Murder at the Monks' Table (3 page)

“A fix for the Oyster Queen?” Eileen's gray eyebrows shot up. “You can't mean it!”

“Some say that Carmel Cox should have been chosen. There is Carmel over there.” Paul inclined his head toward a lovely young woman with fair skin, large blue eyes, and a full head of curly auburn hair.

“She's beautiful,” Mary Helen said. “They are both beautiful. If the queen was picked for her looks alone, it would have been difficult to choose.”

“Right you are, but the word is that Zoë had the chairman's ear.”

“Who is the chairman?” Mary Helen asked.

“Owen Lynch.” Paul indicated the man with horn-rimmed glasses standing near the platform.

Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals. “Who's that next to him?”

Paul strained to see. “The fellow in the tweed cap? That's Willie Ward. Works for the local rag as a reporter, of sorts. If you ask me, he's nothing but a second-rate gossipmonger. Although he takes himself quite seriously.”

Mary Helen studied the man. It was hard to tell with his cap on, but she could almost swear he was the man she'd seen
having dinner with Zoë O'Dea last night. Today he carried a long narrow notebook and seemed to jot down notes as he listened.

“And the woman who just joined them,” Paul said, anticipating Mary Helen's question, “is Owen's wife, Patsy Lynch—Patsy Sweeney, she was. Lucky devil.”

“How so?” Eileen asked.

“Patsy is an only child. With Patsy comes a garage in Oranmore.”

“What we call a car dealership,” Eileen explained.

Mary Helen strained for a better look. Patsy was a large-boned woman with thick graying hair drawn back and held with a tortoiseshell clip. She was attractive in a clean, out-doorsy sort of way. Flanking her were twin girls of about ten or eleven years of age. They were dressed in Irish dancing costumes of a bright royal purple and trimmed with pink. They had inherited their mother's large frame and apparently their father's bad eyesight, for both of them wore horn-rimmed glasses.

By this time the sky had clouded over, and a brisk wind rattled the leaves on the trees and blew over the display of photographs.

“Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please.” The voice of the master of ceremonies echoed from the loudspeaker. “The sun seems to be deserting us, but before it does, may I present the pride of our village, our prizewinning girls' dance team.”

Amid clapping and cheering, sixteen young girls, including the Lynch twins, spilled onto the dance floor that was set up below the stage. The band filled the green with music and the youngsters whirled and twirled and leapt and kicked as the audience clapped in time.

A second set had nearly finished when the heavens opened,
sending everyone, including the squealing dancers, scurrying for shelter.

“What now?” Mary Helen asked as she and Eileen took refuge under a beech tree.

“If it doesn't let up in a few minutes, I'd suggest it's back to the Monks' Table for more soup.”

 

 

When they pulled back the door of the pub, the two nuns realized theirs was not an original idea. The place was quickly filling.

Following the waitress to a table, Mary Helen realized how large the Monks' Table really was. More rooms were vacant beyond where they had been seated last night. There were several fireplaces, all roaring, and a potbelly stove was lit. The warmth felt good on the wet afternoon.

Passing a small alcove, Mary Helen noticed the queen's mother already seated. She was with another man, probably Tara's father. What had Paul said when they'd met the hearse on their way into town—that her da was the undertaker?

Mary Helen smiled at Mrs. O'Dea as she passed. But the woman stared straight ahead, pretending not to see her.
Talk about getting off on the wrong foot,
she thought.

Or maybe she was imagining it, since Eileen didn't seem to notice any coldness. “Hello, there, Mr. O'Dea,” Eileen said, stopping at the table. “What a lovely girl you have.” She smiled. “You must be very proud.”

As Mr. O'Dea struggled to get up, Eileen introduced Sister Mary Helen. “Mr. O'Dea gave my sister a lovely send-off,” she said.

“No more than she deserved,” Mr. O'Dea mumbled, then introduced his wife.

“We've met,” Mrs. O'Dea said with a thin smile.

“I didn't realize you knew that woman,” Mary Helen said when the two were seated in another wing of the restaurant.

“First I saw her was when you saw her last night. When she said we'd met, she must have meant just now at the village market. I don't know her. It's her husband I dealt with, and he was kindness itself.” Suddenly Eileen's eyes filled up, and Mary Helen thought it best to drop the subject.

 

 

The village folks were still pouring into the Monks' Table when the nuns rose to leave.

“How about a little nap?” Eileen suggested, her eyes red. “We have a big night tonight and you look tired.”

“And what is that?” Mary Helen asked, stifling a yawn. She checked her wristwatch. They must just be getting up in San Francisco.

“It's a wine and cheese tasting,” Eileen explained, “and they'll be announcing the winner of the Irish soda bread baking contest.”

“That sounds like fun,” Mary Helen said, following her friend out of the Monks' Table. “Certainly no one can think that is fixed.”

 

 

The wine and cheese tasting was scheduled to begin at eight o'clock. Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen were among the first to arrive. The nap had been a good idea. Mary Helen was beginning to feel more like her old self.

