Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 Page 6

  Clio dumped the broken glass into a plastic bag and tossed it into the bin. She straightened her spine and flexed her shoulders. Next up were the living room boxes. Clio’s stomach did a flip, and her mind shifted into gear. The living room boxes were amongst the few Helen had deigned to unpack herself. Most of the valuable ornaments were in there, hence her reluctance to let Clio and Tammy near them.

  Clio’s heartbeat accelerated into a sprint. If Ray’s coveted aquamanile was in Clonmore House, it would be in one of those boxes.

  ***

  Seán popped a painkiller and downed it with an energy drink. After a night spent questioning taciturn relatives and sifting through the charred remains of the caravan, he was exhausted, headachy, and red-eyed, not to mention tormented by memories of a naked Orla. God, she was one sexy woman. He felt awful for running out on her. He didn’t usually do follow-up dates, but he owed her one. And it would be no hardship, frankly. She was sexy, funny, great in bed. Exactly what he needed to take his mind off the job.

  He eyed the mountain of paperwork on his rickety desk, topped by a cheeky Hello Kitty Post-it note courtesy of Brian Glenn. Buckets had been strategically placed to catch the drips from Ballybeg Garda Station’s leaky roof. Drip, drip, drip.

  Seán shivered and buttoned his uniform coat closed. The building’s heating system had broken down yet again. In keeping with the general tone of his morning, he’d lost the coin toss with Brian to see who got the station’s lone portable heater. Screw the budget. He was buying another couple of heaters to tide them over until they escaped this cesspit.

  In the spring, the staff of Ballybeg Garda Station was due to move into temporary digs while this building was bulldozed and another constructed in its place. The move couldn’t come soon enough for Seán.

  He fingered his phone with frozen fingers. Maybe he’d send Orla a quick text message before he tackled the admin. Invite her to dinner. He typed fast and hit Send. Almost instantly, his phone pinged. Message undeliverable. His heart sank. He’d wondered when she’d given him the number if it was the real deal. Seán chewed the top of his pen. Perhaps he’d give her a quick call, just in case.

  A tinny automated voice droned, “This number is not in service.” So she had given him a fake number. Seriously? Okay, he’d had to cut and run, but he’d had a great time up until that point. He’d thought she had too. Ah, well. It wasn’t as if he had time to spare on wining and dining a woman, however sexy she might be.

  He massaged his temples and tried to focus on the mountain of paperwork on his rickety desk. An Garda Síochána was strapped for cash at the best of times, and at Ballybeg Garda Station, funds for office furniture were nonexistent.

  At the knock on his office door, he looked up.

  “Morning, Seán.” Superintendent O’Riordan stood in the doorway, dapper in his police uniform, his silver-gray hair neatly combed off his broad forehead. Although he must have barely met the height requirement that had still been in place when he joined the police force forty years ago, the super’s confident posture and straight back made him appear taller than he was in reality. He looked cheerful and rested. Unlike Seán, he’d had a full night’s sleep.

  “Sir,” he grunted in greeting.

  “That bad a night?” The super cocked a bushy gray eyebrow. “I come bearing coffee.” The older man placed a tall paper cup on the desk. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee was sufficient to bring a smile to Seán’s face, however fleeting.

  “Ah,” he said, “the coffee smells divine. Thank you.”

  “I wouldn’t drink the swill in the machine out front if my life depended on it.” His boss gave an exaggerated shudder. “This is from the Cottage Café on Curzon Street.”

  Seán knew the place. It was the newest café in Ballybeg, and served a decent espresso. He took a sip of the strong black brew and sighed in appreciation.

  “No news on the fire?” the super asked, sitting on the edge of the desk.

  “No news,” Seán said with a grimace, “and no one’s talking.”

  “In that case, I need to borrow you for a couple of hours.”

  He gestured toward the stack of papers. “Much as I’d love to escape this freezing office, can’t it wait, sir? I’m way behind on admin.”

  The super’s smile widened to Cheshire cat proportions. “No, lad, it can’t wait. I have a job for you.”

  Seán sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk. “Does this involve John-Joe Fitzgerald and an air rifle?”

