Part 15 (1/2)

”People walking around. Voices.”

I glanced at Declan but since he didn't say a thing, I took the lead. ”Men's voices?”

The kid shrugged.

”Women's?”

Another shrug. ”Just voices, and I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention because I thought . . . well, I figured I was screwed for sure. That somebody who worked there came in for something and that they were going to find me if I didn't haul my b.u.t.t out of there.”

”And that's when you dropped what little copper you'd already cut and ran?”

He nodded in answer to my question. ”Only I didn't get very far. I just got over to the steps that led up to that door I came in when I heard a guy say something pretty loud. Then there was another sound, like chairs falling over.”

I could picture the scene. ”And then?” I asked him.

”Then things got really quiet.” As if he were reliving the scene, Owen froze at the center of the room, his arms tight against his sides, his breath suspended. ”I waited,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling just like he must have glanced up when he was down in the Terminal's bas.e.m.e.nt. ”I dunno how long. I thought”-he swallowed hard-”I thought if I ducked out the door I came in, somebody might see me. So I just stood there. And then, that's when I heard the gla.s.s break.”

I glanced at Declan. ”The back door? Upstairs? The door that leads right outside?”

He looked at Owen. ”You're sure it was after you heard the commotion? Not before? Because both the killer and the victim had to get in the restaurant, and that broken back door was the only way in.”

Not the only way.

It wasn't like I thought Declan could read my mind, but I looked away, anyway. Just so there was no chance he'd pick up on the fact that I was thinking about Sophie. Sophie, and her front door key.

”It was after,” Owen said. ”I'm sure. I think.”

”It's important, Owen,” Declan reminded him.

The kid squeezed his eyes shut. His hair was blunt cut and hung to his collar and he tugged at one red lock. ”Maybe it was before,” he said, and turned pleading eyes toward his cousin. ”I dunno. I was scared, Declan. That proves I couldn't have killed that guy, right? I was scared that somebody would find me and that means I'd never have the nerve to do something like kill somebody. I sneaked back up the steps and I couldn't risk walking out of the building and going around front and over to Uncle Pat and Aunt Kitty's because I figured whoever was in the restaurant, they might see me and figure out what I was doing. So I hid behind the Dumpster.”

”For how long?” I asked.

The kid shrugged. ”Don't tell n.o.body.” He slid Declan a look. ”If Jamie or Connor or Brendan find out-”

”What your cousins think of you is the least of your worries,” Declan told him. ”You realized you'd done something wrong, you were afraid of being caught. They'd understand why you were hiding.”

”I should have took some of that copper with me,” Owen grumbled, then swallowed his words at a fierce look from Declan.

I ignored their sparring. ”Well, you couldn't have been there for hours and hours,” I said, thinking over everything Owen told us. ”So when Sophie and I arrived, that must have been soon after whoever killed Jack left.”

”I just got up the nerve to slip out from behind the Dumpster and run. That's when I heard your car,” Owen said. ”After that, well, I heard you talking from out front.” He looked toward Declan. ”And then the lights came on. And then . . .” Owen ran his tongue over his lips. ”Then the police cars showed up and the ambulances and all those reporters. If I ran, it would look really bad. So I went back behind the Dumpster and stayed there.”

”And that looked really bad, too,” Declan reminded him.

One hand out, Owen took a step toward his cousin, then realized that he looked too needy and pulled back. ”What's going to happen to me?” he asked.

”Well, you're not going to prison for a murder you didn't commit,” Declan told him. ”I can guarantee that. As for the copper . . .”

He left the words hanging in the air, and Owen to think about them.

Outside in the hallway, Declan shut the bedroom door and turned to me. ”So the back door was broken in either before or after the murder. What does that tell us?”

”I can't imagine.” I could, of course, but since what I imagined was Sophie using her key to go into the restaurant for some unknown reason, killing Jack for some other unknown reason, and then breaking the window in the back door to make it look like the Terminal had been broken into, I decided I was better off playing dumb.

Playing dumb and changing the subject.

As it turned out, that was easy enough to do when we walked back down into the living room and I caught a whiff of the scent wafting from the kitchen.

I drew in a deep breath. ”Cayenne pepper,” I said. ”Just a little. And garlic and thyme. And beer. Something dark and strong.”

Declan confirmed this with a nod. ”Mom's cooking for tomorrow. I have no doubt you smell Guinness and some red wine, too, I bet. She likes to replace some of the water in her grandmother's recipe with a little of each.”

The scent was a siren's song, and I followed it, my nose in the air. ”There's Worcesters.h.i.+re, too,” I said before we arrived in the kitchen. ”And bay leaves and onion.”

”You've got another convert, Ma,” Declan announced when we stepped into the bustling kitchen. ”Laurel's come about the Irish stew.”

Ellen wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. ”It's not ready yet, I'm afraid. If you'd like to come back tomorrow for the party-”

”I've got to work tomorrow.” Was that my voice, so high-pitched and eager to distance myself from the swirl of Declan's family life? I consoled myself with the fact that no one could blame me. I'd never had a family of my own and this . . .

Three little kids barreled through the back door and their grandmother reminded them to walk inside the house. They listened, at least until they got as far as the dining room, where they checked over their shoulders to make sure she was busy and broke into a trot.

This was overwhelming.

”Well, if you can't come back tomorrow, maybe Declan can bring you a container of stew,” Ellen said. ”That is . . .” She looked up at her son, all sweetness and innocence. ”If you'll be seeing Laurel again, that is.”

”She works across the street, Ma,” he reminded her.

”Of course.” Ellen scurried over a desk built into the countertop next to the refrigerator. She dug around and came back my way holding an index card.

”Here's the recipe,” she said. ”We say it's Grandma's but truth be told, I think it was her grandmother's and probably hers before that.” She stopped just before she handed over the card. ”We don't share this with just anyone.”

”Then I'm grateful,” I said when she handed over the recipe. ”I can't wait to try it.”

”She'll add sus.h.i.+ to it,” Declan said. ”Or tofu. Then Grandma will haunt her.”

Thank goodness for the distraction! I elbowed him in the ribs.

After all, it was better than letting him know that I was worried.

About murder.

About lies.

And about why someone had unlocked the front door of the Terminal, then smashed in the back window to make it look like a break-in.