The Disenchanted Widow (29 page)

“Are you all right?” The voice belonged to Constable Johnston.

She made no reply.

“I’m sorry,” the constable whispered, casting his eyes at the now-closed door of the interrogation room. “He scares me, too…sometimes. I’ll get your son.”

Herkie burst from a door farther along. He ran into her open arms. “Ma, Ma, can we go home now? I’m tired.”

“Yes, son,” she said, hugging him to her. She took his hand and fled the building.

The game was up.

It was time to get the hell out of Tailorstown.

Chapter thirty-three

F
rom the many rooms in Kilfeckin Manor—the majority unused, furniture under dust sheets, windows tightly shut—Lucien-Percy’s Turret Room was coming in for a great deal of attention these days.

Since he’d stumbled upon the lingerie trunk, Gusty’s trips upstairs had become more and more frequent. The desire to spy on Mrs. Hailstone, while still a lure, was giving way to a new obsession: the urge to become the woman herself. He couldn’t explain it—didn’t think he wished to try and explain it. He knew only one thing: It was exciting, in so many different and wonderful ways.

To assuage any suspicions Ned might have regarding his lengthy dalliances up above, Gusty had invented a plausible story. He claimed to have discovered some dry rot in the ceiling beams. If left untreated, he said, it could spread to the rest of the house. Better see to it right away.

It had proved the perfect ruse. His uncle, grateful for once that Gusty was usefully employed doing important work on the house, did not nosy into his business as much, thus giving his nephew the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Also, the room’s location, at the apex of four knee-testing flights of stairs, made it unlikely that
Rose—always a clear and present threat—would risk worsening her sciatica by climbing them to check up on him.

He’d also thought of another excellent way to thwart her. On her days in attendance, like the present one, he’d leave the truck at Grant Auto Repairs and take his bicycle instead. That way she’d have no idea that he was even in the house.

Late afternoon, two hours before his evening stint at the Crowing Cock, and Gusty was standing, sweating and gasping, before a gilded cheval mirror, trussed like a festive roast. It had taken him a good ten minutes of squishing and squashing to get the two-way stretch panty girdle on. A further ten minutes had gone into positioning the falsies—since finding the first pair, he’d uncovered two more sets of different shapes and sizes—under the strap-adjusting nightmare that was the conical cup bra. Jezsis! This wommin business was harder work than stripping a bloody engine.

Leaving that aside, however, he was well-pleased with the astonishing transformation the hosiery had wrought. He ran his hands over his curvaceous silhouette—hairy chest and extremities notwithstanding—and delighted in the sheer, tightening feel of the fabric that gripped him in all the right places. He pranced and capered in his reflected glory, turning and twisting to get the most fetching views of his rear and legs.

In a corner, gathering dust, lay a pile of discarded copies of
Reader’s Digest
and
National Geographic
. His longtime hunger for arcane facts about life and the universe had of late been supplanted by urges of an entirely different order.

Veronica, installed on her usual couch, was not a concern. She was fully occupied with a pair of gold-mesh harem slippers, worrying the laces free and sinking her snout into the soft, silky linings for a quick snooze whenever the task grew tiresome. Occasionally she’d turn one piggy eye on her master and give a small, satisfied grunt, which Gusty interpreted as a sign of approval.

Pleased with his choice of underwear, he sashayed over to one of Lucien-Percy’s satinwood closets.

There were three, and they took up most of the back wall. Each held a mesmerizing collection of day and evening apparel, which had hung there undisturbed since their owner’s demise all those years before. One closet was stuffed with cocktail dresses and ball gowns; another held flirty casual wear, punctuated by a mink stole or two. The third was given over to shoes and handbags.

As well as all that, he had chanced upon an ebonized ottoman, which, to his joy, had revealed a variety of wigs—both blonde and brunette—three large jewelry boxes brimming with baubles, and several beaded pouches of cosmetics.

He began to rummage through the ball gowns, marveling at the extraordinary range of fabrics. He’d yet to put names to the textiles but in time would learn to distinguish his taffetas and chiffons from his crinolines and tulles. The styles were just as varied: strapless, backless, halter-necked, low-cut, high-cut, long, short, flapper, sheath, gathered, full-skirted, and plain.

A geranium-pink shift with a plunging neckline of Battenburg lace, gold lamé trim glinting at cuff and hem, caught his eye. He released it from the row of tightly packed garments and set it to one side.

