The Death of a Joyce Scholar by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online

especially for the occasion and the heat. The plaice Nicoise was Mediterranean, of course, the wine in the chrome bucket by the side of the table a vinho verde from the Minho. What was he seeing here, a little celebration?
    “I wonder—could this wait until tomorrow?” she asked pleasantly, her voice feminine and soft, like the rest of her, but surprisingly deep.
    McGarr slid the bottle back into the ice water. “I’d lower the heat, were I you. Smells done to me.”
    “Really,” she pressed, half turning to the hall that led to the front door. “Tomorrow I could give you all the time you want.” She slid her fingers in the slit pockets of the blue shorts and hunched her shoulders so that her breasts hung loose in the jumper. “Anything.”
    Was that another sort of offer?
    “Tomorrow you’ll be speaking to one of my staff.” Stepping toward the sitting room, McGarr turned off the gas and peeked into the oven. The pots were earthenware and Spanish in design, and he was willing to bet that the second contained a risotto with tarragon, white wine, and saffron. He made a small, involuntary noise in the back of his throat. He felt like he could eat a cow—or a Catty, for that matter—and he had to remind himself of his purpose. And the fact that hewas happily married to a beautiful woman nearly half his age.
    The sitting room, like the kitchen, had been prepared for company. A coffee table had been set before a love seat. On it were a bowl of mixed nuts, a wedge of Brie and another of Stilton. A bottle of Offaly port, 1964, stood at hand. A trolley held bottles of various spirits and a shiny bucket, beaded with moisture. With lace doilies covering the arms and the backs of the overstuffed chairs and love seat, it seemed a room in which a person might most pleasantly be pampered by the likes of the super-feminine Ms. Doyle.
    He turned back on the young woman, who was watching him from the doorway, her cheeks now flushed in—was it?—anger. “When is your company expected?”
    “Half-past seven.”
    It was seven-ten.
    “You understood that a murder was committed.”
    Her eyes moved off. She nodded.
    “And that there would have to be an investigation.”
    Her eyes fell to the carpet.
    “And yet you didn’t notify the Guards.”
    She raised her head to the open window, through which they could hear heels on the walk of the square. A man passed by. “Kevin was Katie’s husband, wasn’t he? And she’s my sister. Look”—the eyes flickered up at him—“he was dead. I mean, long dead. And”—another pause—“it’s not as though we…fancy the police, begging your pardon, Mr. McGarr. Who they —not you —are, if you know what I mean.” Her voice was low and confiding.
    “We?” he asked in a tone no less intimate. “You and Katie Coyle are sisters? ”
    She shook her head once and looked away, as if to say that he just didn’t know what she meant.
    McGarr had never considered himself unpolicemanlike. Ifanything, he struggled to be as complete a policeman as he possibly could, according to his own definition of the role, which required that he be a decent human being first and an official second.
    Said Catty Doyle, “We’re sisters because of our sex. You know, women. ” She glanced at McGarr, and when he still said nothing, she added, “We discussed it. Mary said you wouldn’t— couldn’t —understand, and we should just phone the Guards. The others. The ones here in Glasnevin. But Katie insisted we take him back to the house and she would get you. ‘Kev would’ve wanted it like that,’ she said. She also said he used to read everything he could about you in the papers. ‘Pure Dublin,’ he’d say about you.”
    As was what he was hearing from her now. Soap, and as soft and sweet as could be had.
    “‘He’ll find who did this,’ she went on.”
    Again her eyes turned to the sound of footsteps in the street.
    “Which brings me to where and how you found him. Exactly, Catty. May I