Twillyweed (26 page)

“What is it?”

“I'm Jenny Rose Cashin's aunt. My name is Claire Breslinsky. I've come to tell you—”

“Claire? You'll be Claire, Mary Cashin's middle girl?”

I was startled. “Yes,” I admitted unsurely.

“You're the very likeness of her!”

“You know my mother?”

“Know her? I wouldn't have come to this country were it not for her!”

I was so thrown off my kilter I just stood there while we gaped at each other. I don't know which upset me more—that she knew my mother or that I looked just like her. My mother was old. She was plump. I was … I was …

She mopped her strong farmers' daughter's hands on her apron and herded me in, saying, “Come in, come in. No sense standing here in the vestibule looking like a pie hit you full in the face!”

I blessed myself from the holy water font and followed her through the cool, timbered archways, over the scrubbed and walnut-oiled tiles, and under a series of handsome naval prints. There would be no doubt a County Cork widow was in residence here. The place shone.

She led me into a white kitchen, fitted out in unfashionable but sturdy oak cabinets, and sat me at the checkered oilcloth. In the tiny window a cactus bloomed an orange wart.

“There now,” she said, releasing a happy, eager sigh, and I realized I might be in for a long one. With easy movements she had the teapot up to boil and soda bread whisked from the box, transported butter and jam from the fridge, then carefully sliced a wedge of soda bread and placed it reverently on a doily before me.

“I'm not sure my mother mentioned you were here,” I declared cautiously. Had she told me about this woman while I hadn't listened?

Her face fell. “Did she not?”

“But,” I hurried to say, “wait a minute, I do remember now! She told me to tell you she was polycoating Jenny Rose's picture in the paper and sending copies off to Skibbereen! That was it. I'm sorry, I forget everything these days. You understand. It's quite an event for us, having Jenny Rose here in the States.” I gave up with a heaving breath. “What I mean is, it's not because of her that I'm here.”

Suspicious, she looked at me, her freckled face closed and leaning to one side.

“I'm afraid I've come with bad news,” I went on.

“Your mother!”

“No, it's none of us. It's Patsy Mooney from up at Twillyweed.”

Mrs. Lassiter clutched her heart. “Patsy? My Patsy?”

“I'm afraid she's dead.”

She turned red and began to make a strange noise in her throat. I looked around for something stronger than tea. I thought she might be having a stroke, or was choking on something, the way she sat there gurgling and sputtering.

“Mrs. Lassiter, is there someone I can call? Is Father in the rectory?”

She gasped, “He's having a pre-Cana.”

“Would you like me to call him?”

Chalk faced, she shook her head then demanded, “How did she die?”

“I'm afraid it was murder.”

“Murder?” She stood up and sat down, covered her mouth with her hand. “He got her? Donald, that blaggard, he finally got her?”

“They think so.”

She sucked in her breath. “She always said he would! She always said he'd find her one day like he promised and kill her!”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sherry. Under the sink. Hurry.”

I went right to it and poured her a water glass full. It smelled like something stronger than sherry. “
Sláinte
,” she gasped and drank it straight down. It didn't seem to hurt her. She began to cry. “How did he do it?”

I looked around uncomfortably. “He strangled her.”

“Ahh!” She fell again into sobs, her large shoulders heaving up and down.

I sat with her for a good long time. After a while she came around and blew her nose. “But we have such lovely plans! I've got to call my friend Maureen,” she said and went into the hallway to call. During this time I swiftly polished off two more thick pieces of her hopelessly good soda bread. Then, feeling guilty, I moved the rest around the plate so it didn't seem so much was gone. She came back in. “I'll have to wait awhile. Nobody's there.”

“So you were best friends with Patsy Mooney, then.”

“Oh, aye. Grand friends.” She peered up toward the little window and shook her head. “Best friends when it comes to that. We're bingo partners. We've been to every jewelry show at the Coliseum. And every fortnight we sit together on the bus to Atlantic City. It leaves from the mall parking lot over at the Americana Mall. She always wins, let me tell you. Patsy can play anything—poker, all of it. Not just the slots like me. I don't know who I'll go with now!” She looked at me with refreshed shock as the atrocity hit her again. “What about all of our plans?” she wailed. “We have so many wonderful plans!”

