Chapter Twelve

“I can’t believe it. Dead, he is?” Kitty wails. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips now?”

I’m halfway down the stairs the next day when Kitty’s question reaches me, slowing me to a stop. I let my laundry plop down on the stair I’m standing on. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, the latest I’ve slept since arriving in Dublin. A horrifying fact. I suspect the only reason I didn’t wake up earlier is because Kitty didn’t knock on my door with ice-cold tea and charred toast. Oddly, I kind of missed the damn wake-up call. Now it seems like there might be a reason besides Kitty’s scatterbrain.

“We’ll manage.” It’s Shane’s deep voice, rolling up the stairs like smoke to reach me. Something hot and sticky invades my belly, in a way that demands I press a hand to the area above my zipper. Having no choice, I’m wearing the same jeans as yesterday, although I’ve tucked my Chicago PD sleep shirt into them so no skin is showing. I’ve thrown a jacket on over everything, even though it looks to be another day of great weather. Laundry must be done today, or I’ll be forced to walk around Dublin naked.

“How can I manage when people keep keeling over and dying on me?” Kitty’s voice has reached a hysterical pitch. I hear a chair scraping back and Faith speaking in a calming tone, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. “First your father, now Martin. He made such a lovely cod and chips, Martin did. It’s an absolute shame. I’d hoped to have it for my lunch today.”

Ah. The cook died. I guess I waited too long to try the cod after all. Not wanting to get in the middle of a family discussion, especially one involving the mourning of a friend, I turn with the intention of going back to my room, but my boot catches on the laundry bag, sending it hurtling down the stairs. It’s louder than it should be thanks to the rickety railing and dead spots in the wood. I cringe when conversation ceases below me.

Just when I’d forgotten my luck is fucked.

“The American must be up.” Another chair scraping along the wooden floor. “You better let me be the one to tell her about our Martin.”

“Her name is Willa, Ma,” Faith says. “And she doesn’t know Martin from a hole in the ground.”

“She’ll read about it in the papers, I suspect,” Kitty continues as if Faith hadn’t spoken. “Better to get it out of the way now.”

I’m still frozen on the steps, as if they might forget about the falling laundry bag and go back to their conversation. Or chalk it up to another guest. With a frown, I eyeball the row of doors above me. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only guest at the Claymore Inn.

“Willa,” Shane calls. “We know you’re there.”

I heave a sigh and make my way down to the empty pub. Kitty is standing closest to me with her hands behind her back, chin raised toward the ceiling. She looks like a military commander getting ready to address the troops. When I feel a tingle in my spine, my gaze immediately seeks out Shane, the tingle graduating to a full-body flush. Looking fresh from the shower, he’s leaning back in a chair like a lazy tiger, one booted foot propped on his knee. We nod at each other. Faith snorts.

“Bad news, American,” Kitty starts.

I wait, doing my best to look solemn.

Her brow furrows. “Damn, it’s gone and slipped through the cracks.”

Faith gets up from her sprawled position on the booth and lays a comforting hand on her mother’s arm. “Its fine, Ma.” She transfers her attention to me. “Martin, our cook, died.”

“He was more than a cook, really. His cod and chips was a work of art.” Kitty’s frail hand presses to her breast. “Tell me how he died again, Shane.”

Shane shifts in his chair, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. When he speaks, he’s addressing Kitty, but looking at me. The shadow passing over his face makes something hard stick in my throat. “In his sleep, Kitty. No pain.”

His final words sound offhanded, but they seem to clear most of the fear from Kitty’s face, telling me he’d said them for a reason. Her body deflates a little. “Poor old Martin. A lovely man, he was. He even tried to kiss me once.”

Faith nose wrinkles. “What?”

“It’s not what you think. He didn’t have his glasses on.” She stares off into the distance, looking very dramatic. “He thought I was his wife, Lorraine, come to collect him. Still and all, it was quite a nice kiss.” Her hands begin to rummage in her pockets. “Has someone called over to tell Lorraine her Martin is dead?”

“I suspect she has an inkling, since she woke up next to him,” Shane deadpans.

Kitty pulls a piece of toast from her apron and offers it to me. When I shake my head, she starts to nibble on it. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips, then? Martin always brought it in fresh from Beshoffs in Howth. Beautiful, it was.”

“Not to worry,” Faith assures her with a brisk nod. “I’ll figure it out, Ma. There’s a fish market not far from here—”

“No.” Kitty shakes her head. “It has to be Beshoffs. Our customers expect a certain quality. We can’t just change the fish. What will people say?”

“Beshoffs is twice the distance.” Shane stands. “Neither one of us has time to take you. I have to set up the pub. It’s still a wreck from last night.”

“And if I’m going to run the kitchen today, I need to start prepping.”

“I don’t need to be taken anywhere,” Kitty scoffs, but I notice her hand is shaking. When she begins to untie her apron, Shane and Faith exchange an uneasy glance. Something is happening under the surface here. More than the obvious. I can’t put a finger on what it might be, but two things are certain. One, Kitty can’t go out into the city by herself, using public transportation no less. Two, she’s determined as hell to go.

I look around at the pub, noting Shane is right. Bottle caps, dirty napkins, and—is that a blond hair extension?—litter the barroom floor. Empty glasses and bottles are stacked in bus trays on the bar. All the liquor bottles behind the bar are practically empty. They’ll have their work cut out for them to get the bar ready by eleven when the doors open.

This is when I should say, “sorry for your loss,” and beat feet to the Laundromat. By befriending Faith and helping out behind the bar last night, I’ve already become too much of a fixture with this family. Every time I glimpse a little more of their behind-the-scenes issues, my resolve to stay away slips a little more. My family issues might have been vastly different, but I still get them. Truth is, I like Kitty and I don’t want her to do something reckless. The stress on Faith’s face—and okay, Shane’s—makes my decision for me. I eye my bag of laundry wistfully. Apparently basic hygiene is taking a backseat to my conscience.