A turn for the bad, p.14
A Turn for the Bad, page 14
“You mean, you’re thinking no dad is better than a bad dad?” Or one who walks away when things get rough?
Gillian changed the subject. “Listen, are you going to the village soon?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because if I sit here alone I’ll drive myself mad. It’d be better to be around people, where something’s happening. Like at Sullivan’s.”
“That makes sense. But how soon will you go public with your news? And with naming the father? You know people are going to wonder.”
“Soon enough, I imagine. As for the latter, I’ll let Harry decide if he wants to be named. I can always say no more than it was some man in Dublin. People may think the worse of me for it, but I don’t know that it matters.”
Maura wasn’t so sure. If Gillian wanted to raise a child on her own around here, better they think the child was Harry’s—he was one of their own, even though he spent most of his time in Dublin—than the result of some one night hookup. But now was not the time to bring that up: thinking about all this was still new to Gillian. “All right. So eat up and I’ll grab a shower, and we can go into the village.”
Though they were ready to leave before ten, Maura realized she hadn’t spent much time with Bridget in the past week, not like she usually did; in fact, she missed her. And Gillian hadn’t seen her at all, although they weren’t close. “Do you mind if we stop by and say hello to Bridget?”
“Does she know . . . ?” Gillian asked.
“Not from me, but people around here have sharp eyes, and they talk. Let’s find out.”
Together Maura and Bridget hurried down the lane: from what little Maura had learned of the weather, it looked like there was a storm coming, and the wind was strong. At least the small area in front of Bridget’s door was sheltered by a towering hedgerow. Maura knocked firmly, to be heard over the wind. “Bridget? It’s me and Gillian Callanan.”
They waited: Bridget was past eighty and didn’t move very fast. After half a minute, Bridget opened the door. “Ah, good mornin’. Come in, come in, before yeh blow away.” She stood back and let Maura and Gillian pass, then shut the door behind them. Inside, the noise of the wind fell away. “Can I offer yeh some tea?”
“I don’t know if we have time, Bridget,” Maura said. “I only stopped by because I realized I hadn’t seen you for a few days. We’re supposed to be opening at the pub soon. You’ve heard the search for John Tully is pretty much over?”
“I have, more’s the pity. I suppose it’s a bit late for hope. His poor wife! Please, sit fer a while, if you won’t drink my tea. Maura, could you add some turf to the fire, please?”
“Sure. I’m getting pretty good at using the stuff.” Maura went over to the small fireplace and tossed some irregular chunks of peat at the low fire. “Billy likes to have the fire going at the pub, so I get to practice. Mick said I could burn it at my cottage, but I think I need a bit more than that.”
Satisfied with her efforts, Maura took a chair. She realized quickly that Bridget was watching Gillian with a curious half smile, and Maura had a good idea why. “You know, Bridget?”
Bridget turned to her. “I do.”
“Oh, hell,” Gillian burst out. “Sorry, Bridget, I didn’t mean to swear. Everybody in the city is on social media all the time, but I thought I’d be safe with my secret here for a bit longer.”
“Ah, Gillian, I don’t know what yer sayin’ about this social media stuff, but around here we keep our eyes and our ears open. Works just as well.”
“I suppose it does,” Gillian said. “Are you disappointed in me?”
“And why would I be that? Yer a grown woman and you can make up yer own mind. And there’ve been a good number of six-months babies around here, since time began. Am I right that Harry is the father? How’re you fixed?”
“Yes to the first, and I don’t know about the second. I’m working on that.”
“It’ll all come right in the end,” Bridget said, untroubled. “Ask if you need our help, will yeh?”
“Of course, Bridget. I’m just beginning to understand that now’s not the time to let my pride get in the way.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Maura said, “but we need to get to the pub. We’ll be back again soon, Bridget, I promise.”
“I’ll come on my own if Maura’s busy. If you’ll have me,” Gillian added.
“Of course I will,” Bridget said, smiling. “You might have to bribe me with some sweets, but yer always welcome here,” she told her.
“Thank you.” Gillian stood up, crossed to where Bridget sat, and gave her a quick hug. “See you soon.”
Once outside, as she and Gillian trudged back up the hill against the wind, Maura said, “See? That wasn’t so bad. And if an eighty-something woman is okay with this, then how can anyone else complain?”
“All right, I’m making too much of the whole thing. So, what’s going on today?”
“It’s Saturday. We’ll be busy by off-season standards, but that’s not exactly very busy. I’ll find you something to do, okay? But you know I can’t pay you.”
“That’s fine, as long as it’s not scrubbing something. I don’t do that when I’m not pregnant. And I’m not exactly working for you, just helping out, right?”
“Deal.” It took them only a few minutes to reach Leap, where the wind was stronger since the village faced the harbor. Would that discourage her patrons? Probably not, Maura decided. Inside the pub it was warm and comfortable, and most of the people who came in regularly wouldn’t mind going through a bit of wind and rain to get there. After she’d parked, she let Gillian and herself in the front and started turning on lights. First priority: light the fire, to take the chill off the room. Which meant cleaning out the ashes from the day before, a job she disliked. But she had no idea when Mick or Jimmy would show up, so it was her responsibility.
