Malarkey (16 page)

"Sorry."

"So how did
you
get to be a policeman?" She said
polis in palpable imitation of Kennedy's accent.

I squirmed. The sergeant's pronunciation was local, though
his language was sophisticated. Maeve's accent was pure and very u.
I wondered whether a class conflict underlay their sparring.

"I needed a job." Jay tested the coffee and set the cup back
on its saucer. "The department was hiring."

"You were at university."

"A senior," Jay agreed. "In history. There wasn't much
demand for BAs in history. We were going through one of those
mini-recessions, my marriage was foundering in shoals of student
loans, and I thought I'd better take what was offered."

At the word marriage Maeve's eyes flew to mine.

"Not me," I said ungrammatically. "I'm number two."

"Only in the sequential sense," Jay murmured, bland.

Maeve shook her head, her mouth easing in a smile.
"Americans. You do realize we have only just recognized divorce in
this country."

Both of us nodded.

Maeve sighed. "So you chucked a history career and took up
sleuthing."

Jay winced. "Not exactly. I did my stint on patrol and went
into community relations. I speak Spanish."

"Spanish?"

"Los Angeles is one of the larger Spanish-speaking cities in
the world."

The LAPD had received several years' worth of bad PR in
recent months. I could see Maeve gearing up for questions about
race relations.

Possibly Jay could, too. He said, "That was a while back. I
was with the department eight years and wound up negotiating with
hostage-takers. A big urban department has a lot of divisions. The
captains move officers around as a matter of policy."

"Then you weren't a detective?"

"Well, yes, afterwards. Elsewhere. In small departments.
When I met Lark I was head of the Monte County CID." He smiled at
her. "That means I was the senior of two detectives."

"Two!"

"It's a big county geographically, but the population density
is roughly twelve per square mile."

"Good heavens, why did you go there?"

"I was asked," Jay was evading the truth, editing history, so
to speak. He retired on a medical disability from the LAPD. He took a
sip of coffee, adding, "I got interested in the problems small
departments have dealing with evidence. In a large department
officers have time to pick up on the finer points."

"And your book came out of that. I see. Did your first wife
follow you to your rural fastness?"

"Linda? Good God, no. We split while I was still driving a
patrol car."

"She didn't like being married to a policeman?"

I knew where Maeve was coming from, and I suspected Jay
did, too.

He shrugged. "Linda got a fellowship at the University of
Texas the next winter, when she finished writing her master's thesis.
I didn't see myself as a Texas Ranger."

"But..." Maeve frowned. "Then you left her?"

"It was a mutual disengagement. No hard feelings. She's now
a successful clinical psychologist, married to another successful
clinical psychologist. They have two perfectly adjusted
teenagers."

Maeve laughed. I did not. Lovely Linda. Lovely Fertile
Linda.

Jay changed the subject with elephantine deftness. "How did
you get to be an archaeologist?" He can read me like a book.

She made a face. "A dull story. When I was ten the OPW did
at dig on my father's land. The students who were working that
summer made a pet of me."

"OPW?"

"The Office of Public Works," I said. "They do thoroughly
explanatory bilingual signs at public monuments."

That tickled Maeve. "Among other things. What public
monuments have you visited?"

I described the dolmens, and she told us of several others
within driving distance. It was likely, she said, finishing her sherry,
that her tumulus contained a similar megalith. As we left to drive
back to the cottage, she gave us a rueful picture of the politics of
funding digs. She also offered to show us the site she was
investigating. I thought Dad would find it as interesting as I would
and said so.

The van jounced over a road bump, and Maeve slowed to
turn off for Stanyon. We were halfway down the lane when a klaxon
sounded behind us, and a revolving light flashed. Maeve swerved
onto the shoulder, swearing. An ambulance passed us at high
speed.

"Dad," I said. "He's had another stroke."

Maeve accelerated. "Surely not. He seemed relaxed and
cheerful."

Jay took my hand in a warm clasp.

At the Y we could see that the ambulance had headed down
the hill to Stanyon. A patrol car, its lights whirling, stood on the
carriageway in front of the main entrance.

