Wedding Bel Blues: A Belfast McGrath Mystery (Bel McGrath Mysteries) by Maggie McConnon Page B
Authors: Maggie McConnon
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you’d come back here and want to change everything. About how you think you’re better than we are because you lived in the city.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I don’t think I’m better. I just want to make things better.” I didn’t know if that clarified my intentions. By the look on his face, I would say the answer was “no.”
“It’s fine here, Bel. It always has been.” He leaned down and pulled at his sock, finally giving up and letting it fall to his ankle. “We don’t need your help.”
“Then why did you hire me?” I asked, the office now almost completely silent now that the printer had gone to sleep and the fax had ceased chirping. All I could hear was my brother’s shallow breathing, a panic attack coming over him at the thought of conflict with his younger sister, and the sound of my own heart beating.
He looked at me, not wanting to answer the question but knowing that I wouldn’t leave until he did. Cargan couldn’t tell a lie. He was incapable of a half-truth, let alone a full truth. “Because you were our only choice,” he said as if it was the most obvious answer of all.
And it was.
I knew that was the reason, but I didn’t know that I was going to be hamstrung—no pun intended—by our traditionally minded clientele, my parents’ adhesion to cuisine of Ireland circa 1964, by our “catering manager’s” intractability, by everyone’s collective inability to change.
“Well, okay then,” I said, feeling stupid and overdressed in my chef’s coat. Thankfully, I had left my toque at home. If I had been standing here in a high hat, a trademark of my profession, in front of my brother in his droopy socks and soccer uniform, I would have felt more foolish than I already did.
He closed the ledger with such force that a stack of papers flew around the desk before landing everywhere. I walked over to help him pick them up, but he stopped me. “Go. I’ll do it. I have practice in a few minutes, but I’ll be back later,” he said, and I could tell he was on the verge of tears, for what I wasn’t sure. For everything, I guessed. He placed the Rubik’s Cube on the desk, its colors all neatly matched up and perfectly aligned.
Before the book closed, I had seen a lot of red, a lot of minus signs. Not too much black to indicate that Shamrock Manor was thriving, that everyone involved was making money, supporting themselves in grand fashion. Rather, without anyone having to tell me, it had become apparent that things were a little worse than they had seemed and I, in my prolonged fugue state, had failed to realize it.
You want ham? I thought as I walked back to the kitchen.
I’ll give you ham.
CHAPTER Thirteen
I returned to the apartment after putting a long day in in the kitchen, getting it as ready as it would ever be for the O’Donnell wedding and any future events in the Manor. The door to my apartment was unlocked, as it usually was after one of my mom’s visits; she always forgot to lock it and that’s how I knew she had been up there. I checked around. No smell of Febreze. No lentil crap in the fridge. No Dustbusters, or new mops, or a broom I hadn’t had before.
I went into my bedroom to change and noticed that Mom had been in here as well, a new development. She usually kept to the living areas. I’m not sure what she thought she might find in my bedroom, but up until now she had eschewed that space lest she come across something that didn’t suit her Puritan sensibilities. My copy of Fifty Shades of Grey maybe. A thong that had “YOLO” affixed to the front in sequins I had bought during a drunken night while watching Home Shopping Network. The vibrator that someone had given me at a bachelorette party and that might cause the immediate death of Mom or Dad should they happen to come upon it standing proudly on my nightstand, the pink rubber phallus waving jauntily from side to side. I shoved it under my bed.
My bed had a depression in it where
“That’s not true,” I said. “I don’t think I’m better. I just want to make things better.” I didn’t know if that clarified my intentions. By the look on his face, I would say the answer was “no.”
“It’s fine here, Bel. It always has been.” He leaned down and pulled at his sock, finally giving up and letting it fall to his ankle. “We don’t need your help.”
“Then why did you hire me?” I asked, the office now almost completely silent now that the printer had gone to sleep and the fax had ceased chirping. All I could hear was my brother’s shallow breathing, a panic attack coming over him at the thought of conflict with his younger sister, and the sound of my own heart beating.
He looked at me, not wanting to answer the question but knowing that I wouldn’t leave until he did. Cargan couldn’t tell a lie. He was incapable of a half-truth, let alone a full truth. “Because you were our only choice,” he said as if it was the most obvious answer of all.
And it was.
I knew that was the reason, but I didn’t know that I was going to be hamstrung—no pun intended—by our traditionally minded clientele, my parents’ adhesion to cuisine of Ireland circa 1964, by our “catering manager’s” intractability, by everyone’s collective inability to change.
“Well, okay then,” I said, feeling stupid and overdressed in my chef’s coat. Thankfully, I had left my toque at home. If I had been standing here in a high hat, a trademark of my profession, in front of my brother in his droopy socks and soccer uniform, I would have felt more foolish than I already did.
He closed the ledger with such force that a stack of papers flew around the desk before landing everywhere. I walked over to help him pick them up, but he stopped me. “Go. I’ll do it. I have practice in a few minutes, but I’ll be back later,” he said, and I could tell he was on the verge of tears, for what I wasn’t sure. For everything, I guessed. He placed the Rubik’s Cube on the desk, its colors all neatly matched up and perfectly aligned.
Before the book closed, I had seen a lot of red, a lot of minus signs. Not too much black to indicate that Shamrock Manor was thriving, that everyone involved was making money, supporting themselves in grand fashion. Rather, without anyone having to tell me, it had become apparent that things were a little worse than they had seemed and I, in my prolonged fugue state, had failed to realize it.
You want ham? I thought as I walked back to the kitchen.
I’ll give you ham.
CHAPTER Thirteen
I returned to the apartment after putting a long day in in the kitchen, getting it as ready as it would ever be for the O’Donnell wedding and any future events in the Manor. The door to my apartment was unlocked, as it usually was after one of my mom’s visits; she always forgot to lock it and that’s how I knew she had been up there. I checked around. No smell of Febreze. No lentil crap in the fridge. No Dustbusters, or new mops, or a broom I hadn’t had before.
I went into my bedroom to change and noticed that Mom had been in here as well, a new development. She usually kept to the living areas. I’m not sure what she thought she might find in my bedroom, but up until now she had eschewed that space lest she come across something that didn’t suit her Puritan sensibilities. My copy of Fifty Shades of Grey maybe. A thong that had “YOLO” affixed to the front in sequins I had bought during a drunken night while watching Home Shopping Network. The vibrator that someone had given me at a bachelorette party and that might cause the immediate death of Mom or Dad should they happen to come upon it standing proudly on my nightstand, the pink rubber phallus waving jauntily from side to side. I shoved it under my bed.
My bed had a depression in it where
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