Malarkey (21 page)

Dad said, "What's going on?"

I patted his hand.

"They think the burglar may still be in the cottage," Jay
said.

I kept my tone light. "Maybe it's not a burglar at all. Maybe
it's an over-zealous reporter looking for color."

"Lovely thought." Maeve shifted gears and began to back the
van along the lane. When she had cleared Joe's car she pulled around
onto the turf behind it and set the brake.

The alarm bell continued its maddening clangor. It was so
loud I didn't notice the other patrol car approaching from Stanyon
until it passed us. It drew up in front of Joe's car. Two uniformed
Gardai jumped out, and Joe went to meet them.

Dad was grumbling under his breath. Maeve turned around.
"I daresay they'll take hours sorting this." Her observation was
directed at Jay.

"Could be."

"It's noon. I've a tutoring session in Dublin at half
three."

Jay meditated.

I dug in my purse and found my keys. "Why don't I walk
back to the road and get the car? Then we can sit in it, or drive to
Arklow for lunch, and let Maeve go about her business."

I expected Jay to offer to go for the car himself, but he just
nodded, "One of us should retrieve the Toyota. I'm worried about my
computer."

One of us. I reached past him and turned the handle. The
door slid back. I crawled over his knees and got out, bumping my
handbag across his lap. "See you in ten minutes."

Dad said, "I'll come with you, Lark."

"Thanks..." I started to say it wasn't necessary then bit the
words back. Why shouldn't my father come with me? As I waited for
him I glanced at the Gardai. They were still conferring and had
apparently not noticed my emergence. I gave Dad my hand as he
stepped down. He straightened, grimacing slightly.

"Okay?"

He nodded. "I need to stretch my legs."

Jay stuck his head out. "Wait a minute, Lark. Do you have the
key to the downstairs door on that keychain?"

"Yes."

"Leave it with me. Kennedy may decide to enter the house
there."

I found the right key, removed it and handed it to him.

"Take care," he said, without taking his eyes from the cluster
of uniformed men.

I turned to Maeve who was craning around, watching us. "I'll
be back in ten minutes. Don't let Jay do anything foolish."

She looked startled. He ignored the comment. I don't think
he heard it.

I hate hiking in pumps. The gravel felt rough through my
thin soles, and I kept thinking I was going to twist an ankle. Dad gave
me his arm. Pumps were probably invented by a man who wanted
women to cling. We walked slowly. The policemen must have seen us
by then, but they didn't call us back. The alarm continued to
shrill.

Before we reached the rhododendron arch I turned around
and looked at the cottage. Jay had got out of the van and was
huddling with the uniforms.

Dad said, "I hope we won't have to leave the cottage."

That was a gruesome thought. "We could move to
Ballymann House."

"True, or to a hotel."

"Do you want to?"

"No."

I didn't either, though I didn't like the feeling of vulnerability
the burglary inspired. And Joe's comments about the sinister
associations with the woods echoed in memory.

We had gained the road. There was no traffic, though a
couple of cars remained in the church lot; I could see two little girls
in school uniforms peering through the back window of the
Toyota.

They fell into giggles as we approached.

"Good morning, ladies," said my father.

The giggles intensified.

"Eh, missus, there's a wee corpus in the boot." The speaker,
a pink-faced dumpling with a tangle of orange curls, held her hands
out, measuring the dimensions of the supposed body.

I unlocked the hatchback and removed the anorak. Jay's
computer lay there in its soft-sided nylon case. "It's only a suitcase," I
announced in tones of disappointment.

The girls seemed disappointed, too, but Dad gave each of
them a pound coin for guarding the car, and they bounced off looking
pleased with themselves.

"Playing hooky," I murmured.

Dad had squeezed in the passenger side. He fastened his
seatbelt. "A natural curiosity. Still, one could wish their fantasies
were less ghoulish."

I started the engine and, when no cars materialized in either
direction, made a reverse turn. A lorry roared past in the direction of
Killaveen. I swear it scraped the side mirror.

When we reached the Y, I looked down at Stanyon. The
Steins' Mercedes stood in front of the house, and a knot of women on
the verandah suggested the data processors were taking a smoke
break. A regular working day.

