Night of the Dark Horse (An Allegra Fairweather Mystery) Page 3

  “You’ll heal quicker on Cloud 9.” Not that I didn’t want him to hang around, but if a temporary separation would ensure his recovery, I could live with that.

  He didn’t answer. His attention returned to his feet. Honestly, those flip-flops must be the most interesting pair in the world.

  When the silence became uncomfortable, I filled it with, “Okay, I’m on my way to do some interviews. You can tag along, but don’t interrupt. Just keep quiet and look pretty.”

  “Pretty?” Faint color stained his cheeks.

  I winked at him. “You’re even prettier when you blush.” I’d have liked to tease him some more, but there was a case to be solved. I set off down the street, slowing my pace to match his. Once his cane lodged in a pothole and he pitched forward. I caught him before he hit the ground, but it was a near thing.

  It was a relief to reach the home of Nola and Brian O’Malley. My knock was answered by a woman in late middle-age. With her clear skin, round rosy cheeks and ample hips, she was the perfect picture of a healthy country woman. I introduced myself and explained that I’d been hired by Ronan to get rid of the pooka.

  “Sure, everyone’s been talkin’ about you.” She switched her gaze from me to Casper, extended her hand and said, “Lovely to meet you. Please call me Nola.”

  “Casper,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “My partner,” I clarified. Flashing him a warning glance, I said, “He doesn’t say much.”

  Nola invited us in and offered tea and cake. I preferred coffee, but I’d settle for tea to make a witness feel comfortable.

  “Would you like to eat outside?” she suggested. “The weather is so pleasant.” Not sure I agreed with her on that, but I obediently followed her through a neat cottage to her large back garden. A man with balding gray hair and a slight beer belly sat at a table, studying a crossword.

  “My husband Brian,” Nola said.

  “Good mornin’ to you.” He gave us a brief smile before returning his attention to the puzzle.

  Casper and I pulled up chairs and joined him at the table. Brian was too busy filling in squares to pay us much attention, but that was fine by me. Casper stretched his long legs in front of him. It wasn’t long before his eyes closed. Sunlight haloed his hair, which, for a moment, was bright golden again. I was reaching out to smooth the locks off his forehead when Nola reappeared with a tray of cups, saucers, plates and a whole cake.

  “This is my famous honey and ginger cake.” She handed around plates of the sugary treat.

  I was still full from brunch, but I could always find room for cake. I took a bite. “Wow, this is good.” The only time I’d tasted better was the angel cake from Casper’s Angel Awards goodie bag.

  She beamed. “That’s because of my secret ingredient, so it is.”

  I knew better than to ask about ingredients. Cooks don’t give away their secrets. Not that I’d borrow her recipe anyway. My idea of preparing food was picking up takeout.

  Nola wasn’t done boasting about her cake. “It took first prize at the local fair two years in a row. It would’ve won this year too if that bird hadn’t got to it. The bloody thing flew right into the house on the mornin’ of the fair and started eatin’. By the time I shooed it away, the cake was destroyed.”

  “You did more than shoo it away,” Brian teased. “The creature was lucky to escape with its life.”

  “Now then, Brian O’Malley, you’d be angry too if a bird attacked your crossword.”

  He looked at the sky as though expecting a bird to dump on him. When he saw there was nothing flying overhead, he relaxed and bit into his cake.

  I got out my pencil and notepad. “Nola, tell me about your experience with the pooka.”

  More than happy to share her story, she began, “There was a terrible storm that night, wasn’t there, Brian?”

  “Mmm.” Eleven down commanded his attention.

  “It was very much like the storm we had last night,” she went on. “Strange weather we’ve been havin’. Dingaleen rarely had bad storms before this year.” She paused to sip her tea and savor a mouthful of cake. “It was around midnight when the pooka arrived. I’d been up late reading. I’d only just turned out the light when I heard a man—or so I thought—call my name. ‘Nola Ashling O’Malley.’ I thought it was old Derry comin’ home from the pub.”

  “But it wasn’t,” I prompted.

