Cruel Winter: A County Cork Mystery Page 4

  “I’ll leave that up to you. You sure know more than I do,” Maura said. “Can we get it going now? Or will it blow up?”

  “I’ll have to check the flue to see if it’s clear and make sure there’s not a pool of grease in the oven, but I think we could do it. Mebbe Mick could help?”

  “I’ll find out.” Maura went out to the front room in search of Mick and found him behind the bar. “Mick? Rose thinks she can get the old stove working, but she’d like some help. Would you mind?”

  Mick dried his hands on a bar towel. “Happy to take a look if it means a hot lunch.” He headed back for the kitchen, and Maura took his place behind the bar.

  Billy piped up, “Ah, Maura, there’s many a generation that kept their families fed with no more than a turf fire. If the stove doesn’t work, there’s always the fireplace.”

  Jimmy came tromping up the cellar stairs, preceded by the rattling of metal on metal: he must have found some cookware that would work. He stumbled behind the bar and dumped his trove on the top of it with a lot of clanging. “Here’s the lot of ’em, unless you want the ones with no bottoms.”

  Rose came out, no doubt attracted by the sound of the pans, and she bustled over to take inventory. “This is grand, Da.” She pried apart the pots that had become fused with rust in the damp cellar and laid them out in a line on top of the bar. Luckily they were older pots, not flimsy modern aluminum ones, and they’d stood up well to years of neglect. Rose seemed pleased. “Would you see to scrubbing them?”

  It was a treat for Maura to watch Jimmy’s face when his daughter asked him to wash dishes. “And how’m I to do that?”

  Rose was not about to back down. “In the sink back in the kitchen. We’ve soap and scrubbers here at the bar fer you to use. If you’ll be wantin’ to eat, you’d better get started.”

  Maura leaned toward Rose. “Well done,” she said quietly.

  A grumbling Jimmy with an armload of pans passed Mick as he emerged. “I think we’re set,” Mick said. “Nobody’s used that relic fer years, but that’s not a bad thing. I’ve opened the flue and cleared the vents. I’ll go keep an eye on him, make sure he does no harm.” He turned and followed Jimmy into the back.

  Maura watched as Rose started sorting out her ingredients. “How many do you think we can feed?”

  Rose shrugged. “No idea. I bought all I could. There’s what—a half dozen people here now? I wouldn’t expect too many more, but maybe a few. If we run out, we’ll just give them the black stuff, will we?”

  “I hope we don’t come to that. Seriously, Rose, thanks for all this. You seem to be better prepared than I am. Have you seen a big storm before?”

  Back in the kitchen, Rose was lining up her raw materials on the top of the battle-scarred table that took up most of the center of the room, taking stock. Jimmy at the sink was making more noise banging and clashing the pots than Maura thought was necessary. Rose said, over the din, “There was one storm when I was in school—they sent us all home early, and we didn’t go back fer three days.”

  “Everybody lived close enough to walk?” Maura asked.

  “They did. Most lived no more than a couple miles distant, and they walked it every day.”

  “Wow. Back in Boston, nobody seems to walk anymore.” And half the time, the parents had fits that their little darlings were supposed to walk on the city’s mean streets.

  “Boston’d be a bit bigger than Leap, I’m thinking?” Rose looked at Maura with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  “Well, duh,” Maura shot back. “What can I do to help?”

  “You know how to peel a potato?”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Then there’s about five kilos that you could take a knife to.” Rose pointed at the pile.

  Maura set to work on the potatoes with the knife from the bar, which was far from sharp. Mick came into the kitchen and said, “I’m goin’ to check on our fuels. How’s the water runnin’, Jimmy? How’s the washing up goin’?”

  Jimmy muttered something under his breath and banged more pots together.

  Mick leaned closer to Maura and Rose. “Don’t you dare step in fer him, either of yeh.”

  “No way,” Maura said. “I’m busy—see?” She pointed to the pile of potatoes in front of her. She set herself to her task—her grandmother had made sure she knew how to peel potatoes from an early age—and was surprised when Mick returned quickly from his search for fuel.

