He noticed the brochure was of the Rush hotel in Dublin. “My grandmother used to make these little mince pies at Christmas. Melt in your mouth.” He smiled at his daughter, probably his first real smile since the bomb had gone off yesterday afternoon. “Maybe they’ll serve them at tea in Dublin.”
“The Rush hotel there serves a Christmas Eve tea,” Fiona said eagerly.
Great, he thought.
“It’s within walking distance of Brown Thomas.”
“What’s that?”
“An upscale department store on Grafton Street.”
“You’ve been memorizing maps of Dublin?”
She blushed. “You only live once, Dad.”
He admired her resiliency but knew she had to process the ordeal of the past two days. And it wasn’t over. They didn’t have Abigail. Scoop was in shreds in the hospital but would be okay. Keira was under police protection in Ireland. March’s wife in D.C. Bob’s own family here in Boston.
The bad guys were unidentified and at large.
“Have you identified the man who…” Fiona lost the color that had started back in her cheeks.
Bob understood what she was asking. “We’re still working on a name.”
“I saw the scratch on his arm, Dad. He helped kidnap Abigail, didn’t he?” Fiona flinched as if she’d been struck. “Sorry. Lucas and Detective Yarborough said I shouldn’t say that out loud.”
“It’s okay, kid.”
“What if he left her tied up somewhere?”
“He didn’t work alone. Almost certainly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about seeing her here.”
“Abigail didn’t say anything, either, Fi. Whatever she was worried about, she probably didn’t think it was that big a deal-nothing to make someone set a bomb on her porch.”
But had Abigail come here specifically to tell his daughter to back off playing at the hotel?
If so, why?
He had about a million questions whose answers he suspected involved Lizzie Rush. She’d come to Jamaica Plain the afternoon before Abigail’s evening visit here to the Whitcomb and Morrigan’s. The next day, Lizzie Rush and Keira had called from Ireland about the bomb.
“If the man who was killed helped kidnap Abigail,” Fiona said thoughtfully, dropping into a chair opposite Bob, “why did the Brit kill him? If he’s a bad guy, too?”
“We can sit here and tick off all the possibilities. They had a spat. The Brit decided the other guy was reckless. The Brit got greedy and wanted the other guy’s cut of whatever they’re getting paid.”
“Or he didn’t kill him.”
“My point is, we don’t know. That’s why we keep plugging away at the facts and evidence.”
“Simon’s friend Will must-”
“Do you know ‘Whiskey in the Jar?’”
Fiona rolled her eyes in a way-not a bad way-that reminded him of her mother. “Of course, Dad. You’ve heard me play it a hundred times.”
“I’ve never sung it with you.”
But she wasn’t giving up. “The Brit-Fletcher-could have killed that man in self-defense, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. Whatever happened, Fi, you didn’t cause it.”
“I’m in the middle of it.”
“That’s ending now.”
For once, she didn’t argue. “How’s Keira?”
“I only talked to her a few minutes before you called me. She’s no happier about being under police protection than you are. She knows it has to be done. Simon has to concentrate on doing his job.”
“Scoop…it was hard to see him this morning.”
“You were brave to go to the hospital on your own like that. He’s doing better. He’ll make it.” Bob tried to soften his voice, but heart-to-heart talks with his daughter-with anyone-made him squirm. “Fi, Scoop’s a good guy. The best. But he’s a lot older than you. In another five years, maybe it won’t seem like so much, but right now-you should stick with guys closer to your own age. These losers here. The fiddle player. He’s not bad, right?”
She made a face. “Dad, Scoop’s just a friend.”
“Yeah? What about the fiddle player?”
“Him, too. Besides, Scoop’s got a thing for Keira.”
“You see too much. Play your music.”
She returned to her friends on the small stage and picked up her harp. They had a half-dozen different instruments among the three of them and would switch off depending on the number. They all could sing.
Bob walked up to the lobby to Lizzie Rush’s cousin Jeremiah at the reception desk. Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones had already interviewed him and said he was smart, clever and creative. Too creative, Yarborough had said, convinced the kid knew more than he was admitting. He wasn’t lying, just parsing his answers-which Yarborough always took as a challenge.
“Talk to me about Abigail Browning,” Bob said to the young Rush.
He scooped a few envelopes to stack. “She was here last week and again two nights ago.”
“She? Not they?”
“Correct. She was alone both times.”
“Irish music night?”
“Every night is Irish music night, but her first visit was in the afternoon. She had tea.”
“Formal tea or like a tea bag hanging out of a cup?”
“Something in between.”
“What about your cousin?”
“My cousin?”
Playing dumb. “Lizzie. The one who just found a dead guy up the street.”
Jeremiah maintained his composure. “She’s often in Boston. Our hotel offices are here.”
“Right. So how much has she been in town since June?”
“On and off. Not so much in July. Almost constantly in August. She was working with our concierge services on new excursions. That’s her area of expertise. But she spent time on her own.”
“Spying on Abigail?”
He paled a little and gave up on his stack of envelopes. “I didn’t say that.”
“Okay, so back to Abigail. How did you recognize her?”
“Garrisons have stayed here. They book rooms at the hotel for their annual meeting and various functions for the Dorothy Garrison Foundation and Fast Rescue. Abigail’s been here for those, but she’s also John March’s daughter.” Jeremiah stopped himself, as if he knew he’d gone too far.
Bob tilted his head back. There was something about the way Jeremiah had said March’s name. “You know Director March?”
“Not me. Not personally.”
“But you’ve seen him,” Bob said, getting now what Yarborough meant about dealing with Jeremiah Rush. If all the Rushes were like him, Yarborough would go crazy. “When?”
“He comes here once a year. It’s a long-standing tradition.”
“What, he got married at the Whitcomb or something? He and his wife have their anniversary dinner here every year?”
“No.” The kid looked as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He has a drink at Morrigan’s.”
“He comes alone?”
“Yes, always.”
“When?”
“Late August, so around now.”
“Whoa. How long has this been going on?”
Jeremiah glanced at his desk. “I should get back to work. Reporters have been calling-”
“They’ll keep calling, don’t worry. So, how long?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, you did. How long, Mr. Rush?”
The kid licked his lips. “At least thirty years. Since before I was born.”
Thirty years ago, March was a BPD detective, and Bob was a twenty-year-old kid in South Boston, the son of a cop who wanted nothing more than to be a homicide detective. “What’s this tradition about?”
“I don’t know for a fact, but whatever it’s about, it’s always struck me as a private matter.”