Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (8 page)

Ballybeg Garda Station was located on the outskirts of the town and a mere five-minute drive from Clonmore House. During the short journey, Seán stared vacantly out the car window, willing the painkiller and the caffeine to do their respective jobs. The sun was making a valiant effort to penetrate the dark cloud cover, but with limited success. Down on the beach, the red warning flags were at full mast. In addition to the heavy rain, the wind was strong today and the currents strong. Out in the foaming, crashing waves, Seán could make out two wind surfers. Suicidal eejits. Every year, there were several drownings in the bay. Most occurred while the flags were flying. They’d had two over the summer, both tourists. Why anyone would want to brave the cold February water was beyond his powers of comprehension.

The frost-tipped fields whizzed by as the super applied pressure to the accelerator. When they approached a set of tall, wrought iron gates, the knots in Seán’s stomach unraveled to perform a jig. The super rolled down his window and spoke into a monitor. Presently, the gates creaked open, and in they drove. The tree-lined driveway meandered for a kilometer before a final curve revealed the house. Seán let out a low whistle. As country houses went, Clonmore House wasn’t overly large, but it was in good nick for its age. Seán was no architectural expert, but he’d hazard a guess the place was built in the Victorian period.

His mouth twisted in a grimace. A career built on bullshit and bad advice was lucrative.

They pulled up in front of a short flight of steps. Seán stepped out onto the gravel and rolled his shoulders to release the tension. It didn’t work. The super bounded up the steps and lifted the brass knocker. A sudden vision of his father made Seán falter. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the image, then followed his boss up the steps to the front door.

***

At the jangle of the doorbell, Clio’s heart leaped. Her step faltered.

Helen peered through a gap in the lace curtains. “Oh, good. The police are here. That was quick.”

“Police?” Clio’s voice was barely a squeak. Her heart lurched and thudded. Had her mother noticed the missing money already? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it?

“The regional superintendent came by yesterday.” Helen’s face glowed with animation. “What a lovely man. I’m confident he’ll take care of it for me.”

“Take care of what?” Clio struggled to breathe.
Please, please, please don’t mention the money.

“I fear my Dublin stalker has found my Ballybeg address. I made the local police aware of the situation.”

“What stalker?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “You never mentioned this before.”

Helen sniffed. “When would I have mentioned it to you? We barely talk.”

“Every time I try to talk to you, you have something more important to deal with.”

Her mother raised one pencil-thin eyebrow. “Do you think this house, this lifestyle, pays for itself?”

The doorbell rang a second time.

Clio wiped dust from her T-shirt with shaky hands and blew out a breath that didn’t calm her. The police might not be here about Ray, but they soon would be if she couldn’t figure out a way to prevent the burglary. Would the police see guilt in her eyes? Weren’t cops trained to read body language? And what was this stalker business? If her mother had mentioned having an obsessive lunatic on her trail, Clio would never have consented to bring Tammy down to Ballybeg. Her heart pounding an unsteady beat, she walked toward the front door.

With a bit of luck, the employees of Ballybeg Garda Station were clueless country bumpkins. If not, she’d have to be an incredible actress.

Two figures were visible through the stained glass paneling. The superintendent had brought a lackey. She took a deep breath, then wrenched open the door.

A handsome man of sixtyish with silver-gray hair and a friendly smile stood closest to her. Superintendent Whatsit, she assumed. Her gaze traveled to the left. The second man was taller, closer to Clio’s age. She registered a muscular torso that filled the blue shirt of his uniform to perfection. Then Clio’s eyes trailed up to his face.

It was Seán from last night, and he was wearing an expression of horror.

The shock was as sharp as a blow to the stomach. Of all the men she could have hooked up with, she’d gone and had sex with a Ballybeg policeman. 

SEÁN’S HEART DID A SLOW thump and roll.

Framed by the door’s ivy surround was Orla from last night. She wore a wraparound cardigan over an old T-shirt bearing the logo of a rock band, faded denim jeans, and Snoopy slippers. She looked good. More than good. And that was despite the I-want-to-kill-myself expression on her face.

But what the hell was she doing at Clonmore House?

“Ah,” boomed the super’s cheerful voice. “You must be Ms. Havelin’s daughter.”