  Mick leaned in. “Can I have a word with yeh, in private?”

  That request rarely brought good news. Maura laid down her knife. “In the back room?”

  “That’ll do.” Mick led the way, then shut the door behind her, although not before a cold blast of air rushed out and hit her in the face. “We’ve a problem with the oil,” he said.

  “Why? I told you I paid the bill.”

  “No doubt you did, but I’m guessin’ Jimmy’s been helping himself to a bit now and again. No sign anyone’s messed with the padlock to the tank, and there’s few of us who know where to find the key.”

  “What? How does anyone get oil out? And wouldn’t people on the street notice?”

  “It’s easy enough to siphon off a gallon or two and carry it away. I can’t say how long or how often he’s been doin’ it, but the tank’s near empty. It was half-full the last time I checked, a coupla days ago.”

  “Shoot, shoot, shoot! Will it last a day or two?”

  “Mebbe—if we keep the heat low and use the fire. We’re all right with fuel for that. And fer the stove.”

  “Did you tell Jimmy you knew what he was doing?”

  “I will, unless you’d rather do the tellin’. He’ll likely swear he planned to make it up, but that won’t help us tonight.”

  “What do I do about him, Mick? That’s stealing.”

  “It is that. But the decision’s yours to make.”

  “Gee, thanks. Well, I’m not going to start a fight right now, when we’re stuck here—I’ll talk to him later. Maybe I can take it out of his pay. Too bad firing Jimmy would make trouble for Rose too. Look, I’ve got to get back to peeling the potatoes or we’ll never eat. Did you get the stove working?”

  “I did, with coal. It’ll take a bit to heat up. And even longer to boil water to cook with, if that’s what Rose is aimin’ fer.”

  “At least it’s a start. Thanks, Mick.”

  Back in the front room, Maura found there were new arrivals: a couple of twenty-something guys who came slamming in out of the rain. City folk, Maura guessed, because they sure weren’t dressed for the weather. “This is Sullivan’s, right?” one of them asked, pulling off a knit cap and wringing the water out of it. “Hard to see the sign.”

  “It is,” Maura said, wiping her hands on a towel. “What brings you here in this awful weather?”

  “We’re booked to play here come the weekend. When we heard the weather might be bad, we decided to head down a bit early in case the roads were risky. Which they are already.”

  “Ah, so you’re the Killer Lafferty brothers. Welcome,” Maura said. She’d been so focused on getting through the day and maybe the next one, she hadn’t even thought as far ahead as the weekend. Now she remembered the booking but not all the details. “Which of you is which?”

  The taller one spoke first. “I’m Liam, the better-looking one. Me brother’s Donal. He thinks he’s the smart one.”

  “I was smart enough to tell you we should leave early, was I not?” Donal demanded.

  “Where were you coming from?” Maura asked, smiling.

  “Dublin. It’s not so bad just south of there, but it kept getting worse the farther we went. We felt like we were flying dead into the storm. What’s happening here?”

  Mick answered. “You’d be right, lads. The storm’s coming up from the south and west, and the harbor over the road there channels the wind straight at us. Yer lucky yeh made it when you did.”

  “Glad to hear it. We’ve got our gear in the van if y
ou can point us where to put it.”

  Mick glanced at Maura. “The back room?”

  “Sure, if the instruments don’t mind a bit of cold. I’ll show you where.” Maura led the way toward the back and pulled open the double doors. It was a narrow space, parallel to the bar in front but with its own bar at one end, opposite the stage—she used it only for events or for the rare overflow crowd. A balcony ran around all four sides above, with a staircase to one side. Every vertical surface was covered with old posters, photographs, and band memorabilia—and Maura wasn’t going to touch it. It was decades’ worth of music history, and it made the space special.

  “This is where the music happens,” Maura explained, “but we don’t heat it when we’re not using it. We’ve sorted out heat and food here at the pub in front, so we should be okay for the storm, but I don’t know if we can put you up. Had you made any plans?”

  “Ah, don’t trouble yerself. We’ve sleeping bags in the van—we’re used to crashing wherever we can. If you’ve a warm corner, we’re fine.”

