Bel of the Brawl--A Belfast McGrath Mystery Read online

  Since we had started working together, I realized that I now had a bona fide female friend, one who shared my interest in the culinary arts and one with a wicked sense of humor. This was going to work out really well, if our first week together was any indication. Her execution on one of the many duck ballotines was flawless; I had only had to show her once how to prepare the bird for cooking. I felt as if we had been poaching ducks for days and, in actuality, we had.

  “That is one gorgeous gal, that Mary Ann,” Dad said, firing up the Volkswagen’s engine and taking us back to the Manor.

  They were right; everything about Mary Ann D’Amato was perfection. Her dress, a fitted strapless number over which she wore a decorous bolero jacket for Mass, flared out to perfection around mid-calf. Her hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves yet looked as if she hadn’t spent more than a moment combing her tresses. Her makeup was understated and dewy, her lips a shimmery pink, her fingernails done in a sedated French manicure.

  “Kevin, on the other hand, looked like he was going to his death,” Dad said, coaxing the Vanagon up the steep hill toward the Manor. “I’ve never seen a boy look so scared in all my life. And I’ve seen a lot of grooms.”

  “Is the Joyce boy coming to the reception?” Mom asked.

  “His name is Brendan and yes, he’s coming to the reception,” I said. “I don’t know why you insist on calling him ‘the Joyce boy.’”

  “Yes, he’s a man now, Oona,” my dad said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Well, of course he is. I’m not intimating that you’re dating an actual boy. And it’s just an expression, Belfast,” Mom said, turning around and giving me a look.

  Back at the Manor, everyone was doing what they were supposed to, the girls putting the finishing touches on the dining room, May executing the hors d’oeuvres in expert fashion, the boys tuning their instruments. Cargan, in particular, was in fine form, busting out a reel that propelled Mom and Dad onto the dance floor, the two of them high-kicking and stepping as if they were two much younger people. Out of nowhere, Brendan Joyce appeared and joined them on the dance floor, grabbing my mother by the waist and swinging her around until her feet gave way and she was off the ground, my much taller boyfriend hoisting her in the air. Cargan finished the reel with a flourish, taking a good look at his bow, strings hanging off disconsolately, before leaving the stage to repair them.

  Brendan came into the kitchen, flushed and out of breath.

  “I think you almost killed my mother,” I said. “But in the best way possible. I think going out to one of Cargan’s reels is her true wish in life.”

  “Man, your brother is quite the fiddler,” Brendan said. “Amazing.”

  “He is that,” I said, tossing him an apron. “You’re on cocktail-hour duty. The wedding guests should be here any minute.”

  A few minutes later, I could hear my father glad-handing the bride’s father, telling Lieutenant D’Amato that he had never seen a more beautiful bride. From the dining room, I heard the muted strains of instrumental music, less Irish this time, more conventional and suited for a multiethnic guest list. Cargan came into the kitchen and handed me a wallet.

  “Your boyfriend lost his wallet while dancing,” he said. “I’ll stick it up here until later.” He placed the wallet on the stainless steel shelf above the sink.

  “Thanks, Car,” I said. “You sound especially good today.”

  He held up his bow. “Recently restrung. And restrung again. Helps a lot.”

  But that wasn’t it; it was my brother’s talent.

  The cocktail hour under way, I stripped off my chef’s coat and entered the dining room so that I could toast the bride and groom. Kevin looked better than he had at the church, the color returning to his cheeks. I gave him a hug, feeling a little of the old familiar even after all these years. His chest, his arms, his neck all felt the same but I didn’t allow myself to go there in my mind; rather, I broke the hug quickly, my face turning red at the thought that I was hugging my former love, now a man married to someone else.

  “Place looks great, Bel,” he said, looking around. “I don’t know what you’ve done but this isn’t the Manor of our junior prom.”

  “We’ve been trying since I got home,” I said. “I’ve been breaking their old habits, one by one, and making them see things in a whole new way.” It was the only way in the competitive wedding-hall game, and while my parents, and Cargan to a certain extent, were reluctant to change, they were starting to embrace the idea that change might be good. “You’re a married man, Kevin,” I said, as much to him as to myself.

  He held up his left hand, displayed the ring on his finger. “Amazing, right? Loo says she’s finally made an honest man out of me.”

  “Loo, also known as your new father-in-law,” I said. An arm encircled my waist and I looked up at Brendan Joyce, more flushed than he should have been for passing a tray of mini roast-beef sandwiches.

  “Congrats, man,” he said to Kevin. “Bel, can I take a break? I would love to have a pint with the groom,” he said.

  “Yes, you can take a break,” I said. “Tell May to keep the mini sandwiches coming when you get back to the kitchen. Seems like they are a big hit.”

  Kevin took the last one from Brendan’s tray and popped it into his mouth. “These are great, Bel. Where did you get the idea for mini roast-beef sandwiches? They taste like they’ve been marinated in butter.”

  “Buttermilk,” I said, smiling. “And, you’d be surprised where I get my ideas,” I said, looking at Colleen as she walked by.

