She could hear the click of billiard cues, raucous laughter and American rock music coming from the next room. The smells of beer and fried fish hung heavily in the air, potent if not particularly appetizing reminders that she’d eaten nothing all day but cake and chocolate.
“Are you still serving food?” she asked the rotund and balding bartender when he brought Fitzpatrick’s drink to the table.
“We are.” He wiped a cloth over the table. “Fish and chips. Sausages and chips. Egg and chips.”
“Anything that’s not fried?”
“Not fried?” He scratched his ear. “Let’s see. Raw fish, raw sausage and raw potatoes.”
She grinned. “I’ll just have some chips then.”
“She means crisps,” Fitzpatrick told the bartender. “I speak a bit of American. What flavor?”
Kate shrugged, stumped.
“We’ve only prawn,” the bartender said.
“Prawn then. And a Diet Coke, please.” Over at the bar, one of the cloth caps muttered something in the ear of the man next to him, and they both looked over their shoulders at her. She smiled sweetly, maintaining eye contact until they turned away.
When she returned her glance to Fitzpatrick, he grinned at her.
“You’re a novelty,” he said. “Cragg’s Head isn’t exactly a mecca for American tourists at this time of year.”
The surreptitious glances had been going on ever since she’d arrived. If she’d walked in stark naked, she could hardly have provoked more interest. The sensation was strange and one she didn’t particularly enjoy. Back in Santa Monica, the tweed jacket and beige wool pants she’d picked up at Nordstrom’s annual sale had seemed to strike exactly the right note of country chic. Here in Dooley’s they apparently screamed American tourist.
“Why is it you’re interested in Moruadh?” Fitzpatrick asked.
He pronounced the name the way Moruadh had taught her to do. Mora. “It’s Gaelic,” she’d explained. “Some sort of sea creature.” And then she’d laughed. “Let’s hope it’s a mermaid and not a whale.” No last name. “Moruadh is plenty,” she’d said.
Kate considered Fitzpatrick’s question. “I knew her. Kind of.” The bartender bought over the chips and the Coke in a glass with no ice. She tore open the bag. “About three years ago, I interviewed her for a magazine article. She called me several times after that and we became…” She hesitated. Friends would be a stretch, they’d never actually met and their lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. Moruadh sang to packed crowds all over Europe. Kate wrote about sheep-herding contests in Bakersfield. Moruadh spent long weekends in ancient and picturesque stone cottages in Provence. Kate spent weekends shuttling her ancient Toyota Tercel between the Laundromat and the supermarket. Moruadh had enjoyed success and recognition Kate herself never dreamed of. Still there had been this connection. Which was why the news of the singer’s death had come as such a shock.
“We shared dating horror stories,” she told Fitzpatrick. “Moruadh’s were a lot more glamorous than mine, but we’d both come to pretty much the same conclusion.”
Fitzpatrick looked at her.
“Men are jerks.” She bit into a chip. “Nothing personal, of course. Just the combined wisdom of our experiences.”
He moved his head slightly to exhale a cloud of smoke, turned back to face her again.
“And then I read about the accident—”
“Moruadh’s death was no accident.” Fitzpatrick tapped ash off his cigarette. “She was murdered.”
“You believe that, too?” Kate asked and felt her face color. She’d suspected that herself, but at least wanted to create a semblance of objectivity. She dug into her bag for a notebook, looked at Fitzpatrick. “So what’s your theory?”
Fitzpatrick laughed. “My theory, huh? Well, let’s just say, my theory is that murder is cheaper than divorce, which incidentally wasn’t legal in Ireland at the time of Moruadh’s death. Maguire could have gone to England or France, of course, but he must have worried she’d go after his money.” He drank some beer. “That’s more than just a journalistic theory. I know Maguire.”
“But her career was going fairly well. I mean she must have been making pretty good money herself?”
“Nothing compared to Maguire’s money. The three of us grew up together. His family had plenty, Moruadh was the daughter of the gardener. We had that in common, she and I, peasant stock.” He lifted his glass again, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “My mother was a housekeeper on the Maguire estate. Moruadh enjoyed playing the two of us off against each other.”
“You and Maguire?”
He nodded. “For as long as I can remember. Of course, he had an unfair advantage. More pocket money than either of us had in a year. More of everything. And nothing has changed much over the years. He’s always had it all. Money, looks, women falling over themselves for him.”
“Was she in love with him?”
He shrugged. “Moruadh never knew her own mind. Maguire’s an aloof bastard. The more he kept his distance, the more she ran after him. He didn’t pay her a lot of attention until her career started taking off. When that began to wane—a year or so before she died—so did his interest in her. Pushing her off the cliff was an expedient way to end things.”
Kate kept her expression neutral. She fished in the bag for a chip, bit into it. “The Garda ruled it an accident. I read the investigation report. The cliffs were unstable. She lost her footing—”
“Ach.” He made a gesture of contempt. “Investigation. It was a farce. The old superintendent had been in the Maguire family’s pockets forever and he was a bit of an idiot anyway so he was easily taken in by Maguire.”
“Yeah, but pushing her off the cliffs seems a bit…well, extreme, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “That’s Maguire. Have you met him yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll get along famously.” He gave a wry smile. “Niall Maguire always gets along famously with beautiful women.”
“You’re not exactly Maguire’s biggest fan, huh?” she asked, deciding to ignore the compliment.
“You could say that.” He inhaled, narrowed his eyes against the expelled smoke. “Sure, it’s hard to feel a lot of warmth for someone who gets away with cold-blooded murder.” He tapped ash off the cigarette. “To be honest, though, I’ve never liked him much. No doubt it goes back to the stale cakes and bags of his old clothes my mother used to bring home from the big house. I’ve had an aversion to castoffs ever since.”
Kate watched him for a moment. Face twisted with emotion, he stared off across the room in the direction of the bartender who was drying pint glasses with a white cloth. She understood only too well how resentment and envy hardened into hate.
At fourteen, gawky and freckled with a mouthful of braces, she’d overheard an aunt say how unfair it was that, while Ned had heartbreaker written all over him, his little sister, Katie had none of the looks in the family. Months later, her father had to grab Kate’s arms to stop her clawing Ned’s face after they’d had a minor spat. She felt a stab of sympathy for Fitzpatrick.
“Sorry.” He shook his head, smiling slightly as though embarrassed. “You’re not here to listen to me vent my spleen about Maguire.”
“Hey.” She shrugged. “We all have