  “Well, then, we’re all set. Go get your instruments. Oh, and what’s with the name, in case anybody asks me?”

  “The ‘Lafferty’ we come by honestly. But we were goin’ nowhere until we added the ‘Killer’ part. You’re from America, are you not?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because we read that the Lafferty brothers were notorious there. Mormon killers, they were. In the 1980s.”

  “Uh, guys, I wasn’t even born then, and I can’t recall anyone talking about them.”

  Liam and Donal did not seem troubled by Maura’s ignorance. “No worries. Just adding the ‘Killer’ up front got us a lot more gigs.”

  “Okay,” Maura said dubiously. “You want to bring in your stuff now?”

  “Liam, you’d best go get our gear,” Donal said to his brother.

  “And what’ll you be doin’ while I’m hauling it all in?” Liam demanded. He must be the younger brother, Maura thought.

  “Askin’ fer a pint fer yeh. Go on wit’ yeh.”

  Still grumbling, Liam stormed out the front door and back into the rain. While they waited, Donal turned to Maura. “How do yeh come to be in this part of the world?”

  “My grandmother was born not far from here, and she fixed it so I inherited this pub through a relative. If you’re here long enough, you’ll probably hear the whole story. Mine and everyone else’s. I’m guessing you’re serious about those pints?”

  “I am that. If yer offerin’.”

  Why not? Maura thought. She’d hired them, and from her limited experience, any contract with a performer included liquid refreshment, even if it wasn’t spelled out. Obviously she wasn’t going to make any money today. On the other hand, if she stayed open for those few brave souls who showed up, she might gain some goodwill. And where else would she go?

  She started a couple of pints, and while she waited, she watched Liam stumble in, his arms full of instrument cases and electronic equipment that she couldn’t identify. She tried to remember what style these guys were supposed to perform, but she couldn’t tell most of them apart anyway. From what she’d seen, most musicians these days knew the entire repertory from the middle ages to last week, so no doubt they could tailor their performance to whatever audience they found in front of them. She was pretty sure they weren’t a traditional Irish band.

  Liam fetched a second, smaller load of equipment and dumped it all unceremoniously on the floor in the back room. “Happy now, Donal?”

  “I am that.” Donal moved back to the front room and gestured toward the bar. “Here’s yer pint.” Donal grabbed the two glasses that Maura had pushed across the bar and handed one to his brother. After a long swallow, he looked around the room. “And who might these fine people be?”

  “That’s Billy Sheahan by the fire there—he lives down at the end of the building. Next to him is Gillian Callanan, a local artist. Then there’s Jimmy Sweeney—his daughter Rose is in the kitchen in back, working on making some soup. They both work here, along with Mick Nolan. Jimmy and Mick have been here a lot longer than I have. They keep the place running.”

  “While you provide the pretty face up front,” Liam said, raising his glass. “Sláinte.”

  Mick came up beside her and nodded toward the front windows. Maura followed his glance: it was snowing. Hard. Maybe the forecasters had gotten it right. It was already getting dark, and Maura couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a car pass on the road in front—and that was a main road. She couldn’t even see it from where she stood—just a whirling wall of white. At least now she had a coat and boots, but Maura didn’t plan on going anywhere soon.

  Good smells were issuing from the back when another figure materialized from the blowing snow. At least Maura recognized him. “Seamus Burke, what the heck are you doing out in this?”

  “I’d say I was pinin’ for yer smilin’ face, but the fact is, me tires are too worn to be of much use. Could you do me a pint?”

  “Sure. But I bet Joanne isn’t going to be happy that you’re not going to be home any time soon.” Maura started a pint for him.

  “She’s a strong woman—she’ll make do. Besides, she’s gone off to visit her sister and left me on me own. What’s happenin’ here? I was worried you’d have shut the doors and left.”

  “Well, we all got here and decided we’d rather stick together than go home again. We’ve got heat, light, and food. And even a couple of musicians! So we figure we’re set. You’re welcome to stay.” Maura topped off his pint and pushed it toward Seamus.

