Part 19 (1/2)

”No.” Tina somehow turned the word into two syllables. ”They had a couple drinks. Then a couple more. Then that Maxine started in on him.”

”About?” I asked.

”Everything. As far as we could tell,” Deb said. ”Something about Jack cheating on her. Jack cheating on her! Like she expected anything else from that low-down sc.u.mbag?”

I took a moment to process all this. ”So, you think-”

”Maxine. Yep.” Jill spoke, but all three women nodded in unison. ”Maxine Carmichael definitely murdered Jack.”

I will confess, I did not return directly to the Terminal after my meeting with the Jack Lancer Haters Club. The margaritas made me sleepy and, besides, I wanted some quiet time alone to process everything the women had told me.

Could Maxine have murdered the Lance of Justice?

Honestly, to me, she didn't look smart enough to plan and cover up a murder, but I hoped it was true. If Maxine was our culprit, that meant Sophie was off the hook. Of course, that also meant figuring out how Maxine-who didn't seem to have the brains G.o.d gave a hamster-could have gotten a key to the Terminal, gotten Jack there, and covered up her crime with enough panache to keep the cops guessing.

I might actually have had time to consider the possibilities if, when I walked into Sophie's, a couple things didn't happen.

The first was an attack by a flying furry black-and-white creature who came screeching at me out of nowhere the moment I opened the front door. I ducked out of the way of m.u.f.fin's slas.h.i.+ng claws, but not before the nasty critter caught and snagged the sleeve of my linen blazer.

I barked out a curse designed to get the feline version of G.o.dzilla to back off and that's when I heard another noise out in the kitchen.

Like the back door banging open.

Yeah, yeah, I know what everybody says at the movies when some brainless heroine goes into a dark bas.e.m.e.nt. Or a kitchen when she's home all alone and she's sure she's heard something she shouldn't have heard.

I should have known better.

I shouldn't have done it.

But if I didn't, I wouldn't have seen that the back door was wide open.

And I wouldn't have caught just a glimpse of a person in dark clothes just as that person slipped out of Sophie's backyard and took off running.

Chapter 16.

I called the cops, who told me that, unfortunately, they saw this kind of thing all the time. Some bad guy checks out houses, finds the ones where everybody's working and n.o.body's home, and sees what he can scoop up. In fact, they informed me, if I read the police blotter in the local newspaper, I'd realize there was something of a crime spree going on in Hubbard at that very moment. They were hot on the trail of a burglar who was making off with everything from flat-screen TVs to computers to cell phones, things he could carry away and easily fence. Quick money, that's what the cops called it, though what kind of quick money some crook hoped to find at Sophie's modest bungalow was beyond me.

I am not easily frightened, but I'm not stupid, either. I had the two nice police officers check out the house from top to bottom and after they gave me the all clear and a.s.sured me that I was lucky (a) to have arrived home just in time to scare off the intruder and (b) that he was scared off by my yelling at m.u.f.fin and didn't decide to confront me, I called a locksmith and had dead bolts installed. On Monday, I'd get a security system put in, too, and tell Sophie it was a thank-you for letting me stay in her home.

By the time it was all over and the adrenaline had pumped its way out of my system, I felt like a wet rag. I changed into shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt and set the alarm on my phone. I'd allow myself an hour's nap, then get back to the Terminal.

It was a great plan, but stress-and those early-afternoon margaritas-had a funny way of messing with my head, and in the end, the stress won out. I slept right through the alarm, and by the time I opened my eyes, the shadows outside the house were long and low, and I had been MIA from the Terminal nearly all day.

I have never been a slacker, and I wasn't about to earn that reputation now. I jumped out of bed, showered, changed, and headed back to Traintown as quickly as I could.

Once I got there, I wondered if I was still asleep, and dreaming to boot.

The street outside the Terminal was packed with cars, and not just the news vans that had made the place their permanent home since the murder. It was a sunny, warm, early evening and there were people everywhere. They strolled from Carrie's art gallery to John and Mike's bookstore. They gathered for pictures around the marker in front of the Terminal that declared the building a historic place. They wandered in and out of the restaurant, and in that moment between the time the door opened and when it slapped shut again, I heard music.