She surveyed the large hall into which they were ushered. Amazingly, it was built onto the back of the Monks' Table and was set up as though someone planned to give a lecture.

Each participant received a plastic wineglass and an emerald green paper napkin and was moved quickly to a seat.

“How many people do you think they are expecting?” Mary Helen asked.

“I'd guess there are about one hundred chairs,” Eileen said.

Mary Helen jumped as a disc jockey blasted the room with a lively reel. “Sorry, ladies,” he said sheepishly, and he adjusted the volume.

Mary Helen looked around. Surprisingly, there were just ladies present, so far anyway. That is, unless you counted the disc jockey and the two men in the front of the hall, plus Owen Lynch, the chairman of the event.

There was a little stir when Queen Tara arrived in her emerald green costume, her mother right on her heels.

By 8:15 the room was beginning to fill with smartly dressed women who, if the voice volume was any indication, were determined to have a good time.

Finally, about a quarter of nine, when Mary Helen was wondering if it was ever going to start, one of the men who had been standing in front tried to get the group's attention. Most of the women were so busy talking to their friends that they scarcely noticed him.

“May I have your attention, please?” he repeated.

“Good luck,” Eileen said under her breath.

Then, he made the fatal mistake of the inexperienced speaker. He tried to talk above the noise.

From what Mary Helen could make out, the poor man was a wine merchant in Ballyvaugh and his name was John something. Because of the din she was unable to catch the last name. His companion was a cheese expert from a specialty shop in Galway City.

The first wine, a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, was poured and tasted with the accompanying goat-milk cheese. Plates of homemade Irish soda bread were passed down the aisle for anyone who wanted a “blotter.” Mary Helen took
one. From the looks of the wine table, they had several bottles to go.

The audience seemed to quiet down, at least long enough to swallow. Jumping on the unexpected silence, John Wine Merchant quickly had the second wine served and passed around a creamy cheese. The quiet while the women swallowed this time was even shorter.

By the fifth wine, Asti Spumonte, there wasn't even a pause for swallowing. The ladies of Ballyclarin were mildly snookered.

Mr. Lynch, the chairman, didn't seem to know how to get the audience back under control. Interestingly enough, his wife, Patsy, was among the most rambunctious. She was laughing uproariously at something the lady next to her was saying.

In a desperate attempt to restore order, Mr. Lynch took the microphone from the disc jockey. “Ladies,” he said, blinking behind his horn-rimmed glasses, “if I may have your attention, please. It is time to announce the winner of the Irish soda bread baking contest.”

His announcement did make some impression on the group, for the noise level lessened a bit. Taking advantage of the lull, he began, “First of all, I'd like to thank John McDonnell and David Gumbleton for their presentation here tonight.” There was mild clapping for the two gentlemen whom Mary Helen was beginning to think of as heroic.

A high-pitched voice broke through the applause. “Who is Gumbleton? Never heard of her. Did she win the contest?”

“Bridie, turn up your hearing aid,” someone hissed.

“If I may call on Queen Tara O'Dea,” Chairman Lynch ignored the interruption, “to present the award.”

Tara rose from her seat and stood next to Mr. Lynch. She took the envelope he handed her, opened it, and pulled out a
sheet of paper with as much solemnity as if she were presenting an Academy Award.

“The winner is …” She paused, suddenly distracted by some commotion near the entrance to the hall.

Mary Helen turned in time to see Willie Ward enter, his long, thin reporter's notebook in his hand. An angry voice floated in from the outside. “You maggot! You've gone too far this time,” a man called.

Willie smiled sheepishly. “Apparently, Jake doesn't think tearing up the Monks' Table last night was newsworthy,” he said with a snicker.

“I'd be careful about making the tinkers angry,” the woman next to Mary Helen said to no one in particular.

“Can we get on with it?” Bridie's high voice filled the room. “Who won the baking contest?”

“Carmel Cox,” Tara announced, looking relieved to get back to the business at hand.

Owen Lynch scanned the room, waiting for the applause to die down. “Carmel Cox doesn't seem to be with us this evening,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “But I see that her mother, Oonagh, is.”

“Widowed four years now, poor Oonagh,” the woman next to Mary Helen lamented.

Heads turned, searching for Mrs. Cox. A small woman raised her hand. Her daughter resembles her, Mary Helen thought, but living had softened and deepened Oonagh's good looks into genuine beauty.

“Ah, Oonagh, will you see to it that Carmel gets her prize,” the chairman asked.

“Yes, indeed, I will, Owen,” Oonagh said, taking the small package from him. “And in her name I'll say ‘Thank you.' ”

The room began to buzz again as the wine tasters started for home. As Eileen and Mary Helen passed the chairman, they
couldn't help overhearing him say, “I'd be careful if I were you, Willie. Those tinkers can be dangerous if they have a mind to be, especially Jake. He's a trigger temper.”