Night of the Blackbird

  “Aye, Eamon.” Danny was frowning. “Did his body give out? I didn’t know his exact age, but he seemed a fine and healthy man.”

  “I’ll explain,” Moira said, rising. “Patrick was taking Dad upstairs. My mother and grandmother and the others have to be told.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Patrick said softly.

  Eamon stood. Moira felt the tears stinging her eyes again as she watched her father. He suddenly seemed old. The loss hit her again. She gripped the back of her chair. “Dad, you go on up. You and Mum need each other tonight.”

  Eamon touched her cheek, then allowed Patrick to lead him to the rear. He stopped suddenly, looking back. “Danny?”

  “Aye, Eamon?”

  “You’ll host the place tonight for me, eh? There will be the usual customers coming in, and you know the right way. We’ll do his wake and his funeral proud, but there must be words for his friends tonight.”

  “I’ll see to it, Eamon. I swear,” Danny promised.

  Patrick and Eamon disappeared through the door behind the bar. Danny stared at Moira.

  He might have visited a few pubs, but he was stone cold sober now. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Moira watched him closely. “According to the police, the man who lived on the first floor—”

  “Kowalski?” Danny interjected.

  “Yes. Apparently he started having a heart attack. Maybe he had just heard Seamus come in. He called to him. Seamus tripped on the stairs in his hurry to reach him. Kowalski was found dead of a heart attack. Seamus was found by him at the foot of the stairs. His neck was broken.”

  Danny looked down for a long moment. Moira saw that he had gripped the back of the chair her father had just vacated. His knuckles were as white as her own.

  “When did it happen?” he queried.

  “Sometime early this morning.”

  Danny still wasn’t looking at her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but when he looked up at last, she couldn’t even begin to read his expression. Suddenly he pushed the chair away and started striding toward the door.

  “Where are you going, Dan?” Jeff asked.

  “You just told my father you’d be the host here tonight,” Moira called after him.

  He paused, his back to her for a minute. Then he turned. “I will be. I’ll be back within the hour.”

  He started out once again, then swung around, returning to the table.

  Andrew McGahey had been sitting there, awkward and silent, through it all. Now Danny stopped dead right in front of him. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “Danny!” Moira said, horrified.

  “Andrew McGahey, Irish Educational Charities,” McGahey said flatly. He didn’t offer Danny his hand.

  “Oh,” Danny said. He stared at the man a moment longer, then exited the pub with long strides.

  Moira found herself taking the part of the stranger she had so mistrusted. “I’m really sorry, Mr. McGahey,” she said. “This isn’t Danny’s place. He had no right to be so rude.”

  “He loved old Seamus,” Jeff said quietly.

  “It’s quite all right, and please, just call me Andrew,” McGahey said. “Look, I’m going to get out from underfoot right now. Please extend my deepest sympathies to your father and the rest of your family, and tell Patrick we’ll talk at a better time.” He reached for Moira’s hand. She allowed it to be taken. He shook it briefly, nodded to the others, then departed the pub.

  Moira felt Michael’s hands on her shoulders. Strong, supportive. Guilt didn’t even kick in. She was still feeling too stunned.

  She offered him a weak smile but moved away, walking to the pub door. Above the etched Kelly’s in the cut glass of the upper part of the door, she could see the street.

  Danny hadn’t gone that far. He was across the street, looking from the pub door down the street to the corner where a turn would lead to Seamus’s house.

  As Moira watched, Andrew McGahey walked over to him. Danny watched him come. Then McGahey blocked her view of Danny. She could only assume the two men talked. Then they walked off in opposite directions, McGahey to the right, Danny toward the corner. Moira couldn’t see exactly where he went without the opening the door, but she didn’t need to. She knew he was walking toward Seamus’s house.

  She felt Michael behind her once again. “Tell me what I can do,” he said softly. He turned her around to face him. She started to cry. The tears she’d been blinking back streamed down her face. Michael took her in his arms very gently. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said softly. “Sounds as if he departed the world in a very noble way. He led a good life.”