I let her calm down. “I guess going down there you'd have plenty of time to talk. She must have told you all about her troubles with … Donald, is it?”

“Oh, yes. She tells me all about it,” she sniffled, still referring to her in the present tense. “I know the whole story, so.” She cut into yet another slice of soda bread and pushed it on me. “That's why I have to drive us to the mall parking lot. She won't drive. She thinks if she renews her license, he'll find her, like, what with all his friends on the job. And he did, didn't he? Just like she said!” She burst into fresh sobs. “That's how sly he is. Oh, he's mean. How many times did he beat her up! Kicked her down the stairs when she tried to leave him!”

“I guess you're not surprised to hear the tragic news, then.”

She held her arms and her head went down. “It fair breaks my heart.” She looked up with sudden clarity. “But I have to say I am surprised. Shocked, more like. It's been some years—so long for him to hold a grudge, isn't it? You'd think he'd have found someone else to torture by now.” She shook her head and snuffled into her tissue. “We're good friends, me and Patsy. I always make her laugh.”

“She must have been a wonderful woman,” I said. “Well, is there anyone I can call to come stay with you? Shall I call Father in?”

“No, no don't do that. It'll all be about him, then, won't it? I'll have to get him ready for a death call, iron his purple stole …” She went to budge but couldn't, sipped her drink, her eyes in the past, unable to move on to this new, terrible reality, I guessed. I let her talk. “Buys me little things, too, she does. Soaps and fancy cooking dishes. See this yellow crock from Portugal? She gave me that. And them fancy things are dear, so. She'll leave dollar bills on my ashtray in the car. For gas money. She's that thoughtful.”

I got up to go. We walked together down the hallway, our footfalls echoing in the hollow space. “He couldn't leave her alone, could he!” She shook her head. “You see what it proves? There's a sadist on every street corner. But a good masochist is hard to find.”

“What about Mrs. Dellaverna? I could call her to come. I know she's at home.”

“Lina?!” She gave me a sullen, cud-chewing face. “Don't know why you'd be mixed up with the likes of her. … Don't even think about it. No! Not in my kitchen! Not here! Never!”

My, my
, I thought,
such dislike!
“Okay, okay, I won't call her,” I promised.

“Telephone Paige,” she said, sniffing primly. “Tell her I'll come up to Twillyweed once I've pulled myself together, so.” She opened the massive door. “I've got to pick something up there at any rate—a donation for the raffle—and she and I can make the plans for the wake.”

“All right. You're sure you'll be all right if I leave you alone?”

She looked at her watch with a capable flourish. “Father will be here in ten more minutes. I'll give him his lunch and then I'll be up. Tell her that.”

“All right, and good-bye. I'm so sorry. Thank you for your hospitality at such a grievous time. Your soda bread was a delight.” I patted my belly. “One day maybe you'll give me the recipe.”

Her pale eyes cheered up. “
Och
, that's what I'm famous for. Father even has me sending it back down to his old parish in Broad Channel just to brag how good he has it, so! Now you'll tell your good mother I was asking for her?”

“Why don't you call her? I'm sure she'd love to hear from you. Especially since you helped Jenny Rose get her position.”

She shook her head shyly. “Oh, no. She'll be thinking I'm looking for praise.”

“No she wouldn't!”

“Aye, we'll just let that be.”

“We'll see.” I smiled sympathetically, making a mental note to tell my mother to call.

“Good-bye.” She held her long arm up in the air and waved me off with her sodden tissue in a burst of sentiment. “To happier days. And send my regards to Mary.” She rocked her head reflectively.