  Before I went back to the kitchen, Kevin leaned in close. “Ever hear from Pauline Darvey?”

  I thought of the photo on my phone. “Not a word,” I said, starting for the one place where I felt most at home: the kitchen. She was gone and she wasn’t coming back, and even though she had caused a heap of trouble for a lot of people, in my opinion, she needed to stay gone. Maybe I would come to regret that decision, but as I entered the kitchen, deleting the photo as I went back through the swinging doors, I didn’t think I would.

  The dinner was one of my best, if I do say so myself. The effort had been worth it, even if Lieutenant D’Amato had asked if he could have chicken instead, the ministrations to the duck not a skill that impressed him. I prepared a couple of cutlets and sent them out to him, and watched his face light up when he saw two pounded-out breasts on his plate with a side of carrots, just as he had requested.

  When it was over, and Mary Ann and Kevin had said good-bye to their guests, I stood in the foyer near the bust of Bobby Sands and waved to the couple as they exited through the big doors of the Manor and out to their car. Their car. Their house. Their wedding.

  Their life.

  I kept whatever it was that I felt off my face, plastering a smile there and bidding them farewell and a safe journey to their honeymoon destination in Aruba. Behind me, my brother’s voice whispered in my ear, his tone caring and knowing at the same time.

  “You’ll be fine, sister.”

  I leaned back into Cargan, let his hand rest on my shoulder. “I know I will, brother.”

  When the last guest had left, I went into the kitchen to survey the damage, but May and Fernando had cleaned up almost everything while Colleen and Eileen worked on stacking the dishwasher. It had been a long day and everyone looked exhausted. “Go on,” I said, ushering them out of the kitchen. “Everyone take off. Dad will work out the details on the tip later and make sure everyone gets their cut. Does that work?”

  I had my answer when everyone scurried out of the room and away from the Manor. We were all shot, it seemed.

  Brendan came in and wrapped his arms around me as I washed my hands at the sink. “What’s our plan?” he asked.

  “Our plan is that we go to our respective apartments, get cleaned up, hopefully get our second wind, and then meet at the Grand Mill for a drink or three.” I looked up at him. “Work for you?”

  “Sleepover?” he asked, putting his hands
together in prayer.

  “Oh, definitely,” I said, hoping that a night with this patient, loving, and devoted guy would wipe away the feeling that I had just lost the last best friend I had in the world to someone else.

  “I’m off, then!” he said, and after giving me one last kiss, one that held the promise of what was to come later, he left the kitchen. I heard the front doors of the Manor slam shut, Mom’s and Dad’s hushed tones in the office next door the only other sounds.

  I pulled off my apron and let my hair loose from the clip holding it up and did one last sweep of the kitchen, my eyes landing on the shelf above the sink, Brendan’s wallet sitting there. We had all worked at a fever pitch that day and I had forgotten to tell him that his wallet had fallen out of his pocket. I took it down, the wallet opening in my hands, a few coins dropping out onto the tiled floor, a dollar that hadn’t been in the bill compartment fluttering into the sink. I tried to catch anything else that might fall out, the wallet and its contents representing its owner well; it had the look of the sometimes scatterbrained Brendan, a guy with a huge heart but not devoted to an attention to detail.

  Before I closed it, I caught sight of the photo section, the one that held a few photos of Brendan’s family. There was his mother, standing on the Cliffs of Moher, windblown but smiling; there was another one of his sister, Francine, a nice girl from what I remember of her growing up here in the Landing. His father, a carbon copy of his son. And one last photo, one that I didn’t expect.

  It was Amy’s graduation photo, tucked into the last plastic sleeve, a heart drawn in the corner of it.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Bel, BOOK AND SCANDAL

  the next Belfast McGrath mystery from Maggie McConnon and St. Martin’s Paperbacks!

  CHAPTER One

  I was wet, cold, and tired, but despite the fact that she was ready to kill me with her bare hands for staying out all night, my mother addressed all three of my immediate needs before saying anything else.

  A towel to dry my hair.

  Clean clothes in the form of a pair of jeans, a tee shirt and a pair of socks. An Irish sweater, the most uncomfortable item of clothing ever made—a hair shirt, really—but welcomed, and probably deserved, at that moment.

  A bologna sandwich. It would be the last time I would eat bologna, for many reasons, the most significant being that the smell would forever after remind me of Amy. And how she had disappeared the night before and would always be gone.

  Mom was worrying a rosary in one hand, the other securely placed in one of my father’s meaty ones. She turned and looked at me, asking me a question she had already asked and would continue to ask, along with everyone else even vaguely connected to Foster’s Landing. “Where is she?”

  I didn’t know. I would never know.

  My brother, Cargan, the closest to me in age and the one who had found me beside the Foster’s Landing River, was across the room, looking out the window, his violin strapped to his back; he had a lesson later that morning and wouldn’t miss it for anything, even if Amy Mitchell was missing and never to be seen again. No, he was gearing up for a big competition in Ireland and nothing stopped him from his lessons or his practicing. Although the mood was somber in the police station, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had whipped the instrument out right then and there and started playing a tune, a sad one, the type I had grown up listening to.

