Irish Stewed Read Online Free PDF Page A

to Bronntanas,” he said.
    I glanced up at the giant shamrock over the front door. The word he used—one he pronounced
BRON-tuh-nuss
—was nowhere to be seen on the sign.
    “It means
gift
in Irish,” he told me because he could either read minds or my look at the sign spoke volumes. “That was supposed to be the name of the place. But no one could remember it. Or pronounce it. So everyone just calls it—”
    “The Irish store.”
    We finished the thought together and we might have laughed about it the way people do when they happen upon the same words at the same time if I could have gotten past that image of poor, dead Jack Lancer that was stuck in my head—and of the receipt spike that was stuck in his.
    Another memory followed close behind. That one wasof Declan insisting he’d have a look around the restaurant before we found the body. And slipping into the parking lot on the side of the Terminal after Sophie told him we didn’t need his help.
    Maybe Declan was doing his mind reading thing again and knew exactly what I was thinking, because without another word he made his way down the center aisle of the small, well-lit shop and all the way to a counter where kilts and tams and tweed caps were displayed along with shawls and cabled sweaters. There was an open door behind the counter and when he closed it, I saw the white ceramic sign decorated with green shamrocks that hung from the door: OFFICE
.
    “What can I get you ladies?” he asked, and when Sophie answered, “Tea, if you have it,” he ducked into another back room. While he rumbled around in there and she went to sit at a table next to the small sink and ministove and fridge where he prepared the tea for her, I took the chance to look around.
    The Irish store (I’d never remember its real name or pronounce it properly even if I did) had a little bit of everything: jewelry in the front counter, including claddagh rings and brooches along with emerald-studded necklaces and earrings, paintings of quaint country cottages, T-shirts and sweatshirts that featured rainbows and leprechauns, teapots covered with shamrocks, and even a curio cabinet filled with Waterford and Galway crystal along with Belleek pottery.
    The shop was spotless. The displays were tasteful and appealing, and there was an interesting mix of handcrafted and kitschy souvenirs.
    It didn’t strike me at all as the sort of place a man like Declan would work.
    “So?” After he delivered Sophie her tea in a mug with a picture of a castle on it, he handed a similar mug to me. “What do you think of Bronntanas?”
    “I think having a name no one can remember must cut down on your Internet sales.”
    I wasn’t going for funny, but he laughed. “I don’t much care for online sales. I think it’s more important for me to get to know my customers, face-to-face. That way, I can learn what they like and help them make their gift choices.”
    “Like this tea?” I sniffed. The tea was dark and strong, and Declan had added milk to it.
    “Let me guess, you like your tea to be herbal. And organic. Am I right?”
    He didn’t really care, so I figured I really didn’t have to answer. Instead, I strolled over to check out a display of pretty painted pottery. “Is this your shop?” I asked him.
    “It’s a family business.” He hadn’t bothered with a cup of tea for himself. He leaned back against the nearest glass display case, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just keep things in order.”
    “So what did that cop mean? When he said when there was trouble, he wasn’t surprised to see you around?”
    A small smile played around his mouth. “You don’t think gift shop managers can get in trouble?”
    “I think trouble doesn’t track with expensive crystal wineglasses and recordings of Irish folk songs.”
    “Ah, you’ve never heard some of the really good, old songs. They’re all about trouble!”
    A lesser woman might have been distracted by the heat of his smile and the way