I rolled down the window as we approached the
rhododendron arch. "They've shut off the alarm." The silence
reverberated. Maeve's van was still parked behind Joe's car. A police
van, doors open, nosed onto the turf.

"Looks like a convention of cops," I muttered. "That must be
the evidence team from Stanyon." As I spoke one of the men
approached the tiny front porch and began taking photographs. He
was wearing paper booties over his shoes. Evidence crews wear the
shoe protectors to avoid introducing foreign material to the scene of
a crime.

I didn't want to box everyone in, so I pulled onto the turf on
the other side of the lane. Joe stood by the police van, conferring with
the other plainclothes technician. He flipped his hand our direction
and went on talking. I saw no sign of Jay and the other Gardai. As I
unhooked the seatbelt and opened the door to get out, though,
Constable Byrne trudged up the slope from the potting shed. The
discouraged set of his shoulders suggested he was thinking of his
sins.

Dad said, "I'll wait here."

"Okay." I walked over to Maeve and tapped on the
glass.

She rolled her window down.

"What's happening?"

"Damnall. Your husband's in the house. There was no sign of
entry downstairs, so Joe sent Jay and Declan in down there." She
grinned. "The others headed off to the woods. Noses to the ground
like a pair of beagles."

"When did the alarm stop?"

"Thirty seconds ago. My ears are still ringing." She brooded,
eyes straight ahead. "Time for me to head north."

"Uh, before you go, Maeve, I have a couple of
questions."

She blinked at me as if I had startled her. Perhaps her mind
had strayed to the upcoming tutorial—or to Joe Kennedy.

"What do I do with the garbage?"

She blinked again.

I sifted through my vocabulary. "The trash. Rubbish. Litter.
It's mounting up." My voice trailed. "I suppose I ought to ask Barbara
Stein."

"I daresay." She sounded mildly indignant, as if mentioning
garbage was in poor taste.

I felt my cheeks flush. Perhaps I had violated a taboo.
"Sorry," I muttered.

"You said you had several questions."

I cleared my throat. "Uh, yes. The woods. Has anyone done
an archaeological survey of Stanyon Woods?"

She stared then began to laugh.

I felt my temper rise and straightened to walk away, but she
reached out the window to touch my shoulder.

"Free association, right?"

"I beg your pardon," I said stiffly.

"It's okay. Most archaeological digs involve sifting through
ancient middens."

"Rubbish is rubbish," I muttered.

"Why do you ask?"

"I saw what I thought was an incised or inscribed stone in
the woods." I wasn't sure of the correct term.

The laughter died from her face. "Do you say?"

I described the double spiral design.

She gave a low whistle. "I've never heard of megalithic
remains on the estate, but that doesn't mean anything. If the OPW
did an early survey there will be records. Where did you see the
stone?"

I confessed my disorientation.

"Pity. Roughly in the middle of the woods?"

"That's my guess. There's a hill or mound. I walked upwards.
The stone lay in a small glade."

"Sounds promising. I'll look it up, shall I?"

"If it's not too much trouble. It's nothing to do with this
business." I waved a vague arm in the direction of the Gardai who
were now doing things in the porch area. "I'm just curious."

"So am I." She started her engine. "I'll get onto it
straightaway, and I'll ring you in a day or so to report."

"Thanks." I stepped away from the van as she backed up.
She made a neat reverse and chugged off along the lane. I returned to
the Toyota and slipped into the driver's seat.

Dad said, "Where's Jay?"

"In the cottage, according to Maeve. Shall we drive to Arklow
for lunch?"

"Without Jay?" He sounded reproachful.

I drew a breath to point out that my spouse could take care
of himself, and that he'd probably be playing games with the
evidence crew for several hours, when Jay walked up the flagstone
steps beside the cottage. He was carrying a crumpled pair of paper
booties in one hand and light polythene gloves in the other—very
professional. I had the feeling Constable Byrne had been left outside
on sentry duty while Jay went in alone to silence the alarm and
survey the damage. What if the burglar had still been inside? I felt
my temper heat up. The damn fool.

Jay came over to the car and bent down to me.

I said, through my teeth, "Your computer's safe. How's the
house?"

