Winters & Somers Read online

  Winters & Somers

  By Glenys O'Connell

  First Edition: © Glenys O’Connell, 2008

  Second Edition: © Glenys O’Connell, 2013

  Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill

  http://edhgraphics.blogspot.ca/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Glossary of Words

  Some of the words used in this book are of Irish origin but in common use today world-wide. Some may seem a bit unfamiliar or outlandish, so I’m including the following short glossary:

  An Garda Síochána, Garda Síochána na hÉireann – The National Police Force of Ireland

  Bollox, bollix, bollocks – testicles, but usually used to describe someone the speaker is angry with. “Jack’s a right bollix.” “Ya bollix, you wrecked me car!”

  Craic – pronounced ‘crack’ with a slight emphasis on the A sound, this has become used around the world to describe a good time or great conversation! “I’m off to Milligan’s pub – there’s great craic there!”

  Da – father. “I’ll tell me da what you said.”

  Eejit – silly person. Same meaning as idiot, but kinder. “You’re an eejit, Sean.”

  Feck, fecking, feck off – a more polite euphemism for the Anglo-Saxon swear words of similar sound. “Why don’t you just feck off?” May also refer to stealing, as in; “Watch her or she’ll feck something when you’re not looking, for sure!”

  Gaff – slang for house or home. ‘Let’s go to my gaff.”

  Grand – designates something as fine or beautiful, i.e, “It’s grand weather we’re having!”

  Gobshite – despite the way it sounds, it’s usually an affectionate or tolerant term for a fool or someone very gullible. “You silly gobshite – what did you do that for?”

  Mare – usually refers to a woman and often not very flattering, i.e., ‘you silly mare’.

  Sure – often used at the beginning of sentences to emphasize the information. “Sure, and didn’t we all know that?”

  If this has given you a taste for some of the Irish phrases and words, A Dictionary of Hiberno-English compiled by Terence Patrick Dolan is a great resource.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cíara Somers prowled among the top drawer clientele of the exclusive Dublin nightclub, her scarlet lips pursed in a sexy pout.

  When a hearty male hand slapped her bum, she clamped down on her instinctive reaction to impale the man’s foot to the shiny wooden floors with her wicked four-inch stiletto heel. Instead, she cracked a sultry smile and batted her dark eyelashes provocatively.

  After all, she was working tonight. And you could hardly blame the poor darlings. Frankly, any man who didn't respond to her artfully designed siren's call had to be dead. At least from the neck down.

  The nightclub catered to very rich business and professional Dubliners – the place positively reeked of money - but she was after a specific fish, so it wouldn't do for a woman like her to draw too much attention to herself. If the eagle-eyed club management copped on to what she was up to, she'd be thrown out on her mini-skirted rear end.

  She spotted her prey over by the bar, drinking alone and looking sorry for himself. Bingo! He looked exactly ready for the company of a beautiful, sympathetic blonde. Straightening her back to accentuate the rounded swell of her breasts, Cíara sashayed up to the bar with a hip-sway that would raise the blood pressure of any healthy hetero male off the charts.

  She leaned on the bar, the action pressing her cleavage into a picture that instantly mesmerized the barman and several other men. But here was the tricky part – to attract only the one she wanted.

  Attracting him wasn't hard at all. The tall, thin man on her right turned his head to follow the barman's gaze - and was hooked immediately. Slowly, his eyes traveled from her chest to linger on her mouth, before taking a slow detour to her toes while taking in other vital areas along the way.

  “Well, hello there,” he growled. A wolfish smile lit up his face and he treated her to a display of crooked teeth. She suppressed a shudder. This was work, after all, but just occasionally it would be nice to work on a guy she really fancied.

  Later she’d remember the old saying about being careful what you wished for in case it came true, but tonight she was just another working girl.

  So she returned the smile, twitching her lower lip into that full ruby pout that men found so irresistible. She let a wave of blonde hair fall forward over one eye as she languidly stretched out a sun-tanned hand and drew a blood-red fingernail down his shirtfront.

  “Hello, yourself,” she purred, and watched with satisfaction as he swallowed the bait.

  Thirty minutes later, she extricated herself from her target’s roaming hands, giggled throatily and excused herself with the need to powder her nose.

  “Don't be too long, baby – I’m having a hard time waiting!” he leered, and gave her an indulgent slap on her behind as she walked away. Cíara turned to wink at him and blow a scarlet-lipped kiss in his direction.

  He'd already invited her back to his place for a nightcap '…and whatever else we fancy!'

  * * *

  “In your dreams, jerk!” she grated, as she slammed open the ladies' room door. “Men are all the same!”

  “You got that right, love,” said a thirty-something redhead, eyeing her over top of a powder compact.

  “Ain't it just the truth and all,” said a much older bottle blonde as she pulled up the strap of her bra. “Not one to mend another, there's not.”

  On that note of feminine accord, Cíara stepped into a cubicle and yanked off her slinky silver dress. She jammed it into an astonishingly capacious shoulder bag and retrieved a tiny tight black Spandex mini-skirt and a bright red Spandex top with off-the-shoulder straps. Wriggling into the new outfit she hit her elbow on the door handle in the too-small space and uttered a colorful curse.

