Murder at the Monks' Table (17 page)

For a moment, Jake looked as if he had been punched in the stomach, then a small laugh rattled out of him and soon became a roar. “You are a cheeky one, you are,” he said finally, wiping his eyes.

“Be that as it may,” Mary Helen said, still a bit piqued. “It doesn't answer the question.”

For a few seconds, Jake seemed to be mulling over his answer. “I was not only angry, I was furious when he printed that I was one of the travelers involved in the brawl at the Monks' Table, with no proof and no consequences for his libelous statements.” His eyes were blazing now, and his nostrils flared. “He was a maggot. He deserved to die. And I say, God bless the man who killed him!” The small parlor rang with his rage.

Mary Helen's mouth went dry, but she had another question. She figured she might as well ask it. She might not get another chance.

“And at the gala?” she said. “What were you and the chairman arguing about?”

Jake seemed distracted. He rubbed his eyes. “That was a cruel blow, even for Willie,” he said.

Mary Helen was startled by the sadness in his voice.

“Not enough that he tried to ruin my good name, but word had it that he stuffed the ballot box. I tried to tell Owen, but he'd hear none of it. Willie must have had a hold on Owen.”

Quite a hold,
Mary Helen thought, her heart racing.

“I don't know why, but it rankled him that I won every year. So this year, there were two winners.” He shrugged.

An awkward silence filled the parlor. They had eaten everything on the two plates and drunk all the tea. Suddenly the grandfather clock chimed a melodious four.

“Now, about my photographs,” Jake said. “You said you were interested in bringing one home to America as a gift?”

“Yes,” Mary Helen said. “I know the Sisters I live with at the convent would really love having one of your beautiful photos.”

Jake seemed lost in another world. “Let me think about it,” he said. “When do you leave?”

“Not until Friday,” Mary Helen said.

“And this is Tuesday?” Jake asked, as if he truly did not know.

Eileen and she nodded.

“I'll contact you,” he said, and they were clearly dismissed.

 

 

“That man is as odd as two left shoes,” Eileen whispered on their way to the waiting car. “But surely someone who can capture such beauty can hardly be a murderer, can he?”

“You wouldn't think so,” Mary Helen said, “but unfortunately one does not necessarily rule out the other.”

As Paul drove the two nuns back into the village, Sister Mary Helen was surprised to see Garda Liam O'Dea standing by the side of the road. He looked as if he was waiting for someone.

She was even more surprised when he stepped into the cobblestone street, waving wildly for them to stop.

“What is it, Liam?” Paul asked, rolling down the window.

“It's the American nuns,” Liam said, sticking his head into the cab.

The poor fellow looks as if he's been up all night,
Mary Helen thought, wondering if he had passed on her discovery to his superior and what the detective's reaction had been. She knew he'd warned her to stay out of his business, but it was only natural to be curious. Anyone should understand that.

“Sisters"—he looked directly at Sister Mary Helen-“Detective Inspector White would like to meet you in your mews,” Liam announced.

He was all business, and Mary Helen hesitated to ask him any questions.

“Has something else happened?” Eileen obviously did not share the same hesitation. “You look like death warmed over.”

Liam stiffened. “I am not at liberty to speak for Detective Inspector White,” he said.

“Besides, he probably doesn't know,” Paul mumbled, rolling up his window.

Having sent the driver home, the two nuns sat in the living room of the mews, waiting. An anxious-looking Liam had followed them.

“What is it, Liam?” Mary Helen asked. “Did you tell the inspector what I overheard?”

Liam stiffened. “No,” he said.

“No?” Mary Helen couldn't believe her ears. “May I ask, why not?”

Liam hesitated for a long minute, as if he were gathering up his courage. “Suppose you were mistaken about what you heard,” he said finally. “I'd never forgive myself if … if … if.”

Was he stuttering? Mary Helen tried not to show her annoyance. “I see,” she said. “And just when do you intend to tell him? You know I can't. He made that quite clear.” Was she mistaken, or did the young garda look relieved?

“We'll talk later,” Liam said nervously. “Are you going to tonight's barbeque?”

Mary Helen glanced over at Eileen. “That sounds like fun,” her friend said.

“I'll see you there, then,” Liam said. “Now, I need to tell Detective Inspector White that you've arrived. You'll not have to wait for him long.”

 

 

White was as good as Liam's word, and in just about five minutes they heard a knock on the mews' door.

“Come in, Detective Inspector,” Mary Helen called politely.

As soon as he was comfortably seated, Eileen offered him a cup of tea, which he refused. Mary Helen was glad. She'd drunk so much tea today that she felt as though her back teeth might be floating.

“What can we do for you, Detective Inspector?” she asked.

“I hate to trouble you,” White said, “but I wonder if you two would tell me, once more, about finding the fellow from Dublin in the field.” Then he focused on Sister Mary Helen. “And then about your discovery of Willie Ward in the ladies'?”

