Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Read online

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Well, if you want people to help you, it might be a good idea to be nice to them.”

  “I know, I’m making a mess of this. All I can say is, I’m at the end of my rope, I guess. I’ll try to do better. Is Billy’s information accurate?”

  Maura shrugged. “Got me. I’m the new kid, remember? Probably—he’s a pretty honest guy—but you were kind of rude to him too, so he might have mixed up a few details.”

  Althea sighed. “I’m not handling this very well, am I? I just seem to go around offending everyone without meaning to. Are you pissed at me too?”

  “Not really. But I think you need to take it down a notch. This isn’t New York.”

  “I can’t blame you for being skeptical, I guess. Here I come out of nowhere with this ridiculous story about a lost artwork, and then I expect instant answers so I can go home and impress the art world. It’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But this is Ireland, and even in a couple of months I’ve learned that unlikely things happen here a lot. I wouldn’t give up yet.”

  “If you say so. Where are the best places to stay around here?”

  Maura herself had first stayed at the Keohanes’ place down the road when she arrived, but Althea definitely didn’t seem the B&B type. “Depends on what you’re willing to spend. There’s a nice modern conference center in Rosscarbery—you probably drove past it on your way here.”

  “How far?”

  “Maybe half an hour, by the main road. Or you might try the West Cork Hotel—maybe they’ll have a room for you.”

  “And where’s that? Because I really don’t feel like driving when it gets dark.”

  “It’s in Skibbereen.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s the next town from here. Didn’t you get a map when you picked up the car?”

  “Yes, but I’ve barely had time to look at it. And I can’t make the GPS work because I don’t even know what address to put in. So, please, tell me, how do I find Skibbereen?”

  At least she’d asked nicely. “Go out and keep following that road there.” Maura pointed out the window toward the right. “Follow it for about five minutes—you’ll go past a gas station called Connolly’s on the right—and you’ll come to a small roundabout. When you come to it, go straight out the other side. The hotel will be on your left, and there’s parking behind it. You can’t miss it. It’s no more than ten minutes from here.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Maura—if this works out, I’ll owe you one.”

  “And I’ll collect, believe me.” Maura laughed.

  Mick came over as Althea went out the door. “Who’s that?”

  “A pushy American on a crazy search for . . . well, I won’t say right now because it’s kind of a secret. But if she’s right, it might liven things up a bit around here.”

  Chapter 4

  Maura couldn’t stop thinking about Althea’s story, even the next morning. What the heck did the woman think she was doing here? She must have some smarts if she held down a job in New York, but she shows up in Leap with a crazy story about a lost painting and doesn’t even know where to start looking? Either Althea was dumber than she looked, had some plan she hadn’t talked about, or . . . she was on a legitimate treasure hunt. Maura stopped to consider that angle. It might be good for business, she decided. Assuming Althea said it was okay to spread the word, she could put together some kind of evening at Sullivan’s where everybody who had any information (or thought they did) could get together and pool their resources, or at least spend an interesting evening talking about the possibilities. The idea cheered Maura up.

  Say Althea’s crazy theory was true. Would a discovery like that bring people to Leap? For a day? A week? Maura had been working at the pub since early spring. While business had been steady, had even picked up a little now that summer had arrived, it was still hard to cover the costs of paying for four employees including herself, even if their hours added up to less than full-time each. So far there had been nothing left over for improvements to the place.

  Still, it was a better place than it had been when she’d arrived, Maura was proud to say. And she was in a better place personally too. She’d shown up homeless and jobless, not quite penniless but not far from it, with no close family and no idea what she was going to do with her life. Now she had a house and a pub that she owned outright, including the liquor license. She knew the place had potential, and she’d seen enough pubs—from behind the bar, not in front—to have a pretty good idea what it took.

  Sullivan’s had been around for decades, but the prior owner, Mick Sullivan, had let it go downhill, until only his small circle of faithful friends—and the occasional confused tourist—had kept it going. Maura didn’t pretend that she could turn it into a wildly successful place. There simply weren’t enough people, either living here or passing through, to make that possible. But she believed there was room for improvement. It was cleaner and better lit than it had been in the dark last days of winter—amazing what a few higher-watt lightbulbs could do for a place. She had installed the espresso machine that had been hidden in the basement, and that had drawn in a few more customers, especially women. She was toying with the idea of serving food, although she’d heard rumors that the regulations for that were scary and to meet them she’d probably have to make some expensive changes, which at the moment she couldn’t afford. Not happening this year.

  But it was nice to have a sense of purpose. In fact, if she admitted it, it was nice getting to know people and being able to greet them by name and know what their “usual” was. And it was nice being her own boss for a change. At least nobody could fire her. And if the pub went under, she would have no one to blame but herself. Plus she’d still own the license and the property, which were worth something.

  She checked her watch: almost eleven, which was her preferred opening time. Old Mick had been kind of casual about keeping to official hours. Maura thought that she should impose some order, and if local people saw that she was open regularly at the same time every day, they might stop by for a quick pint or a cup of coffee or tea. Maybe. She came around the bar to open the front door, only to find Skibbereen garda Sean Murphy standing there, his expression serious, his hand raised to knock.