  The older man laughed. “No. It involves Helen Havelin and a stalker.”

  “A stalker?” Seán frowned. “Who’d she piss off this time?”

  It was the super’s turn to frown. “I don’t think Ms. Havelin is in the habit of pissing people off.”

  Seán begged to differ but opted to keep his trap shut. This toeing-the-line business was a bitch. Facing Helen Havelin wasn’t on his bucket list, especially not with a pounding headache, but he had his Dublin transfer to consider. He toyed with his cup. “At least the coffee is portable.”

  “Indeed it is.” The super grabbed Seán’s hat and scarf from the stand by the door and tossed them on the desk. “Come on, lad. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Six

  CLIO FOUND THE AQUAMANILE in the last moving box.

  She knelt on the plush carpet, staring at the copper piece in her hand. It was smaller than she’d expected and heavier than it appeared. The delicate face was exquisite, each detail lovingly carved. The copper was polished to a fine shine. The aquamanile was over eight hundred years old, yet the expression on the leopard’s face was so lifelike, it could have been made yesterday.

  Clio placed it on the ground with trembling hands. A quarter of a million euros. That amount of money could buy a person freedom.

  “Are you finished unpacking?” Helen appeared in the doorway, making Clio jump. She’d changed into a figure-hugging dress and strappy sandals. Her dark red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her makeup was flawless. She could pass for Clio’s sister. Helen claimed her youthful looks were thanks to good genes. Clio suspected they were thanks to good docs.

  “Yeah, I’m finished.” Clio pushed herself to her feet and positioned the aquamanile on the mantelpiece. “This was the last box.”

  Helen clucked her disapproval. “Not there, Cliona. Put it on the display table by the window.”

  Walking toward the table was akin to wading through seawater. Clio’s limbs didn’t seem to work as they should, and her hands refused to stop trembling.

  Her mother didn’t notice.

  But when had Helen ever noticed when Clio was upset? She’d spent her childhood trying to connect with her mother, desperate for her attention and approval. It wasn’t until she fell pregnant with Tammy that the full force of her mother’s attention was turned on her—and that was with anything but approval.

  Helen stood before the window, stroking the leopard aquamanile, a rare expression of contentment across her face. “A lovely piece,” she said. “As soon as I saw it, I had to own it.”

  Clio tasted the bitter dregs of resentment. When had Helen last touched her in affection? Or Tammy? Never.

  Guilt gnawed at her insides. Okay, her mother might be a pain at times, but she didn’t deserve to be robbed. Not of the two thousand euros Clio had taken from the safe, and certainly not of something this valuable. She’d phone Ray and tell him they were still waiting for the rest of Helen’s belongings to be delivered to Clonmore House. Anything to stall him and buy time for Emma to dig up info that Clio could use against him.

  She bit back a scream of frustration. What demon had possessed her to take justice into her own hands? Why hadn’t she done what everyone else had advised, namely let it go? She caught sight of the photo of a two-year-old Tammy perched on the mantelpiece, all chubby cheeks and sweet-faced innocence.

  Her heart swelled. She hadn’t let it go because she’d wanted to keep her daughter safe.

  She took and deep
a breath and forced her feet into motion. Time to contact the devil himself.

  ***

  They took the super’s car, a sleek black BMW. With a cynical smile, Seán slid into the passenger side. Despite being strapped for cash, the Irish police force managed to find the money to supply its senior officers with cars befitting their rank. Seán should know. Up until last year’s debacle, he’d been among them.

  Ballybeg Garda Station was located on the outskirts of the town and a mere five-minute drive from Clonmore House. During the short journey, Seán stared vacantly out the car window, willing the painkiller and the caffeine to do their respective jobs. The sun was making a valiant effort to penetrate the dark cloud cover, but with limited success. Down on the beach, the red warning flags were at full mast. In addition to the heavy rain, the wind was strong today and the currents strong. Out in the foaming, crashing waves, Seán could make out two wind surfers. Suicidal eejits. Every year, there were several drownings in the bay. Most occurred while the flags were flying. They’d had two over the summer, both tourists. Why anyone would want to brave the cold February water was beyond his powers of comprehension.

