A Turn for the Bad (2 page)

“Did he seem upset? Did he mention his dad?” If the boy had seen a fight, what would he have made of it?

Sean almost smiled. “Maura, have I not just told you we don't know the details yet? We'll sort it out in the morning. The poor lad was exhausted, as was his mother. We'll all have fresher eyes tomorrow.” He drained his cup quickly. “I'd better be on my way so I can get an early start. I only wanted to make sure you knew the story so far, and the others here, so they could spread the word.”

“Thank you, Sean. I appreciate it,” Maura said softly. Maura wasn't quite sure whether he had been thinking of her concern or only wanted to get the word out as quickly as possible—and what better way than to tell a pub full of worried people? “Safe home.”

“And to you,” Sean said, then gathered himself up and went out the door.

The crowd cleared quickly after that, and by midnight only Maura and Mick remained, clearing up the last of the glasses scattered around the room.

“Mick, are you planning to stop by your grandmother's tomorrow?” Maura asked, washing the final glasses.

“I might do,” he said. “Why?”

“Could you stop by my house? I've got a small problem and I'm not sure what to do.” She hated to ask anyone for help, much less someone she worked with, but there were things she was clueless about, and how to manage an old stone cottage in this part of the world was one of them. She needed someone who knew how things worked, and she knew Mick was often down the lane visiting his grandmother Bridget.

“Glad to. I'll look in before I see me gran.”

“Thanks, Mick. See you in the morning, then. And we should probably be here early, because people will want to hear the news about John Tully.”

“Troubling, that,” Mick commented. “Something's not right. John would never have left his son like that.”

So what had happened?
Maura asked herself. Tomorrow would tell. She hoped.

Maura woke early the next morning but delayed getting out of bed. The room was cold. Heck, the whole house was cold. That was why she had reluctantly asked Mick to come by. She had grown up mainly in triple-deckers in South Boston, where somebody else was responsible for providing heat. Even when some crummy landlord failed to do that, it was still out of the tenants' hands to fix. But here? Even if she had known what to do back in Boston, an old cottage in Ireland was another story altogether. She'd inherited it from Mick Sullivan, who had been related somehow to her grandmother, and he'd also left her the pub, free and clear. But nobody had left instructions for either. She'd moved in back in March, and between blankets and sweaters she'd managed to stay warm enough then until the weather
had warmed up—as much as it ever did. She thought she'd toughened up, but now that the days were short and whatever heat had built up in the old stone and stucco walls had gone away, it was cold inside. And it would get colder.

She finally threw off the bedcovers and pulled on socks and two layers of shirts, with a sweatshirt over, then plunged down the stairs to boil water for tea or coffee—she ought to offer Mick something. He'd seen her house back when Old Mick had lived here, but had he been inside since she had taken over? She couldn't remember. Not that she'd changed much. Mick had lived simply. She'd kept the large scarred and scrubbed table in the middle of the big kitchen room, and the chairs around it, but apart from that there was little in the way of furniture. Old Mick Sullivan had spent his last days in a ratty bed in the adjoining parlor, and she'd gotten rid of that, but otherwise there were only a couple of tired-looking upholstered chairs in that room. Apparently Old Mick hadn't done too much entertaining—maybe like her he'd spent most of his waking hours at the pub. She'd bought herself a new bed for one of the bedrooms upstairs, but that was about the full extent of her redecorating. She hadn't even bothered with curtains, since none of the neighbors was close enough to see into her windows.

The water had barely boiled when someone rapped at her front door, and she opened it to find Mick Nolan standing outside. “Come in,” she said, then shut the door quickly behind him. “You want tea? Coffee?”

“I'm sure tea will do fer me. What was it you wanted to ask?”

“It's freezing in here,” Maura said, trying not to sound whiny.

“That it is,” Mick agreed. “So?”

“I don't know how to heat this place. What do I do?”

Mick stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Sure and there's no fancy thermostat to turn on, is there?”

