Chapter 20
20
It was barely seven thirty when her ladyship rapped on my door and said, “Housekeeping.” I was already washed, dressed, made-up and in an entertaining convo with my old pal Teenie, because it was still last night in Eugene, Oregon. “I’ve to go,” I said. “Talk soon. Love you.” Then at the door, “Coming!”
I admitted a woman who was mid-height and, even in leggings and a T-shirt, innately elegant. “My apologies for the early start,” she said. Well-spoken too. She could have been an ambassador’s wife down on her luck.
“No bother,” I said, even though my night’s sleep had been cut short by two hours.
An attractive woman, I observed, watching her set down a bucket bristling with cleaning accoutrements. Thick, auburn hair and gorgeous skin. She was easily forty but not a sunspot to be seen, however she’d managed it. I’d have bet everything I owned it wasn’t courtesy of retinol, IPL or chemical peels. She had that refined, no-skincare vibe.
“I’m Anna Walsh.”
“Pleasure,” she purred. But didn’t offer her own name. Which was her right. Of course.
Nevertheless, because almost everyone else here had zero boundaries, I’d expected more warmth.
Stealthily, I slunk downstairs, praying that Joey wasn’t up yet. Emilien intercepted me creeping into the buffet. “The go-boy was already in. He’s gone out looking for ‘proper coffee.’?”
I brightened, abandoning my furtive aspect. “In that case, Emilien, I’ll take this table here. May I have two lattes and lots of toast and sorry for Joey being rude about your coffee.”
“Not at all, no, it’s swill. On purpose, like. Kilcroney, who owns this place, also owns Grinder, the coffee shop up the street.”
“He sounds cutthroat.”
“Putting it mildly, Anna. Putting it mildly. Sorry about the racket last night. Since Christmas, Courtney’s been at Kilcroney to get the bins moved away from the rooms but he needs a permit or something.”
“Not your fault, Emilien.” My brave plan to change rooms had leached away in the cold light of day. I should eat something nice, then perhaps my courage would return. “Forget the toast, can I have pancakes?”
“No.”
“Are you breakfast shaming me?”
“There’s no pancakes.”
“But…” And I had to check. “They’re on the menu.”
“No pancakes till June. They’re a seasonal delicacy. Look.” He shook his head. “The chef is a freak. But it’s impossible to get staff. He has us over a barrel. No pancakes till June. Or omelettes. He says they’re summer foods. Would you like a fry?”
I waited for the urge to puke to settle. “Ah no, I’m grand with the—” I gestured towards the stand of baked goods.
Happily ensconced with croissants and limitless containers of Nutella, I began planning my morning: Ziryan, then Ferne, then—Jesus, here was Joey! Crossing the room with great dynamism, looking like a high-powered lawyer in a slick TV drama. Literally suited and booted. Briefly, I flashed back in time to when Jacqui and I used to sing scathing songs about the same man’s boots.
His iPad skated onto the table and he slid into the chair opposite me. “Okay if I join you?”
“Of course. Did you get your ‘proper coffee’?”
“I did.” Automatically he looked at Emilien. “Is he pissed off? But you might as well be drinking Oxo.”
I laughed—and immediately had a moment: this was all so strange.
“You okay?” Joey’s eyes narrowed.
“Just. It’s wild, this.”
He nodded. I could see it: he was finding this as difficult as I was. “Won’t last for much longer. I’ve news. I made some calls. There are no plans to demolish the famine house. Or to interfere with the right of way to the beach.”
“What? Seriously?”
“I’ve all the documentation, planning permission, architect’s plans. I’ve sent them to you.”
“I’ll ask Courtney to post them on the local Facebook. Or maybe I’ll join and post it myself. But wait now, Joey. Were they just rumors that got out of hand?”
“Looks that way.”
Things couldn’t be that easy, surely? “We still need to have this meeting. There’s the shopkeepers’ concerns. The pissed-off tilers, carpenters—”
“I know, I know. It’s not over yet.”
“What about the non-disclosure agreements the staff have to sign?”
Joey shook his head. “We don’t have to cave on everything. We’re bringing employment to an under-resourced area. We’re not the bad guys.”
