The Haunting Ballad (14 page)

“Next visit? Don't forget, I'm talking about dropping this case.”

“Oh, I've not forgotten,” my friend said dismissively. “I'm merely being speculative.”

“As for her kindness toward Mrs. Pattinshell, remember, Old Widow Spooky-Tunes had something that Lorraine wanted.”

“The ghost songs…”

“Yeah, if such things be. So it wasn't exactly unbridled charity at play there. Maybe it's the same deal with the old veteran. Maybe Lorraine kept him around to drum ‘John Brown's Body' for her whenever she needed her mood sweetened.”

“Perhaps. So, to continue, what we have is a woman whom everyone knows, whom everyone has opinions about…”

“Usually
unfavorable
opinions…”

“A woman whom no one recalls seeing in the days leading up to her death.”

“That last part's not too surprising, is it? After all, she wasn't married, had no family nearby, and seemed to keep to herself when she wasn't pursuing her musical interests. Plus, she lived in Manhattan, and it's easy to get lost in the city.”

“True, though one might argue that Greenwich Village is like a small town unto itself.” Mr. O'Nelligan took a last draw of his pipe and set it aside. “Now, regarding Lorraine's demise, no one we've spoken to can propose a reason why she would take her own life. In fact, she's not perceived as a likely candidate for suicide.”

“That happens a lot, doesn't it? Someone kills themself and afterward everyone says, ‘Boy oh boy, I never would've expected it of them.'”

Mr. O'Nelligan nodded. “Certainly that happens. Conversely, it also often happens that, following a murder, people declare their astonishment that anyone would want to kill that particular person.”

“Though, in the case of someone as prickly and provoking as Lorraine Cobble, maybe it doesn't come as such a shock that she'd be the object of foul play.”

My colleague folded his hands across his stomach and smiled subtly. “As you say, Lee. Perhaps someone did indeed desire Lorraine's death.”

“Hey, hold on now!” I suddenly realized that Mr. O'Nelligan had played the old switcheroo on me—now
I
was the one arguing for homicide. “I'm in no way implying—”

“Your proposal is a worthy one, lad.”

I wagged a finger at him. “Don't try to trick me, you wicked old leprechaun! I know what you're doing.”

“I'm merely echoing your own sentiments.”

“I
have
no sentiments. All I have is facts. Or, in this case, the lack of them. You can speculate all you want to, but when it comes down to it, there's not a single thing here that screams murder.”

“You're absolutely correct,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Nothing screams. But perhaps, just perhaps, there is something that compellingly
whispers.
”

“Wait a minute! You've got an intuition, don't you? One of your annoying, unreasonable, infallible damned intuitions.” I sank in my chair. “God, I hate those.”

“Is intuition really that undesirable an attribute?”

“It is if you're a private eye being paid to deliver no-nonsense, rock-solid information.”

My colleague gave a quizzical little pout. “Do you believe our client would disapprove of the intuitive approach? Was it not Sally Joan's own intuition that led her to employ you in this quest?”

I tossed up my hands. “Stop with the quests already!”

“Never,” said Mr. O'Nelligan calmly. “For to quest is to seek adventure, and to seek adventure is to live life.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“Not just
any
adventure, mind you. Not, for example, simply a hedonistic one. But a
righteous
adventure, yes, that is what gives value to our being.”

I groaned softly. “This is way too lofty for me, and way too principled.”

“Ah, you misrepresent yourself, Lee Plunkett. You're a man of great integrity—as anyone close to you can testify. Why, just recently, your beloved Audrey was telling me—”

A nerve had been struck. “Yeah, well, Audrey has her own adventures to brag about. Not necessarily of the righteous variety.”

“What are you saying?”

As if a plug had been yanked from a dam, it all came rushing out of me: Audrey's clandestine trips to the Village, her rendezvous with Spires, our unexpected encounter at the Mercutio, and her apparent identity crisis. I definitely hadn't intended to broach the subject at all, but once I'd started, I couldn't hold back. Maybe it was because Mr. O'Nelligan, with his stately gray beard and canyon-deep eyes, had the look of some wise father confessor. Or maybe it was because I'd been stockpiling hurt, confusion, and resentment since last night and was desperate to disperse it all. Either way, I immediately wished I'd kept my trap shut. I knew well that Mr. O'Nelligan thought highly of Audrey—had been her friend longer than he'd been mine—and I instantly cursed myself for presenting her as anything other than upright and virtuous.

