Malarkey (3 page)

"Keeper of the keys?" I stood tiptoe and brushed his cheek
with a kiss. "See you in a couple of hours."

"But your bag..."

"I'll get it."

I had a suitcase and a carry on. I brought them down and
unpacked, yawning as I began to relax from the strain of the drive.
When I had flattened the futon and made it up with linen, a duvet,
and pillows from the closet, I came close to collapsing into a nap of
my own. But I knew that the longer I stayed awake, the quicker I
would adjust to local time, so I fished the keys from my pocket and
went to the locked door.

It opened easily onto a flagstone patio. A stone shed
sheltered the patio from the east. I supposed some of the nastier
weather must blow in from the southeast. The shed looked
unfinished. I stood for a while admiring the masonry, but I could see
that the door was unpainted. There was a hole where the lock and
knob should be. The door stood open a crack.

Though the pond across the way looked interesting, I didn't
want to walk to it over the newly planted lawn, so I yawned and
stretched and decided to go make tea. On impulse, I shoved the door
of the shed open. It caught on something. I stuck my head in to see
what the obstruction was and found the body.

For a brief moment I thought one of the workmen was
taking a nap on the flagstone floor. A man, well-fleshed, as they say,
and about thirty, lay on his back with his arms folded across his
chest. He was wearing combat fatigues and boots, and his toes
pointed out at equal angles. Someone had closed his eyes. A round
red circle marred the center of his forehead and trickles of red had
run down over his eyelids.

After a frozen pause, I cat-stepped around him and bent
down to touch his neck. No pulse. He was cold, dead for some time.
Close to, the "wound" in his forehead looked phony. It was too red.
When I touched it, it felt slick. Some kind of paint. Apart from the red
mark I could see no sign of violence. With a shaking hand, I took a
tissue from my pocket and wiped red off my finger.

I must have made noise. I did not feel cool and collected, but
at least I didn't scream. By the time I had reentered the cottage, I was
capable of thought, and the thought that was foremost in my mind
was that I must not do anything to shock my father. A tall order,
under the circumstances.

Isn't it grand, boys, to be bloody well
dead?

Irish music hall song

I stood in the narrow hall and listened. I heard a bedspring
creak, then slow even breathing, so I crept upstairs and headed for
the telephone.

A neat printout on the blotter listed useful phone numbers. I
could, I saw, dial 999 in an emergency—police, fire, or medical. Or I
could call the local Garda station, the one connected to the cottage
security system. I tapped out that number.

Irish phones ring twice—brrng-brrng—while ours ring once. I
waited.

"Garda. Sergeant Kennedy."

I pitched my voice low. "My name is Lark Dodge. I am a
visiting American. I'm at Bedrock Cottage on the Stanyon Hall estate.
Do you know where that is?"

"Sure and don't we have it on our security list?" He sounded
good-humored.

"I've just found the body of a dead man in the tool
shed."

"What are you saying?" His voice sharpened.

"Please listen to me. There's a corpse in the tool shed. My
father is here in the cottage with me. He's recovering from a stroke,
and I don't want to shock him. Can you come quietly, without sirens?
Dad's napping. I'll take you down and show you the shed, then wake
my father and explain, but I don't want him disturbed until he's had
a chance to rest."

Silence. "You're very calm, Miss Dodge."

"Mrs.," I said. "No, believe me, I'm not calm. I'm a seething
cauldron of emotion, and suffering from jet lag and driver-shock on
top of that, but I am not going to do anything to upset my father. Can
you come quietly?"

After some hemming and hawing, he agreed that he could.
He questioned me about the condition of the body and told me not to
touch anything in the shed. I promised. He said he'd tell the
ambulance not to use the klaxon. That was a relief. There are few
sounds more horrible than an emergency klaxon.

When Sgt. Kennedy hung up, I looked at the printout again.
Then I dialed the number listed for Stanyon Hall.

An impatient female voice responded. "Stonehall
Enterprises."

"May I speak to Alex Stein?"

"Who shall I say is calling?"

I swallowed a wild urge to laugh. "My name is Lark Dodge.
I'm George Dailey's daughter. We're at the cottage—"

The voice warmed to cordiality. "Welcome to Ireland, Lark.
You're the book dealer, aren't you? This is Barbara, Alex's wife. I'll
tell him you and your father are here."

