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

deserted,” Mary Helen said when the waitress had gone for their order. The high-backed benches made it impossible to tell if any other diners were in the alcove. If there were, they were awfully quiet. In fact, the entire pub was eerily quiet.
    â€œEveryone must still be in the tent.” Eileen rubbed her hands together in an effort to warm them. “I wonder how longit will take Father Keane to find Owen Lynch in that crowd?” she whispered, in case there was anyone to overhear. “And after he does, they’ll have to take care of Tommy Burns, poor lad. I hope he’s not frozen to death.”
    â€œSurely they’ll call the police, too,” Mary Helen said.
    â€œWho’ll have to come from Oranmore,” Eileen speculated. “At this time of night, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”
    â€œMaybe you are right about our needing energy,” Mary Helen said as the waitress set down two large triangles of rhubarb pie topped with a mound of whipped cream. “It looks as if it is going to be a very long night.”
    She was amazed at how quickly the pie disappeared. And Eileen was right, Mary Helen thought, as she resisted the temptation to order another piece: she had never tasted rhubarb pie quite so delicious.
    The sweet aroma of hot tea filled the alcove. Cradling the cup in her hands, Mary Helen felt its warmth slip down her throat and settle in her bones. A medley of traditional Irish tunes played softly in the background. She was afraid to close her eyes. Surely she would fall asleep. Or maybe she was asleep. Maybe this was all a dream.
    â€œJust what the doctor ordered!” Eileen sighed and settled back against the high bench.
    Voices floated in from the bar. “Did you hear the one about the fellow who had a little too much to drink?” someone asked the publican, who said he hadn’t.
    â€œDriving home from the pub he’s weaving and the garda stops him.
    â€œ ‘It looks as if you’ve had quite a few,’ the garda says.
    â€œ ‘I did, all right,’ says the fella.
    â€œ ‘Did you know that a few miles back your wife fell out of the car?’
    â€œ ‘Oh, thanks be to God,’ says the fella, ‘for a minute there I thought I’d gone deaf.’ “
    â€œThat’s a good one,” the publican said, laughing.
    â€œUnless you’re
herself
,” the waitress said to the nuns as she cleared off the pie plates. She stifled a yawn. “That’s old Terry Eagan,” she said. “He thinks he’s quite the card. I say ignore him. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Eileen said. “We are waiting for—”
    â€œNo matter,” the waitress interrupted, untying her apron strings. “Wait as long as you like. You can settle up with the publican when you’re ready. I have got to get off my feet.”
    With the waitress gone, the Monks’ Table grew even more deserted. Mary Helen stared dreamily into the crackling fire. Without warning, a log crashed to the hearth. Sparks exploded, hitting the screen.
    Eileen jumped and her hand flew to her chest. “If I had a heart, I’d be dead,” she said, standing up to make sure no embers had fallen on the rug.
    â€œOver there.” Mary Helen pointed to a small glowing spot on the other side of the alcove. “While you’re doing that, I think I’ll make a little visit.” She moved toward a hallway with a large sign that read, “Toilets.”
No confusion there,
she thought, stopping at the narrow door marked “Ladies.”
    Pushing open the door, she was greeted by a faint flowery smell that seemed to be fighting with a sharp acrid odor. Although the small room appeared unoccupied, the stall door was shut. Quickly Mary Helen stepped outside. Everyone appreciates a little privacy.
    For several minutes she studied the framed