Page 72 of Road Trip
“Are you actually suggesting we give her a lift? After the bloody rude way she spoke to you?”
“Would you mind?”
“The Jeep’s a two-seater,” he reminded her.
“I’m wearing jeans. I can sit in the cargo area.”
“That’s very noble. But I still don’t understand,” Liam said.
“She knows something about that painting that we need to know. And we have a saying in the South. ‘You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar,’” Maeve said.
“And we have a saying in Ireland that goes ‘Feck off, ya feckin’ gobshite,’” Liam said as he stood up and held out a hand to her. “But I’ll defer to you this time. Come along then.”
Esme Rossington wasobviously waiting for a Good Samaritan to materialize, and didn’t look at all fazed when Liam approached her.
“Um, Miss Esme? Could we offer you a ride home, seeing as Reggie is incapacitated?”
She gazed up at him. “Decent of you.” She looked past him at Maeve, then handed the dog over to her. “Take her outside for a wee first, would you?”
It was rainingout. Fortunately, Sinead was quick to do her business a discreet few feet away from the pub entrance, and Maeve managed to escape getting drenched. In the meantime, Liam had foundan abandoned umbrella inside and was now using it to shield their elderly passenger from the rain.
After Maeve crawled into the back of the Jeep, Liam helped Esme into the passenger seat, with Sinead perched on her lap.
“I knew your mum,” she said abruptly, when they were a short distance down the road. “Helped me find things on that computer at the library. Lovely woman.”
“Thank you,” Liam said. “She was that, and she is missed.”
Esme turned halfway around in her seat to address Maeve.
“Your mum—the one your sister mentioned. What was her name?”
“Mary Helen Dunagin. Her maiden name was Sullivan. And my grandmother’s name was Julia Mary Murphy. She was born in Geneva, New York, after her mother, Kathleen Connor, emigrated to the States in 1926.”
“Hmph. That’s a name I’m all too familiar with,” Esme said. She glanced over at Liam. “You know my cottage?”
“I do.”
“I’m quite put out with Reggie,” Esme said. “Now I shall have to go back and collect him in the morning so that he can see to my stopped-up kitchen drain.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Liam said.
“Turn right here.” Esme pointed to a narrow break in the roadside woodland.
The Jeep bumped along a rocky, badly paved road with such a thick overhead canopy of trees it nearly blocked out the moonlight. Branches scraped the side of the vehicle as it inched along in the inky gloom.
Ahead, a single yellow light bulb illuminated the front door of a rambling stone cottage. The façade was covered in ivy and rotting wooden shutters hung crookedly at the front windows. A porte cochere attached to the side of the house was leaning precariously, and under it stood a dust-covered vehicle Maeve couldn’t identify in the darkness.
“This will do,” Esme announced as Liam slowed the Jeep to a stop near the front door. He hopped out, ran around to her side, and held the cocker spaniel with one hand while helping her step out of the car with the other.
“It’s pretty dark out here, and the pavement looks uneven. Shall I walk you to the door?”
She pursed her lips as she considered the offer. “Yes, please.”
Liam offered her his arm. Esme paused, then leaned down and locked eyes with Maeve, who was still folded up, accordion-style, in the cargo area of the Jeep.
“Listen, miss. You’d be best advised not to go mucking about in matters that don’t concern you. Let the dead rest. Understand?”
She turned and grasped Liam’s arm. “Good night to you both.”
