Scandal in Skibbereen (24 page)

Gillian smiled, then said, “Is there even a computer in the house, Harry?”

“Not that I know about,” he replied.

“What if it was Seamus who was hunting for the painting?” Before anyone could protest, Gillian added, “No, I’m not pretending that Seamus knew anything about old art, but he could have been persuaded to look by someone else. After all, Seamus had the access, didn’t he?”

“But how would he have known what he was looking for?” Harry asked. “He was a nice fellow, but we all know he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“Maybe someone showed him a photo of something similar,” Gillian countered. “You know, like the one we had.”

Everyone turned to look at Althea, who held up her hands. “Hey, not me. I wasn’t going to go spreading any photos around until I knew I had the right place. And I never even met Seamus, remember?”

“You arrived in Leap before his death, and you went to the manor,” Sean reminded her.

“But why would I kill him if he hadn’t finished his job and found the picture?” Althea protested. “It had to be someone else. It’s your job to find him.”

“What about whoever Tom O’Brien shot at on Monday night?” Maura asked. “If Tom wasn’t shooting at a dog or a fox, and he says it wasn’t.”

Sean turned to look at her. “You’ve spoken with him?”

“He came into the pub yesterday, so I asked him about it. He said it was definitely a man, not a dog.”

Sean wasn’t happy about this last revelation. “Look, you lot, I’m getting a bit put out that you keep giving me bits of information when you think you’re ready. Let’s be straight about it: Is any one of you suggesting that Eveline Townsend killed Seamus Daly? Or has knowledge of his death?”

His question was met with silence, even from Harry, who looked bewildered at the turn of the conversation.

“What about the O’Briens?” Sean demanded. “Does any of you have reason to believe that they know something they haven’t said?” He glanced quickly at Maura, but she had nothing to add.

More silence.

Sean continued, “Maura here has told me that no one had visited the library at the manor or the painting until you three this past week. Is that correct?”

When Gillian and Harry turned to Maura, she said, “I told him about the dust.”

Sean ignored Maura’s interruption. “Does any of you have reason to believe that Eveline Townsend knows anything about that painting?”

“I couldn’t say,” Harry said. “I haven’t discussed it with her. She may think it’s just another old canvas hanging on the wall, if she thinks of it at all. I mean, for her it’s just part of the decor, as it always has been.”

“But, Harry, she
may
know something about the sketch that’s now in New York, right?” Maura said. “Shouldn’t we find out? Ask her?”

Sean Murphy shut his notebook with a crisp snap. “I’m sorry, Maura, but I still can’t see my way to connecting this old painting and the death of Seamus Daly. I thank you for the information you’ve provided, but I need to get back to the station now. I’ll have to remind the superintendent that no one has spoken directly to Eveline Townsend and that it is my opinion that someone should, officially.”

“Sean, would you get into any trouble if we went ahead and talked to Eveline about the paintings?” Maura asked.

“Only if she turns out to be a murderer,” he said, and Maura wasn’t sure if he was joking. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Althea demanded when he was gone.

“You want to talk to Eveline with the rest of us?” Harry asked, looking pained.

“If I promise to be nice? If I apologize six ways from Sunday for embarrassing her and making a fool of myself? Please?” Althea pleaded. “Look, either she knows about the painting or she doesn’t, and so far nobody’s asked her. Right?”

“I guess that’s true,” Gillian said.

“And you can ask about the painting without asking about Seamus’s death, right? So we’re not messing with the police investigation.”

“I’m less sure of that,” Harry said, looking troubled. “We have no proof that the two are connected, but the reality of it is, Mycroft House was a very peaceful place until you came poking your nose in last week, Althea.”

R
ose cleared the empty coffee cups from the table, leaving Maura, Althea, Gillian, and Harry sitting there in a funk. Customers were beginning to drift into the pub, Maura noted. Soon she’d have to get back to work. “What now?” she asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’m still trying to make sense of all this. Seamus Daly is dead, and nobody knows why. It may or may not have something to do with a painting that could be worth millions that’s been hanging in the library for three hundred years collecting dust. And you three seem to think Aunt Eveline might know something that would help sort all this out.”

“That’s about it,” Althea said. Her mood seemed to have improved. “Can we go talk to her now?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Not now. I want to think this through. I want to have a word first with the O’Briens and with Aunt Evie. You can talk with her in the morning.” Harry looked straight at Althea. “Don’t nag. You’ll get your chance, but not yet.”

“How much will you tell her?” Gillian asked.

Harry turned to Gillian. “I haven’t decided. I’ve come to realize that I’m not sure myself what her mental state is. You may be right to think that seeing more people would be a good thing for her. Maybe I’ve just taken the easiest path, leaving her to the O’Briens’ care, but that may not be what’s best for her. Thank you.”

