Rosewater and Soda Bread (32 page)

“Yes, hello.” Estelle stepped aside, letting the smell of bay leaves waft out from behind her.

Padraig paused briefly, taking in the deliciously fragrant air. He blinked, his pose shifting. Thomas had warned him this might happen. The smells of the place were enough to send a man reeling into the Bay, he had said.

The councilman coughed and mentally pulled himself up by the britches. “I was hoping to have a wee chat, if that's all right now, Mrs. Delmonico,” he continued, nodding curtly.

Estelle opened the door further. “Of course. Please, come in,” she said, smiling at the three men.

The guards followed Padraig into the bright parlor. They stood for a moment staring at the quaint furnishings adorned with white and yellow linens, feeling utterly ridiculous in this feminine arena.

Estelle smiled again, patted a nearby cushion. “Please, sit
down. I must go to kitchen again,” she told them. “I am cooking minestrone. That is a soup from my country. My mama's country.” Estelle paused, adding, “But Ireland is my country now.”

Padraig nodded uncomfortably. “You've been here for a long time now.”

“Forty-three years, yes. Such a long time since my Luigi buy the shop. We love it from the moment we put our foot on that Main Mall.”

“Yes, well.” Padraig cleared his throat. This was not going the way he had planned. “I've come on a serious matter today. A very important matter.”

“Yes,” Estelle said.

“You're aware now of the happenings in the hospital, I believe.”

“The hospital?”

“Mayo General. On the Westport Road.” He paused. “I'm here about your friend who was admitted a fortnight ago. Or should I say relation?” He smirked, giving the guards a selfsatisfied nod. How was that for a proper turn of interrogation?

Estelle clapped her hands with delight. “Congratulations!” Leaning over, she planted smacking kisses on the councilman's cheeks.

Shocked, Padraig could only step back, bringing his hand to his face, which began to burn red. Behind him both guards let out low chuckles, amused to bits at his embarrassment. “Eh?”

“What is your congratulations? Something wonderful, yes? You must have a party for it.” Estelle clapped her hands again, reached over to grab the bowl of fruity bonbons. She shoved it into Kevin Slattery's hands, nodding reassuringly. “Pass, pass,” she said, as a look of delight dawned over the young guard.

Padraig shook his head in exasperation. “No, no. Not congratulations.
” He wrestled the bowl of sweets from the deputy, giving it back to Estelle. “I said relations. Re-lations,” he enunciated. “Your niece.”

“Gloria?”

“Not Gloria,” he said, feeling very clever. “The other niece. I'm here about a Bella Rosa.”

Estelle extended both arms and shrugged. “Ah. You want a beautiful rose. Bella Rosa. Yes, yes. You see.” She pointed out the window to the gravelly walkway. “My pride and joy, those roses. You can take one each when you go.”

“Now, Mrs. Delmonico.” Padraig shook his head in admonishment. “It wasn't my intention to draw this out. Fact is, this here Bella Rosa, Rosa Bella—what have you—has breached a mighty law of the land. And for it she has to face some questions.”

Estelle stared at him, not appearing to have followed.

“But roses don't speak English, Mr. Padraig. They are only flowers,” she said slowly, looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

The councilman huffed with exasperation. “Mrs. Delmonico. That's enough, now. You have to abide by the law. This is your country, as you say.”

“Okay, maybe if you want, you can go out and talk to the roses. I talk to them too, but it is only because Luigi is sleeping under them.”

“I'll ask you one more time,” Padraig said, his voice rising. “Did you visit a young lady by the name of Bella Rosa in the hospital this last week? Has she been staying here with you since then?”

“No.”

“No?”

“
Si
, no.”

Padraig opened his briefcase, took out a pad of paper from
which he quoted. “Mrs. Delmonico, I have witnesses to the fact that you, along with Marjan Aminpour, had been frequenting the convalescent unit from the twelfth of October to the nineteenth. A whole staff of witnesses, actually. Not to mention Dr. Hewey Parshaw's confession. We know what she tried to do to her unborn child. That is a breach of the law.”

