Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [83]
Sean nodded with great seriousness. “He has a lyrical flair and a wonderful way of describing characters and settings. Did you ever hear of Finley Peter Dunne, a late-nineteenth-century Irish-American journalist?”
Sara’s eyes widened in surprise. For an American Studies class at West Point she’d written a research paper on Dunne, a Chicago columnist who had created a comic Irish saloonkeeper named Mr. Dooley, a character with strong anti-imperialist tendencies who tenaciously criticized the Spanish-American War.
“Did you know he was great friends with Teddy Roosevelt, in spite of his opposition to the Spanish-American War?” Sara asked.
Sean beamed with pleasure. “I did. What was Mr. Dooley’s given name?”
Sara laughed. “I don’t remember.”
“Martin,” Sean replied. “And the customer who most often had to endure Dooley’s social commentary was named Hennessy.”
“That’s right,” Sara said. “Did you know that before he moved to New York City, Dunne wrote articles on women’s issues for the Ladies’ Home Journal magazine?”
Sean nodded. “He was one of the most popular muckraking reformers of his day.”
“How did you come to discover him?” Sara asked.
“I’m reading Irish-American Literature at Trinity,” Sean replied. “Do you know Thomas Flanagan’s works?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sara said with a shake of her head.
“You’re missing one of America’s great writers. He wrote a trilogy set here that reads like the work of a native son. Would you like me to write the titles down for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Enough about books,” Fitzmaurice said as he pushed his empty fruit bowl away, “otherwise we’ll be sitting at this table long into the wee hours of the night.”
After the table had been cleared, Sean retreated to his room to study, and Sara helped Edna scrape and stack the dishes in the galley kitchen. As they stood at the sink, Edna turned to her and said, “I do hope you don’t think I invited you over to see if my husband was planning to take you away on a dirty little weekend.”
“I think he’ll be glad to see the last of me,” Sara replied with a smile.
“You’re welcome in this house anytime you decide to return.”
Impulsively, Sara hugged Edna as though she were an old and dear friend.
Fitzmaurice arrived to find the two women chatting like magpies, which continued over coffee in the living room. When he was finally able to suggest that it was time to take Sara back to her hotel, she reluctantly agreed.
She left Edna on the front stoop with thanks for a scrumptious meal and a promise to visit again, then climbed into Fitzmaurice’s car and waved good-bye.
Fitzmaurice started the engine, beeped the horn, and drove away. “The text messages Spalding sent to Paquette’s computer don’t help us one bit,” he said. “They were all about small changes he wanted the builder to make to the architect’s blueprints.”
“That’s it?”
“Afraid so.” He glanced at Sara. “I think we need to agree upon a plan of action in the morning. I can’t keep the number of people assigned to the case working any longer than that. Orders from the higher-ups.”
“Okay,” Sara said. “We’ll figure something out in the morning.”
At the hotel she thanked him for the wonderful evening, complimented him on his delightful family, and took the lift to her room, wishing Kerney and Patrick had been with her to meet Clan Fitzmaurice.
It was eleven p.m. in Dublin, and four in the afternoon in Santa Fe, but Sara was too drained to call Kerney or even check her e-mail for messages. She got ready for bed, her thoughts firmly fixed on Spalding and what to do about catching him come morning.
Chapter Nine
As Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher saw it, he’d risen through the ranks because he was objective, ambitious, and maintained a healthy skepticism about other people’s motives. Accordingly, he was constantly on guard for any sign of disloyalty from his subordinates or any outside threats to his authority.
On Friday, as he was about to leave the office at the end of the day, a memo from the vice chief of staff had been hand-delivered