Irish Stewed Part 10

Right in front of Caf-Fiends.

"You're kidding me, right?" I sat back on the leather seat, my fists propped on my hips. "This is where we're having dinner? These guys are the enemy."

When Declan looked over his shoulder at me, his gray eyes gleamed. "Exactly!" He dismounted and offered me a hand and we stood side by side in front of the coffee shop. "You can't know what you're up against if you don't check them out," he said in a stage whisper that was totally for show since there was no one on the sidewalk but us. "I thought we could do a little reconnoitering."

"Reconnoitering."

"It's not exactly dishonest and besides, it's for a good cause. It's all in the name of saving the Terminal."

Just because I thought the Terminal was . . . well, terminal . . . didn't mean I was happy that it was public knowledge.

My shoulders shot back. "What makes you think the Terminal needs saving?"

Declan's steady gaze moved beyond the brightly lit front window of Caf-Fiends, where a gigantic yellow coffeepot shared s.p.a.ce with oversized paper flowers, a couple kites shaped like b.u.t.terflies, and a half-dozen Beanie Baby stuffed bees that hung from the ceiling on fis.h.i.+ng line to make them look as if they were buzzing through the scene.

He leaned closer and, like it was some big secret, he said out of the corner of his mouth, "They have customers."

I responded with a grunt. "We had customers today."

"How many?"

I raised my chin. "I didn't count. But look"-I dug in my purse-"receipts I need to enter into the accounting program. That proves we had customers."

He made a move to grab the receipts and I had no doubt he would look them over and comment on the orders: coffee, pie, one lentil quinoa salad, some of our usual daily fare-and nothing else.

Before he could get ahold of them, I stuffed the receipts back in my purse. "We don't need a trendy cutesy display window to bring in customers."

His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. "We?"

I twitched away the implication of that single, loaded word. "You know I was referring to the Terminal."

"Your restaurant."

"Sophie's restaurant, and not a smoothies-and-wraps kind of place. I have plans to make it a little more upscale than that. Fresh food from local growers. Dishes that push the limits beyond smoothies, if you know what I mean. This place . . ." I looked over Caf-Fiends. Like the Terminal, it was housed in a building that had been here long before smoothies were invented. It had a redbrick facade and what looked to be apartments on the second floor with flower boxes outside each of the four windows that faced the street. At this time of the year those flower boxes were empty, but in another month or so, no doubt they'd be bursting with pansies and brightly colored marigolds.

"It's cute," I admitted, and then to make it perfectly clear that this was not necessarily a good thing, I was sure to add, "In a cloying sort of way. I guess that draws a certain kind of crowd." I tipped my head and gave the front window another look. "What they really need is a few teddy bears."

"You could loan them a couple."

My stiff smile told Declan I was only kidding.

"Come on. It can't hurt to see why people are attracted to the place." He tugged my arm. "Besides, I hear they've got pastrami today."

Pastrami is too fatty, too high in calories, and altogether too salty. I happen to love it.

Together, we stepped up to the door and Declan paused there, his hand on the k.n.o.b. "With any luck, they won't know who you are. You can ask about the food and the service. You know, like a spy."

I laughed. It was actually not a bad idea.

At least it wouldn't have been if the moment we stepped inside, the welcoming smile didn't vanish from the face of the middle-aged woman behind the cash register. "Oh, it's you."

She wasn't talking to Declan.

My cover-such as it was-blown, I extended a hand, introduced myself to the woman who said she was Barb, and threw out a few compliments on the decor that was (truth be told) what we in Hollywood would have described as positively ho-hum.

Faux hardwood floors, and not the good kind.

Aquamarine walls that didn't even come close to matching the touches of color in the fabric curtain in the doorway below the RESTROOMS sign and the cloth napkins piled on a nearby buffet.

Framed prints lined like soldiers on either side of the long, narrow room, each picture featuring coffee in some way, shape, or form. Coffee beans. Coffeepots. Coffee drinkers.

Barb showed us to a table and I tried (not very successfully) not to notice that despite the ambience, there were more patrons in Caf-Fiends than we'd had at the Terminal all day. A couple in the corner munched decent-looking salads. Other patrons were scattered here and there among the twenty tables, sipping coffee, eating wraps, enjoying brownies that looked both decadent and delicious.

"Two pastrami sandwiches," Declan said the moment we sat down. "And I'll have an espresso. My date . . ." He grinned at me across the table. "Something tells me she's the iced green tea type."

