Okay, let’s get something out of the way so we won’t have to deal with it again. I can hear you thinking, Oh, that Jane Delaney, how does she live with herself? Pretending to be something she’s not. For money. Taking advantage of grieving families. For money. Stealing from dead people. For three hundred bucks cash money. Well, I think I explained that last thing. It wasn’t really stealing—the brooch belonged to Irene. Kind of. And anyway, this particular job wasn’t what you’d call typical, even for Irene. My usual assignments involve activities as benign as placing flowers on graves or scattering ashes at sea. Plus that thing I mentioned before, being a paid mourner, which I’ll have you know is a career with a long and distinguished… well, a long history, so don’t turn up your nose. Okay, I’ll admit there have been a few assignments over the years that might be described as offbeat, the current one being a splendid example. And for the record, I had nothing to do with the kitty-litter episode. That was before my time. The bottom line is, I help my clients deal with their grief and loss, and I have a strict moral code regarding what kinds of jobs I’ll accept. You think swiping jewelry is bad? You should see what I’ve turned down. Once word gets around that there’s this person called the Death Diva—no, I did not choose the nickname!—willing to perform all manner of chores for grieving folk, at reasonable rates and with the utmost discretion, well, you’re going to get the occasional kook slithering out of the woodwork.
I heard the jaunty opening bars of “Tequila” and retrieved my cell from the pocket of my suede jacket. I checked the screen. It was Sten Jakobsen, Irene’s lawyer. My gut tightened. Of the many unwelcome thoughts that had kept me up all night, one of the most unwelcome was the question of what would become of Sexy Beast. The dog was Irene’s only dependent, and Sten was responsible for seeing to his disposition in accordance with whatever instructions she’d left. Which no doubt meant delivering him to whichever well-heeled friend or relative was best equipped to support him in the style to which his pampered little self had become accustomed. Why else would Sten be calling except to request that I deliver SB to his next owner, who wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about him or know where he likes his scritches or how many hard-boiled eggs to put in his chopped liver. Answer: two eggs for every pound of liver. And don’t skimp on the chicken fat. I dumped the call. I was in no hurry to help Sten check that one off his to-do list. That conversation, which would likely include the words “over my dead body,” could wait until I was more rested or at least had a gallon or three of black coffee coursing through my veins.
“Maria, I lost an earring last time I was here. I’m going to go look for it.” I touched her arm and searched her eyes. I could read nothing in her closed expression. “Are you okay? Why don’t you go home. I’ll be in touch.” “I’m fine.” She waved me away. “I’ll finish tidying up, take out the garbage. Then I’ll go.” It wouldn’t be easy for a forty-seven-year-old grandmother to get another job in this economy—yet one more worry that had kept me up last night. “Listen, um… if you need references,” I said, “you know, to get another job, maybe they’ll accept a letter from me. I mean, I wasn’t your employer, but under the circumstances—” “No need. I’ll be all right.” I must have looked dubious, because she added, “Mrs. M took care of me in her will.” “Oh. Well… good. I mean, I’m glad to hear that.” Irene never mentioned the contents of her will to me, not once. I assumed she had relatives somewhere who would inherit all her worldly goods, but apparently she’d also had the foresight to make provisions for the person who’d seen to her care and comfort for nearly three decades. I guess the lady-of-the-manor thing included a healthy dollop of noblesse oblige. “Well, if at some point you decide you want that letter,” I added, “just give me a call.”
My first stop was the laundry room, whose floor was now dry. I looked in the recycle bins next to the big upright freezer. Sure enough, I spied, along with a spent bottle of premium vodka and a few empty food jars, a brown Guinness bottle. I picked it up, peered inside, shook it. The heady perfume of Irish stout cut through the cloying scent of fabric softener that always permeated that room. A drop or two of liquid remained. So this bottle had probably been tossed in there in the past couple of days. Maria must have heard the clinking of glass. “Did you lose your earring in the recycling?” she called. “I’m checking everywhere.”