  The frost-tipped fields whizzed by as the super applied pressure to the accelerator. When they approached a set of tall, wrought iron gates, the knots in Seán’s stomach unraveled to perform a jig. The super rolled down his window and spoke into a monitor. Presently, the gates creaked open, and in they drove. The tree-lined driveway meandered for a kilometer before a final curve revealed the house. Seán let out a low whistle. As country houses went, Clonmore House wasn’t overly large, but it was in good nick for its age. Seán was no architectural expert, but he’d hazard a guess the place was built in the Victorian period.

  His mouth twisted in a grimace. A career built on bullshit and bad advice was lucrative.

  They pulled up in front of a short flight of steps. Seán stepped out onto the gravel and rolled his shoulders to release the tension. It didn’t work. The super bounded up the steps and lifted the brass knocker. A sudden vision of his father made Seán falter. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the image, then followed his boss up the steps to the front door.

  ***

  At the jangle of the doorbell, Clio’s heart leaped. Her step faltered.

  Helen peered through a gap in the lace curtains. “Oh, good. The police are here. That was quick.”

  “Police?” Clio’s voice was barely a squeak. Her heart lurched and thudded. Had her mother noticed the missing money already? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it?

  “The regional superintendent came by yesterday.” Helen’s face glowed with animation. “What a lovely man. I’m confident he’ll take care of it for me.”

  “Take care of what?” Clio struggled to breathe. Please, please, please don’t mention the money.

  “I fear my Dublin stalker has found my Ballybeg address. I made the local police aware of the situation.”

  “What stalker?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “You never mentioned this before.”

  Helen sniffed. “When would I have mentioned it to you? We barely talk.”

  “Every time I try to talk to you, you have something more important to deal with.”

  Her mother raised one pencil-thin eyebrow. “Do you think this house, this lifestyle, pays for itself?”

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  Clio wiped dust from her T-shirt with shaky hands and blew out a breath that didn’t calm her. The police might not be here about Ray, but they soon would be if she couldn’t figure out a way to prevent the burglary. Would the police see guilt in her eyes? Weren’t cops trained to read body language? And what was this stalker business? If her mother had mentioned having an obsessive lunatic on her trail, Clio would never have consented to bring Tammy down to Ballybeg. Her heart pounding an unsteady beat, she walked toward the front door.

  With a bit of luck, the employees of Ballybeg Garda Station were clueless country bumpkins. If not, she’d have to be an incredible actress.

  Two figures were visible through the stained glass paneling. The superintendent had brought a lackey. She took a deep breath, then wrenched open the door.

  A handsome man of sixtyish with silver-gray hair and a friendly smile stood closest to her. Superintendent Whatsit, she assumed. Her gaze traveled to the left. The second man was taller, closer to Clio’s age. She registered a muscular torso that filled the blue shirt of his uniform to perfection. Then Clio’s eyes trailed up to his face.

  It was Seán from last night, and he was wearing an expression of horror.

  The shock was as sharp as a blow to the stomach. Of all the men she could have hooked up with, she’d gone and had sex with a Ballybeg policeman.

  Chapter Seven

  SEÁN’S HEART DID A SLOW thump and roll.

  Framed by the door’s ivy surround was Orla from last night. She wore a wraparound cardigan over an old T-shirt bearing the logo of a rock band, faded denim jeans, and Snoopy slippers. She looked good. More than good. And that was despite the I-want-to-kill-myself expression on her face.

  But what the hell was she doing at Clonmore House?

  “Ah,” boomed the super’s cheerful voice. “You must be Ms. Havelin’s daughter.”

  Daughter? I had sex with Helen Havelin’s daughter? The ringing in Seán’s ears drowned all sound. Orla’s lips moved in response to the super’s question, but she might as well have been miming. It wasn’t until Seán sucked air through his teeth that he realized he’d been holding his breath.

  He’d known Helen Havelin had a daughter, but not in a million years would he have connected this casually dressed, makeup-free, wild-haired woman with the airbrushed celebrity who’d wrecked his parents’ marriage.

