Malarkey Read Online Free

Kennedy hung up, I looked at the printout again.
Then I dialed the number listed for Stanyon Hall.
    An impatient female voice responded. "Stonehall
Enterprises."
    "May I speak to Alex Stein?"
    "Who shall I say is calling?"
    I swallowed a wild urge to laugh. "My name is Lark Dodge.
I'm George Dailey's daughter. We're at the cottage—"
    The voice warmed to cordiality. "Welcome to Ireland, Lark.
You're the book dealer, aren't you? This is Barbara, Alex's wife. I'll
tell him you and your father are here."
    "Thank you, but I think you ought to know that I just found a
dead man in the shed at the back of the cottage."
    Squawk. "Did you say dead?"
    "Very. I called the Garda."
    "My God, who is it, one of the workmen?"
    "I have no idea, Mrs. Stein."
    "I'll be right over."
    "I wish you wouldn't." I explained about Dad's stroke. It was
news to her. I wondered why he hadn't discussed his illness with the
Steins. Dad was the soul of honesty.
    "I'm so sorry." It wasn't clear whether she was sorry about
the dead man or sorry about Dad's stroke. "Alex is in London. He's
due back this evening. I'll call him, and then I think I'd better come
over."
    "Well, don't knock or ring the bell." Was there a doorbell? I
hadn't noticed. "I'll be watching for you." I hung up. And waited and
shivered while the Rayburn hummed away, radiating warmth.
    Barbara Stein showed up before Sgt. Kennedy did, though
she walked. By that time, I was peering out the small window beside
the front door and checking my watch every ten seconds. I let her
in.
    She was a tiny, intense woman of about thirty with frizzy
red hair, freckles, and snapping brown eyes. She wore jeans and a
red sweatshirt with the Stanford logo. We shook hands. Before I
could launch into an explanation, she began asking questions.
    I said, "Do you want a cup of tea?"
    "Tea? No. I want to see the body."
    "We shouldn't enter the shed until the police say it's okay,
and, besides—"
    Her eyes narrowed. "It's my house." She moved toward the
door to the living room.
    I intercepted her. "No, really, you shouldn't. I don't know it's
a crime scene, though I doubt that the man just lay down on the floor
and expired. He's too neat." Except for the red paint on his forehead.
I didn't mention that. If I had known Barbara Stein longer I would
have, but her manner provoked caution.
    "Who is it?" She made as if to dart past me.
    I blocked her. Not for nothing had I played basketball for
Ohio State. "I'm bigger than you are." I spoke in my mildest voice. "I
don't know who the dead man is. I don't know anyone here. I've been
in Ireland less than three hours, and it's my first visit."
    Barbara stared at me, then shrugged and sat on the nearest
kitchen chair.
    I stayed in the doorway. "I started to tell you that my
father's asleep downstairs. I'll have to wake him when the police
come, but I don't want to until I have to. If we tromp downstairs and
fumble around and whoop and holler, Dad will hear us. So we're
going to wait for Sergeant Kennedy. Here."
    "Kennedy? Oh, Joe Kennedy at Killaveen." She made a face. I
deduced that she didn't think much of Sgt. Kennedy. "Well, okay, but
describe him for me—the corpse. Maybe it's Toss Tierney." She
brooded. "I hope so, the sucker. That's our contractor—builder, they
say here. If he doesn't finish the workroom by Saturday, I'll kill him
myself."
    I didn't rise to the bait, but I was briefly amused.
Contractors must be contractors the world over. I went to the sink
and filled what looked like an electric tea kettle, but I kept an eye on
Barbara. I was ready to tackle her if need be, and she must have
known it. She stayed seated.
    The tea water heated up. As I hunted out mugs and tea bags,
I thanked her for the groceries and chatted about the Rayburn's
eccentricities.
    "It keeps things warm," she muttered. "Where is that
cop?"
    "Is the Garda station very far away?"
    "Half a mile northwest. He should be here by now, but I
suppose he had to feed the chickens or something. He