  “He’s gone,” she said simply, against his chest. Michael, rock solid, there with her. She felt in her heart then the way she had betrayed him. He was here with her, while Danny was running off somewhere, half-cocked. And Seamus…

  Seamus with his strange mutterings. Jeff telling her that people needed to keep their mouths shut. Blackbird. Politicians. Talk of assassination. Seamus, Seamus, Seamus…

  Seamus had been afraid. Talking. Unnerved. And now Seamus was dead. He had gone to the aid of a friend. A friend dead from a heart attack. He had tripped, fallen.

  Or had he?

  Seamus, if…

  If what?

  Seamus, if something was going on, if the picture we see is a lie, I swear, we won’t just let it go, we’ll find the truth.

  “He’s gone, and you should cry,” Michael soothed. “You lost an old friend. Oh, honey, I am so sorry. Hey, I’m not worth much in a pub, but it’s slow as a snail in here right now. Go into the office, or upstairs with your folks.”

  Moira pulled back, looking at him. She covered his cheek with her palm, shaking her head. Michael. He didn’t deserve…But that would have to wait. Seamus was gone. Tears blurred her eyes again. Michael was right. She needed some time to pull herself together, but she could see behind him now. Chrissie was at the bar, talking to Jeff, her head bowed, her crying audible. And Moira’s tears were drying. Suspicion was setting in far more deeply and, with it, a sense of indignation and a longing for the truth.

  Whatever it might be.

  “No, Michael,” she said. “Thank you for the thought. But I told my dad we’d manage.”

  “You know, you could just put a Closed Due to Death in the Family sign on the door,” Michael suggested.

  She shook her head, drawing away from him with a slight smile. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be my dad’s way. It wouldn’t be the Irish way. Seamus’s friends, bar cronies, will arrive tonight. They’ll need their drafts. They’ll need to talk about him. I’m all right. Honestly. And thank you. Would you check on that couple in the back for me? I’m going to tell Chrissie to take a few minutes. The band will be coming in, so Jeff won’t be able to help. We’re not busy this minute, which is good.”

  Michael nodded as if understanding that her way to cope was to start moving. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

  “You really are incredible,” she told him.

  “Thanks.” He started to walk away, then came back to her. “This isn’t the time,” he said. “But remind me, I need to talk to you later.”

  “Sure.”

  He left. She walked to the bar, hugged Chrissie, cried with her for a minute. Then she sent Chrissie to the office, offering her the night off. Chrissie wouldn’t take it. There would be a wake at Flannery’s Wednesday night, but this would be the night when everyone learned of Seamus’s passing, and Chrissie needed to be a part of it, too.

  It seemed that as soon as she sent Chrissie back, people began slipping in. A group from the business offices down the street, the dinner crowd.

  Just when she was beginning to think she couldn’t handle the bar and the floor, and that Michael didn’t know enough about what he was doing, she saw her brother come down with Colleen. Behind the bar, Colleen took a moment to hug her tightly, no words needed. Then she joined Patrick, working on the floor. When the pub was really filling up, Danny finally ret
urned. He had a green ribbon with him, and he roped off Seamus’s stool, then set a rosary on top of the ribbon. Liam arrived just as he finished. Danny put an arm around Liam and began talking to him.

  Old Liam began to cry, tears running down his wrinkled cheeks. He took his stool, next to Seamus’s empty place. Other regulars were there, as well, Sal, the Englishman Roald and his wife. Danny spoke briefly to Jeff, then went up to the small stage, where the other musicians had gathered. He took the mike from Jeff and asked to make a statement. He addressed those who had just stopped by as well as those who considered Kelly’s a home away from home. He told them that Seamus wasn’t with them anymore and described his hurry to help a fellow man and his quick death for his pains. He spoke about Seamus as a man and a friend, then said that a round would be served on the house in his honor. He hoped that every man and woman there would offer up a prayer and a toast to Seamus, who had heard the banshee’s wail and gone to meet the God in whom he had so deeply believed.

