Page 81 of Road Trip
“Reminds me of going to Nanny Dunagin’s house when we were really little, before Dad died,” Therese said. “Remember the little tea parties she’d have for us? Only instead of tea we’d drink orange Kool-Aid out of her teacups. And she’d fix us little sandwiches with date-nut bread and cream cheese.”
“I don’t remember that,” Maeve said sadly. “I guess I was only four or five when she died.”
“So,” Therese said, leaning across the table, mischief glinting in her eyes. “How was last night?”
“The pub? It was okay. Liam told me how he became a distiller. And, once I told him our theory about the IRA heist, he let it drop that his cousin Maddie, who runs the home farm on the estate, ismarried to the son of the woman who was the ringleader of that IRA gang.”
“No way. What are the chances? Did Liam have any dirt on the robbery?”
“Nope. He did say that the ringleader’s name was Starr McGahee, and she was from some rich London family. She’s dead now, all the members of the gang are. And he said that Jamie, that’s Starr’s son’s name, doesn’t usually like talking about it.”
“Okay, but what about after? Like, after you took the old lady home? Please tell me you went home with Liam and made bouncy-bouncy.” Therese mimicked the sound of rusty bed springs.
“God. You are so crude.”
“Stop evading the question. Come on, Maeve. I’ve been involuntarily celibate for like, six months. Help a sistah out. I need all the dirty details.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Maeve said primly. She nibbled the last cookie on the plate and dabbed her lips with the linen napkin. “I swear, nothing like that happened. We had a few drinks at the pub, and you know the rest. Perfectly innocent. No bouncy-bouncy.”
“Maeve!” Therese exclaimed. “You’re killing me. When I said I wanted you to spill the tea I wasn’t talking about literal tea.” She scraped her chair legs on the wooden floor as she pushed away from the table. “I’m starting to seriously doubt whether we really are sisters.”
CHAPTER 36
The Tarrymore village library was a small but stately building of creamy marble, in Georgian Revival style. It was easily the grandest building in this humble village. Carved into the lintel above the door was the now-familiar Rossington family coat of arms, and the inscriptionMagna est fedes nostra.
Therese pointed to the inscription. “I flunked Latin. What’s that mean?”
“It means ‘mighty is our faith.’”
A handwritten sign on the heavy carved wooden double doors noted that Saturday library hours were 12–5PM, but it was now 12:15 and the doors were still locked.
They heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind and turned to see the Goth girl from the teashop running in their direction.
“Were you wanting to get into the library?” she asked, looking flustered.
“Yes, please,” Maeve said. “Do you work here?”
“God, no,” the girl replied. “It’s my gran’s day to volunteer, only she’s down with her arthritis, so I promised I’d come open up.”
She fished around in her knitting bag, finally extracting a circlet of keys, one of which she fitted into the lock.
“You’re not local, are you?”
“We’re from the US, and we’re trying to research our family history,” Maeve said.
“Oh yeah, Gran says they get a lot of that.” The girl held the door open. “Come on in, then.” She turned a switch, and a row of brass chandeliers illuminated the room.
A carved wooden checkout desk was directly in front of them, and beyond that were rows and rows of bookshelves. A line of clerestory windows brought weak daylight into the room, and brackets above the bookshelves held a series of marble busts. The ceiling was adorned with elaborate plaster moldings. At the rear of the room was a marble fireplace, and above that hung a portrait of an auburn-haired woman in a gilt frame.
Therese pointed at the painting. “Who’s that?”
The girl had settled herself behind the checkout desk, and was powering up a boxy, outdated desktop computer. She looked up to see where the visitor was pointing.
“Oh, that’s Lady Delia. One of them Rossingtons. Rich as anything. I think she gave the money to build this library. Dead now, of course, but my gran says she was murdered. Can you believe that? A murder in this poky little town?”
The sisters exchanged a glance.
Maeve was already walking toward the bookshelves.