"Iced green tea will be fine," I told Barb, and when she walked away, I added, "though I could have ordered for myself."

"Just being the perfect escort." Declan sat back and looked around. "So, what do you think?"

"Does it matter? What do you know about restaurant operations, anyway?"

"I know what I like. And I know where I like to spend my money."

"Fair enough." I nodded. "Here or at the Terminal?"

Lucky for him, I may have put him on the spot but he didn't have to answer right away. Another woman hurried over. She set a tall plastic cup with my green tea in it on the table in front of me but she never looked at me once. She was too busy staring, dewy-eyed and practically drooling, at Declan.

"Nice to see you again, Declan." The name tag that was handwritten in pink Sharpie and pinned to her blue and white blouse said she was Myra, and Myra twinkled down at my dinner date for all she was worth. "You haven't been here in a while."

"I've been kind of busy."

Myra's hair was the color of a chestnut and pulled back into a ponytail and she wore blusher that was a little too plummy for her olive complexion. Even so, I watched her pale. "You mean on account of the murder. Isn't it awful?" In a better, more perfect world-one that was not running strictly on the hormonal overdrive that had clearly taken over Myra's senses the minute she laid eyes on Declan-she actually might have asked the question of me, seeing as how I was the proprietor (temporary or not) of the place where the murder had taken place. But Myra had eyes only for Declan.

She put a hand on his arm and-I swear this is true-batted her eyelashes. "It must be horrible for you. I mean, your store being so close to where the murder happened."

"It's worse for Laurel."

When Declan looked my way, Myra's smile wilted. He brought it back to life when he leaned just a little closer to her. "She found the body."

"Oh. My. G.o.d." As if there were cooties a.s.sociated with the discovery and I was still carrying them around, Myra stepped back and away from me. Which, coincidentally, put her just a little closer to Declan. "You must be, like, grossed out! We've got hand wipes," she announced, because I either looked like I needed them or she thought that the remnants of Jack's murder could be so easily cleaned away. "I'll go get you some."

Big points for Declan: he waited until Myra was gone before he broke into a grin.

"She likes you," I said.

Barb brought over his espresso and Declan added sugar and stirred. "Myra's not my type."

I couldn't possibly pa.s.s up an opening like that. "So what is your type?"

"Irish," he said quite simply. "If I ever dated a woman who wasn't Irish, my family would disown me."

Let's face it, he had to be kidding so it was perfectly all right for me to laugh.

At least until he said, "Are you Irish?"

I sipped my green tea. A little sweet, but not half-bad. "I have no idea," I admitted. "I don't know anything about my biological family."

He considered this for a moment. "I can't imagine what it's like to not be clued in on a couple hundred years of family history."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It's"-he lifted a shoulder-"it's just the way things are in my family. A lot of us live close together and even the ones that don't are always pa.s.sing through. We visit. We talk. Constantly. There's never a moment in a day when somebody's not talking to somebody in the family. Everybody knows everybody else's business. My cousins and I, we grew up together. We went to school together. We got in trouble together!" There was that easy smile again. A second later, it faded. "Do you ever feel . . ."

I wasn't sure if he was searching for the right word or wondering if he'd gotten himself into a conversation he didn't know how to get out of, so I finished the sentence for him. "Alone? No." It was a lie, but rather than give him time to notice, I was quick to ask, "Don't you ever wish you could have some time without your family smothering you?"

"It's not so much smothering as it is intense interest. In everything each of us does. I think it's true of the Irish in general-the importance of family loyalty, the need to communicate and share. But it's more so with us. We're Travellers."

I guess my blank stare said it all. Smiling, Declan leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Some people say that Travellers are Irish Gypsies, but that's not technically right. We're not related to the Romany people in any way. We're Irish, through and through. The Travellers are an itinerant people; we have been for as long as anyone can remember. In fact, there are those who claim we've been separated from the settled community for more than a thousand years."

"So you . . ." The concept was new to me, and I turned it over in my head. "Travel?"

"Well, some of us do. My immediate family-my parents, Uncle Pat, and his family- we've been settled here in Hubbard for going on sixty years now. There are whole communities of Travellers in the U.S., some in Texas, some in South Carolina."

"Where Owen is from."

He nodded. "A lot of the Travellers keep to the old lifestyle, even in this country. They settle down for the winter, then go on the road in the warmer months doing any work they can find. A lot of them do home repairs, yard work, maintenance. That sort of thing."

