Death of an Irish Diva (5 page)

Annie stood and gathered up her photos, shoving them into their envelopes, then into her bags.

“Annie,” Detective Bryant said. “I need your help.”

“I'm the last person whose help you need,” she said, trying to stop her voice from shaking.

“I know what this must feel like, but—”

“You know?” Annie said with her voice lifted. “I don't think you do. I don't think any of you could possibly know what it feels like. It's like I've stepped back in time fifty years or something. There's a group of neo-Nazi pagans in the hills nobody wants to talk about. There's my boys in a school system that promotes Bible education. And let's not forget about the weird, hateful symbols painted on barns and houses around town a while back. And then there's Cookie.”

Annie felt herself unraveling there in Sheila's basement, surrounded by her friends and the ephemera of scrapbooking, such as the paper, the scissors, the glues, the colored pens and pencils. All of it seemed to mock her right now.

“Now, Annie.” Sheila led her to the couch in the corner. “I know you're upset. You've got every right to be. But you need to calm down. Take some deep breaths.”

“Yeah, uh, I didn't know it was going to upset you this much,” Bryant said, looking to the floor, then back up at her. “It's just that you've got these great investigative skills, and I know you've been working on this book. I don't know if there's a link or not, but I thought you could answer some questions. We are so short of staff right now.”

Annie took a deep breath as she watched his discomfort. He was admitting he was in over his head—and he was doing that in front of the Cumberland Creek Scrapbook Club. She smiled. Then laughed.

Sheila shoved a glass of water in her hand. “Drink up, Annie.”

As Annie drank the cool water, she began to calm down. She looked up and realized the other women were not looking at her anymore. They had gone back to their projects, or at least they wanted it to look that way. She caught Vera looking at her out of the corner of her eye; then she looked back at the paper in front of her.

Bryant crouched down next to her.

“What do you say, Annie? Can you help me out?”

“I don't know if it's a good idea,” she said. “Let me think about it, okay?”

He was too close to her face. She could see the shadow of his whiskers on his face and wanted to reach up and run her hand along his chiseled cheek. No, probably not a good idea.

He stood too close to her. She felt a psychic pull from him. And knew she couldn't resist this project, was unsure she could continue to resist him. But one thing she knew was if Emily McGlashen was NMO, it would make a hell of a story. A story she wanted. It reached into to her guts, and she felt it forming there.

Was Emily McGlashen an NMO member? She had come to town, reclaiming her roots as a McGlashen, part of the Scotch-Irish founding family of what was then called Miller's Gap, now Cumberland Creek. And she had come as an international Irish step-dancing champion. She had appeared to be on a mission to destroy Vera's business and to take over the historical society. Maybe, just maybe, they had her all wrong. Maybe she had been on a different kind of mission. And now Annie wanted to find out.

Annie took a deep breath and stood, gathered her bags. “Okay, Bryant. Where do we start?”

“We start tonight, if you don't mind,” he said. “I know it's Saturday night and all that.” He looked at the ladies. “I don't think they will mind if I borrow you for just the night.”

“Just one night, Detective,” Sheila said.

“Okay, I'll give Mike a call and let him know I might be late,” Annie said, following Detective Bryant toward the door. She turned around to find Vera on her heels.

“Annie,” she said quietly. “Can't this wait? I mean, I don't think Mike is going to like you digging around again.”

“Vera,” Annie said, “I think Mike is going to have to get over it.”

Vera's hand went to her chest in concern, and her brows knit.

Annie rode in the police car with Bryant to the station, and she called Mike along the way. As predicted, he wasn't happy, but he felt a little better knowing Annie was with his new best friend.

Before they left the car, Annie told Bryant what Mike had said. He looked back at her with a pained expression.

“I know you care about him,” she said. “So do I. Believe it or not. Let's keep this arrangement platonic and professional. If you can't do that, I won't help you.”

“Annie, I—”

“I mean it. Don't push me,” she said, glaring.

He leaned back into his seat, then fumbled with the door. “It's your call, Annie. All of it.”

When Beatrice woke up, she was startled momentarily—a man snored softly in her bed.
Oh yes. Jon.
He had come padding into her room last night, wanting to make love. After, instead of going back to his own room, he had stayed with her. He preferred to sleep with her. Beatrice didn't feel the same about sleeping with him. She had grown used to sleeping alone and liked it. Just because she didn't want to sleep with him didn't mean she didn't want to have sex with him. She never told him no, always welcomed his touch. Sleeping alone after Ed died had been difficult. But now she liked to spread out and to pass gas and scratch her ass if she wanted to. Hardly attractive.

She left the room quietly, glancing back at Jon, with his mouth open, snoring a bit. She smiled to herself. He was cute. She loved him madly.