  My other brothers were out and about in town now. They, too, had come running when Cargan discovered me, but were less concerned about me, on the hunt for Amy. It was another night for Bel, one said. She is going to be in a lot of trouble, said another. They were both right: It had been another typical night and now I was in a lot of trouble, the last to have seen Amy alive with nothing to tell that might lead to her whereabouts. They were a self-protective bunch, caring little as to why I would be hauled into the police station, glad it wasn’t one of them, happy that for once, they were not the ones in trouble. Feeney, especially. He was always in trouble. Derry and Arney, not as much, but both had a way of finding their way into situations that were beyond their control. Feeney was a much more calculated and deliberate hooligan.

  Next to Mom, Dad let out a barely audible sob, the kind that told me that he was, first and foremost, a father and one who felt the pain of a missing child. He looked over at me, almost as if he wanted to confirm that I was still there, and reached out the hand that didn’t hold Mom’s, patting me awkwardly on the thigh.

  “Ah, Belfast,” he said. “Ah, girl.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “They’ll find her. They’ll bring her back.” I thought about those words a lot over the years, wondering where that confidence came from. Youth, I eventually decided. When you’re young and nothing bad has ever happened, you think everything will always be better, every wrong will be righted. It’s only with age that I realized that that wouldn’t always be the case and that disappointments would stack up, like the layers of my famous mille feuille cake, the one with seemingly a thousand layers of goodness that cracked upon the first dip of the fork. But even then, in my heart, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to turn out the way we all wanted, something I couldn’t give voice to at that moment.

  Lieutenant D’Amato came out of the conference room at the Foster’s Landing police station and looked at me, frowning. Behind me, the door opened and his expression suddenly lightened, the sight of his only child, his daughter, coming through the doors with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of something delicious in the other, the greasy stain at the bottom indicating that it was probably a Danish from the local bagel store. It smelled better than my bologna sandwich, which I wrapped up in the wax paper that Mom had put it in and stuffed under my thigh.

  Mary Ann handed her father the food and then turned to me, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Bel,” she said, and ran toward me, enveloping me in a hug. She smelled good, not like river water and stale beer like I did, but more like the soft grass that I felt beneath my feet when I ran from the house down the steep hill toward the river. Beside me, my mother’s silent reproach hung over me like a fetid cloud.

  Why can’t you be more like Mary Ann D’Amato?

  I had heard it more than once in my seventeen years and hoped eventually it would die a natural death as I got older and more accomplished, setting off to take the culinary world by storm, another thing that left a distinct distaste in my mother’s mouth. I was supposed to be a nurse. A teacher. A wife, mother. Not a chef.

  It was your idea to open a catering hall, I wanted to say. Your idea to have me in the kitchen every moment I wasn’t studying or swimming on the varsity team. Your idea to ask me how the potatoes tasted, if the carrots needed another minute. Your idea to let my brothers learn the traditional Irish tunes and put me in an invisible, yet highly important role—that of sous chef to you and a myriad of other cooks who had come through the doors of Shamrock Manor, only to discover that yes, our family was crazy, and no, they didn’t really care all that much about haute cuisine.

  Mary Ann was going to nursing school; of course she was. She was the daughter that my parents never had and she would make everyone in this town proud.

  Years later, in what could only be from the “you can’t make this stuff up” files, Mary Ann would marry Kevin Hanson—my Kevin Hanson—and I would cook the food for their wedding. We would all be friends and we would laugh together and eat together and have a generally good time in each other’s company. Then, I was the lesser and in the future, the now, I would be the equal, the one who had gone away and come back, realizing that my heart was in this little village, at least for a time.

  “Where is she?” Mary Ann whispered into my curly hair.

  “I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t. Amy Mitchell was my best friend, my confidante, my sister-from-another-mother and she hadn’t said a word about where she would go after a night on Eden Island, my last words to her, an angry sentence (You’ll be sorry…) burned in my gray matter. I don’t know
where she is, I wanted to scream. It had been just fun and games until I had seen her kissing my boyfriend, Kevin Hanson. We had been celebrating our waning days at FLHS, the best night we had ever had up until that point.

  I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but maybe I did.

  Maybe of everyone here in the police station, she wanted me to be the last to know.

  I broke the embrace with Mary Ann and sat down again; I would never smell a certain floral-scented shampoo again without thinking of that morning. I would never feel the grass beneath my feet without thinking of the smell and where it brought me to in my mind. Mary Ann’s face, tear-streaked and pale, made me feel bad about my own: dry as a bone, not a tear in sight, stunned, resigned. Amy was gone and deep down, I knew that she was never coming back. How I knew it so well in the early morning hours I had no idea. Why I had told Dad things would be fine was a mystery. But I knew it as well as I knew my own name that it was over and wondered how everyone else was still clueless to that fact.

  “Belfast McGrath?”

  I looked up at a cop who clearly didn’t know who I was but whose face told me he knew why I was there.

  “That’s me,” I said and walked into the room where I would tell them everything and nothing.

  CHAPTER Two