A Stewed Observation Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Karen C. Whalen

  A Stewed Observation

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Suggestions for Dinner Club Travel Overseas

  A word about the author…

  Just What I Kneaded – A Dinner Club Mystery Coming Soon:

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  “I guess you’ll need to trust me.”

  Griff’s blue eyes danced in his handsome face. The moment was suspended in the air for a few heartbeats. Then he leaned over and put his lips on hers. She smelled his scent, like the salty sea and the smoldering peat and the burning malt of the Guinness. His lips tasted like Guinness, too.

  Had she fallen asleep into a dream? She murmured, “The Irish are certainly a friendly people.” She turned to stare out the window, aware that Dale might be waiting for his connecting flight from Boston to Denver.

  As if reading her mind, Griff asked. “Are you upset about Dale leaving? How serious are you two, anyway?”

  Jane lowered her seat back to recline and closed her eyes. “I thought he was going to ask me to marry him on this trip.” Were they even together anymore? They were likely on the outs.

  “There’s something you should know.” He was silent for a few seconds as he inspected the steering wheel. “I overheard Dale’s telephone conversation, while I was at the receptionist desk, while you were having breakfast. He was talking to someone called Polly.”

  “Y-yes?”

  “He was standing right next to me. I couldn’t help hearing it.” Griff turned the ignition switch and pulled out into the traffic. “Dale told Polly he loved her.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “What else did he say?” She wrestled her seat back up, wide awake now.

  Praise for Karen C. Whalen

  “Take one feisty widow and her appealing friends, add a gourmet dinner club, sprinkle with murder and you have a recipe for a delightful read!”

  ~Laura DiSilverio, author of Readaholics Book Club mysteries

  ~*~

  “EVERYTHING BUNDT THE TRUTH is a culinary cozy mystery that dishes up a serving of humor, wit, and a desire to keep turning the pages to find out whodunnit.”

  ~Rhonda Blackhurst, author of Shear Madness

  ~*~

  “Whalen will have you simultaneously cooking up recipes for your own dinner club and eyeing everyone suspiciously.”

  ~Rachel Weaver, author of Point of Direction

  A Stewed Observation

  by

  Karen C. Whalen

  The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A Stewed Observation

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Karen Whalen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2088-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2089-2

  The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband, Tim,

  who shares my love of Ireland,

  and to world traveler and faithful first reader,

  Sandra Ilice Hilger,

  who keeps me pointed in the right direction.

  Chapter 1

  Jane studied the possible spots for Dale to pop the question.

  Excitement tingled in her already churning stomach as he opened the hatchback and piled their luggage onto the gravel next to a white-blooming, sweet-smelling rowan tree. She stepped alongside him as he wheeled their bags through the double, iron-clad doors of Lomán Castle, the medieval, ivy-covered, romantic’s dream destination.

  Although they were in their early fifties and both had been married before, she still held out hope for a romantic proposal. Would it be in the wide, stone-flagged entry hall with the arched, diamond-paned windows, or near the miniature, book-crammed library next to the lobby, or on top of the curved, blue-carpeted stairway?

  They paused at the marble registration desk.

  “Fáilte. I’m Griffin O’Doherty. Welcome to Ireland.” Only it sounded like “Oireland.” Crow’s feet edged Griffin O’Doherty’s aquamarine eyes, and his thatch of strawberry blond hair was in a longish, shaggy style, unlike the precision cuts worn by Americans. His melodic, Irish tongue was as captivating as his long hair and blue eyes, but Jane tried not to notice since she only had eyes for Dale.

  “Reservation for Dale Capricorn.” Dale took hold of her hand, his callouses scratchy and hard. He did not look his age, since his thick, brown hair and dimples gave him a youthful appearance.

  Griffin O’Doherty’s fingers typed on the keyboard. “Let me find your booking.”

  Dale said, “We’re with a group. There are two other couples joining us.”

  “The dinner club, right? The others beat you here, and they’ve already checked in. May I have your passports?” After making copies, Griffin slid a plastic card out of a drawer. “Here’s your room key card.”

  A hardy, geriatric version of Griffin O’Doherty came out from a room behind the reception desk. “I just don’t understand why you had to change all the keys to these silly plastic cards, Griff.” Although fairly fit, he appeared to be north of eighty years by a few notches. His voice held a tremor, shaky and crackly. His sullen face was well-lined, his hair so thin it only required two fingers to comb over.

  “Uncle, it’s so much easier to replace a card when a guest loses the key.”

  “Who lost a key?” He turned an angry scowl toward Dale. “Did you? Do I know you?”

  “No, I just got here!” Dale’s eyebrows shot up along with his voice.

  Jane gasped. Was this old man going to ruin the big event? Distract Dale from asking her to marry him?

