Death of an Irish Diva Read Online Free PDF

forty-three-year-old daughter was pale and shaken. Was someone trying to frame her for murder? And was that person a dangerous killer? Oh, bother. This would wear on Vera. Beatrice knew she was taking it personally, as if this person didn’t like her. “What have I ever done to anybody in this town but be friendly and kind?” she had said earlier. It was the worst thing in the world for some people to feel unliked. Beatrice really didn’t care if anybody liked her. In fact, it always surprised her when someone actually did.
    â€œI don’t know, Mama. I don’t like the idea of taking medicine, let alone nerve pills. You know what happened to Flossy,” Vera said.
    Sheila spoke up. “Well, that’s Flossy. You’re you. I’m sure you wouldn’t get addicted. I’m sure you wouldn’t let that happen.” She looked at Beatrice. “We couldn’t let that happen.”
    â€œBesides,” Beatrice said, “that was years ago. They’ve come a long way with antidepressants and things.”
    Jon came back into the room, carrying a tray with a teapot filled with chamomile tea. It had always worked to soothe Vera, even when she was a teenager. Beatrice couldn’t remember if it was Ed or her cousin Rose who had first told her about the calming effects of chamomile. She’d always wondered how much of it was psychological. Whether it was or not, it worked for Vera. Beatrice always grew some chamomile in her herb garden and kept some packaged chamomile tea, just in case. She loved the fresh, sour scent of it.
    Beatrice leaned back onto her chair as Jon poured the tea in Vera’s beautiful blue willow cups. At least Vera was able to bring most of her dishes with her. The family that had moved into her house didn’t need them; they had brought most of their own dishes and pots and pans. But they’d left their furniture behind in North Carolina, at their home. Beatrice was dying to meet the family but hadn’t had the opportunity yet to take them a pie or some muffins and introduce herself.
    She watched as Vera’s still unsteady hand lifted the steaming cup of tea to her lips. She blew on it, the way she always had. Her daughter had very predictable movements. Always had. But these days, Beatrice knew she was troubled, and to witness the old familiar habits of tea held some comfort for her.
    â€œAntidepressants? First, you’re talking about antianxiety drugs, and now antidepressants. I don’t know,” Vera said, looking uncomfortable on her dilapidated couch.
    â€œWell, just talk to a doctor and see what he recommends,” Sheila said. “In the meantime, I think you need to break down and get a burglar alarm.”
    â€œSo expensive,” Vera said, waving the subject off with her hand.
    â€œLet me buy it for you,” Beatrice said. “Land sakes. Let me help.”
    Vera smiled and sighed. “Okay.” She looked over at Elizabeth, who was stacking up blocks to create a tower.
    Beatrice tried to place positive spin on all of it, but she was dismayed to hear that Vera, her only daughter, who was the mother of her only grandchild, was sleepwalking again. She hoped and prayed it wouldn’t happen again, let alone while Elizabeth was in her care. God only knew what could happen. Once, when Vera was twelve, they caught her walking down the middle of the street. Betty Hawthorne beeped her horn, woke the poor child up, and she became hysterical.
    â€œMaybe I should have told the police about my sleepwalking incident. I mean, you know how tricky sleep and dreams and all that is. I wonder if I might have heard something and that’s what set me off.”
    â€œUnless there’s a reason to tell them, I’d keep it to yourself,” Sheila said. “Next thing you know, they’ll have you strangling Emily in your sleep.” She laughed and rolled her eyes.
    Beatrice glared at her. Honestly. Why would