Free Murder at the Monks' Table by Carol Anne O'Marie Page A

were there, “may I have a word with you both at the Monks’ Table?” He drained his cup. “I have a few questions. It shouldn’t be long.”
    When he left the room, an uncomfortable silence filled the cozy kitchen, but only for a few seconds.
    â€œThe nerve of that man,” Paul snarled, his cheeks reddening, “practically accusing me of doing in the old get.”
    That word again! From his tone Mary Helen was pretty sure she shouldn’t ask what precisely
get
meant.
    â€œHe did no such thing!” Eileen said, clearing the teacups. “He was simply asking you a few questions.”
    â€œIt came off as if he had me in mind,” Paul complained, sounding reluctant to let go of the affront. “The man is an odd duck, if you ask me.”
    â€œHe’s probably just exhausted,” Eileen said.
    â€œA lot you know about the gardai,” Paul snapped testily.
    A
lot more than I want you to know,
Mary Helen thought, catching Eileen’s eye.
    â€œDo you think we will have time to go to the art show this afternoon?” Mary Helen asked, eager to change the subject.
    â€œIt will depend on how long they keep you, won’t it?” Paul said, beginning to get back his good humor. “I’ll check in at half two, if that’s to your liking.”
    â€œWhy don’t we meet with the detective inspector right now?” Eileen suggested, after assuring Paul that a 2:30 pickup was to their liking, indeed. “The sooner, the quicker,” Eileen, ever practical, remarked.
    Outside the sky was a brilliant blue with startling white clouds all in a line. Cottage doors and windows were flung wide open, and wash hung out to dry. It was going to be a grand day. Everyone seemed to be counting on it. At least, Mary Helen hoped it would be a grand day. For Eileen and herself, it all depended on Detective Inspector White.
    Sister Mary Helen recognized the pimple-faced garda from last night standing at attention in front of the door of the Monks’ Table. Liam, Mr. Lynch had called him.
He has to have a last name,
she thought, smiling at the young man.
I can’t keep referring to him, even in my own mind, as Liam with the acne.
    The garda tipped his hat when the two nuns passed, revealing a head of thick sandy-colored hair. “Morning, Sisters,” he said, his cheeks glowing red.
    â€œGood morning, Garda …” Mary Helen searched his chest for a name tag or some sort of identification, but a large yellow rain slicker covered any place she could expect to find one. She might as well come right out and ask.
    â€œGarda Liam O’Dea,” he answered smartly.
    Wasn’t O’Dea the Oyster Queen’s name? Something-very-Irish O’Dea? “Are you by any chance related to that lovely young women who is the queen?”
    â€œIf it’s Tara you mean,” Liam O’Dea offered.
    Mary Helen nodded. That was it. Tara O’Dea.
    His face lit up. “In the West of Ireland we all seem to be related somehow,” he said. “But, yes, I am. Tara O’Dea is my first cousin. Her da and my da are brothers.”
    The acne skin must be from his mother’s side,
Mary Helen thought, not unkindly, smiling up at the young man.
    â€œBut enough of my relatives,” Liam said, suddenly all business. “Detective Inspector White is expecting you. I have strict orders to show you in as soon as you get here.”

    Â 
    Straightening his shoulders, Liam O’Dea pulled back the door of the Monks’ Table and watched the two nuns walk inside. When he was sure the heavy door was completely closed, he moved closer to it, hoping he could overhear some of the goings-on. Hard as he tried, he heard not a sound. He glanced around nervously. It would never do for someone to catch him eavesdropping. No indeed, he thought, deliberately taking up his position closer to the curb.
    Although Liam O’Dea had only been a
Garda Siochana,
a