The Delaney Woman (23 page)

She looked at her reflection in the clear glass of the windowpane. She was older than she would like to be, with the ravaged, wary expression of a prison inmate. But she was still attractive; attractive enough that a bit of grooming would make a difference.

Filled with new resolve, Claire stood and walked back into the house, through the kitchen warmed by peat still glowing in the hearth, through the sitting room, down the hall and past the room that belonged to Kellie. Why hadn't the woman shared Tom's room? Perhaps they had until her return. To continue to do so would have been insensitive and awkward. Claire's appreciation for Kellie rose grudgingly. She didn't want to have positive feelings about Kellie Delaney but it couldn't be helped. She was the kind of woman Claire aspired to be.

S
he found Susan at the kitchen table, writing a letter to her sister. She put it aside the minute she saw Kellie. “Hello, love,” she said. “Sit down. It's good to see you.”

Kellie's eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears. She had come to love this woman. “I came to say goodbye,” she said immediately, before the words could no longer be formed. “I'm leaving tomorrow.”

Susan stood and mechanically began her ritual for making tea; scouring the pot with hot water from the kettle, spooning in tea leaves, assembling milk, sugar, cups, saucers and spoons, all without saying a word.

Kellie sat down and waited. She knew she wouldn't be let off so easily.

At last, when Susan had filled two cups with steaming tea, she sat down across from Kellie. “You're giving up, just like that.”

“I have no choice.”

“I thought you had more spunk, Kellie Delaney.”

Kellie bit her lip. “Tom isn't helping me, Susan. If I thought he was through with Claire and wanted me, I could wait. But that isn't the case. She's settled in again. He's always wanted her. I know that now.”

“You're not seeing the situation clearly. Claire Donovan was never right for my son. I knew it from the beginning. She's not one for marriage. Trust me. I know her better than anyone.”

“She's changed,” said Kellie.

“No one can change that much. She thinks she can come back and start fresh, but I know better. She was never happy here. Claire isn't the kind of woman who is satisfied unless everything is about her.”

“She wants Heather.”

“And so she should. But she won't like it when Heather's difficult or when she needs shoes or clothes or a mother to go to parent night at school. Claire doesn't have it in her to nurture. If Tom gives Heather to her, he'll find the child on his doorstep before six months are gone.”

“That's very harsh.”

“It's the truth. I don't want you leaving my son and my granddaughter because you think she's better for them.”

Kellie stared at the older woman in amazement.

“You saw her all along when she was in prison, all those years. Have you no affection for her?”

Susan's eyes filled. “More than you know. I've known Claire Donovan since the day she was born. Her mother and I were friends. I love her. She can't help what she is. But I love my son more and she's not right for him. You are. Don't leave him to her.”

Kellie shook her head. “You don't understand. Sometimes a woman can't always be the pursuer. Sometimes she needs a bit of encouragement. I'm not getting it. I have some pride, Susan. Is it too much for him to show he wants me the way he once wanted her?”

Susan reached out to grip Kellie's hand. “You're a strong woman, stronger than most I've seen. You came here for a reason and you turned Tom's life around. Are you really finished here, love? Can you walk away and leave them behind?”

Kellie wanted to scream, to cry out that she was the one who'd been left. She'd trusted Tom Whelan, fallen in love with him and with his child, but it wasn't enough. Yes, he would miss her. Yes, he would be better off with her. Kellie knew it. Susan knew it. But all the knowing in the world didn't matter if the woman Tom wanted was Claire. A woman could only take so much suffering and Kellie had had enough.

Susan's eyes, clear and bright as blue glass, softened. “There, now.” She patted Kellie's hand. “I've said all I'm going to say. Drink your tea and we'll talk of other things.”

Kellie boarded the bus to Belfast at seven o'clock. By one that afternoon she had rented a car in the city and was driving up the Antrim coast by way of the glens.

Her eyes burned from the effort of holding back tears. There was a tightness around her mouth and a grim determined set to her shoulders that discouraged even the casual passing bike rider from lifting his hand to wave her on.

She allowed only a single direction to her thoughts and that was her destination, the residence of Antrim's member of Parliament, Kevin Davies.

