When Maura and Mick walked into Sullivan’s with Maura in the lead, Seamus and his pals turned in unison to look at her. “Any news?” Seamus called out.

“Yes, there is.” Her statement created quite a stir among the seated men, and Maura felt bad that she had to disappoint them. But this was a game to them and far much more serious for the people actually involved. “I’ve just come from the garda station, and they have declared that John Byrne’s death was an accident. He hit his head when he stumbled and fell”—she didn’t have to say where and how he fell—“then went down the hill, and that was that. Things got muddied because the groundskeeper moved the body and concealed evidence. But there’s no murder.”

The group around the table groaned as one.

Maura grinned. “Don’t worry, boys. You made a good effort, and I’ll buy you a round anyway. And if you remember, if none of you won, I get to claim a reward.”

“The money in the pool?” Seamus asked, trying to look stricken.

“No, not exactly. Let me get your pints, and I’ll explain.”

She walked over to the bar where Rose had already anticipated her request and had the glasses lined up. “Did I miss anything?” she asked Rose.

“Just that lot.” Rose nodded toward Seamus’s gang. “They haven’t been here long, though. They’ve had a grand time with their bettin’. Too bad no one won,” Rose said as she topped off the pints.

“Truth and justice won, Rose,” Maura said solemnly—then laughed at Rose’s confused expression. “Really, it did. The gardaí figured it out in the end. With just a little help from all of us here.” Close enough to the truth, Maura thought.

Maura picked up the tray of glasses that Rose had filled and carried it carefully over to Seamus’s table. She placed it in the center, and the men helped themselves quickly. But they were surprised when Maura pulled up another chair to the table and sat down herself—surprised enough to hold off on drinking. “Guys, I want to talk about my winnings.”

The men groaned again, sounding like a small flock of sheep.

“It’s not that awful. Tell me, how many of you are married?”

Four of the six men raised a hand.

“And how many of you have kids?”

Three hands went up. “What’s this got to do with anything?” Seamus asked.

“You know Gillian Callanan? My artist friend? She and Harry have just had a baby, and they’ve bought the old creamery on Ballinlough to live in. But the place is kind of a dump, and they don’t have the time and energy to do much about it right away with a new baby and all. So I’m volunteering you lot to help out. Cleaning out trash, painting, whatever it takes to make it livable.” When a couple of the men started to protest, Maura raised a hand to stop them. “If you don’t like that, I’ll call your wives and tell them to drag you over there—they’ll understand. Look, it’s only for a couple of hours. You can spare that, right? And those of you who don’t have wives can haul away the old furniture and junk that’s been left behind.”

“Mebbe,” Seamus muttered.

“Definitely,” Maura said firmly. “If you all pitch in, it will go fast. And one thing more—if any of you have baby stuff or clothes that you don’t think you’ll be needing anymore, Gillian would be very grateful to have them.”

“When would we be doin’ this?” Seamus asked.

“Saturday, mid-afternoon. Believe me, I won’t cut into your drinking time. Most of you live up that way anyway, so it’s not out of your way. Do we have a deal?”

“What happens if we say no?” one man asked.

“Then I might say no the next time you ask for a last pint in the evening, close to closing,” Maura shot back.

Seamus looked around at his posse, then turned to Maura again. “My friends and I would be delighted to offer our assistance and support to our new neighbors. Possibly the prettiest of our neighbors.” He raised his voice. “After you, of course, Rosie darlin’!”

“Ah, go on wit’ yeh,” Rose said in an exaggerated country accent.

Maura stood up. “Then I’ll see you all on Saturday.”

A second good deed done. Not bad for half a day’s work.

She gathered up the dirty glasses and passed them over the counter so that Rose could wash them in case anybody else came in. Maura wasn’t going to hold her breath on that. Thank goodness for her regulars.

Now there were only the issues with her mother to work out. Well, not exactly. Things to be done: Get Gillian settled with the bare necessities of equipment and furniture. Find new hires for the pub. Get Harry a job (yeah, like she knew where to look for someone who needed an accountant). Figure out where things might be going with Mick. Then settle things with her mother. Maybe she should try for world peace while she was at it.

Had she eaten today? She had a dim memory of breakfast, but that was a long time ago. “Rose, you mind if I go get something to eat? Want me to bring you something?”

“No, I’m grand.”

“Billy?” she called out. “Have you eaten?”

He opened one eye. “I have done, but a packet of crisps would be welcome. I’ll hear your story when you return.”

“Deal,” Maura said. Billy deserved to know since he was the one who had remembered the Byrne family. And Bridget had added her own pieces to the puzzle. Maybe someday she could sit down with Sergeant Ryan and explain how it was all the little details—and paying attention to the people telling them—that had solved the case. If he’d listen to an American publican—and a young female one at that. Maybe when pigs learned to fly.

Outside, everything looked normal in spite of the crazy week. Before stopping at the lunch place on the corner, Maura sat down on the bench that overlooked the small river—the one that O’Donovan’s superhorse had leapt over—and called her mother on her mobile.

