Tied Up with a Bow Read online

  Tied Up with a Bow

  Pub owner Maura Donovan is still learning the local customs of the Irish village she now calls home, and with the holidays approaching she’s unsure how much, or how little, to decorate. She’s also puzzled by the small construction project going on across the street, which is shrouded in secrecy and has the whole of West Cork guessing what it might be. But most troubling of all is the secretive young boy who shows up at the pub’s door, hinting that he and his mother had to leave Dublin—in a hurry.

  Sensing danger, Maura becomes more alarmed when an unknown man shows up and begins lurking around the pub. With so many questions on her mind and so few answers, Maura knows she’ll have to turn to her new village friends to help her sort out all the mysterious goings-on—and maybe deliver an unexpected gift to someone in need.

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Sheila Connolly

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-946069-92-4

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Books by Sheila Connolly

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “What the heck is going on out there?” Maura Donovan demanded as she peered out the front window of Sullivan’s, the pub she owned and tried to manage.

  “What’re yeh talkin’ about?” Rose Sweeney came around from behind the bar to stand beside her, looking out the window.

  Maura pointed. “That thing those men are building across the road, next to the hotel.” All she could see was a tangle of lumber, what appeared to be multiple strands of slender plastic piping, and bits and pieces of metal. There were at least three men studying a large, wrinkled piece of paper among them, and they didn’t seem to agree on much, pointing and waving their hands over the plans.

  Mick Nolan joined them at the window. “I’m guessin’ that’d be the holiday decorations.”

  “What holiday decorations?” Maura asked him. “There weren’t any last Christmas, except maybe a bunch of pine trees with lights. And most of the shop windows had some sort of display. Except us. Whose idea was this? And how long is it going to take to put the stuff up? It’s been bad enough with all the road repairs the past couple of months—people had real trouble just getting to the front door here, and forget about parking.”

  “Do yeh not read yer mail, Maura? Or the Southern Star?”

  “I don’t get much mail, and when do I have time to read the local paper?”

  “Ah, Maura, yeh’ve got to keep up with what’s happenin’ around you. The roadwork’s done, and now it’s near December. People expect yeh to do somethin’ special fer the holiday.”

  “What, now I’m supposed to make eggnog and cookies?”

  “Christmas cake,” Rose said quickly. “I’ll be happy to make that, if we can get the kitchen pulled together. Porter cake too. And we can put up some holly or the like inside the place, maybe dress it up a bit.” Rose had been taking cooking classes in Skibbereen for several months and was looking forward to overhauling the old kitchen at the back so she could put her new skills to work.

  “Next you’ll be telling me that you want carolers strolling through and singing for their pints,” Maura grumbled.

  “Not a bad idea, Maura,” Mick told her. “Get people singin’ and they’ll be thirsty. Don’t worry, it’ll be grand. Or is it that yeh don’t like Christmas?”

  “I don’t think about it much. Gran and I never had the money to do anything special, and what little we had Gran usually handed out to people who’d just arrived in Boston and had less than we did. She did do some baking, though, when she had the time.”

  “Would yeh have any of her recipes?” Rose asked eagerly.

  Maura shook her head. “I never paid much attention. I’m a lousy cook, you know.”

  “Well, then, think about it and maybe I can help yeh make some of her favorites,” Rose told her.

  “We’ll see,” Maura said. Actually she had little interest in cooking, beyond keeping herself alive and giving her fuel for the long days she put in at the pub. Was she really supposed to make cake for patrons? Bad enough she’d had to clean the place up and learn the ropes of running her own business, and then added music for what seemed like half the nights they were open, and after that Rose had somehow persuaded her to consider updating the old kitchen and start serving food. Where was it going to end? Admittedly everything they’d done so far had increased her profits, but she wasn’t sure how much more she could take on. Or wanted to.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Mick. Whose idea was this? And where’s the money and the labor coming from?”

  “From what I’ve heard, the County Council thought it made sense to put up something that would make people slow down and look as they passed through the village. It’s not the shop owners who are footing the bill, if that’s what’s worryin’ yeh. And yeh won’t have to do a thing.”

  “Yeah, right,” Maura muttered to herself. Then she asked, “And like I said, how long is it going to take to get this thing assembled?”

  “Not long, I’d guess. It’s not as though it’ll do more than sit there. But no doubt there’ll be lights.”

  “Do we know what it’s going to be? Right now it’s a pile of construction materials.” Quite a lot of them, in fact.

  “That I can’t tell yeh. I think it’s meant to be a surprise. I seem to recall a guessin’ raffle of some sort last year, when folk came up with some ideas. Yeh might ask yer friend Seamus and his lot—they seem the type to get into somethin’ like that.”