Now: shoes. There was a bewildering array of calf-straining stilettos in metallic and suede. He reached for a fetching pair of peep-toe slingbacks in burnt orange with diamanté bows and gold spike heels. A shimmering rhinestone handbag completed the ensemble.

Time to dress.

So engrossed had Gusty been in his wardrobe that Rose’s arrival had escaped his notice. This was all the more remarkable because
Rose, already an hour in the house, had been making quite a bit of noise. Not only had she washed the dishes and mopped the floors, but she’d also helped Ned to get up, got him dressed, and settled him into a lawn chair in the back garden.

The planned meet between Greta-Concepta and Gusty would be coming round soon, and it was important to Rose that Ned, her ally and support in the venture, should “get the legs out and about and workin’ proper” before the great event. God forbid that he should be unsteady on his feet on such an important day. A day that Gusty had no idea was in the offing.

“Now, they say the whole lot was took, Uncle Ned,” Rose said, filling her uncle in on the latest news regarding the theft of the bingo money. She was sitting beside him at a wrought-iron table with lion-paw legs, which had stood bogged in the soil of the back garden since Lord Kilfeckin’s day. On the table sat a jug of lemon cordial, a plate of meringue nests, and a folded copy of
The Mid-Ulster Vindicator
. “And poor Lorcan, heavens above, nearly got shot.”

“That’s the worst I ever heard,” said Ned. He sat with a herringbone rug over his knees, a frayed Panama hat shielding his eyes from the sun. “Just as well they didn’t shoot Father Cassidy.”

“Oh, they would never shoot a priest.” Rose dipped her chin at the very utterance of such a sacrilege. “But between you and me, Uncle Ned, they say it was a wommin that did the robbin’. And not any wommin, either, but one with a Belfast accent.” She threw a glance up at Rosehip Cottage. “Have you seen that Mrs. Hailstone yet through them spyglasses o’ Gusty’s?”

“Nah, he won’t lend them to me…I don’t see much of him anyway since he started tae work on the roof up above.”

“Now, from what Josie tolt me, Mrs. Hailstone didn’t get into the bingo on account of being late and not gettin’ no ticket. So
maybe she took it badly and grabbed the bag when she got the chance. Another wee nest, Ned?” Rose proffered the plate.

The old man selected a meringue and bit into it, flakes showering the herringbone rug. He took a swig of lemonade to help the confectionery on its way. When he considered Rose’s theory regarding the bingo robbery, he saw more holes in it than the tea-leaf strainer on a plate in front of him.

“God, I don’t think a wommin would do the like-a that, all the same,” he said. “How could she knock a man clean out?”

“Well, in the ordinary run of things, Uncle Ned, I’d maybe be inclined tae agree with you. But ye know, when I see what she puts on tae go tae holy Mass, it’s not a modest wommin in a sensible dhress I’m looking at, but a brazen hussy in a frock so tight it’d make a blind man blush…maybe even give him a seizure.”

A grand mal seizure might have been in store for Rose had she seen what was going on just three floors above her head.

Gusty, fully attired now in the shift dress, big feet wedged into the frail slingbacks, was clopping about the room, admiring his stunning transformation. The girdle sucked him in, the bra pushed him out, creating an hourglass figure to rival that of a Hollywood siren. Rhinestone chandelier clips swung from his earlobes; an expandable timepiece gripped his wrist. And, to complete the look, an eight-strand pearl choker was doing its best to mask that unsightly Adam’s apple.

It was hot in the room. He decided to throw caution to the wind and open a few windows before starting on the pièce de résistance: his face.

At the dressing table several cosmetic bags lay upended. A seduction of lipstick tubes, powder compacts, and makeup pots glittered and winked for his attention.

He couldn’t wait to try them all out.

Installing himself on the bay stool, he turned his back on the piglet, removed his big glasses, and blindly set to work.

“What color was the dhress, Rose?” asked Ned, rheumy eyes suddenly agleam. He was trying to conjure up an image of the comely Mrs. Hailstone. Her name had rarely left the lips of his nephew and niece, and he was growing more curious by the day.

“What does it matter about the color?” Rose sniffed. She swept crumbs from her pristine apron. Poured more of the cordial into the frosty pause.