  She shook her head, making wisps of gray hair dance. “That evil black horse was lookin’ up at my window. Snortin’ fire and brimstone. Eyes like glowin’ coals. I thought I was dreamin’. ‘Go away,’ I said, and drew the curtains. But it didn’t leave. I heard it clompin’ through our garden then the sound of breakin’ glass. From my kitchen! All my recipes were in there. I didn’t stop to put on my dressin’ gown or slippers. I just ran down the stairs like I had a banshee at my heels.

  “When I got to the kitchen, rain was blowing through the broken window. The pooka kicked at the door. ‘Nola Ashling O’Malley,’ it shouted, ‘I call you to ride.’

  “Pardon my language, but I told it to feck off. Sure, and that made it angry. It shouted, ‘If you refuse to ride, I’ll kick your door in and wreck the kitchen.’ Well, no nasty pooka was going to destroy my kitchen. I grabbed my recipe folders and put them in the living room, out of the rain. Then I went outside. If I had to ride to save my kitchen, I’d ride. Isn’t that right, Brian?”

  “Nola loves her kitchen,” he answered automatically. All his attention was on the final clue of his crossword.

  Nola wasn’t bothered by his distraction. She went right on with her story. “I’m too short to mount such a large creature, but it came over to the stone wall and I scrambled onto its back. ‘Hang on,’ it said with an evil laugh. It took off like a shot, so it did. There were no reins, but I grabbed its mane. It raced around the village and across the fields with me bouncing on its back like a sack of potatoes.

  “Racin’ through the woods was terrifyin’. The pooka dodged around trees, makin’ my stomach feel as though I was on one of those amusement park rides. It ducked under some low-hangin’ branches and...that’s all I remember until I woke up on the ground with Brian kneelin’ beside me.”

  Brian snapped his fingers. “Amusement. That’s the word.” He filled in the last clue and flung down his pencil with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Welcome back to the land o’ the livin’,” said Nola.

  He smiled contentedly and sipped his tea. Nola patted his thigh.

  I switched my attention to Brian. “How did you find Nola?”

  “I followed the pooka in our car. It wasn’t easy trackin’ the creature across fields. Especially when I had to keep to the road, but I managed it, so I did. When it reached the woods, I got out and tracked it on foot. Couldn’t keep up with it, o’ course, but the beast had left a trail of destruction. I followed that and found Nola lyin’ on the ground, unconscious. At first I thought she was dead. Then I saw those big bosoms rise—”

  “Brian! Stop it.” She playfully swatted him. “Just tell Allegra what happened.”

  He returned his attention to me. “I’m guessin’ she hit her head on a tree branch and fell off the horse. There was bark in her hair, a graze and a lump on her forehead. It was a miracle she wasn’t badly hurt.”

  Nola couldn’t resist adding. “There was a lump on the back of my head, too, from where I fell, and my neck is still sore with certain movements, so it is.”

  “Did you fall near a bog?” I asked.

  “It didn’t dump me in the muck.” Nola smiled, self-satisfied. “Looks like I got the best of it in the end, because I saved my recipes and the damage to the kitchen was easily repaired.”

  Brian put in. “There are bogs deeper in the woods. The pooka was probably headin’ that way when Nola fell. She was very lucky.”

  “Did the pooka explain why it chose you?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it had a reason,” said Nola. “Other than to make mischief.”


  Okay, that was the traditional belief, but my gut was telling me there was more to it than that. “How long has the pooka been hanging around Dingaleen?” I asked.

  Brian answered. Despite the traumatic experience, his voice was tinged with pride. “Nola was only the second person—after Siobhan Whelan—to ride in a hundred years. Nobody believed pookas were real before that.”

  “We thought they were just tales for children,” Nola added. “Then, when Siobhan was called to ride, we thought it was because she’d meddled with those graves.”

  “Whose graves?”

  Brian and Nola exchanged a glance. He shrugged. She said, “We don’t know who’s buried there. As far as we’re concerned, it’s best to keep away from graves in unconsecrated ground.”

  Pencil poised, I asked, “They’re not in the churchyard?”

  “No,” Brian said, “they’re out in the woods somewhere.”

