A Stewed Observation Read online

  Jane bolted over. She managed to toss the key card onto the desktop, then stole out the double entry doors. Dale leaned against the stone wall, talking with a lowered voice into his phone, a finger in his free ear. The other couples were standing by their car with jackets under their arms, since Ireland in May was chilly and wet.

  Olivia and Doug piled into the front, as Cheryl and Bruce shoehorned themselves into the back seat of their mini Ford KA, just like Dale and Jane’s rental, even down to the white color. Bruce shouted over to her, “We’re heading out. Don’t be too long.”

  Jane waved them off and waited a few moments before Dale clattered down the front stone steps. She climbed into their car, and Dale took the driver’s place behind the wheel. “Sorry, Jane, I had to answer a call.”

  “Is it work?”

  “Sort of, you know how it is.”

  She opened her mouth to say more, then thought better of it. The GPS device took them on winding, precarious, two lane roads, ridged by tall, green hedges punctuated with old, stone walls. The posted speed limit was 100 kilometers. Jane screwed up her face and chewed on her lips trying to convert that into miles per hour. They were doing something like sixty.

  They caught up with the others on the Dingle Loop at the primitive stone chapel, called the Gallarus Oratory, and the prehistoric stone huts, called clochans, then again at their destination in Dingle Town. After a pub meal, they drove from the town to Dingle Harbor and got out, their feet crunching on the shingle beach and their hair whipping around from the damp, salt-tinged wind. After taking pictures, they returned to their cars for the drive back to Limerick, which took over two hours.

  The door to the B&B was locked, and they rang the bell. Griffin opened up, and as they entered, he asked about their long day. Doug and Olivia were tired and went straight to their room, and Cheryl followed them down the dimly lit hall, but Bruce, Dale, and Jane stopped to chat with the innkeeper.

  Alsander O’Doherty stormed into the foyer with loud steps. “Why’d you get back so late? Not very considerate.”

  “Uncle!” A deep, fiery blush ran up Griffin’s cheeks. “Why are you out of bed?”

  The three friends stood stock still, but Alsander shoved past his nephew, tossing him aside with strength belying his age. He yelled at Bruce, “You sicken’ me, ye’ twit,” and raised a fist, about to strike.

  Bruce’s arm flew up to ward off the blow, and Alsander’s fist caught him on the wrist. The glass in Bruce’s shiny gold watch cracked and shards hit the floor. Just then, a tall, black-haired woman and a stout, round-faced man rushed in from the dining hall. The woman’s face was frightening, and the man’s size was intimidating, since he was built wide and solid like a Hummer SUV. Alsander flailed around, his legs flying out, his feet stomping with loud thumps, and they all surged toward him.

  Jane started forward, too, but Dale wrenched her behind his back, shielding her against the hard wall. Thundering sounds of flesh pounding flesh, a woman’s squeals, and a man’s grunts caused Jane to peek out, but each time she made a move, Dale inadvertently stepped in front of her blocking her view. He turned his back to the fight, then everything went quiet. She poked her head out, just in time to see Alsander slithering to the floor.

  The old man’s eyes bulged wide open, staring sightless. He lay as gray and immobile as the cold stones under their feet.

  Chapter 2

  Everyone stood motionless staring at Alsander O’Doherty, except Griffin, whose face was inflamed with a wild, incomprehensible look. Griffin leaned over and cried, “Uncle!”

  The woman shrieked, “Da, Da!” Her black eyebrows pointed sharply upward over the bridge of her nose in her angular face. The stout man held her back, as Griffin and Bruce fell to their knees beside the unconscious man. Bruce compressed Alsander’s wrist, then his neck. “No pulse. He’s not breathing. He needs CPR.”

  Doug dashed in from the long hallway and, after only a brief hesitation, dropped to Bruce’s side and began compressing Alsander’s chest.

  “Griffin, call 9-1-1,” Bruce said in his cop voice, detached and commanding. Years spent as an officer of the law dealing with life and death situations had left its imprint.