“For what?” Gillian asked, surprised.

“For making me see it. I could have been around more, but I do have a job to keep. God knows, if this painting is worth what you say it is, it would make a world of difference, but I’m not counting the euros just yet.”

“What about the little painting that started all this?” asked Maura. “If it was stolen in the forties, are you going to want it back? It’s going to be worth something too.”

Harry was shaking his head. “I don’t know. The woman who has it now, she did nothing wrong, if Jane’s sister is to be believed—and would a nun lie? But the woman in America doesn’t know any of this—what we’ve found out—does she, Althea? What do you think her expectations are?”

Althea shook her head. “As of this minute, Dorothy has no expectations of anything. Nate and I were both careful not to commit to anything, and she was so boggled by what she was hearing that I doubt she took in much of it anyway. I certainly never told her that I was going to Ireland. I don’t know what Nate told her. But you do realize, if what Sister Benedicta said is true, that makes Dorothy a cousin of some sort to you, Harry, so it’s still in the family.”

Harry stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to get out of here—I’m going home. I’ll speak to Aunt Evie and if she’s willing, we can all meet with her in the morning—say, ten? Does that suit all of you?”

Althea looked frustrated at yet more delays. Gillian said, “Call my mobile and let us know.”

“You want me there?” Maura asked.

“Of course we do,” Gillian said before Harry could respond. “You know as much about all this as any of us.”

“In the morning, then.” And Harry turned and left. Gillian watched him go, and once again Maura wondered just what their relationship was—or what Gillian wanted it to be.

“Shall we meet here, Maura?” Gillian said. “Althea, I can pick you up, or you can meet us here and we’ll go together.”

“Still want to keep an eye on me, huh?” Althea said. “I’ll meet you here, just before ten o’clock.” She stood up quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After Althea left, Maura turned to Gillian. “Where do you think she’s going?”

Gillian sighed. “Who knows? Chasing after Harry? Meeting with her accomplice to get their stories straight? Looking for thugs to help her steal the painting tonight? Or maybe she’s just going to go stew at her hotel.”

“You really think she’s working with somebody? Like Nate, maybe? It would make sense—she gets the glory of discovering the painting, and when the exhibit is over, Nate sells it at the auction house for big bucks. Everybody wins.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Gillian agreed. “But as you may have noticed, Althea doesn’t play well with others. She likes to be in control. She wanted to be the one to find the thing, which is why she kept the trip to Ireland a secret from Nate rather than sharing the work. And the credit.”

“I know what you mean,” Maura said, laughing.

Gillian turned in her chair to face Maura. “You know, Maura, Althea may not think so, but this discovery is as much your doing as hers. More, even. I doubt she’d have gotten this far without all your help.”

“It’s Old Billy who has pointed us in the right direction. I can’t believe people around here remember things that happened that long ago.”

“But from what I’ve seen, you’ve made Old Billy a friend. There are those who would’ve thrown him out as a nuisance.”

“I wouldn’t do that. He’s a part of the place.”

“You haven’t changed much here. Are you not planning to stay on?”

“I haven’t decided. It’s not like I had any plans when I got here, but I’m not in any hurry to leave. I still don’t know if I can keep the business going, so I figured I’d better see what the summer season was like. I mean, I own the building and the license, but I’ve still got to pay salaries, even if they are pathetic. I kind of feel like I owe Jimmy and Rose something, and I know jobs around here are hard to find.”

“And Mick?”

“To tell the truth, I don’t know why he stays around, except for his grannie. Couldn’t he be doing something else, something better than tending bar part-time? Actually, I’d like to stick around long enough to see Rose find something she wants to do, beyond looking after her father. I want her to have some choices, at least. What about you? From what you’ve said, you shuttle between here and Dublin. Is that working for you?”

“Ah, Maura, you’re very American. You think I should have a career plan laid out?”

“Ha! Hardly. I mean, I sure don’t, and even if I had, running a pub in Ireland wasn’t on the list. I’m just going with the flow and seeing what happens. But that’s me. You’ve got talent—Althea sees it, and she should know. You want to do anything more with it?”

“Maura, I’m happy enough, and I get by—when my work doesn’t sell in Dublin, I pick up a little extra waiting tables or the like. Summers, this is home to me. It suits me. Shall we see about hanging those pictures now?”

Gillian had clearly shut the door on that discussion.

“Sure, let’s,” Maura said. “Then we can see what the customers think.”

Well, at least she’d have new pictures on the walls. The bar itself she hadn’t really touched, because the whole area—behind, above, all sides—was layered with mementos from past visitors from all over. Maybe it wasn’t very clean or tidy, but it sure was interesting. She wondered if there was anybody around who could identify who all the people in the pictures were. Somehow that wouldn’t surprise her.

