Murder at the Monks' Table Read Free

struck up a rousing reel. Eileen and Mary Helen began to mill around the booths. Theyexamined the herbal remedies, the spicy vinegar, the hand-stitched tote bags, and finally decided on some homemade black currant jam.
    They were so fascinated by the woman at the spinning wheel that they didn’t realize that Paul Glynn, their driver, had moved in next to them. “Let me introduce you to my wife and son,” he said proudly.
    The two nuns spent several minutes chatting with Paul’s lovely young wife and his three-year-old son, who had hair as red as his mother’s.
    â€œHere comes the Oyster Queen,” Paul said, pointing to a young woman dressed in a medieval Irish costume of emerald green taffeta. Her long dark hair was crowned with a rhinestone tiara, and her skin was so white that Mary Helen wondered if she ever saw the sun.
    â€œTara,” he called as she came closer. “Tara O’Dea, may I present you to two nuns from America?”
    Tara smiled and did and said all the gracious things a queen should do and say. Mary Helen was impressed.
    â€œHow were you chosen for this honor?” she asked. “Was there a competition?”
    Tara’s white cheeks flamed. “No,” she said. “I just met with the festival chairman and answered a few questions.” She shrugged. “And I was picked.”
    â€œWhy is it you ask?” The question came from behind Mary Helen. She thought the sharp voice sounded vaguely familiar. Turning, she recognized the woman with the chestnut hair from the Monks’ Table, looking none too friendly.
    â€œThis is Tara’s mother,” Paul said quickly. “Zoë O’Dea.”
    Sister Mary Helen had just enough time to say, “How do?” when Father Keane’s voice came booming out of the loudspeaker again.
    â€œNow, I’d like to introduce our master of ceremonies for theday,” he said. All attention shifted toward the thatched cottage stage.
    The master of ceremonies, a television soap opera personality, told a few jokes, then went on to introduce Tara.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Mary Helen asked, watching Tara mount the stage, her mother close behind. “I was just curious.” She shivered. A sudden wind swept through the village green and dark clouds seemed to be bubbling up from the horizon, threatening the sun.
    â€œPay her no mind,” Paul said. “There was talk of a bit of a fix.”
    â€œA fix for the Oyster Queen?” Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “You can’t mean it!”
    â€œSome say that Carmel Cox should have been chosen. There is Carmel over there.” Paul inclined his head toward a lovely young woman with fair skin, large blue eyes, and a full head of curly auburn hair.
    â€œShe’s beautiful,” Mary Helen said. “They are both beautiful. If the queen was picked for her looks alone, it would have been difficult to choose.”
    â€œRight you are, but the word is that Zoë had the chairman’s ear.”
    â€œWho is the chairman?” Mary Helen asked.
    â€œOwen Lynch.” Paul indicated the man with horn-rimmed glasses standing near the platform.
    Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals. “Who’s that next to him?”
    Paul strained to see. “The fellow in the tweed cap? That’s Willie Ward. Works for the local rag as a reporter, of sorts. If you ask me, he’s nothing but a second-rate gossipmonger. Although he takes himself quite seriously.”
    Mary Helen studied the man. It was hard to tell with his cap on, but she could almost swear he was the man she’d seenhaving dinner with Zoë O’Dea last night. Today he carried a long narrow notebook and seemed to jot down notes as he listened.
    â€œAnd the woman who just joined them,” Paul said, anticipating Mary Helen’s question, “is Owen’s wife, Patsy Lynch—Patsy Sweeney, she was. Lucky devil.”
    â€œHow