  He stepped down from the dais, and the band played “Amazing Grace” while Moira and the others quickly served drafts for the prayer and the toast.

  As she stood behind the bar busily pouring ale, Moira noted that Kyle Browne, in a mauve sweater tonight, was at the corner table he’d occupied the first time she’d seen him.

  She decided to serve him his draft.

  She called to Chrissie that she would be on the floor for a minute. Chrissie nodded in acknowledgment.

  Moira walked over to Kyle Browne. “Did you know Seamus?” she asked, setting the draft down.

  “No, but I’m very sorry to hear of his death.”

  “Thank you. So what have you seen?”

  “As yet? Well, as I’ve said, I’m watching.”

  “I’ve been told this isn’t a good place to talk,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I think that Seamus might have kissed the Blarney Stone in his youth. He got carried away talking, sometimes.”

  “Oh? And what was he saying?” Browne asked her, leaning forward, pretending to accept the draft.

  “I was actually thinking of wandering down to the police station,” Moira said. “Asking about my friend Seamus myself.”

  “Good,” Browne said. He leaned back in his seat, watching her. “I’ll be there.”

  Moira nodded and walked away from him, wondering if she was losing her mind. Had she just hinted to a police officer that someone in her father’s pub was a killer? No, she had done more than hint.

  Behind the bar again, she found herself shaking. Patrick had walked Seamus home. That meant that Patrick had been the last one to see him alive. Except—if her suspicions were correct—for the killer, and maybe Kowalski. Though most likely he’d heard the noise of Seamus’s fall, come out to see and had his heart attack on finding the body. If she went to the police, would it be tantamount to suggesting that her brother had somehow caused what happened? Managed to give Mr. Kowalski a heart attack and bring Seamus crashing down the stairs? After all, her brother was right here, while the killer might be only a figment of her imagination. Unless Patrick…? No. She wouldn’t go there.

  Arms slipped around her from behind. Michael. “Are you doing all right?” he asked gently.

  “Fine. And you’ve been great on the floor,” she told him.

  “I’m not so sure. I think I’m wearing a great deal of corned beef and cabbage. Didn’t actually have a meal, but the mashed potatoes and gravy I had to lick off my wrist were really great.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she told him, then noted that a woman at a table was waving a credit card in her hand and looking at Michael.

  “I think you’re being summoned.”

  “Yeah, looks likes it. Maybe she’s a big tipper.”

  “Hey, go for it.”

  He lifted his chin. “I’m an associate producer. I don’t keep the tips, I put them in Chrissie’s jar.”

  Moira smiled, taking his hand, brushing a brief kiss on the back of it. There was so much she was going to have to deal with once they got through all this. “I’m sure you’re making her a bundle. And I’m sure she appreciates it.”

  “I’d better go take care of that.”

  “Right. You don’t want another customer walking out on you.”

  “What?”

  “Remember when the folks walked out on you? You don’t want it to happen again. The pub can probably stand the loss, but your ego was severely injured, remember?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Good man.”

  “You bet.”

  Michael walked off. Moira saw Liam sitting, staring at his empty glass.

  She walked down the bar, took his glass and refilled it. Liam was a slow drinker. He still liked his beer warm.

  “You okay?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “Who will I argue with now?” he asked her mournfully.

  “Dad. He’s always good for an argument,” Moira assured him. She touched his face. “You be careful with yourself, you hear? We really need you now.”

  Liam nodded. He lifted his glass. “To Seamus.”

  “To Seamus,” she agreed.

  When she turned, Josh was behind the bar waiting for her. He didn’t ask her how she was doing. He gave her a hug. “You coherent?” he asked.

  “Yup, I’m doing fine.”

  “This is a note from your mum. And I have a question for you. Who is Sally Adair?”

