Top O' the Mournin'

Passport to Peril
mystery series

ALPINE FOR YOU

Published by Pocket Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An
Original
Publication of POCKET BOOKS

Copyright © 2003 by Mary Mayer Holmes

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-8811-3

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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In other words, the weather in Ireland is a metaphor for my life.

I’m Emily Andrew, twenty-nine-year-old once-married working girl with a degree in theater arts, currently employed as escort for a bank-sponsored group of Iowa senior citizens on a ten-day tour of the Emerald Isle.

Going back to my weather metaphor, my life had been sunny when I’d moved to New York City after receiving my B.A., married fellow actor, Jack Potter, and landed a part in a Broadway play. The rain started when Jack began wearing my underwear. The deluge hit when he left me a note one night telling me he was running off with his leading man’s understudy.

When the shock wore off, I did what any native Midwesterner with no money to pay Big Apple apartment rent would do. I moved back to my hometown of Windsor City, Iowa, had the marriage annulled, and found a job where I could use my acting skills. Phone solicitation.

For three years I was the premier fund-raiser for Playgrounds for Tots, until the president of the organization was arrested for fraud because there
was
no organization.

He went to jail. I went to Europe.
Not
as a fugitive from justice. I had a long-standing commitment to be my grandmother’s companion on a seniors’ tour of Switzerland, so off I went, hoping to ease my jobless woes by experiencing the vacation of a lifetime.

It turned out to be an experience, all right. We were promised temperatures in the seventies. Spectacular views of the Alps. Gourmet cuisine. What we got was bone-chilling cold. Dense fog. A steady diet of cornflakes. And three dead guests.

The one ray of sunshine on the trip was that I met the man of my dreams. Etienne Miceli, the police inspector who investigated the three deaths. He’s everything my first husband wasn’t. Forthright. Dependable. Heterosexual. We’ve been communicating by phone and e-mail for eight months now, and you might say our relationship is at a crossroads. It’s too intense not to be together. But he lives in Switzerland. I live in Iowa. See what I mean about my life? Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun. Not unlike the weather in Ireland.

“Dublin’s nothin’ like I imagined,” said my grandmother. Her voice vibrated as we jounced down one of Dublin’s most traveled thoroughfares in the back of a horse-drawn carriage. Nana was known as “a sport” in her retirement village back in Iowa. She’d won millions in the Minnesota lottery the day my grampa passed away, so in her golden years, she had the means to go anywhere and do anything, and she was taking full advantage of the opportunity. “Is it like you imagined, Emily?”

“I imagined rain.” I peered skyward in search of storm clouds, but found only a brilliant wash of blue. Windex blue. Like Etienne’s eyes. I sighed with the thought. In Dublin for five hours and already I was suffering the first pangs of loneliness. I needed to snap out of it, else it would be a very long ten days.

Our hackney driver tipped his head to the right. “Shaint Shtephen’s Green,” he said in a lilting brogue. “Firsht enclosed in 1664. Twenty-two acres of manicured lawn, ponds, and quiet in the middle of Ireland’s busiest shity.”

Cute accent, but he could use some speech therapy for the lisp.

“Remember that statue a Molly Malone?” Nana whispered, referring to the shapely bronze sculpture we’d seen on an earlier walk down Grafton Street. “Why do you s’pose they made her so bosomy? Did you see the cleavage? I bet she was wearin’ one of them push-up brassieres. Probably where she got that nickname,‘Tart with a Cart.’”

“Wait a minute.
I
wear a push-up bra, and
I’m
not a tart.”

Nana patted my knee. “Of course you’re not, dear. You marry the men you sleep with. I think that’s very commendable. Oh, look! A double-decker bus. I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those. Haven’t you?”

I’d never given public transportation much thought. What I
really
wanted was to be one of the great stage actresses of the century. Windsor City boasted only a small community theater, so the odds were against me, but I remained optimistic. Entering a new century had given me an extra hundred years to make a success of myself.

“Easy, Nell.” Our driver steadied his horse as she chafed against her traces. “She’s frishky today. To your left is the Shelbourne Hotel.” He guided us past the elegant redbrick building where our tour group was scheduled to spend its first night in Ireland. “Built in 1824. They sherve a brilliant afternoon tea in the Lord Mayor’s Lounge at half-three.”

