Malarkey by Sheila Simonson Page B

the
Committee on Sufferings," Dad said seriously, "but yes. It doesn't
take many determined people to make a difference."
    We crossed the river into the village of Avoca. The streets
had been laid out before the invention of the automobile, so I
concentrated on driving. When the Toyota broke through into open
country, I said, "Doesn't stumbling on mineshafts of historical fact
bother you?"
    "I beg your pardon?"
    I abandoned my extravagant metaphor. For a man who has
been married more than forty years to a poet, my father has a
curious resistance to figurative language. "I was thinking of the
dolmens, too, not just the museum. There we were, tootling through
the countryside, minding our own business, and all of a sudden,
wham, we were back in the Stone Age. It was like a time warp."
    Dad chuckled. "I'm a historian. I like time travel."
    A milk truck loomed, horn blaring. I crunched onto the
shoulder. A space warp. Our brushes with automotive disaster were
now so commonplace I was almost able to ignore them.
    We made it to the cottage without mishap, though I nearly
turned off for Ballymann House in a fit of absent-mindedness.
    At Bedrock Cottage, the Gardai had gone, and the long-
suffering constable had even tidied the kitchen before they left. I sent
Dad downstairs for a nap while I fixed dinner. As I was, what else,
peeling potatoes, the telephone rang.
    It was Barbara Stein wondering whether the police had let
us return to the cottage. I assured her of that and thanked her for
dinner.
    She laughed, a short unhappy sound. "I should have known
better than to put Kayla and Maeve at the same table."
    "Ah, well, at least no blood was shed."
    "So far. Who knows what the future may hold? Kayla
stormed around for an hour after you left. The drawing room smells
like a pub. Fortunately, she drank half a liter of gin and slept until
noon. She's been tying up one of the phone lines talking to her
lawyer ever since. Is George okay?"
    I thought he was in fine shape and said so. I told her about
our trip to Ballitore, thanked her again, and announced that I had to
go back to my potatoes.
    "Right. I just thought I'd mention that we tend to unwind in
the drawing room every afternoon around six-thirty. If the thought
isn't too repulsive, drop in and let us know what's happening."
    That was kind. As I scraped away at the spuds, I reflected
that my initial hostility to Barbara was thawing. Alex was easy to
like. Barbara just required more effort. I was sorry for Kayla and
jealous of Grace. I wasn't sure what I felt about Maeve. I admired her
confidence.
    I put the potatoes on the Rayburn, which I had switched
over to its cooking function. It had no broiler, so I would have to pan-
fry the lamb chops. I was rummaging among the pots for a skillet
when the telephone rang again.
    This time it was Sgt. Kennedy. He sounded rather distant. He
was, he said, just checking to make sure the lads from Dublin had left
the cottage livable. Though there were smears of fingerprint powder
on the downstairs woodwork, I said everything was all right. The
smears weren't the sergeant's fault. I said flattering but true things
about his sister's B & B, too. That warmed him up a little.
    I asked about Grace. She was safe and talking to the Arklow
solicitor. Kennedy reminded me that the inquest was set for ten
Monday in the hall of the disused Protestant church just down the
lane. Convenient. I promised to be there.
    "Ah, sure," he said, "I almost forgot. Mahon said your
husband called this morning. Now where did I put the message?"
Sounds of rummaging among papers.
    If Jay had called around eleven that morning, it would have
been 3:00 a.m. in Shoalwater. He must have stayed up all night. I felt
a twinge of guilt.
    "Here it is. He's arriving at Dublin Airport at eleven
tomorrow and wants you to meet the plane."
    "What!" I swore.
    "How's that again?"
    "I'm sorry." I fumbled in the desk and found paper and
pencil. "Aer Lingus, you said. What's the flight number?"
    He