  A cacophony of American voices sounded from the hallway. Everyone swiveled in that direction, as the dinner club members trooped in. Cheryl and Bruce Breewood, original organizers of the club, planned the trip to Ireland to visit Bruce’s relatives. Olivia and Doug Ladner decided to come along, and so, of course, Jane and Dale had to join in, too.

  Cheryl’s words rose above the other three, “Jane, Dale. We thought you were right behind us on the road, but we lost you.” Her eyes widened as she took in the old man with the angry, red face. “What’s going on?”

  Gri
ffin came out from behind the desk, his tall frame soaring above everyone else. “Uncle, go back to the tower. I’ll join you in a minute.” With his right arm around the old man’s shoulder and his left hand holding him in a vice grip, Griffin propelled his uncle through the door and slammed it closed after him.

  The friends stood in silence, as if caught eavesdropping on an embarrassing family moment.­­ Griffin said, like he had been dealing with a difficult child, “He doesn’t like change.” Dale edged to the desk and snagged the key card, jamming it into his pocket. Griffin asked, “Can I help with your luggage?”

  “No, thanks, I can manage.” Dale turned to the others. “We’ll meet up after we stow our bags.” He grabbed his black suitcase with one hand and the handle of Jane’s with the other, and wended his way through the group. The other two couples stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Wait. I have my own separate room.” Jane held firm at the desk. “Do you have my reservation, Mr. O’Doherty? Under Jane Marsh?” Dale spun around to wait.

  “Oh, sorry.” Griffin’s gaze darted from her to her boyfriend, then a mischievous smile broke out on his face, a smile that hinted he was up to something. “The room next to Dale Capricorn’s.”

  Jane seized the slippery plastic card from his hand. “Thanks.” She supposed it natural he would assume, since they were adults of a certain age, they were all married, and in fact, everyone was married except the two of them.

  Cheryl brushed her long chestnut brown bangs out of her eyes. “If you need us, we’re in room four and the Ladners have six.”

  “Okay, see you in a few,” Jane said over her shoulder as Griffin led the way along the massive hallway and up the curved staircase, with a whiff of furniture polish on the banisters. Dale followed at their heels. Stopping at Jane’s suite, the Irishman unlocked, then held the door open for her. He gave her a grin behind Dale’s back.

  ****

  The friends occupied the far table in the spacious dining hall. Even though the hall was majestic, with impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from tall ceilings, stone walls and floors, two long, dark wooden tables under white tablecloths, and oversized, heavy chairs—everything you’d expect in a castle—dinner consisted of simple bowls of Irish stew.

  Olivia flicked her napkin open and draped the flimsy paper across her lap. “Douglas had a power nap while you and Dale were unpacking. Cheryl and I ran across the street and bought postcards. Aren’t the rooms fantastic?”

  “I love my view of the Shannon River from the second floor.” Jane slid a chair out from under the table and plopped down.

  “It’s called the River Shannon.” Griffin lowered a wide tray of steaming bowls and stacks of soda bread onto the table. He placed full bowls in front of them, and the aroma of peppery, browned meat assaulted their noses. “So, you six are in some kind of a club?”

  Doug, a bold, red-headed, take-charge kind of a guy, being an ex-cop, answered for them all. “A dinner club. We host gourmet meals in our homes. The idea is to try new recipes on like-minded foodies.”

  “There’s one other couple in the club, but they couldn’t come on this trip.” Jane breathed in the steam from her bowl. “What’s in the stew?”

  “It’s an old Irish recipe, made with lamb, potatoes, carrots, and good ole’ Irish stout, and the bread is to sop it up.” Griffin tipped the empty tray on the table edge and leaned against it. “Can I get you anything more?”

  Bruce answered, “I’m good,” before glancing at the others, who all nodded in agreement, like people in a group do, and then he added, “When you have a moment, though, I’ve got a question.”

  “I always have time for questions.” Griffin gave Bruce an encouraging smile, a look that said he was in business-ready and customer-pleasing mode.

  “Can you tell us more about the history of the castle? Is there a brochure in the lobby?” Bruce adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Ah, no, I don’t have anything like that, but my uncle would love nothing better than to answer your questions.” Griffin gestured to his uncle across the room and called out, “Uncle, these guests would like to talk to you.”

  The old man shuffled over and stuck out his weathered, but meaty fingers. “Fáilte. I’m Alsander O’Doherty.”

  Bruce stood up to grip his hand. Doug shook his hand, too, but Dale remained in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Jane took in a sharp breath, wondering if the old man was in a better mood and if he would behave himself.

  Bruce returned to his seat. “Would you please join us? We’d love to talk to you about this place.”

  “Certainly.” Alsander scraped a chair out from the table.

  “Griffin, can you join us, too?” Cheryl scooched her chair over so Griffin could sit down next to his uncle.

  “Are you sure?” Griffin hesitated, but when they urged him, he took a seat.

