Read Online The Irish Cairn Murder by Dicey Deere - Free Book Online Page A

“That fishing chap, with the suede fishing hat? Fished for a bit of cuddly and caught himself a lulu. Billy spied them going into her studio, O’Sullivan’s old barn. Fancy bit of fishing, all right!” He put a finger aside his nose and snickered. “She’s not got much of a reputation as a painter, but the other—”
    â€œShut up, Danny!” Sergeant Bryson glared at the old fellow. “Shut up! There’s ladies around!” And it was true, the shocked look on Ms. Plant’s face.
    As Torrey said to Jasper five minutes later, after Sergeant Bryson and Ms. Plant had left, “For a second, I thought that the gallant Sergeant Bryson would take a swing at that old fellow.” Was it possible, she wondered, that Sergeant James Bryson, aged twenty-four, was a bit too protective of Ms. Brenda Plant, who was certainly at least in her mid forties. Yet there was something about the set of his shoulders, so protective, as Ms. Brenda Plant preceded him out of Finney’s.
    Â 
    â€œWorth ten lines in ‘Jasper,’ that lamb shanks with curry,” Jasper said when two hours later they got back to the cottage. They were barely inside when rain spattered on the windowpanes and gusts of wind rattled the windows. Jasper put more peat on the fire and added a handful of coal.
    Torrey settled down on the shabby old couch with the third Georges Simenon. Jealousy, a lawyer husband with a
mistress, murder. It all took place in Paris. But in good, colloquial Hungarian. The clock on the dresser ticked. The rain made it feel cozy inside.
    â€œHow about this one?” Jasper said. He was lazing at the kitchen table with his tattered Official Guide. “‘Abram’s advice: When eating an elephant take one bite at a time.’
    â€œHmmm?” She ought to read the Hungarian aloud, though, get the rhythm of phrases. A smart tolmacs—“ interpreter,” in Hungarian—would do that.
    â€œOr this one,” Jasper said: “‘Jinny’s law: There is no such thing as a short beer. As in”I’m going to stop off at Joe’s for a short beer before I meet you.”’”
    Torrey blinked. Not Joe’s for a short beer. O’Malley’s. A short beer. Strange that Thomas Brannigan of Montreal had stopped in at O’Malley’s for a beer he hadn’t even touched. His narrow, pale face had been thundrous with anger, his jaw clenched. She could see him now, standing at the bar, scrutinizing everyone who came in, Watching, even, to see who came out of the men’s room. And that untouched glass of beer on the bar before him. Then abruptly he was gone.

17
    O n Tuesday morning a few minutes before noon Natalie Cameron arrived back from an early-morning meeting in Dunlavin where she’d passionately supported a low-cost housing proposal. In the front hall, she picked up the morning’s mail from the tray, stared down at the letter, and tore it open. The message this time was on a scrap of ruled paper:

    Tuesday noon at the cairn. Forty thousand pounds. If you don’t appear, Cloverleaf goes to the Dublin papers. An ugly tale for your son and fiancé to bear on television news or read about in the press. This is final.

    The sharp handwriting had dug into the paper.
    Natalie cried out, an inarticulate cry of … anger? fear? rage? She hardly knew. She crushed the letter spasmodically in a fist.
    â€œMa’am?” Jessie, coming from the kitchen, looked alarmed. “Is something the matter?”
    â€œNo … no.” She ran past Jessie and up the stairs In her bedroom, she went directly to the dresser, fumbled out what she wanted and ran back down the stairs. Jessie was still in the front hall, looking worried, and said instantly, “Mrs. Cameron? Rose at Castle Moore says Coyle’s has raspberries, I can get some for lunch if you—”

    â€œNever mind.” She tried to pull herself together,