Helen answered quickly. “Maura? Is there something new?”

“Yes, I guess you’d say so. The gardaí have closed the case on John Byrne. They’re calling it an accident.” Explaining Bernard’s role could come later.

“Oh, thank goodness. We’ve all been holding our breaths over here, waiting for word. Well, I have, at least. I think Andrew and Tiffany may be polishing their resumes. I’ll send them home now because we need them at the office to coordinate conference calls and, well, a lot of other things.”

“Do you want to get together and talk about it?”

“Certainly. Now? Where?”

“Today’s good—things are kind of slow at the pub. Have you seen Glandore yet?”

“I don’t think so. Should I?”

“It’s a small town on the harbor, easy to get to from where you are. There are a couple of places to eat there, and I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Sounds good. Tell me how to find it, and I’ll meet you.”

Fifteen minutes later, after stopping back at the pub to tell Rose her lunch might take a bit longer than she’d thought, Maura was leaning on a railing by the harbor in one-street Glandore, admiring the pretty boats and the pretty view, when her mother pulled up and parked. Helen climbed out of her car and joined her.

“I haven’t been here before—it’s charming. Sorry, that sounds condescending. I have to keep reminding myself that Ireland is not a cute theme park designed to provide tourists with nice pictures.”

“Nope. It’s full of real people with ordinary problems. Look, I’m starving. The Glandore Inn does some nice food, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine.” Helen followed Maura back across the street and into the restaurant. They found a table and ordered lunch, and when the waiter—who looked about sixteen and was probably the son of the owner—had scurried to the kitchen with their orders, Helen turned back to Maura. “Why do I think you had a hand in the gardaí’s decision?” she asked, smiling.

“I talked to them, sure. But the evidence showed that John fell. Off the record, it might be that he was startled by someone and slipped, but there was no harm intended.”

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me, right?”

“Yup. Did that sergeant come after you?”

“He talked to me. Not a very polite man. Why do you ask?”

“He talked to me first. At least I had an alibi for that night. But he was looking hard to pin the death on someone, and he had you in his sights.”

“He went away empty-handed. He’s not typical of the local police, is he?”

“No, he just transferred to Skibbereen. I understand his bosses thought he needed some polishing, but it may take him a while to realize that around here people solve murders by talking. And remembering. Not bullying people.”

“So we’re free to go home,” Helen said, almost to herself.

The food arrived, and Maura and Helen gave it the attention it deserved.

After a few minutes, Helen said tentatively, “Maura, I know you’ve got your own business to run, so I’ll get right to it. I’ve been trying to convince JBCo’s investors that the hotel is worth keeping if we revise our original plans and projections. I’ve seen a bit of the area here and of course talked to you, and I think we didn’t have a good handle on the local culture—we were overreaching. It was John’s pet project, and he didn’t want to hear any objections, but clearly there were things he didn’t tell us. I get the feeling that this was more than a business decision.”

“It was.” Maura looked up. “Turns out he was born and raised about twenty miles from here.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “He was Irish? He never told us.”

“He got shipped off to live with his father in New York when he was a kid. Looks like he reinvented himself.”

Helen shook her head in disbelief. “Well, that would explain a lot. So am I to guess that his grand plans for the hotel were mainly to impress anyone around here who might have known him or maybe just to prove to himself how far he’d come?”

“Possibly. He never got in touch with anyone who knew him way back when”—except Siobhan, but Helen didn’t need to know that—“so I think he did it for himself.”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Helen murmured, then spoke more loudly. “Sorry, that’s a terrible pun. I do think he cared about the hotel.”

“What do you think your company is going to do now?”

“I’m hoping the group will give Crann Mor a chance, at least for the short term. I think it can work if we downsize our expectations. And what with Brexit and interest from the UK, it may yet prove to be a good investment. And one more thing.” Helen hesitated. “The plan as I’ve presented it includes me as the project manager with a local assistant manager. I can make the argument that I have local ties. But I wouldn’t be here often. Would that be a problem for you, Maura?”

“To have you popping in and out? No, of course not. Look, I’ll admit I’ve had a chip on my shoulder, but for my own mental health, I have to let it go. You’re still my mother, at least biologically. I need to give us both a chance. So if your plan works, I’ll be fine with it.”

“I’m so glad,” Helen said and reached out and laid a hand on Maura’s. And Maura didn’t pull away.

She tried to figure out what she felt. Relieved, for one thing, because it seemed she had finally been able to move past her lifelong resentment of this mother she never knew. Hopeful? Whether or not anything ever came of it, she and her mother had made some kind of personal contact, and Helen might be back again. They would have time to work things out.

Before the silence could grow too awkward, Maura said, “There’s music at the pub tomorrow night if you want to see the place in action.”

“I’d like that. You know, the food really is good here. This area has a lot to offer to a particular kind of person, one who wants comfort but who isn’t pretentious.”

“That sounds about right. I can probably point you to other places you should check out.”

“That would be great. I’d enjoy working with you—without intruding in your life, of course!”

“I think we can figure that out,” Maura said, smiling.