  “Someone's in a bad mood,” cackled the bottle blonde, who stopped battling with her errant underwear long enough to raise an eyebrow as the new-look Cíara stepped out of the cubicle. “Gawd, and aren't you just the regular quick-change artist?”

  Ignoring the other woman, Cíara scrubbed off the red lipstick and replaced it with pale pink. Then she whipped off the long blonde wig to reveal her own short auburn curls. She hunted around in the depths of her bag and retrieved a black wig cut in a silky pageboy style. With practiced skill, she tucked her natural hair under the wig, fluffed up the style, and then examined the results in the mirror.

  “My, My, Ms. Somers – you look like a new woman!” she told her reflection.

  The blonde gave a snort of laughter and flounced out of the powder room.

  Cíara gave her appearance a quick once-over in the full-length mirror before peeking through the ladies’ room door to check that the coast was clear. Then she sauntered through the press of dancing bodies, through the club front doors and into the damp and tangy air of a Dublin evening.

  One more appointment and her work would be finished for the night.

  * * *

  “I’m telling you, Jonno my boy, I saw Police Detective Jonathon Victor at work in New York and I still can't relate that hard man to J.V. Winters, a guy who writes bodice-rippers so full of romantic sex the ladies swoon at the mention of his name!” Gardai Inspector Bill O’Malley grinned across the pub table at his friend.
r />   “Bodice rippers? Romantic sex? I’m deeply chagrined.” Winters grinned back over a thick-headed pint of something dark and rich.

  “And, sure it's great you're spending some time over here. Research, huh? Is this for a book or for a case?”

  “Hey, the next book. It’s a bit of a departure from what I’ve been doing. More suspense than romance. The department agreed to give me a year off - without pay, of course. So I’m a free man.”

  O’Malley’s eyes narrowed in good humoured envy. “How the hell did you finagle that? I know you were wounded, but I know if I tried to get a year off for anything other than maybe total paralysis from the neck down, the Brass would have me out directing traffic – once they'd finished laughing, mind you.”

  “Yeah, well, mine is the same – the bullet I took in the leg was just a flesh wound and certainly not serious enough for the captain to be sympathetic to the tune of a year off. So I threatened to leak to the newspapers that J. V. Winters was actually a working cop. What really clinched it was when I said I’d reveal which precinct I worked out of – and he had this vision of hundreds of women clogging the parking lot, waiting for autographs!”

  “By God, I’d love to have seen his face! You’re a mad bastard, Jonathon!”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been told. What about you, Bill? After you worked with us for a year in New York City I always expected you to come back permanently.” Winters eyed the other man over his glass.

  “Myself, I’d move in two minutes. But when Sórcha got pregnant we wanted the baby born here, near her mother and all. Then, well, somehow it just got harder and harder to think of leaving. And Ireland’s not like it used to be – people are moving in here instead of all the young ones emigrating to find work.”

  “Things have certainly changed,” Winters agreed, surveying the gleaming, newly refurbished pub crowded with business types chattering on mobile phones while lunching.

  “Not always for the best, either. Money brings its own problems,” Bill commented glumly.

  “Ah,” Winters pounced softly. “Do I detect that perhaps there’s a reason why a tight bastard like yourself offered to buy lunch?”

  Bill grinned. “Always the cop, eh? Suspicious beggar, that’s what you are. But….”

  “Go on, I’m listening. But I warn you, this sabbatical is to write the book I want to write – not to chase around these green and wet fields looking for stolen sheep!”

  “Don’t condescend. We’re talking stolen jewelry. Lots of stolen jewelry. Whoever our thief is, he’s got an eye for the pricey stuff. He leaves odd trinkets worth only a few hundred pounds behind, takes stuff worth in the tens of thousands – or hundreds of thousands. Three nights ago, he walked out of a big Georgian house in Dublin with a necklace and earrings that in themselves were worth a quarter of a million, but they have a history which makes them worth twice that to a collector.” Bill drained his beer and began to make wet, interlocking rings on the table with his glass.

  “So what have you got so far?” Winters' interest was piqued despite himself.

  “Damn all, and that’s the truth. No fingerprints, no sightings, the guy – or girl – does their research well, because the robberies all occur when the house is empty. What's puzzling is they also know where the stuff is and how to get to it. Even if it’s in a wall safe. We're questioning all outside staff, caterers, etc., that the victims have used, but we've not found a link so far.”

  “Must be frustrating,” Winters sympathized. “But why did you say guy or girl? Is there anything to indicate that it’s a woman?”

  “Nah, not really. Just he's able to squeeze in through narrow openings such as a bathroom window, so it must be someone fairly slightly built. The bloody Press got hold of the story and they’ve nicknamed him the “Diamond Darling” because he seems to have a special liking for diamonds. Now he’s a fecking romantic hero!”

  Winters grinned. “Them's the breaks. Good luck with it, Bill. I’m off back to Waterford. My agent's buying me dinner at a classy hotel then tucking me up with my laptop in a cozy little cottage before she flies back across the Atlantic.”

