Saving Sharkey

  SAVING SHARKEY

  #4 in the Jenny McNair Cozy Mystery

  Series by Felicity Nisbet

  Kindle: 978-1-58124-462-5

  ePub: 978-1-58124-525-7

  ©2012 by Felicity Nisbet

  Published 2012 by The Fiction Works

  http://www.fictionworks.com

  fictionworks@me.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Books by Felicity Nisbet

  Chapter 1

  “Fore!”

  A wayward soccer ball missed Charlie McNair’s head by less than an inch. My unsympathetic bout of laughter caused me to spill an easy volley into the net.

  “That soccer ball saved your arse, Charlie,” I yelled. “That was match point.”

  “Where the hell did it come from?” Charlie grabbed the soccer ball and punted it high into the air, the way he would have for his former rugby team, Boroughmuir in Edinburgh.

  Not seeing anyone anxious to retrieve the missing soccer ball, we turned back to our tennis match. It was my serve and I closed out the match in the next two points.

  As we sauntered up the green in West Seattle, the owner of the soccer ball strolled toward us. He had thick brown hair and was closer to Charlie’s stature of five feet nine than mine of six feet two. He was a youthful looking man who, by my estimate, fell somewhere between Charlie in his sixties, and me in my late forties. I had noticed over the years, that age difference matters less and less in friendship, particularly for someone as youthful and energetic as Charlie McNair who seemed to defy the concept of aging and always provided me with tough competition on the tennis court.

  “Nice punt,” the fellow greeted Charlie with a compliment. “I thought it might bring rain.”

  Charlie smiled. “Not too hard to do around here. Name’s Charlie McNair. The big fellow here is Malcolm MacGregor.”

  “Nice to meet you both. Name’s Edward Sharkey. My mother calls me Edward. Friends call me Eddie. Or Sharkey. Unless I am vastly mistaken, you both hail from Scotland.”

  “Aye, that we do,” I said. “And you must be from Ireland . . . with some time spent in Scotland?”

  “Excellent ear.” The gleam in his green eyes indicated that he was duly impressed. “So, do you play football or as the Americans like to call it, soccer?”

  “Aye,” Charlie said. “We both played for many years—when we weren’t playing rugby, that is.”

  “What Charlie is trying to say, is that, as all Scottish school boys do, we grew up playing soccer. And when we became too old to play rugby, we returned to the sport.”

  Sharkey grinned as he looked from one of us to the other. “It sounds like we have a lot to talk about. Can I buy you a beer?”

  “We were about to head up the hill to imbibe. Care to join us?” asked Charlie.

  “I’ve a better idea. My house is down the road a wee bit and I have a bar that doesn’t get nearly enough attention.”

  “It appears that we’re neighbors. Charlie lives across the street and I live a couple houses down. Lead the way.”

  We strolled along Pleasant Beach Drive past my house and turned into the driveway on the water side of the street. The gates were open and I was quick to glean how expansive the property was. The house was far less modest and far more dramatic than I had realized in passing.

  “First things first,” Sharkey said, motioning for us to follow his lead. “I’ll give you the grand tour later. The bar is this way.”

  Charlie and I followed him through the huge sky-lit hallway into a bar that would have done any bar on Rose Street proud. Before we could comment, Sharkey told us it had been shipped from Dublin when his favorite pub closed.

  “So, what’s your poison? I have Guinness, Smithwick’s, and Belhaven on tap and just about everything else—that’s worth having—in a bottle.”

  “In other words, none of the light stuff,” Charlie said.

  “Or the American brands,” I added.

  “So, we’re all beer snobs,” Sharkey said. “Excellent.” He made his way behind the bar and we realized that he had neither been boasting nor exaggerating, rather simply stating the facts. All he needed to do was obtain a proper license and hang a sign and he could compete with any pub this side of the Atlantic.

  Charlie and I were not easily impressed, having been in most pubs in the world—or would have liked to have been—but we were momentarily rendered speechless. Once recovered, we responded, “Belhaven.”

  Charlie glanced over at me. He knew me too well. And, being a private detective, little slipped by him without notice. And notice he did, that Belhaven had recently become my beer of choice. The fact that it was also the favorite of Charlie’s daughter’s was not a coincidence.

  I certainly was not a man to have my tastes swayed by anyone, even Jenny McNair. However, having recently watched her as her face lit up upon a first sip, or seen her eyes close when she savored the refreshing liquid as it slid down her throat, I had betrayed my usual standbys and indulged. I was yet to return to my old favorites. Perhaps it had been time for a change. Or perhaps, it was simply that my first sip always seemed to evoke images of Jenny.

  Once Charlie and I each had a Belhaven in hand and Sharkey had his Guinness, we raised our pints. “Cheers,” we chorused.

  “So,” Charlie said, “Judging from your home, my guess is that you’re E. Sharkey of E. Sharkey Architecture and Engineering who designed half of Seattle.”