  “Hey, Sean—were you coming in?”

  “Good morning, Maura. I’m afraid I’ve come on official business.”

  “Okay,” Maura answered warily. “Official business” rarely meant good news. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or are you in a hurry?”

  “I’ve been up since first light, so coffee would be grand. I don’t think the news will mean much to you, except that you may have a bigger crowd come evening. There’s been a death.”

  Maura loaded the espresso machine for a single cup and waited while it brewed. “Who was it? Anyone I’d know?” she asked when she slid a cup of coffee in front of him.

  Sean ducked his head and stared at the foam in his cup. “Doubtful—it’s a fellow by the name of Seamus Daly. He worked part of the time at the old Townsend estate, over the road. Kind of an odd-job man and gardener. He is—was—there’s no good way to say it—kind of simple. He was a good worker, very careful and thorough, but he was . . . limited.”

  Yesterday she hadn’t known the Townsend estate existed, and now Sean was telling her about a death there? “I get what you mean. How did he die?”

  “Struck in the head with his own shovel. He was found on the lawn by the housekeeper’s husband this morning—he saw him out the front window, just lyin’ there. He must have been out there much of the night.”

  So it was murder. “I’m sorry.” It seemed the right thing to say, even though she’d never known the man. “Do you have any idea who could have done something like that?”

  “That we do not. But an investigation’s already under way—my sergeant is there now, the chief superintendent has called a meeting for early this afternoon, and the forensic folk are on the
ir way. I’ve got to get back in a minute.”

  “So why are you here, Sean?”

  “I wanted to ask if you’ve seen many people from elsewhere here in the last few days.”

  Ah. Clearly Sean thought—or hoped—that the killer had come from somewhere else. Ireland had a very low murder rate, particularly outside of the cities, and she couldn’t blame Sean Murphy for hoping that the killer wasn’t someone he knew. “You do know I don’t exactly know everybody around here, right? So I can’t always tell a local from a visitor. Plus we’ve been getting a trickle of tourists—there was a family in yesterday in the afternoon, and a few others. But . . .” She wondered if she should tell Sean about Althea. She had trouble seeing Althea, with her fancy New York clothes, bashing someone’s head in with a shovel, but Sean should be told about her. Maybe Althea had an accomplice who’d hidden in the car or checked out one of the other pubs while Althea had tried to charm her way to some useful information.

  “There was someone here yesterday . . .” Maura began, and she gave Sean the rundown on Althea. “Yesterday a woman named Althea Melville came in, and Billy and I had supper with her over at Sheahan’s. Ann served us—she’ll remember. Althea’s American, from New York.”

  “Friend of yours?” Sean asked, pulling out a notebook.

  “No, Sean, I never saw her before yesterday.” As if a blue-collar girl from South Boston would’ve ever had dealings with a swanky New York gallery girl in the normal course of things. But she didn’t say it. Actually, Maura was continually surprised by how many people in Ireland—the whole of which had a population about the same size as New York City’s—did know each other, or at least, knew of each other. “She arrived around five o’clock and then spent an hour having dinner with me and Billy at the inn. She said she was looking for a place to stay, so I sent her over to Skibbereen. I don’t know if she found a room, but she didn’t come back here. I know she was driving a rental car.”

  Sean was scribbling rapidly. “That’s grand. But why do you mention her at all?”

  “Because she was asking Billy about local gentry, and he told her all about Mycroft House and the Townsends. She really wanted to see the place. When did this Seamus guy die?”

  “Sometime after dark, which is eleven or so these days, or he’d have been noticed sooner,” Sean said. “Well, then.” He stared at his notes for a moment then snapped the notebook shut. “I’ll be going over to Sheahan’s to talk to Ann, and I’ll tell one of the other gardaí to check with the hotel in Skibbereen. You haven’t seen Billy Sheahan yet today, have you?”

  “No, it’s still a bit early for him. You think he can help?”

  “I’ll try to talk with him later, if I need him. Thank you, Maura. You’ve been a great help. Keep your ears open, will you?”

  “I will. Good luck, Sean.” She stared at his retreating back, troubled. Who would kill a simpleminded gardener, even if it was at a manor house? Had he interrupted a break-in? Did it have anything to do with the painting Althea was looking for? She had insinuated that the thing, if it existed, would be worth a fortune. Maura wished she’d asked Sean if there was any sign of a theft, attempted or otherwise.

  Not that it was really any of her business, except, as Sean had pointed out, there might be a few more people in the pub later, eager to trade information. She’d seen it before: murder was good for selling pints at the pub.

  Rose let herself in. “Shall I leave the door unlocked?” she asked.

  “Sure. Leave it open, in fact. The sun’s out, and the air feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “That it does. How’d your talk with that New York lady go?”

  Althea might not be exactly ladylike, but why prejudice Rose? “Oh, that’s right—you were gone when I came back, and she stopped in here later. It was interesting. She wanted information from Billy about the local . . . heck, what should I call them? The landowners? The gentry? You know Mycroft House?”