  The stout man spoke for the first time. “You mean 9-9-9.”

  Griffin shot over to the reception desk and grabbed his cellphone. He punched in numbers and shouted, “Ambulance, please,” then waited only a moment before he said, “My uncle collapsed. He’s not breathing.” Griffin gave the address, then answered more questions, providing his uncle’s name and age, and then disconnected. He said to no one in particular, “They’re on the way.”

  After more chest compressions than Jane could count, Doug placed one palm on Alsander’s forehead and tilted his head back. Then with his other hand, he lifted the unconscious man’s chin forward, pinched his nose shut, and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After some time Bruce took over the rhythmic breathing from Doug, then Doug took over from Bruce. Alsander’s chest rose with every breath in, but he was not responding. The black-haired woman had fallen silent, and the stout man stood next to her as if uncertain what to do.

  Dale gripped Jane’s hand and tugged her close to his side. “Are you okay, hon?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. It’s the old guy I’m concerned about.” Jane leaned into his strong hold and continued to watch the efforts to save the man’s life. “Griffin, do you think it’s his heart or something?”

  The black-haired woman choked out, “He didn’t have a bad heart.”

  Griffin jerked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  Bruce took over blowing into Alsander’s mouth, then thumped on his chest, then puffed into his mouth again.

  “How long does the ambulance take?” Dale let go of Jane as he shouldered open the front door.

  Brisk night air with a fishy, river scent rolled in through the entryway. A siren wailed in the distance, closing in. Griffin went outside, and Dale followed him. Jane waited in the doorway, listening. Within a few moments several official vehicles arrived and policemen got out wearing their navy blue uniforms, black neckties, and stiff, blue caps with brims. Their blue protective vests proclaimed, “Gardaí.” Paramedics stomped in behind them with Griffin and Dale at their heels. The medics took over, and the police told the dinner club group to wait in the dining hall.

  Griffin and the black-haired woman stayed with the paramedics, but the stout man trailed after the club members. Cheryl and Olivia, wrapped in white terrycloth robes, showed up as well, explaining they’d heard the commotion. Bruce told them what had happened in a few brief words. Then, because the policeman at the door said, “Please refrain from talking,” they sat in silence at the long table, darting concerned looks into each other’s eyes.

  The officer disappeared from the doorway. Time ticked by. Impatient for news, Jane stared out into the lobby past a gathering of policemen to where the paramedics were working. No one spoke when she returned to her chair. Dale scrolled on his cellphone, Cheryl and Bruce huddled together at a separate table, and Olivia gripped the e-book reader she’d brought with her, but her gaze did not appear to be moving across the screen. Both Doug and the unknown, stout man could have been napping, since their eyes were closed and their heads were leaned on their chair backs. The stout man’s apparent somnolence gave Jane the opportunity to examine his pleasant, round face topped by thick, sandy-colored hair. He didn’t look so imposing in his sleep.

  When Jane checked the entry hall again, Griffin’s uncle was no longer lying there and one of the officers was heading in her direction, so she bobbed back into the dining room.

  “I’m with the Garda Síochána. I’ll take your statements one at a time.” The officer glanced around the group, then nodded at Bruce. “Starting with you.” The tightness of his nod and the sudden narrowing of his eyes indicated Bruce was the only one he was really interested in. The two withdrew, and after three-quarters of an hour, Bruce returned. Doug was qu
estioned next, then Olivia, then Cheryl, even though they had explained they’d arrived after the fact. The officer was quick with those three and returned them to the dining room in record time.

  He asked Jane to come with him. Once she was seated in a well-worn, leather wingback chair near a table and lamp in the jam-packed library, the policeman said, “Tell me what happened.” The lampshade was tilted up at an angle, the bright light in her face, the policeman at the edge of the shadows.

  “Well, the old guy was acting strange, very agitated. He actually attacked Bruce. Then he sort of passed out.” She wrung her hands. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s dead.” The officer’s voice had a hard edge, stiff and unfeeling. “Who had their hands on Mr. O’Doherty?”

