Irish Stewed Part 17

Kitty and Pat. I thought back to what I'd heard from Carrie at the art gallery the day she dished about the neighborhood and its denizens and threw caution to the wind. Hey, this was a murder investigation. And I needed answers.

"It is true?" I asked Declan, stopping the microwave and checking the temperature on the stew. It was just right, but when I took the bowl out, I held on to it for a while. The aroma that drifted off it was both tempting and tantalizing. Maybe that would work to my benefit.

"I heard your uncle is the head of the local Irish mob."

Declan's granite gaze snapped from the bowl in my hands to me. "Who says?"

"I heard it around."

"And you're wondering if Uncle Pat's . . . affiliation . . ." He p.r.o.nounced the word exactly as I would expect an attorney to. Carefully. As if to say I could draw my own conclusions, but he sure as heck wasn't going to say anything specific. Or d.a.m.ning. "You think what Uncle Pat may or may not have been up to has something to do with Jack Lancer's murder?"

"I think Jack Lancer wasn't just hanging around here every day because he liked the pie, though I do have to say, we have really good pie."

"And really good Irish stew. So I've heard."

What is it they call it in lawyerspeak? Quid pro quo?

Clearly, if he was going to tell me anything, it would cost me a bowl of Irish stew.

Since it was warm, I set the bowl down on the counter rather than hand it to him, and I got him a spoon.

"Bon appet.i.t," I told him.

"Slinte," he said, and he p.r.o.nounced the word slantay. That is, right before he bowed his head over the bowl of stew.

"For food in a world where many walk in hunger," Declan said softly. "For faith in a world where many walk in fear. For friends . . ." He glanced my way before he lowered his eyes again. "For friends in a world where many walk alone. We give you thanks, Lord."

He grabbed the spoon and dug in. He blew on the spoonful of beef, potatoes, and carrots, then popped it in his mouth and held it there before he chewed and swallowed. "Hmmmm."

"Hmmmm? Is that hmmmm good, or hmmmm bad?"

"Hmmmm."

He was teasing. Again. Rather than look too eager, I went to the cooler and got out the ingredients that George would need to start the day's batch of stew. Carrots, potatoes, parsnips, leeks.

It didn't hurt to look busy, and not too interested in what he might-or might not-be willing to share about his uncle Pat.

Unless Uncle Pat wasn't the one Jack Lancer was interested in.

It wasn't the first time I'd run the theory through my brain, because the night before when I tried to make friends with m.u.f.fin and got slashed knuckles again for my effort, I couldn't get it out of my head.

Jack Lancer was watching the Irish store.

And in addition to taking care of all his family's business, Declan ran the Irish store.

"So, what kinds of work do you do for your family?" I asked him.

He swallowed a mouthful of stew and don't think I didn't notice that the question didn't surprise him. "Like I told you before, I help them out. With legal questions and all."

"Was there any reason that might have interested Jack Lancer?"

He'd been blowing off a particularly hot chunk of parsnip and he paused, his lips pursed, and looked over at me. "You think he was here at the Terminal because of me?"

"I think he had a line on an idea for an investigation. And I wonder if that investigation had something to do with you."

"It didn't."

"You seem pretty sure."

His smile was nothing if not angelic. "My soul is as pure as the driven snow and my reputation is just as sparkly clean. In case you're wondering, so is Uncle Pat's."

"That's not what I heard."

"About me? Or about Uncle Pat?"

I threw my hands in the air. "Don't you want to get to the bottom of this?"

"This bowl of stew?" He sc.r.a.ped his spoon through the last of the thick gravy and finished it off. "Absolutely. And I'll be back later for more. But you know, if you're going to feature Irish food, you'll need to add another dish or two. I'm thinking colcannon would be perfect."

I hadn't asked for the recipe. How could I when I was so busy choking on the aggravation that stemmed from that oh-so-easy smile and the maddening way he had of blowing off every important question I asked him? Declan, though, had other ideas. He pulled a printed recipe out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"Mashed potatoes with plenty of b.u.t.ter," he said while I looked over the ingredients. "Steamed shredded cabbage and my own secret ingredient, a bit of steamed kale. You won't see that in most recipes, but it adds a nice dash of color. So do the chopped scallions you sprinkle on top before you serve it. Panache-it's what you California girls are all about, right?"

