A Turn for the Bad (15 page)

“I voted for Door Number One, but it's not up to me. And Gillian isn't sure what she wants, I think. You aren't going to say anything?”

“About her or to her face? If she asks fer advice, I'll give it, but I won't meddle. It's never simple.”

That statement could apply to almost anything
, Maura thought, and decided not to pursue it. “How long before people stop talking about John Tully?”

“If he's not found? I'd say we're at the edge of it now. The
gardaí have called off their search, right? If he's . . . gone, he may or may not be found. If he's left, if yeh get my meanin', he might not want to be found. Farmin's not easy work, and it's hard to keep a family on the income.”

“His brother's not married, right?”

“He's been looking after the parents' farm.”

Like you and Bridget
, Maura added to herself.
Has that kept you from marrying? Because other obligations came first?
But she wasn't about to ask.

More and more people drifted in toward evening, but the atmosphere was even less hopeful than it had been—it had more the feeling of a wake. Apparently people were beginning to accept that John Tully was gone, although they weren't saying it out loud. That suited Maura fine, because she didn't have to do or say anything about Sean's request. Standing up and announcing that the gardaí had called off their search was not her style; let people figure it out for themselves, at their own pace.

Old Billy had arrived midafternoon and settled himself in his favorite chair, next to the fire. He or someone else had kept the fire going throughout the day, and the warmth was welcome. How much peat or coal or wood was she using? She had no idea. Who was picking it up for the pub? Jimmy? Mick? She had to get a better handle on the day-to-day
running of the place. If she was going to keep a fire going all winter, which seemed like a nice idea, she really ought to know what fuel she needed and how much it cost and where it was stored. Out back, maybe? There were a couple of dilapidated storage buildings that had come with the property, but she'd never explored them, apart from peering into the dark and dirty interiors. They held mostly discarded and rusty tools and some scraps of lumber. It seemed like Old Mick had never thrown anything away, at the pub or at home. It wasn't exactly hoarding—more like being thrifty. She had to keep reminding herself that Ireland wasn't a particularly rich country, at least not for some older people, and certainly nothing like the throwaway culture she'd come from. Which made her feel ashamed. At least she didn't go around saying how much better and more modern things were “back home.” Which, she reminded herself again, was not “home” anymore.

Sometimes she wondered how anyone survived financially. Mick, for example. She didn't pay him a lot, and she didn't know where or how he lived. A family home? A rental? Under a bush somewhere? She now knew that he had at least one other source of income, one that was not exactly legal, but he claimed that cash went to support his grandmother Bridget. How did Bridget get by? Mick's contribution was part of it, of course, but had her husband left her anything? Was there some kind of old-age pension in Ireland? Even if Bridget owned her home and land outright, weren't there taxes now, and water bills and electric and phone costs? Even with very simple needs,
some
money was necessary.

And what was Gillian supposed to do? She said she'd been supporting herself on her earnings in Dublin, plus the occasional sale of her paintings. She didn't pretend she could
live on her artist's income alone, and she'd been lucky that she'd had the use of the creamery studio at no charge. But that was ending now. Where could she go? The creamery was a big space with wonderful light, and Maura had a feeling that Gillian couldn't do the same kind of work in a small, dark room, no matter what the cost. And from all that Gillian had told her, Harry didn't have much money beyond his salary either, so he wouldn't be able to help out much. If he wanted to. If Gillian wanted him to.

What a mess! The only bright spot was that she herself was pretty well set up: she had a job, as long as she kept the pub in the black, and a home, and the use of a car. Heck, she was practically rich by local standards.

Around five Maura declared, “I'm going to get something to eat. Anybody want me to bring back something?”

Old Billy spoke up. “Would you be looking fer some company?”

Maura was surprised: Billy seldom left his place once he was settled. “I'd love it, sure.” She waited until he had gathered himself and stood up slowly, then joined her at the door. She knew from experience that no one would take his chair, which could just as easily have a sign saying
BILLY'S CHAIR
over it.