Maura and Gillian spent a happy half hour shuttling pictures around the room, drawing comments from the patrons. In the end everyone was satisfied with the layout—and Gillian had sold another painting—but then they faced the problem of driving nails into the old walls, which took another half hour to work out. They were still at it when Mick came in a bit after six.

He stopped in the doorway to take a critical look. “Looks grand,” he said. “Livens up the old place, doesn’t it?” He came around the bar, where Maura was working the taps, and she saw Gillian slip out the door with a wave.

“You missed the party earlier,” Maura told Mick. “We had Harry and Althea here too, and Sean.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that lot, haven’t yeh, Maura?” he asked quietly.

“Why?” Maura shot back, suddenly defensive. “You think I’m not pulling my weight here at Sullivan’s?”

“Nothing like that. But Harry’s never been so fond of this place, nor has Gillian. Is there something more going on? Care to fill me in?”

Maura wasn’t sure how much Mick had overheard over the past few days, but she suspected it was quite a bit, and they hadn’t exactly been trying to keep things quiet. Still, she wasn’t in the mood to explain the whole mess. “I’m not sure who would have been fond of the place, under Old Mick. I doubt Dublin Harry would have felt exactly at home here.”

Mick looked at her quizzically for a long moment but didn’t press. “Point taken.” He distributed a few of the pints that Maura had poured to waiting customers, then came back and picked up the conversation. “He thinks he’s too good for the likes of us,” he said.

“What, you mean all that class stuff again?” Maura asked.

“Just a bit. Not so much with the younger crowd, but some of the older ones remember when it mattered. The Townsends have been lording it over Leap for centuries.”

“Well, now they’re down on their luck and hanging on by their fingernails. But now that I’ve spent some time with him, I don’t think that’s Harry’s attitude—it’s just that his head is somewhere else, like Dublin. He doesn’t live here, and when he’s here, it’s only for his aunt Eveline, right? How’s that different from the relationship between you and Bridget?”

Mick shrugged, concentrating on washing more glasses. Finally he said, “Maybe it’s not, but the old ways die hard. Take the priests, like. They don’t hold half the power they once did, but they still command respect. The old ones, anyway—hardly anyone signs up these days. It’s the end of an era.”

“Who the heck
would
want to become a priest these days?” Maura demanded. “They’ve sure gotten lousy press for a few years now, here and back in Boston. They got away with a lot, for a long time. Why was it nobody said anything when all the bad stuff was going on?”

“Because priests used to have the power. Now we’ve all seen that they’re human and far from perfect.”

Sister Benedicta had been a nun through those days, when priests could do no wrong—of if they did, no one talked about it. What had she known? That was a question Maura didn’t plan to ask. “Too many secrets,” she muttered and turned her attention to her job.

• • •

T
he following morning Maura walked over to Bridget Nolan’s cottage earlier than usual and didn’t find her outside yet, so she rapped on the door then waited patiently while Bridget, uttering encouraging comments about her progress along the way, made her slow way to open it. When the door opened, Maura said, “I’m not too early, am I?”

“Of course not, unless you were wanting a bit of bread, for it’s still in the oven. Come in, come in. What did you make of your visit to the nunnery?”

“It was kind of odd, being there. It was so quiet and so empty. Not a lot of new nuns coming along anymore.”

“That may be. Did you speak with Sister Benedicta?”

“We did, all of us. You were right, of course, that there was something going on with Jane at the manor. Did you know about it?”

“About the baby? I did, although it was none of my business, and I didn’t speak of it to anyone else. But people knew, even if they kept silent.”

“Why didn’t you just tell us and save us all a trip?”

“That kind of story shouldn’t come from someone who wasn’t part of the family. And I thought Sister Benedicta would be glad of the visit. They’re easily forgotten these days, the nuns.”

“I know what you’re saying. I didn’t mean to complain. The whole place was kind of cool, and sad at the same time. So Jane Deasy got pregnant and had to leave the village?”

“She could have stayed, but there were those around here who would have looked down on her, her and the little one. Now, I’m told, things are very different.”

“In some ways.” Maura thought of the girls she’d gone to high school with, more than one of whom had a toddler at home by the time she got her diploma. It wasn’t always easy for them, but it happened a lot.

“What will you do now?” Bridget’s question interrupted Maura’s thoughts.

“We’ll go talk to Miss Eveline, see what she knew back then. At least, that was the plan yesterday.”

“Would it not be better to leave things be?” Bridget said gently.

“To spare Eveline’s feelings? Maybe. But we really want to work out the story of those two paintings, and I’ve got to think that Seamus Daly’s death may be connected somehow, even if the gardaí don’t. The only way to figure out what happened, I think, is to know who knew what when. Everyone says Seamus was kind of . . . slow, wasn’t he?”