The Sham (A Chloe Boston Mystery Book 14) by Melanie Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

Besides, our local German restaurant, Harry’s Hofbrau, had decked itself out for Saint Patty’s and I kind of wanted to show it off. They were even serving green beer which was sure to impress. So, on Main Street, we pulled into Harry’s lot and went inside for an authentic German-American Irish celebration.
    “Chloe, you came!” Harry said with arms extended wide the moment we entered his restaurant.
    While Harry hugged me, Mayor Gilhoolie eyed him suspiciously, looking fully prepared to defend himself if hugs were to be administered to all customers. Instead of a hug, Harry turned to my diminutive guest and extended his huge beefy right hand.
    “Harry Schmitt,” Harry declared. “Welcome to my Hofbrau.”
    “Seamus Gilhoolie, mayor of Derrydown, Ireland.”
    “No! Not the Irish mayor?”
    “The very one,” I explained.
    “Well, in that case, come in and let me serve you a pint of Guinness.”
    “That’s more to my liking than hugs and handshakes,” Gilhoolie agreed.
    Harry led us to a booth containing a large table made of pine. Garlands of metallic green shamrocks were strung from the sturdy wooden beams overhead. The traditional Bavarian oompa band muzak had been replaced with Irish jigs. Other than that, it was too early to have attracted any revelers, other than the usual barflies who always hung out at the place and a small group of young men gathered in one corner of the restaurant. Harry returned with two steins filled with foaming Guinness. This actually brought a refreshingly attractive smile to the mayor’s face. What happened next squashed that smile like a bug.
    “And for the mayor, a special celebration treat,” Harry said, setting a green plastic bowler hat down on the top the mayors head. “Phew. I was worried that it would be too small since they were out of the adult sizes.”
    The mayor’s eyes shot up trying to see his gift. The frown that accompanied the glance showed that he had probably guessed. To his credit, Gilhoolie didn’t immediately cast the garish chapeaux aside. Instead, he waited for Harry to leave before delicately removing the offending headwear and placing it gently on the table.
    “Sorry about that,” I apologized softly. “I guess we’re all just a little excited to have an Irish dignitary in town.”
    “Quite alright,” the mayor replied, greedily eyeing his Guinness.
    But Harry wasn’t done offending. Before we could sip of our beers, Harry arrived with two steaming plates of corned beef and cabbage which he set before us.
    “ Bon appetite ,” he said, bowing and backing away from the table.
    Again Gilhoolie frowned. Lifting the knife from the plate, he poked at the plate of meat before pushing it away.
    “Look at the fat on that thing. I don’t know how people can eat it. Give me a steaming cup of clam chowder any old day of the week.”
    “Do you eat much clam chowder in Ireland?” I questioned.
    “No, of course not,” the mayor replied, somewhat rattled by my question. “But I enjoy it all the same.”
    Finally we came to the matter of the Guinness. I’ve never been much of a drinker. This particular beverage I viewed as the equivalent of stagnant pond water. So I lifted my glass and sipped sparingly before smiling and placing the glass back on the table. Gilhoolie eyed his drink ravenously like a cat that just spied a mouse. When he raised his glass, it wasn’t to take a delicate sip. Oh no, he threw his head back and quaffed the entire stein in one go. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. Some of the beverage ran down his jowls as a result of pouring the stuff faster than his mouth could accommodate it. His glass hit the table with a bang, he exhaled a mighty sigh of satisfaction, and he wiped the sleeve of his well-worn coat across his slightly green lips. I wondered if Harry was using plain old food coloring in the beer.
    “Now that’s what I call a Saint Patrick’s Day tradition,” he declared with a mighty