Murder at the Monks' Table (18 page)

“Why didn't you say anything to Detective Inspector White?” Mary Helen asked, before she'd even said “How do?”

Liam coughed and sputtered and sounded, for a moment, as though he might choke. Finally, with his eyes glued on the toes of his shoes, he stammered, “I feared you might be mistaken.”

“Most likely you were afraid I was not mistaken,” she said, trying to keep at least a civil tone. After all, this surely was his first murder case. “Besides,” she said reasonably, “all you had to do was tell the detective inspector and leave it to him to investigate.”

Mary Helen watched the red spread up Liam's neck and onto his clenched jaw. He ran one finger around his shirt collar. “When I finally came to that myself, it was too late. He would have murdered me with his bare hands for keeping the information from him all day, like that.”

“Excuse me,” a thick voice interrupted, “but if you're not going to use the telephone, may I?”

“Sorry,” Mary Helen said to the tall man who obviously had an important call to make.

She watched Liam's blue eyes search the smoky room, most likely looking for a safe place to talk. When he didn't find one inside, he muttered, “Will I meet you outside then?”

“Good idea,” Mary Helen said. Making sure that Liam was behind her, she threaded her way through the crowd until she reached the side exit. A strong push on the door, and they stepped out into the dark.

A cup of heavy clouds covered the sky, blotting out any stars that might have appeared. And a shrieking wind tore around the corner of the hotel.

This is going to be a very quick conversation,
Mary Helen
thought, shivering. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “First you weren't sure I was right, and then, by the time you figured I might be, you'd kept it too long. Does that about sum it up?” she asked with a touch of starch.

“Yes, Sister,” Liam answered softly.

“And, now what?” she asked, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

“I'll tell Detective Inspector White what you overheard first I see him tomorrow.”

“Good enough,” Mary Helen said, although she wasn't so sure it was. Not that she could really do anything about it.

Turning on her heel, she hurried into the warmth of the Court Hotel. If anything, the crowd had grown.

“Over here, old dear.” She was glad to hear Eileen's voice and to see that her friend had fixed her a wonderful plate of barbeque.

“You only need two eyes to see that you two are enjoying yourselves.” It was Patsy Lynch. “May I join you?”

“Certainly,” Eileen said, making room at the table to accommodate the chairman's wife. “This is a lovely party,” she said, once the woman was seated.

Patsy sighed, and Mary Helen noticed deep, dark circles under her eyes. Absentmindedly, Patsy pushed her thick gray hair back over her ears. Mary Helen caught the faint scent of perfume that she must have dabbed on her wrists.

“I'll be very glad when the whole thing is over,” Patsy said, playing with an oyster on her plate. “Poor Owen's run ragged.” She looked up.

Poor Owen, nothing,
Mary Helen thought, scarcely able to meet the woman's gaze. How much, if anything, did she know about her husband's affair?

“Run ragged,” Patsy repeated, shaking her head. “Out until all hours almost every night, and the calls never stop. Some
one of these days I'd like to crush that little phone with a rock until not a beep comes from it.” She almost seemed as if she were talking to herself. “His daughters rarely see their father anymore.” She bit into a slice of soda bread and chewed noisily.

Can she really be that naïve?
Mary Helen's thoughts crept in like a chill.
This is such a small village. Surely someone must have
noticed something.

“How did you do at the golf tournament?” Eileen was asking.

Patsy seemed to perk up before their very eyes, like a plant that had been watered. Her whole demeanor changed.

“It was brilliant,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“You won, then, I take it,” Eileen said.

Patsy nodded, her eyes enormous now. “I can't wait to tell Owen. He'll be so proud.”

Mary Helen said nothing, but she felt as if her heart had just turned over and sunk.

“And now"—it was Owen Lynch's voice booming from the microphone—”we have a special treat for you tonight. All the way from Dublin … Danny Short.”

A roar went up from the crowd. “Who?” Mary Helen bent toward Patsy and asked.

“Danny Short, a comedian,” Patsy said. “Although he's not nearly as funny as he thinks he is.”

Short, who was, in fact, rather tall, grabbed the mike and wasted no time getting started. “Ole Pat Clancy rushes into the church, enters the confessional, and confesses his sins. When he's finished the priest says nothing.

“ ‘Father?' he whispers, but he gets no answer.

“After a few minutes, he leaves his side of the box and goes to the other side.

“ ‘Do you know where Father went?' he asks the penitent kneeling there.

“ ‘Can't say as I do,' the fellow answers, ‘but if he heard what I just heard, he's surely gone for the garda.' ”

A drum roll and a roar of laughter followed Short's joke. Mary Helen glanced around, wondering what Father Keane must be thinking.

 

 

A few minutes of Short from Dublin were enough, even for Sister Mary Helen. She was glad when the band began to play again.

“Patsy.” It was Owen Lynch, standing at the end of the table. “There you are. I was wondering where you'd gone to.”

His wife rose immediately at the sound of his voice. “Yes, love?” she asked.

“Shall we try this dance?” he said. “It's a slow one.”

Blushing like a schoolgirl, Patsy let herself be led away. Mary Helen watched them rather awkwardly disappear into the crowd, unable to shake the sympathy she felt for Patsy Lynch. She was so obviously in love with her husband. The cad!

In one sense, Mary Helen hoped Patsy never did find out about the affair. Maybe she wouldn't have to. Mary Helen had clearly overheard Owen and Oonagh each deny that they had anything to do with Willie Ward's death. They had not known anyone was listening, had they? So what reason would they have to lie?

When someone uncovered the real murderer, Patsy might never be the wiser. The possibility sounded slim, even to her, but why not hope?

