Scandal in Skibbereen (8 page)

The door opened again, and Harry Townsend walked in. The men in the room only glanced at him and looked away, but Maura could have sworn that Althea’s ears pricked up like a cat’s. And at the same time Gillian’s face lit up. Harry came straight to the bar. “Gillian, my love—I was wondering if you’d show up.” They exchanged what Maura would label “friend” kisses, on the cheek, though Gillian’s eyes lingered on him for a bit after.

And it was pretty clear that Althea noticed. She said something to her two companions, then stood up and came over, laying a hand on Harry’s arm. “Harry, you’re back! Did the police grill you mercilessly?”

“Nah, it wasn’t too bad. I couldn’t tell them much, after all, seeing as I was in Dublin at the time of the murder.”

“What’s going on?” Gillian interrupted.

“You haven’t heard? There’s been a death up at the house—Seamus, the gardener. He was killed by a blow to the head. Tom O’Brien found him on the lawn this morning.”

“How sad,” Gillian said and sounded like she meant it. “Do the gardaí know what happened?”

“Not yet.”

Althea, not to be distracted, said, “Harry, I’m sorry to bother you at such a difficult time, but I really need to talk to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, darlin’. Gilly, I’ll ring your mobile when I know what’s what and we’ll get together, all right?”

“Fine, Harry.”

Gillian smiled, but Maura watched her gaze follow Harry and Althea to the farthest corner of the room.
Uh-oh,
Maura thought.

Gillian turned back to the bar and finished the glass in front of her. “I’d best be going—I still have masses of unpacking to do. Maura, I’ll see you in the morning. Mick, good to see you again.”

“Glad to have you back, Gillian.”

When Gillian had left, Maura turned to Mick, then tilted her head toward Harry, sitting close to Althea. “Trouble?”

Mick shrugged. “Maybe. Harry and Gillian have a long history. But it’s none of my business if Althea seems to have set her sights on Harry.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Depends on who you ask. He’s not one for, uh, long-term relationships.”

“I don’t think that’s what Althea’s looking for,” Maura said wryly.

“No more do I,” Mick replied. “So I wouldn’t waste my time worrying on it.”

Maura agreed, then recalled something she’d meant to ask earlier. “What were you and Jimmy arguing about when I came in?”

Mick shrugged. “The same. He’s still upset about what Old Mick did, shutting him out of the will.”

“Like that’s my fault?” Maura muttered.

Mick noticed. “No, but it falls to you to keep him in line. You’re the owner here now.”

“I’ve never managed anyone in my life. You think he’d be better off somewhere else?”

“That’s not for me to say. And there’s Rose to consider.”

“I know, I know. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.” Maura looked up to see more people arriving. This was a discussion that would have to wait.

T
he evening passed quickly, as Maura, Mick, and Jimmy kept busy filling glasses and collecting empties. While she worked, Maura overheard snippets of information about the death, but no one seemed to have any idea who would have wanted poor Seamus Daly dead. The Townsend family received mixed reviews: most people liked Harry well enough, but he hadn’t lived here “for donkey’s years,” and the last resident Townsend, his great-aunt Eveline, had been nearly a recluse for years, so no one seemed to know her. The manor house itself, concealed from the road behind a thick forest, had been all but forgotten by local residents.

Maura also learned a bit more about the O’Briens, since they had to come out and buy supplies occasionally, although there were some grumblings that they took their trade to Union Hall instead. The consensus was that they kept to themselves, and they were seldom if ever seen in any of Leap’s pubs. Maura wasn’t exactly surprised: they had sole charge of caring for Eveline and keeping a large, crumbling estate going, not to mention the large gardens—a job made more complicated now that Seamus was gone. When would they have time to socialize?

Maura had seen Althea and Harry leave together, shortly after ten. They hadn’t come back. She drew her own conclusions. Now it was a bright summer morning, and Maura was pottering around in her own kitchen.
Her
kitchen, in
her
house. She still wasn’t used to that. Nor was she used to the silence and the solitude—she’d spent her whole life in a cramped apartment in an old triple-decker in South Boston, surrounded by people and cars and buses, and now here she was practically alone in the midst of rolling green fields. The old building was small and no-frills, but it was structurally sound and had what people around here called “mod cons,” as in “modern conveniences,” like electricity and indoor plumbing, thank goodness. The small stove was fueled by a propane tank out back, not that she used it much. There was electric heat, and a few times in the early spring Maura had been tempted to build a fire in the massive open fireplace that took up one end of the building, but in the end she’d just put on another sweater and waited for summer. Maybe she’d reconsider her heating options when winter came. It was looking more and more like she’d still be around then.

