Buried In a Bog Read online

  “Are the…gardaí, is it?—going to find out anything?”

  “They’re bright enough lads,” Mick said, “but it sounds to me like they’ve little to go on, and they’ve got other things, like this murder, to worry about.”

  “Which sounds like a no to me. Should we tell your grandmother? About the car, I mean?’

  He shook his head. “It’d only upset her. The car’s fine, and you should keep it for now. Just be careful, will you?”

  “I thought I was being careful.”

  “Listen, if you want to go have a rest or something, I can cover here,” he said again. “You seem upset.”

  “No, really, I’m fine,” Maura insisted. “I’d rather keep busy than have to think about what happened up on that hill.”

  “At least go have yourself some lunch—there’s time enough for that,” Mick said.

  “Thanks, I guess I will.” Maura went out the door and stopped in front of the car. The garage had actually shined it up a bit, and the only signs of her encounter on the back road were a few scratches in the paint. Even she could tell that it was a relic from an earlier age, when car bodies were actually made of metal rather than plastic. But she wasn’t ready to get behind the wheel again—not just yet. She decided to walk up to the small market and pick up some food, and then find somewhere to sit and eat it—and think about why anyone would try to do this to her.

  With sandwich and drink in a bag, Maura came back along the road to the Keohanes’ house, but rather than going to her room there, she followed the lane that ran alongside the harbor. Actually, she realized, what she had thought was the Keohanes’ driveway merged into a graveled lane that led to a couple of other houses, past a field with a grazing horse, and ended near a large, empty stone building three stories high. Since the land sloped steeply upward to the road above, she was sheltered from the wind down below, although she could see riffles in the water far from shore. She found herself a spot overlooking the water and sat. There was no noise, no crowds; no sirens blaring in the distance, no airplanes passing overhead. How often in the past had she found herself surrounded by such quiet? It was unsettling. She didn’t open her lunch immediately, but looked out over the water, waiting for her pulse to stop racing and her mind to stop spinning.

  The peace and quiet were soothing, and did their job: after a few minutes she felt calmer. Even she had to admit there was a kind of magic here. If she who had always been a skeptic could sense it, it must be real. Had Gran seen this view of the harbor, countless times? Had she missed it when she got to Massachusetts? How had she gone from this kind of silence to the endless bustle of a city? What would have happened if Gran had stayed here to raise her son? She must have hoped for a better life in America, and maybe that would have worked out if her son, Tom Donovan, hadn’t died. Maybe they would all have moved to a nice house in the suburbs and lived happily ever after. Ha! Maura thought to herself. Gran couldn’t have known what was in store—she had just tried to do the best she could. Throughout her life she’d worked hard and tried to help other people.

  Kind of like the way people here have been helping you out, Maura?

  That thought stopped her cold. She’d always secretly thought that Gran was a softy, a pushover, and that people took advantage of her kindness. Maybe she should be looking at it in a different light. Gran had just been doing what the people she had grown up around had done: she offered help and support to those who needed it. Payback, or paying it forward? Gran’s generosity hadn’t been a weakness—it had been her strength, and Maura had refused to see that.

  How many other ideas was she going to have to toss out? About her Gran, about her own life?

  Maura shook her head to rid it of such troubling thoughts. She picked up the sandwich she’d all but forgotten and wolfed it down, then trekked back to Sullivan’s. It was going to be a busy day.

  Chapter 17

  When Maura walked back into Sullivan’s Mick looked up and nodded but didn’t say anything, which was fine with her. After some food and the walk, she felt calmer and didn’t want to risk breaking that spell. She took a quick look around the pub; she and Rose had missed a few spots in their cleaning, but overall it looked pretty good, or at least better than it had when she’d first seen it. Not that the previous evening’s customers had seemed to notice, but Maura was pleased with it. Gran would have approved, Maura was sure—she was a stickler for keeping things clean, even when she was working two jobs, and she’d trained Maura well.

  Billy Sheahan was already dozing in his seat by the fireplace, where a small fire was lit. Maura leaned over the bar toward Mick. “Is he always here?” she said in a low voice.

  Mick smiled briefly. “Mostly. He’s been coming in for years—he and Old Mick were quite the pair, when they’d get going. I haven’t the heart to move him—he’s too old to change his stripes now. And he does no harm.”

  It figured. Maura had already noticed that the Irish didn’t go in much for change, at least if something was still working. The very essence of the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” philosophy. “You know, Mick, I get the feeling this place is caught in a time warp. I mean, everybody else in the world is putting in fancy digital CD players and big-screen TVs and Wi-Fi, but here, it’s like nothing’s changed in the last fifty years. How does this place stay in business at all?”

  He shrugged. “It was Old Mick’s place, and he ran it to suit himself. He saw no need to change.”

  Maura waited a few moments, but Mick didn’t elaborate. It made a kind of sense—as long as Old Mick hadn’t needed the money. “I’ve been meaning to ask—you guys more or less set your own hours here, right?”

  “That’s true. You’re thinking that’s no way to run a business? You’d be right, but Old Mick was here most of the time, so it didn’t matter much. And we haven’t had the time or the heart to reorganize yet. Are you worried about the local laws? Age limits? You have to be eighteen to drink.”

