Chapter Seven
On the fourth morning after the wake, Lassi awoke to a shocking surprise—no rain poured from the sky. And, the power had switched on in the night, as evidenced by the overhead light shining in her eyes, which meant she didn’t have to eat cold cheese and cream crackers for breakfast, like she’d consumed last night for supper. And, I’ll get to make hot tea. Already this day has started on a positive upswing.
She rolled out of bed and swung her legs over the side. She made an O with her lips and breathed hard, making sure no white cloud emerged. Nope. The ancient radiator was doing its job. She’d gone to bed wearing wool socks, a sweatshirt, her woolen jumper, and sweatpants, but the temperature inside the house now seemed pleasant enough to remove her jumper. Happier than she’d been since she had arrived, she practically skipped to the kitchen.
A gust of wind blew down the hall as she approached the dirty galley. She furrowed her forehead. The angry tabby bolted from the kitchen as she entered, sailing out the back door. Did I leave it open? I guess I could have. I wasn’t in the best of moods last night. She shut the door tight, wishing she hadn’t removed the wool jumper. Gazing out the grimy window, her good mood seemed to get swept away by the howling wind. And, if the gooseflesh peppering her skin was any indication, the temperature outside was colder than it was last night when she’d left the beach.
Good Christ, this place is awful, rain or no rain. Only three more days of this horrid village and then I can head back to my life in Dublin. She scanned the messy room, still littered with bags, boxes, and random crap. Fuck me, I’ve got a lot of shite to do in three days to get Great-Aunt Roberta’s cottage cleaned up for resale. But first, tea.
She picked up the electric tea kettle and extended it toward the faucet. Water shot from the faucet before her hand had touched it. She screeched. The water sputtered like the pipes were jammed with rats or something. Cautiously, she eased the faucet handle on. The water flowed out of the faucet all normal-like. When she plugged in the kettle, a jolt of electricity shocked her hand. She let out a scream.
“The wiring in his house it certainly shitty.” She eyed the socket, watching to make sure it didn’t spark or glow red. Nothing else happened. As she waited, she rinsed out her tea mug, got a tea bag from the pantry, and placed the bag in the mug. When the kettle dinged, indicating the perfect temp for tea, she picked it up and poured.
The moment she lifted her steaming mug, time seemed to slow. Tea time was always a “slow down and savor” kind of occasion. She sauntered down the hall toward the front room, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed tea. By the time she’d settled on the sofa, the beverage was the perfect temperature for sipping. She brought the cup to her lips, took another sniff, then tipped the mug toward her mouth. Right as the warm liquid touched her tongue, the power went off with a pop.
“Not this again,” she moaned. Loud raps exploded from the front door. Then, whoever it was seemed to use his or her fists, like the village was on fire or her thatch roof was up in flames. “Good Christ, there’s no peace to be had for me.”
She blew out a lungful of breath, set her mug down on the floor, and stormed toward the entry. She threw open the door, ready to lay into whoever stood on the stoop.
“You’d better have a fecking good reason for interrupting my tea time,” she shouted.
Her head pulled back and she blinked.
Father Ward stood in her line of sight, fist poised for another assault on the entrance. His hair framed his skull in wild disarray. His eyes shone white with fear. Regarding her intently, his hand fell to his side.
He let out a deep sigh. “Thank God. There you are.”
“Where else would I be?” she asked, her eyebrows stitching together in puzzlement. “What happened to you? What’s wrong?” Her insides tingled, like a lightning storm crackled through her body.
Inhaling deeply, he seemed to suck in his frenetic emotions. He shook his head. “Nothing. I only came to check on you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me, Father. You look like something the cat yakked up. Come on in and have some tea with me.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you. There’s a big storm coming.” He waved his hand over his head, indicating the world outside the house. “I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’ve, uh...I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He shuffled his feet. “Well...I’d best get back.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Father? I deliver babies, sure, but I do have medical skills. I could check you out if you like.”
Her words hung in the air like a lit fuse.
His lips parted, and, for a second, she swore he was going to reach in, grab her, and lay her out on the floor of the foyer, celebrating the kind of naughty things Maggie Strongbow never got to celebrate.
He shook his head in an exaggerated fashion, like he had to talk himself into leaving. “No, I’ve got to go.”
“Another baptism?” she joked, her lips curving into a playful smile.
