Page 97 of Road Trip
“Not at all,” Esme said. She shoved the phone away and finished her Orangina.
“Listen to me, young lady. You’ve some cheek, hounding me this way, and I’ve tried to remain civil. But you’ve been going around the village, you and your sister, making disgusting allegations about my family,” she said, her voice quivering with barely contained rage. “That girl, Kathleen, was a murderer. And a thief. Don’t you think I know about that? She murdered my great-aunt, stole a valuable painting and priceless family jewels, and then fled the country to avoid being prosecuted.”
Ah, Therese thought. She’d finally gotten the old lady riled up. Good. Because she was about to drop the other shoe. And Esme Rossington wouldn’t like what was coming next any better.
CHAPTER 42
“Why would Kathleen kill the only person in that family who treated her well?” Therese asked. “She loved Lady Delia, and mourned her death, when she learned of it. And Lady Delia, her protector, gave her that portrait, and those pieces of jewelry, because she wanted her to have something of her family, of her father’s family, after she went to the States.”
“No.” The old woman’s tongue worked her toothless gums in agitation. “That portrait of my great-grandmother, Lady Geraldine, that was stolen by your thieving Kathleen, right after she stabbed Delia.”
Her cornflower-blue eyes narrowed. “The Irish have long memories, you know, and the people in this village still remember Delia, who was a beloved figure among all classes.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Therese conceded. “So let’s talk about something else. Let’s fast-forward fifty years and talk about that IRA heist.”
“You should leave, before I call the constable,” Esme threatened.
“Before you call the cops, you might want to hear the fascinating facts about that robbery that my sister and I have uncovered,” Therese said. “Let’s start with the portrait of Lady Geraldine that was reported stolen in 1974. You know, that’s what was initially so confusing to me, that a portrait that came to the States in 1926, with my great-grandmother, should have mysteriously reappearedforty-eight years later. And I only found out about it, purely by accident, when I saw a story inThe New York Timesthat reported a painting by Valerian DeJongh of the Honorable Geraldine Fitzhugh, sold at auction for one point two million dollars recently. Which was odd, because my mother’s had that portrait hanging over her mantel in Savannah my whole life, and her mother had it before my mother inherited it.”
Esme had both hands clasped tightly on the tabletop, and they were violently shaking. She said nothing.
“Two portraits. Very confusing. My mother always wanted to come to Ireland, but she was widowed when we were just kids, and money was tight, so that never happened. But she felt so strongly about our family story that she left a little money in a rusty coffee can, so that Maeve and I could take the trip she didn’t get to make. Maeve is a college English professor, and she’s a planner and a researcher—which can be super annoying. Usually. She even tried to reach out to you, but obviously, you didn’t respond. She found an online newspaper story about the IRA robbery at Tarrymore—the exact place we were headed. And then, on the first or second day we were here in the village, we took the guided tour of the manor house. Very informative, in case you haven’t been recently. Except that the tour guide was reluctant to talk about the robbery, and when we asked, she said all the stolen art had been recovered.”
Esme said nothing.
“It really was serendipity, running into you that first time at the Willow Tree. But I wondered why you were so evasive that second time, when I asked whether the painting of Lady Geraldine had been recovered with the rest of the art stolen from the house.”
Esme pushed her chair away from the table and started to stand up, anxious to escape Therese’s relentless narrative. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of the table.
“Sit down, please,” Therese said. “Because I’m just getting to the good part. The part where I tell you how I know about your involvement in that robbery.”
“You know nothing,” Esme said, but she stayed seated.
“Maeve and I were wondering about that gang of thugs who’d been living in Dublin—how did they know about that art collection at an estate in Wicklow? How did they know that there was no security system at Tarrymore? How exactly did they know what was worth stealing?”
“This is my home,” Esme said with a growl. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“Did you know, Esme, that your old friend Starr McGahee’s son married a girl from right here in Tarrymore?”
The old woman started to interrupt, but Therese kept going. “Speaking of serendipity, my sister met him at a luncheon yesterday, and of course she was eager to pick his brain about the robbery. He wasn’t born until 1982, after his mother was released from prison, and he was raised by his maternal grandmother. Starr named him Sky, but fortunately his grandmother renamed him Jamie.
“Starr wasn’t her real name, of course. It was Peggy, and her father was a prominent solicitor in London, so, as was the custom among young ladies of that social class, Peggy made her debut, in 1967. Do we know anyone else who debuted then?”
“Lots of girls were debutantes that year,” Esme said.
“Actually there were only twenty. We found photographs of you, with your escort, and with your parents, and with the rest of the girls in your deb class, including little Peggy McGahee, in that book about the Rossington family that your brother wrote.”
“Means nothing,” Esme muttered.
“Back when she was still Peggy, Starr made a bargain with her father—she agreed to make her debut, if he would agree to allow her to study chemistry at Oxford. And that’s where she became involved in a group of radicals who were members of the IRA, including a man who became her lover. Eventually, the group moved to Dublin, where they began planning a heist that would raise money to free some of their jailed compatriots.”
“Get to the point,” Esme said. “Sinead needs to be walked, and I find myself bored with this wild story of yours.”
“Here’s the point,” Therese said. “One. You knew Starr fromyour debutante time. Two. You told me yourself that after you married you moved to Dublin with your husband. Around the same time Starr McGahee and her gang were living there. Starr once told her son she met someone in Dublin that she knew from her old life. I think that someone was you, Esme.”
There was a sudden shift in Esme’s demeanor. “Gin,” she croaked. “In the cupboard by the icebox.”
“Okay,” Therese said with a shrug. She found a bottle of Gordon’s in a cupboard crammed with cleaning supplies. She held it up for the old woman’s approval. “Straight up, or mixed?”
