Malarkey (7 page)

Dad's face brightened. "Of course. Tracy did a paper on
Elizabeth Cady Stanton."

Barbara ushered in a thirtyish woman who had the spare
elegance of a greyhound. She was tailed by Sgt. Kennedy. He was not
in uniform.

Alex took a startled step forward.

The aristocratic lady smiled at him. "Hullo, Alex. I brought
Joe to even your numbers. I knew you wouldn't mind."

Alex swallowed visibly but shook hands with the sergeant,
who listened to his escort's graceful apology with the bland
expression I had learned to distrust.

Barbara looked grim. "You know George and Lark already,
Joe, so I'll introduce Maeve. Maeve Butler, our favorite history
professor, George Dailey, and his daughter, Lark."

Maeve held out a long, aristocratic hand, first to me, then to
Dad. "A pleasure. I read your article on cotton smuggling through
Liverpool and the western ports, Professor Dailey. Very solid."

"The one in
Economic History Review
?"

"To be sure. I'll look forward to your work on the
Quakers."

"I'm not certain where it's leading," Dad murmured. A
becoming flush tinged his cheekbones. My father is the most modest
of men, but scholarly ego is a wonderful thing. I left him to feed it and
turned to Sgt. Kennedy.

"Alex tells me the coroner is going to sit on Mr. Wheeler—is
that the correct terminology?"

He took a glass of wine from Alex. "Thanks. Strange you
should mention that, Mrs. Dodge."

"Oh, do call me Lark."

He set his wineglass on an end table and withdrew a slim
manila envelope from the breast pocket of his heathery gray tweed
jacket. He looked good in tweed. He handed me the envelope.

I fingered the paper. "What is it?"

"A subpoena."

"What!"

"For the inquest. It's set for Monday morning." He glanced
over where Dad was having a reunion with a young person, probably
Tracy Aspin. Two men had come in, too. I wondered which of them
was Mike Novak, the man I had spoken to on the telephone. Alex
poured wine. An unmuffled engine sounded in the distance.

"... and I thought the old gentleman might prefer not to
testify." Kennedy was frowning at me, intent.

I drew a long breath. "Thank you for that. Since I found the
body, I'll
have
to testify. I should have thought of it."

"Routine," he murmured.

"Did you wangle the invitation tonight in order to slip me
this little party favor on the sly?"

He picked up his wine glass. "I'm, how d'ye say it, socially
challenged?"

I spluttered into my wine. "No, you are not. You're socially
slinky."

"Sure, I could have had me sister Connie serve it to you with
your breakfast." He drooped over the wine, melancholy.

"The whole family is playboys entirely."

His teeth flashed in a grin.

It was a long time since I had read
The Playboy of the
Western World,
so I gave up mangling the idiom. "Have you
found Mr. Tierney?"

"Toss? He'll turn up like a bad penny." Kennedy sipped. "I
spent the day at St. Malachy's, that's the high school, talking to lads
with attitude. 'Twas wearing. Maeve took pity on me."

Outside, the engine—motorcycle, I thought absently—neared
and stopped. There were few noises other than birdsong in the Irish
countryside. The mechanical sound was almost comforting.

Possibly the archaeologist heard her name. She detached
herself from a low-voiced conversation with the Steins, strolled over,
wine glass in hand, and took Kennedy's arm in a way that was not
quite possessive. "I'm peckish, Joe. I deduce we're waiting for Miss
Wheeler. Roast lamb or chicken, Miss Dailey? What odds? The
Stanyon cook is temperamental and quite splendid."

I was about to explain that I had been Mrs. Dodge for a
number of years when the doorbell rang. Alex and Barbara
exchanged looks. Barbara shrugged and slipped from the room.

Maeve Butler's long mouth quirked at the corners. "Poor
darlings, they're besieged."

"Isn't it the stroke of good fortune they've a castle to hole up
in?" the sergeant said. "Now, Maeve, I explained that Professor
Dailey's daughter is a married lady."

"Oh God," I blurted. "I forgot to call my husband."

Both of them looked at me with expressions of benign
concern.

"You can't go in there!" Barbara's voice rang sharp.

The drone of conversation stilled, and we all turned to the
door to the hall.