Right about then, I was all about feeling as if I wanted to wring his neck. I might have, too, if George hadn't tromped into the kitchen.

"Good morning," Declan called to him.

George grunted.

Frustrated and annoyed, I went out into the restaurant. I wasn't surprised when Declan followed.

"It's better than hers, you know," he said, stopping me in my tracks.

I turned to face him. "I a.s.sume we're talking about the stew because apparently, stew is all we can talk about, even when there's been a murder here and the murderer is still on the loose."

"Stew is what we're talking about. And yours is better than my mother's. I will say that to you here and now, but don't ever expect me to say it in front of her. Ellen Katherine Kane Fury has a reputation in these parts, and she takes it seriously. It would break her heart to know some fancy-schmancy chef could actually improve the old family recipe."

I bristled at the fancy-schmancy, but there was no use mentioning it. He wouldn't listen, anyway. "Your secret is safe with me."

"But still, you don't trust me."

"How can I?" I spun away from him and went to the waiting area. "I never get a straight answer out of you."

I knew he'd followed me, but I didn't realize just how closely. When I got to the rolltop desk and whirled around, my nose was practically pressed to the dark green T-s.h.i.+rt he wore with an unb.u.t.toned green and white plaid s.h.i.+rt.

He crooked a finger under my chin and this time when he looked into my eyes, there was no sparkle of amus.e.m.e.nt in his. He was as serious as a heart attack. "I'm being as honest with you as I can be," he said.

Since my mouth was suddenly dry and my voice was breathy, it wasn't easy, but I managed to say, "Spoken like an attorney."

"Hey!" His mouth inched into a smile and he stroked his finger from beneath my chin to just under my bottom lip. "Now you're getting personal."

"I could say the same about you."

"Not as personal as I'd like to get."

"Really?" I batted his hand away and backed up as much as I was able. No easy task considering the corner of the rolltop desk poked me in the small of the back. "You think I can be so easily distracted?"

His pout wasn't all that convincing. "I've been told I'm pretty good at being distracting."

"Well, it's not going to work. Not with me. So, here's an idea: you can take your oversized ego and your lame pickup lines and your-"

"But I brought presents." Declan whisked the archive box off the desk and popped off the top. "The least you can do is not kick me out until I can give them to you."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't want your presents."

"You don't know what they are." He reached into the box, brought out a dozen small orange, white, and green Irish flags on sticks and wiggled his eyebrows. "See? What do you say? Would these make great decorations, or what? If you're going to feature Irish food, you should have Irish flags, too. Everybody knows that."

"Everybody doesn't know anything."

"And a large Irish flag." He pulled that out of the box, too. "You can hang it . . ." He looked around the waiting area and his eyes lit up and he pointed to the front door. "I've got one of those flagpoles back at the shop. You know, the kind you can mount to a wall. I'll have it up outside your front door in a jiffy. What better way to advertise the fact that you're featuring the greatest cuisine in the world!"

"We don't need hokey gimmicks," I grumbled.

"Yeah, like adding Irish food to the menu to entice customers isn't a hokey gimmick?"

He didn't give me a chance to answer before he pulled a stuffed leprechaun out of the box.

"Paddy!" I remembered the leprechaun in his green suit from the visit I'd made to the Irish store. "You said he was your shop mascot."

"Well, he's good luck, and it's only fair to spread a little of that around the neighborhood." Declan plopped Paddy down on top of the cash register. "I've got other things in here, too," he said, tipping the box so I could see inside. "Green streamers, sparkling rainbows, a wreath made of wooden shamrocks. And check these out!" He took them out of the box so I could see them better. "Little pots of gold on sticks so you can put them in drinks or in pieces of cake."

I can't say if I was horrified by the over-the-top tackiness of it all or just speechless at the fact that Declan had decided-without even consulting me-that a change in decor was needed along with a change in the menu.

Before I had a chance to think it through, Inez came in. She took one look at the box of goodies in Declan's hands and a broad smile lit her face. "What a terrific idea!" Before I could tell her it wasn't, she grabbed the streamers and the rainbows and the wreath and skipped into the restaurant with them. "I know just where to put it all," she called back to me. "This is going to be terrific."