Now she had a lot of work to do. She'd invited the business professor and his family to Sunday dinner. Vera and Elizabeth were coming, and she hoped her no-good ex-son-in-law would come, as well, sans new girlfriend.

“Now, Bea, she's a part of my life,” he had told her when she issued the invitation over the phone. “You are going to have to get used to it.”

“Like hell,” Beatrice had said. “She is not welcome in my house. Your ex-wife and daughter will be here, and you are welcome here. Please don't complicate things by bringing your child bride into my home.”

“Beatrice! She is not a child, and we are not married,” he'd said.

“Well, you might as well be. The way you've turned your back on your family, you ought to be ashamed.”

“I haven't done that, Bea. Times are tough everywhere,” he said. “I am still sending Vera money for Elizabeth. It's just that she's not making as much on her own.”

“Men. Do you always equate love with money? One of these days Elizabeth isn't even going to know you, Bill. Then how will you feel?”

“I just saw her what? Two, no, three weeks ago.”

“
Three
weeks? Humph,” Beatrice said.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then, “I'm sorry, Bea. I've been very busy settling in here. You're right. I need to see Elizabeth.”

Beatrice took the roast out of the refrigerator. She'd taken it out of the freezer last night. She placed it in the kitchen sink. Child brides. Ex-wives. Money. Love. When did modern life get to be so mixed up, you couldn't even have a simple Sunday dinner without causing a ruckus?

She scooped coffee out of the can, placed it in her coffeemaker, turned it on, and went to sit on the sunporch, wondering when Jon would get up. The scent of the coffee brewing filled her with comfort.

As she sat down in her wicker rocking chair, it creaked and sighed with age. She should probably get another one, but it suited her.

“Good morning,” Jon said as he entered the porch and kissed her on the cheek.

“Morning,” she said.

“Ready for your coffee?”

She nodded.

He came back with a cup of coffee for her and had the paper, as well. He sat down and started reading it.

“Well, this is something,” he said. “Emily McGlashen's murder gets more mysterious.”

“What's going on?” Beatrice asked after taking a drink of her morning elixir.

“Her body still remains unclaimed by her family, though the police say they've found them and they are on the way to Cumberland Creek.”

“But that is odd. It's been what? A week? I thought there was a couple here a few days ago. . . .”

“No. There was a mix-up with her name. Her parents have a different last name, from what I've heard.”

“Really?” She mentally leafed through the article Annie had written about Emily. No mention of any of this. She remembered Annie had said she had problems getting anything on Emily. It was all the smoke-and-mirrors press release standard stuff. Maybe she should read it again. She thumbed through her stack of newspapers.

“Her parents are living in a commune of a sort.”

“Fascinating,” Beatrice said, sipping her coffee, gradually feeling her senses come alive.

“I wonder if Annie knows all this,” Jon said. “She seems to be in the know most of the time.”

Beatrice skimmed the article. “International Irish dance champion . . . from California, lived in London, Madrid, Rome, Galway . . . studied with so-and-so . . . . retired at the age of twenty-seven to teach . . . will be greatly missed.” No mention of her parents. No names. Nothing.

“I can't help but think of the NMO. Surely, the NMO would not be so foolish as to murder another young woman, not now, with this book being written about them. All this attention. Even they could not be so stupid,” Jon said.

Beatrice loved listening to him speak. With that French accent, even the word
stupid
didn't offend her.

Beatrice thought for a moment. The paper hadn't mentioned any NMO trademarks being at the scene of the crime. So it seemed unlikely. Besides, strangulation was a personal way to kill someone. Someone really wanted to watch her die and didn't mind watching the life drain out of her. Beatrice shivered.

Sometimes, Beatrice wished this country wasn't so free. People had the right to believe what they wanted, but she just wasn't so sure about acting on those beliefs. She often thought of the innocent lives taken based on nothing more than ignorance. She couldn't dwell on it, or her blood pressure would skyrocket. As if she didn't have enough to worry about. But if the NMO didn't have anything to do with Emily's murder, who did? And was the murderer really trying to frame Vera?

Vera's mother had seated them next to one another. Was she harboring the hope that she would get back together with Bill? Hard to believe. Beatrice had never really liked Bill. Well, she had for a while, when he stayed with her. But these days, Beatrice was back to not liking him, and her mother never minced words or feelings.

“Pass the potatoes, please,” Vera said to him. He did so, avoiding eye contact. He held a smitten Elizabeth on his opposite knee. Beatrice had tried to get her to sit at the table in her own chair, but nothing doing. Elizabeth hadn't seen her father in three weeks and stuck to his lap.

