Murder at the Monks' Table by Carol Anne O'Marie Read Free Book Online Page A

night air had made his gray hair curlier.
    Blinking, Father Keane’s hand shot up to protect his eyes from the glare. “Turn that blasted torch away,” he said, still trying to determine who they were. “Who is it?” He squinted against the light. “Are ye the nuns from America?” he asked in disbelief.
    â€œWe are.” Eileen beamed the flashlight on the ground between them.
    â€œWhy in God’s name are you two out here in this field? Don’t you know there are all kinds of potholes? You could easily stumble in the dark and hurt yourselves?”
    â€œWe are fine,” Eileen said quickly, then skipping over the whys of their being outside, she told the priest what they actually had stumbled upon.
    â€œWe have come to find Owen Lynch,” she said, her words coming out in small icy puffs.
    By now both the nuns and the priest were shivering with the cold. “You must be nearly frozen,” he said. “I know I am. Let me go and find Owen myself and tell him what you’ve told me. You needn’t trouble your heads.” He thought for a moment. “Why don’t you two go around the outside of the tent to the Monks’ Table? Have a cup of hot tea. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”
    Without another word, Father Keane started back toward the tent. Silently the nuns stared after him.
    â€œA cup of hot tea sounds good,” Eileen said, making a path with her flashlight.
    The combination of fear, cold, and weariness made Mary Helen feel almost drugged as she followed her friend toward the Monks’ Table. It didn’t occur to her until they had almost reached the pub that they hadn’t asked Father Keane what in God’s name—if it was in God’s name—he was doing out in the cold, dark, dangerous field himself.
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    Sister Mary Helen drew back the heavy wooden door of the Monks’ Table and stepped aside to let Eileen go in first. The sudden blast of warm air fogged up her bifocals, momentarily blinding her.
    â€œWelcome,” she heard the publican call.
    Finding a clean tissue in her sweater pocket, she wiped her glasses. Once she did, she saw that only three men were at the long bar. One sat at each end and one squarely in the middle.
Making sure the publican gets his exercise,
Mary Helen thought—
that is, if they ever actually drink from their glasses.
From where she stood, all three seemed to be doing more staring at the rich dark liquid than actual sipping.
    â€œMind your step,” the publican reminded them as they made their way toward the dining area in the back of the pub.
    â€œLet’s get a table close to a fireplace,” Mary Helen suggested. Her feet and hands felt like ice sculptures. She wondered, as the warmth began to make them tingle and burn, just how long it would take for them to feel normal again.
    â€œAny place at all,” a middle-aged waitress said. “What with the gala tonight, the place is nearly empty.”
    Eileen chose an alcove with a table that was next to an open fireplace. “How’s this?” she asked.
    â€œGreat.” Mary Helen slid into the high-backed bench. The two of them put their feet as close to the fire screen as seemed safe.
    â€œHot tea?” the waitress asked in a weary voice.
    â€œAnd two scones, please,” Eileen added.
    â€œSorry, dearie. No scones at this time of night.” The waitress tapped her pad with the tip of her pencil. “But the rhubarb pie is grand tonight.”
    â€œRhubarb pie it is, then,” Eileen said, smiling over at Mary Helen. “You have never tasted anything like this rhubarb pie.”
    â€œWill you be having that with the whipped cream?” the waitress asked.
    â€œPlease,” Eileen said.
    Mary Helen groaned. “Just thinking of the calories.”
    â€œWe need it for energy,” Eileen rationalized, as if they needed a reason.
    â€œThe place really is