She had a few neighbors on the Knockskagh hill. She had learned that “knock” meant hill anyway, and the “skagh” part mean white thorn, a kind of bush or tree that she couldn’t identify yet. Most of the neighbors had hooves, but Mick Nolan’s grandmother, Bridget, lived just down the lane. Bridget had known Maura’s grandmother, and she loved sharing her memories, so Maura tried to see her as often as possible, usually in the mornings when Bridget was most alert and before Maura had to be at the pub.

Maura was not surprised when Bridget rapped on her door frame. “Have you had yer breakfast yet? I’ve made two loaves of bread and I thought you might like one.”

“Just getting around to it now, Bridget.” Maura still felt funny calling the older woman by her first name, but Bridget had insisted that “Mrs. Nolan” was too formal. “It’s nice to see you out and about.”

“Ah, I love the summer,” Bridget said, settling into a chair at the table. “I’m awake with the birds, and my bones don’t ache as much.” She unwrapped the crusty round loaf of bread from the tea towel she had brought it in and laid it on a pretty china plate on the table. “I hear there’s been some excitement in the village.”

“Did Mick tell you about it?” More likely one of the friends who kept an eye on Bridget when Mick couldn’t, Maura thought.

“No, one of the neighbors stopped by for tea yesterday.”

Maura found two clean if mismatched plates and pulled butter out of her tiny refrigerator and set them all on the table. “Did you ever know the Townsends?” she asked.

“The likes of me and the likes of them? I might have had work there, when the house was full, but my husband didn’t want to see me working. Different times, they were. Now all you young girls have jobs and go everywhere on yer own.” Bridget laughed briefly. “I might have met Eveline Townsend a time or two. She wasn’t a Lady Muck, stickin’ her nose in the air like the rest of the family. Ah, but they’re all gone now, except for her.”

“What about her great-nephew, Harry?”

“Now, there’s a lad. A wild one, he was, when he was younger. And now he’s off to Dublin for work.”

“He’s back in town now, because of the murder.”

“Poor Seamus Daly. He was a good boy. Mebbe a bit touched, but no trouble to anyone. I knew his mother, years ago. When she died, the O’Briens looked after him. It’s a shame.”

“It is.” Maura sliced some of the still-warm, crumbly soda bread and placed slices on each plate. “Will you join me?”

“Is there tea made?”

“There is.”

They enjoyed their simple breakfast, then Maura checked her watch. “I hate to rush you, but I said I’d meet Gillian Callanan at the old creamery before I open at Sullivan’s. Do you know her?”

“She’d be the artist over the hill? I can’t say I’ve seen much of her since she was a child, and a lovely thing she was. Sure and her family’s from up near Reavouler, not far. She’s stayin’ in the old creamery?”

“That’s what she tells me. I thought it was abandoned.”

“Time was, all the farmers here delivered their milk to that place, by horse cart. Now it’s all big trucks over to the new place in Drinagh.”

“I’ve driven past that one. It’s a big business.”

“That it is. It’s good they’ve done well. People do still want their milk and butter, don’t they?” Bridget stood up carefully. “I’ll be on my way, then. Mick said he’d stop by later in the day.
Slán agat.
”

“Slán abhaile.”
Maura smiled. Bridget kept trying to teach her a few phrases in Irish, even though languages had always been hard for Maura in school. It felt a little funny to be wishing her “safe home” when home was only a couple of hundred feet away. Still, she admired Bridget for holding on to her home—and her independence, despite Mick’s gentle pressure on her to move in with his sister.

Maura glanced again at her watch and speeded up her pace, wrapping up the bread and collecting the breakfast dishes, dumping them beside the sink. She could worry about washing them later. She had to get going to Gillian’s place. She’d never met a real artist before, and she was curious about the woman.

She collected her bag, keys, and a sweatshirt to wrap around her shoulders—it was still cool in the morning, before the sun reached the old stone house—and set off. The lane that ran along the south side of Bridget’s property led to the Ballinlough road and brought her quickly to the former creamery, next to the small lake that had given the road its name. She knew that “lough” meant lake, much like the more familiar Scottish “loch,” but she wasn’t sure about the “Ballin” part—person or thing? She’d have to ask Bridget. She could already see a few fishermen in rowboats out on the water. She pulled off the road in front of the creamery, which had once been painted an unlikely shade of bright blue, now faded. As Gillian had said, one end, where the milk had probably been delivered years ago, was falling apart, leaving the interior visible and cluttered with large pieces of unfamiliar rusty machinery, the big doors hanging precariously, windowpanes broken. But around to the left, there was a people-sized door, in front of which sat a couple of chairs and a parked car. Maura headed for that door.