Outside it was getting dark, and it was definitely cooler. “Where would you like to go, Billy?”

“Mebbe to the place on the corner? Not the fancy bistro, but the nearer one.”

They made their slow way over the bridge that spanned the ravine and its narrow river. “Donovan's Leap, that is,” Billy said. “Do yeh know the story?” He stopped to catch his breath and leaned on the parapet.

“I've read about it. Am I related to that Donovan?”

“Might be so. As you've no doubt seen, there's plenty of Donovans about.”

“Yes, it's kind of hard to miss the name, what with Donovan's hardware store and Donovan's furniture store and that bookstore in Skibbereen.”

They resumed their stately pace for another twenty feet, arriving at the takeaway place. There were few people inside, and Maura knew they usually closed at six, off-season—or earlier, if there were no customers in sight. The girl behind the counter greeted them eagerly. “What'll yeh have?”

“Billy, what do you want?”

“A bacon sandwich might do the trick, and a cup o' tea.”

“Make it two,” Maura said, and reached for her wallet.

“Ah, Maura, don't deprive an old man of the pleasure of treatin' a pretty lady to supper, even if it's no more than a sandwich.”

That was sweet of him. “Oh. Well, sure. Thank you, Billy.”

The food was ready quickly, and Maura carried the tray toward the back room, which overlooked the back end of Sullivan's, as well as the ravine between the buildings. Billy followed at his own pace, leaning on his cane, and by the time he arrived at their table, Maura had laid out the food and napkins. Billy sat heavily, winded by the short walk, and Maura wondered why he had wanted to come.

He looked around: no other people in the fairly large room. Was he worried about being overheard? Maura wondered.

“Billy, what's up? I could have brought you back a sandwich.”

“I wanted a breath of air.” He paused for a moment. “And I wanted to get away from all those flappin' ears.”

So he did have something to say that he didn't want to share with the crowd. “What's going on?”

Billy took a large bite of his sandwich—nothing wrong with his appetite or his teeth—and chewed slowly before answering. “I've been hearing things.”

Was this twenty questions? Was Maura supposed to guess? “About?” she prompted.

Billy took a swig of tea and cleared his throat, then leaned forward. “About yer missin' man and why he's missin'.”

Maura contemplated her next question, in case she had a quota. What would Billy hear that might shed light on why John Tully was missing? Did that tie in to what Sean had told her? “The gardaí have given up. Is there something going on?” That was vague enough to satisfy Sean's guidelines, wasn't it?

“Mebbe. Somethin' that a dairyman with a small farm has no business messin' with.”

Did that mean criminal? She was getting impatient, but she'd learned that there was no rushing Billy in telling a story—or most other men around here either. But she hated tiptoeing around what she wanted to say. “Not quite legal?” she finally asked.

“Could be,” Billy replied, and then took another large bite of his sandwich, which required long chewing. Maura decided she might as well focus on her own sandwich while she waited.

She finished her sandwich quickly. While she didn't want to rush Billy, things would be getting busy at the pub and she should get back. “Billy, is there something I should know?”

He looked at her directly, his old eyes assessing her. She held his gaze.

“The gardaí have been a bit nervy lately, and there's more
of 'em hanging around than is usual. I'd guess they're looking at the sea.”

“Yes,” Maura said cautiously.

“There's a long history of piracy along the coast here, do yeh know. Plenty of coves.”

“So I've heard,” Maura said, then stopped again, waiting.

“Might be the gardaí are expectin' something to happen. Am I right?”

This time Maura guessed that he was looking for confirmation and asking indirectly whether Sean had said anything to her. “Yes, I think so.” Sean didn't have to know; Maura was pretty sure Billy knew plenty about what was going on, without her help.

Billy nodded once. “John Tully is a good and honest man. He wouldn't be mixed up in anythin' that's not right.”