He shrugged. "There's a mess in the living room. I think the
alarm rattled the burglar."

I pointed forward across the steering wheel. "That lot will be
at it for a while. Shall I drive Dad to Arklow for lunch?"

"Hang on a minute and I'll come with you. I need to say a
word to Kennedy."

Jay went over and handed one of the technicians the gloves
and the crumpled booties. By the time I had got out and flipped the
seat forward so he could climb in, he was coming back to the car. I
noticed that he walked on the gravel this time instead of the turf. The
evidence crew must have worked fast. Joe Kennedy gave a casual
wave and ducked in through the front door.

The drive to Arklow took fifteen mostly silent minutes. I was
letting my temper cool. I don't know why the men didn't talk.

I had had my eye on a riverside pub for several days. The car
park, a municipal lot on two levels, required a turn across traffic in
the High Street, but I negotiated it, parked, and led the two men
down to the river. It was too damp and chilly to sit outside.

Our entry caused a momentary lull in the lunch hour roar,
but we found a table free in one corner of the saloon bar. Dad and I
occupied it, and Jay went off for beer. He returned with two pints, a
glass of bordeaux, and a menu card. By that time the other customers
had turned back to their own pints and their conversations.

Dad lifted the glass of wine and sipped. "Not bad."

"Cheers." Jay sat and took a large swallow. "Ah, Murphy's.
Good stuff."

I sipped and read the carte. Lots of chips. "I'll have the
ploughman's lunch."

"Is that cheese?" Jay licked foam from his upper lip.

"Cheese, bread, pickled onion, and chutney, usually. And
they throw in a leaf of lettuce for decoration."

"I'll stick to hamburger."

"Better you than me." Foreign hamburgers incline toward
eccentricity. I once ate one in England that I swear was ground ham.
Whereas local cheese is almost always trustworthy and sometimes
interesting.

"Fish and chips," Dad said.

I stood up. "I'll get it."

The bartender took my order on a lined pad. "Where are
yez? Ah, over there. I'll bring it when the chips is done." He rang up
the order.

I thanked him and paid.

He handed me my heavy change. "You're visitors
then?"

"From the States."

"Are you enjoying your holiday?"

"It's grand," I said politely. Clearly he hadn't recognized me,
which meant he hadn't attended the inquest. I was glad I'd decided
to brave the Arklow traffic instead of driving to Killaveen. Blessed
anonymity. When the evening news rolled around we would be the
cynosure of Arklow eyes, too. I decided I'd better cook dinner at the
cottage.

Dad had vanished by the time I returned from the bar.

"He went to find the gents," Jay explained. "There's a
problem, Lark. The burglar trashed his notes."

"Dad's?" My voice squeaked with dismay. I took a gulp of
beer. "Have you told him?"

"No. There's paper all over the living room and some of the
photocopies were ripped up."

"Vandalism?"

"No."

"Poor Dad..." I broke off as my father drifted back from the
loo. He paused to peer at a photograph on the wall near the bar, said
a word to the bartender, then looked at us and smiled.

Jay said, "I'll break the news."

Dad took it quietly. "I see," he murmured, downcast.

I said, "There's bound to be a stationer's somewhere in
Arklow. I'll buy a bunch of Scotch tape, and we can all work on
reconstructing the torn bits."

He sighed and sipped his bordeaux. "The photocopies
contain records of the Dublin Meeting. I was working on 1845."

"Better get folders, too," Jay said.

I dug in my handbag for a pen and pad. "And scissors. I
haven't seen scissors in the cottage, have either of you?"

They shook their heads. When the bartender arrived with
our food, Jay asked him whether there was a photocopying facility
nearby. After some virtuoso paraphrasing on my part, the man's face
brightened, and he directed us to an establishment in the High
Street.

There we laid in enough folders, labels, and tape dispensers
to start a small business, and Dad cheered up. When we got back to
the cottage, the evidence van had left. Joe Kennedy was conferring
with the three uniforms. The two men from Stanyon had searched
the woods without result, he told us, after he had sent them and
Constable Byrne off in their respective patrol cars. Joe led us into the
cottage. "I'd like the three of you to take another look at what's
missing."