Whiskey Island (25 page)

“So she’s still with you?”

“And will be for a while.” Casey wondered if Jon was sorry she had a child to look after. A woman caring for a child had very little free time.

“She’s an interesting little girl. I don’t know a lot about children, but she seems sad and lonely.”

Peggy spoke up. “She’s the quietest kid I’ve ever seen. She’s warming up a little, but not fast enough to suit me.”

Casey made a mental note to stop leaving her sister in charge of Ashley so often. “She’s had a tough time.”

“How so?” Jon said.

“Well, for starters, she’s with me instead of her mother.”

“Why exactly is that, Casey?” Peggy said. “Why isn’t Ashley with her father or someone else in her family?”

“There is no one else.”

There was a shout from the kitchen, followed by a clang. The sounds of preparation for a long, busy night. Peggy glanced at her watch. “I’m going to run up and change. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time. You’ll be doing plenty of running in a little while.” Casey was glad the subject had switched to something neutral. She was hoping Jon no longer had a cop’s instinct to ask questions until there was nothing left to discover. He might once have been with the LAPD, but he was no longer a cop.

He was just a prosecutor.

“How well do you know this woman?” he asked, when Peggy had gone.

Hope died. “Ashley’s mom? What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you sure you know everything you should? My instincts tell me something’s wrong in Ashley’s life.”

“If you must know, I met her at a women’s shelter where I was a volunteer.”

“You were volunteering at a women’s shelter?”

“I don’t know why that surprises you. After I got out of my own marriage, I decided I’d like to help other women trying to do the same thing.”

His face was suddenly grim. “Are you saying your husband beat you? Threatened you?”

“No, but there are all different sorts of bad marriages, and I thought I had a little something to offer in that general department.”

“Ashley’s mother was a volunteer, too?”

“Just a woman trying to get away from some bad decisions. After a couple of weeks, everything turned out fine for her. Meantime I got to know her, liked her and volunteered to keep her daughter while she looked for work out of state.”

“If everything’s fine, why does Ashley seem so sad?”

“Ashley had a tough time, okay? She’s recovering. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

Jon seemed to find that a reasonable explanation. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Casey said dryly. “I do, at that.”

“Shall I pull a few Guinnesses just to practice?”

The place was beginning to fill up. Charlie had been joined by a couple of other regulars, and two tables in the corner were taken. Another party was just coming through the door. “No, go find a comfortable place to perch while you still can.”

He faced her, leaning back against the counter. “I’m going to be lonely.”

“You’re—” She glanced at the door, which was opening yet again “—not. I’ve got somebody you can sit with.” She motioned to Niccolo, who had just walked in. “Nick, come here.”

He strolled over, and Casey remembered what Megan had told her about Niccolo earlier. She was glad this man hadn’t been her priest. She never would have had a good enough excuse to miss Mass.

She made the new set of introductions. The two men shook hands and examined each other. “Nick, are you here for dinner? Our pierogies are the best in town.”

“Actually, I’m here to see Megan. Is she around?”

“I’ll check.” Casey returned in a minute to find the two men talking like good friends. “She ran out to get a few things for tomorrow’s lunch. Can we feed you in the meantime? Maybe Megan will join you guys as soon as she gets back. It’s the only way we’ll get her to eat.”

Casey watched Niccolo’s expression warm, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what to feel. She had only seen this man with her sister once before, but even then, even recovering from the terror of the carjacking, she had sensed something igniting between them. Now she was certain of it.

She straightened. “Sauerkraut, potato or cheese. Take your pick. If you buy six, I’ll throw in grilled kielbasa and a salad.”

“Too good to refuse,” Niccolo said. “Give me a mix. Jon?”

“A done deal, if she’ll let me pull each of us a Guinness,” Jon said.

“Boys and their toys.” She grimaced. “Go ahead.”

“I’ll be right there,” Jon told Niccolo.

Niccolo headed for a table by the door.

“He’s the guy who tried to stop the carjackers, isn’t he?” Jon asked.

“One of them.”

Jon looked puzzled.