“And Aber Skerett’s sheep? Just another rumor?”
“No, that’s real. Different though—it was a private agreement between the Skeretts and the Kearneys. Can you reach out to Mr Skerett? We’ll offer to help find a new grazing spot.”
“Joey?” My tone was urgent.
His eyes shot from his iPad to my face. “What?”
“Do you say ‘reach out’ automatically now? Or do you still feel embarrassed?”
To my relief, he smiled. “Said it there without even thinking.” He hesitated, then admitted, “This situation…it’s a lot.”
“Brigit and Colm maybe losing their land and being penniless?”
“That too.” A pause followed. “I hate failing.” All humor gone, he added, “But you already know that.”
—
“Cool coat,” Ziryan called as I pushed open the door of the hardware shop. Then, as he got a better look, “Oh hey, you must be the woman down from Dublin that the whole town’s talking about. Ziryan Barzani.” He was smiley and adorable, with tufty brown hair and ginormous eyebrows.
“Is it Rick Owens?” he asked.
“What? Oh, my coat?…You know your stuff.”
“May I?” He extended a hand to touch it. “It’s so soft.”
“It’s like wearing marshmallows,” I admitted.
It was far too noticeable for this mission: I should have left it in Dublin. But it was so comforting. “Brigit said you’d be a good person to talk to. About the damage.”
“I haven’t a clue who did it.”
“Can I ask you about Ike Blakely?”
“Oh yeah. He’s cool. Tree surgeon. All about the planet.”
“He seems…angry?”
“Aw naw. More passionate, I’d say. He cares .”
Cautiously, I asked, “Do you think—”
“No.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I know what you were going to ask—does Ike care so much that he’d try to stop a resort being built here? Not at all. He’s a lover not a fighter.”
“I saw him on Saturday. His knuckles were cut.”
“So you think he was…what? Punching the walls over there?”
I realized how unlikely that was.
“He works with saws,” Ziryan said. “And, like… trees . Tree trunks can be rough on the knuckles. You should really talk to Ferne and Rionna from the shopkeepers’ committee, they’d have a good idea of the mood of the place.”
I had another question. “Is there a hairdresser in town?”
“Course! What kind of backwater do you take us for!” But he was laughing. “Crowning Glory. Over the road. Karina and Gráinne. Gráinne cuts mine. But I hear Karina is better at the blow-drys.”
“Who does color?”
“Both of them. And they do lamination, extensions, everything. Closed on a Monday though, in case you were thinking of—”
“Oh.” For a moment, desperate for confidence for tonight’s meeting, I’d thought I’d get my color done. “Ah well.”
My phone rang—a local number. “Anna Walsh speaking.”
“Dan Kilcroney from the hotel. Ferne O’dowd and Rionna Breen are here looking for you.”
“Oh, ah, are they?” This was an excellent coincidence. “Thanks. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
I ended the call. “Dan Kilcroney,” I told Ziryan. “The owner of the Broderick? What’s he like?”
Was it too much to expect that my fashionable little friend could corroborate what Emilien had said, about Mr Kilcroney being cutthroat ?
“A complicated man.” Ziryan was thoughtful. “Hasn’t always had it easy.”
A seed of doubt took root. I’d a feeling Ziryan saw the best in everyone. In my personal life, it was a character trait I enjoyed but it was no good to me right now. I needed a jaundiced cynic. Helen would be ideal. Her private-investigating skills might also come in useful.
Perhaps I should let her—which meant all of them, because the Walshes traveled as a mob—come for the weekend?
Meditating on this thorny issue, I took my leave of Ziryan and narrowly avoided a collision with an officer of the law in the street outside.
“Watch where you’re going!” he ordered. “Are you the woman down from Dublin?”
I turned. “…I am.” Then, “Is that illegal?”
I thought he’d laugh. At least smile. But cozy-crime TV shows set in delightful villages had ruined me for real life.
I got a good hard stare, which lingered on my scar. “Don’t get smart with me.”
I turned away and mouthed Don’t get smart with me silently but very sarcastically.
An “older” man stood behind the reception desk. This must be Dan Kilcroney. For a cutthroat with questionable business practices, I’d expected some roguish charm.
