Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

Reluctantly, she retraced her way toward her hotel, feeling clear-headed and invigorated, thinking how wonderful it would be to come to Dublin on a holiday with Kerney and Patrick and spend time together seeing all that the city had to offer. In her room she checked for an e-mail message from Kerney and found an upbeat note from him, reporting that Patrick had been enrolled in a highly recommended preschool they’d visited over the noon hour. He would start in the morning.

With a smile on her face Sara went back to work and spent the rest of the morning combing through the various reports, trying to find anything that would get her closer to George Spalding.

In the afternoon Sara took a short nap, finished working on her notes, and walked to the Canadian embassy on St. Stephen’s Green, where she presented her diplomatic credentials to a Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer, laid out the facts of the case, and asked for a full and immediate investigation to be mounted in Toronto regarding Josephine Paquette’s current personal and financial status.

That evening Hugh Fitzmaurice, wearing a fresh suit, picked Sara up at her hotel and drove her a short distance through busy traffic to University College, where the award ceremony and reception for the Irish-Canadian writer was to be held in O’Reilly Hall.

“Did you glean anything from the file?” he asked as he braked for a car that cut in front of him on the motorway.

“This afternoon I telephoned estate agents and pretended to be looking for an Irish retreat in Dun Laoghaire. It’s not often that seaside villas in the town come on the market, and they sell quickly at premium prices. I can’t believe Paquette simply waltzed into Dun Laoghaire and snapped up a desirable house in a prestigious location by chance.”

“The estate agent assured us that is exactly what happened.”

“I don’t believe it,” Sara said, “no more than I believe Paquette would renovate the house without Spalding’s approval and permission.”

“You’re suggesting Spalding made advance arrangements with the estate agent.”

Sara nodded. “Of one sort or another. I’ll know more in the morning. I’ve asked the French to search for any travel bookings Spalding may have made under his alias prior to Paquette’s arrival in Paris.”

Fitzmaurice gave her an appraising glance. “If he came to Ireland at some earlier time, your theory may well prove to be correct. What put you onto the idea?”

“For over thirty years Spalding lived his life as an established, well-regarded, wealthy man,” Sara replied. “Surely he would want to replicate that lifestyle under a new identity.”

“Why did he choose Dun Laoghaire?”

“The answer to that question was buried in the case material the Canadian authorities sent you. Among Spalding’s property the Canadian Customs and Revenue Agency seized for tax evasion were two boats, an offshore sport-fishing boat and a sailboat.”

Fitzmaurice’s eyes widened. “Dun Laoghaire is a boat lover’s paradise.”

“Exactly. Spalding wants to live on the seashore in an English-speaking country where he can fit in, indulge in his hobbies, and travel around Europe as he wishes.”

“Are you quite sure you’re not an FBI profiler?” Fitzmaurice asked as he pulled into a campus parking lot.

“Quite sure,” Sara answered with a laugh.

They’d arrived early, Fitzmaurice explained as they crossed the campus to O’Reilly Hall, so they could spot Paquette and sit as close to her as possible. The university consisted of modern buildings surrounded by well-kept grounds with walking paths that led to classrooms, faculty office buildings, and common areas. At an ornamental lake near O’Reilly Hall a small group of well-dressed people had already started to gather, but Paquette was not among them.

The doors to the hall were opened for the audience, and Sara and Fitzmaurice took programs from ushers as they walked in. The writer being honored, Brendan Coughlan, was an Irish emigrant to Canada who’d written a number of contemporary novels set in Nova Scotia. According to the program notes Coughlan had been born and raised in County Clare, and his novels captured the essence of Irish characters living in a foreign land yet still haunted by the bloody history and partition of their native country.

Paquette showed up accompanied by an older man and a middle-aged couple. In contrast to their quite fashionable clothes Paquette wore a designer dress that broke at her knees and had a revealing bodice. She wore diamond stud earrings and her hair was done up in a French twist that accentuated her long neck. She had an oval, pretty face with high cheekbones, and a petite figure with a tiny waist.

“She enjoys being flamboyant, doesn’t she?” Sara said.

“It is attire perhaps more appropriate to a gala opening at the Abbey Theater,” Fitzmaurice replied.

With Fitzmaurice at her side Sara followed Paquette into the hall, listening in on her conversation, which consisted of small talk about the beautifully decorated Georgian terrace house she’d visited while interviewing a Canadian celebrity, and the wonderful, perfectly presented dinner she’d been served at a restaurant owned by a young chef who immigrated to Dublin from Vancouver.

They sat behind Paquette in the packed auditorium and eavesdropped as she described to her companions her recent meeting with the evening’s honoree, Brendan Coughlan. Paquette babbled on until the lights dimmed and the event began.

After some short introductory remarks by a faculty member, who praised Coughlan as a unique voice in Irish literature, the writer took center stage to rousing applause and spoke at length about his childhood and youth in County Clare, and how he’d found the magic and beauty of Ireland mirrored along the rocky coast of Nova Scotia, where the pure, deep sounds of Eire could still be heard among the many voices, memories, and dreams that had blossomed there.

He finished with a reading from his most recent work, and Sara decided she wouldn’t leave Dublin without at least one of his novels in her bag.

When the award was presented to Coughlan, the audience gave him a standing ovation, which included thunderous clapping by Fitzmaurice. As people filed out of the hall, Sara lost sight of Paquette.

“Don’t worry,” Fitzmaurice said, “I’ve a man on her. She’s off to a private reception for Coughlan, along with all the other glitterati who were here tonight.”

“He’s a brand-new writer to me,” Sara said.

“You’ve not read him?”

Sara shook her head.

“Well, you should,” Fitzmaurice said. “I mean no offense, but you Yanks spend far too much time beating your own literary drums, and not enough time listening to other voices.”

“None taken,” Sara replied. “He’s on my to-be-read list effective immediately. I think you would have come here on your own tonight if I hadn’t asked to have a look at Paquette.”

Fitzmaurice grinned. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I’m a big fan of Coughlan’s work.”

On the ride back to her hotel Sara’s enthusiasm for Dublin waned a bit. The late-night traffic was awful, and some of the neighborhoods they passed through looked no more inviting than the typical urban sprawl found in any major city.

Fitzmaurice parked at the curb in front of the hotel, and through the open car window Sara watched a group of talkative young people hurry down the quay toward a pub where a laughing, cigarette-smoking crowd stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance.

“I bet you’re bored stiff with this assignment,” she said.

Fitzmaurice shifted in his seat and looked at her. “It’s been less than exciting, although I have enjoyed knocking around a bit with high society.”