Winters & Somers (7 page)

            What
really filled him with rage and despair was when that brute Winters had come
into the office, large as life, wanting to talk to one of the agents.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Winters, I think Mr. O'Keefe can
help you out,” Molly O’Flynne, the secretary/receptionist had trilled – yes,
trilled! – as she fawned shamelessly over the writer.

            Frank
had gritted his teeth together and forced himself to paste a pleasant smile on
his face before stepping out from behind his desk to greet the man and accept
his warm, firm handshake. What made it worse was that Frank had the
uncomfortable feeling that Winters was a man he could actually
like
if
he didn’t think he was trying to. … that he and Peggy were….

            He
let out a deep sigh, trying to blot the end of that thought from his mind, and
turned over in bed. But, like a tongue goes back again and again to a sore
tooth, so Frank’s thoughts focused on his troubles.

“I believe your wife is going up to this
conference in Dublin, this library thing?” Winters had said, and Frank had
scrutinized his face for any signs of guilt but it seemed just like a casual
statement. The man must be a consummate actor! The very idea of his trusting,
gentle Peggy getting involved with someone this smooth….

“Well, maybe I’ll see her there – you know, if
you join her for the evening perhaps the two of you could have dinner with me?”
Did Frank imagine a vague sadness in the other man's voice?
Could the famous
writer actually be lonely? Did he actually think they could be friends?

The effrontery of the man!
Standing there in broad daylight, chatting
comfortably, asking for help in contacting his landlord to get some leaking tap
or electrical outlet fixed, handing over the spare key to Frank after Frank
agreed to pass it on to whatever contractor was called in.

            “After
all, I’d really hate the power to surge and blow up my computer!” Winters had
joked as he left the office.

I’d like you to blow up!
Frank thought and was immediately ashamed. But
letting the aggressive feelings out seemed to help, and he fell into a restless
sleep.

            His
last thought before sleep finally claimed him was that the little kernel of an
idea that had taken root in his mind was really a pretty good way of sending a
message to Winters that his type wasn’t wanted around here…

* * *

“Honestly, Ruth, I’m that worried about Frank
that I don’t know where to put my head!” Peggy confided in her friend the next
morning when they met at the grocery mart. “He was tossing and turning all
night long, kept me awake, and muttering and snorting as if he was involved
with the devil in a battle for his very soul!”

            “Maybe
he had a touch of indigestion. Men his age do get it, you know,” Ruth replied,
adding a ‘two for one’ package of laundry powder to her cart.

            “No,
it’s more than that. You know, he brought me roses – red roses – when he came
home from work on Friday night! Do you know how long it’s been since he even
remembered to bring me a bunch of daisies from the garden? “

            “Sounds
like a guilty conscience to me. Usually, when Jerry does something like that it
means he’s agreed for us to go and have dinner at his mother’s,” Ruth said,
plopping bread into both their carts and looking at her friend with a worried
eye. “Did you really want tins of dog food? I didn’t know you’d got another
dog? Or is it for Frank?”

            Peggy
gave a weak laugh. “Lord, No, I thought it was tinned peas.  Ruth, what am I to
do? Do you think it’s a guilty conscience, and over what? Is it something at
work, or is there...could there be someone...no, not my Frank!”

            Seeing
the blood drain from her friend’s face, Ruth pushed both their carts to the
side of the store, nodded to Marie on the nearest check out that they’d be back
for their groceries in a few minutes, and led Peggy off to the small
delicatessen and coffee shop on the concourse.

Pushing her friend down into a seat, Ruth said
firmly: “Now, you listen to me, Peggy O’Keefe. You’re letting this whole thing
get out of hand. Your Frank, up to something? What nonsense! If you’re really
worried about him, take the man out to dinner somewhere quiet and tell him how
you feel, ask him what the problem is. He’s probably dying to confide whatever
it is, but doesn’t want to upset you. He’s always been a protective one, that
one. Remember how long it was before he told you how bad things were with the
farm?”

            Peggy
nodded numbly. Then, taking a deep breath, she pulled herself together. “You’re
right. No point in agonizing, I’ll do what you say. I tell you, though, I’m
really thinking of canceling out on this library conference in Dublin – I don’t
like leaving the man alone for two days!”

            “Ah,
now, Peggy – two days, just you and J.V. Winters in a posh hotel!” Ruth
grinned.

            “Yeah,
me, J.V. Winters, and about 200 other library workers, all drooling…”

            “Well,
I’m jealous, I can tell you…”

Frank O'Keefe's fax was waiting for Cíara when
she arrived at her office on Monday morning. She opened his file and popped the
information in, noting that guests were expected to arrive early that evening
for a reception before the conference started. If she got to the hotel early
she'd be able to scope out the lay of the land – particularly the room
arrangements.

She worked quickly to get her report for the E.
P. Walters Agency neatly typed and courier delivered. The sooner she got rid of
this, the sooner she could put the memory of the disastrous evening out of her
head.

She spent the rest of the morning catching up on
office work and feeling a little nibble of anxiety as she saw her diary was
thin for the rest of the month - a feeling that was alleviated when Joe, one of
Dublin's notorious motorcycle couriers and boyfriend of Cíara's best friend,
Mary Margaret, arrived back from his mission to deliver her report to Walters.
He grinned broadly as he handed her an envelope.

“Had me wait for this, they did – and gave me a
tip. They must value you a lot, girl,” Joe said, helping himself to some of
Cíara's coffee.

“More like they want to get rid of me quickly,”
Cíara replied, “And get your thieving mitts off my coffee!”

“So, how's business going?” he said, perching on
the edge of her desk and taking another swig from the coffee mug before handing
it back. “You know if ever you need any muscle as back up in this detective
business….”

