Buried Troubles Read online

  Buried Troubles

  A Rosaria O'Reilly Mystery

  Marian McMahon Stanley

  Concord River Press

  Copyright © 2020 Marian McMahon Stanley

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

  Buried Troubles

  Rosaria O’Reilly Mysteries, Book 2

  Copyright © 2018 and 2020 Marian McMahon Stanley (www.MarianMcMahonStanley.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  1st Edition: Edited by Barbara Bailey. Proofread by Hannah Martine (www.portlandcopywriting.com).

  2nd Edition: Text formatting and cover design by Maggie Stanley (www.maggiestanley.com). Cover image by Zbynek Burival (dreamstime.com).

  Concord River Press

  P.O. Box 284

  Concord, MA 01742 USA

  ISBN Trade Paperback: 978-1-7350393-2-9

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-7350393-3-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931551

  First Edition: June 2018

  Second Edition: July 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the next generation...

  May they help make the world a less troubled place.

  _____

  To Josie, Desmond, Johanna, Damian, Nolan, Peter, and Molly

  With love from Nana

  Foreword

  LIBERTIES TAKEN

  Dan Barry, of The New York Times (and alumnus of Saint Bonaventure, the same Franciscan college in upstate New York that I attended) once commented in a column that the “chasm of presumption and misunderstanding between Irish America and Ireland is as deep as the Atlantic.”

  I have tried to be conscious of that thought while writing Buried Troubles. Still, as with any work of fiction set in real environs, I have taken liberties with historical events, persons, and places. These would include inventing an IRA conspiracy local to Connemara, imagining a dark institution at the end of the lovely, long road down the Errislannan Peninsula, rearranging the map between Clifden and Roundstone to better accommodate a chase scene down the bog road, creating entire edifices like the care home on the Galway Road, and proposing a fictional current Irish political scenario. These are deliberate fictions for purposes of story-telling.

  As to any fictions and inaccuracies that were not deliberate, but were inserted for dramatic effect, I mean no offence and apologize for any errors in my research. This would especially apply around my mentions of the Gaelic Athletic Association, its competitive teams and matches, and the ancient Irish sport of hurling.

  Likewise, my characters are an amalgam of different people, personality traits, and idiosyncrasies, and are not meant to present any one person or family. Such is the case of Mossie O’Toole, as he blossomed from a cameo to a larger role. I hope the O’Tooles of Connemara are not offended by his earthy ways. Early readers seem to like Mossie, so that he will likely be featured in one of my next books, as will Sergeant Gerard Conneely of the local Garda.

  All of the establishments mentioned are personal favorites from my travels in the area—in Clifden, the Buttermilk Lodge on the Westport Road, Cullen’s Coffee Shop, Manion’s Pub, the Clifden Bookshop, and in Galway City, the Quay Street Kitchen. I recommend all highly.

  Finally, to my long-lost and distant Burke and Conneely cousins, I have no doubt passed you on the streets and in the shops of Clifden or in Keough’s Pub during our stays. Or, at least those of you who did not depart Ballyconneely years ago to London, Boston, New York, or Sydney. All the best and God bless. Maybe one of these days…

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  CHAPTER 1

  The hit came out of nowhere, a terrible, sudden bolt of pain at the back of his head. Gobsmacked. Jesus. What the hell? Patrick hit the cold water hard, the smell of brine and motor oil heavy as he gasped in shock. He went down fast but fought his way up. His head knocked away a couple of empty Bud Lite cans bobbing on the surface. Dazed, his arms flailing, he struggled to keep his head above the water. Mother of God! The pain was savage. He could see a figure up on the wharf watching him. Why wasn’t he helping him? Was it that one smashed him on the head? Where was the guy he was supposed to meet? He needed help here.

  Patrick tried to call out. The calls came from his mouth in frantic, hoarse whispers or watery gags. He strained to reach for the wharf pilings; just made it, but the surfaces were so slick that his hands kept slipping. Piece of luck, he found one irregularity in the wood sticking out that he could grasp—if only barely. Maybe enough for him to hang on. Everything was starting to look blurry. A tingling in his head. Had to stay with it. Had to keep his head out of the water. Had to stay with it.

  The sound of wood against wood. He looked up to see a long oar hurtling down along the piling. The oar smashed against his hand, withdrew, and smashed it again. Patrick cried out and let go. As he sank, he could see the tall, shadowy figure on the wharf wielding the long oar like a giant dark archangel holding a fearsome staff. Patrick’s kicks were feeble now. He could feel his blood warming the salt water around him. The scratch of the wharf barnacles on his cheek, the smell of seaweed under his chin. It all brought him—on the cusp of oblivion now—back to the cove near his parents’ house in Ballyconneely. A cool, foggy, early summer evening there, heavy with the scent of the sea, his young black and white dog Fergus barking and chasing gulls across the sand and the rocks.