Maeve slowed. "Do you think—"

I swallowed. Dad might have been stricken in the car on the
way home. The Steins would have driven him down to Stanyon Hall
and called in the emergency from there.

Jay said, "Drive to the cottage, Maeve, if you will. George is
probably snug in bed. If he isn't we can walk back."

"If he isn't," she said crisply, "I'll drive you to Stanyon." She
wrenched the wheel to the right, and we headed through the arch of
rhododendrons to Bedrock Cottage.

Her skin was white as leprosy.
The Night-mare
LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
who thicks man's blood with
cold.

Coleridge, "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

The lights were on in the cottage kitchen. We had left them
on. Maeve parked the van at the front door and set the brake. I was
out, scrambling over Jay and fumbling my key into the lock before
she had killed the engine.

Jay followed right behind me. "Quietly."

I yanked the door open. "Dad?" I poked in the security code.
No answer. The living room lay in darkness. We had left it dark.

"Wait here. I'll check on him." Jay kicked off his shoes and
padded through the living room. I heard the stairs creak as he
walked down them.

Maeve sidled in the door and stood watching me.

"Have a chair," I croaked, sinking down onto the nearest
myself.

She sat and folded her hands in her lap.

We waited. When, at last, I heard Jay returning, I jumped up
and went to the arch that led into the living room. As soon as I could
make out his face, I said, "Is he there?"

He nodded. "Sound asleep, snoring a little. He flopped over
on his back. It's okay, sweetheart."

I let out my breath in a whoosh. "Thank God. But what—
?"

He squeezed my shoulder in passing.

"If Professor Dailey is here and well, then what's going on at
Stanyon?" Maeve stood up. "I'll drive over and find out, shall I?"

Jay was shaking his head. "Give them time to get it sorted,
whatever it is. Barging in with questions in the middle of a medical
emergency is a bad idea."

"But—" She sat again. "I daresay you're right."

He went on over to the sink, filled the electric kettle, and
plugged it in. He made tea, and we sat there drinking it in
preoccupied silence. Finally, Maeve shoved her cup away.

"I can't stand it. I'm going to drive to Stanyon."

Jay looked at his watch. "Ten more minutes? The ambulance
may be gone by then. I'll telephone."

Reluctant, she nodded. "Very well. I need to use the loo. Is it
downstairs?"

I said, "Foot of the stairs. I'm not thinking. I should have
offered."

"Aspirins?"

"In the cabinet above the sink."

She gave me a grateful smile. "I'll try not to wake your
father."

"He'll just think Jay and I are heading for bed."

"Right." She whisked from the room.

I turned to Jay, who had got up and was peering out the
small window. "What in the world do you think is going on?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be so damned literal. Neither do I."

"It could be anything from somebody with a bout of
indigestion—"

"To another murder?"

He turned back, his eyes still dilated from looking into the
night. "You said the word." He blinked and perched on the end of the
kitchen table.

The telephone shrilled twice as Irish phones do.

Since Jay was closer, he answered it. "Speaking. Yes, about
half an hour ago. We saw the ambulance."

I leaned against the arch, watching him. The phone quacked.
Downstairs the toilet flushed, and I heard water running.

"She's still here. Has something happened?" His shoulders
stiffened. "I see, yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry to hear it. We'll wait for
you." He hung up slowly.

"What is it?"

We went back to the kitchen.

"What happened?" I repeated. "Tell me."

Jay's face was grave and his eyes dark and watchful. "That
was—"

Maeve appeared in the door arch so abruptly both of us
jumped. She was carrying her flats. "I heard the telephone."

Jay said, "It was Sergeant Kennedy. Kayla Wheeler is
dead."

I drew a sharp breath. Maeve's eyes widened. "How—?"

"He didn't supply details."

Maeve gave an exasperated cluck.

"He's not supposed to, Maeve."

"Terribly correct of him," Maeve said sweetly. "Terribly
correct of you." She plunked her shoes on the floor and scuffed into
them.

"I don't think Miss Wheeler died of natural causes," Jay said
wryly. "Kennedy wants to question you—"

"Question me? Whatever for? I barely knew the woman."
Spots of indignation burnt on her cheeks.

