Free Scandal in Skibbereen by Sheila Connolly

grumblings that they took their trade to Union Hall instead. The consensus was that they kept to themselves, and they were seldom if ever seen in any of Leap’s pubs. Maura wasn’t exactly surprised: they had sole charge of caring for Eveline and keeping a large, crumbling estate going, not to mention the large gardens—a job made more complicated now that Seamus was gone. When would they have time to socialize?
    Maura had seen Althea and Harry leave together, shortly after ten. They hadn’t come back. She drew her own conclusions. Now it was a bright summer morning, and Maura was pottering around in her own kitchen.
Her
kitchen, in
her
house. She still wasn’t used to that. Nor was she used to the silence and the solitude—she’d spent her whole life in a cramped apartment in an old triple-decker in South Boston, surrounded by people and cars and buses, and now here she was practically alone in the midst of rolling green fields. The old building was small and no-frills, but it was structurally sound and had what people around here called “mod cons,” as in “modern conveniences,” like electricity and indoor plumbing, thank goodness. The small stove was fueled by a propane tank out back, not that she used it much. There was electric heat, and a few times in the early spring Maura had been tempted to build a fire in the massive open fireplace that took up one end of the building, but in the end she’d just put on another sweater and waited for summer. Maybe she’d reconsider her heating options when winter came. It was looking more and more like she’d still be around then.
    She had a few neighbors on the Knockskagh hill. She had learned that “knock” meant hill anyway, and the “skagh” part mean white thorn, a kind of bush or tree that she couldn’t identify yet. Most of the neighbors had hooves, but Mick Nolan’s grandmother, Bridget, lived just down the lane. Bridget had known Maura’s grandmother, and she loved sharing her memories, so Maura tried to see her as often as possible, usually in the mornings when Bridget was most alert and before Maura had to be at the pub.
    Maura was not surprised when Bridget rapped on her door frame. “Have you had yer breakfast yet? I’ve made two loaves of bread and I thought you might like one.”
    “Just getting around to it now, Bridget.” Maura still felt funny calling the older woman by her first name, but Bridget had insisted that “Mrs. Nolan” was too formal. “It’s nice to see you out and about.”
    “Ah, I love the summer,” Bridget said, settling into a chair at the table. “I’m awake with the birds, and my bones don’t ache as much.” She unwrapped the crusty round loaf of bread from the tea towel she had brought it in and laid it on a pretty china plate on the table. “I hear there’s been some excitement in the village.”
    “Did Mick tell you about it?” More likely one of the friends who kept an eye on Bridget when Mick couldn’t, Maura thought.
    “No, one of the neighbors stopped by for tea yesterday.”
    Maura found two clean if mismatched plates and pulled butter out of her tiny refrigerator and set them all on the table. “Did you ever know the Townsends?” she asked.
    “The likes of me and the likes of them? I might have had work there, when the house was full, but my husband didn’t want to see me working. Different times, they were. Now all you young girls have jobs and go everywhere on yer own.” Bridget laughed briefly. “I might have met Eveline Townsend a time or two. She wasn’t a Lady Muck, stickin’ her nose in the air like the rest of the family. Ah, but they’re all gone now, except for her.”
    “What about her great-nephew, Harry?”
    “Now, there’s a lad. A wild one, he was, when he was younger. And now he’s off to Dublin for work.”
    “He’s back in town now, because of the murder.”
    “Poor Seamus Daly. He was a good boy. Mebbe a bit touched, but no trouble to anyone. I knew his mother,