A young woman, blonde and rather short, pushed into the
room. A man in black leathers had slunk in behind her, followed, like
a worried terrier, by Barbara Stein. The blonde swept us all with a
scornful glance. "Where is she then? Where's Miss Wheeler?"

"In her room, Grace. I'm won't have her disturbed."
Barbara's tone was cold but indignation reddened her cheeks.

The young woman's eyes flashed. "Sure, and why not? I've
every right to disturb the grand Miss Fucking Wheeler." She said
fooking
. "I'm Slade's woman, aren't I, and I'm carrying his
child."

And I hope that the next generation
Will
resemble old Rosin the Beau.

Irish song

"Grace!" One of the men—Alex or Novak or McDiarmuid—
said the name in a choked voice. My father and Tracy Aspin broke off
their conversation. The Steins froze where they stood.

Grace Flynn—I recalled the full name of Wheeler's girl-
friend—looked defiant but embarrassed. Her face flushed, and she
kept her chin up and her eyes wide open. If she hadn't been trying to
project another image, I would have said she looked cute. Her escort,
who was not cute, slunk after her.

I heard Maeve draw a startled breath and felt, rather than
saw, Joe Kennedy move beside her. The rest of us shifted from foot to
foot and gawked. Whatever Grace's object may have been, and it was,
at least in part, dramatic, she certainly had our attention.

As for me, I felt as if someone had hit me in the stomach, and
I remembered, again, that I had not called Jay.

For several years I had been trying to have a baby. Both Jay
and I had undergone every possible fertility test with the result that
we knew his sperm count—so-so—and my basal temperature—
unreliable. I had read articles about women who failed to conceive
because they postponed childbearing beyond the optimal years.
There was some disagreement as to what those years were, but
Grace Flynn was clearly more optimal than I.

I had finally conceived a child the previous April. Six weeks
later I miscarried. It was all very well for the doctors to assure me
that spontaneous abortions were common in mothers of a certain
age. I was not consoled. My grief and fury extended well into
summer, until Dad's stroke jolted me out of my self-absorption.

Jay had borne with me. I realized I ought to be grateful, but
what I felt was a kind of shamefaced resentment. Hence my desire to
escape. Hence my flight to Ireland. And here was the fecund Miss
Flynn confronting me with my inadequacy.

"The poor child," Maeve murmured.

My cheeks burned as if she had heard my selfish
reaction.

"Do something, Joe."

Kennedy cleared his throat. "Gracie darling, should you be
riding on a motorcycle in your condition?"

"Joe!" Maeve's tone was stern.

"Come and sit down, lass." Kennedy walked across the long
room to Grace and led her back to the couch. She looked less
dramatic sitting down. The leather-clad man, who was younger than
I had thought at first glance, circled and stood behind the couch. His
eyes kept darting around the room like a cornered animal's.

Alex hovered at Kennedy's elbow. "I'll get her a drink, shall
I?"

"Juice or water," Kennedy pronounced. "We can't have the
baby suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome." He said babby.

Grace blinked. She looked as if she wanted to protest.

Alex brought her something fruity. She took it and sat with
the glass balanced on one bejeaned knee.

"That's the ticket," Kennedy said kindly. "Now, Grace, why
don't you tell us what it was moved you to burst in here without an
invitation?"

"I want me rights." She took a swallow from the glass and
made a face.

"And who is trying to deprive you of them?"

Grace muttered dark aspersions against Kayla Wheeler.

Kennedy straightened. "Ah, I see. You're concerned for your
child's rights in the estate of Slade Wheeler."

Grace nodded.

"His Dublin solicitor doesn't know of a will. If he died
intestate, the child stands to come into a share of his property. Time
for the lawyers, lass. Isn't it grand that it's so easy to establish
paternity these days? I'll alert the doctors..." His voice trailed.

Possibly he decided taking tissue from a dead man for
genetic analysis was an indelicate subject in the presence of the dead
man's putative child. Or he may have wanted to work on our
imaginations—and Grace's.

Grace's eyes widened and she shifted on the couch. Her
bodyguard stared. Somebody gave a choked laugh. Maeve
frowned.

I wondered if Grace was sure who the child's father was. She
looked alarmed. Of course, she might have been puzzling over the
word intestate. I hoped she had some instinct for self-preservation,
because she had just handed the Gardai a motive for murder.