"Thank you, but I think you ought to know that I just found a
dead man in the shed at the back of the cottage."

Squawk. "Did you say dead?"

"Very. I called the Garda."

"My God, who is it, one of the workmen?"

"I have no idea, Mrs. Stein."

"I'll be right over."

"I wish you wouldn't." I explained about Dad's stroke. It was
news to her. I wondered why he hadn't discussed his illness with the
Steins. Dad was the soul of honesty.

"I'm so sorry." It wasn't clear whether she was sorry about
the dead man or sorry about Dad's stroke. "Alex is in London. He's
due back this evening. I'll call him, and then I think I'd better come
over."

"Well, don't knock or ring the bell." Was there a doorbell? I
hadn't noticed. "I'll be watching for you." I hung up. And waited and
shivered while the Rayburn hummed away, radiating warmth.

Barbara Stein showed up before Sgt. Kennedy did, though
she walked. By that time, I was peering out the small window beside
the front door and checking my watch every ten seconds. I let her
in.

She was a tiny, intense woman of about thirty with frizzy
red hair, freckles, and snapping brown eyes. She wore jeans and a
red sweatshirt with the Stanford logo. We shook hands. Before I
could launch into an explanation, she began asking questions.

I said, "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Tea? No. I want to see the body."

"We shouldn't enter the shed until the police say it's okay,
and, besides—"

Her eyes narrowed. "It's my house." She moved toward the
door to the living room.

I intercepted her. "No, really, you shouldn't. I don't know it's
a crime scene, though I doubt that the man just lay down on the floor
and expired. He's too neat." Except for the red paint on his forehead.
I didn't mention that. If I had known Barbara Stein longer I would
have, but her manner provoked caution.

"Who is it?" She made as if to dart past me.

I blocked her. Not for nothing had I played basketball for
Ohio State. "I'm bigger than you are." I spoke in my mildest voice. "I
don't know who the dead man is. I don't know anyone here. I've been
in Ireland less than three hours, and it's my first visit."

Barbara stared at me, then shrugged and sat on the nearest
kitchen chair.

I stayed in the doorway. "I started to tell you that my
father's asleep downstairs. I'll have to wake him when the police
come, but I don't want to until I have to. If we tromp downstairs and
fumble around and whoop and holler, Dad will hear us. So we're
going to wait for Sergeant Kennedy. Here."

"Kennedy? Oh, Joe Kennedy at Killaveen." She made a face. I
deduced that she didn't think much of Sgt. Kennedy. "Well, okay, but
describe him for me—the corpse. Maybe it's Toss Tierney." She
brooded. "I hope so, the sucker. That's our contractor—builder, they
say here. If he doesn't finish the workroom by Saturday, I'll kill him
myself."

I didn't rise to the bait, but I was briefly amused.
Contractors must be contractors the world over. I went to the sink
and filled what looked like an electric tea kettle, but I kept an eye on
Barbara. I was ready to tackle her if need be, and she must have
known it. She stayed seated.

The tea water heated up. As I hunted out mugs and tea bags,
I thanked her for the groceries and chatted about the Rayburn's
eccentricities.

"It keeps things warm," she muttered. "Where is that
cop?"

"Is the Garda station very far away?"

"Half a mile northwest. He should be here by now, but I
suppose he had to feed the chickens or something. He lives above the
station."

I considered. "He was going to call for an ambulance, and he
probably talked to his superiors, too. That would take a while."

"All the same..."

The kettle shrieked. I poured hot water. Tea ensued. We
sipped, eyeing each other.

"How was your flight?"

"Fine."

"If George is doing research on Quakers..." She cocked her
head, listening.

A car crunched on the gravel and a door slammed.

I set my mug on the table and went to open the front
door.

The quintessence of Irish cops came toward me around the
back of a white car marked Garda. Black hair, rosy complexion, blue,
blue eyes, wide shoulders and a trim body beneath the dignified blue
uniform. He was as tall as I am. "Mrs. Dodge?"

I nodded, momentarily bereft of speech. I am susceptible to
male beauty.

"Ah, you're only a lass! I was picturing an older lady."

