An Early Wake (9 page)

“I think so. These guys have been at it for ages, and I think they’re about ready to pack it up. I’ll have a word with them.”

“Thanks, Mick.” Maura went back out front, where the crowd was already beginning to thin.

Jimmy asked, “Last round?” Maura nodded. Some fifteen minutes short of Sean’s deadline, the patrons had trickled away, leaving only a hard-core few of the band members packing away their gear in the back.

“You guys were terrific,” Maura said to the musicians, and she meant it.

“Ah, darlin’,” Niall said, “we were just messing about, but I’m glad you liked it. Old Mick would be happy.”

“Where are you headed now?” she asked.

“We’ll find a place, no worries. Let me know if you’ve a mind to do this again. I’d forgotten how good it felt.”

“I will. Thanks for coming, and for bringing everyone else with you.”

“That wasn’t me, love—that was the magic of the place.” Niall turned away, and Maura went back to the front, in time to see Jimmy leaving with Rose. “Good night!” she called out. She wondered briefly where Tim had gone. She looked around at the darkened pub. At least Jimmy had done a fair job of tidying up. It might look worse in the morning, but not as bad as it might have.

She wasn’t sure what to do next. She was exhausted, and even the late open on Sunday wasn’t going to help much. She had to be here: people would want to talk about tonight’s event, and if she had any hope of continuing it, she should be front and center to talk it up. But she didn’t want to move. It was as if the lingering notes of the music and the voices still hung in the air, making the dark, shabby place look somehow more . . . she couldn’t think of a good word. More than it had been the day before, at least.

Mick came in, carrying a bunch of used glasses. “You’re still here?”

“I can’t seem to tell my feet to move. Thanks for making this work, Mick. I wouldn’t have believed it, but it really was something special. Even if there’s never another one, I’m glad this happened.”

“Go home, get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“Shoot, we should clear out the cash register,” Maura said suddenly. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that. I wouldn’t want to leave it here—this place is too easy to get in and out of.” She popped open the drawer and stared in amazement at the rumpled stacks of bills and the piles of coins. “Mick, look at this,” she said, almost reverently. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much
total
since I got here.”

“You going to count it or just admire it?” Mick came up behind her and peered over her shoulder.

“Shut up—I’m enjoying the moment. I’d better get it to the bank ASAP, but I’m guessing it’s a little late for that right now. What do I do with it? Take it home? Stick it under a floorboard?” She’d heard that Ireland was safe, but no way was she going to risk losing this pile of cash.

“The banks won’t be open tomorrow, on a Sunday. Would you rather I took it with me?” Mick said.

She turned to look at him. Did she trust him? Maybe. Probably. “Promise you won’t be on the first flight to Spain in the morning?”

He smiled. “Tempting, innit? You’ll have to trust me on that.”

She grabbed a plastic bag from under the bar and stuffed the bills into it; the coins could wait. Then she thrust the bag toward Mick. “Here. Take it home.”

He looked startled; had he been joking about hanging on to it? “You don’t want to count it?”

“No,” Maura said firmly. “Either I trust you or I don’t. So if you skim off a few bills, it’ll be on your conscience. Right now all I want to do is go home and go to sleep.”

“Right so.” Mick folded the bag carefully and stuffed it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

“You’ll close up?” Maura asked.

“I will. Safe home.”

“You too.”

T
he next morning Maura slept in and awoke to sunshine. She stretched luxuriously in bed. The night had been wonderful. Surprising. Hard to explain, even to herself. She was no stranger to big events back in Boston bars, often loud, busy evenings that spilled over into the wee hours (and often ended in a fight, especially if a local sports team lost, which meant it was time to duck the flying fists and bottles). But she’d never been part of an event in a pub that was so happy, and focused only on the music, not even an advertised event—just a bunch of old guys getting together and playing songs they all knew, and people who’d come from who-knew-where to fill the place and listen. And had left happy. Had it been a onetime thing, or could she do it every month or so, with the same results? She didn’t know. It was risky to mess with magic, she was finding. Everything had come together this time, but there were no guarantees that they could re-create it. She’d have to talk to Billy and Mick and Jimmy to see how it compared to the old events and ask what they thought about doing it again. But no rush. Right now she just wanted to wallow in the good memories.

Finally Maura climbed out of bed, threw on some old sweats, and went down the stairs to make herself some coffee. When it was ready she filled a mug and opened her front door, stepping outside to see what kind of day it was. She could hear the tolling of a church bell; it had to be the one at the church in Drinagh, because that one was on a hill only a few miles away, and the sound carried if the wind was right. She wouldn’t stop by to see Bridget this morning, because Mick often came by to pick up his grandmother to take her to Mass in Leap, or one or another of the neighbors would give her a ride and bring her home again.

