Nothing But Trouble Read online

  “There are no blueberries in the house,” Kerney said with an apologetic smile. He handed her a mug of coffee and went back to mixing batter in a bowl. “Patrick will have to settle for apple pancakes.”

  Sara held the warm mug in her hands and took a sip. “That will do nicely.”

  “Will you be able to stay in touch?”

  “I’ll try.” She looked out the French doors that led to the pergola-covered patio. Impending daybreak brightened a cloudless sky and in the gathering light the sweep of mountains behind Santa Fe slowly unveiled. Coming to the ranch always filled Sara with contentment. If she blew it on the Spalding case and was forced to take early retirement, at least she’d be able to live in a magical place with her family on a full-time basis.

  The thought of having another child had been on her mind lately, and with her biological clock ticking it would be best to do it within the next year or two. She’d planned to raise the subject with Kerney after his retirement, but maybe she wouldn’t have to wait that long if the Spalding affair blew up in her face. Still, she found no comfort in the notion that her career might end before she achieved her professional goals.

  “You’re very quiet this morning,” Kerney said, as he searched her face with his extraordinarily blue eyes. “Are the wheels turning?”

  Sara sighed and smiled. “I’m having a hard time getting motivated for the day ahead. Have you thought about who can watch over Patrick?”

  Kerney shook his head. “I’ll take him to work with me and call around to day-care and preschool centers. Can you tell me where you’re going?”

  Sara reached out and squeezed Kerney’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t be in a war zone or anywhere near one.”

  She put her coffee cup in the sink, got her luggage from the bedroom, and went to check on Patrick. He was just waking as she knelt at the side of his bed and told him once again that he’d be staying with Daddy for a while.

  Sounding a tiny bit anxious, Patrick asked how long she’d be away. Sara spread her fingers wide and asked him to count with her to fourteen.

  “That’s a lot,” Patrick said when they’d finished, looking none too happy.

  Sara rubbed his head and kissed his cheek. “The time will go fast and before you know it, I’ll be home. Daddy’s making pancakes for you. If you stop acting like such a sleepyhead, you can go see the horses after breakfast.”

  Patrick’s worried look vanished as he hopped out of bed and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  Minutes later Sara drove away in the golden early-morning sunlight. In the canyon a small antelope herd browsed on sage near a shallow arroyo. A motionless buck, clearly identifiable by his lyre-shaped horns, watched as she drew near and then bounded away in alarm, causing the herd to bolt up a narrow draw. The sight of the animals in full flight, white rumps flashing above their long slender legs, was lovely to behold.

  She headed for the highway with childhood memories of growing up on a Montana sheep ranch dancing in her head, thinking how wonderful it would be to raise her son in the country, never again live thousands of miles away from Kerney, and have a somewhat normal life.

  By the time she reached the highway she was quarreling with herself. Should she keep to the path she’d chosen so many years ago? Or was it time to explore new possibilities, no matter what happened in Ireland? The questions remained unanswered long after her flight had passed over the mountains east of Albuquerque.

  During her layover in Chicago, Sara called Kerney at his office for an update on how the child-care arrangements for Patrick were going.

  “So far I’ve talked to five preschool directors,” Kerney replied, “and they don’t have any openings. I may have to settle for finding a sitter.”

  “Don’t give up that easily,” Sara said. “What’s Patrick doing?”

  “When he’s not using my office as a playpen, he’s busy charming my office staff. Right now one of the secretaries is reading Pablito the Pony to him.”

  Sara laughed. “It sounds like you have everything under control.”

  “Barely.”

  “Don’t grumble, Kerney. You can do this. E-mail me tonight.”

  Sara worked and catnapped on the flight to Dublin. Fitzmaurice, the Garda detective, had faxed her some preliminary information on the house Paquette had bought with Spalding’s funds. It was a protected structure, the Irish term for a building with historic significance, and as such could not be altered without permission by a local government planning commission. The house was located in a suburb of Dublin known as Dún Laoghaire. Fitzmaurice had thoughtfully circled the name of the town and scratched a note to her, saying that the name of the town was pronounced “Dun Leary.” Included in the material he’d faxed was some general information about estate agent fees, stamp taxes on purchased property, and registry requirements.