While she shoveled up the ashes, she heard the first round of rain slapping against the front windows. It was a good day to be inside. But when she heard a hard knocking at the door, she was surprised to see Sean Murphy. She hurried to the door to let him in.
“Sean, get in here before you drown. What brings you here? It’s not about John Tully, is it?” she asked, suddenly anxious.
Sean entered quickly, shaking the rain off his coat. “No. You know the search has been cut back for now.”
“Yes, you told me, and I’ve told other people who’ve asked. They’re not happy, as you can probably guess,” Maura said. “Oh, sorry, I’m being a lousy host. Can I get you some coffee?”
“That’d be grand. While it’s brewin’, can I have a word with yeh in the back?”
“Of course.” Maura looked at Gillian, then nodded toward the coffee machine; Gillian nodded back and went behind the bar to start Sean’s coffee. Maura led Sean to the back room and shut the door behind him. “Is there something wrong?”
“No more than before. I’m in a difficult position here, Maura. There’s things I can’t say to yeh, as a garda. But there’s things I’d rather you knew than not.”
“Oh, okay?” Maura had no clue what he was trying to say.
“It’s true that the search for John Tully has been all but cut off, but that’s not because all hope is lost—we’d like at least to find his body, so his wife can bury him. But it’s the other thing that requires our attention.”
“I get that. So what do I need to know now?” Maura asked.
“I can tell you this: it’s important, and it goes beyond our part of the world. It could be dangerous.”
“Sean, I grew up in a big city. I know plenty about crime and dangerous people.” Probably more than you, garda Sean Murphy. “What is it you think I’m supposed to do?”
“Just keep your eyes open for strangers who don’t belong. Listen to what people are talking about. The people around here may know or see more than they let on.”
Like Mick? “Sean, I listen to people anyway, not that I’m eavesdropping or anything like that, but it’s hard not to overhear things, if you know what I mean. So it’s the strangers you’re worried about?”
“Odds are you won’t see any, but could you let me know if you do?”
“Irish? Foreign? What are you looking for?”
“I . . . can’t say. English, most likely, but could be from somewhere else.”
“Sean, I’m confused. You want me to help somehow, but you want me to spy on my neighbors? Try to get information out of them? I’m not good at stuff like that. And what’s the point?”
Sean looked like he was wrestling with his own thoughts. “I’m sorry . . . Mebbe this isn’t exactly garda business. Look, I want to see you safe. I know it’s long odds that anything would happen here, but it has before. As long as it’s a possibility, I want you to keep your eyes open and take care of yourself.”
“Okay,” Maura said dubiously. It was becoming clear to her that Sean was trying to protect her, which was sweet of him, but for the sake of his job he couldn’t say too much, which made his warning next to useless. She was supposed to watch out for anything and everything. “I’ll be careful, I promise. And I’ll call you if I see or hear anything odd.”
Relieved of his burden, now he looked more at ease. “That’s all I came to say.”
“Good. Want your coffee now?”
“Oh, right, I’d all but forgotten that. I’ve got to get into town—sorry fer wastin’ it.”
“Don’t worry—one of us here will drink it. Thanks for stopping by.” Maura opened the door to the main room and led him out.
“Ta, Maura. Gillian, good to see yeh here.” Sean wrapped his coat around him and went out into the rain, which seemed to be falling harder than before.
“And what was that all about?” Gillian demanded. “You want the coffee?”
“Sure, I’ll take it. As for your question, well, I think he’s worried about me. We had some trouble a while back, while you were in Dublin—a man died here and some drug thug from Cork broke in and threatened me.” Maura took the coffee that Gillian had pushed across the bar and added sugar.
“And I’d heard nothing of this? What happened?”
“Mick and Billy took him down and we called the gardaí to collect him. But I think that’s what Sean’s worried about.”
“He’s a very honest lad, that one, and it’s clear he’s sweet on you. Surely you’ve noticed?” Gillian said.
Maura had pretty much worked that out for herself. Still, it sounded odd coming from someone else. “Yeah, but I’m not encouraging him, not right now. But apart from telling me to be careful, he asked me to keep an eye out for strangers. There’ve been so many people coming and going lately, with the search going on, that I haven’t recognized half the people in here. I have to wonder what he’s looking for.”
“If we were in Dublin, I’d have a better shot at guessing,” Gillian said.
“Fine—what would be a problem in Dublin?”
“The odd mugging or lifting someone’s wallet—you can usually spot the guys trying it on, but rarely do the gardaí there worry themselves over that petty stuff unless it’s a team of guys working a crowd. More likely drugs and thugs.”
“We don’t usually see much of that around here,” Maura said. Except for that recent incident, and it had turned out that her attacker was involved with drug dealing in Cork city. Sean’s “secret” weighed heavily on her. Would it hurt to give a hint to Gillian? “But Sean kind of hinted the other day that there might be something going on and it might have something to do with drugs.”
Gillian stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Maura, there’s nothing new to that. Moving things about, and turning a blind eye, has been going on in West Cork since the days of the pirates. So Sean thinks there’s something important happening?”
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Maura said. “And you can’t tell anyone.”