Depleted by my venting, I crumpled in upon myself and waited for my companion's response. Would he disbelieve my story and lambaste me for casting aspersions upon a good woman? Or would he accept my account and pronounce Audrey a wanton strumpet who should be hounded from decent society? Or—more judiciously—would his reaction fall somewhere in between?

Mr. O'Nelligan fixed his eyes on mine, quietly
hmm
ed, and, after a few long moments, spoke. “I certainly understand your distress, Lee. May I offer here a tale from my days back in Kerry?”

Now, this might have been the first time he'd ever asked my permission to unleash one of his Celtic yarns. Normally, Mr. O'Nelligan would launch into a homespun parable at the drop of a hat—whether I wanted to hear it or not. Somewhat stunned by the courtesy, I mumbled a yes.

“My Eileen and I had been courting for some time,” he began. “I'd not yet gotten down on bended knee, but I think, at that point, we both knew that day wouldn't be long in coming. To be sure, we were much taken with each other. One summer eve, we were attending a local dance and having an exceedingly fine time of it. The hall was bustling with friends and kinfolk, and the band, as I recall, was a spry one. I got in many a dance that night. You might not guess it, but I had a nimble step back in those days.”

I had to smile. “I'm sure you were the Gaelic Fred Astaire.”

“Well, that
is
going too far, but suffice it to say I was much sought after as a dancing partner. Eileen had loaned me out to the Widow McLinley, a rather full-bodied, robust woman who fairly unmoored me every time she gave a whirl. I was thus engaged when into the hall strides one Johnny Fitzgibbon, an old beau of Eileen's. Now, young Fitzgibbon had been off in Dublin for two or three years, and this was the first time the village had again set eyes on him. He'd left town a humble tanner's son and had returned as a fine-turned-out barrister's clerk. He entered the dance garbed in a tailored silk suit and beaver-skin derby, sporting an elegantly waxed mustache. Furthermore, some form of expensive cologne wafted off the fellow like a breeze from a rose garden. Certainly, there was nothing about him not to hate.”

I couldn't resist a laugh. “Yeah, I can imagine. Especially seeing as he was a former rival of yours.”

“As you say. So, like a bee to a blossom, Fitzgibbon made his way directly to my Eileen and swept her into a dance. Followed by a second. Whereas one dance was perhaps understandable, to my youthful sensibilities the second was excessive. Then, just when I was about to step forward and reclaim my lass, Fitzgibbon coaxed her into a third dance. A third! Having quit the Widow McLinley several minutes before, I now stood alone seething in a corner, oh so young and oh so wronged.”

“You said it was only a dance, though.”

“I said it was
three
dances! It was that third, don't you see, that unsettled me so. The number three has a certain power to it, as borne out in myth and history. In my distraught brain I was forming an argument to sway my stolen paramour:
Oh, beware, Eileen! Three is way too weighty a numeral to be trifled with! Just look to lore and legend—three Fates, three Magi, Macbeth's three witches … Why, the Holy Trinity itself! Trifle not, girl, with that portentous third dance!
”

“Sounds a little overblown, wouldn't you say?”

“In retrospect, yes, but at that heightened moment, the third dance felt to me like a final coffin nail being pounded home, sealing the lid on my fate. A fate that was not to include Eileen.”

“Though that's not how it turned out, is it?” I said. “It wasn't Johnny Fitzgibbon who ended up marrying the girl—it was the dashing young O'Nelligan.”

My friend leaned forward. “Exactly! But if, in the end, I was dashing, it was only because I cast aside the feeling of being
dashed
—which is how I felt that night in my miserable corner of the dance hall. While Eileen no doubt admired the fine cut of Fitzgibbon's clothes and the tang of his cologne, in due course none of that really mattered. Our bond was genuine and enduring, and no silky barrister's clerk could sever it. Eileen returned to me after the third dance, and we never parted for the rest of the evening, much to Fitzgibbon's disappointment—and the Widow McLinley's, I might add.”