“I didn't expect that,” she said tartly. “But there's got to be something, right?”

“Well, fer a start, you've the two fireplaces.”

“Yeah, I can see that. The one in this room here scares me—I could roast an ox in it, not that I've ever wanted to roast an ox. Still, it's huge. The other one's not much use because I keep that room closed most of the time, and the fireplace is smaller anyway—wouldn't heat the whole downstairs, would it? But how am I supposed to know if the chimney or whatever for the big one doesn't have a family of birds nesting in it, or worse? Is there some kind of flue I'm supposed to open?”

“That's easy enough to check,” Mick said.

Easy for you to say.
“Sure, if you know what you're looking for. And if it's clear, what the heck do I burn in it?”

Mick appeared to be enjoying himself, Maura noted. “In the old days,” he began, “which were not that long ago, you'd have a piece of bog land, where you'd cut your own turf.”

“Yeah, right. Like I'm going to start doing that, even if I do have that piece of land. And isn't peat kind of wet? How the heck do you make it burn?”

“Not many do, anymore, although there's power plants that run off turf, sort of a combination of the old and the new. And yer right—you have to harvest the turf well ahead of time and stack it to dry, before you can hope to use it.”

“Little late to hear that, isn't it? I'm going to make a cup of something hot, because I'm getting colder by the minute
standing here and listening to you give me the history of heating in Ireland.” Maura stalked over to the stove—which she had managed to make work—and poured the water she had boiled into a metal teapot (inherited from Old Mick, along with the mismatched plates and cups) and threw in a couple of tea bags.

“Fair enough. You've the fireplace, and you can buy fuel at most petrol stations around here. You have yer choice of wood, coal, or turf. Or some mix of them.”

“Okay, that's progress. Is one better than another?”

“Turf doesn't give off much heat. Wood and coal are better. But you've another option as well.”

“Which is?” Maura stuck a spoon in the teapot, swirled the tea bags around, then poured one mug for Mick, then one for herself, to which she added sugar. She handed Mick his, then clutched her own with both hands.

Mick nodded toward the stove. “There's yer heat.”

“Huh?” Maura knew that in the poorer areas of Boston, people had been known to turn on the oven and leave the door open, assuming the gas and power were still connected, but she didn't think that applied here.

“Did you not wonder what those other dials were for?”

“Uh, no. I don't do much cooking. I've figured out how to turn on the burners and the oven, but that's about it.”

“The other side's the heat. At least fer this room, and if you leave the door between open, the other down here. Mick never thought it was important to heat the upstairs rooms beyond whatever heat made its way up there. He had few overnight guests, as you might guess.”

“Okay,” Maura said dubiously, looking at the hulking
stove in the corner next to the immense fireplace. “So why isn't it warm?”

“Fer a start, you've not turned it on. And probably the oil tank's dry. Mick only bought as much as he thought he needed.”

“I have an oil tank?” Maura asked.

“You do, out back.”

Great. Now she felt doubly stupid. “And how do I fill that?”

“I can give you the number of an oil service. You can talk to them about how much you might need fer the winter—they know this type of building well.”

“Is that what Bridget's using?”

“Much the same. I see that her tank's topped up. But I don't fill it—there are those who are down and out who think nothing of siphoning off a bit, even from an old woman.”

“That's a shame. Does my tank have a lock?”

“It might do—I haven't looked at it lately. But odds are anyone who was set on getting into it could do it easily enough. Was there anything else you needed to know? Plumbing? Wiring?”

“Well, so far I've got light and hot water, and I've been billed for the power. The lawyer who helped me out with Mick's will set that much up for me.”

“And you've a well for water, so no water rates. It's really a simple system, you know.”

Maura sighed. “I figured it was, but I'm not mechanical. And as I'm sure you've noticed, I don't spend a lot of time here, particularly by daylight, so I usually don't think about it. Thanks for explaining things.”

