Erin Hart - The Book of Killowen

“Yes. Your father was tired, so I helped Eliana get him settled. You were gone a long time.”

“Oh, yes, found my phone right where I dropped it. But then I ran into Anthony Beglan—literally, ran smack into him in the car park. Completely destroyed the plate of parmigiana he was carrying home.”

“So that’s how you got tomato sauce on your face?” Nora’s eyes glinted as she directed him to his left eyebrow. “Just there.”

“What? Oh.” Cormac touched his own forehead and brought away a small splodge of red sauce. “I guess it must have—” He looked around for something to wipe his fingers and finally took the handkerchief Niall Dawson offered. “But that’s not the most curious thing.”

He told Nora and Niall what he’d overheard at Beglan’s place.

“So Anca’s not gone away at all,” Nora said. “I thought it was strange that she’d left half-finished work on the writing table in the studio. Martin Gwynne seemed to regret my mentioning her tonight at dinner, didn’t you think?”

Cormac agreed. “I thought Claire seemed miffed as well, to tell you the truth. So they don’t want us to know she’s here, but why not?”

“The girl’s probably illegal,” Dawson said. He shifted in his chair, looking almost as uncomfortable as Gwynne had been at the dinner table.

“I thought of that,” Cormac admitted. “But even if that is the case, they’re going to an awful lot of trouble to hide her, from us or from the police.”

Nora asked, “Did you ever meet the girl, Niall? She must have been here when you came last April.”

Cormac studied Dawson, watching his friend’s expression subtly change in response to Nora’s gentle probing.

“I don’t really remember,” Niall said. “I was only here briefly.”

Cormac thought back to the intimacy of the dinner table tonight. How could you forget the people you’d broken bread with at that table, even if it was a few months past? Nora seemed to register a touch of disbelief as well. “Come on, Niall, how could you not remember?”

“Well I don’t.”

Nora shot him a questioning glance, but Cormac signaled her with a tiny frown to drop it. Something was not right. He’d have to take up this subject with Niall when they were alone.

At nine o’clock on Friday night, Stella Cusack was at home watching the first of several digital videos she had requested from the RTÉ archives—Benedict Kavanagh’s chat show. The format featured an intellectual duel, each guest challenging the host over philosophical points that had about as much to do with any ordinary person’s life as how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. After twenty minutes or so, all the blather about “being” and “nonbeing” made her head ache. No surprise at all that the debaters were men, who evidently had time to sit around and think deep thoughts while their wives were at home managing the house and the children and the cooking and every-feckin’-thing else.

Still, it wasn’t difficult to understand people’s attraction to Kavanagh. He had a kind of effortless grace, a full head of hair just unkempt enough so that you knew he wasn’t vain—at least not in that way. Kavanagh seemed to focus on his guests, to take in and process what they were saying. Each guest would fall under his spell, relaxing into easygoing, spirited conversation. Which made it all the more surprising when the smiling host suddenly went on the attack at the end of the program.

Stella began running the video again, fast-forwarding through the arguments, instead focusing on what interested her, which was Kavanagh’s body language and that of his guests. If gamblers had their tells, so did philosophers, apparently. At some point in each of the debates, Kavanagh would purse his lips and wait a few moments, then interrupt whoever was speaking and cut him off at the knees. She watched another three videos, fast-forwarding through the chat just to watch the body language, and it happened at the same time in each one. It was as though Kavanagh knew exactly when to stop the discussion and make his fatal thrust before the credits rolled. She studied the faces of the guests as their host cheerily signed off: fuming at their own impotence, trying to make nice for the sake of the audience, but ready to strangle the man as soon as they got off camera. Had anybody ever thrown a punch at the studio? Easy enough to find out. Stella thought back to her conversation with Mairéad Broome. Did Kavanagh resort to the same tactics in the inevitable marital disagreements? Barry Cusack, for all his faults, had never made her feel like murdering him because he could lap her in an argument. But if Benedict Kavanagh was capable of outmaneuvering his brainy professional colleagues, what might he have done in a spat with the wife? Not forgetting the live-in assistant who might have rushed to her aid.

Stella dialed Fergal Molloy. She could hear music in the background as he picked up and remembered that it was Friday night. He probably had some girl at his flat.

“Sorry to bother you, Fergal—”

“No, it’s fine.” The volume of the music dropped.

“I was going through the archives of Kavanagh’s television program and wondered if you’d found out any more about the land records.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No, actually, I started in on these—”

“Because I could pop round, pick up a curry, and we could go over a few things. What’s your usual?”

Stella surprised herself with a quick response: “Saag chicken and garlic naan.”

When she hung up, Stella was taken aback at what had just transpired. They’d sometimes stayed late at the office, going over case notes, but Molloy had never volunteered to bring dinner before. Was she missing something? And was the house presentable enough to receive a guest? She jumped up to clear away the few pieces of dirty crockery that tended to pile up in the sink when she was home alone, and then turned to the files that were spread across the kitchen table. Finally, she checked the fridge and found some bottles of ale still there from a few months back. That was fine—Smithwick’s was rather good with Indian.

Just then the bell went, and she opened the door to find her partner laden with a file tucked under one arm and two carrier bags full of take-away containers. “Didn’t realize your flat was so near,” she said.

“All right, I confess, I was in the car when you rang. Going for curry on my own.”

She showed him to the kitchen and they began unloading the food. “And here’s me, thinking you’d have someplace to go on a Friday night, somewhere a bit more exciting than going over case notes.”

“And if I was looking forward to it?”

“Then you are officially a pathetic human being.” The spicy curry smelled wonderful. Stella licked a bit of sauce from her thumb and realized that she was ravenous.

Molloy pulled the last package from the bag. “And garlic naan, as requested.”

“Thanks, Fergal. You didn’t have to do this.”

He waved away her thanks. “Best option I had for the evening, by a long shot.”

She leveled him with a look. “You can leave off the slagging right now.”

His gaze was steady as her own. “I happen to be deadly serious.”

A small voice at the back of her head told Stella something had just happened, that she ought to be paying attention. But whatever it was, the moment was so small, and so subtle, that she couldn’t say what it was. She went to the fridge and brought out two bottles of ale.

Molloy sat down to his curry and began flipping through the pages of his notebook.

“Killowen, including the turbary rights to turf cutting in the adjacent bog, belonged to a Thomas Beglan, bachelor uncle of Anthony, until his death at age eighty in 1992. Thomas had no heirs but his nephew, so the whole parcel went to him. Anthony Beglan still owns the land, both his own family farm and Killowen.”