"You went into Stanyon Hall this evening, remember?"

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Are you saying she was dead
then?"

Jay shook his head. "I don't know anything, Maeve. I'm
guessing he wants you to describe what you saw."

Maeve kept her eyes on his. After a moment, she gulped and
nodded. "All right. I'll stay, of course."

"He said it won't be long. Chief Inspector Mahon is there
already—"

"From Dublin?" I interjected, surprised at the speedy
response.

"Mahon and his team stayed in Arklow last night," Jay
explained. "Mahon wants Kennedy to take Maeve's statement as
soon as possible."

I said softly, "I wonder where Toss Tierney was this
evening?"

Maeve looked from me to Jay.

He said, "I don't know about Toss, but if Tommy Tierney
was in England and can prove it, he's going to look less like suspect
number one in the first murder."

"And Mahon will start investigating the Stonehall people in a
serious way," I mused.

"Alex and Barbara?" Maeve sat with a thud. "That's daft!
They wouldn't harm anyone, certainly not a guest."

Jay was frowning. He didn't speak. I knew what he was
thinking, because I had heard the sermon before. Under the right
circumstances, anybody can kill. It is a theory I still cannot accept.
My father would not kill under any circumstances.

I groped for conversation. "Was there local resistance to
Stonehall?"

Maeve frowned. "There was local rejoicing."

"That may be." I remembered Liam's comic turn about
smoking. "But foreign companies impose foreign values, even when
they don't intend to interfere."

Maeve thought. "There's always talk in the pubs, mostly hot
air. The usual bigots made anti-semitic remarks about the Steins, but
most people wanted Stonehall to succeed, even to expand."

"Jobs," Jay said.

Maeve leaved forward, earnest. "To be sure. If the younger
people can't find work, they emigrate. The old pattern. We're still
losing population. Of course, emigration's not the wrenching
experience it once was. Families used to hold wakes for people who
were leaving for America."

I cleared my throat. "They can fly home now."

She nodded. "For holidays and funerals and weddings. Still,
it's hard on their families. Every sensible person wished Stonehall
well. It wasn't until the war games started that there were serious
grumblings." She ran a hand through her hair. "At least that's what
my father says. In term time I live in Dublin, so I'm not necessarily up
on the local gossip."

The gravel outside crunched, and a car door slammed.

I opened the front door. "Come in, Joe."

Kennedy entered. He looked as if he had spent a sleepless
night and a long day.

He nodded to me, unsmiling, and shook hands with Jay. The
fading bruise stood out on his cheek.

Maeve raised her chin. "I'm given to understand the
inspector wants you to interrogate me."

Kennedy's mouth compressed. "Briefly."

"A sorry business," Jay muttered. I stared at him. He didn't
indulge in obvious remarks, as a rule.

"It is that."

"I thought Kayla was a sad woman," I ventured. "Has Mahon
ruled out suicide?"

"She did not kill herself," Kennedy said with such heavy
conviction I felt ice touch my spine. After a moment, he went on,
"You said sad, Lark. I would have found other words myself. Why
sad?"

The fact of Kayla's death was beginning to sink in. I blinked.
"She seemed lonely, isolated. Maybe self-isolated. And she drank in a
practiced way, as if she were anesthetizing herself."

Maeve made a face. "The woman was a sot. No doubt she
had reasons for being as she was, but, as she was, she was distinctly
repellent."

"A born victim?" Kennedy was cutting her no slack. They
must have had a royal quarrel.

Maeve's cheeks reddened, and she bit her lip.

He set a cassette tape recorder on the table.

Jay said, "Do you want Lark and me to leave?"

Kennedy frowned.

"We can wait in the living room."

He shrugged. "Ah, the devil with it. I'll take Maeve's
statement—without interruption, if you please—then I'd like to talk to
the three of you about the Stanyon mènage. May I beg a cup of
tea, Mrs. Dodge?"

I went to the sink. "You called me Lark a moment ago."

He gave me a rueful smile. "A wee lapse of professionalism.
You induce lapses, missus."