The wrought-iron railings and flower-glutted window boxes reminded me of the quaint little hotel where Jack and I had honeymooned so many years ago, and, recalling our wedding night, I smiled. Poor Jack. He’d possessed the extraordinary good looks of a Greek god but the brain chemistry of a Greek goddess. And it had taken me only two years to figure it out. Am I a quick study or what? I hoped he’d found happiness with his partner, living in upstate New York, laying kitchen tile, but that didn’t seem the kind of existence that would make him happy. Jack was happiest when he was onstage, sporting layers of pancake makeup and eyeliner. But he was probably happier now than when he’d been married to me. And so was I. Mostly because I didn’t have to share my underwear anymore.

As we rounded the north corner of St. Stephen’s Green, I sat back in my seat, soaking up the Dublin atmosphere. The hordes of people. The crush of traffic. The blare of horns. The stench of diesel fumes.

“Do you smell that?” Nana asked suddenly.

“Diesel. Must be the fuel of choice over here.”

“That’s not it. Smells more like”—she inhaled deeply—“alcohol.” She plucked her guidebook out of her Golden Irish Vacations tour bag and flipped through the pages. “I remember readin’ there’s a Guinness brewery nearby, and they give away free samples at the Hopstore.”

“But Guinness is dark beer. You don’t like dark beer. You don’t like beer, period.”

“I know, dear, but I like free samples. Look here, the Guinness brewery is number seventeen on the map. Maybe our driver could drop us off if we pass by. Should we ask?”

I gave her one of my patented “It can’t hurt” shrugs and leaned forward, tapping the driver on his back. “Excuse me. If we pass the Guinness brewery, could you—”

In the next instant he slumped forward and landed on the floor of the carriage with a thump.

Nana gasped. “You didn’t need to push him, Emily. A polite tap would a worked.”

“I didn’t push him! Oh, my God. What’s wrong with him? Is he dead? He
can’t
be dead. This
can’t
be happening again!” I’d discovered those three dead bodies on the
last
tour we’d taken. If it happened on this trip, too, I’d be labeled a jinx and could probably kiss my tour escort job good-bye.

We popped out of our seats for a better look. “Does he look dead to you?” I asked.

“All’s I can tell from this angle is that he’s bald.”

“I’ll check his pulse.”

“No!” yelled Nana. “Grab the reins!”

My gaze fell on the leather straps that were slithering out of the driver’s hand. I lunged across the back of the seat, arm extended, but they disappeared over the dashboard before I could seize them. I looked at Nana. Nana looked at me.

“Uh-oh,” I said. The carriage swayed suddenly, then lurched forward as Nell discovered her head. With no driver to guide her, she broke away from her traditional route, jumped the curb, and shot down the sidewalk at a full gallop. BUMPITY-BUMP. BUMPITY-BUMP. Nana tumbled back into her seat. I clutched the driver’s seat for support. Pedestrians leaped out of the way at our approach. Into bushes. Onto the hoods of parked cars. People gawked. People pointed. I saw a group of Japanese tourists crowding the sidewalk ahead of us. “Get out of the way!” I screamed, flailing my arms. “Move!”

I heard excited chatter and a symphonic click of camera shutters as we screeched around them on two wheels and swerved onto the main walkway of St. Stephen’s Green.

“Do somethin’!” Nana bellowed at me.

“Like what?”

“Make the horse stop!”

“That wasn’t part of my training!” On the other hand, if the horse were choking, drowning, or needed CPR, I’d be your girl.

“Cowboys did it in the old movies all the time!” Nana yelled. “Jump on her back and grab her reins. I’d do it myself if I wasn’t wearin’ my good panty hose.”

I knew nothing about horses. I was from Iowa. I knew about seed corn, which wasn’t really helpful in this situation. I did have an idea though. “HELP!” I cried. “Somebody help us!”

The park became a blur of trees, shrubs, and flower beds as Nell raced across a lush stretch of lawn that looked like the course at Pebble Beach, only without the ocean view. Fat clods of grass flew left and right beneath her hooves. Divots here. Divots there. BUMPITY-BUMP. BUMPITY-BUMP. Uh-oh. This wasn’t good. Parents grabbed their children and ran for cover. Oh, my God. What if we plowed into someone and killed them?

