Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (27 page)

“What are planning to do with the puppy?” Brian asked.

Seán patted the wriggly canine and buried his nose in his smelly fur. “I think I know of a good home for this little creature.”

THE MACCARTHY FARM was even more decrepit than the last time Seán had had the misfortune to visit it. He pressed the doorbell.

A stout man with a grizzly beard and unruly gray hair opened the door.

“Good morning, Mr. MacCarthy.”

“Sergeant Mackey. Or Johnny Fitzgerald. Whatever name you’re going by today.” Colm MacCarthy Senior loomed in the doorframe, teeth bared in a snarl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’d like to have a word with you. Can I come in?”

Colm Senior’s combative stance didn’t falter. “Do I have a choice?”

Seán shrugged. “I can come back with a warrant. Or I can haul you down the station right now for questioning. I’d prefer a more civilized approach. What say you, Colm?”

The older man hesitated a moment, then stood aside with a show of reluctance. “Go through to the kitchen. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

If Colm was willing to offer him tea, he definitely had something to hide. Either that or he intended to seize the opportunity to poison a member of the local police force.

Standards in the MacCarthy household had never been high, but since Molly MacCarthy’s death last year and Sharon’s decision to move in with Brian, the place had turned into a dump.

In the grimy kitchen, Colm Senior dumped two mugs of tea on the stained table and slumped into a chair across from Seán. “So what are you wanting me for this time?”

“I’m looking for Colm Junior. Any idea where he can be found?”

“So what are you wanting
him
for? Sure the poor lad’s only just out of prison. Can’t you leave him in peace for a bit?”

The pertinent point was whether or not Colm Junior would leave Ballybeg in peace.

“I just need to ask him a few questions.” Seán took a sip of tea. It was vile. Overbrewed and thick with unfiltered tea leaves.

“Yeah?” Colm bared his nicotine-stained teeth. “Whenever a Guard wants to ask a man a few questions, it signals trouble. What do you think he’s done this time?”

“I found crates of
poitín
out at your brother Buck’s place. Not to mention distilling equipment and several semiautomatic pistols. Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

Colm put his mug down on the table and leaned forward, wafting body odor and stale cigarette smoke. “Don’t suppose I would.”

“Any idea where I can find your son?”

“No idea at all.” The older man never broke his belligerent stare.

Seán put his mug down on the table. “Never mind,” he said and pushed his chair back. “I’m sure I’ll track him down eventually. I believe his wife kicked him out, and I presume he’s staying here at the moment. Mind if I take a look at his room?”

“I bloody well do mind, you cheeky pup! Do you have a search warrant?”

“No, but I’m sure I can get one.”

“Bollocks. You’re not poking around my boy’s belongings, not for no reason.”

“Possession of semiautomatic pistols without a license is hardly no reason.”

“You only got Buck’s word they belong to Colm. Buck would sell his soul to the devil if he thought it’d save his own skin.”

“I’ve no doubt Buck would do that, but he’s also a lousy liar. He was telling the truth when he said Colm gave the guns to him.”

“So what you going to do about it? Search my home without a warrant, and I’ll have an official complaint made before your next shite.”

“You’ve a way with words, Colm. Pity you never took to poetry.”

“You’re the smart-arse, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Colm stood up, fists clenched. “Get out of my house.”

“Gladly…once you’ve told me where to find Colm.”

“I don’t know where he is, I tell you. He doesn’t report in, and I don’t keep tabs. He’s a grown man now.” Colm Senior marched behind him to the front door. If he could have gotten away with pushing him out the door, he would have done so, but not even he wasn’t stupid enough to assault a Guard.

“Good-bye, Mr. MacCarthy,” said Seán as he stepped out the door. “No doubt we’ll meet again soon.”

Colm’s only response was to slam the door in Seán’s face.

He whistled to himself as he walked back to his car. That had gone well. Not. Judging by the elder MacCarthy’s body language, he knew far more than he was saying, and it definitely involved Colm Junior’s dodgy dealings. Dared he hope he’d get the Travellers case wrapped up after all?

His phone beeped with an incoming text message. When he glanced at the display, he noticed there were two messages. He checked the latest one first.

