was obsessed with the man who had knocked up his mother, and had come seeking revenge. But that didn’t match what she’d seen of Tim, who seemed anything but aggressive. He was sweet. Kind of innocent. Even Rose seemed more mature. Maura had to keep reminding herself that Tim was only a few years younger than she was, closer still in age to Sean. Of course, it wasn’t exactly comparing apples to apples: Tim was a student, while Sean was a garda, trained to solve—or even stop—crimes and keep the peace, not that it was a difficult job around here. Not like in Boston. Anyway, Sean had a very different set of responsibilities.

Maura wondered just how the Skibbereen gardaí were going to handle this case. Sean had told her once that most crimes in this part of Cork were committed by people already known to the gardaí and were solved quickly. But Aidan Crowley wasn’t a local, so if there was a crime here, nobody even knew who the likely suspects would be or where to find them. Maura had to admit that the simplest course for everybody—gardaí, Aidan’s friends, Maura and her staff—would be to call it a heart attack and be done. Not a crime.

What a mess. Maybe she should go talk to Bridget. She’d missed seeing her the past couple of days and was kind of curious about what news had filtered to Bridget through her own network of friends and what she thought about it. Having decided on a plan, Maura got up and showered and fixed herself some breakfast.

She was glad that Mick would be opening the pub this morning. Not that she expected any more unpleasant surprises today, but she figured she really would need the help. Mick had kind of a reassuring presence—he didn’t get rattled by problems, he just fixed them quietly. Jimmy, on the other hand, was a schmoozer. He’d talk with anybody, and while sometimes he lost sight of business, Maura had to admit she was beginning to realize how making customers feel welcome played a part in keeping them coming back again and again. That was something she had to work on herself, because she wasn’t usually a warm and chatty person. People in her past had told her she didn’t smile enough. Maybe if she ever found the time she should check out other local pubs and see who stood behind that bar and how they handled things.

Breakfast eaten, she checked her watch: still early. She decided that before visiting Bridget she should try to call Sean, in case he got sucked into his morning meeting. She was relieved when he answered.

“Good mornin’, Maura. Why so early? No new problems down the pub?”

“None that I know of—I’m still at home. But I wanted to tell you that I talked with Tim Reilly last night, after closing, and I think you need to hear what he has to say.”

“Ah.” Sean didn’t ask dumb questions, like “what?” or “why?” He simply thought for a moment. “We’ve a conference on at ten, but I could be over to Keohanes’ well before that. Will it be important to hear him before the meeting?”

“I think so. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he had anything to do with Aidan Crowley’s death. But you can decide for yourself.”

“Thanks, Maura. I’ll see you after.”

There, that was her good deed for the day. She grabbed a raincoat to head down to Bridget’s—after the early glimpse of sun, the clouds had started rolling in.

As usual, Bridget was up, and two fresh loaves of brown bread were already cooling on her pine table when Maura walked in.

“Ah, there you are, Maura.” Bridget greeted her when she let herself in. “I wondered if you’d stop by today, what with all the fuss at the pub.”

“Is that what you’re calling it? Fuss?” It seemed a mild term for a dead body, but Maura realized she was glad that Bridget wasn’t upset.

“Sit. Help yerself to the bread, and the tea’s almost ready.” Maura obediently sat and sliced herself a piece of the warm bread and began to butter it. Bridget set a mug of tea in front of her, then settled herself on the chair next to hers. “I don’t mean to belittle the poor man’s passing, but he wasn’t one of ours, was he?”

“From around here, you mean? Not that I’ve heard. Is it better if he’s a stranger?”

“Just different, I’d say. Poor soul. Is there any family to be found?”

“Sean’s looking into it. The only person who seems to have known him is Niall, and he says they lost touch years ago.”

“What’s the man like?”

“Who, Niall? Why? Were you a fan of his?”

“Who wasn’t, twenty years ago? You couldn’t turn on a radio without hearing his voice.”

Maura smiled to herself. It was hard to imagine the graying middle-aged man she’d been talking to as a rock idol, but that was what people kept telling her. Maybe the standards in Ireland were different. Of course, U2 seemed to have hit it big on both sides of the Atlantic—and Bono had to be about the same age as Niall. Was Niall ever in their league? The only kind of music her grandmother had played on her old plastic radio in their kitchen in Boston had been what Maura now recognized as traditional Irish.

“Weren’t there any women performers then, Bridget? Because all the guys who showed up on Saturday were, well, guys. And so were most of the people who came to hear them. I mean, I’ve heard of the Cranberries—they have a female singer, don’t they? What about Sinéad O’Connor?”

“I’m not the one you should be askin’, love. But I’m guessing performin’ was a hard life then, and still is. I mean, the men, they can bed down anywhere there’s space—a bed, a chair, even the floor. But a woman couldn’t do that, not the same way.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And if yeh look in the stores, I’m told, yeh’ll see that there are more women playin’ the traditional music, not the newer stuff. And singin’ it too.”

“Huh. Thanks, Bridget. That’s interesting. This is still new to me.”

“Was it a good crowd?”

