Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

“We’ve got a lucky break on your arson case, if you’re interested.” The superintendent’s tone made Devaney think someone might have tipped him off on the Osborne thing.

“What’s happened?”

“Night watchman in Killimor caught your firebug—up to his eyeballs in petrol.” Wonderful, thought Devaney, just what he needed. Some gombeen with a torch stumbles onto the arsonist at work, and in the process manages to make the officer in charge—himself, as it happened—look like a totally incompetent gobshite. But it wasn’t as if Boylan had far to go to be convinced on that score anyway. He could tell the superintendent was waiting for a reaction.

“Well, apprehending the suspect is really the main thing, isn’t it, sir?”

“We’ll need you up in Killimor as soon as possible,” Boylan said.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Devaney turned to his wife, slipped an arm around her, and kissed her lightly on the temple. God, she was so warm, and she smelled wonderful. “Nuala, I’ve got to go.”

Her voice was slurred with drowsiness. “I missed you, Gar. I woke up and you were gone.”

“I was downstairs. Couldn’t sleep. I was doing a bit of reading.”

“Mmmm,” she responded, and pulled his arm around her more tightly. Devaney cursed Brian Boylan and the Killimor firebug as he gently extricated himself from her grip.

Hugh Osborne insisted on driving them to the session on Tuesday evening. As Cormac looked over at the tall figure in the driver’s seat, he could feel a difference in the way Osborne had engaged with them in the past couple of days. Had he seen them coming back from the tower yesterday evening, or perhaps overheard Nora leaving the message for Devaney? Or was Cormac letting his attraction to Nora color his assessment of the whole situation? Then he remembered the violence to the cars, and in the pencil strokes of the sketches in the tower. They had done the right thing in phoning Devaney.

“How’s the work coming along?” Hugh Osborne asked.

“We should be able to finish up by the end of the week, I think,” Cormac said.

“Good, good, that’s good. We’ll be able to move ahead, then.”

“You will. There’s nothing significant enough to hold up the plans.”

Nora had been conspicuously silent, but finally spoke up from the back-seat: “I’m sure you’ll be glad of a little peace and quiet once we’re out of your hair.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Dunbeg. As they climbed out of the car, Osborne said, “Give me a shout when you’re ready, and I’ll come collect you.”

The punters were three deep at the bar at Lynch’s. From the dark suits, Cormac guessed there was a crowd in from a funeral up the road somewhere, and from the look of them, decked out in brand-new Aran sweaters and tweed caps, a tour bus full of Yanks as well, stopping in for a pint and a bit of the local color, God help them. The air was already thick with smoke, and the din of voices overlaid with tipsy laughter. The players were in their corner, with full pints but instrument cases shut tight, no doubt waiting for a bit of a lull in the commotion. Cormac surveyed the half-familiar faces and nodded to Fintan McGann, who lifted his glass and shrugged. No sign yet of Devaney.

He turned to Nora, and had to shout to be heard. “What’ll you have?”

“Small whiskey and a glass of water.”

“Nora!” came a voice from a few feet away. “Over here!” She turned and scanned the crowd, until she recognized the jubilant face of a fair-haired, bearded giant of a man making his way toward her.

“Gerry!”

“How are ye, gorgeous?” The man’s merry blue eyes seemed to devour Nora; it was only then that Cormac noticed that she was wearing a touch of dark lipstick, and that the clean soap scent of her hair lingered in the air before him. Despite the crush of the crowd, the man proceeded to lift Nora off her feet and plant a sloppy kiss on her neck, which she wiped away in mock disgust.

“God, Gerry, you’re an awful messer. Do you know Cormac Maguire? Gerry Conover.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Conover said, straightening up and grasping Cormac’s hand. “Nora’s told me nothing about you at all, but I’m guessing that’s a good thing. She has to keep a few secrets from me, I suppose.”

“Don’t make me sorry I came down here, Ger,” Nora said. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, it’s a sad occasion.”

“Are you part of the funeral, then?” Cormac asked.

“I am. We buried my uncle Paddy this afternoon. Ninety-four years old, God rest him. We’re giving him a good send-off.” The drinks arrived, and Cormac handed Nora her glasses over the heads of their fellow bar patrons.

“Do you mind if I steal her away?” Conover asked. “I’m dyin’ to show her off to the relations.”

“Be my guest,” Cormac said.

“Back shortly—maybe you can find Devaney,” she shouted into Cormac’s ear as Conover lifted her whiskey glass and led her away by the hand through the crowd.

Cormac took a long swallow from his own pint, and wondered how long he could stick the noise level. He ventured over to Fintan McGann, who moved down to offer a seat on the bench.

“Welcome to the Wild West,” Fintan said. “Jaysus, didja ever see the bate of it?”

“Do you suppose anyone’s actually going to play?”

“Well, I am, funeral or no funeral, and Yanks or no fuckin’ Yanks. Got the machine there, yourself?” Cormac patted the flute case he’d stuck in his coat pocket. He could see Ned Raftery down the way. The woman sitting beside Raftery waved to catch Cormac’s eye, and asked her neighbor to pass a folded piece of paper down to him. This must be a copy of the letter Raftery had promised. The blind man raised his glass. Cormac made another quick scan of the room, but Nora was nowhere to be seen.

It was nearly half-ten by the time Devaney arrived. Cormac quickly drained his glass to indicate that he’d come up to the bar for another drink and a chat with the policeman. From where they stood, leaned over the bar, Cormac could see Nora at the center of Conover’s group, the funeral party. As he described to Devaney what they’d seen in the tower, his eyes kept returning to the sight of Conover’s arm draped casually around her shoulder. He heard Devaney’s voice, but his attention was elsewhere.

“Sorry?” Cormac said, turning to him. “What was it you just asked me?”

“No sign of whoever it was had been in the tower?” Devaney repeated.

“None that we could find. But we got chased out of the place by a belligerent crow.”

Devaney pulled at his chin. “I’ll have to think about this. It’s all right for you to be going out there, but for me to go stickin’ my nose in, it’s probably got to be more—official, if you like. But I’m glad you told me. I’ll check it out as soon as I can. Right, seeya.” The policeman took his drink and his fiddle case and plunged into the crowd. Cormac knew Devaney was aware of who might be observing them, and was determined to make their conversation brief.

“Ciunas, ladies and gentlemen, ciunas!” a booming voice shouted over the noise. “Let’s have a bit of quiet. We’re going to have a song.” A silence fell, broken only by a few drunken giggles, until the singer began, and Cormac immediately recognized Nora’s voice. He squeezed through the crowd to where he could see her better.