Scandal in Skibbereen (7 page)

“Have you talked to the gardaí already?” Maura asked.

“I was on my way there when I thought I might stop in for a quick pint. I’ve been on the road for hours now and I needed the break.”

Maura studied him but didn’t move.

Harry looked deeply into her eyes. “That pint?”

Maura shook herself. “Of course. What’ll you have?” The door swung open again and Althea bustled in, carrying a couple of bags. “You know what, the food there didn’t look half bad. I . . .” Then she noticed Harry, slouching gracefully against the bar as he waited for his pint—and he noticed her.

Maura’s mouth twitched. “Althea Melville, meet Harry, the heir of the Townsends.”

“Well, hello,” Althea purred. “What a pleasure.”

Maura passed Harry his pint and settled back to watch Althea go to work on him.

F
or once Maura regretted that the pub was beginning to fill up with both Friday regulars and a smattering of less-familiar faces who all clearly wanted to talk about the murder, because she was enjoying watching the soap opera unfolding in front of her. The presence of Harry Townsend in the midst of the crowd provided an added spark, and Maura guessed that he wouldn’t have to pay for many drinks. He looked to be great craic, as the locals would say. As Harry drained his pint, he turned to the group. “I’ve an appointment with a sergeant in Skibbereen, and I must call in on my poor auntie and make sure she isn’t devastated by this terrible event. But I promise I’ll be back later and give yeh the whole story, or as much as I know.”

Althea laid a hand on Harry’s arm. “Oh, please do come back later. I really want to talk to you.”

“How could I pass up the chance to talk with such a lovely American? You’ll be here at Sullivan’s?”

“You could meet me at the hotel in Skibbereen,” Althea suggested quickly.

“After I’ve promised to tell the tale to my good friends here?” Harry replied, ducking her implied invitation neatly. “I’ll be back after I’ve tucked Aunt Eveline in for the night, count on it. Maura Donovan, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Ta!”

He made his exit, watched by every woman in the room. Althea’s expression was a bit calculating, as if she were already plotting some strategy, while Rose sighed. Maura could see why. Harry certainly had charm, and she suspected that he probably could sweet-talk any woman he met. Even without having met Miss Eveline, Maura could picture the elderly aunt doting on this handsome nephew.

But Harry had avoided Althea’s obvious come-on. Maybe he had some brains to go with those undeniable good looks . . .

Stop it, Maura!
She scolded herself. Her life was complicated enough right now without someone like Harry Townsend in it. Besides, why would someone like him even look at her? He probably had a string of women waiting for him back in Dublin, and he’d be going back there as soon as he’d taken care of things here, which shouldn’t take him long.

Mick Nolan and Jimmy Sweeney came in together from the back, arguing about something, but they stopped talking when they noticed Maura. Jimmy turned to Rose. “Goin’ to be a busy night, Rosie, love. Why don’t you go home and see to supper? We’ve got this covered.”

Maura expected Rose to whine “Do I have to?” but instead she agreed quickly. “You’ll stop by to eat, Da?”

“I will. Take care, love.”

Althea had watched the exchange, and after Rose left and Mick and Jimmy moved on, she asked Maura, “Just how old is that kid?”

“Sixteen going on twenty-five. Jimmy’s her dad. Her mom’s dead, so it’s just the two of them.”

“Is she even legal to work here?”

“There are rules, I gather, but there’s some kind of loophole if you’re a relative, and she and Jimmy are related somehow to the former owner. Besides, she’s finished whatever the local version of high school is. Jimmy’s worked here since long before I showed up. So has Mick.”

“And now you’re the owner? How’d that happen?”

“It’s complicated.” Maura waved a hand. “Basically, I inherited the place from an old friend of my grandmother’s. She came from around here originally.” She didn’t want to get into all the details.

“Got it. And that gorgeous guy was Harry Townsend?”

“So it seems. I haven’t met him before.”

“Married? Attached?”