Maura shivered in the morning air and went back inside, closing the door firmly behind her. As she finished a second cup of coffee, along with brown bread (Bridget’s) spread with the black currant jelly she had become addicted to recently, she realized that somehow in the last twenty-four hours she seemed to have made a decision: she was planning a future at Sullivan’s. Six months earlier she had stumbled into Leap, still aching from the loss of her grandmother (her only family), made worse by the loss of the rented apartment she and Gran had shared (the only home she had ever known), and clueless about what the heck she was doing in Ireland. Gran had told her to go, and Maura had had no better ideas. No plan, no purpose.

Now here she was with a house of her own and a business, likewise her own. It was mind-boggling. In the beginning she had been cautious about committing herself to anything, and she hadn’t wanted to make any changes to Sullivan’s because she didn’t know if she was going to stay. She’d also wanted to give people time to get to know her, an ongoing process but one that seemed to have been the right move—at least now they knew she wasn’t one of those infamous obnoxious Americans who thought they knew how everything should be done and shoved it down their throats. If anything, Maura was going backward: reviving a tradition that people seemed to have missed, even if they hadn’t realized it, and would be happy to have back again. Of course, Old Mick had created it in a different time, and there was no guarantee that it would work now, but if last night was any indication, it was worth a try.

Suddenly she wanted to get moving, to go back to the pub and see how things looked in the clear light of morning. To count the cash they’d collected and see if they’d made any money after she paid the Guinness distributor and overtime for her staff. They’d worked hard last night and they all deserved it. Had she been careless, handing the cash off to Mick? She didn’t think so. She had to have faith in someone sometime, and he’d done nothing to shake her trust in him. In fact he’d proved plenty of times that he was trustworthy and dependable. Besides, if he took off with the cash, he’d earn Bridget’s wrath, and she was pretty sure he didn’t want that.

Maura took a quick shower, dressed, and drove the few miles into the village. It was, not surprisingly, quiet—she knew there’d be a brief flurry of traffic before the noon Mass, but otherwise there were few cars on the road. She unlocked the front door and stepped into the pub, stopping on the threshold for a moment and listening . . . for what? Trying to catch any echoes of the previous night’s music?
Don’t be daft, Maura,
she chided herself. She liked the word “daft”—it was one her grandmother had used often. Anyway, the room held no echoes. Considering how many people had been in the place the night before, it was reasonably tidy, with only a few glasses on the bar waiting to be washed. She reminded herself to thank Jimmy again for taking care of that. He had seemed more committed to making the event work than she’d ever seen him. Maybe he was finally over his snit about not inheriting a share of the pub. And Mick had been a rock throughout, managing the music side of things. She couldn’t have done that, but under his watchful eye all the equipment had worked and the musicians had all played nicely with each other—in both senses of the word. Maura was looking forward to comments from the townspeople today, for surely they’d come by to contribute their two cents. Or however much that was in euros.

She drifted toward the back room, which was a bit less tidy, but then, the musicians hadn’t cleared out until late. Mick had said he’d oversee this end of things. She couldn’t complain—whatever mess there was could be cleaned up quickly, and she didn’t mind doing her own washing up. She walked into the room, picking up glasses and trash as she went, but when she reached the far end and turned, she stopped. In one of the banquettes that lined the rear wall, someone was apparently sleeping. Maybe Mick hadn’t had the heart to wake him, or maybe he’d been forgotten by the crowd and left behind to sleep it off.

Maura walked closer, then stopped again, her happy mood disappearing like air from a leaky balloon. Even from a few feet away it was clear this guy wasn’t going to wake up again—ever. Nobody turned that shade of gray and lived to tell about it. And his half-open, blindly staring eyes confirmed it.

Worse, she recognized him: it was the man who’d come in Friday afternoon, Aidan something, the first one to show up at Niall’s invitation to join the fun. From her position a few feet away, Maura could see no obvious signs of injury. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or a stroke. But when? If it had happened during the music, why had nobody noticed last night? There had been so many people coming and going . . .

All she knew was that he was dead. In her pub. Was this some sort of punishment from the gods for thinking maybe the place had turned a corner and might have a future? Ha! No wonder most of the country seemed permanently depressed, if this was what a brief glimpse of good luck brought about.

Now what? Maura’s mind reeled. For one brief, hysterical moment she thought about disposing of the body herself, but that was a ridiculous idea. First of all, she had no idea what to do with it. Him. Sure, she could toss him into the harbor or pitch him into a handy bog, but how was she supposed to haul a body—and not a lightweight one, from the looks of him—out of the building and across a major road? Nope, not working. Bury him up the hill behind the pub? She owned the land, and nobody had touched it in decades, so who would notice?

Oh, come on, Maura. You’re a law-abiding citizen and a respectable business owner. You can’t go around hiding corpses just to make your life easier.
She went back to the front, where she’d left her bag behind the bar, pulled out her mobile phone, and called the garda station, asking for Sean Murphy, though she doubted he’d be in yet.

Turned out, he was. “Maura, hello. How’re you feeling this morning?” he said cheerily when he answered.

