Free Scandal in Skibbereen by Sheila Connolly Page A

years ago. When she died, the O’Briens looked after him. It’s a shame.”
    “It is.” Maura sliced some of the still-warm, crumbly soda bread and placed slices on each plate. “Will you join me?”
    “Is there tea made?”
    “There is.”
    They enjoyed their simple breakfast, then Maura checked her watch. “I hate to rush you, but I said I’d meet Gillian Callanan at the old creamery before I open at Sullivan’s. Do you know her?”
    “She’d be the artist over the hill? I can’t say I’ve seen much of her since she was a child, and a lovely thing she was. Sure and her family’s from up near Reavouler, not far. She’s stayin’ in the old creamery?”
    “That’s what she tells me. I thought it was abandoned.”
    “Time was, all the farmers here delivered their milk to that place, by horse cart. Now it’s all big trucks over to the new place in Drinagh.”
    “I’ve driven past that one. It’s a big business.”
    “That it is. It’s good they’ve done well. People do still want their milk and butter, don’t they?” Bridget stood up carefully. “I’ll be on my way, then. Mick said he’d stop by later in the day.
Slán agat.
”
    “Slán abhaile.”
Maura smiled. Bridget kept trying to teach her a few phrases in Irish, even though languages had always been hard for Maura in school. It felt a little funny to be wishing her “safe home” when home was only a couple of hundred feet away. Still, she admired Bridget for holding on to her home—and her independence, despite Mick’s gentle pressure on her to move in with his sister.
    Maura glanced again at her watch and speeded up her pace, wrapping up the bread and collecting the breakfast dishes, dumping them beside the sink. She could worry about washing them later. She had to get going to Gillian’s place. She’d never met a real artist before, and she was curious about the woman.
    She collected her bag, keys, and a sweatshirt to wrap around her shoulders—it was still cool in the morning, before the sun reached the old stone house—and set off. The lane that ran along the south side of Bridget’s property led to the Ballinlough road and brought her quickly to the former creamery, next to the small lake that had given the road its name. She knew that “lough” meant lake, much like the more familiar Scottish “loch,” but she wasn’t sure about the “Ballin” part—person or thing? She’d have to ask Bridget. She could already see a few fishermen in rowboats out on the water. She pulled off the road in front of the creamery, which had once been painted an unlikely shade of bright blue, now faded. As Gillian had said, one end, where the milk had probably been delivered years ago, was falling apart, leaving the interior visible and cluttered with large pieces of unfamiliar rusty machinery, the big doors hanging precariously, windowpanes broken. But around to the left, there was a people-sized door, in front of which sat a couple of chairs and a parked car. Maura headed for that door.
    The brightly painted door—a sunny yellow—was open, and Maura could hear music inside. She knocked on the doorjamb and called out, “Hello?” A voice inside called out, “Coming!” and thirty seconds later Gillian appeared, wiping her hands on a dirty and colorful rag and bringing with her a strong smell of turpentine. She gave her hands one last scrub and extended one to Maura.
    “Come in, come in.” Gillian stood back to let Maura enter. “Can I offer yeh a cup of tea?”
    “Sure.” Everywhere she went, Maura found people offering her tea, and it always seemed rude to say no. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
    “Come on through. No, I was just finishing something up, and I’m ready for a cup myself.” She led Maura toward the back of the building.
    The smell of turpentine grew stronger. They stepped into a single large room than ran parallel to the road and the shoreline.
    “Wow! I can see why you like it,” Maura said. The