  It was maybe half an hour later when another man arrived, dusted with white, although that melted quickly in the warmth of the room. He stamped the snow off his boots at the doorway, then approached the bar.

  “Well, if it isn’t me old mate Danny,” Seamus greeted him. “You’ll do almost anything to avoid workin’.”

  “I had to work like crazy to get myself here,” the snowy man protested.

  Seamus grinned at him. “Maura, have yeh had the pleasure of meeting Danny Crowley? He comes from up the road a piece, toward Clonakilty. And he’s going to tell us why he’s daft enough to be out in this weather.”

  “Could I get a pint—Maura, is it? I don’t think I’ve stopped in here since Old Mick passed. As for Seamus’s aspersions, I was on me way home from Skibbereen, where me business took longer than I expected. It’s me own fault, but I’ll be glad of the company here.”

  Maura gave him a pint when it was ready. She’d already stopped counting and was surprised that it didn’t bother her more. Still, she didn’t expect many more customers to stop by.

  She was surprised maybe half an hour later when the wall of white outside was broken by a figure emerging from the gloom. At first, the person was only a silhouette, but once she’d managed to pull open the door, Maura could see that it was a woman wearing a scarf pulled tight around her head. The scarf was soaked, so she pulled it off and shook it. Now Maura could see her face: she looked to be around fifty, Maura guessed. Nicely dressed, though for the city, not the country—her boots were already soaked. The woman paused and looked around the room; everyone there looked back at her, and nobody seemed to want to break the silence.

  This is ridiculous, Maura thought. Why were these people going anywhere in this weather? “I don’t know what you’re doing out on a day like this, but you’re welcome here. Can I get you something?”

  “Coffee? And if I’m not going any farther, could you add a bit of brandy to it?”

  English accent. Educated. What was she doing here? “Coming up,” Maura said.

  Five

  The woman avoided eye contact with anyone else in the room and took a seat on a stool at the bar. She pulled off her wet coat and laid it on an adjoining stool, then shook out her scarf and draped it over the coat. Maura started a cup of coffee for her, then said, “What are you doing out in this weather? You’re not local, are you?”

  The woman ran her fingers throu
gh her soaked hair, trying to fluff it. “No more than you are. I live in England. I came over to settle some legal business with a solicitor in Skibbereen, and I was planning to fly back home today out of Cork airport. I guess that’s not likely to happen now.”

  “I doubt it. You might ask those two there.” Maura nodded at the musical brothers. “They just drove down from Dublin, and they said it’s bad. I can’t imagine any flights going out today.” She turned to get the coffee and picked up a bottle of brandy, setting it on the bar. “There you go.”

  “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t seem right to charge people who risk their lives to come here for a drink. So it’s on the house.”

  “Are these people your regulars or strangers like me?” the woman asked, darting a nervous glance at the group clustered at the other end of the room.

  Maura scanned the group. “Let’s see . . . the oldest one, by the fire there, is Billy—he lives in rooms at the end of the building. Mick—he’s the tall one—and Jimmy and his daughter Rose work for me. Gillian’s a friend—she’s the pregnant one who’s talking with Billy. The two loud guys are musicians who are supposed to play here this weekend, and I think they figured they’d better get here sooner rather than later. The other two—Seamus Burke and Danny Crowley—live near here, and I guess they’d rather be here than at home. I’m the owner of the place, Maura Donovan.”

  The woman added a healthy slug of brandy to her coffee, then took a swallow. “Ah, that’s good. You’re American, am I right?”

  “I am, but my grandmother grew up near here, and it was a relative she kept in touch with who left me this place. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Diane, from London.” Was she imagining it, or did the woman hesitate a moment before answering? “You seem a bit young to be running a pub. How’d that happen?”

  Maura noticed that Diane hadn’t given a last name and had been quick to change the subject. Rose popped out of the kitchen at that moment. “Sorry, but it’s takin’ longer than I thought. That stove is slow to heat, but I’ve got the soup simmerin’ now. And I think I’ve made enough for an army. Which might be a good thing, seein’ as it’ll be dinnertime before it’s cooked.” She disappeared like a gopher into its hole.