"See, terrific." Declan poked me in the ribs with one elbow. "Get with the program. Have a little fun."

"Fine. Good." I knew a losing cause when I saw one. "If it will help fill the tables . . ."

"Oh, the Irish food will do that." He gave me a wink before he went to the door. "You'll see. Paddy . . ." With one finger, he pointed at the grinning leprechaun perched on the cash register. "Paddy will take care of the rest."

With that, he walked outside whistling "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," and before I even had a chance to catch my breath, George shuffled into the waiting area. "I've got it ready," he said. "You know, for tomorrow."

I shook my head to clear it. For reasons I didn't exactly understand and didn't want to think about, whenever Declan was around, it felt as if the earth had tipped a bit on its axis. In an effort to get my bearings I braced a hand against the desk, squared my shoulders, and faced George.

"What is it and what's happening tomorrow?"

He scrubbed a finger under his nose and looked down at his shoes. "Sorry. Forgot you haven't been here on a Sunday. The stuff for the food pantry at St. Colman's. I get it ready every Sat.u.r.day. So Sophie can take it over on Sunday after she goes to church. This week we've got some canned tomatoes, a few bottles of apple juice, tuna. They always need tuna."

George showed me the spot in the kitchen where everything was boxed up and waiting, and even before he walked away I found myself thinking.

Food pantry.

Where Declan volunteered.

And so did Sophie.

And didn't Kim once mention that Jack Lancer had a slim file about the food pantry?

I set all this aside as thoughts for another time and gave George and Inez instructions about what they should do for the rest of the morning.

Me?

Like everyone else in Hubbard, I'd watched the news the night before and I knew that there was a memorial service scheduled that morning for Jack Lancer.

The least I could do was pay my respects.

Chapter 15.

I was wearing black pants and a black-and-white-striped silk s.h.i.+rt, and I threw on a white linen blazer, a pair of Kate Spade lace and leather pumps, and a big dose of the att.i.tude that I'd learned back in Hollywood when I found myself dealing with stylists, paparazzi, publicists, actors with egos the size of Texas, and the hangers-on (most of them pathetic wannabes) who flocked around them all like seagulls following in the wake of a s.h.i.+p.

Not to brag or anything, but when I arrived at the Worth Funeral Chapel, I got the distinct feeling that Hubbard, Ohio, had never seen anything quite like it.

In fact, I was counting on it.

Like the Red Sea in front of Moses, the crowds in the parking lot parted when I walked through, head up, shoulders back, and that gleam in my eyes that told them I owned the world and they'd better get used to it. The same thing happened on the sidewalk in front of the well-kept brick building where hundreds of the truly sorrowful and the plenty curious were packed like sardines waiting to pay their respects to Jack Lancer.

A little style, a little swagger, and a whole bunch of chutzpah, and I arrived at the front door, where a grim-faced man in a black suit spoke in hushed whispers.

"We're only allowing family and close friends in right now," he said.

I hoped my smile was bittersweet enough to pa.s.s muster. "Good," I told him, and walked right by him and into the building.

In fact, the arrangement wasn't just good, it was perfect. There was a cl.u.s.ter of a dozen or so people standing outside an open door where a nine-by-sixteen photograph of Jack Lancer was displayed along with a table full of local Emmy awards and testimonials from everyone from city council members to the mayor to someone named Clowning Carl, who'd written a flowery memorial poem that managed to rhyme Lance with things like square dance, cash advance, and game of chance, and signed it all with a smiley face complete with a big red nose.

Inside the room where a gleaming oak casket was displayed (closed, thank goodness) under dim, pinkish light, another twenty people were standing in small cl.u.s.ters and speaking to one another in hushed tones.

I made myself right at home and, believe me, I didn't waste any time. Once the guy in the black suit opened the doors to the public, I knew it would be impossible to speak to anyone. I did a quick scan of the room, chose my target, and closed in on a bleached blonde in a shape-hugging black dress with long, tight sleeves and a plunging neckline.

Why this woman?

I'd like to say I had a sixth sense about things like this. Or that I was especially good at scanning a crowd and picking out those people I thought might be most helpful. But truth be told, the answer was far simpler than that: the woman's nose was wet and her eyes were red. In fact, she was the only one in the room who looked upset.