He stopped. Estelle was silent. “Well, if that's all you have to say on the matter, then I hope you don't mind, but the guards here have to do a search of the house. We have it on good authority that you are keeping a criminal, and if you are not willing to work with us, then we have to go it alone.”

Estelle waved her hand around the room. “Please, go ahead,” she said with a gracious smile before turning toward the kitchen. “Would you boys like some soup? You will need energy to look so hard.”

Kevin looked longingly at the pot of minestrone steaming away on the stove. Sean shook his head. “Thank you. All the same.”

He pointed to the bedroom door. “Sorry this has to be done,” he said, pushing down on the brass handle. The door opened to a dark and empty room.

Estelle sighed, nodding. “My Luigi used to share it with me, but no one now,” she said, shoving her hands into a pair of sorbet-colored oven mitts. She returned to the stove as the guards roamed from the modest living room to the bedroom and back, ending their grand search in less than two minutes. Estelle stirred the pot of soup, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

“We have a witness to you and this Rosa spending time outdoors. In your garden.” Padraig slapped the notebook against his palm.

“
Si
, I spend a lot of time in my garden. Many people know this.”

The councilman pointed to the back hall. “Is this the way through, then?” He flicked his hand to the guards, who grudgingly made their way to the back door.

He turned to Estelle, his eyebrows raised. “Now, if I find anything out here, you will be coming with me as well, Mrs. Del-monico. I can't have this go unanswered, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Estelle.

Padraig opened the door and peered out. There, along the stone path leading out from the door, he saw the hospital wheelchair. And the redheaded woman coddled in the folds of a plaid blanket. Just as Dervla had said.

“Mrs. Delmonico.” Padraig tuned back to Estelle with a knowing smirk.

“
Si?
”

“I believe this is Rosa.” He stepped out to the stony terrace, trailed by the guards and Estelle.

They all looked at the woman in the wheelchair, whose back was to them. “Would you like to change your answer now, or after we get to the station?”

Sean stepped forward, his thumbs hooked on his belt. “Now, see here, Padraig—”

The councilman stopped him in his tracks with a snap of his briefcase. “This is a state matter now, Grogan.”

Estelle broke out in laughter. “Oh, Mr. Carey. I am an old woman, and have some problems, but my eyes are very good to see. How can you be so much younger and so much more blind?” She stepped onto the path, pointing a mitted finger at the girl in the wheelchair.

Padraig colored at the comment. “Right, I've had enough of this. Sean, take Miss Bella Rosa in,” he ordered.

Sean Grogan's nostrils flared as he huffed to the end of the terrace, stopping a foot short of the woman in the chair. He stared
at the lass, sitting all timid with her red hair flying in the Atlantic wind.

What did Padraig expect him to do, just wheel some poor girl out without a thought to her?

The sergeant frowned. “Now, Padraig. Wouldn't it be better to ask the questions here first?”

“Oh, for—” Padraig marched over to the wheelchair. “Miss Bella Rosa. I said, Miss Bella Rosa. I'm here on a very important matter.”

The young woman did not respond.

“We're here on charges of your harming your unborn child. This is under the abortion act of the land. You are aware of the law, now?”

Still silence.

“You are forcing me to take you in to the station with these guards. It's not something I want to do, but if it comes down to it, I will.”

A herd of cows mooed in the field below.

“Well, you give me no choice. Sean, take hold of the bars here.” He pointed to the wheelchair's handlebars. Sean did not move. “For feck's sakes.” Padraig snorted. “I'll do it myself, then.” The councilman stepped forward, lunging for the chair.

He swiveled the seat to face the guards and Estelle. It took him a moment to register the movement at his feet.

“What the—”

“Holy mother of God,” Kevin squeaked, falling back against the cottage wall.

Sean crossed himself and cursed.