  Bill raised an eyebrow. “Isn't your agent the same woman who…..”

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago and we're purely business now. At the moment, I'm footloose, fancy-free and ready to devote myself to 100,000 words of fiction.”

  “Yeah, right, I know you, Jonathon. A few weeks out in the boonies down in County Waterford and you'll be begging me to let you help with the Diamond Darling,” Bill challenged.

  “If I want to know more, I’ll buy the newspapers,” Winters retorted. “Remember me to Sórcha. I’ll see you, her and the two babes on Wednesday before the libraries conference starts. Though God alone knows how they persuaded me to speak at that!”

  “Come on, man, you know you love the adoration,” Bill replied, disappointed that he hadn’t been able to recruit Winters in the hunt for the jewel thief. “Just remember when you’re out at those posh dinners and cocktail do's, to keep an ear to the ground for anything about our jewelry loving friend!”

  “Yeah, right.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hello, my name's Cíara Somers and I make my living seducing other women's partners!” Cíara grinned, picturing the words alongside a many-times magnified likeness of herself, emblazoned in great style in the advertisement strips along the sides of Dublin buses.

  Drawing up imaginary advertisements for her business was great fun but it wasn't getting the task in hand done, and hadn't Sister Rosalie always told her she was hopeless for getting the task in hand done? Whatever would the reverend mother think of her now?

  She sighed, tapping a yellow pencil against her teeth and gazing at the computer screen. Even though she'd been doing this 'specialized' private investigative work for a while, she still found it hard to come up with a tactful way of breaking the news to women that the men they loved weren't to be trusted.

  At the back of her mind she always wondered why the women who hired her to tempt their men bothered. After all, if a woman couldn't trust her lover unconditionally, it was hardly worth bothering to continue the relationship, was it? She sighed again.

  But the work did pay pretty well, all things considered; even if it wasn’t quite what she’d intended to be doing when she opened up the Somers Private Inquiry Agency. But being a private detective was a tough job with a lot of competition. There were already several established agencies with skilled operatives in Dublin and when she had first hung out her shingle the clients hadn't exactly beaten a path to her door.

  In her more pessimistic moments she thought she'd made a big mistake in kissing a good, solid administrative job goodbye and sinking her savings into this tiny rented office. But a quick sense of satisfaction turned up the corners of her mouth as she smoothed her hand over the stack of file folders on her desk. Ah, yes, things had changed.

  Three months into her new career her bank account had been horribly depleted. She’d had just two clients. One, a little old lady whose cat was missing; the other a sharp-tongued middle-aged matron who’d suspected her husband was cheating on her.

  Cíara found the cat at an Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals' shelter; and she’d become a heroine to the lonely old woman.

  The other client had not been thrilled at having her suspicions about her philandering spouse proven correct and she’d paid her bill reluctantly, treating Cíara to the same well-bred look of contempt that she'd probably turned on her husband for the past twenty years or so.

  But the case had given her that Great Idea. It had tickled the back of her consciousness for a while, because she really hadn't been sure that she had what it took, or even how to go about finding clients. But word had gone out and the clients came, first in a trickle, then in a deluge that had amazed her.

  A discreet knock at the door brought her back to the present and her next appointment of the day.

  She couldn’t pretend she liked the balding,
beer-bellied man who prowled into her office, looking at the Spartan furnishings with a faintly derisive twist to his mouth. But if E.P. Walters, vice-president of the renowned Walters and Reilly Investigative Agency, was about to offer her work, then by God, she’d manage to eat humble pie. Every crumb. Her heartbeat speeded up in anticipation.

  Was this the break she’d been sweating for? A real detective job?

  “So, er… may I call you Cíara?”

  “Certainly.” She’d almost added ‘E.P.’ then thought better of it, remembering the humble pie, and said simply: “Mr. Walters.” He cast her a dry look as if he’d read her thoughts and wanted to smile but his facial muscles had forgotten how. He sighed theatrically.

  “We find ourselves short of manpower right now, too much work on the books. Lot of clients want us to stop this Diamond Darling fella, you know? Can't rely on the police to do their job these days. And I have a case that calls for a…er… specific type of agent.”

  Why was the man avoiding looking at her? The ‘Views of Beautiful Ireland’ calendar on the wall above her desk couldn’t possibly be this riveting. She suddenly had the feeling that this slice of humble pie might well mess up her digestive system.

  “What kind of agent?” she asked. If Walters heard the suspicion in her voice, he give no indication.

  “What do you think of divorce?”

  Cíara gaped. Whatever was the man talking about? Divorce was still a controversial subject in modern-day Ireland but she'd be damned if she’d let political correctness rip away a meal ticket.

  “I think it's something to be avoided – but I don't think people should stay together when it obviously isn’t working and everyone is unhappy,” she hedged.

  Walters breathed deeply, a sound suspiciously like a sigh of relief. “So you'd agree that a woman should do whatever she can to make sure her marriage will last? Isn't that part of what your specialty consists of?”