  Better get going. Had to get to Clifden within the hour Wind’s coming up, water’s getting rough and heavy, clouds gathering to the west. Getting darker now. Time to go.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rosaria O’Reilly turned a good-sized blackened bluefish on the grill and inhaled the heady scent of Cajun spices mixed with the smells of the harbor. Who could ask for more?

  She took outsized pleasure from using her condo’s tiny balcony in warm weather. Jutting over a glittering Boston Harbor, the balcony was one of the many benefits of living in Trinity Wharf, a refurbished granite warehouse on the waterfront.

  “I’ll take that g
lass of wine now,” she called to the kitchen, pushing her silver hair away from her eyes. She ignored Archie, her West Highland White, who sat at her feet with his eyes pleading for just a little bit of that fish.

  A few moments later, Rosaria was joined by Marguerite Fontaine. In her professional life Mother Superior of the Jeanne d’Arc order of teaching nuns, this day Marguerite wore jeans and a blue Boston Aquarium whale tee shirt. To Rosaria, Marguerite always looked stylish, no matter what she wore. Rosaria chalked it up to the nun’s French heritage on one side, the other being Mohawk. Marguerite was genetically chic and she had those high cheekbones to boot. It just wasn’t fair.

  Now, the nun peered over Rosaria’s shoulder, shooing Archie to the side with a stage-whispered “Petit mediant! Little beggar!”

  “That’s a good looking piece of fish,” she said to Rosaria. “Sure you want all that seasoning on it? Might bury the taste.”

  Rosaria looked at her with elaborate surprise in her green eyes, brows arched. “And you, a Quebecois. Shocking, Mother Superior.” She pointed to the fish in a dramatic gesture. “This, my dear, is the best of Cajun seasoning. Just the ticket for bluefish. A strong-flavored fish needs something with oomph”—here Rosaria made a fist and punched the air—”to balance it.” She gave the nun another reproving glance. “Honestly, Marguerite. What do they feed you at the Motherhouse?”

  “Gruel, dear. Nothing but gruel. No seasoning. I think we let too many Irish women into the order.” Looking at the fish, she handed Rosaria a cold glass of Chardonnay. “Here. This will improve your temper. Well, this fish smells delicious. Point taken.”

  “You ever see a full bluefish?” Rosaria asked.

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “Ugly. A mouthful of vicious teeth. A school of them in a feeding frenzy is a sight to see. It’d give you nightmares for a week.”

  “Well, I’ll be careful to avoid the experience if I can.” The nun took a long look at Rosaria. “Glad to see you looking so well.”

  Rosaria nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of her wine. “Yep, feeling pretty good.”

  The winter before had been a tumultuous and violent one following the murder of an old nun in Marguerite’s order. Rosaria had gotten involved in the search for answers and had barely survived that fateful winter. Now, she needed every moment of peace and physical recovery she could manage.

  Invisible battle scars still kept her awake at night with disturbing dreams. The external battle scars—a broken nose that had healed slightly off-kilter and a damaged right eye—still had her avoiding the bathroom mirror.

  The man in Rosaria’s life, Boston Police Detective Solly Belkin, said that the crooked nose and the deep scar above her right eyebrow added a certain quirky and attractive interest to her face. And her hair—he loved her white hair now—a gorgeous color that had appeared almost overnight during that awful winter season. Rosaria appreciated Solly’s gallantry, but personally agreed with another friend, cursed with a terrible candor, who said that she looked like an elderly boxer who’d lost a welterweight bout.

  Rosaria shook her head and inhaled a deep breath of ocean air to clear those thoughts away. She took another sip of wine just before the sound of a blues riff from her cellphone on the granite kitchen counter reached the little balcony.

  Rosaria handed Marguerite the grill fork and headed for the kitchen, the dog at her heels. “Have to get this. Don’t let that burn. This might be Solly. Hope he doesn’t have to cancel tonight.”

  ◆◆◆

  But it wasn’t Solly. After Rosaria punched the talk button and put the cellphone to her ear, she immediately began drowning in a cascade of disjointed words, sobs and tearful breaths. Rosaria held the phone away and closed her eyes for a few moments before gingerly putting the phone against her ear again, trying to figure out who was on the other end of the call. Through the sobs and broken sentences, she finally recognized that it was Bridie Callahan, an old friend from her hometown of Malford, now incoherent with despair for some reason.

  “Bridie—is that you? What’s wrong? Slow down. Take a deep breath.” Concentrating hard, Rosaria tried to listen again to the furious torrent of words and sobs, before she gave up. “I still can’t understand you. Are you downstairs? Okay. Just calm down. Give the phone to George.”

  There was a fumbling at the other end of the line. Then, Rosaria heard the deep voice of the building’s security guard.

  “Hi George, it’s okay,” Rosaria said. “Let her up. Something’s wrong. I’ll take care of her.”