Ned rubbed his chin, conscious that he’d spoken out of turn, and tracked the progress of one of the Muscovy ducks as it waddled across the yard.

“It was the sort of article,” Rose continued, “which a particular kind-a woman would wear tae bed, not in the church. And that’s all you need tae know.”

“Aye…What about that
Vindicator
there?”

Ned had heard enough about the Belfast woman for the time being and was becoming irritated by Rose’s ramblings.

“Yes, Uncle Ned, I was just comin’ to it.” She drew a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket and picked up the newspaper. “I s’ppose it’s the ‘Round the County Roundup’ you’ll be wantin’ tae hear first?”

Up in the Turret Room, Gusty was dipping his garage-stained fingers into a dainty pot of Helena Rubinstein rouge. Totally absorbed now in the application of his makeup, he’d forgotten all about Veronica. Didn’t really care what she got up to, as long as she left him alone.

Unnoticed, the piglet had left the sofa and was snuffling about the room, intent on mischief. She discovered the set of falsies that her flustered master had let fall. They still lay in the corner where they’d come to rest.

She trailed them across to the window seat.

“Now, the weekly darts championship in O’Shea’s pub last Sa’rday night,” read Rose, “was won by Jamie McCloone. Jamie received a plague for his efforts from county councilor John Madden.”

“That’ll be a plack, I’d say,” Ned grunted.

“God, but ye know, ye’re right! Jamie received a
plack
for his efforts from John Madden,” quoth Rose, newspaper held two inches from her nose. “I must get an eye test with Mr. Millar in Killoran one-a these days.”

“What
about
Jamie, Rose?” Ned tilted the mouse-nibbled brim of his Panama. “Never see him about much. But then I wouldn’t see much with these oul’ legs of mine being the way they are.”

“Well, them oul’ legs is outta the bed now, Uncle Ned, and you’ll be able tae see as much as you like. Oh, doin’ the best is Jamie. He takes regular haul’days with his sister, Lydeea, down in Cork. She married Dr. O’Connor, don’t ye know.”

“That’s a fair bit tae go on a tractor tae see somebody.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t take the tractor. He gets the bus. I make him a packed lunch, some rock buns, and a jam tart for the journey. Would be too long a journey for a man tae go without a bun or biscuit inside him. Anyway, here’s the best of it, Ned. If he didn’t become an uncle last year, tae twins, no less.”

“Ye don’t say!”

“Yes, indeed. A wee boy and a wee girl: Becky and Colm. Jamie calls them Bec and Col for short. Did I mention them before, did I?”

This was the umpteenth time in the course of a year that Ned had heard about Jamie and the twins. But Ned’s memory loss was Rose’s gossip-mongering gain.

“Aye, maybe ye did, Rose.”

She consulted the
Vindicator
once more. “Now where was I, afore I went down the side road with Bec and Col? Oh, yes: here we
are. ‘Madame Calinda will be reading fortunes at the Royal Neptune Hotel for one night only this coming Friday. A half-hour consolation with the famous physic will cost three pound and fippence.’”

“That’ll be psychic,” corrected Ned. “You’d wunder why she needs the fippence.”

“Well, ye know, if she got ten customers and—”

Whump!

With a flash of pink rubber, a set of falsies struck the table.

Their speed and trajectory caused them to bounce three feet into the air. They landed in the grass—nipples up—close to where Ned was seated.

The old man leaned over, peering in astonishment. “Jezsis boys!” was all he could manage.

Rose got slowly to her feet. The blood had drained from her face. She beheld the strange object. A look of fright and disgust had taken hold of her features, making her eyes stand on end. She could have been Father Merrin of
The Exorcist
confronting the demoniac Regan for the first time.

“
Oh, Jesus and the holy martyrs!
”

“What kinda things are they, Rose, atall, atall?” Ned was easing himself out of his chair with the aid of his blackthorn stick. He tilted back the Panama hat and squinted to take a better look.

“Stay away from them, Uncle Ned!” She was frantic. “Them’s durty things.”

But Ned’s curiosity was aroused, and there was no stopping him. He went to the fallen falsies and, with one deft motion, slipped the blackthorn stick under the band that joined the rubber hemispheres. He lifted them up out of the grass and swung the stick in Rose’s direction.

“Oh, Lord-blissus-and-savus! Get them durty things away from me this minute, Uncle Ned!”