The head rolling down the side of the hill did not stop for any of their words. It bounced along the ridge, butting against nettle and stone before finally coming to rest in a gully of freezing springwater.

Poor Fifi O'Shea. The once glamorous mannequin had gone from gracing the window of Athey's Shear Delight to losing her head among slumbering bovines, all in a working day. She would need a makeover when this was over, that was certain.

MARJAN STOLE A LOOK at the girl sitting next to her in the van. She was wearing a sweater and jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens borrowed from Layla. Her younger sister had spent the previous night compiling outfits for their guest.

Bahar, by contrast, had taken to clearing the refrigerator and sponging down the crevices and shelves in silent anger. She had woken up before all of them, even before Marjan, leaving a note to say that she would be spending the morning in Saint Barnabas, “praying against their eternal damnation.”

“Layla said you liked the play she read to you last night.” Marjan looked at the young woman. “She said you enjoyed the bit about the two police officers.”

The girl stared at the road. The nettle-lined lane grew wider as they approached a fork. Marjan took a left, shifting gears to traverse the hill ahead. “I'm surprised Layla doesn't have that play memorized by now. She's really involved with theater in her school.” She looked back at the girl. “She goes to Saint Joseph's. That's just off the Beach Road. Do you know it?”

She slowed down at a train junction. The red light was on, and the clang of an incoming engine, the morning train from Dublin, made any conversation, one-sided or otherwise, impossible.

Once the train had passed, Marjan got out and opened the gate over the tracks, then got back into the van and geared ahead. The breakfast she had prepared that morning—a platter
of cheeses, bread, and herbs, and a bowl of Irish porridge she had bought at the mini-mart—had worked wonders on the girl. Or perhaps it was Layla's carefree good cheer that had made such a positive impact. Whatever the cause, her cheeks were fuller and glowing, her eyes more attentive than Marjan had ever seen them.

Layla had entertained their guest even more that morning, regaling her with stories of the last school trip her class had taken, to the Burren, a limestone landscape of shifting pillars south of Ballinacroagh. Marjan had been surprised at Layla's generosity, her ability to hold her tongue in check when it came to sensitive questions. Her little sister was growing up, she thought.

Marjan stole another sidelong glance at the girl. Her long red hair was tied back, showing her features, delicate and distinctly Irish.

“I know keeping things inside seems like the right way to go. I tend to do the same thing. Sometimes, when I' tempted to just open my mouth and let it all out, my fear, my confusion, the fact that most of the time I don't know what I'm doing, even if it seems like I do, well, those times, I usually don't say a word. It sometimes seems easier, the best way to get through things.” She paused. “But, well, sometimes it's not the easiest way. Do you know what I mean?”

She steered past a grove of alder. Up ahead she could see the little stone bridge that led to Estelle's cottage. “Sometimes, it's best to speak out.”

Marjan looked at the girl again. She hadn't expected to see the glimmer of something akin to hope in her large gray eyes.

Marjan nodded softly. “It's all right,” she whispered.

The girl nodded back. She placed her right hand on the dashboard, turned to Marjan, and then her face froze in alarm.

The crash came from Marjan's side, knocking the van into a
skid across the damp lane. Slamming on the brakes, Marjan twisted the steering wheel in time to stop the back wheels from scudding into a ditch. The van spluttered as she switched the engine off. The young woman next to her had turned a deathly shade of pale. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

The girl shook her head.

Marjan looked out the windshield. A battered truck, the kind used to lug construction gear, stood at an angle, kissing the front fender of the van.

She opened the door and stepped out, her body jittery from the shock. Her anxiety was considerably heightened when she saw the dark raincoat disembark from his side. The coat's hood was pulled up around the bearded face, but she recognized it all the same.

He sneered when he saw her. “Salmonella not enough? Finding other ways to kill off all the locals?” He slammed the truck door and rounded the collision.

Shock gave way to anger, Marjan's temper flaring up almost instantly. “I had the right-of-way, if you haven't noticed,” she replied, her eyes snapping.