For a moment Casey did what she’d sworn not to so many years ago. She let herself think about her father, the other hero that night. The wild-eyed, tenderhearted man who had taught her to ride a bike, to yodel, to tell a story with a flourish.

Rooney, who had come back from the dead to haunt them all.

Jon spoke when she didn’t. “Nick wasn’t alone?”

She lifted her gaze to his, to the steady hazel eyes that were so unlike Rooney’s. “No, Nick had help from a ghost.” She felt tears prick her eyelids, and she turned away. “Go play with your Guinness, Jon. I’ll be over to see you as soon as I get the chance.”

16

N
iccolo hadn’t planned to spend time at the saloon, but two bites into a buttery potato pierogi, he was glad he had. Casey hadn’t been exaggerating when she claimed they were the best in town.

The company wasn’t bad, either. Niccolo had known other men like Jon Kovats. Along with their female counterparts, they were the pillars on which society was built, strong, honest men who, without calling attention to themselves, did the jobs no one else wanted. He’d already discovered that Jon was intelligent, with a droll sense of humor, traits that didn’t always go together. He’d also discovered that Jon’s gaze often lingered on Megan’s sister.

Right now, though, Jon was looking at him. “So, you’re taking time off to reassess your life?”

Niccolo nodded. He had just given Jon the briefest history of his past, gratified that the other man had taken it in his stride. Not everyone did.

Jon continued. “A man with your education and experience shouldn’t have trouble finding a number of different opportunities open to him.”

“I was offered a job as the director of a charitable organization, but I don’t want to be an administrator.”

“You’re looking for something more personal.”

The something-more-personal who had been occupying far too many of Niccolo’s waking hours walked into the Whiskey Island Saloon at that moment. Niccolo watched Megan head for the bar to have a word with her sister. He watched Casey point to their table and shoo Megan in their direction.

And he watched Megan stiffen, as if she was arming herself for combat.

His heart did a swan dive. He hadn’t spoken to Megan since the day he’d taken her to Whiskey Island. She had been silent in the car on the way home, and silent ever since. He knew she was angry at him for seeing the woman who had been hiding under layers of pain and unshed tears. The woman who still mourned her father, even as she hated what he’d done to her life.

She approached their table with little enthusiasm. “Casey tells me you’re eating us out of house and home over here.” She looked at Jon as she spoke, carefully avoiding Niccolo’s eyes.

Jon rose to pull out a chair. “You’ll join us?”

“I—”

“Casey says you haven’t eaten all day. You won’t be good to anybody if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Megan smiled a little, a forced smile that did nothing to soften her face. “Casey is a tattletale.”

Niccolo spoke for the first time. “We’d love to have you.”

Now she couldn’t avoid him. Her gaze flicked to his face. She was trapped, aware that she would appear rude if she refused. “It’ll have to be quick.”

“You can share my plate, if you like. There’s plenty for two.”

“No thanks. What’s the point of running this place if I can’t get my own?”

He smiled at her. “I’d be shivering in my shoes if I worked for you.”

“Then I’d feel like a success.”

She sat, and Casey arrived with another Guinness for each of the men and one for Megan. “I’ve already placed your order,” she told her sister. “Don’t tell me you don’t have time to eat.”

Jon took Casey’s hand to stop her from leaving. “You join us, too.”

“Can’t. This place is zooey. But maybe once I catch up a little, Artie can come out and take over the bar for a while. I’ll be back.” Casey took off again.

“She complains that I don’t take care of myself, but she’s been on her feet all day,” Megan said.

Jon toasted Megan with his glass. “I don’t know which of you’s worse.”

Megan took a sip, then another. She sat back, one arm strung over her chair. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“We didn’t, until tonight.”

“Has Jon told you he’s a history buff?” Megan directed the question to Niccolo.

“We hadn’t gotten that far.” He turned to Jon. “What period interests you?”

“I can’t think of any that doesn’t.”

“Jon, didn’t you do some research into local history when you were in high school? Some sort of senior thesis Casey helped you with?”

Jon whistled. “You’re good. That was a long time ago.”

“I guess I found it interesting.”

Niccolo wasn’t surprised. He imagined that the young Megan, deprived of an education by her family circumstances and her own stubborn desire to keep the Whiskey Island Saloon on its feet, had inhaled all information that came her way.

