Death in Donegal Bay (13 page)

Mrs. Casey was coming across the lawn from our neighbor’s house. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan,” she said, “but I didn’t know you would be home for lunch.”

“I’ve had lunch,” I told her. “This is Mrs. Baker. Perhaps she’d like some coffee.”

“I would, thank you,” Felicia said.

Mrs. Casey smiled. “Meaning no impertinence, Mrs. Baker, but you’re Irish, aren’t you?”

“Mostly,” Felicia said. “How could you tell?”

“Only the Irish are that beautiful,” Mrs. Casey explained. “I’ll go make your coffee now.”

She went to the kitchen. We went into the living room. Felicia stood there, admiring it.

“I’d take you through the rest of the rooms,” I said, “but that would include the bedrooms and Mrs. Casey is a little prudish. Let’s sit out in back. It’s cooler there.”

We sat in the shade near the house. I said, “One of the things that’s troubling me is Alan getting involved with Joe Farini. He has a very unsavory reputation.”

“Involved?” She frowned. “I’ve met Mr. Farini only once, that afternoon you came to the house. That day, all he and Alan talked about was another threat that Cyrus Allingham was making. Ever since Alan divorced Joan, that has been going on. That old monster won’t give up. He still resents the divorce settlement he gave Alan. What do you mean by ‘involved’?”

“I could have been misinformed,” I said. “Did you know that Joe Farini hired a detective? That detective is now working for Allingham, checking on Mike Anthony.”

“That’s too complicated for me. Do you mean that this detective is working for both of them?”

“No. He changed sides. He switched over to the big money. Did Duane tell you about the fight I had with Mike up at Donegal Bay?”

She stared at me. “Nobody told me. What’s going on? Why are they keeping all this from me? Do they think I’m the village virgin? I’ve been around, and in some pretty rough places, too.”

“You’ve certainly weathered it well,” I told her. “The way it happened, Duane and I were trying to talk Mike out of beating up the detective. Mike got lippy and I had to put him to sleep. He’s in some kind of trouble up there which I’m sure Allingham thinks he can use as ammunition against your husband.”

“But Alan doesn’t even know Mike! It doesn’t make sense.”

“You know Mike,” I pointed out. “You could be Allingham’s target.”

“I
knew
Mike,” she corrected me. “I haven’t talked to him in two years. Even when I visit the Detterwalds, I make sure that Mike won’t be there before I go up.”

“That afternoon at your house,” I reminded her, “you told me that you didn’t know what he was doing now. You lied.”

“I had to, in front of Alan. Duane talks so much about the old days that Alan has this absurd notion that Mike was the great love of my life. The truth of the matter is that he doesn’t even rank in the top ten.”

Mrs. Casey brought our coffee, gazed at Felicia for a few seconds, sighed, and went back to the kitchen.

“Duane doesn’t like Alan much, does he?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He never drops in when he’s in town anymore. But he still likes Mike. I’ll take Alan over Mike any day.”

I smiled. “Or night? Is Alan in the top ten?”

“Don’t get vulgar, Callahan. I bought Mike that restaurant three years ago. Strictly for auld lang syne. Duane insisted I keep the title in my name. I’m glad he did, now. Is that the connection Allingham thinks he has? I had a hunch Mike was in trouble. Is it serious?”

“Maybe not yet. But Duane and I think he’s heading for it. The rumor up in Donegal Bay is that Mike is going to be a partner in that charter-boat venture you financed.”

“So what? Is that illegal? None of this makes sense.”

“To me, either,” I admitted. “But it might be wise if you alerted Laura and Jeff about Mike’s … propensity for getting into trouble.”

She said, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. If skinflint Duane knows about it, he has probably read them the riot act.”

“You are demeaning a great little guy,” I told her.

“I know. But he’s so stuffy these days! We used to have so much fun when Mike was a contender and Duane a horse player—”

And you a hustler,
I thought.
Those golden days!

“What are you smirking about?” she asked.

“I’m remembering my own youth.”

“I’ll bet you are!” She stood up. “I have to go. Alan will be home soon and I want to get my questions ready for that sneak. Once a con man, always a con man. Right, Callahan?”

I smiled again.

“You bastard!” she said. “Alan was right about you. You are one sarcastic bastard—even when you don’t open your mouth.”