Daughter? I had sex with Helen Havelin’s daughter?
The ringing in Seán’s ears drowned all sound. Orla’s lips moved in response to the super’s question, but she might as well have been miming. It wasn’t until Seán sucked air through his teeth that he realized he’d been holding his breath.

He’d known Helen Havelin had a daughter, but not in a million years would he have connected this casually dressed, makeup-free, wild-haired woman with the airbrushed celebrity who’d wrecked his parents’ marriage.

Courtesy of the Irish tabloids, he was certain of one fact. The daughter’s name wasn’t Orla.

He stared at the woman frozen on the threshold. Her face mirrored his horror, green eyes wide, pink mouth parted. A flush crept up her shock-drained cheeks. When she bent her head, strands of silky strawberry-blond hair brushed her cheekbones, just as they had last night in a rather different situation.

Her hair was a lighter shade of red than her mother’s—although in Helen’s case, it was almost certainly helped by colorants.

The reminder of Helen Havelin brought a bitter taste to Seán’s tongue. No wonder she’d given a false name.

“You’d better come in,” said Orla-Cliona. Her voice was low, flustered. A far cry from the vivacious woman he’d seduced last night.

With leaden limbs and a leaden heart, Seán stepped inside Clonmore House.

Cliona led them through a small entrance hall then down a narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar, a slit of light spilling out in an ominous glow.

Helen Havelin was in that room.

Seán’s feet dragged across the slate floor. He forced oxygen into his lungs and tried to ignore the hammering in his head. If it hadn’t been for that selfish bitch, his parents would still be alive.

Cliona pushed open the door, revealing a large room stuffed with art, ornaments, and fussy furniture.

Helen Havelin served as the room’s centerpiece, reclining gracefully on a sofa. If memory served right, it was called a chaise longue. Why did his brain latch on to such an insignificant detail? Was his subconscious trying to distract him from focusing on the chaise longue’s occupant?

“Superintendent O’Riordan. Lovely to see you again.” Helen’s melodious posh accent grated against Seán’s nerves. To listen to her plummy tones, you’d never think she’d grown up on a farm near Cobh.

Hatred rolled over Seán in waves, and his fingernails dug wedges into his palms.

Helen swung her slim legs to the floor and rose to greet them. She shook the super’s hand, holding it a moment too long for such a short acquaintance, then gestured for him to take a seat on an adjacent armchair.

With the fluidity of a robot, Seán forced one foot in front of the other and unclenched his right hand. If he didn’t offer it to the woman, the super would have his hide.

He needn’t have bothered. Helen kept her focus on his superior. She reclaimed her seat on the sofa, leaving Seán with an outstretched hand. If anyone else had snubbed him, he’d have been irritated. In this case, relief was his primary emotion.

Thoughts churning, he claimed the chair next to the super’s.

“Cliona will get us coffee,” Helen said and for the first time shifted her attention to Seán. “Or would you prefer tea, Sergeant?”

Her haughty tone and arched eyebrow dared him to ask for such a plebian beverage. He was tempted to ask for tea, just to annoy her.

“Coffee’s fine.” The words came out in a hoarse croak.

“Cliona?” Helen’s eyebrow arched even higher.

Her daughter blinked a few times before a flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh, right. I’m on it.”

Even though she’d lied to him and given him a fake phone number, Seán couldn’t help but a feel a pang of sympathy for the woman as she hurried toward the door, her gait unsteady. Being landed with a harridan as a mother couldn’t be easy.

The gentle sway of her hips drew attention to her firm backside, outlined by tight denim jeans. Memories of last night danced before his eyes, as tantalizing and seductive as Cliona’s tipsy striptease.

The vision sent a shot of lust straight to his groin. Seán swallowed a groan. Why the hell did the sexiest woman he’d met in years have to turn out to be Helen Havelin’s daughter?

***

Clio sagged against the kitchen door. Seán was a cop. And he was sitting a scant five meters from the leopard aquamanile.

His expression was unfathomable, but he recognized her. How could he not? Damn him for making that uniform look sexy. She buried her head in her hands and moaned, her red-hot cheeks burning her palms. When she was younger, she’d often used fake names and never once been caught out. Why now?