Don’t forget my birthday dinner next Sunday. Even if you did cause my fool of a husband to be up in court again, you’re still family. Aunt Nora xxx P.S.: Can you bring a bottle of something? Money’s scarce, seeing as Helen Havelin refused to pay your uncle the full price for his performance. She was always a tightwad.

His reluctance to dine chez John-Joe and Nora was slightly mitigated by his amusement at Helen’s horrified expression when John-Joe had bodysurfed over her guests.

He clicked on the second message. It had been sent from an unknown number.

I hear you want a word with me about a mutual acquaintance. Might have better luck questioning some of your old colleagues. Ever find it strange that you got shunted off to Cork, yet certain members of your old unit got promoted? L.D.

An icy chill froze Seán in place. What the hell? And yet the sneaking suspicion that his former boss’s promotion hadn’t been on merit alone had nagged him for over a year. He’d had the misfortune to tangle with the odious Detective Inspector Connolly last summer during the Gant murder investigation. The entire time Seán had worked for him in the organized crime unit, Connolly had been angling for a transfer to murder. Within six months of the debacle at the Clondalkin warehouse, Connolly’s wish had been granted.

But how much weight could he lend the word of Lar Delaney? The man was all smoke and mirrors, mystery and deflection. Seán had never been sure just how much power the guy wielded in the Dublin underworld. On the surface, he was an odd-job man—someone known to associate with less-than-salubrious characters, but not a person against whom any serious allegations had been levied.

Delaney’s only conviction to date was a juvenile sentence for armed robbery during which a security guard was killed. After his release from prison, he’d vanished for a few years. Rumor had it that he’d gone to work as a hit man for his uncle in Boston. Whether or not that rumor was accurate was anyone’s guess. After fifteen years on the force, little would surprise Seán, but he was prepared to keep an open mind.

In the meantime, he’d better call the local vet and get his new protégé checked out.

CLIO PULLED INTO the car park of Glencoe College. She wanted to scream. She wanted to put her head on the steering wheel and sob. But she had no time for hysterics. In five minutes’ time, she was due in the school hall with a hundred other parents, and she’d be expected to play the part of the responsible mother attending her daughter’s parent-teacher meeting.

The week since the robbery had been hell. By the time Helen left for Dublin on Monday morning, they weren’t on speaking terms. Honestly, Clio couldn’t blame her mother for being pissed, but she hadn’t felt able to confide in her about the Ray Greer mess. That didn’t justify taking the cash, regardless of how quickly she’d replaced it, but Helen was quick to paint the situation black and white when there was an entire spectrum of colors between.

After years of estrangement, it was disconcerting to suddenly see her mother every weekend. Clio couldn’t force an intimacy that wasn’t there any more than she could bring herself to forget the aftermath of the last time she’d confided in Helen. What sort of parent threw their pregnant seventeen-year-old out of the house, leaving her with no home, no money, and no school certificate? Little wonder she’d hit rock bottom. Clio might not win a Mother of the Year award, but she was a damn sight more maternal than her own mother had been.

After checking her reflection in the rearview mirror—wan with shadows smudged beneath her eyes—Clio grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car.

Inside the main school building, she received a nametag and list of teachers and table numbers to visit at the reception table. Clutching the list, she entered the main hall. It was abuzz with chatter. Designer-clad parents hobnobbed with one another, wafting expensive scent and hauteur in equal measure. Some ignored her when she walked by. Others stared at her nametag and eyed her nondesigner clothing with disapproval.

A lady with a sleek bob blocked her path. “Hello, Mrs. Havelin.”

“Ms.,” said Clio, suddenly self-conscious. Surely she couldn’t be the only single parent present.

“I’m Eileen Quirke.” The woman’s sneer set her teeth on edge. Did she think Clio couldn’t read the nametag attached to her enormous bosom? “My daughter, Roisin, is in Tammy’s class. She says she’s a bit rowdy.”

Of all the adjectives that could be used to describe Tammy, “rowdy” was not among them.

Eileen’s plastered-on smile looked as synthetic as her cloying perfume smelled. Clio opened her mouth to deliver a cutting set-down, but before she could formulate the first word, someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to the side.

It was Olivia, impeccably dressed as always and wearing a determined expression on her face. “Sorry, Eileen,” she said, sounding not the least contrite, “I need to talk to Clio.”