“How am I supposed to know? Why? You think if you find your painting, you can marry your way to it?”

“It’s a thought,” Althea quipped. “So, I got some food. Mind if I eat it here?”

“Go right ahead. I’m going to go out and find something myself, plus I need the fresh air. It may be a long night. People will come in to talk about the murder. At least the local people will. I pity any tourists who walk into the middle of it—they’ll get an earful.”

Mick came up behind Maura, and Maura asked, “Have you met Althea?” He shook his head, so she introduced them. “I saw you in passing,” Mick said.
“Fáilte.”
When Althea looked confused, Mick added, “That’s ‘welcome’ in Irish. You’ll hear it a lot.”

“Well, thank you, Mick. Maura, I’m beginning to like this place—lots of handsome men. So, Mick, is this part of the world your home?”

She’s flirting again,
Maura thought in amusement. Was Althea man-crazy or just working any angle that might get her into Mycroft House? She’d find out soon enough that Mick couldn’t help her—at least, she didn’t think so—but in the meantime, Maura was hungry, and as she’d said to Althea, it was probably going to be a long night.

Mick and Althea didn’t notice her leaving. She walked across the street to the inn, which was moderately crowded, and found herself a stool at the bar. Ann was filling glasses, but when she had a free moment she came over to say hello. “You’ll be wanting supper?”

“Yeah. Whatever’s easy—I like your soup, and your bread.”

“Done.” Ann darted into the kitchen.

While she waited, Maura watched the crowd. Not so different from the people at Sullivan’s—more men than women in the bar area, some couples, some groups of men. The ages were a mix of old and youngish, although few people her own age. Where were all the twenty-somethings? Skibbereen? Or were they all off looking for work somewhere else, somewhere there were actually jobs? She’d heard a lot of younger people had gone off to Australia, since there was nothing for them in Ireland.

Ann returned a couple of minutes later with a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and a plate loaded with brown bread. “Where’s your friend?”

“Althea? Not, repeat,
not
my friend. She just walked into the pub yesterday. Now the gardaí are looking at her for that murder at Mycroft House.”

Ann snorted. “Her, kill someone! Sure and she’d find a man to do the work for her.”

Maura smiled. “You feel that way too? Well, I can’t blame the guards for talking to her, because I told them that she really wants to get into Mycroft House—she thinks there might be an important painting in there somewhere.”

“I’ve heard that Florence O’Brien shut the door on her.”

“How does everyone know everything so fast around here? I only just heard.”

“Tom O’Brien stopped in for a pint earlier.”

“Why is it he stops in here, rather than at Sullivan’s? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

Ann shrugged. “Habit, maybe? He’s not much of one for the pint, and his wife keeps him on a short lead.”

“Did he say anything useful? Like, does he have an idea who might have killed Seamus?”

“Poor man, no. I don’t think Florence lets Tom think—she does it all for him. It was brave of him to come in for that pint. He told Florence he needed something from the hardware store up the road. But they were good to Seamus, the two of them. Looked out for him. He’ll be missed. The gardens there are huge—so big they can’t even care for them all—and Seamus worked for little more than his room and board and some pocket money. They’ll not replace him easily.”

“Sounds like it’s expensive to keep the place going.”

“That it is. The old families, they built on a grand scale, knowing they had the staff to take care of it all. Now . . . there’s no money left and no one who wants that kind of work—they’d rather run computers in a city somewhere.” Ann leaned closer and said, “Everyone’s waiting for Eveline Townsend to die.”

“That’s sad,” Maura said. “What do they think will happen then? Does Harry inherit the place?”

“She has lifetime rights, but he’ll be glad to wash his hands of it, I’m sure. And there’s hope that whoever buys it will bring some money into the village. I will say, Harry’s been good to her, for all that he’s not around much.”

“You know that Harry’s arrived?”

“Has he, now? You’ve seen him?”

“Uh, yeah. He came into the pub. He’s hard to miss.”