The sheer meretriciousness of that brought me to my
senses. He was playing a role. Why?

I shook hands. "Come in, sergeant. Barbara Stein is
here."

The smile faded. The blue eyes searched my face. "And
how's herself?"

"In the pink," Barbara said from the door, rather waspishly, I
thought. "Cut the blarney, Joe. This is serious."

"Certainly, madam." He bared his teeth—very white, very
even. He did not like Barbara. "Are you here in your landlord
capacity then, himself being off in the big city?"

"Alex is flying back from London tonight."

They glared at each other.

I said, "I'll show you to the tool shed, sergeant. My father's
still asleep, though, and the bedroom's downstairs, so please be
quiet."

Kennedy nodded and followed me into the living room. He
knew the layout, he said, because he had inspected the cottage when
the security system was installed. Barbara snorted.

At the head of the stairs, I paused and turned. "There were
scuff marks on the floor inside the downstairs door. I noticed when I
went out."

He whistled softly through his teeth. Whhst.

"And I don't think the lock was forced."

"Then it may be we should go out the front door and walk
down the slope."

"The lawn did look undisturbed. Surely footprints would
show on that fresh a surface, and I didn't see any. Of course, I didn't
go all the way around the shed." An idiotic comment. My thought
processes were fuzzy. There was only one door into the shed.
Whoever had hauled the corpse in and placed it on the flagstones
had used that door.

"When was the grass sown, missus?" Kennedy turned to
Barbara.

"The gardeners finished yesterday." She was standing,
hands on her hips, in the middle of the living room rug, a nice gray
and white striped affair with white tassels.

"Who?"

She named names—Irish-sounding names—and added, "Toss
Tierney promised to finish the shed yesterday. I didn't see him,
though."

I said, "It's not finished. There's no door latch and the
window's unglazed." Briefly I considered the window. It was too high
for easy access and too small to fit the body through. The dead man
was bulky.

"I'll have a word with Toss." The sergeant rubbed his nose. It
was his least interesting feature, short and uptilted. He hesitated, as
if he were uncertain what to do next.

Barbara cut him no slack. "Afraid you'll screw up?" What
was wrong with the woman? She was taunting him.

His eyes narrowed, but he ignored the gibe. "If you'll come
out with me now, Mrs. Dodge. You..." He nodded to Barbara. "...can
wait in the kitchen."

Her lips compressed. "Maybe I'll be able to identify him.
Lark can't. She doesn't know anybody."

"Sure, and it may be I'll know him myself," Kennedy
rejoined. "If he's local."

"Fat chance. You wouldn't know—" She bit her lip.

Your ass from your elbow? I thought that if I were a
foreigner living in Ireland I'd try for a little more tact with the
authorities.

Kennedy turned to me. "Will you come out now and show
me the body?"

I nodded. Jet lag had me by the throat, and I was fading fast.
Woozy, I led him out the front door and around the living room end
of the cottage. We descended the slope on flagstone steps that ended
at the edge of the house. The raked ground looked untouched. I
stepped onto the soft surface carefully and Kennedy followed in my
footprints, but my suede ankle boots sank in. The area would have to
be raked and replanted after us—and after the ambulance crew.

When I stopped at the patio, reluctant to enter the shed,
Kennedy paused beside me. We had tracked the Irish equivalent of
barkdust onto the flagstones. "There's no latch," I repeated. "The
door was ajar."

"So I see. Tell me what you did."

I described my movements.

"And he's in there on the floor?"

"He looks as if somebody laid him out." All that was missing
was a lily in his hands, or a rosary if they didn't do lilies in Ireland. I
have no idea why I didn't warn Kennedy about the red paint
mark.

"Laid out, do you say?" He pursed his mouth. "A shock, was
it?"

I stared at him.

He gave a slight smile of apology. "Let's have a look at the
feller, then, shall we?" He nudged the door open, as I had, with his
foot and entered. "Jaysus, if it's not General O'Duffy, God rest
him."

I thought of the paint splotch and the man's combat fatigues,
and my memory played one of the tricks it plays when I'm tired.
When the sergeant emerged from the shed, and he didn't stay inside
it long, I asked, "The Blueshirt? You said O'Duffy."