His immobile face reminded me of a shoe. Specifically a brogue, which was somewhat misshapen thanks to heavy usage. Sparse of hair and craggy of feature, he made me think of cut-price gangsters from fifties B-movies. Irish-American actors who looked as if they spent their spare time running, face-first, at brick walls.
“Dan Kilcroney?” I asked.
His eyes moved over me. The best version of myself would have called these eyes “shrewd.” But Shadow Anna would have called them “cold,” “calculating” or “conniving.”
Into the silence I offered, “I’m Anna Walsh.”
His inert aspect said, The fuck would I care?
Fury gushed, like oil from a lucky strike. “You called me literally two minutes ago.” My tone was so polite it could have shattered. I was serving up supreme passive aggression because, although it had been a while, I was habitually overlooked. At least until people got to know me better.
Helen said it was because I had Resting Eejit Face. I preferred to think it was due to me being short and mild-mannered—at least until provoked, which I was now.
I hadn’t always been an angry person, but once perimenopause was running the show, spontaneous eruptions of rage were likely. They’d calmed down once I’d started on HRT, but now there was almost none of it in my system I was dangerously close to blowing.
Your man’s gaze began to roam anew. I knew exactly how he saw me—a nothingy woman, in bad need of a haircut, with an unsightly scar on her cheek. His eyes lingered scornfully on my extremely cool coat. It was clear he thought it was just a duvet with sleeves. It took everything in my power to not say, “Brogue-face, you know fuck-all about fashion. The only reason you think you’re the clever one here is because you have no idea of the depths of your ignorance.”
Biting the words out, I said, “Ferne and Rionna are here to see me?”
After a beat during which comprehension dawned and Oh fuck flashed in his eyes, he said, “…Yes. Of course. They’re in the lounge. This way.” He ushered me in exaggerated fashion, his arm outstretched, suddenly Mine Host par excellence.
Be kind , I reminded myself, for everyone we meet is fighting a hard battle.
Dan Kilcroney’s disrespect, coming hot on the heels of the policeman’s hostility, had pressed on old wounds; that’s all that was going on. Plus, I was very tired. And deprived of the hormones. But it was infuriating to watch people assess my worth based on external signs of power, beauty and money. Especially because they thought they were clever operators. I longed to tell this arse how transparent he actually was.
—
Ferne was what my dad would have called “a fine woman”—tall, fragrant, bouffy. Rionna was small, dark, inquisitive. Together they were garrulous, likable and delighted about the proposed retreat.
“More celebrities coming to town,” Ferne said. “Means more business for the local retailers.”
“You know, between this new hotel and all of our festivals, we should rename ourselves Little Hollywood!” Rionna exclaimed. “Make a note! We’ll table it for the next meeting.”
All they cared about was “capturing sales” from Brigit’s well-heeled guests. Their proposal basically involved bundling them into a car, then abandoning them on Main Street, M’town, for a couple of hours. Tactfully I ruled that out, so we discussed the resort having display cases featuring local pottery, knitwear, etc. If any of the guests expressed interest, they could be taken into town to the appropriate shops.
“Or we could pop out to them,” Ferne said.
“It would be no trouble,” Rionna said.
“None,” Ferne agreed. “In fact, we could call once every couple of days—”
“—or every day,” Rionna said.
“Every day is better,” Ferne said. “We’ll visit every day. So we’re agreed!”
“The next step is, I’ll go back to Brigit and the company and convey what we’ve covered this morning. What happens next is up to them.”
“So? You’re just…a message girl?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m your advocate.”
“Are you?” They exchanged a triumphant look and then stood up.
“Call up to me some time in Fine Irish Knits,” Ferne said. “We’ll look after you.”
“And make sure you pop in to me in Luxury Irish Linens,” Rionna echoed. “You’ll be looked after there too.”
In circumstances such as these, We’ll look after you tends to mean We’ll give you a decent discount .
I saw them out. After walking a short distance along the street, Ferne turned and gave me a wave. Then so did Rionna.
Enthusiastically I waved back and I was smiling, smiling, smiling, as I watched them make their way up Main Street.
Pair of chancers.