“No problem. I'll go pop in on Bridget now.”

“Does she know about John Tully?”

“I'd guess her friends have told her by now. She won't admit it to me, but she spends a fair amount of time on the phone chatting with them.”

“Does she know the Tully family? Or is she related to them in any way? Because most of the people around here seem to be connected somehow.”

“Not that I recall. She'll be rememberin' that last time, though.”

“That was really sad. I can't understand any man killing his own child—that's not right.” Was there something about the isolation of the Irish countryside and the endless hard work of running a farm that caused depression severe enough to lead to something like that? She hoped not. The man had had a wife, and from what Maura had seen, people looked out for each other around here.

“It was that. But by all accounts, this is different. John's a steady man, and he loved that boy—well, all the children, and the wife as well. The farm was doing well. Maybe the child will shed some light on it.”

“The kid's three!” Maura protested. “What could he know?”

“Have you no memories from that time of your life?”

“Only patchy ones. I wish I had known my parents, but my father died not long after I was born, and my mother dumped me on my grandmother and disappeared. My grandmother assumed from the start that my mother, Helen, was not cut out for motherhood. Or working.”

“You've never tried to find her?” Mick asked.

“What for? She made her choice. And until Gran died,
she knew where to find us, if she wanted to, because we never moved. Anyway, you can't miss what you've never known. She's never been real to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Mick said quietly. “It must have been a hard life fer yeh.”

She shrugged. How had the conversation drifted from heating the building to her parents? “I guess I'm not a good example for a happy family. But if the boy saw something upsetting, wouldn't it make an impression on him?”

“Maybe, but you can't have the gardaí and the rescue folk swoop down on the poor boy and throw questions at him. I only hope that his mother's not so hysterical that she doesn't listen to what he might say.”

Maura found herself wondering if Sean could connect with him. Sean was relatively young and, more important, he had a kind of unselfconscious innocence that might be less threatening to a child.

As if reading her mind, Mick said, “Yer man Sean might be a good man to talk to him.”

Maura bristled. “He's not ‘mine.'”

“I'm thinkin' he might like to be.”

Suddenly the room seemed smaller to Maura, and she realized how rarely she was alone with Mick. And there had been that one kiss, not so long before . . .

“He's a friend. That's all.” Maura tried hard not to sound defensive. She didn't owe Mick Nolan any explanations.

Mick gave her a long look, but his only response was, “I'd best be getting over to me gran's. Want me to open at the pub?”

“You take your time with Bridget. I might as well go in early—it's usually warmer there. Maybe there'll be some word about John Tully.”

“God willing. See you later, then.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

Maura shut the door behind him. So her stove was also her heat source? She'd never heard of such an arrangement, but it made sense. Too bad she couldn't have figured that out for herself, without involving Mick. At least now he could give her the name of someone to call to get a supply of oil, and he could walk her through what to do. As for burning turf or coal or wood—that sounded so old-fashioned! Even though she recalled seeing bags of each of them stacked up outside the gas station on the road to Skibbereen. Maybe for tourists, who thought a peat fire would be charming, even if it didn't provide much heat?

And why don't you want to involve Mick?
an annoying voice in her head demanded. Because she didn't want to be involved with
anyone
right now, she told the voice. Herself. Sure, she knew that Sean was interested, and she liked him. They'd been out a couple of times. He was a good guy with a steady job. But she had too much going on in her life to consider getting involved with an Irishman.

Right, Maura, and that was your excuse months ago. How long will it take you to sort out your life, huh?
As long as it takes, Maura thought. If only Mick hadn't planted that kiss on her and then hadn't followed up at all. What was she supposed to think? What the heck were the dating rules for Ireland? Mick was old enough to know them. If he wanted to make a move on her, what was he waiting for?

Why did you think that your life would be simple?
the voice added. “Oh, shut up,” Maura muttered, and went to take a shower. At least the water would be hot.