“Eeeurk! You drooled down the side of the cup!”
Cíara wailed, changing the subject. “You know, I really needed that coffee!”

“Well, I'd get you another one, “Joe said
maliciously as he stuffed his fee inside his leather jacket and picked up his
motorcycle helmet, “But I saw your granny heading along the street this way and
I don’t want her to catch me here. She's been driving me crazy with wanting to
come for a ride on me bike!”

“Don't you dare take her!”

“Hell, no – the old lady would have me done for
speeding while she gets her kicks!” And Joe took off down the stairs, his
leather boots hammering on the steps.

Oh, God, all she needed was a visit from Granny
Somers.

At least the old lady would never find out about
the shadier side of her business, and maybe soon she'd have an established
clientele and be able to give up the seduction racket completely.

           
There
are other sources of financial backing,
whispered the nasty little
traitorous voice, 
But the money’s yours by right, anyway.

            “I’d
rather starve than touch
their
filthy money. It’s just to salve their
consciences,” she muttered to herself.
And those consciences certainly had a
lot of stains to try to erase.

            The
door opened and Granny Somers walked in. “What you need here is a
receptionist,” the old lady announced “I’m free for a few hours a day – want me
to drop by?”

           
Oh,
Lord!
Cíara rubbed her gritty eyes. Granny esconced in her office. Grace
Muldoon threatening to come up to Dublin some day and ‘help out’ with some of
the cases she was sure would be piled high on Cíara’s desk. Her estranged
paternal grandparents whispering ‘make-up’ noises down the telephone again.

Maybe she should run away and join the circus –
after all, she’d had plenty of practice juggling odd people!

            “I
take it that’s a no, is it?” Granny snapped, her tiny, ramrod straight figure
quivering with affront.

            “No,
Granny, no, not really – no, I mean yes, it’s a no. There’s just not enough
work to warrant anyone wasting precious time sitting in the office waiting for
it to come in the door.”

            “What
about answering the telephone, girl, while you’re out?”

            “I
have an answering machine.”
Which at least takes accurate messages, records
phone numbers, and doesn’t intimidate or insult the clients.

            “Well, don’t say I
didn’t offer to help when you needed it.”

            “Look,
honestly, if we get busy enough I’ll call you in, to be sure.” Cíara carefully
crossed her fingers behind her back before saying anything that could be
remotely construed as a promise. “Please, Granny. Don’t give me a hard time.
I’ve already had the Henleys on the phone this morning. It seems like the old
man heard about this business and doesn’t think it’s suitable for a lady.”

            Granny
Somers snorted. “So what’s he gonna do? Buy your office lease? Close you down?
Over my dead body!”

            She
winced and wished she had a Euro for every time Granny had made the ‘over my
dead body’ declaration about the Henleys.

            “My
daughter wasn’t good enough to marry their son – they cut off their own flesh
and blood, they did, because he married out of love. And now a good, honest
line of work isn’t good enough for the granddaughter they’d never have had,  if
Bobby Henley had been a weak mewling thing and listened to his parents like
they wanted!”

             She
shouldn’t have gotten Granny onto this, even though it had seemed like a good
diversionary tactic at the time. She hesitated to remind Grannie that Bobby
Henley had actually died in a car accident leaving his parents’ home in a real
Henley temper (which  Cíara was known to have inherited from time to time).

Nor did she remind her that her own mother, that
is, Granny’s daughter, had barely lifted her head from that day on despite
having a two-year old daughter to care for. And she’d ignored all offers of
help from the grief stricken Henleys, just as Granny had done when Anna Marie
Somers Henley had finally succumbed to pneumonia when Cíara was just four years
old – died of a broken heart, Granny always insisted.

Cíara had carried on the tradition of slighting
at every turn the wealthy, bigoted people who had scorned her mother’s family.
Despite court orders insisting that the Henleys were allowed occasional visits
with their granddaughter, there was no love lost between them. Since the time
she was just a tot, Cíara had gone to the Henleys' County Meath mansion with
the same expression on her infant face as the French aristocrats had taken to
the guillotine. She'd been weaned on contempt for them, and all the expensive
offerings they'd showered on her had cut no ice as far as her stubborn Somers
hide was concerned.

            She
was determined to make her own way in the world and steadfastly refused to
accept the help that was often trumpeted by her paternal grandparents. The
Somers side of the family had a hard time forgiving and the Henleys had a lot
that needed to be forgiven.

            “Fancy
having a late lunch out, Granny? My treat?” She wanted to buy herself out of
trouble and was shameless about it. “I have a job to follow up later this
afternoon, and I thought I’d get something proper to eat.”

“Not at one of them health food places, though?”
Granny’s eyes narrowed to slits. Cíara swallowed at the memory of their last
lunch together at one of the new health food bars. Granny had nearly reduced a
waitress to tears by demanding fried potato wedges with her veggie burger.

“Well, potatoes
are
vegetables, aren't
they?” Granny had loudly asked the rest of the customers as Cíara dragged her
to the door.

Yes, it would be a while before she ventured into
The Fresh Lettuce Café again.  

Instead she wheedled, “How about McDonald's on
O’Connell Street? I know we can find something you like under the Golden
Arches.” 

Granny condescended to accept.

            Three
hours and two super meal deals later, Cíara was hovering in the lobby of the
charming new Dublin hotel where the librarians' conference was being held.
She’d chatted up the young man on the reception desk, using the story that she
was a novice reporter trying to get a job on one of the national papers and
hoping to scoop an interview with the elusive J.V. Winters as a major
stepping-stone in her new career.