Mary Kathleen had only been in the country about three and a half years. She’d come over to take care of an ailing grandmother, and a family friend had set her up at Finnegan’s. She and Declan were a perfect—and beautiful—couple, in Kieran’s mind, at least. Declan was tall with very dark auburn hair and the blue-gray-green eyes that characterized their family. Mary Kathleen had eyes that were huge and wide and the color of the sea. Her voice was musical and her accent truly charming—though she had found it funny one day when a patron had told her she didn’t need to pretend to be Irish to work in the pub—it was, after all, America.
The alarm had already been turned off when Kieran stepped in. The place was spotless; she was sure that their late-night cleaning crew had been in, one hired just for the weekends when the traffic at the pub was extremely heavy. They had an impressive row of taps; Kieran was proud the place never smelled like stale beer. They maintained it beautifully.
She walked up to the bar, thinking she could put away glasses or do something else useful, but as she was standing there, Declan stepped out from the hallway that led to the offices and the stock room down in the basement. He was wearing a white apron and evidently had been working behind the bar, setting up, and perhaps he’d been in back in the kitchen as well, checking with the chef on the daily specials. On Sundays, Finnegan’s always served a traditional roast with a choice of regular mashed potatoes or colcannon—potatoes and cabbage—and a special fresh vegetable. But on Saturdays, Declan and Chef liked to be adventurous—as in “Irish spicy tacos—trust us, the sauce is pure green!” Kieran wondered what delight he’d have prepared for today.
“I figured I’d see you,” Declan said.
“I couldn’t sit around,” she said.
“And you sent Craig off to see his boss, to try to get involved, didn’t you? And I know Craig. If he values his peace of mind, he’ll see to it that he’s involved.”
She made a face at her brother. She was glad, though, that Declan—and Kevin and Danny—knew Craig well and really liked him. They’d met Richard Egan, Craig’s boss, and Mike Dalton, his partner, too. All them had come into Finnegan’s at various times, whether having to do with a case, or simply to have some good Irish pub food.
The pub itself—and her brothers, upon occasion!—had been too involved in deadly activities taking place in the city. She’d actually met Craig in the middle of a diamond heist—a situation Danny had ridiculously gotten her into while attempting to help a friend—and Kevin had recently been a suspect in a murder when an actress he’d been dating had been found dead in the church-turned-nightclub that backed up to the alley just behind the pub. The good thing was that they were all friends with Egan and the FBI. By tradition, of course, they always hosted police officers from the local precinct and firefighters from the fire hall down the street. After all, being a cop had once been a major Irish occupation—and the city had certainly been filled with the Irish!
“It’s Saturday—I thought I’d help out around here.”
“And you are always a help,” he told her. “But as you can see, the cleaning crew was already in. We don’t open the doors until eleven thirty. Chef is busy...we have a full staff on. In fact, I think we probably have one server too many today. Sounds ridiculous, but if I don’t give them all enough tables, they can’t make it in their tips.”
“Ah, and no worries!” came a cheerful cry. Mary Kathleen came through the tables in the dining room, having just left the kitchen, or so it appeared. She was wearing a light spring jacket and carried a large disposable takeout tray. “Kieran, hello there, me love!” Mary Kathleen paused to kiss Kieran on the cheek. “I’m off to the mission by St. Peter’s.”
“That’s so nice!” Kieran told her. She’d known that—a few times a month, at least—Mary Kathleen volunteered at a mission soup kitchen just down the block off Church Street by old St. Peter’s.
The mission concentrated on immigrants who needed support—on seeing that they were fed, first and foremost, and then offering information on citizenship, green cards, work and whatever else might be necessary for someone newly arrived to the country, searching for the American dream.
“Chef has given me a great big dish of shepherd’s pie!” Mary Kathleen said, nodding affectionately toward Declan. “Thanks to the generous soul of your brother Declan. Well, actually, thanks to the largesse of all the Finnegan family.”
“Oh, no, that’s all Declan. He makes the decisions,” Kieran said. “But I’m awfully glad. I know that we were all—and different family members have been through the decades—immigrants. I’m delighted we’re helping people.”
She looked around the spotless, still-empty pub.
“Want some help at the mission or whatever it is?”
“Soup du Jour!” Mary Kathleen told her. “It’s great—the Catholics and Anglos and Jewish community and members of several of our NYC mosques came together to fund it. All are truly welcome—and we do mean all. It would be great if you came with me! Super. People will love you. Oh, and don’t go thinking they’re all dirty, that the people who come in are sleeping in doorways and the like. Many work hard—it’s just a difficult thing to come into this country sometimes and instantly make a living, especially in an expensive city like New York.”
“Naturally,” Kieran said. “And yet we—as Americans, who really have it pretty good—like to whine!”
Mary Kathleen laughed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my beautiful adopted homeland. But here’s the thing—people come here because we can whine. Complaining is the God-given right of every American! You just have to remember that throughout history, people have come here for a dream. And right here in good old NYC, there used to be notes on the doors of all kinds of businesses that said No Irish! We have to watch out for prejudice against any new group. People still come for the same American dream.”
“And even when we think we’re a mess, we’re still the best kind of mess?” Kieran said. She smiled. Mary Kathleen was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.
“‘Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,’” Kieran quoted. “Churchill, 1947, to the House of Commons—if I remember right!”
“Yes, except I’ve been told that he was quoting a predecessor,” Mary Kathleen said. “Anyway, the point is, people do come here for a dream. And sometimes, it’s damned hard to realize. In fact, it can be a nightmare for some. They fall on hard times.”
“Please, I hope you know me better than thinking I would be dismissive or mean in any way. I wasn’t thinking of judging anyone, really,” Kieran assured her. “I was just thinking...”
Declan suddenly strode directly between the two of them.
“Kieran was thinking she needed to be occupied—or she’d drive us all crazy,” Declan said. “Thank the Good Lord, Mary Kathleen. It’s a true kindness you can give her something to do! Go on, Kieran—dish out some soup. It is a very good thing to do. And when you’re done, if you’re still walking around like a caged cat, Kevin has to learn some lines for a guest shot on a cop show. You can give your twin a hand!”
“Cool. Of course, I’ll run lines with my twin,” Kieran said.
“Ah, yes, poor lass!” Mary Kathleen said. “You do need to be occupied. You canna quit thinking about that poor murdered woman and the wee babe? I don’t blame you. So sad. And they still can’t find out who the woman was—and they have no idea as to where to find the babe’s mother?”
“No, not yet. Not that I’ve heard about,” Kieran said.
“They will,” Declan assured her.
“Of course,” Kieran said. She took the large dish