Straightening, Clio held her hands out in front of her. They wouldn’t stop shaking. She clasped them together in the hope the tremors would subside, but no such luck. Grabbing a glass from the kitchen counter, she forced water down her throat.

“Why is a police car outside?”

Clio’s heart leaped in her chest. “Jesus, Tammy, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” the girl said, not sounding the least contrite. She slouched toward the fridge, wrenched open the door, and took in its contents with a moue of distaste. “There’s feck-all to eat.”

“There’s plenty to eat. And watch your language.”

Tammy cast her mother a scornful look. All rage and bitterness were directed her way these days. However heinous Tammy might find Helen, Clio bore the brunt of her frustration. “Why are the Guards here?” the girl demanded as she extracted a carton of milk.

“Helen mentioned problems with a stalker.”

Tammy’s expression radiated skepticism. “Who in their right mind would want to stalk Gran? She’s ancient.”

Clio suppressed a smile. “She’s in her sixties. Please try to get along with her. I know she can be difficult, but we are living in her house.”

“Only because
you
insisted on dragging us down here. I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed in Dublin. Now I’ll see even less of Dad than before.” Tammy unscrewed the cap and drank the milk directly from the bottle. It was an exercise in provocation. Tammy knew Clio hated it when she did that.

“Your dad isn’t the best influence in the world, pet.”

Tammy glared at her. “And you are?”

“I know I’ve made mistakes, but your father…” She trailed off. What was the point in dragging up her ex’s dodgy friends and even dodgier family? For all Clio knew, calling him over the O’Leary situation instead of Ray might have been the smarter move. “We’ll arrange a visit after your exams,” she said, plastering a smile on her face. “How does that sound?”

“June is months away. Why can’t I see Dad on my birthday?”

Clio sighed. “We’ve been over this before. Please let’s not fight.”

The girl crossed her arms over her thin chest and treated her mother to her trademark death glance. “I’m going for a walk. We’re done unpacking, right?”

“I unpacked the last few boxes before the Guards arrived, but I’d rather you didn’t go outside alone until we know more about this stalker story.”

Her daughter raised an eyebrow in a facial expression so similar to Helen’s that Clio nearly cried. “You’re taking her seriously?”

“The police are here.
They’re
taking her seriously.” Clio grabbed the sugar bowl from the cupboard and flipped the switch on the coffee machine. “See this as your cue to catch up on schoolwork before Monday.”

Tammy’s belligerent expression slid back into place. “I don’t want to go to that school. The principal is a snob. A sure sign the kids will be too.”

“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. Regardless, you’re going to be attending Glencoe College as of Monday. You might as well get used to the idea.”

The girl seemed to shrink in her oversized black sweatshirt. “I’ll hate it.”

“If you start with that attitude, you probably will.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from her daughter’s face. Being a responsible adult sucked. Watching her child struggle with insecurities and depression was a painful reminder of her own teenage years. She didn’t want Tammy to be miserable at her new school, but they’d already been in Ballybeg for over a week. The girl couldn’t hide at home forever. “Tell you what. Why don’t you brainstorm ideas for a mural on your bedroom wall, and we can start working on it next weekend. It will be a nice treat after a hard week at school.” Since the move, she hadn’t had time to sketch or paint. She was itching to get her hands on a brush. Plus a mother-daughter art project would do them both good.

“I’ll consider it.” Tammy replaced the milk in the fridge and paused as if willing herself to say something. “I’m sorry I broke the vase. Did Gran give you hell?”

“Don’t worry. I told her you’d pay her something out of your pocket money.”

The girl nodded. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll go read in my room until the police leave.”

“Happy reading, pet. I’ll pop up once they’re gone.”

After her daughter left the kitchen, Clio finished preparing the coffee tray. Left to her own devices, Clio was fine with a packet of sugar and a milk carton, but Helen would freak if she didn’t bring a sugar bowl and a milk jug.

Helen…Ray…the police…
The tremors in her limbs returned. She had to pull herself together.

Focus. Breathe. Think.

Neither Seán nor Superintendent O’Riordan was a mind reader. They couldn’t know what she’d done—or rather, what Ray’s men had done. All she had to do was remain calm. Times were, she’d had a knack for turning every situation to her advantage, no matter the odds.