Page 69 of The Scald Crow
“What are your plans for it, Cillian?” Old Eamon sat on the bench outside the Black Horse, one hand resting on his shillelagh.
“Tattoo studio, Eamon.” Cillian jingled a key ring in the air.
“A tattoo parlor? Aye. A nice addition to the town. What’s the name of the place?” Eamon rose to his feet, taking slow steps forward. He tapped his stick on the dirty window and peered inside.
“How about the Black Rose?” I looked sideways, inspecting my work—today’s special scrawled across the sandwich board in white chalk.
Colcannon Mash and Champ: the traditional dish of floury potatoes blended with butter and milk and a generous dose of kale, served with Irish sausages. Our very own Ulster Fry served in a cast-iron pan.
A hearty all-day breakfast consisting of Irish sausage, rashers of bacon, soda bread, and white pudding, all surrounding a yellow-faced egg garnished with vine-ripened tomatoes, would fill a hole in many an empty stomach.
“I was thinking something more like Body Art Tattoo & Design.” Cillian’s gaze bored into mine.
“Pure shite, mate. The Black Sheep Returneth Home. That’s more like it, aye?” Tadgh grabbed the keychain from Cillian, tossing it high overhead.
“Whatever, man. It’s great having you back.” Pádraig threw his broad shoulder toward Tadgh, knocking him off balance.
“Why don’t ye put that energy behind a paintbrush?” Cillian caught the jangling ring with one hand.
“Painting? Jaysus, man. I’m no painter.” Tadgh dropped onto the sidewalk, giving his brothers ten quick pushups, then popped onto his feet.
“Does Mammy know you’re leaving home?” Pádraig said in a worried voice.
“Poker nights every Wednesday, aye? I’ll bring the whisky.” Tadgh gave him the thumbs up.
“Are you on the card this weekend, Tadgh?” I jostled the sandwich board again, positioning it perfectly on the sidewalk.
“Aye. I’ll be there. How about a kiss for luck?” Tadgh shifted his stance and planted a quick peck on my cheek.
Since Ciarán disappeared, Tadgh O’Donnell had taken on the role of guardian angel, stepping in whenever I needed a shoulder to cry on.
I left the O’Donnell shenanigans behind and entered the pub. I smiled, breathing in the faint aroma of last night’s dinner, and looked over the premises: the polished tables, the gleaming copper accents. I grabbed the broom from the closet, giving the stone floors one last sweep before the day began.
The door creaked, shaking me from my quiet reverie. I faced down two men, not from these parts.
“Are you Saoirse Dunne? The owner of this establishment?” A man dressed in a slim-fitting grey suit and a white-collared shirt peered over the rim of dark sunglasses.
The other man gave me a warm smile. He wore a red plaid sweater vest sandwiched between a white button-down shirt and a navy blue cardigan, cuffed chinos, and white tennis shoes. He forgot to wear socks.
“Yes, I am, and you are?” I relaxed my shoulders, composing myself. I focused my attention on his horn-rimmed glasses while taking note of the selection of colored pens in his cardigan’s breast pocket.
“Sean. Sean Hamstead.” Sweater-vest returned my smile, crinkles fanning from watery blue eyes. He handed me his card, which read Dr. Sean Hamstead, University of Oxford, Biologist. “I’m with Oxford. The University.”
“And what are you? The bodyguard?” I glanced toward the grey suit, sensing trouble with a capital T. He loomed over the Doc, black leather folio in hand.
“We understand a person named Calla Sweet stayed on these premises.” He pinched the corner of a glossy photo of Calla’s smiling face.
“Yes, she was here. She stayed two nights. Last week. Is there a problem?” I stared at a professional headshot of a different Calla—one who appeared to have stepped out of a Hollywood movie.
The suit gave nothing away. The Doc, on the other hand, shifted from foot to foot.
“Did she leave a forwarding address?” He took out a folded tissue, carefully unfolded it, and dabbed the corners of his eyes.
“No, I don’t think so.” The hairs on my nape rose. The mad scientist seemed too affable, and the suit breathed evil. There was no way I would dish out on my new friend—no way in hell.
“We would appreciate your cooperation.” The suit placed the photo on the bar top and stabbed Calla’s smiling face with his forefinger. “Where is she now?”
“Like I said. Calla Sweet checked out.” I eyeballed the guy. Who did he think he was?
