Lena finds some change in her pocket, waves fifty cents at Noreen, and leaves it on top of the till to cover the apple. “Then what do they reckon?”

Noreen blows out air. “You name it, I’ve had someone in here saying it. And then they get their ideas mixed in together, till you wouldn’t know who thought what—there’s Ciaran Maloney came in saying it musta been just some roola-boola with drink taken all round, but then didn’t he get talking to Bobby, and he’s not fool enough to believe Bobby’s blather, but he ended up wondering was Rushborough maybe some kinda inspector sent down to look for people claiming grants they oughtn’t to be getting…” She shakes her head, exasperated. “There’s a few that think ’twas over land. They reckon the gold was only a whatd’youcallit, a cover story; your man Rushborough had a claim on some land, through his granny, and he was over here sussing it out, and someone didn’t take well to that. I know the Feeneys do be awful pushovers, but they wouldn’t hand over their land to some blow-in without a fight. Give me one of them apples, go on; maybe it’ll cool me down.”

Lena tosses her an apple and puts another fifty cents on the till. Noreen rubs the apple clean on the side of her slacks. “Clodagh Moynihan’s convinced—dead certain, now—that Rushborough stumbled on young people doing drugs, and they put him outa the way. I don’t know what kinda notion Clodagh has of drugs, at all. I said to her, why would anyone be at that carry-on in the middle of the night on a mountain road, and would they not just do a runner when they heard him coming, but there’s no talking to her. If she hadn’ta been such an awful Holy Mary in school, she’d have more of a clue.”

It occurs to Lena that she, apparently alone in the county, has no hypothesis about who killed Rushborough. She doesn’t particularly care. From her perspective, there are a number of other questions that are considerably more pressing.

“Ah well,” she says, biting off another piece of apple, “ ’tisn’t our problem to solve, lucky for us. That detective fella—Nealon, Cal says his name is—he’s stuck with it. Didja meet him yet?”

“I did. He came in at lunchtime looking for sandwiches, if you don’t mind. I nearly asked him does this place look like a feckin’ deli, but in the end I sent him next door to Barty for a toastie.”

Noreen does in fact make sandwiches on occasion, for people she likes. Apparently Nealon doesn’t fall into this category, which strikes Lena as odd: she would have expected Noreen, as a gifted amateur, to jump on the chance of cozy chats with a professional. “What’s he like?” she asks. “I haven’t met him yet.”

“Big smiley feckin’ head on him,” Noreen says darkly. “Coming in here, hail-fellow-well-met, joking about the weather, practically taking off his hat to Tom Pat Malone, if he’d had a hat. Doireann Cunniffe nearly wet her knickers for him, so she did. I’d never trust a charmer.” She cracks off a bite of apple with vindictive force.

“Cal says the man knows what he’s at,” Lena says.

She catches that odd sideways look from Noreen again. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing. Who does Cal reckon done it?”

“Cal’s retired. He reckons it’s not his problem.”

“Well,” Noreen says. “Let’s hope he’s right.”

“Go on,” Lena says. “Spit it out.”

Noreen sighs, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Here was me telling you that you oughta quit your foostering about and marry him, d’you remember? And you got up on your high horse. I nearly gave you a clatter. But now I reckon you were right to ignore me, for once.”

Lena knows she’s not going to like this. She doesn’t like the way Noreen is mincing around it, either. She flattens the urge to whip her apple at Noreen’s permed head.

“Why’s that, now?” she inquires.

Sitting there on the stepladder with her elbows on her knees, twisting her apple stem, Noreen looks tired. Lena feels like everyone she’s seen in days looks tired. Johnny has worn out the lot of them.

“Everyone likes your Cal, now,” Noreen says. “You know that. He’s a lovely fella, a gentleman, and everyone knows it. But if that Nealon goes giving people hassle…”

Lena gets it. “If the wolves get close,” she says, “they’ll have to pick someone to push off the wagon.”

“Ah, for God’s sake, don’t be feckin’ dramatic. No one’s pushing anyone. Just…sure, no one wants to see their cousin or their brother-in-law locked up for murder.”

“They’d rather see a blow-in.”

“Wouldn’t you? If ’twasn’t Cal.”

“There’s plenty of people from here that I’d only love to see locked up,” Lena says. “Is there anyone thick enough that they actually believe he done it? Or are they only saying it outa convenience?”

“What’s it matter? They’re saying it, either way.”

“How many of them?”