  Her heart sank at the thought of his death, even if she didn’t know him. “Bruce and Griffin tried to hold the old guy down, and that other couple, that hefty man and that tall woman, showed up and jumped in, too. It was so confusing. They were all rushing at him, and it happened really fast. I couldn’t see anything because I was standing behind Dale.” Jane teared up. “Um, who was the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  Jane raised her hand high above her head, wrist bent, fingers wriggling. “She was tall. Lots of black hair. Looked a bit like a witch.”

  “You mean Mr. O’Doherty’s daughter?”

  Her hand fell to her lap. “His daughter? Oh, the one from Dublin.” Jane sniffed and the officer handed her a tissue. “So, was it a stroke or something?”

  The policeman loomed closer. “He was elderly. Did it really take all of you to restrain him?”

  “He was old, but he was strong, too.” Her heart started to thump. “No one intentionally hurt him.”

  “Choking a person to death is a crime in Ireland.”

  “What?” Her head whipped around as if slapped. She raised a hand to her cheek, almost feeling the hand print there. “We were only trying to help.” Her gaze searched the room, but the bookshelves and the window were in darkness and only the policeman’s face was lit. She tried to rid her voice of any uncertainty. “Look, Bruce was a policeman back in the States years ago. He would never hurt anybody.” Both Bruce and Doug had been on the police force before leaving public service for the private sector.

  “You’re kidding. Your police beat people up all the time. I’ve seen the videos of the police in Los Angeles and St. Louis. They’re on YouTube. Want to see?” The guard unfastened his jacket to withdraw a cellphone from an inside pocket. A strong scent of perspiration filled the closed, miniscule room.

  “No, you’re wrong.” A thought flashed across her brain, causing her to button her lips. The policeman seemed to suspect Bruce of doing something wrong. She should remain silent. Everything she said might be used against her, or her friends, but wait, that’s the way it was in the States. “What rights do we Americans have here?”

  “You don’t have citizen’s rights.”

  Right. She told herself to shut up. Time to quit talking. Jane’s attention darted from the policeman asking the questions to the one guarding the door. “Are we done here?”

  “We’re done for now.”

  He bustled Jane back to the dining room and led the stout man away. Not too much time passed before the officer returned without the stout man, who must have been allowed to leave. Dale took off with the officer for his turn at questioning. The two soon reappeared, and the policeman in charge said, “We’d like to take your fingerprints.” An officer collected prints from everyone, and then, at last, the police departed.

  Alone, the friends all eyed one another as they seemed to give a collective sigh of relief. Bruce leaned back into his chair, as if drained, and his eyes held a worried expression. “They took my passport.”

  “Why yours? They didn’t take mine.” Jane was reluctant to mention the Irish policeman’s low comments about the American police force. Bruce didn’t answer the question. No one appeared eager to discuss what had happened, except to say the police had not requested their passports either. Only Bruce’s had been taken.

  Olivia wiped ink from her fingers onto a tissue. “I’m beat. I’m going to bed.” Everyone agreed they were exhausted, so they separated for their rooms.

  Jane readied for the night in her en suite bathroom, then climbed under the covers. As tired as she was, she had to force her eyes to remain closed, but explosions of colors painted the insides of her eyelids like Rorschach inkblots. Death seemed to have a way of following her; bursts of shadowy black, midnight blue, dark forest green, deep chocolate brown, crimson red…death came in every color. Opening her eyes, she fixed her gaze at the dark ceiling and replayed the events in her mind.

  She saw a man die. He passed from this life to the other side right in front of her. There was no way for him to know when he awoke that morning it would be his last day on earth. He went about his business, got dressed, ate meals, spoke to people, and perhaps made plans for the next day, not knowing he would meet his maker that night. Life was short, whether one lived until eight or eighty.

  And she didn’t do a thing to help him, she only stood there behind Dale, safe and protected against the hard stone wall. But death was not anything new to her. She’d brushed up against death too many times before, including murders.