Tilting back her head, Mary Helen closed her eyes. Days and events and people tumbled like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope: the market day with the farrier and the dancers and Father Keane; Jake, the tinker; Tara, the Oyster Festival Queen; Owen Lynch, the chairperson of the event;
the women at the wine tasting; Tommy Burns and the I Believe Team; the Monks' Table and Hugh the publican; the weary waitress; Oonagh Cox and Zoë O'Dea. Round and round they went.

Suddenly her mind focused on Zoë O'Dea. On her first day in Ireland—was it only five days ago?—she had overheard Zoë talking to Willie at the Monks' Table.

What were her exact words? “I'm surprised someone hasn't killed you already.” She'd thought it an odd thing to say when she heard it, but in view of the events of the last few days, had it been a threat or a warning?

Mary Helen felt a hand on her arm. “Are you falling asleep on me, old dear?” Eileen whispered.

Her eyes popped open and she sat up. “Not a'tall,” she said, pushing her slipping bifocals up where they belonged. “I was just thinking, is all.”

“And?” Eileen studied her. “I can tell by your expression that you're up to no good.”

Mary Helen frowned. “I don't know what you mean,” she said. “When can thinking not be good?”

“To quote a famous bard, ‘Yond, Cassius. He thinks too much…. Such men are dangerous.' ” Eileen's gray eyes twinkled. “Although I could never accuse you of having a ‘lean and hungry look.' “

“One night with Danny Short and everyone's a comedian,” Mary Helen muttered, laughing in spite of herself.

“How about dessert?” Eileen asked, gathering up their dinner plates. “What would you like? I see all kinds of sweets on the table, and I noticed someone with ice cream.”

“Surprise me,” Mary Helen said.

“That's the spirit, Sister,” said a voice from behind her.

Mary Helen turned quickly and found herself face-to-face with Zoë O'Dea.
Speak of the devil,
the nun thought, although
she hadn't actually been speaking of Zoë. It was more like think of the devil. Not that it really mattered.

Zoë's dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing everything about Mary Helen, jumping nervously from her face to her hands and back again.

“Is our barbeque to your liking?” she asked, then answered her own question. “It was lovely, wasn't it?”

“Yes, indeed,” Eileen said, and she joined the two women. She had a dish of rich creamy gelato in each hand. Crazily, Mary Helen felt saved.

Zoë smiled a satisfied smile. “And I see you've a sweet.”

“We do, thank you,” Eileen said, “and it looks delicious. May I get you something?”

“Not a'tall. I couldn't eat another bite. But you go ahead. I'll just sit with you a minute, rest my feet.” Zoë sat and began to study her thumbnail, as if she was about to say something and was not so sure she should.

“It's a pity we had a murder,” she blurted out finally, as if it were somehow her fault. “I hope it didn't spoil your holiday.”

Mary Helen could scarcely believe her ears. The woman was worried about their holiday being spoiled. Shouldn't she be concerned for the murdered man?

“Not a bit,” Eileen answered. Mary Helen was shocked her friend could be so unemotional. “We were feeling sad for Mr. Ward and for his family. Surely that was a brutal way to die.”

“No more than he deserved,” Zoë uttered. “He was a brutal man, was our Willie,” she said, almost as though she were talking to herself. “And he had little concern for anyone else's feelings. He didn't care who he hurt.”

Zoë's words tumbled on.
Like poison oozing from a lanced boil,
Mary Helen thought. The woman's sharp eyes focused on her. “Willie Ward was a cruel man. He never minded what he
said in his column about people, never gave a thought to their feelings.

“Last year he wrote about my Tara when she didn't win the Oyster Queen contest. He made very hurtful remarks about her hair. She has lovely long chestnut brown hair, does my Tara,” Zoë said, putting a hand to her own Clairol-colored curls. “My poor child cried for days about his calling it a horse's tail.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can tell you what part of a horse our Willie is … was,” she corrected herself. “Mark my words, there will be many a dry eye at his wake, as the old saying goes.” Zoë stopped for breath. “Oh, I could tell you tales about our Willie, I could, if I had a notion.”

Her eyes scanned the dance floor as if she was searching for someone. “He's a long legacy of upsetting people, even someone as sure of herself as our Mrs. Oonagh Cox.”

Mary Helen noticed a hint of contempt in Zoë's voice when she mentioned Oonagh Cox.
There must be some history there,
she thought. There was more to it than both having lovely daughters running for Oyster Festival Queen. Hadn't someone told her that Zoë and Patsy Lynch were friends? Did she perhaps know that Oonagh and Patsy's husband were lovers?

“And Owen Lynch!” Zoë said, her eyes clamping on the chairman, who was slowly steering his wife around the dance floor. “He couldn't abide Willie.”

“Why was that?” Mary Helen wondered aloud.

“Because Willie always poked his nose into festival business, no matter who the chairman was. He fancied himself sort of the last word on how things should be done. The year my Bertie was chairman, he came down with an awful case of the hives.”

“Bertie?” Mary Helen asked.

“Mr. O'Dea,” Zoë said. Her nose lifted slightly as if she smelled something unpleasant. “I thought everyone knew
himself.
Bertie,
the undertaker.
Let O'Dea send you on your way
,” she said, without skipping a beat.

Although Mary Helen knew she might be getting in farther than she should, she couldn't resist. “Mrs. O'Dea,” she began cautiously.

“Zoë. Please call me Zoë.”

“Zoë, I wonder if you have any idea who was responsible for Willie Ward's death?”

All at once, Zoë O'Dea's brown eyes were wary, and her mouth twitched. She stood and pulled herself up to her full five feet. “No idea a'tall,” she said so emphatically that Mary Helen was almost positive she did.