Noreen doesn’t look up. She says, “Enough.”

Lena says, “And if Nealon makes a pain in the arse of himself, they’ll say it to him.”

“Not straight out. No one’s going to go accusing Cal of anything. Just…you know yourself.”

Lena does. “Tell us,” she says. “I’m only dying of curiosity. Why did he do it? For the laugh, is it? Or did he think I was after being swept off my feet by Rushborough’s fancy city ways?”

“Ah, Helena, for feck’s sake, don’t be like that. I’m not the one saying it. I said to them, are ye mad, I said, Cal’s no more behind this than I am. I’m only telling you, so you’ll know what you’ve to deal with.”

“And I’m only asking you. Why would Cal go killing Rushborough?”

“I never said he would. But everyone knows he’d do anything for Trey. If Rushborough was one of them perverts, and he laid a finger on her—”

“He didn’t. The man was trouble, all right, but not that kind. Do people not have enough drama on their plates, without adding in more?”

“Maybe you know the man did nothing on her. But the detective doesn’t.”

Lena knows, without having to think about it, exactly how this will unroll. The talk curling its way around the townland will be gradual, aimless, nonspecific; no one will ever say, or even hint, that it would be simplest if Rushborough had been killed by that Yank over in O’Shea’s place, but slowly the thought will thicken and take shape in the air. And down the line, someone will mention to Nealon that she didn’t like the way Rushborough looked at her teenage niece; someone else will drop a bit of praise about how Cal is like a father to Theresa Reddy, fierce protective; someone else will point out that Rushborough, as Johnny’s friend, must have spent time over at the Reddy house; someone else will mention in passing that Sheila, no harm to her, doesn’t look out for that child the way she should. Unlike Johnny, Cal is safe to hand over. He’s lived here long enough to understand that if he squeals to Nealon about the gold, Trey will be in the townland’s bad books right alongside him.

“I know you don’t like getting mixed up in things,” Noreen says. “You think I’m blind, or thick, or I don’t know what, but I’m not. Why d’you think I was so set on you meeting Cal to begin with? I hated seeing you lonely, and I knew you’d never go near a local lad, for fear of getting dragged into all this place’s doings. And now, if people start talking…you know what it’ll be like. You’d hate to be dragged into that.”

“Well,” Lena says, “too late. Me and Cal took your advice; sure, doesn’t everyone around here know you’re always right. We’re going to get married.”

Noreen’s head pops up and she stares. “Are you serious?”

“I am, yeah. That’s what I came down to tell you. D’you reckon I look better in blue or green?”

“You can’t get married in green, it’s unlucky— Mother a God, Helena! I don’t know whether to congratulate you or— When?”

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Lena says. She throws her apple core in the bin and slides down off the counter. She needs to get back to Cal’s and inform him of the news, before someone calls round to congratulate him. “But you can tell all them wee shite-talkers: he’s no blow-in now. Anyone who wants to throw Cal to the wolves will have to throw me as well, and I’m not easy thrown. You tell them that, and make sure they hear you.”

—

Cal is in his workshop, painting stain onto a turned piece of wood. Lena isn’t used to finding him there alone. He hasn’t put on music; he’s just sitting at the worktable, head bent, his brush moving steadily and carefully. For the first time, the workshop, with its neatness and its carefully ordered array of tools, looks like a retired man’s brave attempt to keep busy.

“Hey,” he says, looking up as her shadow falls through the window. “Everything OK?”

“Never better,” Lena says. “I just came to warn you: I told Noreen we’re after getting engaged. I reckoned you oughta know.”

The look on Cal’s face makes her burst out laughing. “Put your head down between your knees,” she advises him. “Before you go fainting on me. Don’t be worrying: I’ve no intention of marrying anyone.”

“Then what…?” Cal clearly wants to say what the fuck, but feels it might come across as impolite.

The laugh has done Lena good. “There’s forty shades of shite going around about Rushborough,” she says. “One of ’em involves you. I reckoned I might as well stamp that one out before it had a chance to take hold. People’ll think twice before they spread talk about a man that’s about to be Noreen’s brother-in-law.”

“OK,” Cal says. He still looks stunned enough to keep Lena grinning. “OK. If you…OK. I mean, I’ve got no objection, I just…What are people saying?”

“Not a lot,” Lena says, shrugging. “They’re only throwing rumors around, trying them on for size; you know the way. I just don’t want them deciding this one fits.”