  From her window seat she watched the coastline of Ireland appear in the early-morning glare of the rising sun. Soon the plane was flying over rocky cliffs, windswept mountains, and stretches of farmland that rolled down to rivers and lakes. On the approach to the Dublin Airport the plane turned and banked over the Irish Sea, revealing the busy harbor filled with ships. The city spread out along the coast, cut by the River Liffey and buffered by green inland hills.

  Sara had been to Ireland once before, on her honeymoon with Kerney. But they’d flown into Shannon and spent all their time in Connemara on the rugged western shore of the Atlantic Ocean, so Dublin was new to her. Against the backdrop of the bay and the hills the city looked intriguing, with its magnificent old buildings, beautiful squares, and stunning coastline.

  Her diplomatic passport in hand, Sara quickly cleared customs and was met by Hugh Fitzmaurice, the Garda detective who was heading up the hunt for George Spalding. A middle-aged man with a full head of raven-black hair, blue eyes, and a long, broad nose, Fitzmaurice greeted her with an easy smile and hearty handshake.

  “Welcome to the Republic of Ireland, Colonel,” he said. “Is this your first visit?”

  “It is to Dublin,” Sara replied. “But I’ve spent some time in Connemara.”

  “ ’Tis beautiful there, no doubt. Shall we stop at your hotel first or go straight to my office?”

  “Why don’t you brief me on the way to the hotel?”

  Fitzmaurice nodded. “As you wish.”

  As he drove toward the city in the slow-moving traffic, Fitzmaurice filled her in on the status of the investigation. Garda were shadowing Joséphine Paquette everywhere she went, and the officers were keeping their eyes open for Spalding. Each person Paquette met, interviewed, or socialized with was being carefully checked for a link to Spalding. Her phone calls were being traced, her mail intercepted, and her credit card transactions monitored.

  “We know from the French that Spalding didn’t alter his appearance,” Fitzmaurice added, “so we’ve shown his photograph around at banks, brokerage firms, area hotels, and guesthouses. He’s not been seen.”

  “I’ve studied the Interpol file,” Sara said. “He’s cautious, but he has made some mistakes. Keeping his given name and using a slightly altered birth date for his new identity was a misstep. Making a phone call to Paquette from his Paris apartment was another slipup. I think he’s eager to come out of hiding and may have discarded the Bruneau alias and taken on a new identity.”

  Stuck behind a lorry on a busy street, Fitzmaurice sounded the car horn. “Perhaps it’s time to bring Paquette in and have a go at her.”

  “Not yet,” Sara said. “It could alert Spalding that we’re hunting him. Is there anything going on with Paquette that looks promising?”

  “Tomorrow she’s to meet a builder at the house she bought with Spalding’s money. The estate agent who sold her the property told us she wants to refurbish it while it’s still vacant.”

  “Would she do that without consulting Spalding?” Sara asked.

  Fitzmaurice eased around the lorry. “If she did consult him, it happened before we started our surveillance.�
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  They were approaching the heart of the city along a wide boulevard jammed with traffic, headed toward a bridge that crossed a river. People hurried along the sidewalks past old storefront buildings, giving the street scene a vibrant air.

  “Let’s pay a visit to the builder after Paquette meets him,” Sara said.

  Fitzmaurice nodded. “And do you have any plans for today?”

  “I’d like to review your case file and get an up-close look at Paquette.”

  “The file is waiting for you at my office,” Fitzmaurice said as they crossed the bridge. He turned onto the quay and parked in front of Sara’s hotel, a four-story Victorian building that looked out on the river.

  “Would it be an imposition to have it dropped off at my room?”

  Wondering if Brannon had some reason to avoid going to his office, Fitzmaurice gave her a questioning look, which she answered only with a smile.

  “Not at all,” he said. “You’ll have it within the hour. Tonight Paquette is scheduled to attend an award ceremony for a Canadian writer. I’ve secured tickets for both of us.”