  “I know where it is, but I’ve never seen it. Why?” Rose was checking to make sure they were ready for business—clean glasses, napkins, and so forth. She took up a fresh rag, wet it, and started wiping off the taps.

  “According to Billy, the last of one of the old families still lives there. And Althea really wanted to see the place.”

  “Whatever for? Is it anything special?”

  “She thinks there might be a valuable old painting there.”

  “What’s it to her?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. And now it’s even more so, since Sean Murphy came by to tell me there’s been a killing there, last night.”

  That caught Rose’s attention. “Who’s the victim?”

  “The gardener at the estate.”

  “Ah, not Seamus, was it? He’d never hurt a soul.”

  “You knew him?”

  “He’s come in here the odd time or two. Spring and summer are his busy times, so maybe you haven’t met him. He’s not . . . I mean, he . . .”

  “I know—Sean told me. So, who lives there on the estate?”

  “Miss Eveline, I hear,” Rose said slowly. “She’s got to be near ninety now. She’s the last of the family there, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Sean said there was a housekeeper at the house?”

  “There’s a couple who live in—the O’Briens, Florence and Thomas, I think it is. They’ve been there as long as I can remember.”

  Given Rose’s age, Maura thought, that was at least ten years.

  “Do they come to Sullivan’s? I don’t remember meeting either of them.”

  “They do, but not often. They keep to themselves, and they aren’t much for the drink.”

  “Is anybody in the family sitting on a pot of money?”

  “Don’t think so. Most of the family’s long gone. There’s enough for the O’Briens to look after the place and Miss Eveline, but there’s not much left for repairs and the like. We’d know if someone had the job to fix up the place, with work so scarce. Da told me Miss Eveline has the right to live there for life, but after that . . . ? I’m sure someone would buy the property, though, once she’s gone. It’s a fair piece, along the harbor there, and the back road to Union Hall runs along the other side.”

  “The nephew’s not interested in living there?”

  “Harry?” Rose’s expression turned dreamy. “Nah, things are a bit too quiet for him down here. He stops in when he’s about, which isn’t too often of late. He has a job in Dublin. I can’t say what he does there.”

  “Not married?”

  “No, for all that he’s past thirty now.”

  Maura did some quick mental calculations: clearly too old for Rose to set her sights on, but if she was this interested in him, he must be hot. It was enough to make Maura look forward to meeting him, which she anticipated would happen soon, since no doubt the Skibbereen gardaí would already have contacted him, urging him to show up to sort out this mess.

  “Did you tell Sean Murphy about this Althea woman?” Rose asked.

  “I did.”

  “Funny, her asking about the place and that poor fella dying there, in the same day. Think she’s a killer?” Was Rose joking? Rose was quick to reassure her, “I’m only teasin’.”

  Maura laughed. “No way—it might mess up her manicure.”

  “And I can’t see her tramping about the estate in those shoes. I’d be guessing they cost the earth.” Rose tsked. “Her outfit wasn’t fit for Ireland, much less murder.” In response to Maura’s quizzical look, she added, “What? I read the fashion mags.”

  The first customer of the day came in. “Give me a pint, will yeh? So tell me, Maura Donovan, what have you heard about our murder?”

  Chapter 5

  It was late afternoon when the screen door at Sullivan’s swung open and slammed against the wall, signaling Althea’s arrival. She stalked in, heading straight for the bar. “Maura Donovan, you ratted me out!”

  “As if,” Maura shot back. “So, you’ve talked to the gar
daí, I’m guessing?”

  “You mean the police? Yeah, the cops tracked me down at that hotel you sent me to. You could have kept your mouth shut.”

  Where did Althea get her attitude? “Why would I? They asked me if I’d seen any strangers in town yesterday, and you fit the bill. And, yes, I told them you were interested in Mycroft House. I know the gardaí in Skibbereen. I don’t know you, and I don’t owe you special treatment.”

  “Maybe not,” Althea muttered. “But you really think I took a shovel to that guy? Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Why would you?”

  Althea finally realized that the ten or so patrons in the pub were watching their exchange with great interest. “What’re you all looking at?” she demanded, eyes sweeping the room. “I’m having a conversation here.”

  Maura interrupted her. “Excuse me, lady, but this is my pub, and these are my customers. So you can either leave or dial it back and we can have a civilized conversation here.”

  For a moment Althea wavered, and then she dropped onto a bar stool. “I need a drink.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Scotch, neat.”

  Maura turned and wordlessly filled a glass with an inch of scotch, then set it in front of Althea, who downed it in a gulp. She held out her empty glass. “Another?”

  Maura gave her a hard look, but refilled the glass.

  Althea wrapped her hands around it but didn’t raise it immediately. “Thank you. I apologize—again. I’ve never had to deal with cops in New York, and I had no idea what to expect with your local guys.”

  “They’re okay. I think they’re fair.”

  “Well, I hope they know something about solving crimes. They want me to stick around until they find someone to hang this murder on.”

  Maura reflected. “Did they take your passport or just suggest that you remain available?”

  “The second door,” Althea said, sipping her drink more slowly this time. “I guess it’s a good sign that they figured they could trust me not to flee.”