  She scrambled out from under the blankets to fish a spiral notepad out of her purse. Soon several pages were covered with her handwriting. Surprised the police didn’t ask for sworn statements, she wanted to memorialize what she remembered and exactly what Alsander had said. If questioned again later, she’d be able to recount the fine points that otherwise would be easy to forget. Too bad she hadn’t actually seen what had happened, who was where, exactly which of them had their hands around Alsander, and especially where Bruce was in all of this. Dale would know.

  Writing down her thoughts didn’t quiet her mind, though. She tossed and turned some more, yanking the woven cotton blanket up and flinging it off again. Should she wake Dale? Since the time was two in the morning, she thought she’d better not. Maybe a book would help her fall asleep.

  After wrapping herself in the white, terrycloth robe she’d found on a hanger on the back of the bathroom door, she slipped downstairs on bare feet into the tiny library. She clicked on the lamp, illuminating the wingback chair where she’d been questioned in that same circle of yellow light. Suddenly claustrophobic, she went to the window, tucked the curtains behind the wall-mounted tie-backs, and split open the window for some air. After a few deep breaths, she ran her fingers over the musty spines of the hardcovers and read the titles. Bunched together were biographies of celebrities, publications on Ireland, cookbooks, travel guides…and on the top shelf, a couple of texts on health. What else was up there? Jane stretched onto her tiptoes, but was still too short. She shoved the armchair over and climbed up for a closer look. A manual on pills. She put it back and reached toward the next volume. It was heavy, with a title in bold, black gilded letters.

  “Jane.” A whisper interrupted the silence.

  Her foot slipped off the chair, she fell onto the seat, and the book soared out of her hands and onto the floor.

  “You’re up late.” Griffin’s eyes bored into hers, then raked her up and down.

  “You startled me.” Her heart pounded, so she pressed her palm against her chest as she stood up from the chair. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d grab a book. How are you doing? You having trouble sleeping, too?”

  “It’s nice of you to ask, Jane. I…I’m just in shock.” A look of sadness crossed his face.

  “Of course you are.” She had to crane her neck to look up at him, he was so close.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you sleep?” His voice was husky. He rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers and gave the strands a tug.

  “Ah, no,” she said in a strangled voice, staring into his icy blue eyes a moment too long.

  He returned the look, but his was a little bolder. He probably flirted with all the women g
uests. She took two steps back and slipped around the chair.

  He snatched up the book, turned it over in his hands, and ran his fingers across the binding. Reaching over Jane’s head, he put it back on the high shelf. Easing out from under his arm, she backed into the lobby. He followed her out, then stationed his feet in front of hers. They would have been nose-to-nose if Jane had been taller.

  Griffin looked down deep into her eyes one more time. “Sleep well, then.”

  “Goodnight.” She stumbled over to the stairs and made a hasty retreat to her room, locking the door behind her.

  ****

  She slept until eight the next morning. There was no time for her usual twenty minutes with her devotional before starting the day. After a quick shower and getting dressed in a yellow blouse, brown capris, and leather walking sandals, she dried her shoulder-length hair, curling the ends under, and applied a small amount of makeup. Grabbing her purse and jacket, she hurried down the steps two at a time. Could she expect breakfast? Probably not, after what had happened.

  But as she advanced along the corridor, the whiff of bacon, together with loud voices, came from the dining hall. The rest of the dinner club members were talking at the far table. They were the only ones in the room. The traditional Irish breakfast—bacon rashers, pork sausages, fried eggs, black pudding, and fried tomato—simmered in the chafing dishes, and the aroma of hot coffee filled the hall.

  Bruce adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with one hand and shook a pointed finger with the other. “I didn’t have the old man in the choke hold. Not me. I hope whoever did spoke up.” Since he had been a police officer and was now a professor of criminology, he had a strong sense of justice and fairness and a belief that people should take responsibility for their actions.