  Alsander began, “Most people think all the castles are owned by the government, but they aren’t. Not all are national monuments.” Everyone gave the old man their attention. “That’s right. People own them, they buy them up and own them. I bought Lomán Castle about, let’s see, twenty-five years ago now. It’s medieval, built in the fourteen hundreds. A clan chieftain named Lomán had it built on this hill next to the River Shannon as a defense against the Norman invaders.” He rubbed his hands together. “I was after turning this place into a bed and breakfast. My daughter wasn’t interested, so I got my young nephew to run it.” His right hand came down heavily on his nephew’s shoulder.

  “I’m not young anymore, Uncle. I’m almost the same age as you when you bought the place.”

  “Not quite, not quite, lad.”

  Jane didn’t think Griffin was much older than herself, and possibly he was the same age. Relieved that the conversation was relaxed and easy, she asked his uncle between bites of the crunchy soda bread, “Does your daughter live close by?”

  “She lives in Dublin mostly, has a job there, but she’s often here to visit.”

  Bruce leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I have family in Limerick. My cousin is a pharmacist, Ryan Breewood. Do you know him?”

  “Breewood, you say?” Alsander’s eyes opened wide for a second, then narrowed. “Oh, the chemist.” Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “Yes. He married a Falon.”

  “Oh, them. Humph.” Alsander wiped a handkerchief across his sweaty face.

  Cheryl and Bruce frowned at each other. Jane stiffened and glanced at Dale.

  Olivia put down her spoon. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like the Falons? Or is it the Breewoods you don’t like?”

  “I don’t have to like everybody.” Alsander’s eyes bulged out as the water poured off of him.

  “Not again,” Griffin groaned, his hand over his eyes.

  “I’m done here.” Alsander stood up. His face was bright red, and a vein pulsed at his temple.

  Griffin followed him through the doorway into the kitchen. “Did you take your medication like I told you to?”

  When they were out of sight, Jane let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Bruce glanced around the group. “Jeez. Do they still have clan feuds here?”

  “Well, Bruce, you were the one who picked this place,” Olivia snorted. “Should we look for another hotel?” Her husband, Doug, shot her a silent be-quiet message.

  “I reserved this B&B months ago, and you want to change plans now?” A dangerous light glinted in Cheryl’s eyes.

  “Of course not. This place is fantastic, Cheryl. I love, love, love it here.” Jane stuck her thumb up. She wanted to stay, still envisioning a marriage proposal at this romantic castle.

  The old man’s outburst put aside, they eased into a conversation about the flight and the drive from the airport. Then they talked over plans for the next day. Finally, explaining she was tired from traveling, Jane excused herself and slipped from the room, but instead of heading upstairs, she sidled over to the reception desk.

&nbs
p; A young lady, with dreadlocks in her blonde hair and piercings in her nose and eyebrows, was reading a magazine. “Ha-ware-ya?” Pinned to her clingy top, a badge read, “Fiona.”

  “Ah, what?” Jane scratched her head.

  “Need, anytink?”

  “Yes. Could I have the key to room four?”

  “Here ya go.” Fiona gave her the key card.

  That was too easy. Jane raced down the hall and used the card to enter room four. She retrieved a black plastic spider with hairy legs from her pocket and tucked it under one of the pillows. Then she slid a fake, furry mouse under the sink in the bathroom. She stuck her head out the door, and not seeing anyone, returned to the receptionist. “I’m sorry. I meant to ask for the key to room seven.” Once she had the new key card, back down the hall she went to leave similar pranks in the Ladners’ room.

  But after opening the door, she stood as still as a mouse, a real live one, alert to an unexpected threat. Someone was sleeping in the bed, snoring with a deep breath in and a loud wheeze out. Moonlight slanting from the uncovered window struck a pair of glasses, a bottle of something, and a glass of water on a table, and the bed with Alsander’s head on the pillow. She backed from the room on tiptoe, closed the door with a soft click, and took in the room number. Room seven. Hmmm. She must’ve heard the number wrong.

  She jumped when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Jane! What are you doing on our hall? Isn’t your room up one floor?” Cheryl gave her a skeptical look. Bruce stood behind his wife, his fingers pressing his glasses against his face as he stared through the lenses at what Jane was up to.

  “Yes. But I wanted to see this picture.” Jane waved her hand toward an ancient oil painting in a weathered frame. “Well, the time difference is catching up with me. See you in the morning.” She patted one hand over an exaggerated yawn, then scurried up the stairs. She would have to figure out a way to sneak the key card back to the receptionist later.

  ****

  After breakfast the next morning, Jane had time to return the key while everyone else was getting ready to leave for the day. The same receptionist as the night before—Fiona—was at the desk. Should she just hand Fiona the key or would it be suspicious she’d had it all night? Jane loitered as long as she could in the lobby, then entered the cramped library across from the desk. She poked her nose out a couple of times until Fiona finally shut her magazine and left in the direction of the kitchen.