Kennedy was saying soothing things. He expressed no doubt
that the child was Wheeler's. "You'll want to talk the legal situation
over with your da, Gracie."

"He'll kill me."

"Does he know you're with child?" Maeve interjected,
sharp.

Grace shook her head, and her eyes brimmed tears.

Barbara took a step forward. I edged toward the couch, too.
Both of us, I think, were moved by an impulse of protection, but it
was Maeve who expressed it.

"I'll come home with you, Grace. So will Joe, if you think that
will help. And you should ring up Caitlin Morrisey in Arklow."

"The solicitor?" Grace looked awed.

Maeve said, "Shall I telephone her for you?"

"Oh, please, Miss Butler, I'm that upset I don't know what I'd
say to a lawyer at all." She burst into tears.

Maeve sat beside her and held her quivering shoulders.
Grace's henchman looked as if he would have burst into tears too, if
he hadn't been covered with leather and tattoos. They were just kids,
and Grace, at least, had suffered a loss, though I had to wonder at the
depth of her grief for Wheeler if her mind was on property
rights.

It occurred to me that Wheeler had probably owned shares
in the company, and I remembered what my father had said of
Stonehall Enterprises. On the verge of bankruptcy, the Steins had
brought in another investor, an idea man. If that investor was Slade
Wheeler, Wheeler's interest in the company had to have been
substantial.

When Grace's sobs began to subside, Kennedy jerked his
head toward the open door. "Hop it, Artie. We'll take Grace
home."

Artie slunk out. We heard the motorcycle cough to life and
roar off.

Maeve helped Grace to her feet, made an imperious gesture
to her own escort, and led the girl toward the door. Kennedy
followed without protest.

As they passed her, Barbara said, "We'll wait dinner for you,
Maeve."

Maeve frowned. "We'll be some time."

"That's okay." Barbara's intense brown eyes glinted. "I want
to know Grace will be all right. And whether she needs money for a
solicitor."

Maeve smiled. "Very well. Thanks. I'll phone if we're running
too late."

Grace's departure, with Maeve holding one arm and
Kennedy the other, let loose a burst of conversation. I moved to my
father's side.

He looked well enough, if a trifle distracted. "Ah, Lark, do
you remember Tracy Aspin?"

I admitted I didn't, and he introduced us. Tracy offered her
hand and shook briskly. Crisp and cheerful, she wore her hair in a
short crop that suggested an eye for style as well as
convenience.

"Gosh, what a scene!" Tracy's shrewd hazel stare was bright
with interest. "I didn't know Slade had it in him."

The dark man at her elbow gave a snort of amusement. "You
can say that again. I'm Mike Novak, by the way. Sorry I yelled at you
over the phone yesterday, Mrs. Dodge. We had a crisis. We always
have crises, though maybe not so many now Wheeler's out of the
picture." He had the wisp of a beard and a malicious glint in his
eyes.

"Mike!" Tracy made a face at him, and so did Barbara.

He flushed. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to pretend I liked
Slade. He was a jerk."

Alex said, "He understood fiscal responsibility."

"And I don't?"

"No," Barbara said without heat. "You don't. Nobody expects
you to."

"What do you mean nobody? Slade was always in my face.
The sucker counted my fucking paper clips."

The quiet man standing beside him sipped red wine.
"Wheeler was a boor and a bully, friends." He raised the glass and
took another swallow. "Bad cess to him." He was Irish in his speech.
Liam McDiarmuid, I deduced, though nobody introduced us. He was
older than Novak and the Steins, in his mid-thirties, perhaps. I
thought it was he who had said Grace's name.

Tracy said, "He didn't understand artists."

"He didn't understand people," McDiarmuid shot back. As if
he had spoken with too much heat, he added in milder tones, "That
business about smoking in the workroom, now."

"Smoking is an unhealthy habit," Barbara said firmly. "I was
in full agreement with Slade on that point."

McDiarmuid heaved an elaborate sigh. "We know Stonehall
is an American firm, and we know Americans are puritans—"

"Hey!"

"Come on, Lee."

"Puritans?"

His mouth twitched at the corners. "Puritans," he repeated.
"Sure, it's a wonder you allow demon rum in the house, leave alone
the vile weed. It could be worse. If you were Japanese, I daresay we'd
have to do physical jerks on the parapet first thing in the
morning."