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria opened the door to a disheveled and sobbing Bridie Callahan, her storm of black hair loose and wild about her face, red and swollen with tears. From behind Rosaria, Archie charged Bridie with a frenzy of greeting, adding to the confusion until Rosaria pushed him away. She wrapped the younger woman in a hug. “Bridie, Bridie.”

  “Oh, my God.” Bridie wiped her face with the palm of her hand. “Ro, oh my God.”

  “What’s wrong?” She turned Bridie’s face to hers.

  Bridie couldn’t talk for a few moments. Then, she choked out, “It’s my sister’s boy. The one from home you were helping with his project.” Bridie stopped and stared at Rosaria in disbelief. “Padraig’s dead. They found him in the water last night.” She looked away. “Padraig’s dead.”

  For a moment, Rosaria was confused. Bridie was using one of the Irish forms of Patrick—Padraig, pronounced Paw-drig, for her young nephew.

  When she understood, she leaned her head against Bridie’s. “Jesus, Bridie. I’m so sorry.” Rosaria had never heard Bridie’s Irish accent as heavy as it was tonight, the situation made worse as she began sobbing again and now hiccupping.

  “What happened?” Rosaria asked, leading Bridie to a nearby couch. Exhausted, the young woman dropped heavily down onto the cushions and threw her head back. Rosaria slipped onto the couch beside her and Archie jumped up on the other side to join Bridie. Rosaria was about to push him down when she saw him wiggle close beside Bridie, pressing his body against her thigh and laying his head on her knee. Instinctively, Bridie reached down to stroke the little dog and she seemed to calm slightly.

  Good dog. Good dog, thought Rosaria. They just know.

  Bridie responded to Rosaria’s question, her voice still shaking and interrupted by frequent hiccups. “They found him off the Long Wharf. They said he was probably drinking and fell in and drowned.” She paused and gave a fierce shake of her head. “Ro, that couldn’t have happened. Patrick doesn’t drink like that. He never takes more than a pint of an evening.”

  “Did you see the body, Bridie? You’re sure it’s Patrick?”

  “Yes, yes. I saw him.” Bridie put her face in her hands before looking up again. “It was him.”

  “Oh, Bridie, Bridie.” Rosaria reached over to stroke Bridie’s arm. “You didn’t go to identify him by yourself, did you?”

  “I did. I was just at Assembly Square, picking up a few things when they called me. They found his Irish passport and a visitor visa on him. He had used my address and my cell as a local contact.” Bridie rubbed the side of her face with her hand. “Jesus, Ro, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t reach anybody. I tried you.”

  Rosaria remembered with remorse now that she’d left her phone on the kitchen counter. They took only Marguerite’s when they hired a small sailboat to explore the harbor islands that afternoon. “So,” Bridie continued, “I took a cab over to that place. The morgue. And afterward, I just came here. “

  “I’m glad you did,” Rosaria said, feeling now her own frisson of shock and sadness at young Patrick Keenan’s death.

  Marguerite, who’d been standing quietly to the side, set a box of Kleenex and a glass of water on the coffee table in front of Bridie. “Drink some, Bridie. It will help,” she said.

  Bridie nodded. Her hand shook as, still hiccupping, she raised the glass to her lips. She looked up, noticing Marguerite for the first time. “Mother Superior? I didn’t
recognize you.”

  “In my civvies today, dear.”

  Bridie gave Marguerite a trembling smile before heaving a wet sigh and turning to face Rosaria. “I don’t think he fell, Rosaria.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you,” she said impatiently, rubbing the side of her face. “Patrick never drank that much. It just sounds convenient for them to say that’s what happened when you have a young man, especially a young Irish man, out on the town.”

  “But it happens, Bridie, sad to say. It doesn’t take much. A couple of drinks and a little stumble on the wharf.” Rosaria concerned eyes met Bridie’s. “It’s tragic, but it happens.”

  “No, Ro, no. When I saw him at that place. At the morgue.” She stopped and covered her face again for a moment before dropping her hands. “I saw him. Oh, it was awful. He was all beat up. He had a terrible gash on his head.” She reached her hand to the side of her head toward the back to show the spot. “They said it was only because he’d been banging around under the wharf for a while.”

  Now, Bridie put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Patrick banging around under the wharf...” Her voice tailed off in a low moan.

  Rosaria let a few moments pass before asking, “Did you tell your sister yet?”

  Bridie took a deep, wet breath and nodded. “I did. I did. She’s destroyed. We’re both destroyed.” She stared into the distance, wiping her eyes. “So hard to believe. He was so much fun and such a bright boy. Maybe too bright sometimes. He was the package, wasn’t he?”

  Rosaria smiled and nodded.

  “Oh, a wonderful boy, though I grant you that he could be full of himself,” Bridie continued, patting the dog at her side with long, slow strokes. “You know how, when he had something in his mind, he’d keep going—dead set. But just young, you know. A good boy, just young.”