Scandal in Skibbereen (6 page)

The first customer of the day came in. “Give me a pint, will yeh? So tell me, Maura Donovan, what have you heard about our murder?”

I
t was late afternoon when the screen door at Sullivan’s swung open and slammed against the wall, signaling Althea’s arrival. She stalked in, heading straight for the bar. “Maura Donovan, you ratted me out!”

“As if,” Maura shot back. “So, you’ve talked to the gardaí, I’m guessing?”

“You mean the police? Yeah, the cops tracked me down at that hotel you sent me to. You could have kept your mouth shut.”

Where did Althea get her attitude?
“Why would I? They asked me if I’d seen any strangers in town yesterday, and you fit the bill. And, yes, I told them you were interested in Mycroft House. I know the gardaí in Skibbereen. I
don’t
know you, and I don’t owe you special treatment.”

“Maybe not,” Althea muttered. “But you really think I took a shovel to that guy? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Why would you?”

Althea finally realized that the ten or so patrons in the pub were watching their exchange with great interest. “What’re you all looking at?” she demanded, eyes sweeping the room. “I’m having a conversation here.”

Maura interrupted her. “Excuse me, lady, but this is
my
pub, and these are my customers. So you can either leave or dial it back and we can have a civilized conversation here.”

For a moment Althea wavered, and then she dropped onto a bar stool. “I need a drink.”

“What do you want?”

“Scotch, neat.”

Maura turned and wordlessly filled a glass with an inch of scotch, then set it in front of Althea, who downed it in a gulp. She held out her empty glass. “Another?”

Maura gave her a hard look, but refilled the glass.

Althea wrapped her hands around it but didn’t raise it immediately. “Thank you. I apologize—again. I’ve never had to deal with cops in New York, and I had no idea what to expect with your local guys.”

“They’re okay. I think they’re fair.”

“Well, I hope they know something about solving crimes. They want me to stick around until they find someone to hang this murder on.”

Maura reflected. “Did they take your passport or just suggest that you remain available?”

“The second door,” Althea said, sipping her drink more slowly this time. “I guess it’s a good sign that they figured they could trust me not to flee.”

“You aren’t about to take off on them, are you?”

“Of course not.” Althea glanced around quickly; the other patrons had apparently lost interest and returned to their own conversations or to the soccer match on the television. “I still haven’t figured out if the painting is somewhere around here,” she said in a low voice. “You think the murder has anything to do with that?”

“Why are you asking me? We don’t get a whole lot of murders around here—fewer than you could count on one hand, over the past ten years, or so I’m told. But don’t underestimate the guards. They’re not stupid. I’m pretty sure they think it’s suspicious that you show up asking about Mycroft House and the gardener ends up dead a few hours later. Wouldn’t you?”

“I guess, but why would I bash the gardener?” Althea demanded. “I still can’t believe I’m a murder suspect just because I wanted to ask whoever lives there if they had anything that fit the bill for the painting.”

“Wait . . . tell me you didn’t go there last night.”

Althea looked sheepish. “I did. It was so close, and all I wanted to do was ask . . .”

“How did you find it?” Maura asked. She’d never known it existed, much less where it was.

“I asked someone at that gas station you told me about. It’s just down the road.”

“So what happened at the manor?”

“Nothing, really. I went up and knocked on the door, and this woman answered, but she wouldn’t even let me talk. She just said, ‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,’ then slammed the door in my face.”

“Did you see Seamus?”

“Who?”

“The gardener. The man who died.”

“I think there was someone somewhere outside there. I didn’t pay any attention or talk to him. If that was him, he was definitely alive when I left, poking around the bushes.”

“And you went straight to the hotel in Skibbereen from there?”

“Yes. Thank God they had a room for me. I had a drink in their restaurant there. Several people saw me.” Althea sighed deeply. “It’s actually a nice place, although it’s pretty small. I went up to my room, read for a while, watched the news, and went to bed. This morning I took a walk around town, just to get the feel of it—which took me all of fifteen minutes from one end to the other—and when I got back to the hotel, a policeman was waiting for me. Are they all twelve years old?”

“Clean living and lots of Irish rain—keeps the skin young,” Maura joked.

Althea smiled wanly. “I’ve done this all wrong. You were right before—I’ve been rude to almost everybody I’ve met. Why should anyone want to help me?”

Maura took pity on her. “Because they’re good people and they’re happy to help, if you ask them nicely. I don’t think anybody around here is going to steal your precious discovery and publish it before you can get home. Trust them.”

“Am I supposed to buy a round of drinks all around? Would that help?”

Why does she keep missing the point?
Maura wondered. “Why don’t you just relax and talk to people? You don’t have to bribe them, you know.”

“Right,” Althea said dubiously.

Maura leaned on the bar. “Why
are
you in such a hurry?”

“Weren’t you listening yesterday? The exhibit is almost ready to go up, and the catalog is at the printer’s. I begged them to wait a couple of days. I even said I’d pay for a rush order—that’s how important I think this is. And now I’m running out of time, and I have nowhere else to look if the painting isn’t here.”

Maura considered. Her explanation didn’t make much sense in Leap, but maybe it did in New York.

“What time is it?” Althea asked. “I’m starving. You don’t serve food, do you? I don’t think I can face driving back to the hotel right now. I had to go around that stupid roundabout twice last night before I figured it out.”

