Scandal in Skibbereen (19 page)

T
uesday morning Maura awoke to the sound of rain on her slate roof. She lay in bed for a while, considering what that would mean. If it was wet and dark, would that drive tourists into Sullivan’s? The older ones, maybe, but not the families with children. For a few seconds she considered adding video machines of some sort and then shuddered and dismissed it. The noise and flashing lights would be sure to drive her regular patrons away quickly—and drive her crazy. She should remember to light the fire when she arrived, to take the chill off the room.

She wondered if it was worth trying to create a written schedule for the four of them who covered the bar. She tried to limit Rose’s hours to days, not that there were many wild nights at Sullivan’s that would be unsuitable for a girl of sixteen. But in general they all seemed to make it up as they went, and she trusted Mick and Jimmy to keep track of their own hours and request their pay accordingly. She had her doubts about Jimmy’s count, but she hadn’t wanted to start an argument. But she realized that if she didn’t stand up for herself, Jimmy and maybe even Mick would trample all over her. She didn’t mind putting in long hours herself—to set a good example—but she wasn’t going to stand still and let anyone take advantage of her.

She checked the time, to find that it was later than she thought. Not a good day to visit with Bridget; she’d hoped to get in to Sullivan’s early to do a bit of cleaning and check the inventory. Nominally it was Jimmy’s job, but she wanted to count again, just in case. She showered and dressed, ate a quick breakfast, and arrived at Sullivan’s by ten, before official opening time. Even with all the lights on, the place was kind of dim in this weather, but it certainly looked . . . authentic. Well, it
was
authentic. Sullivan’s just oozed . . . what was the word? Ambience, that was it. She had ambience to spare.

She’d laid the fire, cleaned up the bar area, and was counting the contents of the till when she looked up to see a dark figure standing outside the front door. Checking her watch, she realized it was opening time, although there was only the one customer. But Maura wasn’t going to turn anyone away. When she unlocked the door and pulled it open, she recognized the man: Tom O’Brien from the manor house. The man who didn’t drink—or so said his wife, who was not with him.

The man appeared anything but menacing: his clothes were rumpled and damp, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Maura pulled the door open wider and stepped back. “Please, come in out of the wet. You’re Tom O’Brien, right? We met the other day.”

Tom walked through the door and stopped, as if confused. “Yer open, aren’t yeh?”

“Of course I am. What can I get you?” Maura waited with some curiosity to see what a supposed nondrinker would order at ten thirty in the morning.

“A pint, if you will,” he said.

“It’ll just be a moment.” Maura set about pulling the pint, wondering what had prompted Tom to come here now, of all times. Did he want to talk? Or did he want to get away from his wife, or the cloud hanging over the manor house?

Maura set the glass on a coaster in front of Tom. “I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not much for the drink.” Having said that, he downed half the glass in one long draw. Maybe he was trying to get drunk. “I wanted to hear a voice, friendly or no. Florence has gone cold on me, and I don’t see much of Miss Eveline. With Seamus gone, there’s no one left, not that he was much of one for the talking.”

Why would his wife stop talking to him? Did she do this often, or was something troubling her?
And why was he telling her?
“Well, Tom O’Brien, you’re welcome here anytime. And if you don’t want to drink, the coffee’s not bad.” Maura figured she might as well talk to him now—she might never see him in Sullivan’s again. “I was sorry to hear of the . . . troubles you’ve had up at the manor,” she ventured.

He looked her in the eye, and Maura was struck by the pain that lurked in his gaze. “You mean Seamus’s death, do you, now? A sad thing, that. The gardaí would have it that it was me who killed him, or my wife, or mebbe the two of us together, for they’ve nowhere else to look.” He didn’t turn away, as if challenging her to respond.

“Did you?” Maura responded, keeping her gaze on him. “Kill him, I mean.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “Why would I? He was a good lad, as close to a son as we ever had a hope for. He was a fine worker and an honest man. When I saw him lying there that morning . . .” He had to take a moment to collect himself before going on, “It like to tore my guts out. He never deserved to die that way, layin’ in his own blood.”

“Who do
you
think did it?”

Tom looked away. “I don’t know. God’s truth. If I did, I’d tell the gardaí.”

“I hear you fired a shot at someone last night.”

“I did. Woulda hit the fella too, if the gun had been taken care of proper. Used to be I was a good shot.”

“You actually saw the person?”

Tom dipped his head. “Like I told that young guard, I saw a man running away—only the back of him. But it weren’t no dog, unless he stood on two feet.” He swallowed the rest of his pint.

“Can I get you another?”

He shook his head. “What’s the charge?”

“No charge.”

“I don’t take charity,” he said dubiously.

“It’s not charity. Call it a welcome.”

“Then I thank you, Maura Donovan.” He turned and shuffled out into the rain.

Maura watched him go, feeling sad. She believed him: he seemed honestly heartbroken about Seamus’s death, more so than anyone else she’d talked to. But if he didn’t do it, who did?

She was no closer to an answer when Gillian arrived after three that afternoon. She looked as depressed as Tom had when she took a seat at the bar.

“No luck?” Maura asked.

“No. We went through every old book we’d collected, page by page. Nothing.”

“Can I get you something?”

Gillian smiled. “You mean, do I want to drown my sorrows? No, a coffee’ll do fine. After all, it’s not as though I have a personal stake in this. I only agreed to help because Harry needs the money to keep Eveline at the manor.”