Davies's address was a matter of public record. She hadn't bothered to call first. She knew he wouldn't speak with her if she asked politely on the other end of the telephone line. She would have to show up unannounced. Hopefully, the element of surprise and her own determination would ferret out the truth. Antrim was an odd county for a member of Parliament with Nationalist sympathies to reside in. It was overwhelmingly Protestant and quite expensive by Irish standards.

She pulled into the circular driveway and turned off the engine. The house wasn't quite a mansion, not by European standards, but it was definitely large enough to qualify as a country estate. Set back on a lush green lawn, the gray slate gables and white trim gave the house a stately, elegant quality.

Kellie swallowed and walked up the brick drive, climbed the stairs and pressed the bell. Minutes passed. Steps sounded behind the door. Kellie tensed. The door opened and she was face-to-face with a small woman, beautifully coiffed with arctic-blue eyes.

“May I help you?” the woman asked politely.

“My name is Kellie Delaney and I'm here to see Mr. Davies.”

The woman shook her head. “I'm sorry. He's in London for the week. Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Davies?”

“I am.”

“May I have a moment of your time?”

For a fraction of a second the woman hesitated. Her eyes moved over Kellie once again and then she nodded, “Please, come in.”

Kellie stepped into the wood-paneled entry.

Mrs. Davies closed the door. “We'll be comfortable in the parlor,” she said. “Follow me.”

Kellie passed by a series of elegant, tastefully decorated rooms. Kevin Davies had done very well for himself. She was struck by the similarity to Connor. Her brother, too, had lived above his apparent means, not quite so lavishly but certainly better than a public servant could afford.

She followed Mrs. Davies into a sun-washed room with long windows framing a spectacular view of the ocean. Kellie gasped.

The woman smiled slightly. “Everyone who comes here has the same reaction. It's lovely, isn't it?”

“Very.”

“Please sit down.” She waved Kellie to one of the comfortable cream-colored sofas on either side of the fireplace. “May I get you anything?”

“Tea would be lovely.”

Mrs. Davies spoke into the intercom. “Mrs. Sims, please bring a pot of tea to the family room. There are two of us. Perhaps something sweet as well.” She sat down across from Kellie. “Now, tell me, did I miss something? Did my husband have an appointment with you?”

Kellie shook her head. There was nothing left for her to do but confide in the woman and hope she would be as horrified as any innocent woman would be to know her husband was not what he seemed.

“I know this might seem very strange to you, but I felt I had nowhere else to go.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm in trouble, Mrs. Davies. I don't quite know where to begin.”

The disapproval lines around the woman's mouth deepened. “What kind of trouble?”

“Perhaps I'd better start at the beginning.”

“Yes. That would help.”

Kellie sighed. The woman was already bristling. There was every possibility that she would be shown the door when her interview was over. “My brother and his four-year-old son were murdered three months ago,” Kellie began. “The brakes on Connor's car were cut.”

The woman gasped. “I'm terribly sorry, Miss Delaney, but what does that have to do with my husband?”

“My brother worked for British Intelligence. He was conducting a murder investigation that occurred nearly fifteen years ago. The incident involved your husband and a man named Tom Whelan.”

Mrs. Davies looked puzzled. “I'm not familiar with anything that happened that long ago. Kevin and I have only been married for six years.”

“Several people were killed. I don't know many details, but I do know that. Tom Whelan is the only witness still alive.”

“I don't believe I've ever heard Kevin mention a Tom Whelan.”

Kellie believed her. “Do you know who Dennis McGarrety is?”

Again Mrs. Davies shook her head.

Kellie sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “He's an assassin. He also supports your husband's candidacy.”

Mrs. Davies flushed. “That isn't Kevin's fault. He's the only Nationalist candidate who has a chance of winning. Naturally, there are factions that support him whose methods he doesn't condone.”

“Dennis McGarrety murdered my brother because his investigation hit too close to home.”

The woman stood. “I don't believe this. You're suggesting that my husband is implicated in a murder. Leave my house immediately. If you knew my husband, how decent he is, you would never have come here. Get out!”

“I need to know if your husband had any part in my brother's death, Mrs. Davies. His son was with him, his four-year-old son.” Kellie's voice cracked.

A soft knock sounded at the door followed by a stern-faced woman bearing a tea tray.

Mrs. Davies composed herself. “Thank you, Mrs. Sims. Tea won't be necessary after all. Our guest is leaving.”