Eileen pursed her artificially plump lips. “I should have known you two would be friends.”

“Like attracts like. Speaking of which, I see your good pal, Marjorie Jobson, is flirting with your husband again. You might want to intervene.” Olivia nodded in the direction of a short man of fiftyish whose florid face was practically stuck into a blond woman’s cleavage.

Eileen’s bee-stung lips parted in horror. An angry flush stained her cheeks. Without uttering another word, she sallied forth to fight for her man.

Clio allowed herself to be dragged out of range.

“My brother told me that Roisin and her venomous pal, Jenny, are harassing your daughter,” Olivia offered by way of explanation. “In comparison to her mother, Roisin’s bitch-level ranking is merely a five. I didn’t think you needed to deal with Eileen.”

“I was about to give her a blistering response.”

Olivia’s smile was knowing. “That’s why I intervened. Eileen Quirke is on the school board. She’s not a person it’s wise to antagonize.”

Olivia grabbed two glasses of wine from a side table and handed one to Clio.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the glass. “You didn’t heed your own advice.”

Olivia grinned over the rim of her glass. “I have enough ammunition against Eileen to ward off several attacks.”

“What brings you to the Glencoe College parent-teacher evening? I thought you said your stepson was in primary school.”

“My younger brothers are pupils here. Our parents aren’t the most reliable, so tonight’s event fell to me. My youngest brother, Ronan, is in Tammy’s year.”

“She’s mentioned the name. They had lunch together, I think.”

Olivia’s grin widened. “I believe he’s rather fond of Tammy. She could do a lot worse.”

“Of that, I am quite certain,” Clio said dryly, recalling Trevor O’Leary’s smug smirk.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” Olivia said. “We still haven’t set a date for dinner.”

“I’m sorry about that. My work schedule keeps changing. Ruairí’s wife isn’t well, and he keeps needing to go home at short notice.”

“No worries. I’d heard Jayme was having a difficult pregnancy. Why don’t we do something spontaneously? Text me when you’re free. If I can swing it, we can meet up.”

“Sounds like a plan. It’s Tammy’s birthday this weekend, but I should have time for a coffee next week.” Clio glanced at the list in her hand and groaned aloud. “I’d better start working my way through Tammy’s teachers. I’ll get the worst over first. Where’s her math teacher?”

***

On the afternoon of Tammy’s birthday, the smell of burning alerted Clio that all was not well in the kitchen.

Helen’s hair hung limp around her ears. She was red-faced and clasping a spatula tightly in one hand. “I don’t understand. The cookery book made it sound so simple. What did I do wrong?”

Clio inspected the batter. Stray specks of eggshell warred with an unidentifiable glutinous lump for Clio’s attention.

Helen sobbed. “I wanted Tammy’s cake to be perfect. It’s the first birthday I’ve spent with her in years.”

Actually, it was the first birthday she’d
ever
spent with Tammy. Clio bit her tongue to stem the acid retort, aware she’d been on tenuous ground with Helen since the night of the robbery. “Don’t sweat. Let’s see if any of this is salvageable.” She took the bowl from her mother and made a show of examining its contents. This was one batter that should
never
make it to the oven. “Okay. I’ll check what we have in the fridge. I’m sure we can whip up an alternative.”

“What about the beef bourguignon?” Helen’s voice rose to a helium squeak. “Is it supposed to have that funny smell?”

Clio pulled the lid off the large pot on the stove and recoiled. “What in the bejaysus did you put in it?”

Helen blinked. “I can’t remember. There were so many ingredients lying about on the counter. I got a bit panicked.”

She replaced the lid and turned to her mother. “When was the last time you cooked a meal from scratch?”

Her mother considered the question, then shook her head. “I can’t remember. It must have been after your father left. He’d always taken care of the cooking. Thank goodness I married Larry and his cook.”

“You make it sound like a polygamous relationship,” Clio said, laughing.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Helen slumped onto a kitchen chair and uncorked a wine bottle. “I did everything that damn recipe book said. Even idiots can cook. How can I not figure out how to follow a recipe correctly? I wanted to make Tammy’s birthday dinner perfect.”