Maura made her a cup of coffee and pushed it across the bar. “Have you talked to Althea today?”

“No, not yet. We did find one crumb, although it doesn’t help us much. The account book for a couple of the years that might be relevant is missing.”

“Missing as in somebody took it, or missing as in you can’t find it?” Maura asked.

Gillian shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, although it’s the only one of that period that we can’t locate. Believe me, Harry and I looked. We went back up to the attic and checked every book. It could have been rebound because it was falling apart, or somebody could have pulled it out a hundred years ago to look at it and put it somewhere else. Problem is, we don’t know where else to look. The coffee’s good, by the way. Old Mick could never make a decent cup.”

“Thanks. Jimmy’s the one who brought in the machine, but I got it running. So now what?”

“Now I tell Althea that she’ll have to run with what she has or give up.”

“You think she’ll give up?”

“I don’t,” Gillian said. “She’s found the painting, after all, and I think it speaks for itself. Finding this bit of paper is important to her, but it’s icing on the cake, no matter what she thinks. I don’t know what it’ll take to convince her that finding it is hopeless, at least in such a hurry. It would be easier if we had weeks or even months to do the looking.”

“You’d better tell her that you didn’t find anything, just to get it over with.”

Gillian sighed. “I know. I’ll be back.” She found her mobile phone, then walked outside to make the call. She didn’t look any happier when she came back. “She’ll be here in ten, she says. You’ll back me up, won’t you? You know we tried.”

Why did Gillian feel she had to apologize to Althea? She’d done her best. “Sure. Oh, there was one interesting thing this morning: Tom O’Brien stopped in.”

“Tom from the manor? What did he want?”

“A drink and a friendly face, not necessarily in that order. He seemed really broken up about Seamus’s death, and I don’t think he was just putting on a show for me. There was no one else to see it. He seems to be the only one who actually cared for Seamus.”

“If he didn’t kill Seamus, does he have any idea who did?”

“No. He said more or less what everyone has been saying—a good lad, a hard worker, no enemies in the world. We’re kind of short on suspects here, unless the gardaí are holding something back from us. If Tom didn’t do it, and you were with Althea last night when Tom took a shot at the prowler, who’s left?”

“Althea’s accomplice, if she has one? Nate? We still aren’t sure where he is. And there’s always the useful ‘person or persons unknown,’” Gillian finished glumly.

Maura started a few pints for some men in the corner who had raised their empty glasses to her. “You know, there are a lot of people around here, at least the ones who come into Sullivan’s, who know about this big important painting up at the manor by now. Would they go after it? Or call in the press?”

Gillian laughed. “I can’t see any of this lot organizing a heist or knowing what to do with the painting once they had their hands on it. But the reality is, most people around here would think it’s our business and no one else’s, so they wouldn’t go talking to outsiders about it.”

“You’re not helping. Our suspect list is now down to a bunch of ‘maybes.’” Then Maura brightened. “Hey, did you bring your paintings?”

“Oh, right—they’re in the boot of my car. Let me fetch them. Although they won’t look their best in this dark weather.”

“Give ’em a chance—maybe they’ll brighten up the place.”

The pub was all but empty, so while Gillian unloaded her paintings, Maura wandered out from behind the bar to study the walls on either side of the fireplace. A couple of murky landscapes hung there, all but unreadable thanks to who knew how many years of wood, coal, and peat smoke, not to mention as many years of cigarette smoke before the government changed the rules on smoking in pubs. Maura gave about two seconds to wondering if they were old and valuable, but on closer inspection she decided they deserved to go in the trash. Or rubbish bin, as she was supposed to call it now.

“Looking at the art gallery, are yeh now?” Old Billy said, watching her with amusement.

“I am, Billy. Like I told you before, Gillian’s going to hang some of her paintings here in their place, and maybe we could sell a few.”

“Ah, Gillian love, what’ve you got for us?” he called out when she came in the door, carrying several framed paintings.

“Billy, I didn’t see you there in the corner. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve no complaints. I was sad to say good-bye to Mick, and I worried a bit about whether I’d need to find a new pub, but this young lady here”—he nodded at Maura—“has done right by me.”

“I couldn’t throw you out, Billy,” Maura said, smiling. “You’re the one that keeps my customers coming in for your tales about Old Ireland. And the longer the tales, the more they drink, and the happier I am. What did you bring, Gillian?”

“A couple of each—the pretty tourist pictures and the ones I show in the Dublin galleries. Take a look.” Gillian stood them up in a row against the front face of the bar, then stepped back and waited for Maura’s response.

When she’d seen the paintings in the light-filled space of the old creamery, Maura had liked Gillian’s work, but since then she’d wondered if they would look out of place in her dark and shabby pub. But she was happily surprised: both styles looked good, and they definitely brightened up the place. The only question was, what style would work best in Sullivan’s?

“Say something,” Gillian prompted. “What do you think?”

“I think they look great—all of them. I’m just trying to decide which ones fit better here.”

“Those.” Althea’s voice came from the doorway behind them. They turned to see her pointing to Gillian’s “personal” works. “The others are pretty, but they’re a dime a dozen. Those are intense, vivid, alive. Some people won’t care for them, but the ones who like them will
really
like them, if you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I do,” Gillian said. “Thank you, Althea. Maura, what do you think?”