Vera spooned the potatoes on her plate, noticing that Dr. Reilly was watching her. She looked up at him and smiled. “Mama has a way with potatoes,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “With everything. This is a delicious meal.”

“Quite,” his wife said.

“Thank you kindly,” Beatrice said, looking pleased with herself.

“So I understand you are a business professor,” Jon said to Dr. Reilly.

He nodded. “Yes. I specialize in marketing. I'm also consulting for some Irish music groups and researching the influence of Irish music on Appalachian music for them. Great fun.”

“Fascinating,” Vera said, though she could care less about it. “Did you hear about Emily McGlashen?”

Leola Reilly spoke up, with her mouth half full. “Oh, yes.” Vera had never seen the woman wear anything but a long denim skirt. She had been beginning to wonder if she wore anything else. But tonight she wore a black skirt and a white shirt. Very simple and almost in the same style as the denim skirts she wore.

“We knew her work, had run into her at many Irish music and dance festivals. It's a small community,” Dr. Reilly explained. “We are waiting on word about her memorial service or something. Nobody seems to know a thing.”

Vera squirmed in her chair. She wasn't sure how much Detective Bryant and Annie would appreciate her adding to the conversation.

“It's the oddest thing, really. She was quite the superstar in Irish dance and traditional music circles, but nobody seems to know a thing about her personally. What makes it even stranger is that the nature of the traditional art form is that you see a lot of the same families, you know, for generations in the field. Even if families aren't in the art, they are around in support. I don't think I've ever seen anybody around Emily. She was a loner,” the professor said.

“I understand her parents are on their way, but it's taking them a while to get here,” Vera said after a few moments.

Leola coughed a bit and reached for her wine. Goodness, her face was red from just a little cough.

“Such a shame. Such a young woman,” Beatrice said, then changed the subject. “I do love good bluegrass, and I have quite a collection of local music. You're welcome to check it out anytime.”

“That would be lovely,” Dr. Reilly said. “How is the apartment, Vera?”

Vera felt Bill's eyes scanning her. “It's fine,” she said. “We're doing okay there.”

Vera looked back at him and smiled, then glanced over at his wife, whose face was still pink, her eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. Their eyes met, and Leola quickly looked away.

“I've thought about this for a while, but you look so familiar to me, Leola,” Vera said. “How do I know you?”

Leola wiped her mouth with her linen napkin and shrugged. “I don't know. We are from North Carolina but have traveled a bit with John's job. This is the first time we've been here for any length of time. A lot of people tell me I look familiar,” she said and smiled. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

“And it's a beautiful face, my dear,” her husband said.

“Well, now, who's ready for dessert? There's custard pie and apple cake. Who wants what?” Beatrice asked.

Vera stood and gathered the dishes, while everybody else followed Beatrice into her living room, where hammer dulcimer bluegrass music was being played. The conversation turned to music.

Vera was a little uncomfortable sharing a meal with the people who were renting her house, but her mother had insisted. After all, it wasn't their fault that she was next to broke. They were helping her out a good deal. They were going to rent only for a year, during the time of Dr. Reilly's teaching gig, and then he'd be heading back to Carolina.

Handsome couple,
Vera thought as she rinsed off the dishes and opened the dishwasher. Laughter came from the next room. There was something odd about them, though. She didn't like the way he looked at her. Bill seemed to notice. Even though they weren't married anymore, they still had this unspoken communication, a mix of body language and glances. Dr. Reilly couldn't be flirting with her right in front of his wife, could he?

Well, of course he could, she reminded herself. The older she became, the more she saw that most men just weren't to be trusted at all. The situation with Bill was like a veil being lifted from her eyes. She saw the world much more clearly now. It seemed as if everywhere she looked, there were men cheating on their wives. Why hadn't she noticed before? Was she just naive?

Jon entered the kitchen. “Can I help?”

She turned around and smiled at him. “Of course you can.”

She handed him a stack of dessert plates and reached into the refrigerator for the pie. Everybody wanted the pie. Fancy that.

“Fascinating couple,” Jon said. “Good thing they showed up in Cumberland Creek when they did. Good for you. Good for them. Not much of a commute to the university for him, given that he teaches only two days a week.”

“Nice situation,” Vera said, slicing the pie, then scooping a piece up and onto the plate Jon held for her.

“Elizabeth is pleased to see her father,” he added. “The dinner seems to be a success.”

The last slice of pie placed on a plate, Vera reached for the bottle of wine that she carried into the kitchen from the dining room table. Only a sip left in it. She uncorked it and lifted it to her mouth.

Jon gaped as he held the tray of desserts.

“To success,” Vera said and smiled, lifting the bottle in a mock toast.