"But not your family."

"Not my immediate family. They're all my family."

"And the Travellers, they've been doing this forever?"

"Well, it depends which legend you believe. Some say that the first Travellers were the tinsmiths who made Christ's cross. They were cursed to travel the world until Judgment Day. Another theory is that the Travellers are the descendants of the people who were made homeless by Oliver Cromwell's military campaign in Ireland in the 1650s. I'm more inclined to believe that we can trace our roots back to the poets and minstrels of the Middle Ages. They traveled the country telling stories and singing songs and they were much admired."

A gene pool that included the entertainment industry. It explained his glib tongue and maybe even the smile that never failed to make me feel as if Declan and I were the only two people in the world.

He used it on Myra when she brought over our sandwiches and I practically saw her melt beneath the heat of it. I was appalled to think I looked as starry-eyed when Declan looked at me that way, and vowed that I'd never let it happen.

I couldn't help but notice that his sandwich was considerably bigger than mine.

"I love my family to pieces," he admitted, unrolling his silverware from a not-quite-aquamarine napkin. "There's no use even trying to fight being in the middle of them. They'll never back off!"

Myra had yet to walk away, and seeing that Declan was ready to eat, she set the wipes down on the table near my plate. "If you need anything else"-she smiled down at Declan-"you know where to find me."

"You know where to find me."

It was exactly what George had told Gus Oberlin, and, thinking about it and the murder, I pushed my plate away.

"Oh no." Declan already had his sandwich in one hand, but he shoved my plate closer to me with the other. "This is quality stuff, and you're not going to waste it." His wink would have been comical if not for the fact that his smoky gaze had a way of drawing me in and making me feel as if my feet didn't touch the floor.

I shook away the thought and grabbed my sandwich.

He bowed his head for a moment before he took a bite and chewed. "So?" he asked between bites. "How does it compare? To Terminal food, I mean."

"Oh no. You're not going to get off that easy." I took a bite, chewed, and sat back. "You never answered the question I asked you before. Where would you rather spend your money, here or at the Terminal?"

He'd just chomped into his sandwich and he held up one finger to tell me I'd have to wait for his answer.

Yeah, like a stall tactic like that was going to distract me.

"Well," I said, the second he'd swallowed, "which is it? This place? Or Sophie's?"

"Depends what's on the menu," was his answer.

"Comfort food or trendy wraps?"

"Depends on what I'm in the mood for."

I refused to let him get to me. "But if you were just walking in off the street, if you didn't know anything about the restaurants or the owners or anything else, which would you choose?"

"It's awfully good pastrami," he said, then because he apparently saw the flare of anger in my eyes, he added, "but the espresso's nothing to write home about."

"We don't serve espresso at the Terminal."

"Maybe you should."

I twitched away the thought. "I tried to switch up the menu today. No one was especially impressed."

"Too soon after the murder." What one had to do with the other, I didn't know, but Declan was apparently convinced. He nodded. "Speaking of which, I've been watching the TV coverage. You know, The Life and Times of the Lance of Justice, that sort of thing. The local stations are all over it, just like you'd expect them to be, and now the national news has picked up the story."

It was hard to swallow the bite of sandwich I'd just taken, what with the fact that my mouth felt as if it were suddenly as dry as the Sahara, where I'd once spent two months with Meghan when she was filming an epic about a legendary queen of the desert. I washed away the sensation with a sip of tea and though I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, I had to ask. "The story's made the national news?"

"It was just a mention," he said. "On one of the cable stations, I think. But I wouldn't be surprised if the story doesn't pick up some traction. Crusading reporter. Mysterious murder. You know how the media loves anything and everything sensational."

Boy, did I ever.

A thought for another time, so I set it aside. "The story will lose its appeal if it turns out Jack was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If your cousin Owen is the killer-"

"He's not." I got one pickle, Declan got two. He finished the first and crunched into his second one. "Check out the news tonight. You'll see. Owen was released this afternoon."

So Gus Oberlin did believe me.

Or he realized he didn't have enough evidence against Owen in the first place.

"That doesn't mean Owen didn't do it," I said for argument's sake.

"They're free to bring charges if they ever find enough evidence." Apparently, Declan didn't think they would, because he didn't sound the least bit upset by the prospect. "For now, I think it's more important to concentrate on the other suspects, don't you?"