Murder at the Monks' Table Read Free Page A

so?” Eileen asked.
    â€œPatsy is an only child. With Patsy comes a garage in Oranmore.”
    â€œWhat we call a car dealership,” Eileen explained.
    Mary Helen strained for a better look. Patsy was a large-boned woman with thick graying hair drawn back and held with a tortoiseshell clip. She was attractive in a clean, out-doorsy sort of way. Flanking her were twin girls of about ten or eleven years of age. They were dressed in Irish dancing costumes of a bright royal purple and trimmed with pink. They had inherited their mother’s large frame and apparently their father’s bad eyesight, for both of them wore horn-rimmed glasses.
    By this time the sky had clouded over, and a brisk wind rattled the leaves on the trees and blew over the display of photographs.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please.” The voice of the master of ceremonies echoed from the loudspeaker. “The sun seems to be deserting us, but before it does, may I present the pride of our village, our prizewinning girls’ dance team.”
    Amid clapping and cheering, sixteen young girls, including the Lynch twins, spilled onto the dance floor that was set up below the stage. The band filled the green with music and the youngsters whirled and twirled and leapt and kicked as the audience clapped in time.
    A second set had nearly finished when the heavens opened,sending everyone, including the squealing dancers, scurrying for shelter.
    â€œWhat now?” Mary Helen asked as she and Eileen took refuge under a beech tree.
    â€œIf it doesn’t let up in a few minutes, I’d suggest it’s back to the Monks’ Table for more soup.”
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    When they pulled back the door of the pub, the two nuns realized theirs was not an original idea. The place was quickly filling.
    Following the waitress to a table, Mary Helen realized how large the Monks’ Table really was. More rooms were vacant beyond where they had been seated last night. There were several fireplaces, all roaring, and a potbelly stove was lit. The warmth felt good on the wet afternoon.
    Passing a small alcove, Mary Helen noticed the queen’s mother already seated. She was with another man, probably Tara’s father. What had Paul said when they’d met the hearse on their way into town—that her da was the undertaker?
    Mary Helen smiled at Mrs. O’Dea as she passed. But the woman stared straight ahead, pretending not to see her.
Talk about getting off on the wrong foot,
she thought.
    Or maybe she was imagining it, since Eileen didn’t seem to notice any coldness. “Hello, there, Mr. O’Dea,” Eileen said, stopping at the table. “What a lovely girl you have.” She smiled. “You must be very proud.”
    As Mr. O’Dea struggled to get up, Eileen introduced Sister Mary Helen. “Mr. O’Dea gave my sister a lovely send-off,” she said.
    â€œNo more than she deserved,” Mr. O’Dea mumbled, then introduced his wife.
    â€œWe’ve met,” Mrs. O’Dea said with a thin smile.
    â€œI didn’t realize you knew that woman,” Mary Helen said when the two were seated in another wing of the restaurant.
    â€œFirst I saw her was when you saw her last night. When she said we’d met, she must have meant just now at the village market. I don’t know her. It’s her husband I dealt with, and he was kindness itself.” Suddenly Eileen’s eyes filled up, and Mary Helen thought it best to drop the subject.
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    The village folks were still pouring into the Monks’ Table when the nuns rose to leave.
    â€œHow about a little nap?” Eileen suggested, her eyes red. “We have a big night tonight and you look tired.”
    â€œAnd what is that?” Mary Helen asked, stifling a yawn. She checked her wristwatch. They must just be getting up in San Francisco.
    â€œIt’s a wine and cheese tasting,” Eileen