  “Excellent,” Sara asked.

  “Do you need help with your bags?”

  “I can manage, thank you.”

  After Fitzmaurice drove away, Sara checked in at the reception desk, where she was greeted by a pleasant young man who told her all about the hotel’s restaurant, spa center, and pub before handing her the room key. The room had a view of the River Liffey and was quite spacious, with a high ceiling capped by ornate cornices. Furnished with an overstuffed easy chair, small dining table, desk, a double bed, and a large armoire that hid a television, it had framed landscape prints on the walls and beige window drapes.

  Sara unpacked, took a shower, and had just finished dressing when a Garda officer arrived with the police files. She sat on the bed, propped against the pillows with her legs crossed, and read the paperwork, until her body demanded physical activity and her head required her to stop thinking. She grabbed a tourist guide from the writing desk that had a map of the city center with points of interest highlighted and left for a walk.

  Out on the street she strolled briskly to the O’Connell Bridge and turned to find herself in front of Trinity College, a wonderful campus that seemed both restrained and grand. Unwilling to stop in fear she’d become distracted for the rest of the day, she hurried on to Grafton Street, a pedestrian walkway filled with high-end shops, pubs, and milling tourists serenaded by street musicians playing fiddles, whistles, pipes, and guitars.

  By the time she reached St. Stephen’s Green, Sara was completely entranced. A beautiful park surrounded by stately buildings, the green was as manicured and inviting as any she’d known.

  She circled the green and spotted the hotel where Joséphine Paquette was staying. It was a truly elegant building, with a fancy ironwork entrance bracketed by two bronze statues of women holding what appeared to be torches above their heads.

  Reluctantly, she retraced her way toward her hotel, feeling clear-headed and invigorated, thinking how wonderful it would be to come to Dublin on a holiday with Kerney and Patrick and spend time together seeing all that the city had to offer. In her room she checked for an e-mail message from Kerney and found an upbeat note from him, reporting that Patrick had been enrolled in a highly recommended preschool they’d visited over the noon hour. He would start in the morning.

  With a smile on her face Sara went back to work and spent the rest of the morning combing through the various reports, trying to find anything that would get her closer to George Spalding.

  In the afternoon Sara took a short nap, finished working on her notes, and walked to the Canadian embassy on St. Stephen’s Green, where she presented her diplomatic credentials to a Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer, laid out the facts of the case, and asked for a full and immediate investigation to be mounted in Toronto regarding Joséphine Paquette’s current personal and financial status.

  That evening Hugh Fitzmaurice, wearing a fresh suit, picked Sara up at her hotel and drove her a short distance through busy traffic to University College, where the award ceremony and reception for the Irish-Canadian writer was to be held in O’Reilly Hall.

  “Did you glean anything from the file?” he asked as he braked for a car that cut in front of him on the motorway.

  “This afternoon I telephoned estate agents and pretended to be looking for an Irish retreat in Dún Laoghaire. It’s not often that seaside villas in the town come on the market, and they sell quickly at premium prices. I can’t believe Paquette simply waltzed into Dún Laoghaire and snapped up a desirable house in a prestigious location by chance.”

  “The estate agent assured us that is exactly what happened.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Sara said, “no more than I believe Paquette would renovate the house without Spalding’s approval and permission.”

  “You’re suggesting Spalding made advance arrangements with the estate agent.”

  Sara nodded. “Of one sort or another. I’ll know more in the morning. I’ve asked the French to search for any travel bookings Spalding may have made under his alias prior to Paquette’s arrival in Paris.”

  Fitzmaurice gave her an appraising glance. “If he came to Ireland at some earlier time, your theory may well prove to be correct. What put you onto the idea?”

  “For over thirty years Spalding lived his life as an established, well-regarded, wealthy man,” Sara replied. “Surely he would want to replicate that lifestyle under a new identity.”

  “Why did he choose Dún Laoghaire?”