“That's what other people have said,” Maura told him. “So he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Could be.”

Maura felt frustrated. Whatever network that Billy was plugged into seemed to be aware that there was some illegal event pending, just as Sean had told her. The same network didn't believe that John Tully was part of it, which matched everything she'd overheard at the pub. But that still left the question: was he dead? If he'd seen something he shouldn't have, the bad guys, whoever they were, could easily have killed him and either dumped the body far away or they were still holding on to his body so it wouldn't trigger a murder investigation until the other business was done. Didn't fishing boats have refrigerator or freezer compartments on board? She knew from experience that the Irish
police took murder very seriously, because there were so few murders in the country, compared to what she had known in Boston. The procedures for searching for a missing man would be different from those for a homicide. But either one would be a problem for whatever went on with a major drug deal, she guessed. So John Tully, dead or alive, would not reappear before the raid went down.

Time to get back. “Billy, is there something you think I should do? Can I help?”

Billy shook his head. “Safer fer you to keep yer head down. It'll be over soon enough. I'll say no more.”

Great
, Maura thought. More vague warnings, and all she was supposed to do was play dumb and wait until it all went away. But, she had to admit, it was the only thing she
could
do.

“One more thing,” she said in a low voice. “Do you think he's alive?”

Billy looked at her steadily. “Maura Donovan, I don't know. But don't give up hope.”

Maura helped Billy out of his seat and they made their slow way back to the pub. Billy headed to his chair—still vacant and waiting for him—while Maura went around to the back of the bar. The crowd had filled out a bit; it was, after all, past six of a Friday night. Mick was in, as was Rose; Jimmy wasn't but he was probably taking his time with supper. When there was a lull, Mick leaned close and, nodding toward Billy, said, “What was that in aid of?”

“I'm not really sure.” Which was accurate, more or less. She had some guesses, and if she had to translate them into simple English, she'd say that Billy had warned her, just as Sean had, that there was something illegal and dangerous going on. What Billy had added was his belief that John Tully
had stumbled into it somehow, and that she should steer clear of it. Oh, and it was probably happening soon. Sean and Old Billy: two very different sources with the same story, so it was probably true. And neither had said so, but it was pretty likely that John Tully was dead and would probably never be found. Odd that Billy hadn't said anything about the dead man they
had
found, but that probably meant no more than that he wasn't a local Irishman. Which the gardaí already knew.

She sighed and turned to drawing pints for a line of men at the bar, and had Rose take a pint over to Billy. He looked up at Rose with a smile and she smiled back, but as soon as her back was turned Billy settled back in the chair and resumed watching the room.
Better than any surveillance camera
, Maura thought, smiling. He might be old, but his eyes and ears were sharp.

There was no more news that evening. No visit from Sean or anyone else who might know something official. No unfamiliar faces, only the regulars, looking less than happy. The pub was busy, but the crowd, mostly male, was subdued, and they left slowly at closing time.

“Do you mind closing up, Mick?” Maura asked. “I want to see if Gillian got home all right.” If at all. Would she have stayed with Harry?

“And find out if she's told him? Sure, go on with yeh. I'll take care of things here.”

“Thanks. I'll be in to open in the morning.”

Maura went out into the chilly night and started her car, but didn't move right away. She wasn't sure what she would find waiting for her at her cottage. How would Harry react to the news of a baby? Gillian talked a hard line, and Maura guessed that she really wanted this baby, but it wasn't clear
to Maura what would be the best path for Gillian and Harry—and the baby as well. Maura checked the road—empty, as usual—and headed home.

There were lights on when she pulled up outside her cottage. Gillian had come back? Was she still awake? And did she want a confidante? Maura hadn't had much practice with that role. There was one way to find out. Maura turned off the car and marched to her front door. Inside, Gillian was huddled on the ancient settee in the so-called parlor, wrapped in a blanket, a book in her lap—that she wasn't looking at. She brightened when Maura walked in. “No news on John Tully?”