“I know. But you like me, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“It’s mutual,” I told her.

I went to the door with her and came back to finish my coffee. Mrs. Casey came to pick up Felicia’s cup but mainly to say, “A real Irish beauty, isn’t she?”

“That she is. And tricky, too, like all the Irish.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “Not for the rest of us.”

“Why don’t you pour us a couple of slugs of that good Irish whiskey you keep in the kitchen,” I suggested, “and we’ll discuss it. Unless, of course, you think it would be tricky if we don’t tell Jan.”

“There is necessary tricky and unnecessary tricky,” she informed me loftily. “I’ll be right back.”

We sat in the shade and discussed the novelty of a Polish pope. We talked about how the Protestants and agnostics in this mixed neighborhood were finally sending their kids to Catholic schools, where the disciplinary problems of our time were solved in the old-fashioned way—learn or burn!

Then she went to her room to watch the late-afternoon feature movie on the tube, starring Spencer Tracy.

I sat and tried to fit the pieces of information I had gathered today into some semblance of a pattern.

There were too many ill-fitting pieces in this puzzle that couldn’t be matched up. I hoped I had stirred up some new allegiances today that would separate the white hats from the black. Too many of them were still gray.

Felicia now knew that Alan was up to no good. Farini knew that Kronen had gone over to Allingham. And Allingham would wonder about my supposed friendship with Mike Anthony.

Felicia had told me that she had a hunch Mike was in trouble. If she hadn’t seen him in two years, what were the grounds for her hunch?

I suspected that Alan had confided in her at least enough to give her an inkling of what was going on. A tricky lass, that Felicia. But maybe it was Mrs. Casey’s necessary tricky. I wanted to think so.

I was dozing on the couch when Jan came home. “Mrs. Casey told me you had a visitor this afternoon,” she opened.

I sat up and yawned and stretched. I knew what was coming. I said, “Mrs. Casey told you the truth.”

“The most beautiful woman she has seen in years is the way she described her. Felicia Baker? I don’t remember her as
that
beautiful.”

“She isn’t,” I said. “And I don’t like the way she does her hair.”

She studied me suspiciously. “You mean like mine?”

“Of course not! I mean the way you used to wear it. Your new way is much more flattering.”

She sniffed. “You’re sure full of it today, aren’t you? Why did she come to see you?”

“Because I suggested it. I’m trying to round up all the allies I can find in this stupid, ugly war. Let’s not quibble. Did Audrey agree to a lower markup on the Detterwald deal?”

“She did. We will make only a modest profit.”

I didn’t ask her what Kay Décor considered modest. The word no longer had meaning in the inflated eighties.

Duane phoned after dinner. “That kid you were talking about when you first came up here, that gangly kid driving a gray Plymouth—does his car have a broken taillight lens?”

“It does. Is he up there now?”

“Yup. I saw him checking in at the Dunes Motel when I was coming home for dinner. Kronen’s car is parked there, too. Kronen I can understand. But why the kid? Maybe Felicia is up here seeing Mike.”

“Felicia is home,” I told him. “I talked with her this afternoon. She explained that she didn’t tell you about the fifty thousand dollars because she thinks that you are getting too conservative in your dotage.”

“Don’t believe everything that Felicia tells you. And next time you see her, remind her that I
earned
my money.”

“She earned some of hers, too, Duane,” I reminded him.

“But how? If she had my looks, she would have been servicing winos. I heard from Hawaii. If Lucy Barnum is staying in a hotel there, it must be a flea bag. No hotel with running water has her registered.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I might be up there tomorrow. My protégé is still kind of green.”

“A
S LONG AS YOU’RE
going up there,” Jan said at breakfast, “would you come down to the shop first and pick up some samples for Daphne? And tell her I’ll be up as soon as I finish the house I’m working on now. It shouldn’t take longer than two more days.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“And tell her that delphinium blue we talked about will never go with that Oriental rug she wants to keep, because—”

“No!” I interrupted. “I will give her the message about two days and deliver the samples. The rest you can tell her over the phone. You can dial direct and deduct the expense from your modest markup. Operator-assisted calls cost more.”

“Okay, master!”

