Page 149 of Road Trip
“Reggie’s not exactly a scientist, is he now? With Esme hanging on, he decided the better solution to his problem would be to scare off the Americans.”
“By slashing the tires on our rental car and trying to run us over.”
“The poor bugger could do nuthin’ right,” Muldoon said, chuckling. “It’s almost comic.”
“What was he doing at Esme’s house on Friday morning? When he attacked me?”
“Here’s where Reggie’s story goes off the rails,” the cop said. “He says he went to the gardener’s cottage to pack up some belongings he’d left in the toolshed. Perfectly innocent. But when he got there, the shed was locked. He went to the house and there was no sign of Esme. He had himself a sit in the kitchen, waiting on her. Maybe he had some drinks too. Maybe?”
Muldoon slapped himself in the head to demonstrate his disbelief. “At the hospital his blood alcohol was high enough to put the whole village in a stupor. Now Reggie’s properly gassed. So he decides maybe he’ll help himself to a few things. Nuthin’ Esme would ever miss. He’s gathering up the goods and he hears you, in the front room. His story is that you attacked him, and his only recourse was to strike back.”
“Preposterous,” Maeve said. She rolled up her right sleeve to show the cop the scabbed-over place on her arm where Reggie’s knife had sliced her. “I didn’t do this to myself.”
“I know ya didn’t,” Muldoon said. “As well as being a stupid lunk and a drunk and a petty thief, the man is a terrible liar. A master criminal he is not.”
“What happens now?” Maeve asked.
“Do you happen to know where Rossington has been staying?” he asked.
“I only know he’s not at the inn,” Maeve said. “But I hear he’s driving a Rolls-Royce. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot in this part of the country, right?”
“He can’t have gone far,” Muldoon said. “If he’s talking about hiring a solicitor and taking you to court over Esme’s will he must be in the vicinity. We’ll find him.”
CHAPTER 64
Billy Mac winced each time a branch slapped against the side of his Mercedes. “I’m going to have someone out to trim these trees immediately,” he told Maeve. “Esme thought she could make herself invisible by letting everything get overgrown like this, but it’s a safety hazard, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” Maeve said. A week had passed since she’d learned of Esme Rossington’s death, and her subsequent inheritance. There had been no funeral, no formal gathering, because, the solicitor told her, “She didn’t want people standing about saying nice things about her.”
Geoffrey Rossington had been arrested and charged with murder, two days after confronting her at the inn, when he attempted to sell some of his sister’s jewelry at a pawn shop in Dublin.
McCracken had called her yesterday to discuss estate matters. “Legally, you don’t take physical possession of the property until the estate’s been probated, but practically speaking, I think it’s a bad idea to let the cottage continue to stay vacant. If you’re agreeable, I’ll take you over there tomorrow and we’ll see what’s what.”
Maeve was getting tired of living at the inn and found herself eager to get on with exploring her new home—and making it livable.
Which is how she found herself in her solicitor’s car on a sunny Friday morning.
He pulled the Mercedes alongside the pickup truck parked near the door. “That’s to be yours too,” he told her.
“That’s the best news I’ve had today. I hate driving a stick shift and I’m tired of paying for that rented Kia.”
She heard a faint mewing coming from the back seat of the car. “Is that…?”
“A cat? Yes. You’d mentioned the rodent problem, and the missus volunteers at the animal shelter. She picked out a splendid kitten for you. A tortie. She’s been wormed and had her shots. Torties make excellent mousers, or so I’m told.”
He got out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled out a small cardboard box with ventilation holes punched in the sides.
“Happy housewarming,” he said.
Maeve was momentarily stumped for a polite reply. “That’s thoughtful, but I’m going to have my hands full with Sinead, and I’ve never owned a cat…”
Billy lifted the kitten out of the box and thrust it at her. “There’s a first time for everything. This creature comes from a long line of barn cats. Don’t think of her as a pet. Think of her as a rodent control officer. Put out a dish of food, some water, and she’ll do the rest.”
The cat mewed. She had pale amber eyes. “Won’t she run off?”
“Not as long as you keep her fed and supplied with good hunting,” he said. “I know Esme had a special-built dog door in the kitchen, and this cat can go in and out by itself, so you won’t need a litter box.”
“I guess it’s a done deal,” Maeve said with a sigh. “Like this house.”