  Maura, to her surprise, was beginning to get interested. “Are people around here into Santa Claus and all that stuff? Or would it be a leprechaun dressed up as an elf?”

  “Nothin’ to scare the kids, I’m thinkin’. They may not stop in at Sullivan’s, but they’ve been known to go to Ger’s for a bite.”

  “The school’s just up the street, isn’t it?”

  “It is that, next to the church.”

  Maura flashed on her school days back in Boston, where gaggles of kids swarmed out of her local school and flooded local convenience stores looking for a sugar fix after school. “I haven’t seen a lot of kids go by h
ere, not that there’s much at this end of the village to interest them.”

  “It’s a small place, the school, mebbe fifty kids in all the classes combined, and it only goes through the eighth, so there wouldn’t be many in each.”

  “Would it be a problem if they come in here and ask for a soda?” Not that Maura could remember that happening. Maybe their parents had warned them that pubs were dangerous places.

  “It’s not exactly legal, if they come in without an adult. But yeh might offer them a soda, or mebbe a hot chocolate, if they stayed outside. Don’t worry about it, Maura—there aren’t enough children at the school to make much of a difference in yer bottom line. Though they might come by now and then to see what those fellas are buildin’.”

  “How many of those things will there be?” Maura asked.

  “There’s little room for many along the street. That space over the road is a good one, and they might put one toward Skib, although the Mycroft Wood place might have other ideas. And at the other end of the village there’d be open space. Or yeh might offer the workers a pint when they finish fer the day and just ask ’em.”

  “Mick,” Maura began, “how big are these things going to be? I mean, five feet tall? Twenty? I’m having real trouble imagining a parade of twenty-foot animals or humans or trolls or whatever marching along the street of this village. We’re not that big! It would look like an invasion by aliens.”

  “And don’t forget they’ll be all lit up,” Rose added. “Will the lights go on and off, do yeh think, Mick?”

  Mick held up both his hands. “Don’t ask me. I know only what I’ve heard, and some of the stories are hard to believe. Let’s just wait and see.”

  When Mick went off to serve a couple of patrons who had wandered in, Maura turned to Rose. “Has this happened before?”

  “Depends on what yeh mean as ‘this,’” she said.

  “I’m not sure what to call it. Decorating, I suppose. But it feels kind of like tarting up the place.”

  “What, to celebrate the season? Where’s the problem with that?”

  Maura shook her head. “I guess I’ve gotten used to the village being small and quiet. I suppose it makes sense from a business point of view, to make a fuss. At least it might make people notice the village. If they aren’t paying attention, they might miss it altogether when they drive through.”

  “So now even if they don’t stop, they’ll remember the place with the giant whatever-they-ares. Don’t worry yerself about it, Maura. Just enjoy the show.”

  Chapter Two

  The next day Maura checked on the progress of the thing that was going up across the road. Lucky it was still November, she reflected, because construction wasn’t moving very fast. Right now it looked like a skeletal mass of junk. Not exactly a good symbol for the holiday season. Maybe the workers putting it together were making it up as they went along? Or didn’t know what it was supposed to look like, based on the plans they had?

  In any case, it didn’t look much like a holiday season in West Cork to Maura, not after growing up in Boston, where it seemed to start snowing or icing up in November and often kept on until March. There had been that one big snowstorm in Cork the past winter, but everyone had told her such an event was rare and probably wouldn’t happen again any time soon. Maura was still getting used to the sameness of the seasons, although it was a relief not to have to buy more clothes on her skimpy income. Her old coat from her Boston days was more than warm enough, and if it looked kind of shabby, she was seldom outside on a cold day by daylight, and after dark nobody cared what she looked like. She had no problem with that.

  Late in the afternoon Seamus and a couple of his regular buddies wandered in. “Afternoon, Maura,” he greeted her. “What’s all the to-do across the road there?”

  “I was going to ask you. Pints all around?”

  “Of course,” Seamus said. His cronies nodded in unison. “Yer sayin’ you don’t know?” he asked while Maura pulled the pints.

  “Nope, I don’t. Mick told me maybe it was the County Council’s idea to put up something. I don’t remember anything like that from last winter.”

  “I can ask around, see who knows what. But more important, what’s it gonna be?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Do you have any guesses?”

  “The crime business has been a bit slow lately. Maybe it’s time fer another round of betting?”

  “You mean, you guys guess what you think it is, and the winner gets a free pint?”

  “Mebbe. Or let’s not be selfish about it. If it’s fer some worthy project, like the school or the church, the winnings could go to that? Usually this kind of thing is fer raisin’ money.”

  “That’s more what I’d expect from the County Council. But nobody’s asked me to contribute to anything. Yet.”