  “And drunk driving? Don’t I have to look out for that?” At least she’d finally gotten some answers. It was only then that Maura noticed a new addition. “Where on earth did the espresso machine come from?” Maura nodded toward a machine against the wall. It looked brand-new.

  “Ah, that was one of Jimmy’s grand schemes—he thought it would bring in a better crowd. He got it on the cheap somewhere. But he lost interest fast, after he’d burned his fingers a time or two. It was down in the cellar collecting dust. I’d forgotten about it until I went down to fix the stairs.”

  “I’d forgotten about the stairs. I’m glad you remembered. Why’d you bring the machine upstairs now?” Maura asked.

  “I figured we should either use it, sell it, or dump it. Have you ever used one?”

  “Now and then, but not this model—seems like each one’s different. This looks like a good one, though.”

  “Will it be worth it, do you think?”

  “Not for the customers I’ve seen so far. But who knows? It might attract more women. What did Old Mick think about having an espresso machine in here?” Maura walked behind the bar to where the machine sat in all its stainless steel glory, and poked around a bit.

  “I never said he used it, did I? He had a soft spot for Jimmy—I think they were related somehow, maybe through his father’s people. Jimmy’s always been a sharp one, looking for a quick deal.”

  Maura smiled in spite of herself. “Seems everybody around here is related to everybody else.”

  “It’s true, most of the time. You’ve heard of the Potato Famine?”

  “Of course, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “This area was hard hit—there’s a mass grave at Abbeystrowry, the other side of Skibbereen, where there were thousands of dead dumped in a pit. Of course, a lot of people left the country—it was better than starving to death. I’d guess it made the ones who survived, and who stayed behind, all the more close. For a while there, it looked as though we might have a chance—that Celtic Tiger
business—but we should have known better. We muddle on, in our own way. I think the Irish expect to be knocked down. We’re used to it. But that’s why we stick together.”

  Maura thought about how different the attitude was back home, where it seemed that some people expected the government to create jobs where there were none and hand out money the government didn’t have, just because they felt entitled. She had no patience for that, nor had the people she’d grown up with. They worked, sometimes at more than one job. Like Gran. Maybe the Irish had it right: expect the worst, and be happy about anything better.

  “Mick, do you think you could make a go of this place? Once the legal part is settled?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t know what will happen. We don’t make much off-season, but it’s enough to keep us going until summer each year. And whoever ends up with it will get a place that’s ready to step into, if that’s what they want.”

  “What if that person wants to turn it into a tacky souvenir store selling plastic leprechauns? And why keep it a pub at all, if it makes so little money?”

  “The place has a history—remind me to tell you about the days when there was music each week, and people would come for miles to hear the seisuns. That was Mick’s doing. It’s fallen off the past few years, but it could happen again.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to see the place just fade away?”

  “We’ll see.” He turned away then, and Maura wondered if he felt he’d said too much.

  “You know, maybe you could just ship it to Boston—pubs go over real well there. All these wannabe Irish types, pining for a place they never knew, that probably never existed anyway except in their heads. Green beer and sappy songs after you’ve drunk enough of it.”

  “Aren’t you the bitter one? And what’s so wrong about selling this nostalgic Ireland, if it makes people happy?”

  “Because it’s a lie, a myth, a fake. Gran left here with nothing, worked hard all her life, and died with nothing plus not much. She didn’t spend time glorifying her days here in Ireland.”

  “She had you, did she not? You’re thinking her life would have been better if she’d been born somewhere else, or if she’d stayed on here, after her husband died?”

  Maura struggled to put her feelings into words. “No, not that. I just wish that she’d put herself first, fought for something better. She gave so much away that there was nothing left for her or for me. I wish we could have enjoyed the last few years of her life.” She turned away from Mick so he wouldn’t see the tears starting. She must be more upset than she had realized.

  Mick’s voice was surprisingly gentle when he answered. “Did you never stop to think that it made her happy to help people? And I wouldn’t say she looked back on her time here as unhappy. Why else did she keep in touch with my grannie?”

  “I don’t know!” Maura burst out as she turned back to face him. “She never talked to me about it! Why did she think it had to be a secret? Why didn’t she ever tell me about all this? Why couldn’t she have shared some of the good parts? Told me about family or friends, like your grannie? Or did she hate this place? Was she glad to get away from this place, where with no husband there was no way to support herself or her child?” If Mick kept on being nice to her, she really was going to lose it.

  “Maybe the only way she could handle the regret at leaving was to try to forget,” Mick said, then added gently, “Maura, are you all right? You’ve had a bad few weeks since she died, and a worse day today.”

  Maura shut her eyes for a moment. Damn all these kind people! She took a deep breath, then looked at him again. “Sorry, you’re right, and I shouldn’t unload it all on you. As for now, like I said before, I’d rather be around people than sit in my room and stew. But thank you for asking.” She changed the subject. “Listen, if you want, I can have a go at that espresso machine, since it’s here.”