“Right,” he said, meeting her playfulness with serious regard. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“I hope so,” she said, wistfulness and worry seeping into her words.
He let his eyes linger on her face for a few potent seconds. Then, he turned on his heel and practically sprinted away from her.
As she watched his retreating back, she considered her options. I could head back inside, finish my tea, and get to work on this disaster of a clean-up job. Or... Right. Option number two. He was fecking freaked out. Check on me, my ass. I’ll have to wait until I get back to Dublin to get a good cuppa.
She grabbed her raincoat, shoved her feet in her Wellies, and took off after Father Ward. Aware of the speed he possessed, she put on the power as best she could while wearing cloddish boots. He wasn’t in sight but she hoped he had slowed once he got away from the cottage.
All around her, a gale gusted with fury. It whistled through the air and threw handfuls of leaves at her. It batted the tops of trees, daring them to stand upright. In the distance, a large crack sounded, like a tree had been felled or broke in two.
“Good Christ. This weather. Father Ward was right. A brutal storm is coming. Either that or the ghost of whoever didn’t want me to tend that grave is having words with me, making his displeasure known.” She tugged her raincoat tight, and huffed and puffed as her boot-clad feet struck the muddy ground. When I get back to Dublin, I’ll join a gym. She was about to stop and catch her breath, when a group of people standing at the edge of town caught her eye.
About twenty villagers—which qualifies as a crowd in this backwater incestuous village—chattered excitedly, circling something or someone. Behind them stood the quaint church where Father Ward preached to the people of Bally.
“Poor thing,” a female onlooker said.
“She came out of her house raving like a lunatic,” another said.
“Waving a man’s jacket like a flag,” a third offered.
As she closed the gap, a woman’s wail and garbled words rang out. She instantly recognized the voice. It’s Siobhan Riordan. An icy chill frosted her spine. She impelled herself to hurry. Shoving people aside, she forced herself to the center of the circle.
Siobhan knelt on the ground, shivering, clutching a bloody jacket to her chest. Dressed in nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and a skirt, she looked like she might freeze to death.
“Siobhan!” Lassi crouched by her side. “What happened? Where’s Dylan and the baby?”
Siobhan turned a tear-stained, anguished face toward her. “He’s dead. I took him his jacket. I thought he might be cold. But…he’s dead.” With a trembling hand, she lifted the leather coat.
Her chest shook with barely held sobs.
Lassi placed her hand Siobhan’s back. “Who is? Little Paul? Or Dylan?”
“Dylan,” she stuttered. “He’s dead. I found him in the...in his...” Her lungs shuddered.
The wind blew, tossing her blonde hair in wild waves around her pretty face.
“Take your time,” Lassi soothed, rubbing her back. “Deep breath, all right? Where did you find Dylan?”
Siobhan struggled to compose herself. She cast a pleading gaze at Lassi. “He’s dead,” she wailed, as if she couldn’t comprehend it. “I...I... I found him outside his woodworking shed this morning.”
“Okay. All right. You’re freezing. Let’s get you up and somewhere warm. Give me the jacket.”
Siobhan held it out to her. Her arms and hands shook.
Lassi glared at the people surrounding them. What is with these idiot villagers and where have they left their good sense? If they had any to begin with. Not one of them thought to comfort her? No, instead they stand around like cows, mooing at today’s spectacle.
She helped her to her feet, then rubbed her bare arms with her hands. Studying her face, she said, “The medical examiners will get this sorted. They’ll find out how Dylan died. How did he look?”
“He looked... he looked...he looked dead.” Another flurry of tears battered her eyes and fell down her cheeks.
“All right. Okay. He’s dead.” Lassi opened her overcoat and tried to pull it around Siobhan’s shoulders. With her arm around the poor girl, she led her from the center of the circle.
Penny stood in her path, statue-like and stiff.
“Would you mind moving out of the way, Penny?” Lassi lifted her gaze to Penny’s face and frowned. Something odd colored her expression. What is it? Unhinged horror? Glee? Damn if she doesn’t look happy. “What’s gotten into you? Move aside, so we can pass. Siobhan, here, is going to freeze to death.” She nudged Penny aside with her hip.
A chilling smile formed on Penny’s face. She leaned in close to Lassi and whispered, “Dylan’s not dead. He’s murdered.”