I craned my neck to peek at our driver again. The violent jostling was causing his body to skid toward the open end of the carriage. One major dip in the terrain, and he’d shoot out of the vehicle like a log out of a flume.

I needed to do something.

“Look at that pretty circle a red flowers up ahead,” Nana said in a high vibrato, as we approached a major intersection of pathways. “Be nice to stop for a picture.”

We were beyond them before I had time to blink.

“I don’t mean to complain, dear, but we’re missin’ all the good photo opportunities.”

I scrambled over the backrest of the driver’s seat, crouching precariously on the cushion. “Whoa, Nellie!” I yelled.

THUMP-THUMP. The carriage pitched sharply to the right, bouncing the driver across the floor. I grabbed a fistful of his jacket to keep him from falling out. I looked up.

Dead ahead was a stand of trees, and Nell was racing straight toward them. “Hold on tight!” I yelled to Nana.

I ducked low on the seat. WHUP-WHUP! WHUP-WHUP! Foliage thrashed the sides of the carriage as we whipped between two trees. I heard an ominous creak. I opened one eye to see what was ahead.

Oh, no.

We hit the pond at breakneck speed and hurdled the concrete lip like one of the losing drivers in the chariot race in
Ben Hur.
Off flew a front wheel. Off flew a back wheel.
Creeeeek! KABOOM!
The sudden stop catapulted me off the seat and into the air. I landed on my back in a foot of water that shot up my nose all the way to my brain. Snorting, sputtering, and blinded by streams of nonwater-proof mascara, I jackknifed upward to hear a man shout, “You there! There’s no swimming allowed in the pond!”

I let out a startled yelp as our driver’s body sluiced out of the carriage and landed eyeball-to-eyeball on top of me.

“That goes for him too!” the man added.

Most single women who visit Ireland probably dream of having their bones jumped by an Irishman as witty as Oscar Wilde, as inspiring as William Butler Yeats, and as handsome as Pierce Brosnan. That my bones were being jumped by a short, bald guy who didn’t appear to be breathing was fairly typical of the direction in which my life was headed. All that was missing was the freelance photographer who would snap my picture and sell it to a tabloid newspaper. I could see the headlines now: T
OUR
E
SCORT
H
AS
S
EX WITH
D
EAD
M
AN IN
P
OND
! That would go over really well in Windsor City.

It was at that moment that I heard the unmistakable whirr of Nana’s new Polaroid OneStep camera. “Smile, dear!”

“Here’s one of the pond in Saint Stephen’s Green.” Nana handed Tilly Hovick a photograph as we stood at the front desk of the Shelbourne Hotel, waiting for our room keys. Tilly was a retired professor of anthropology at Iowa State University, and was slated to be Nana’s roommate for the duration of the tour.

“Interesting composition,” Tilly said as she inspected the Polaroid through the magnifying glass that hung around her neck. “Who is that man lying on top of Emily?”

“Our driver. He passed out and crashed us into the pond. Then he fell on top of her. We thought for sure he was dead. Then his cell phone rang, and he answered it. He would’ve laid right there talkin’, too, if Emily hadn’t done somethin’.” Nana handed Tilly a second photograph. “This one’s of Emily kneein’ the driver in his privates.” And a third. “This is the driver curled up in pain after Emily kneed ’im. And you can see there, he’s still talkin’ on his cell phone. That was pretty impressive.”

“What caused him to pass out?” asked Tilly. “Seizure?”

“Sloshed,” said Nana. She handed Tilly a final photo. “This is the policeman who dragged Emily outta the pond and gave her a written warnin’ for swimmin’ in an unauthorized area.”

Tilly, who made ordinary mortals quake with her legendary bluntness and direct stares, stabbed a long finger at the policeman’s photo. “Did you get his name? We should march right down to the Garda Station and file a complaint. This situation was
not
Emily’s fault. She was treated unfairly.” She turned to me. “And if I were you, I’d sue the carriage company for damages. Look at you. You look like one of the contestants on
Survivor.”