“Sorry, no food here, beyond a few bags of chips. You could go get something at the express market at the gas station, or go back to the inn, or there’s the Motorcycle Café down the street.”

“I think I’ll try the gas station—it’s not far, right?”

“Not far. It’s across from the church—you can’t miss it. Look, if you want me to, I can try to soften up the regulars, tell them about why you’re here . . .”

Althea stood up. “Would you? I sure don’t have much to lose at the moment. And thank you. See you in a few.” She strode out the door. Maura was happy to see that her shoes were slightly more sensible than the ones she had arrived in the day before.

“What’s going on?” Rose whispered.

Maura cocked an eyebrow at her. “As if you didn’t hear every word we said.”

Rose blushed. “Well, she has a loud voice. It’s not like I was hangin’ about to listen in. So now we’re all in the hunt for this missing art thing?”

“Seems we are. Call it a treasure hunt.”

A few minutes later Billy arrived. He was warmly greeted by several of the men in the place as he made his slow way to his favorite chair. Maura poured his pint and took it over to him. “You’re in late today, Billy. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“I was chatting with the gardaí, I was. They asked me what I knew about the Townsends, and what I told that nosy woman.”

Maura noticed that Althea had been demoted from “lady” to “woman” in Billy’s eyes. “You didn’t tell them you thought Althea killed the man, did you?”

Billy took a long, slow pull on his pint. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

Maura grabbed a chair and set it next to Billy’s. “What can you tell me about the Townsend family that I didn’t hear yesterday? Are they broke?”

“In a manner of speaking. They’re what you’d call land rich but cash poor. The estate is mortgaged, and it’s only Harry Townsend’s money that keeps it going. But Eveline is well up in years, and when she’s gone . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. Maura realized that Eveline and Billy must be relatively close in age.

“Would there be any buyers for it these days?”

Billy didn’t seem particularly worried. “Could be. It’s near enough Rosscarbery that it might catch some of the overflow for the conference center there—maybe some business folk who want a pretty view of the harbor. And I hear there’s a new place in Glandore as well. But they’d have to put money into the house—it’s in sad shape now.”

Maura thought for a moment. “You think they’ve already sold everything they could lay their hands on?”

“I’m not the one you should be asking. I see Tom O’Brien now and then—he says they’re trying to keep things much as they’ve always been for Eveline’s sake. I don’t how what state she’s in, but she’d probably notice if the furniture disappeared out from under her.”

Or a large painting,
Maura added to herself. “Do you know anyone who would want to do harm to Seamus Daly or the O’Briens?”

“Seamus was never quite right, I told you. He was touched in the head—something happened when he was born. But he never crossed anyone that I know of, and he didn’t stray far from the estate—might have come in here the odd time or two. Set in his ways, he was, but he did his job well. Hard to make enemies when you see so few people.”

“What about the O’Briens? Could someone have had it in for one of them?”

“Florence has a sharp tongue, but Tom would be lost without her—she rules the place. Besides, the ground around here would be littered with corpses if people were killed for that. And why would they have gone after Seamus?”

Maura thought for a moment. “Okay, so if the reasons weren’t personal, it’s probably a case of Seamus having tried to stop someone who shouldn’t have been there, and that person grabbing the handiest weapon—Seamus’s own shovel.”

“I’d wager that’s how the gardaí would see it,” Billy agreed.

“Would anyone have noticed someone sneaking around the property?”

“I’d be well surprised. The family wanted their privacy, and they made sure the house was set well back from the road, from the beginning. You’ve never seen it from the road, have you?” When Maura shook her head, he added, “The only other way in is from the harbor.”

“By boat? I hadn’t thought of that. Are there lots of boaters around in the summer?”

“Not for the fun of it. Most who stop here are serious about their fishing, and powerboats upset the fish. There’d be fishing boats over to Union Hall, but they don’t come up here, they go out to the open water. Some fancy yachts at Glandore, now, but why would they stop in here?”

“Billy, if you don’t know, I won’t even try to guess.” Maura grinned at Billy, then asked skeptically, “Can you see Althea doing it?”

“She’s very sure of what she’s after, though I can’t see her swinging that shovel. But it could be that she has a friend to help her—or an enemy who’s after the same thing she’s looking for.”

“I wondered about that. Well, let the gardaí figure it out. But tell me, who else around here could Althea ask about this painting of hers? If she still wants to find it, after what’s happened.”

“Him.” Billy tipped his head at a newcomer who had just entered.

Maura sized up the newcomer quickly: about six feet tall, past thirty but wearing it well, and . . . hot. Maybe a little too pretty for her taste, but undeniably good-looking. From the look on Rose’s face, Maura knew this had to be Harry Townsend. She stood up and walked over to the bar, conscious of the man’s frank appraisal of her. At least he wasn’t ogling teenage Rose, who was staring mutely at him from behind the counter.

The man smiled, showing very white teeth. “I heard Old Mick passed on. Would you be the new owner, then?”

Maura extended her hand. “I am. Maura Donovan.”

He shook it, holding it a fraction of a second too long. “American, by the accent. Yours must be an interesting story. I look forward to hearing it.”

“And you must be Harry Townsend.”

“Bang on. Called down by the Skibbereen gardaí to sort out this sad mess at Mycroft House. Poor Seamus—he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, flies maybe, if they got into the roses. But no person. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it, that he’s dead.”