I hope you’ve already figured out the lost-earring bit was a big fat lie. My intuition was shrieking like the Bride of Frankenstein. Okay, in all probability the beer drinker was a regular pal of Irene’s—didn’t Sophie Halperin like a brewski or two?—but the whole thing didn’t feel right. Throw a larcenous padre with impeccable timing into the mix and I figured there was a better than even chance said padre had been sitting in Irene’s living room in the past day or two, sipping a cold one and working the conversation around to a certain McAuliffe family heirloom, one with a fishy tail and perky, ruby-tipped tatas. Had he come here dressed as a priest then? Was that how he’d gained entrance? Irene was raised in the faith but had long ago slipped into your basic A & P routine: Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday. Would the clerical collar make her easier to manipulate, or would she be quicker than I was to see through it? Knowing Irene, my money was on that second thing. A plausible scenario was beginning to take shape in my overtaxed brain. Okay, first of all? I know what I said last night about the guy forcing Irene to talk, but Jonah was right. Torquemada with his rack and thumb screws couldn’t have gotten her to spill the beans about that brooch. This was one stubborn, headstrong broad. But let’s say the padre was just as determined to learn the location of the brooch, or even to leave here with the thing in his pocket. After all, if Jonah was correct, no one outside of the Poker Posse knew that it was no longer in Irene’s possession, and they weren’t blabbing. How many people even knew of its existence? For that matter, how did the padre know? Anyway, let’s say he’s wrangled an audience with her ladyship and has nothing more to show for his efforts than a bellyful of good Irish beer. Maybe she’s booted him out on that nice, tight butt of his and commanded him never to darken her door again. But he refuses to accept defeat. What then? My guess? He returns Wednesday evening with a more aggressive plan of action. There’s no talking his way through the front door this time, so he picks the back-door lock, locates the lady of the house in her home theater, and leans on her hard. We’re talking threats, coercion. Maybe he waves a weapon at her. I still couldn’t see Irene giving in. Well, maybe if he threatened Sexy Beast, but let’s assume he didn’t go to that extreme—mainly because I didn’t want to think about it. What I could see Irene doing in that terrifying situation is suffering a fatal heart attack. Jonah’s Exhibit C: scary home invasion was gaining credibility by the minute. The padre might not be a murderer in the technical sense, but if he scared her to death, if he stood there and watched her expire without attempting CPR or calling for help, then you tell me where you draw the line. So now Irene has gone and died on him and he’s no closer to the mermaid brooch than he was before. Yet somehow he finds out not only where the darn thing is but that if he intends to beat me to it, he’d better get the aforementioned butt over to Ahearn’s pronto. I’d gone back into the foyer and started up the curved staircase before I realized I was headed there. I took the steps more slowly than I wanted to because of my knee. Irene’s library, at the end of the hallway, doubled as her home office. She kept meticulous records, all of which were of the dead-tree variety and resided in an expensive lateral wooden file cabinet. A state-of-the-art laptop sat on her desk, but it was reserved for email, shopping, and of course online poker. The bottom file drawer contained household paperwork, everything from A for art purchases to W for warranty info. The top drawer was for sensitive stuff such as medical records, investment statements, and invoices from Jane Delaney, your friendly neighborhood Death Diva and dog sitter. Irene kept the file cabinet locked at all times, yet when I tried the handle, it slid open on well-oiled tracks. My nape prickled. Delaney, Jane, was filed between Credit Cards and Dentist. I pulled out the extra-wide hanging folder bulging with copies of every piece of paper that had been exchanged between Irene and myself during our long association. She was a stickler for formal record keeping and insisted on presenting me with handwritten work orders before each job and receiving a detailed invoice upon its completion. If Irene had qualms about paying someone to lift a valuable piece of jewelry from her former friend’s corpse, you couldn’t tell from the top item in the folder. It was a copy of the most recent work order, the particulars of the assignment spelled out in cringe-inducing detail, including precisely when and where I would nab the brooch. But that’s not all that was there. My heart pounded so hard, I nearly stumbled. Irene’s visitor had left his calling card, all right. No, literally, he’d left his calling card, paper-clipped to the work order. It was a stark white card, a little smaller than a business card. Printed smack-dab in the center, in elegant raised black ink, were the words Mr. Martin Kade McAuliffe. I’d never been formally introduced to the man, but his reputation preceded him. The black sheep of the family had some explaining to do...
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The classic rock emanating from the speakers wasn’t too loud, and the TV over the bar, now showing a soccer match, had been blessedly silenced. “Nothing for me,” I said. “I’m here to talk, not drink.” Martin produced a cognac snifter and a bottle of high-end añejo tequila. The brand happened to be my favorite, the one I dispensed like a miser at home, the one that would run you well into the double digits for a single shot at your better watering holes. Not that I ever ordered it outside the house or even found myself in your better watering holes on a regular basis. “How’s the knee?” he asked. So he had been paying attention in Ahearn’s parking lot. “Hurts like hell.” Okay, not really, it felt a lot better today, but he didn’t need to know that. “This should help.” He dispensed a generous pour and made a show of glancing around for his boss. “The free drinks are supposed to be from the well. I won’t tell if you won’t.” “Shucks, Padre, I’m honored,” I said, and was rewarded with a little scowl...
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