  “Surely you don’t mean we’ll need to get some of those sissy little cups with handles too small for a man’s fingers?” He smiled.

  “Of course not. But if you’re going to offer coffee, it should taste like something other than the roofing tar you’ve got coming out of those pots there.”

  “Point taken. It’s all yours.” He paused for a moment. “Maura, there’s something I think you’d like to see. Do you have plans for tomorrow morning?”

  Why was he being so mysterious? “Other than visiting your grandmother again, no, not really. You’re not planning to kidnap me, are you? Because that’s the way my luck has been running this week. But then, you know nobody’s about to pay you a ransom for me.”

  “You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll be bringing my grannie to town for church, but this is better done early. You’ll understand when you see it. I’ll meet you at the Keohanes’ at, say, eight? I’ll drive.”

  She studied him a moment. She’d been joking about the kidnapping thing, but maybe there was just a bit of truth in it. Someone had it in for her, if that incident with the car on the hill wasn’t just a jerk making trouble, and Mick was one of only a handful of people she’d met in Ireland. Not that she could see any reason why he’d want to do her harm. If anything, he seemed to be trying to cheer her up. Well, she couldn’t go around suspecting everyone of a hidden motive, could she? “Fine.”

  The door opened and Rose came rushing in, apologizing. “I’m sorry, but Da kept wanting something else like a glass of this or that and a bite to eat, and he looked so pathetic I couldn’t say no. The doctors said he’d be right in a few weeks, and he could do everything but the heavy lifting, but you’d think he was at death’s door to hear him talk.”

  “Gran always said that most men are lousy patients—they feel a twinge and they’re convinced they’re dying.” Maura laughed. “And worse, they want you to be sympathetic.” And then there were the women like her gran, who wouldn’t complain about a physical problem until she dropped.

  People began trickling into Sullivan’s in ones or twos, and greeted Mick, who they all seemed to know, and nodded to Maura. They joked with Rose, who bantered with them and smiled as she poured their drinks. By six the place was full; there was a constant stream of people, both in and out. There were more women in the crowd now, mostly with husbands or boyfriends. The noise level rose, and so did the temperature in the room, with the smell of damp wool joining the constant background scent of burning peat. Maura circulated around the room and tried to keep what she hoped was a friendly smile on her face as she picked up glasses. All the while she listened, and the words she picked up most often were “murder,” “death,” “that poor man,” and “awful.” Maura scanned the faces in the crowd. A few already looked familiar from the last few days, presumably regulars. She seemed to be the only tourist there, this time of year. Most people would be local, stopping in for a bit of news and a quick drink before going home.

  She saw a middle-aged woman approaching her. “Can you give me a cider, darlin’?”

  “Magners?” Maura asked.

  “Grand. So, you’re the American?”

  “I am, from Boston. But my grandmother was born around here.”

  “That’s right, I heard you were Nora Sullivan’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes.” She really should get over being surprised that everyone knew.

  “My mother has Sullivan cousins, though they moved to Clonakilty, I think, or maybe it was Bandon. They knew each other at school. Me ma said…”

  Maura listened, amazed anew at how everyone she met seemed to have an encyclopedic memory about their families, no matter how distant, extending back at least a century. Of course, she’d met a few people in the Boston area who were happy to tell you how many of their ancestors had come over on a boat in 1623, and how many had fought in the Revolution, and so forth. She wondered if everyone here could trace their family back to the seventeenth century.

  “You know how to manage that thing?” the woman asked, pointing behind Maura.

  “What, you mean the espresso machine? I think so.
You want a cup? I’m not sure what kind of coffee we have.”

  “Wouldn’t mix well with the cider, now, would it? But I might try one tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

  “I’ll make sure I’m ready for you.” Maura smiled.

  “Grand. By the way, I’m Johanna Burke, and that lout in the corner is my husband, Seamus.” She nodded toward a burly man in a dark sweater laughing with several other men. She slipped a few coins across the counter and raised her glass. “I’ll see yeh.”

  Chapter 18

  The evening had been busy right until closing and then beyond, and Maura had been happy to fall into bed. She’d chatted with more people than on earlier nights—maybe they’d finally accepted her as one of them. Ellen was still feeding her family, including her husband, who was wearing a sports jacket, when Maura came into the kitchen upstairs the next morning. “You’re up early, Maura. No, Sean, that’s Patrick’s toy—yours is over there. Kevin, finish up or we’ll be late for church. Tom, can you start herding them toward the door?”

  Oh, right, it was Sunday. The tolling of the bells up the road should have clued her in. “This early?”

  A harried Ellen replied, “I like the early Mass. If we wait for the later Mass, the day is lost. Will you be coming?”

  “I, uh, don’t think so.” Gran had dragged her to Mass as a child, but by the time Maura had reached high school Gran had given up. Maura couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to church on a Sunday; the last time she’d been in a church at all had been for Gran’s funeral.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We get all kinds here, those that are wanting to go daily, and others who think Sunday is for sightseeing. Have you other plans?”

  “I’m meeting Mick Nolan at eight—he said there was something he had to show me. There, now I’ve told you where I’ll be, in case I disappear.”