“Cleveland at the turn of the century,” Jon said. “Casey and I walked the length of Euclid Avenue taking photographs and writing captions. A before and after study of Millionaires’ Row.”

“Millionaires’ Row?” Niccolo was intrigued.

“In its heyday, some people claimed Euclid Avenue was the most beautiful street in the world.”

Niccolo knew Euclid Avenue. It was one of the main downtown thoroughfares, an asphalt river of parking lots, fast food and businesses. By no one’s standards was it a showplace.

Jon read Niccolo’s expression. “I know. It’s hard to believe. But in the days before income tax, Cleveland always had a steady supply of wealthy industrialists, and they built fabulous mansions on the street. John D. Rockefeller, Samuel Mather, one of the founders of U.S. Steel, Charles Brush, inventor of the arc light and a founder of General Electric. One house more extravagant than the next.”

“And probably not a one of them Irish,” Megan said. “My relatives were too busy unloading ore on the docks.”

“And mine were slaving away in the foundries and steel mills,” Jon said. “At one time there were more Hungarians in Cleveland than any city except Budapest. Plenty of Poles and Slovaks and other Eastern Europeans, too. Cheap labor.”

Niccolo realized what Megan had been leading up to. He was chagrined that he still hadn’t taken the time to check out the newspaper clipping he’d found near the marina. “In your research, do you remember reading about a man named James Simeon?”

“Anybody with an interest in local history could tell you that story.”

“You be the one,” Megan said. “Because I don’t know it, either.”

Peggy came to deliver Megan’s plate, then took off again.

Jon settled back. “Simeon, huh? You’re sure you have the time?”

“A synopsis, please.” Megan tucked into a pierogi without another word.

“James Simeon was a local tycoon. All that Michigan ore Megan’s ancestors were unloading at the docks was going straight to the mills where my ancestors were processing it—Simeon’s Mills, in many cases. The man was brilliant—and every bit as ruthless. Simeon’s iron and steel were shipped all over the world, but he made a multitude of enemies along the way. Even by the standards of his day, he specialized in undercutting the competition and working his labor force under unsafe conditions. The fact that he disappeared didn’t trouble anyone.”

“Disappeared?” Niccolo got the question out first, although he could see that Megan was framing it.

“That’s the interesting part of the story. The man simply disappeared one winter night. And despite all his wealth and connections, not a trace of him was found. The Jimmy Hoffa of his day.”

“Well, I guess they couldn’t drag the entire lake,” Niccolo said.

“No, but you’re right, the lake was everyone’s favorite theory. He disappeared in January, before the lake had frozen for the winter that year. They figured somebody got fed up with Simeon’s policies or tactics or ego, took him out for a sail and chained a boulder to his leg. When I was a kid the newspaper would run an article about his disappearance every few years or so. As far as Cleveland was concerned, it was the crime of the century, the nineteenth century equivalent of the Marilyn Sheppard murder.”

Niccolo was trying to figure out why Rooney had one of those articles in his possession. “What happened to the company after Simeon died?”

“It seems to me his wife sold everything and left town. His business probably merged with another company, or went belly-up. The Simeon mansion was devoured by the monsters of modern Euclid Avenue, as so many others were. Victims of progress. Rockefeller and a couple of others insisted that their mansions be demolished after their deaths so that nobody else could live in them. They were probably terrified that Megan’s ancestors or mine would rise so far above themselves that they’d demand that right.”

“Or mine, for that matter,” Niccolo said. “The Italians had their share of detractors.”

Jon nodded gravely. “Well, there’s not much left of the glory of Millionaires’ Row. Just a few of the original houses. Rockefeller can rest in his grave.”

“But not Simeon,” Megan said. “His grave, wherever it is, sounds anything but peaceful.”

They finished their dinners with a minimum of conversation. Jon left to talk to Casey—or, more probably, to give Megan and Niccolo a chance to be alone. Niccolo had a feeling he had only moments before she insisted she had to get back to work.

“I’ve missed you.” He laid a hand beside hers but refrained from touching her.