Malarkey by Sheila Simonson Read Free Book Online

muddy boots and Barbara's similar exasperation
with Tierney. I wriggled my toes. Should I say something to Mahon?
According to Barbara, Tierney was supposed to have finished the
tool shed. Obviously, he hadn't. If he had tried to, wouldn't he have
found the body? I squirmed, uneasy. On the other hand, Sgt. Kennedy
had said he was going to question Tierney anyway. If the man had
entered the shed in the past few days Kennedy would find out.
    The telephone rang. My father answered it, though the
constable made a move to cut him off. I gathered from what Dad said
that the caller was someone from Stanyon Hall. I glanced at my
watch. Eleven fifteen. Three in the morning at home. Still too early to
call Jay, thank God, though he could advise me about Tierney. I
decided to speak to Jay before I said anything to the Gardai.
    Dad hung up and came over to the couch. "That was Alex.
They want us for dinner tonight."
    The funeral baked meats? I felt little enthusiasm but could
think of no reason to object.
    "His...er, the dead man's sister is flying in from
London."
    "London?"
    "She lives there."
    "And the Steins want moral support?"
    He frowned. "Something of that nature. He said it would be
an informal buffet—nothing fancy."
    "I imagine we'll be back by dinnertime."
    "Heavens, I hope so. Ballitore can't be more than sixty miles
from here."
    Less, I thought, as the crow flies. More on those little
wiggling lanes. But I didn't object. I wanted to be elsewhere, though I
wished we could make the trip to Ballitore by train or
helicopter.
    Mahon returned. "Forensic will want to keep your boots for
a day or two, Mrs. Dodge."
    "That might prove inconvenient."
    He gave an apologetic shrug.
    "You'll have to allow us to retrieve our bags from the
bedrooms, then. I need shoes right now, and we'll both need a
change of clothes for this evening."
    He didn't want to allow us downstairs and finally agreed to
have the constable bring the luggage up to us. I wished him joy of
Dad's book bag. It weighed a ton.
    As it turned out, Mahon also wanted to search our suitcases,
though it wasn't clear why. A matter of routine, he said. Since we had
nothing to hide, we didn't object, and the search was perfunctory.
The constable's ears turned red as he riffled through my undies. He
copied out the titles of Dad's books. The Republic had been known to
censor books. I trusted my father had not brought anything
salacious. It seemed unlikely. I replaced the suede boots with my
ancient sneakers.
    It was one before Mahon finally allowed us to go. He had
been relieved when Dad told him we intended to stay another night
with Mrs. O'Brien. "That'll be Ballymann House," he murmured,
looking faintly envious. The constable squiggled a note.
    "Will we be able to use the cottage tomorrow?" I asked.
    He said something polite and diplomatic. I gathered he
wasn't sure.
    The long-suffering constable helped us load our luggage,
including my father's book bag, into the Toyota. I strapped in and
looked over at Dad. "Where to?"
    He checked his watch. "It's late."
    "It's lunchtime." I thought of the O'Brien breakfast. "On the
other hand, I may never eat again."
    Dad smiled. "Why don't we postpone the trip to Ballitore
until tomorrow? I'm not sure how long the museum stays open, and
it will take us at least an hour to get there."
    "More like two."
    Dad nodded. "I have some reading to do. You could drive in
to Arklow. There's a famous hand-weaving establishment at Avoca,
too."
    I cheered up. "I need to cash a couple of traveler's checks
and buy some real food for the cottage."
    "Black pudding."
    I looked at him again.
    He gave me a puckish smile.
    "Just yanking my chain?"
    "Something like that."
    I deposited him and our bags at Ballymann House. Then I
drove without major mishap to Arklow. It was a pretty town with an
almost idyllic setting, but I could see that I was fated to regard it as a
shopping center. Oddly enough, I found an American-style
supermarket, Quinnsworth, at the top of