  “Siobhan told you this?”

  Nola shook her head. “It was Fiona Mullan, who got it from her daughter Teagan, who got it from Siobhan herself.”

  “And none of them know who’s buried there?”

  “I suppose Siobhan does,” said Brian. “You should talk to her.”

  “Brian’s right,” said Nola. “Go to the source.”

  Instead of repeating gossip like Nola? Good idea. I scribbled a note to find out more about the graves when I interviewed Siobhan, adding a reminder to check whether Ronan or Derry Boyle had seen them. Nola, who could apparently read my handwriting upside down, said, “Derry never went near the graves.”

  “Derry makes the best damson wine in the country,” Brian said. “Must be near two hundred proof.”

  “Good to know.” Just in case I wanted to get wasted.

  Nola said, “Ronan didn’t go near the graves either. Poor young man. His career had barely begun and now it’s over. Tragic, simply tragic.”

  “Dancin’.” Brian sniffed. “Not a man’s profession. If he’d had to give up football—now that would’ve been a tragedy.”

  “Have some sympathy,” said Nola. “Ronan will never walk properly again, let alone dance. It’s so sad. So young.”

  I couldn’t do anything about Ronan’s injury, but if—when—I solved this case, I could stop the pooka from hurting anyone else.

  Leaving Nola and Brian to finish the cake, we headed for Siobhan’s place. I wanted to find out more about the graves, and her ride, but Siobhan wasn’t home. A neighbor told us she’d gone to Dublin for the day. In the meantime, Derry Boyle’s place was only a short walk away. His cottage was tiny, but the window trims and front door had been freshly painted. His yard was like a farm with vegetable gardens, fruit trees and even a chicken coup. He poured damson wine while I held my breath against the stink of chicken poop. Brian O’Malley had been right about the strength of the wine. Casper and I sipped slowly. Derry knocked back his own drink like a shot, sighed with pleasure and dragged his hand across his lips.

  “You’ll want to know about my ride on the pooka,” he said.

  “Start with what happened before that, when it first called you to ride.”

  “I told it to feck off.”

  “Really? How did that go?”

  “Cost me some apples and a row of peas. I took a shovel to it. Great shite of a beast kicked the shovel right out of my hand. Broke two of my fingers.” He winced, cradling his hand as though it still hurt. “It threatened to do worse if I didn’t ride. So I climbed on its feckin’ back, slapped its flank and said, ‘Give me your worst.’

  “It wasn’t the first time I’d been on a horse and I kept my seat even without a saddle. Even with broken fingers. If the pooka hadn’t stopped dead, I’d never have landed headfirst in the bog. Luck was with me. I landed near the bank. Didn’t take much effort to grab a bush and haul myself out. I ended up with pneumonia, but I lived to tell the tale.” He gave a chuckle that ended in a cough. “It’ll take more than a pooka to kill me.”

  “Has it returned?”

  He shook his head. “If it does, I’m ready for it. Got a brand new shovel.”

  Just in case you’re wondering, there is no evidence that a shovel is the best weapon to use on a pooka. Even a gun isn’t much use. Pookas are so tough they could probably survive a nuclear blast. Along with cockroaches.

  “So, Mr. Boyle...” He hadn’t said I could call him Derry, and older people are often more responsive if you show them respect. “...do you know why the pooka targeted you?”

  “There’s no rhyme or reason. The world’s gone crazy. Violent storms. Eagles eatin’ my berries. It’s wrong.”

  “I thought eagles were carnivores.”

  “So they are. But just two days before the pooka showed up, I had to take my shovel to an eagle. Not that I’d have killed it. You may not know this but eagles died out in this part of the world. There’s a program to reintroduce them. Mind you, this wasn’t a golden eagle or even a white-tailed eagle. It was black as good soil with bright yellow tips on its wings and claws. Never seen anything like it before—must be a new species. Some experiment with genetics. I don’t approve of dabblin’ with nature.”