“You’re in early, after last night. Anyway, I was feeling pretty good until I got to Sullivan’s. I have a problem.”

“Oh, no. And what would that be? Somebody rifled the cash drawer? Vandalism?”

“Uh, neither of those. There’s a dead man in the back room.”

“Oh.” Sean was silent for a moment, and Maura could almost hear him shifting gears, from friend to serious official. “Do you know the deceased?”

“Only his first name—Aidan. He was one of the musicians, a friend of Niall’s. He came with a fiddle case.” Niall would know his name. But she had no idea where to find Niall.

“Yer sure he’s dead?”

“I haven’t touched him, but I’m pretty damn sure.”

“I’ll be over in ten minutes. Don’t touch anything. Don’t let anyone else in. Are you all right?”

Nice of him to worry about her. “I’ll manage. I’ll wait for you in the front, Sean.”

Maura sat on a stool in front of the bar, watching the street, where little was happening. Restless, she stood up again and went around behind the bar to make some more coffee. No doubt some people would think a stiff drink would be the right strategy for dealing with an unexpected body, but she didn’t work that way. She hoped the poor man had died of natural causes. She had no reason to think anything else, did she? On the other hand, maybe this was the universe reminding her that her luck just didn’t work that way. She’d had a great night last night, but now she had to pay the price? When the coffee was ready she went back to sit on the stool and sipped slowly, waiting for Sean.

What message was the universe trying to send her? It was certainly mixed. On the one hand, she’d been gifted with some extraordinary blessings over the past few months, as she reminded herself: a house, a car, even a business had all pretty much fallen into her lap. A friendship with Bridget, who had known her grandmother. On the other hand, she seemed to be paying for it with a lot of unwanted trouble, even though she wasn’t responsible for any of it. Still, how much would the locals take before they started shunning her as bad luck?

Sean pulled up within the promised ten minutes and parked directly in front of Sullivan’s. Maura went to open the door for him and let him step past her inside before locking it again.

“How are yeh, Maura?” he asked anxiously, and for a moment Maura considered bursting into tears and throwing herself into his arms. Weren’t police supposed to be prepared for that?

She stifled the urge. It would only embarrass both of them, and besides, she almost never cried. “I’m okay. Better than that guy Aidan, anyway.” She nodded toward the back.

“Before I take a look . . . what time did yeh lock up last night?”

“I left about one, I think. Mick was still here, but all the musicians in back had left before that, as far as we could tell. Mick said he’d close up—you can confirm that with him. The front door was locked when I arrived this morning. I haven’t checked the back doors, but I’m not even sure they lock, and just about anybody could have come and gone that way.”

“Right so. You said you recognized the, uh, deceased?”

“Aidan Crowley.” Now that the initial shock had worn off, Maura was proud that she had managed to remember his full name. “I talked to him a couple of times, mostly stuff like, ‘Would you like some tea?’ But you saw how it was last night.”

He nodded. “And you haven’t disturbed anything?”

“I picked up a couple of glasses from the back, before I noticed the guy. That’s it.”

“Leave them aside for now. I’d best go take a look at the man. You don’t need to come with me.”

“I’m coming,” Maura said tersely, and she followed Sean into the back room.

“Were the lights on when you came in?” he said.

“No, I turned them on. This room is pretty dark, and I wanted to see what had to be done.”

“When did you first see the deceased?”

“I was over there by the stage”—she pointed—“and when I turned around I noticed him, kind of tucked in the corner there. I went to see if he was just sleeping it off, but when I got closer it was pretty clear he wasn’t.”

Sean walked carefully toward where the man was slumped against the back wall. He spent a couple of minutes examining him closely, without touching him, before saying, “I’ll wait for the rest of the team before disturbing him. Most likely he’ll have some identification on him, with his address and all, but I’ll let them look for it.”

“He said he lived in Cork. He is dead, right? Not just passed out, or in a coma?”

“Yes, Maura, he is dead. I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Sean turned away to call the station, then explained the circumstances. He ended with, “I’ll stay here with the owner until you arrive.” He signed off and turned to Maura. “The sergeant will be over shortly, and he’ll alert the medical folk.”

“I know. I’ve been through this before. Should we wait out front? Can I get you some coffee?”

Sean wavered between protocol and an obvious desire for coffee. In the end he said, “I’d be glad of a cup, thanks.”

“Coming up.”

Maura was happy to have something to do, some way to keep her hands busy. She didn’t want to think beyond the next step. “Hey, should I try to call Mick and Jimmy? I’m not sure when they’ll be coming in.” She handed Sean a mug of coffee.

“We’ll be needing to talk to them, Mick in particular, since he was the last one here, right?”

Maura nodded. “Yes—Jimmy left before me.”

Sean went on, “I don’t want anyone else coming into the building just yet, not until the sergeant’s been over the scene.” He sipped his hot coffee, his brow furrowed.