  “The answer to that question was buried in the case material the Canadian authorities sent you. Among Spalding’s property the Canadian Customs and Revenue Agency seized for tax evasion were two boats, an offshore sport-fishing boat and a sailboat.”

  Fitzmaurice’s eyes widened. “Dún Laoghaire is a boat lover’s paradise.”

  “Exactly. Spalding wants to live on the seashore in an English-speaking country where he can fit in, indulge in his hobbies, and travel around Europe as he wishes.”

  “Are you quite sure you’re not an FBI profiler?” Fitzmaurice asked as he pulled into a campus parking lot.

  “Quite sure,” Sara answered with a laugh.

  They’d arrived early, Fitzmaurice explained as they crossed the campus to O’Reilly Hall, so they could spot Paquette and sit as close to her as possible. The university consisted of modern buildings surrounded by well-kept grounds with walking paths that led to classrooms, faculty office buildings, and common areas. At an ornamental lake near O’Reilly Hall a small group of well-dressed people had already started to gather, but Paquette was not among them.

  The doors to the hall were opened for the audience, and Sara and Fitzmaurice took programs from ushers as they walked in. The writer being honored, Brendan Coughlan, was an Irish emigrant to Canada who’d written a number of contemporary novels set in Nova Scotia. According to the program notes Coughlan had been born and raised in County Clare, and his novels captured the essence of Irish characters living in a foreign land yet still haunted by the bloody history and partition of their native country.

  Paquette showed up accompanied by an older man and a middle-aged couple. In contrast to their quite fashionable clothes Paquette wore a designer dress that broke at her knees and had a revealing bodice. She wore diamond stud earrings and her hair was done up in a French twist that accentuated her long neck. She had an oval, pretty face with high cheekbones, and a petite figure with a tiny waist.

  “She enjoys being flamboyant, doesn’t she?” Sara said.

  “It is attire perhaps more appropriate to a gala opening at the Abbey Theater,” Fitzmaurice replied.

  With Fitzmaurice at her side Sara followed Paquette into the hall, listening in on her conversation, which consisted of small talk about the beautifully decorated Georgian terrace house she’d visited while interviewing a Canadian celebrity, and the wonderful, perfectly presented dinner she’d been served
at a restaurant owned by a young chef who immigrated to Dublin from Vancouver.

  They sat behind Paquette in the packed auditorium and eavesdropped as she described to her companions her recent meeting with the evening’s honoree, Brendan Coughlan. Paquette babbled on until the lights dimmed and the event began.

  After some short introductory remarks by a faculty member, who praised Coughlan as a unique voice in Irish literature, the writer took center stage to rousing applause and spoke at length about his childhood and youth in County Clare, and how he’d found the magic and beauty of Ireland mirrored along the rocky coast of Nova Scotia, where the pure, deep sounds of Eire could still be heard among the many voices, memories, and dreams that had blossomed there.

  He finished with a reading from his most recent work, and Sara decided she wouldn’t leave Dublin without at least one of his novels in her bag.

  When the award was presented to Coughlan, the audience gave him a standing ovation, which included thunderous clapping by Fitzmaurice. As people filed out of the hall, Sara lost sight of Paquette.

  “Don’t worry,” Fitzmaurice said, “I’ve a man on her. She’s off to a private reception for Coughlan, along with all the other glitterati who were here tonight.”

  “He’s a brand-new writer to me,” Sara said.

  “You’ve not read him?”

  Sara shook her head.

  “Well, you should,” Fitzmaurice said. “I mean no offense, but you Yanks spend far too much time beating your own literary drums, and not enough time listening to other voices.”

  “None taken,” Sara replied. “He’s on my to-be-read list effective immediately. I think you would have come here on your own tonight if I hadn’t asked to have a look at Paquette.”

  Fitzmaurice grinned. “You’ve caught me fair and square. I’m a big fan of Coughlan’s work.”

  On the ride back to her hotel Sara’s enthusiasm for Dublin waned a bit. The late-night traffic was awful, and some of the neighborhoods they passed through looked no more inviting than the typical urban sprawl found in any major city.