  “Ah, but it’s not finished—there’s time yet. Likely there’s to be a big unveiling come the weekend, so they’re sure to finish it by then. And they’ll hand out contribution jars when they’re ready. If yer in favor of it, we’ll trust yeh to hold the stakes until the creature tells us what he might be.”

  “Or she,” Maura added. “Is there a Mother Christmas? Mrs. Claus?”

  “I’d be guessin’—” Seamus began, but Maura held up her hand to stop him.

  “Let’s not start the pool until we’ve laid out the rules. First, how long do you think it’ll take these guys to put it up? Or at least enough of it to guess what it is?”

  Seamus studied the construction crew, which seemed to be moving in slow motion. “I know Paddy Daley who’s workin’ over there, and he’s a quick man. You can start takin’ the bets whenever yeh like, but it’s to be unveiled on Sunday.”

  “Why Sunday?” Maura asked.

  “Folks’ll be in the village fer church, and they might stay fer dinner after. It’ll be the start of the Christmas season and draw a good crowd.”

  “That makes sense,” Maura said. “I think I’ll wait to start talking up the betting pool until tomorrow, so people don’t start snooping too early. Will anyone have a problem with betting? I mean, it’s legal, right?”

  Seamus shook his head. “The church holds raffles all the time, as does the Christmas fair in the parish house next month. So long as it’s fer a good cause, I doubt anyone will complain.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But how do I manage it? How do I tell who’s paid for his guess? And what if he—or she—wants a cut of the contributions?”

  “Yeh’ve time to work it all out, Maura. Do yeh have it in yer head what that mass of rubble is to be?”

  “Rubble with sparkly lights?” Maura said, suppressing a smile.

  “Ah, yeh’ve no imagination. Think about it fer a bit. Yeh can hold the drawin’ when they unwrap the thing, or mebbe just announce it, ’cause yeh’ll have to read and sort the entries. And count the money.”

  “What are other shops doing? We aren’t competing with Skibbereen, are we?”

  “Nah. But we can show ’em that we can pull our weight here in the village. And think what could happen if word gets out about yer drawin’—yeh’ll have more folk in here than yeh can handle.”

  Maura slid the pints across the bar to Seamus. “Sounds good to me.”

  Seamus looked at his pals and nodded toward an empty table, and the small herd moved toward it and settled themselves.

  Rose came in from the back, and Maura asked, “How’s the kitchen project coming along?”

  “Thank heavens I’ve been taking some classes in kitchen management and layouts. We’re hopin’ to open in the spring, right? Mebbe Saint Patrick’s Day?”

  “Do the people of West Cork care much about that?”

  “Not as much as the tourists do. So we’d have to have the space ready and runnin’ by, say, the end of February if we want to bring in the tourists. We’d have to test-drive it, in a manner of speakin’.”

  “You mean, make sure everything works?”

  “That and more. The staff, whoever t
hey may be, have to figger out how to work together so they’re not trippin’ over each other, and that takes a bit of time.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Who’s doin’ the cooking?”

  “That’d be me, and I’ll find some help when we’re ready. There are some people at the Skib school I could talk to. Remember, there’s the serving, and the cleanup as well. We need to talk about a budget for equipment, and where we plan to seat people, and pricing, and . . .”

  Maura stopped her. “One thing at a time, please! So far we’ve got an empty room that needs upgrades to the electric supply and water. Which means we need a layout. And the appliances. And plates and cups and platters and stuff like that. All we have on hand is glasses. And somebody needs to design a menu—which means we have to decide what we’re serving. And we have to advertise when we’re ready—you can add that to your website chores. Heck, we don’t even have a name for the place.”

  “Sullivan’s Café? We’re not lookin’ to do fancy sit-down meals. Oh, and we need to look into suppliers—meat, fish, veg. The good stuff, not the cheap stuff. People—visitors and locals—have come to expect it.”

  “I think you’re giving me a headache, Rose. Remind me again why we’re doing this? Apart from you wanting to be a chef?”

  “If I’m to be a chef, I want to be a good one, which means I have to have a place to cook that’s set up right, and good ingredients, and some clue of what we’re aiming for. Traditional dishes? Cutting-edge modern ones? There’s some pretty stiff competition in Skibbereen, but people drivin’ this way from Dublin or Cork city will come to Leap first, and we need to grab them.”

  “You didn’t exactly answer my questions, you know. Are we going to make any money doing this?”

  Rose didn’t answer right away. “Not at first. Maybe not for a long time. No restaurant gets rich, least of all fast, but havin’ the food brings people in, and once they’re in, they’ll drink, which is where the money is. Plus it’s friendly, like. There’s those who still think a pub is a shady place with a few guys who don’t even talk.”