“Though what if there had been a fourth dance?” I asked. “Let's say an excruciatingly slow one?”

“Ah, but there wasn't, was there? And if I'd let myself dwell on the possibility of one, I might never have kept my heart open and, ultimately, acquired the mantle of husband and father.” Mr. O'Nelligan rested his hands on his knees and smiled gently. “And now, in my silver years, I would not possess the succoring memories of that good woman who loved me so well and so long.”

Mr. O'Nelligan went silent, no doubt to let the story settle in and work its magic with me. To be honest, I wasn't sure how his situation compared to my troubles with Audrey. After all, my Irishman was possessed of an exasperating saintly nature—at least compared to my own—and could be expected to take the high road. The roads I seemed to find myself on were consistently low, unpaved, and muddy as hell.

I rose from my chair. “I'll let you know later what I've decided.”

Mr. O'Nelligan arched an eyebrow. “About Lorraine Cobble? Or about Audrey?”

“About Kitty the saloon girl.” I headed for the door and called over my shoulder, “She's the only female I really understand.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

The giant seedpods from space were hatching more frequently now, turning many decent American citizens into emotionless alien zombies.

I crammed another handful of popcorn into my mouth and waited to see if the invaders triumphed. At the moment, being emotionless didn't sound half bad. I'd had more than my share of emotions today, so the idea of succumbing to a deep slumber and waking up conveniently soulless actually held some appeal.

After leaving Mr. O'Nelligan's, I'd driven around aimlessly for a good hour or so as the twin hurricanes Audrey and Lorraine spun wildly around my beleaguered brain. I ended up grabbing a forgettable lunch at a forgettable greasy spoon on the outskirts of town before making my way over to the Bijou to catch the Saturday matinee,
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. The sci-fi film had come out last year, but our local theater always seemed to lag months behind in getting new movies. I'd heard somewhere that the body-snatching aliens were meant to represent the dilemma of modern angst. Or was it the rise of Communism? Or maybe the collapse of vaudeville. Damned if I knew. Never one for symbolism, all I could make out was that ugly, hog-sized, intergalactic seedpods were conquering Earth, and nobody liked them.

After taking sanctuary for an hour and a half in the darkened movie house, I stepped out into the annoying splendor of a sunny April afternoon. There were no pods in sight, but any solution to my problems still remained unhatched. I drove to my apartment—a bland cave that served as a slap in the face to interior decorators everywhere—and sprawled out on my slumping couch to read the weekend paper. Apparently, Singapore was about to gain self-rule, Egypt had reopened the Suez Canal, and Russia was doing some kind of nuclear testing in Siberia. Not one of those worldly events seemed to have any bearing on the state of my festering grumpiness.

Tossing the newspaper aside, I found myself staring at the opposite wall and the two wooden plaques that hung there. Each depicted a Revolutionary soldier leaning on his musket. Their expressions were so grim and unappealing that Audrey, wielding her pointed sense of irony, had christened them Martin and Lewis after the comedy duo. Studying those minutemen now, it occurred to me that the real-life Dean and Jerry were no longer a team—having split up this past summer. Once the most popular entertainers in America, the pair had grown sick of each other after a decade of success and called it quits. If money, fame, and accolades weren't enough to keep the top act in the country yoked together, was it any wonder that Audrey and I were straining at the bits?

Having spent a good chunk of the day avoiding my responsibilities, I decided it was time to tackle at least one of them. I shoved myself off the couch and fetched the telephone. A minute later, I began laying out the harsh truths of life to Sally Joan Cobble.

“Miss Cobble, after thinking it over, I've decided I'm not going to—”

She trampled over my opening. “Oh, Mr. Plunkett! I'm so glad you called! I've been trying to reach your office but couldn't get through.”

Yeah, not being able to afford a secretary no doubt made for a glut of missed calls. It certainly kept my workload manageable.

“Miss Cobble, what I was starting to say—”

“The letter! I've found that letter. Or, rather, Mrs. Pattinshell has. Turns out it got mixed in with a box of magazines that I'd passed on to her a few days ago. She's out and about right now, but she left a note saying she'd found the letter and to stop by later and get it.”