“I will.” I hopped on the old bicycle and rattled down the path, once again relieved Jenny Rose's having the moonstones had had nothing to do with Patsy Mooney's murder. I was almost happy. Because that's what this Donald's involvement meant, didn't it? They were separate, thank God. But as I pedaled along the old country path and even before I reached the main road to town, something nagged at my complacence. Just suppose this Donald Woods hadn't killed Patsy Mooney, I conjectured. Although surely he had, if even the police believed it. Still, I scratched my head. The mystery gems turning up in Sea Cliff and then the murder in the same house … I kept having the feeling I was missing something. The wind was at my back. I pumped along, my brow furrowed, this niggling occupying me now. A gull flew off in front and gave an excited cry and all at once it came to me. Broad Channel. She'd said Broad Channel, hadn't she? I had more than a nagging suspicion that the two crimes had to be connected. I just didn't know how. Had this Donald Woods clobbered the priest and stolen the statue? No, why would he? Suppose he hadn't had anything to do with it at all? It could just as easily have been Morgan or Glinty or Oliver or Teddy or even Radiance or Paige—someone who knew enough to cast suspicion on a belligerent ex-husband.

It was a hunch, but I couldn't shake the suspicion. I coasted my bicycle into a broad circle and pedaled back to the rectory. I knocked. Mrs. Lassiter, half into her fussy black suit and annoyed again from the look on her face, threw the door open. I was aware that very consciously she put on a martyred, sweeter face for me. “Yes?”

“I'm so sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Lassiter. Would it be all right if I took some holy water up to Twillyweed?”

She was glad, I could tell, it was about nothing else. “Have you got the bottle?”

“No.”

“I'll get you a jar,” she said and let me stand there while she went to get it. A flock of blackbirds went rushing by.

It was a nice, big mayonnaise jar. “Thanks,” I said, then remarked nonchalantly, “Say. Just out of curiosity, what parish was that in Broad Channel your pastor came from?”

“Oh, that'll be St. Margaret Mary's. Father Steger's parish now.”

I put on my stupid face “Ah, too bad.” I acted disappointed. “I thought it might be my dad's old parish. Oh, well. Just a thought.” I smiled weakly and pedaled off. My mind reeled. When I was clear of the place, I let myself think.
St. Margaret Mary's! That's where the priest was clobbered and where the statue was stolen from! Wait till I tell Jenny Rose.

I caught sight of Daniel's house and turned in the driveway, then left my bike lying on the gravel. “Daniel?” I called in. No one answered. I tickled the wind chimes he had hanging from the sill. They were the big, booming, expensive ones. I waited. No one was there. Still, you never knew. I stepped into the kitchen. Everything looked the same. A cat yowled from inside, half scaring me out of my wits. Then there was no sound. None at all. I crept cautiously across the linoleum. I stepped over the threshold and was in the room with the bed. It smelled so nice, like someone had polished the nightstand with Pledge. And then, for no reason I could think of, I bent over and pulled the blanky off the doll. It wasn't a doll; it was a statue, a statue of Our Lady, her poor eye sockets empty, her arms out extending grace. Hearing my heartbeat in my ears, I picked it up and sheltered it against me. The big cat on the windowsill looked past me, like someone else was there. I started to go. With every step a horror that someone would grab me moved me along with my spine up under me. I made it back outside. I clutched the statue under my jacket and felt tears prick at my eyes. But I didn't cry. It wasn't that. I just stood there thinking,
I've
got
her
. I made the sign of the cross, took off my jacket and wrapped her up in it, and laid her in my basket next to the big jar of holy water. I looked around and saw no one. No one saw me. I rattled along on my bike, my hand outstretched like a guardian vessel, shielding my booty. I should have gone to the police right then. But I didn't.

Jenny Rose

Hastily making her way into town, Jenny Rose then stood in the middle of Main Street and took a breath. She would talk to Glinty and find out what he knew. She'd been so worried the police would suspect her that she hadn't given a thought to whether or not he—But no. No, Glinty would never have strangled a soul. She was sure of it. Oh, poor Patsy Mooney! Jenny Rose spotted a shop where they sold crystals and religious items. Surely they'd carry Mass cards. She went in and then, hearing urgent, familiar whispers, busied herself behind a wall of scented candles. It was Paige, wasn't it? She was lecturing Radiance in that schoolmarm, patronizing tone of hers.

“You never even came to Noola's wake! What's wrong with you? You wouldn't go to her funeral and now you won't even come back to the house when the poor woman—!”