Read Online Malarkey by Sheila Simonson - Free Book Online Page B

Some prick in the
kitchen waved a butcher knife at me. Where is everybody? I want a
bloody drink."
    I understood Barbara's reluctance to sit in the same car with
the woman. Kayla was wearing a heavy perfume over unclean
underwear and stale smoke, and her voice sounded like a murder of
crows. Her accent was California flat with an overlay of British punk
idiom. The resemblance to her dead brother was striking.
    Silent, I led her to the drawing room. She made straight for
the drinks trolley and whinged at Alex while he concocted a large gin
for her. She pouted, she whined, she sneered at my father when
Barbara introduced him to her, she lit a Player's and waved it in
Barbara's face. I ought to have despised Kayla, but I found I was
sorry for her. It was hard to tell how much of her unhappiness was
the result of her brother's death and how much was endemic. The
others said polite condolences that made their distance from her
obvious.
    Kayla occupied the couch, gulped gin morosely, and
scattered ashes on her black garments. Alex, who looked as unhappy
as his guest, hovered over her. Barbara opened a window wide and
left the room to parley with the chef.
    I poured myself another glass of wine and drifted back to
Dad. He was listening to Tracy tell him about her post-graduate
accomplishments. She was, it seemed, a sound engineer. Novak and
McDiarmuid were having a low-voiced argument over the work
schedule. I pretended not to listen. It was chilly with the window
open.
    I wondered how Maeve's mission to Grace Flynn's father
was progressing. Maeve had the confidence of a woman with a
university degree in a country in which relatively few have access to
universities. She seemed to know exactly what to do, and it was also
clear she had a support system in mind that was not limited to the
convent. Things were changing for Irish women, as the election of
Mary Robinson as President ought to have suggested. I don't know
why I was surprised.
    When Barbara returned she announced dinner. Her chef
insisted. He was an Irishman trained in Paris and New York, she told
me as we lined up for the buffet in the dark Victorian dining room.
He had burned out operating his own restaurant in Kinsale and liked
the idea of running the Stanyon kitchens while he thought his
options over. I gathered he was a formidable personality. He had
promised to save something for Maeve and Sgt. Kennedy.
    All of us, led by Kayla, loaded our plates, and I was relieved
to find a long dining table to sit at. I dislike balancing a plate on my
knees. Little touches of fancy cookery let us know the chef could pull
out the stops if he wanted to, but the meal was basically plain fresh
food cooked just enough. I have never tasted more delicious veggies,
but I did wonder at the appropriateness of the main course. The
chef's tribute to the late Slade Wheeler was a large, perfectly roasted
capon.
    I sat between Kayla Wheeler and Liam McDiarmuid. Kayla
ate with morose intensity. She had clearly decided I was no bloody
use, so she didn't trouble me with conversation. I asked Liam about
his adventures in the Balkans.
    He was a slight, mousy man who tended to fade into the
background. Close to, I saw that his eyes, dark gray and thickly
lashed, were quite beautiful. He shot me an ambiguous look and the
eyelashes dropped. "Ah, the ladies. They always want to hear tales of
gore."
    Few things annoy me more than generalizations about the
ladies. As I spooned a bit of the starter—an artistic mèlange of
minced tomato, basil, scallion, and lime juice in an avocado half —I
considered making a sharp response. I did the next best thing. I
fluttered my eyelashes at him and tittered.
    He got the point. Not stupid. "Sure, it went over a treat with
the girls of County Wicklow."
    "Grace Flynn, for instance?"
    His spoon clattered on the plate but he said, with
composure, "Grace is young for the likes of me."
    That was true.
    After a moment, he added, "I was a stringer. Do you