The woman nodded and left the room without speaking.

“I'm going to tell my husband what you've told me. I'm sure he'll contact you. Meanwhile, please have the courtesy to keep this to yourself. Slanderous rumors can ruin a politician.”

Kellie's control broke. “What is the matter with you people? Do you understand that keeping silent could cost people their lives?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What if your husband isn't the man you think he is? What if you tell him and then you read my obituary in the paper one morning? What will you do then, Mrs. Davies?”

“Don't be absurd. Kevin is my husband. I know him. He's nothing like that. He simply couldn't do the things you've said.”

Kellie gathered her purse and stood. “I hope you're right. I hope your confidence is justified, because this won't go away. Very soon you're going to see exactly what your husband is made of. I'll give him a week, Mrs. Davies. He has one week to contact me before I go to the police.”

Her voice shook. “Where will you be?”

“I'll wait at the Black Swan in Oxford, next Thursday, at one o'clock.”

“I'll tell him.”

Gillian, her mainstay, had picked her up at the airport and had driven her back to her flat and gone on to work. Kellie would have to find a place to stay. Her own flat was leased for another three months.

Meanwhile, she was hungry. She opened the pantry cupboard. As promised, it was well stocked with every spice imaginable and enough canned and packaged foods to last for weeks. Kellie found the tea, loose the way she liked it, and a can of evaporated milk. The pot was already on the counter. She filled the kettle, set it on the burner to boil and pulled two graham crackers from a fresh package.

Assembling a tea tray, she carried it into the living room, set it on a low table and sank into Gilly's comfortable couch cushions. She was alone, really alone with no chance for interruption. She would use her isolation as an opportunity to clear her mind, to add in the thoughts one by one, sort them out and come up with some kind of plan.

Everything depended on her meeting with Davies. If he had nothing to hide he would call her bluff. More than likely he wouldn't bother to meet her. Then what?

She crumbled the graham cracker until it was no more than a small pile of brown powder on the white plate. Without some sort of confession from Davies she had nothing, no evidence whatsoever, to cause John Griffith to look any further into Connor's murder. Davies was the key. Everything depended on Thursday. Until then, all she could do was wait—and work at forgetting about Tom Whelan.

He'd hurt her terribly. It was as raw and simple as that. She'd allowed herself to be vulnerable, to care for him, to trust him. All the rationalizing in the world wouldn't wash away the truth; he would never divorce his wife and now Kellie was back where she'd started. The very thought sent a fresh wave of hurt down into her stomach, weighting her, preventing her from movement. It was odd, really, this new pain that drove the other one, the greater one, into a subservient position. Kellie had no experience being the other woman. She wanted all of Tom, his quiet regard, the glint of humor behind his eyes, his level mind, his way with words, his mother, his daughter. For a few brief weeks, she'd believed it could all be hers. Rationale told her she'd lost nothing—it wasn't hers to lose. But her heart told her differently.

She no longer had any interest in her cooling tea. The sun had disappeared into the ocean, streaking the sky with copper, pink and gold. Purple clouds rolled in settling like lumbering elephants over a swimming hole. Kellie walked to the wine rack, knelt down and looked at the three bottles that consisted of Gillian's selection. She recognized nothing. Choosing something red she found a corkscrew, opened the bottle and pulled out a wineglass. The liquid slid down her throat, warm, full, decadent. She poured another glass and carried it and the bottle back into the living room. Already she could feel the alcohol flush in her cheeks. She welcomed the warmth and the dulling of the sharpness in her middle.

The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first. She considered having another. When was one legally drunk? Did it even matter? She filled her glass again. Perhaps with a bit more alcohol she could even tolerate the subject of Tom Whelan.
Tom Whelan. Tom Whelan. Tom Whelan
. Repetition was desensitizing. She'd learned that long ago. Tom was a horse of a different color, as her mother would say.

She was attracted to Tom because he appreciated her. They complemented each other without competing. Despite her air of confidence Kellie needed his admiration and his love. If anything, she decided, she had been love-starved. Her childhood had been fairly typical by the standards of West Belfast, but for Kellie, a sensitive, introspective child, to have an absentee father and a mother so overworked that signs of overt affection were a luxury not to be expected, it was severely lacking.