Cal looks at her, but he doesn’t press her. He understands some, at least, of what Ardnakelty is capable of weaving around him, if it should choose to.

The man came here asking for nothing but green fields and peace. Lena knows there was a time when he considered turning around and walking right back out the door. A part of her wishes, for his sake, that he had done it.

“Shit,” Cal says suddenly, realizing. “The damn pub. Next time I go in there, I’m gonna get roasted harder’n a Thanksgiving turkey. What are you getting me into, woman?”

“Listen to me, you,” Lena tells him severely. “You haven’t a notion of the slaggings I’ve put up with, going out with a blow-in and a Guard, and a beardy one at that. You can take your turn and like it.”

“I already get enough crap for coming over here and taking their women. If I actually get engaged to you, they’ll probably get me blackout drunk on poteen and dump me on your doorstep in a wedding dress.”

“You’ll be only gorgeous,” Lena says. “Don’t let them forget the veil.”

She knows he’s wondering what Trey will make of this. She almost points out that they can tell Trey the real story—God knows the child can keep her mouth shut—but she stops herself. Something is going on between Cal and Trey; things are shifting and fragile. Lena shoving her oar in could easily do more harm than good.

“Come here,” she says, leaning in at the window and holding out her hands to him. “If I was going to get engaged to anyone, I could do a lot worse than you.” When he comes to the window, she gives him a kiss that aims to make him forget everyone else in Ardnakelty, at least for a minute or two.

—

Ardnakelty, as Cal predicted, pounces joyfully on the opportunity to give him copious amounts of shit. Mart shows up on his doorstep right after dinnertime, with his fluff of gray hair slicked down and his donkey hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “Put on your best shirt, bucko,” he orders. “I’ve a pint to buy you.”

“Oh, man,” Cal says sheepishly. “You heard, huh?”

“Course I heard. This requires a celebration.”

“Aw, Mart. Come on. It’s not a big deal. I just figured, we’ve been together long enough that—”

“It’s a big deal whether you like it or not. You’ve got friends around here that wanta congratulate you properly, and we need something to celebrate, after the few weeks we’ve had. We didn’t win the hurling, so the next best thing is young love. You can’t begrudge us that. Go take off that sawdusty aul’ rag and put on something dacent, and we’ll be off.” He flaps his hands at Cal like he’s herding a sheep. “Don’t keep me hanging about. I’ve a mouth on me like Gandhi’s flip-flop.”

Cal yields to the inevitable and heads inside to put on a shirt. He knows that, regardless of engagements, he needs an evening in Seán Óg’s. He needs to find out how Trey’s story has landed, and what ripples it’s sending out.

At least, as it turns out, Mart has restrained himself from extending the festivities to the whole townland. Seán Óg’s alcove is occupied by the guys Cal sees most often, Senan and Bobby and P.J. and Francie—and, ominously, Malachy Dwyer, although Cal is relieved that no poteen bottles are in evidence so far—but the rest of the pub is its usual sparse weekday self. There are four spindly old guys playing cards in a corner, and two more at the bar exchanging the occasional grunt; they glance up and nod when Cal and Mart come in, but none of them show any inclination towards conversation. Rushborough alive brought everyone out to assess and discuss him; Rushborough dead is something to be talked about in private, or not talked about at all.

Cal is greeted with a collective roar—“Here comes the bride!” “Dead man walking!” “Get this fella a pint, Barty, to drown his sorrows!”

“Jeez, guys,” Cal says, embarrassed and sliding into the banquette as fast as he can.

“We’re just pleased to see you,” Bobby explains. “We don’t know when we’ll get another chance, sure.”

“This,” Malachy says, tapping the table, “this is a wake. For your social life, may it rest in peace. Lena won’t let you out on the tear with the likes of us reprobates.”

“She will,” Francie says. “Would you want to look at that big beardy head every evening?”

“I wouldn’t wanta look at it any evening,” Senan says, settling himself better on his banquette to get down to business. “What’s Lena at? I thought that one had some sense.”

“I’d say the sun got to her,” P.J. says. “She’d want to get looked at.”

“Ah, now, love’s a mysterious thing,” Mart says reproachfully. “She sees sides of him that we don’t.”

“Or else she’s up the duff,” Malachy says. “Is she?”

“Lena’s a bit long in the tooth for that,” Senan says. “So’s himself, mind you. Is there any mojo left in the yoyo at this stage, man?”

“Is there what?” Cal says, starting to laugh.