“He is that. Half the girls in the village have made a run at him, with no luck.”

“He isn’t, uh, gay, is he?”

“From all that I’ve heard, no.” Ann laughed. “But he has no plans to live here—he likes the city. Sure and there’ll be some broken hearts in the village if he ever settles down.” Ann shook herself. “I’d better tend to business. Enjoy your supper.”

As she ate, Maura pondered. So Harry Townsend was the playboy of West Cork, or at least this small corner of it. But it was hard for her to see how his romantic liaisons could have anything to do with poor Seamus’s murder. Seamus was his employee, one he seldom saw, and he worked for pennies. Maura could see no motive for Harry, but then, she had no motive for anyone else either.

She let her thoughts run wild. Maybe Harry had stumbled upon Seamus with a girl from the village, and the girl had looked upset about it. Or maybe Seamus hadn’t known when to stop. What would Harry have done? But if that had been the case, then there’d be a girl, who would talk . . .

Maura, get a grip!
Here she went, condemning poor Seamus, whom she’d never met. Ridiculous! Who was it that had said the simplest solution was usually the right one? But what was the simplest solution here? The Townsend household had more or less kept to themselves and muddled along for quite a while. It was too much to believe that Althea’s appearance was not connected to their sudden notoriety. Which kind of hinted that the painting might actually exist. But was finding it—or keeping it hidden—worth killing for?

Maura finished her supper quickly, left some euros on the bar, and went back to Sullivan’s. The crowd had grown. Maura spotted Althea in a corner, talking with two men who were hanging on her every word. Jimmy was working the room and Mick was behind the bar, chatting with a red-haired woman Maura had never seen before, though she and Mick clearly knew each other, from the way they were bantering.

Mick looked up and saw Maura, then beckoned her over. “Ah, there you are, Maura. Come meet Gillian Callanan, our resident artist. She’s just back for the summer.”

Gillian had turned when Mick called out to Maura, and now she extended her hand. She was a few years older than herself—early thirties?—and casually dressed, her red hair cut short and carelessly mussed. Maura could tell she was tall even while she sat on a bar stool. “Mick’s been filling me in on what’s happened in the last few months. I’m glad you decided to keep the place going, Maura—I’d miss it. Although I’d guess you’re quite the change from Old Mick.”

Maura slid onto a bar stool next to Gillian. “You knew Old Mick?”

“Everybody knew Old Mick—he was a local institution. The place won’t be the same without him.”

“I never met him, but his legend lives on. I know I can’t fill his shoes, but there was definitely some room for improvement. So far all I’ve managed to do is clean the place and update the accounting. You live around here?”

“Part of the year, at least. I spend the winters in Dublin, but my family’s from one of the townlands, and I rent a place near here, summers—costs too much to keep it warm in the winter.”

“Mick said you’re an artist?”

“I am that. I make pretty pictures for the tourists, which pays the bills, and paintings that please me the rest of the year, which don’t sell near as well. But I get by, with the odd paying job or two. I was trying to talk Mick into hanging a few in here, looking to sell them, but he said you’re the boss and to talk to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Maura glanced at Mick. “Can I see some of your work?”

“Of course. Stop by my place in the morning, if you don’t mind the mess. Like Mick said, I’m just back this minute from Dublin.”

“I’ll do that, if you’ll tell me how to get to your place. I still get lost in the lanes around here, especially after dark.”

“You’re living up at Knockskagh, are you? I’m just over the hill from you, at the old creamery in Ballinlough, by the water. Half of it is falling down, but there’s plenty of room, and I love the light there.”

“Sure, I know where that is. But I’ll take the long way around—I’m not a fan of the road down that hill. It’s in rough shape.” Gillian probably wouldn’t know about her run-in with a thug who tried to shove her car down the hill on that stretch of road, and she wasn’t about to explain.

“Grand! I’ll expect you in the morning—but not too early.”

“Deal.”