Mary Helen sighed and took a deep breath. “I don't know what more I can tell you,” she said.
About that, anyway,
she thought. “But I'll be happy to repeat it if it might help.”

The clean fresh scent of aftershave alerted her that Detective Inspector Brian Reedy had slipped into the room. He joined White on the couch.

With Eileen chiming in here and there, Mary Helen repeated the story of discovering the near-naked Tommy Burns, stumbling on Father Keane, and finally notifying Owen Lynch. It was basically unchanged.

“What was the parish priest doing in the field?” White asked.

“You'll have to ask him,” Mary Helen replied. Then, trying not to visualize the scene in the toilet stall, she retold how she had come upon Willie Ward.

When she had finished, all Detective Inspector White said was, “Thank you, Sister.”

The moment she had closed the front door on the two inspectors, Eileen turned, narrowed her eyes, and put her hands on her hips. “Why didn't you tell him about overhearing Oon-agh Cox and Owen Lynch?”

“For the very reason I told the young garda instead. Detective Inspector White gave me strict orders to stay out of his case.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Eileen asked.

“Besides,” Mary Helen said, ignoring the question, “I want to talk to that young garda first at the barbeque tonight and find out when he intends to inform his superior.”

“Barbeque!” Eileen reached for the Oyster Festival brochure. “It begins at nine p.m.,” she read. “At the Court Hotel.
Craic,
it says—that means ‘lots of fun'—with live music. Shall I give Paul a jingle and ask him to pick us up?”

“Nine o'clock!” Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals on the bridge of her nose. “If you think we'll still be awake at nine o'clock.”

“We will if we take a nap now,” Eileen said, holding the receiver. “Do you feel like taking a little snooze?”

With a yawn, Mary Helen nodded her head. There were some answers she didn't have to think about twice.

 

 

The sound of music and the smell of barbeque greeted Sister Mary Helen and Sister Eileen as Paul Glynn's hackney rolled into the circular driveway of the Court Hotel.

Dropping them off, Paul left to pick up his wife, who, if he was to be believed, never was ready on time for anything. The two nuns joined the crowd milling around the entrance.

“Welcome, Sisters,” Father Keane called out. The priest's gray curly head rose above the crowd standing in the ornate lobby. He was shaking hands and greeting his parishioners by name.

Mary Helen was impressed. He seemed to know everyone—and enough about him or her to carry on some sort of a conversation.

As Eileen returned his greeting, Mary Helen caught herself wondering what more, if anything, he did know.

“Tonight's dinner might remind you of home,” Father Keane interrupted her speculation. “Don't you have lots of barbeques out west?” he asked.

Mary Helen smiled, thinking of the last barbeque the nuns had in San Francisco. With dripping fog rolling in from the Golden Gate and the drone of foghorns in the distance, anyone with an ounce of sense brought their meal indoors.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. There was no reason to dispel his illusion.

“Ah, Sisters, welcome to the Oyster Festival Barbeque.” Owen Lynch, a frozen smile on his drawn face, ushered them into a large room that had no trouble serving as a ballroom. A bar was set up against one wall, with creamy pints of Guinness and lager waiting to be drunk. Against another wall, barbequed
seafood, grilled tomatoes, butter, soda bread, jam, clam chowder, oysters, and an array of desserts filled a table. The everpresent tea occupied a place of honor at the table's end.

“Help yourself,” the chairman said. “More hot barbeque will be off the grill in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Mary Helen said, fighting down the urge to ask him how he could betray his lovely wife. She deliberately avoided looking at the man, afraid that the expression on her face might give away what she'd overheard.

The large room was filling quickly. A dance floor had been set up in one corner, and the band was beginning to play something that sounded very much like Glenn Miller's “In the Mood.”

Couples filled the wooden floor. Most were content to do the fox-trot. Despite the crowd, there were a few brave souls who attempted to jitterbug.

Sister Mary Helen scanned the room wondering when, if ever, she would have the chance to talk to Garda O'Dea. She saw that Carmel had arrived, looking lovely, as usual, in a filmy lavender dress of the softest toile. But there was no Liam. Had something come up? Had he decided, maybe, to tell Detective Inspector White tonight about what she'd overheard and not wait until tomorrow?

She was so deep in her own stewing juice that she didn't hear the young man come up behind her. In fact, when he said her name, she jumped, and for several seconds her heart beat like a jackhammer.

“If I had a heart, I'd be dead,” she managed to say, finally. But Liam had no time for humor.

“Follow me into the lobby,” he whispered. “I'll meet you by the hotel telephone"—he checked his wristwatch—”in five minutes.”

Five minutes later, having explained to Eileen where she
was going, Mary Helen came face-to-red-ruddy-face with Liam O'Dea. He smelled of sporty aftershave lotion, which was possibly why his face was fire-engine red.