“I’d say so—we filled the place, and we were busy all night. What did Mick tell you?”

“That it was like he remembered it, and it made him happy. Will yeh keep on with it?”

“I don’t know. I would have said yes, probably, until I found Aidan. Now I’m not sure how people would feel about it. I’ll see how it goes today.”

“Ah, sure and his death is a sad thing, but it’s the music that matters, and it’s been missed around here. Let things settle a bit—yeh don’t have to decide today.”

“I’d like to find out more about how Aidan died before I decide anything.” She debated about telling Bridget about the bruises on Aidan’s neck, and Tim’s unexpected announcement, but decided that it would only upset her.

“And that’s as it should be.”

“Did you hear from Mick about the death?”

“That I didn’t. He knows I have trouble hearing the phone. But anywise, he’s afraid of unsettling me, he is, so he might say nothing at all. It’s kind of him, but I don’t need to be cosseted.”

“He’s pretty closemouthed in general, isn’t he?”

“He’s a good lad.”

Maura noted that Bridget hadn’t answered her question, exactly. Mick never talked about himself. Was there a reason? Some dark secret? Or maybe he simply had nothing to tell. But she’d seen his eyes light up when the bands came back, so she suspected there was something hiding behind his usually calm face. Was it worth digging for?

Maura drained her mug. “I’d better get going. Mick’s opening today, but we may still be busy just answering everyone’s questions. Although it felt like half of the county passed through Sullivan’s yesterday, just to hear the news from us. And Sean may be coming by too.”

“He’s a steady boy, that one.”

“Yeah,” Maura agreed amiably. “Thanks for the bread and tea. I’ll see myself out.”

It was just past ten when Maura arrived at Sullivan’s. Everything looked peaceful. She walked in to find Mick talking with their distributor about swapping out kegs. It crossed her mind that as the owner, maybe she should step in and demand the distributor talk with her, but it seemed kind of dumb to upset what had been working fine until now. If she was going to start throwing her weight around, she could pick her times more carefully. Besides, she was glad she didn’t have to wrestle the darn things: she could if she had to, but they were heavy and hard to handle, so it was nice to have someone else do it.

When the man had left, Mick turned to her. “That’s one problem solved. How’re yeh doin’ this morning?”

“Okay. I stopped by for a cup of tea with Bridget. I think she’s ticked off that you didn’t give her all the juicy gossip about Aidan’s death yourself.”

Mick’s mouth twitched. “Better than the telly, are we?” Then his expression sobered. “Did yeh hear anything useful out of Tim last night?”

“I think he has some information that the gardaí can use.” She didn’t think the details about Tim’s parentage were hers to share. “I called Sean earlier, and he said he’d talk to Tim this morning, and then he’s got a meeting at the station, so we probably won’t hear anything new for a while. You don’t know anything else, do you?”

“I’ve had no news at all since we left last night.”

“You’ll be here all day today? You don’t have other plans?”
What does Mick do when he isn’t working here?
She’d never asked directly.

“I may go see Granny and fill her ear, since she wants to hear the news. Jimmy’ll be in, and Rose as well. We can send her home if we don’t need the help.”

“It might be good if Rose is here if Tim comes in after talking to the gardaí.”

“Fair enough. Shall we open?” Mick asked.

“I want to run to the bank first. I get nervous with a lot of money sitting around. You did bring Saturday’s haul, right?”

“Nah, I’m sitting on a beach in Ibiza right now,” Mick answered. “Yes, of course I did.” He handed her the bundle of bills, held together with a rubber band.

“That looks nice,” Maura said. “Would you mind getting the rest out of the till and counting it, while I count this?” She knew Sunday’s take had been far less than Saturday’s but suspected it was still well above average. She started counting. When she was finished, she started counting again. Finally she said, “Wow.”

“That would be good, then?” Mick asked, his eyes on the bills he was counting.

Maura was still trying to wrap her head around the total. “That would be
great
. This is more than we’ve made in months. Maybe ever, in one night. Or week. How much from yesterday?”

Mick squared up the stack of bills and named a figure that was over half of Saturday’s income. “Good enough fer yeh?”

“It’s . . . amazing.” Maura felt a spurt of joy: the music had worked its magic. Then a stab of dismay: could it ever be the same, after Aidan? “I am going to take this straight to the bank, right now. For all I know, the roof is about to fall on my head, and I want to know the money’s safe. I’ll try to be back before Sean gets here.”

“I’ll take care of the place. See yeh,” Mick replied.

Maura retrieved her car and drove carefully to Skibbereen. Maybe she was being superstitious, but she didn’t want to have an accident and have the car burst into flames, destroying all that hard-earned money. She was still stunned. Even if it never happened again, Saturday night’s session (and Sunday’s overflow) had together brought in enough money to see Sullivan’s through the quiet winter season and up to next year’s tourist season. She would survive her first year at the place, with change left over. Maybe she could even think about replacing a couple of pieces of ratty furniture.

Happy fantasies occupied Maura as she drove the seven miles to Skibbereen, made her deposit at the bank—smiling—and drove back to Leap.

Maybe things might actually work out after this.