  I glanced at Casper, wondering whether he knew anything about the strange eagle, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Mainly because he was leaning against a wall of Derry’s house, eyes closed. His skin had a gray tinge. The lines in his face seemed even deeper than Derry’s. The sight of him in such poor condition was like a knife through my heart. I turned back to Derry, focusing on the case.

  “You were the third person who was visited by the pooka, right?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t kept count. Siobhan was the first, I know that.”

  “She’d been tidying up some graves. You know anything about that?”

  “I’ve got too much to do in my garden without potterin’ around old graves. Siobhan needs a husband and family to keep her out of mischief.”

  “Where are the graves?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. Ask Siobhan. More wine?”

  Reluctantly, I declined. I had to keep my wits about me until I’d concluded the interviews. When I was convinced Derry had nothing more to reveal, we headed back to Siobhan’s place. Our knock remained unanswered.

  “We’ll call back later,” I said to Casper.

  After returning to Ronan’s, I changed clothes and went for a run. Casper wasn’t thrilled about me going off alone, but in his present condition he had no chance of matching my pace. To keep him happy, I suggested we meet up later for dinner. The evening temperature was perfect for jogging. Lots of people were taking advantage of what in this part of the world was a balmy evening. They worked in their gardens, and chatted on street corners. There were even a couple of kids shrieking with delight as they played under a sprinkler.

  An old Chinese guy, neatly dressed in black jeans and a dark sweatshirt, caught sight of me and melted into the shadow of a building. I did a double take. Definitely out of place in this village. A tourist, I guessed.

  Farther down the road a pretty, dark-haired woman was trying to get rid of the unwelcome advances of a guy who had spent too much time building muscles and not enough learning to read women’s body language. Even from a distance, it was clear she wanted him gone. Like yesterday.

  I heard her yell, “Feck off, Colum,” right before she stalked away.

  Apparently Colum didn’t know the meaning of feck off because he followed her. Not right away. He watched, waiting until she took a detour away from the road and into a wooded area. Then he set off after her.

  I changed direction and set off after him.

  Now, it was just possible this was a lovers’ tiff that would soon be over, but I didn’t think so. I followed them until I heard voices raised above the bubbling of a creek. I ignored my first instinct, which was to rush right over to Colum and explain the meaning of feck off. Instead, I crept closer and hid behind some bushes. Any investigator worthy of the name doesn’t draw the line at eavesdropping. I kept very quiet and did
just that.

  “Come on, darlin’.” Colum’s hair was shorn close to his head. Muscles Popeyed threateningly against his sleeves. “Just one kiss.”

  “Bugger off.” The woman tried to sound tough, but I detected an undercurrent of fear.

  “Just one kiss,” Colum wheedled.

  “I’ve told you before,” said the young woman, “I’m not interested in you.”

  “So who are ya interested in?”

  “No one.”

  “There must be someone. Go on tell me.” He leaned in closer and she crinkled her nose as though his breath smelled bad. He didn’t notice and leaned even closer. “I need to know the kind of men ya like so I can study ‘em, be more like ‘em.”

  She gave him a look that said, Sure you do. Out loud, she said firmly, “I know how you operate. Even if there were someone else, I wouldn’t give you an excuse to beat him up.”

  “Niamh, darlin’, would I do that?” When she didn’t answer, he went on, “I didn’t come down in the last shower. I know there’s someone. Who is he?”

  “I have to get to work.” She tried to walk away, but he moved quickly blocking her path. She said wearily, “You have to believe me. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t even fancy anyone.”

  “Why? You a lezbo?”

  She hesitated as though tempted to tell him she was gay, but in the end she just said, “There’s no one else. Really. I’m just not ready for a boyfriend.”

  “You’re twenty-one. You’ll be an old maid soon if you don’t get started.”

  Old maid? Who says that anymore?

  “Let me go, I’ll be late for work.”

  His arms snaked around her. “Give me a kiss first.”

  Right, I’d waited long enough. Making a lot of noise, I emerged from the bushes and jogged toward them. Distracted, Colum loosened his hold on Niamh. Seizing her opportunity, she pulled away from him and escaped toward the village.

  Colum stared at me. “Who the feck are you?”