  “Oh!” Moira exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth. “She’s a friend. A wiccan.”

  “She practices witchcraft, you mean?”

  “Yes, she lives in Salem. We went to Catholic school together.”

  “And now she’s a witch?”

  “She’s a Universalist and a wiccan. I sent her an e-mail about what I was doing, and she suggested we do some taping in Salem. You know, it’s a great city for getting into holidays. I take it she called?”

  “Yes, she just wanted to know your schedule.”

  “I’ll have to call her.”

  “Call her in the morning. I told her that a friend of the family had died, and that you’d call her in the morning.”

  “She knew Seamus. She’d understand.”

  “Moira, I don’t want to put pressure on you, but what do you want to do? Call off any more taping? We can put together a program with what we’ve got.”

  “No, no…I think there’s a lot more we can do. I want to help my dad in the morning, though, make sure everything is set. They’ll have a wake on Wednesday night…and bury him Thursday morning. That is, if the autopsy is done and the body is released. And I still need to talk to Brolin’s people about that interview.”

  “All right, Moira. You need tomorrow morning for your dad, then we’ll worry about the show. Take it easy tonight—wow, that’s a dumb statement. Tonight’s in full swing, and it doesn’t look as if you’re taking it easy at all.”

  She smiled. “You know, it’s been the best thing for me. I almost feel guilty about sending my dad upstairs.”

  “Don’t feel badly. He’s been with your mom.”

  “I’ve forgotten about the kids and everything.”

  “Everyone’s fine. I took Gina back to the hotel a while ago. Patrick and Siobhan’s three are in bed a while, all curled up with their mum. The pub is running smoothly. What I was saying is that you can take all the time you need tomorrow with your dad, then figure out what else you want to do about taping. Just let me know.”

  “This is your show, too, Josh.”

  “The show is mine, but not this episode. This one is all yours, and it’s going to be great. I’m going to take off now. But you know, if you need me, I’m just a call away.”

  “You know, Josh, you really are the best man in my life. Thank God we never got intimate.”

  He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Good night.”

  When Josh left, she realized she was still holding the note her mother had sent down. She opened it quickly.

  “Brolin’s people called. I
nstead of calling, you should stop by for a personal chat tomorrow afternoon and set up what you want to do. Love, Mum.”

  “What’s up?”

  Jeff Dolan had come to the bar. The band was on break.

  Moira wasn’t sure why, but she quickly crumpled the note in her hand and despite her father’s warnings of clogged plumbing throughout the years, inconspicuously washed it down the drain in the sink next to the taps.

  “Nothing. How are you doing?”

  “Good. And you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Jeff.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Seamus talked too much?”

  Jeff paled. “He fell down the stairs trying to help a friend. We’ll never know. Can I have a draft? It’s been a hell of a hard night.”

  “Of course.”

  She poured him a beer.

  Michael walked over to her, setting down a bar rag. He offered her a rueful smile. “It’s all under control now. The place is thinning out. You should go up to bed.”

  “Soon,” she said.

  He sighed. “Moira, I wish there was something I could do for you. I’m an outsider here.”

  “No, Michael, it’s not that.”

  “I am an outsider. And I guess you need your family. And friends,” he added with a strange note. “I’m going to head back to the hotel. Unless you want me to stay.”

  “Michael, you’ve done so much.”

  “I’m going to do more. I’d like to hold you and comfort you, but it seems you really want to be alone.”

  “I’m just fine. Really. Working is good.”

  “I understand. I will hold you and comfort you, though, you know.”

  “A pub is a different kind of place, Michael. I’m good here. Picking up glasses, scrubbing them will be good.”

  “Josh said he talked to you. You know how to reach me. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Want to walk me to the door?”

  “Sure.”

  She came out from behind the bar and allowed him to slip an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the door. There, he paused and kissed her lightly on the lips. She frowned suddenly. “What did you want to tell me?”