“And who would I be telling?” Gillian thought for a moment. “Do you know, it might have something to do with that dead man they pulled out of the water last week.”
Maura had almost forgotten him, which didn’t seem right. The gardaí had declared that no one was missing from their area, so he must be from somewhere else, although where was still unknown. But he was undeniably dead. “He wasn’t Irish, but it’s not clear how he died. You think it’s connected?”
“Maura, few people turn up dead around here, as you may have noticed. If he’s not a local man, what could he have been doing here?”
Maura shivered. “I think I’ll build up the fire a little more—I’m cold.”
Chapter 17
For all that it was a Saturday, business was slow. Part of that was due to the rain, now falling nearly sideways, pushed by the strong wind—straight into her front windows. Maura kept the fire going in Sullivan’s, but peat was slow to burn and didn’t provide much warmth, so it was fighting a losing battle against the dark and damp.
Or, Maura acknowledged, it could be that the word had spread that the search for John Tully was all but over and that had depressed people, so they had stayed home. Without proof that he was dead, it was hard to mourn for the missing man, but most people had lost hope, it seemed. Would things pick up in the evening?
Gillian had found a tattered crossword puzzle and was settled in a corner working on it. Mick was due to come in around lunchtime; Maura had called Jimmy and told him that he and Rose shouldn’t bother to show up until later in the day, since there were no customers. It would look silly for all of her pub staff to be standing around polishing the same glasses over and over, waiting for a single request for a pint. It was still well before noon when Maura looked up to see a man come in, shoving the door shut behind him. He looked vaguely familiar, but it took Maura a moment to place him: John Tully’s brother, the farmer. Conor, was it? He looked like he had aged ten years since Maura had seen him the week before. Leap was a bit out of his territory, but maybe he wanted some quiet time away from all the neighbors offering their sympathy. Or maybe he wanted a break from holding John’s wife, Nuala, together as they all waited for news that probably wasn’t going to come.
Conor slid onto a bar stool, wobbling slightly, and Maura wondered if he’d already stopped at a pub or two since opening time. “A pint. Please.”
“Sure,” Maura said, and began filling a glass. “You’re Conor Tully, aren’t you?”
The man gave her a long, bleak stare before answering. “I am. And right now I’m damned tired of being Conor Tully.”
Maura held up her hands. “I get it—you want some peace. I won’t bother you.” She topped off the pint of Guinness. When she slid it in front of Conor, she was surprised when he said, “Yer not from around here, are yeh?”
“No, I’m from Boston, in the States. I inherited this place from Mick Sullivan last spring—he was a relative of my grandmother’s.”
“Ah,” Conor said, taking a long pull at his pint. “Must be nice not to have yer whole damn town breathin’ down yer neck, askin’ stupid questions. ‘Have they found him yet?’ ‘What do you think happened?’ As if they think I know.” Conor stared into the black depths of his glass. “The thing of it is,” he said softly, almost to himself, “I do.”
It took Maura a moment to realize what Conor had just said. He knew what had happened to his brother? Why hadn’t he told anyone, like the gardaí? And how the hell was she supposed to respond to what he’d said? She looked around: Gillian in the corner, no sign yet of Old Billy, and one other man reading an out-of-date newspaper in the corner. No one to overhear. The law-abiding side of her wanted to call the gardaí immediately, but she realized that if Conor wanted them to know, he’d had a week to tell them himself. Or maybe he was speaking in the broadest of terms, like John is in a better place now or He’s roasting in Hell. Maybe she needed to see if he had anything to add. Maura, you’re a bartender, and it’s your job to listen.
“Why do you say that?” she asked quietly.
“It’s complicated,” he said, avoiding her eyes. He did, however, scan the room as she had, taking in the meager crowd. Then he downed his pint and shoved the glass toward her. “Another.”
Okay, if he wanted to get drunk, that was his business—as long as he didn’t drive anywhere in the awful weather. But if he did get drunk—and it looked to Maura as though he’d already reached a halfway point—he might be willing to speak more freely about what he’d hinted at. She could deal with getting him home later.
“Coming up,” she said, and started another glass.
The pub was strangely quiet except for the rain lashing against the windows. There was no conversation going on; nobody had turned on the television over the bar. It was as if the place was waiting for something. What would Old Mick, who she’d never met, have done? Probably served up the pint and ignored Conor after that—kind of a “live and let live” policy that had apparently served him well for years. On the other hand, if she let Conor get sloshed and he ended up spilling his guts, she could call the gardaí later and pass on what he might have said. If he said anything that mattered. She made her decision.
“Is John dead?” she asked, pitching her voice low enough so no one else could hear.
Conor shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he is, and I don’t know if he isn’t. But he may be alive, and that’s what’s drivin’ me mad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m an eejit and he got dragged into my business for no reason. He shouldn’t have been where he was.”
Maybe that was progress. What should she ask next? “And what business would that be?”
“Shipping,” he said, his tone ironic. “There was a shipment due that day when John took it into his head to take a stroll along the beach with his boy.”
Maura assumed that the shipment did not consist of beach balls or hand-knit Irish sweaters, but she really didn’t want to know the details. “What went wrong?”