  Courtesy of the Irish tabloids, he was certain of one fact. The daughter’s name wasn’t Orla.

  He stared at the woman frozen on the threshold. Her face mirrored his horror, green eyes wide, pink mouth parted. A flush crept up her shock-drained cheeks. When she bent her head, strands of silky strawberry-blond hair brushed her cheekbones, just as they had last night in a rather different situation.

  Her hair was a lighter shade of red than her mother’s—although in Helen’s case, it was almost certainly helped by colorants.

  The reminder of Helen Havelin brought a bitter taste to Seán’s tongue. No wonder she’d given a false name.

  “You’d better come in,” said Orla-Cliona. Her voice was low, flustered. A far cry from the vivacious woman he’d seduced last night.

  With leaden limbs and a leaden heart, Seán stepped inside Clonmore House.

  Cliona led them through a small entrance hall then down a narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar, a slit of light spilling out in an ominous glow.

  Helen Havelin was in that room.

  Seán’s feet dragged across the slate floor. He forced oxygen into his lungs and tried to ignore the hammering in his head. If it hadn’t been for that selfish bitch, his parents would still be alive.

  Cliona pushed open the door, revealing a large room stuffed with art, ornaments, and fussy furniture.

  Helen Havelin served as the room’s centerpiece, reclining gracefully on a sofa. If memory served right, it was called a chaise longue. Why did his brain latch on to such an insignificant detail? Was his subconscious trying to distract him from focusing on the chaise longue’s occupant?

  “Superintendent O’Riordan. Lovely to see you again.” Helen’s melodious posh accent grated against Seán’s nerves. To listen to her plummy tones, you’d never think she’d grown up on a farm near Cobh.

  Hatred rolled over Seán in waves, and his fingernails dug wedges into his palms.

  Helen swung her slim legs to the floor and rose to greet them. She shook the super’s hand, holding it a moment too long for such a short acquaintance, then gestured for him to take a seat on an adjacent armchair.

  With the fluidity of a robot, Seán forced one foot in front of the other and unclenched his ri
ght hand. If he didn’t offer it to the woman, the super would have his hide.

  He needn’t have bothered. Helen kept her focus on his superior. She reclaimed her seat on the sofa, leaving Seán with an outstretched hand. If anyone else had snubbed him, he’d have been irritated. In this case, relief was his primary emotion.

  Thoughts churning, he claimed the chair next to the super’s.

  “Cliona will get us coffee,” Helen said and for the first time shifted her attention to Seán. “Or would you prefer tea, Sergeant?”

  Her haughty tone and arched eyebrow dared him to ask for such a plebian beverage. He was tempted to ask for tea, just to annoy her.

  “Coffee’s fine.” The words came out in a hoarse croak.

  “Cliona?” Helen’s eyebrow arched even higher.

  Her daughter blinked a few times before a flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh, right. I’m on it.”

  Even though she’d lied to him and given him a fake phone number, Seán couldn’t help but a feel a pang of sympathy for the woman as she hurried toward the door, her gait unsteady. Being landed with a harridan as a mother couldn’t be easy.

  The gentle sway of her hips drew attention to her firm backside, outlined by tight denim jeans. Memories of last night danced before his eyes, as tantalizing and seductive as Cliona’s tipsy striptease.

  The vision sent a shot of lust straight to his groin. Seán swallowed a groan. Why the hell did the sexiest woman he’d met in years have to turn out to be Helen Havelin’s daughter?

  ***

  Clio sagged against the kitchen door. Seán was a cop. And he was sitting a scant five meters from the leopard aquamanile.

  His expression was unfathomable, but he recognized her. How could he not? Damn him for making that uniform look sexy. She buried her head in her hands and moaned, her red-hot cheeks burning her palms. When she was younger, she’d often used fake names and never once been caught out. Why now?

  Straightening, Clio held her hands out in front of her. They wouldn’t stop shaking. She clasped them together in the hope the tremors would subside, but no such luck. Grabbing a glass from the kitchen counter, she forced water down her throat.