Master? My rear seat and deck were crammed with samples when I headed for Donegal Bay. Carpet samples, drapery samples, furniture upholstery samples, tile and oak and vinyl floor samples. Master? Modest? Old Noah Webster must be turning in his grave.

Lucy Barnum was not staying at a major hotel in Hawaii. That didn’t mean she wasn’t there. Our fiftieth state was a haven for many of Allingham’s true believers and contributors to his cause.

But would they accept a maid as a houseguest?

Duane wasn’t there when I arrived. Daphne helped me carry the samples into the house. I told her about Jan being busy for the next two days and added, “She also said something about a rug you have, an Oriental, that won’t blend with the delphinium blue you must have discussed with her.”

“Damn it!” she said. “Duane loves that rug. And he’s already moaning about cost. He’s getting so chintzy!”

“Tell him not to fret,” I said. “I have it on good authority that you are going to get the lowest markup in Kay Décor history. It will be very modest.”

“You tell him. He won’t believe me. He thinks I am a
terrible
shopper.”

Duane was talking with a customer in his office. I went into the store next-door. Laura was sitting in an old wicker rocking chair, reading a paperback novel.

She looked up and smiled. “Mr. Callahan! Did you come to buy or to rent or to talk?”

“To talk,” I said. “Has the family feud cooled off?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Jeff is so—so bull-headed! We’re not getting rich here, but we’re still eating. And this is what he always claimed he wanted.” She made a face. “Men!”

“I know,” I agreed. “We are terrible creatures. Is Mike Anthony going to be involved in your new enterprise?”

“I guess so. I don’t like him. From what I heard about your meeting at the Dunes, I guess you don’t, either.”

“He’s been a bad friend to Duane,” I told her. “Duane has been Mike’s guardian angel for years. Bad friends make bad partners.”

“Tell that to my bull-headed roomie.”

“I will right now, if he’s around.”

She shook her head. “He’s over at the Rusty Anchor, talking with Mike and some man who came here and picked up Jeff half an hour ago. He was Mexican, I think. At least his car had Mexican plates on it. A Cadillac DeVille, no less!”

“Laura,” I said, “Mike Anthony is being watched by a private detective working for Cyrus Allingham. You tell Jeff that. He could be heading for big trouble.”

She stared at me. “Cyrus Allingham? That man who lives in the castle in Veronica Village? Why would he have Mike watched?”

“I don’t know. I can only guess that he must have some information about what Mike was doing—or plans to do. It would be a bad time for you two to team up with Mike. Tell Jeff to back off for a while.”

Duane appeared in the open doorway. “Laura, will you listen for my phone? I—
”

Then he saw me. “Brock! I didn’t expect you this early. I have to show a couple of houses. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

When he left, I told Laura, “Duane and I are trying to find out the connection between Allingham and Mike. Please do your best to convince Jeff not to make any decision for a while.”

“I’ll try,” she said. “But I think it’s a lost cause.”

Another ally, I hoped. That is, if they had what today’s unmarried roommates call a ‘meaningful relationship.’ I walked out and walked down to one of the side streets to where I could get a view of the Rusty Anchor parking lot. The DeVille with the Mexican plates was there.

A quarter of a block down the street from the lot, I saw a car that looked like Corey’s. I started across the parking lot toward it just as a man came out of the restaurant and walked toward the Cad.

I knew who he was. Mike had a picture of him behind his bar, being slammed through the ropes by Mike’s overhand haymaker.

“Chico Maracho?” I asked.

The black eyes in his olive face studied me doubtfully, almost suspiciously. “Yes. And you?”

“Only a fan,” I said. “I saw you fight Mike in San Diego. I’ll bet you’re here for a rematch.”

The doubt left his face. He smiled. “No. We are both retired and friends now. Are you a fighter?”

“I was. For about eight months. I’m a friend of Mike’s. My name is Greg Hudson. Are you still involved in boxing down in Tijuana?”

He shook his head. “I’m in land development now. Mike convinced me in San Diego that boxing was not my proper trade.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I still think that was a lucky punch that Mike tagged you with.”

He smiled again. “It was lucky for me. I’m doing much better now. Adios, amigo.”

The big car purred off; I walked over to Corey’s car. He stared up at me. “Now what? Why are you in town?”