The brightly painted door—a sunny yellow—was open, and Maura could hear music inside. She knocked on the doorjamb and called out, “Hello?” A voice inside called out, “Coming!” and thirty seconds later Gillian appeared, wiping her hands on a dirty and colorful rag and bringing with her a strong smell of turpentine. She gave her hands one last scrub and extended one to Maura.

“Come in, come in.” Gillian stood back to let Maura enter. “Can I offer yeh a cup of tea?”

“Sure.” Everywhere she went, Maura found people offering her tea, and it always seemed rude to say no. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Come on through. No, I was just finishing something up, and I’m ready for a cup myself.” She led Maura toward the back of the building.

The smell of turpentine grew stronger. They stepped into a single large room than ran parallel to the road and the shoreline.

“Wow! I can see why you like it,” Maura said. The space had been cleared of whatever milk-processing equipment had been there, leaving a single open space with a patchy concrete floor. At the back a bank of large windows opened onto the lough. The light that flooded the space was clean and bright, with a bit of a sparkle from the reflections off the water.

Gillian was watching her with a smile. “Grand, isn’t it? As you’ll see, no one could live here in winter—it’s impossible to heat. But I like to spend summers here. Mostly I camp out. I’ve an old mattress in the corner there, behind a screen, and an electric kettle for tea. I don’t do much cooking, and if I want a real meal I go to Skibbereen.”

“Do you own this place?”

“The owner’s a friend who has no use for it, but he keeps the power and water on and I pay for it when I’m here. It works just fine for me. Let me see to that tea.”

While Gillian filled the kettle then rinsed out some cups, Maura wandered around the room. At one windowless end, Gillian had hung a variety of unframed canvases as well as some watercolors. The latter were clearly more commercial, with views of hillsides and sheep, or what she recognized as the harbor at Leap, but painted with a quick, sure hand—Maura could easily see tourists wanting one. The oils were more intense in color and more abstract, but still compelling. Together they made the echoing space come alive.

“Here you go,” Gillian said, handing her a hot mug. “Milk? Sugar?”

“This is fine, thanks. These paintings are great, all of them.”

“As I told you before, the pretty watercolors are mostly for the tourist trade. People like to take home a nice souvenir of the Old Country, and I’m happy to oblige. I sell them through a couple of shops in Skib, and a gallery in Schull, which gets lots of summer people. I’m trying to sweet-talk my way into something at Glandore, or even Rosscarbery, for the corporate types who visit. The oils are more personal. I use some acrylics too.”

“I’d be happy to hang a couple in Sullivan’s, if you want,” Maura said before wondering if Jimmy and Mick would see that as “fancying up” the place, something they had argued against.

“That’d be grand,” Gillian said. “Sit.” She motioned at Maura. “Talk to me. Sometimes when I get to working, I lose track of time. I can go days without even exchanging a word with a living soul. So, tell me about yourself. How on earth did an American girl like you arrive at the ends of the earth here?”

Maura smiled. “It’s a complicated story. My father was born up the hill there, but he and my grandmother went to Boston when he was a child. He died when I was very young—I barely remember him.”

“Sorry,” Gillian said. “We’ve lots of stories of people who went away. Nowadays some of them or their kids come back to visit, looking for their history, but there’s not much to be found. Do you see yourself staying?”

“I never planned on it, but then, I never had much of a plan back in Boston either. I’m still getting to know the place, but I like it. I think. It takes getting used to. What about you? Did you say you spend part of the year in Dublin?”

“I do, when it’s too cold to stay here. I’ve done a show or two there—you can guess there are more places for that kind of thing in the city—but the competition is wicked. I know my limitations as an artist, and I guess you’d say I’m not terribly ambitious. I like it here. I come here to clear my head.” Gillian stared out at the view. “Truth be told, this is home. I can come and go as I please. Paint all night, if I want, or not at all. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Things are easy.”

“I’m beginning to see what you mean. I grew up in a part of Boston where there were always people around, and they weren’t exactly quiet. And then there were cars and trains, and planes overhead. I don’t think I knew what real quiet was like until I got here. But it’s not scary, just peaceful.” Maura took a swallow of tea. “Listen, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Gillian said quickly.

“Do you know the Townsends?”

Gillian’s mouth twitched. “Are you asking, do I know Harry?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Gillian laughed. “Tell me you haven’t fallen for him too?”