Boisterous, rousing, foot-tapping, blood-stirring, heart-pounding music.

Irish music.

Just inside the front door of the Terminal, I froze and listened to the cadence of a m.u.f.fled drum, the strum of a guitar keeping the beat, the jaunty song of a tin whistle, and the way a fiddle picked up the tune and ran with it. Through the doorway that led into the restaurant, a couple whizzed by, caught up in the rhythm of the dance.

Dancing?

In the Terminal?

I was just about to march in there and see what was going on when Inez dance-stepped her way over to the cash register. ”Oh, good. You're here.” She didn't sound like she held it against me that I had not been there all day. In fact, her words b.u.mped to the beat of the music. ”We called in Judy, and she's been great, but we can use all the help we can get.”

With that, and with some customer's change in hand, she danced back in the direction she'd come.

The song ended and a round of applause and cheers went up. Curious, I edged into the restaurant, almost afraid of what I'd see.

The first thing that caught my eye was Declan, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a green tie with shamrocks all over it. He smiled, waved, and headed my way.

”What on earth . . .” I looked around at the tables, loaded with patrons, and the four-man band that had set up outside my office door. ”What's going on here? Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at that first communion party?”

The band started into another rousing song. I guess that's why Declan thought it was necessary for him to lean in nice and close so I could hear him. ”We brought the party here,” he shouted.

”But . . .” I saw Ellen Fury at a table over near the windows that looked out over the train tracks. She waved and so did the bearded man next to her, who I a.s.sumed was Declan's father, Malachi. ”But you were getting ready for the party at your mother's and-”

”Truth be told . . .” If I thought he was standing close before, I was wrong. Because now Declan inched even closer and the scent of bay rum filled my nostrils and messed with my head. So did the way his words brushed my ear and tickled through my bloodstream. ”Word is out, I'm afraid. My mother, she heard your stew is better than hers. She had to come try it, and then my father said of course, he'd come, too, and then Kitty and Pat agreed to ride along, and then . . .” He raised his arms and glanced around, taking in the scene in all its glory.

There were at least four dozen people-elderly men and women, others Declan's parents' age, teenagers, young children-at the tables that had been decorated with orange, white, and green Irish flags, sparkling rainbows, and those little pots of gold Declan had brought over earlier in the day. As I watched, a dozen of the patrons headed to the makes.h.i.+ft dance floor, a spot right in front of the band where the tables had been pushed back and the chairs cleared. They swung through the tiny area, feet stomping, hands clapping, and some of the people who sat and watched joined in on a song I didn't recognize, but they obviously did.

Still stunned by it all, I couldn't help but blurt out, ”But there's a band!”

”And they're good, aren't they?” Declan laughed. ”That's my brother, Seamus, on the fiddle. You met him at Mom's yesterday. And my cousin Jerry on the whistle. He plays the bagpipes, too, but I asked him to leave those home today. Bagpipes, it's my considered opinion, are a lot like bicycles-better outdoors than they are in.”

”And the drummer and the guitar player?” I asked.

”My cousins Dan and Martin. Great guys. You'll like Dan and Martin.”

”But . . .” I wasn't sure what I was going to say so I struggled with the words. ”But how . . .”

”Never ask how or why. Not when the music is playing and the food is delicious and the beer is flowing like water.” When he saw the look on my face that clearly said that was impossible since the Terminal didn't have a liquor license, Declan laughed. ”Sorry, just being poetic. That's what happens when I listen to Irish music. That, and the uncontrollable urge to dance.”

He didn't ask if I wanted to, he simply slipped a hand around my waist and pulled me onto the dance floor.

For a second, I was too surprised to do anything but stand there like an idiot, but when the first wave of our fellow dancers closed around us, I had no choice; it was move my feet or get mowed over.

”I don't know how to dance!” I yelled to Declan; this close to the band, the music was louder than ever.