Part 17 (1/2)
Kitty and Pat. I thought back to what I'd heard from Carrie at the art gallery the day she dished about the neighborhood and its denizens and threw caution to the wind. Hey, this was a murder investigation. And I needed answers.
”It is true?” I asked Declan, stopping the microwave and checking the temperature on the stew. It was just right, but when I took the bowl out, I held on to it for a while. The aroma that drifted off it was both tempting and tantalizing. Maybe that would work to my benefit.
”I heard your uncle is the head of the local Irish mob.”
Declan's granite gaze snapped from the bowl in my hands to me. ”Who says?”
”I heard it around.”
”And you're wondering if Uncle Pat's . . . affiliation . . .” He p.r.o.nounced the word exactly as I would expect an attorney to. Carefully. As if to say I could draw my own conclusions, but he sure as heck wasn't going to say anything specific. Or d.a.m.ning. ”You think what Uncle Pat may or may not have been up to has something to do with Jack Lancer's murder?”
”I think Jack Lancer wasn't just hanging around here every day because he liked the pie, though I do have to say, we have really good pie.”
”And really good Irish stew. So I've heard.”
What is it they call it in lawyerspeak? Quid pro quo?
Clearly, if he was going to tell me anything, it would cost me a bowl of Irish stew.
Since it was warm, I set the bowl down on the counter rather than hand it to him, and I got him a spoon.
”Bon appet.i.t,” I told him.
”Slinte,” he said, and he p.r.o.nounced the word slantay. That is, right before he bowed his head over the bowl of stew.
”For food in a world where many walk in hunger,” Declan said softly. ”For faith in a world where many walk in fear. For friends . . .” He glanced my way before he lowered his eyes again. ”For friends in a world where many walk alone. We give you thanks, Lord.”
He grabbed the spoon and dug in. He blew on the spoonful of beef, potatoes, and carrots, then popped it in his mouth and held it there before he chewed and swallowed. ”Hmmmm.”
”Hmmmm? Is that hmmmm good, or hmmmm bad?”
”Hmmmm.”
He was teasing. Again. Rather than look too eager, I went to the cooler and got out the ingredients that George would need to start the day's batch of stew. Carrots, potatoes, parsnips, leeks.
It didn't hurt to look busy, and not too interested in what he might-or might not-be willing to share about his uncle Pat.
Unless Uncle Pat wasn't the one Jack Lancer was interested in.
It wasn't the first time I'd run the theory through my brain, because the night before when I tried to make friends with m.u.f.fin and got slashed knuckles again for my effort, I couldn't get it out of my head.
Jack Lancer was watching the Irish store.
And in addition to taking care of all his family's business, Declan ran the Irish store.
”So, what kinds of work do you do for your family?” I asked him.
He swallowed a mouthful of stew and don't think I didn't notice that the question didn't surprise him. ”Like I told you before, I help them out. With legal questions and all.”
”Was there any reason that might have interested Jack Lancer?”
He'd been blowing off a particularly hot chunk of parsnip and he paused, his lips pursed, and looked over at me. ”You think he was here at the Terminal because of me?”
”I think he had a line on an idea for an investigation. And I wonder if that investigation had something to do with you.”
”It didn't.”
”You seem pretty sure.”
His smile was nothing if not angelic. ”My soul is as pure as the driven snow and my reputation is just as sparkly clean. In case you're wondering, so is Uncle Pat's.”
”That's not what I heard.”
”About me? Or about Uncle Pat?”
I threw my hands in the air. ”Don't you want to get to the bottom of this?”
”This bowl of stew?” He sc.r.a.ped his spoon through the last of the thick gravy and finished it off. ”Absolutely. And I'll be back later for more. But you know, if you're going to feature Irish food, you'll need to add another dish or two. I'm thinking colcannon would be perfect.”
I hadn't asked for the recipe. How could I when I was so busy choking on the aggravation that stemmed from that oh-so-easy smile and the maddening way he had of blowing off every important question I asked him? Declan, though, had other ideas. He pulled a printed recipe out of his pocket and handed it to me.
”Mashed potatoes with plenty of b.u.t.ter,” he said while I looked over the ingredients. ”Steamed shredded cabbage and my own secret ingredient, a bit of steamed kale. You won't see that in most recipes, but it adds a nice dash of color. So do the chopped scallions you sprinkle on top before you serve it. Panache-it's what you California girls are all about, right?”
Right about then, I was all about feeling as if I wanted to wring his neck. I might have, too, if George hadn't tromped into the kitchen.
”Good morning,” Declan called to him.
George grunted.
Frustrated and annoyed, I went out into the restaurant. I wasn't surprised when Declan followed.
”It's better than hers, you know,” he said, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned to face him. ”I a.s.sume we're talking about the stew because apparently, stew is all we can talk about, even when there's been a murder here and the murderer is still on the loose.”
”Stew is what we're talking about. And yours is better than my mother's. I will say that to you here and now, but don't ever expect me to say it in front of her. Ellen Katherine Kane Fury has a reputation in these parts, and she takes it seriously. It would break her heart to know some fancy-schmancy chef could actually improve the old family recipe.”
I bristled at the fancy-schmancy, but there was no use mentioning it. He wouldn't listen, anyway. ”Your secret is safe with me.”
”But still, you don't trust me.”
”How can I?” I spun away from him and went to the waiting area. ”I never get a straight answer out of you.”
I knew he'd followed me, but I didn't realize just how closely. When I got to the rolltop desk and whirled around, my nose was practically pressed to the dark green T-s.h.i.+rt he wore with an unb.u.t.toned green and white plaid s.h.i.+rt.
He crooked a finger under my chin and this time when he looked into my eyes, there was no sparkle of amus.e.m.e.nt in his. He was as serious as a heart attack. ”I'm being as honest with you as I can be,” he said.