  Sharkey smiled. “Well, I didn’t arrive on the shores of Seattle until after the world fair, so I can’t claim to have inspired the Space Needle or the Monorail, but I have designed several things you might recognize.”

  “Such as the airport, baseball stadium, Tacoma Dome . . . ?” Charlie asked.

  Sharkey chuckled. “I have been fortunate to attract big projects that have paid handsomely, as you can see by this property. Let me give you the tour, at least the living area. Then you can tell me about yourselves and your rugby days.”

  He guided us out of the large room that was dedicated to housing the bar, and into the dining room with its high ceiling and modern glass table and sleek chairs. It was large enough to seat eighteen and had the same view as my home did of Puget Sound and the Vashon-bound ferry. The difference was that his dining and living rooms were several times the size of mine and far more dramatic as they were cantilevered over the water. Only an engineer would dare to create something that unusual, I decided. The enormous floor to ceiling windows revealed a private dock below with a large motor launch and a smaller ski boat.

  He led us across the corridor to an office that might have been situated in a downtown high-rise, with its plush leather furniture, built-in shelves, large drawing table, and oversized windows. With that view of the Sound and Vashon Island, it was
a miracle he completed any work.

  We sipped our beer as we gazed out at the view that seemed more striking than mine. It must have been the proximity to the water and knowing we were hanging in mid air.

  “Now your stories,” Sharkey encouraged.

  I smiled. “I’ll fill you in on Charlie. Formally a top-notch detective with the police, he’s now a well-known private investigator as well as an instructor at the University.”

  “Well-known?” Sharkey asked, his eyebrows arched.

  “Aye,” I said. “He’s been known to crack some cases the police deemed closed and unsolvable.”

  “With my daughter’s assistance,” Charlie added.

  “Ah, your daughter works with you?”

  “When I manage to successfully twist her arm,” Charlie said.

  “And he used to play stand-off for Boroughmuir School in Edinburgh and was selected for Scottish Schoolboys. He was a great goal kicker and still holds the school record for most points.”

  “Very impressive,” Sharkey said.

  “And, he plays jazz trumpet in a Dixieland band, is twice divorced with four children and let’s not forget the group of besotted maidens on his trail.”

  “I don’t know where you dug up all that, Malcolm. You were still in nappies when I played rugby and you leave the pub after one set when I play my horn.”

  “Slight exaggeration regarding the nappies. As far as your trumpet playing is concerned, I’m trying to preserve my hearing a wee bit longer.”

  “Fair enough. My turn now,” Charlie said, grinning with way too much pleasure. ”Malcolm was teaching at the Heriot-Watt University and discovered some real-life applications for high frequency sonic energy. He patented his discovery and as a result, no longer has to work.”

  “It’s not a bad way to live, is it now?” Sharkey said, confirming my suspicions that his circumstances were similar.

  “But he chooses to work,” Charlie said. “Now whether it’s for the love of teaching or the young lovelies who attend his classes, I’m not certain.”

  “Both, I would wager,” Sharkey offered.

  And if they did wager, they would both lose. Charlie of all people knew better.

  “What subject?” Sharkey asked.

  “Physics,” I answered.

  “Most popular professor on campus—and it’s not only because of his good looks,” Charlie said, laughing at the roll of my eyes. “And when he’s not teaching or keeping an eye on his money or traveling the world, he works with me—on occasion,” Charlie said.

  “More arm twisting?”

  “Or an especially intriguing case.”

  “Aye. I don’t work with Charlie often, but his charming self does manage to lure me into his cases more frequently than I would like,” I said. But if the truth be told, all he had to do was mention that Jenny was involved and I would be there. I never discussed Jenny with Charlie, but I suspected he knew how I felt. Particularly now that she was divorced from her husband, Joe Campbell.

  “And let’s not forget the most important part of Malcolm MacGregor’s story,” Charlie continued. “He is also a Scottish rugby internationalist with twelve caps. Usual position—number eight. He would have had more caps but for a career-ending knee injury.”

  Sharkey raised his glass in my honor. “Definitely impressive. I thought the name sounded familiar. I must have seen you play at some point. You were moving pretty well out there on the tennis court today. Your injury must have healed.”

  “It doesn’t bother me much anymore. What about you? Rugby player at one time? In Scotland?”

  “I’m actually from Donegal but my father moved us to Scotland when I was eleven. He managed a pub.” He laughed. “Thus my love of pubs and the desire to turn my home into one. But, my claim to fame was playing for Scottish Schoolboys in soccer.”

  “No rugby?” Charlie asked.

  “That came later. I had moved back to Dublin and was running on the track when a fellow came over to me and asked if I played rugby. He persuaded me to come to a Clontarf practice. Next thing I knew I was on the wing in a junior side against Belvedere. So I started my rugby career late. When I moved to London to study structural engineering, I played for London Irish. Once here in the states, I helped found the West Seattle Rugby Club. I played until I was in my early forties. Now I stick to soccer and a bit of Gaelic football. Keeps me in shape.”

  “You decided to study architecture as well?” I asked.

  “That I did. I couldn’t do everything I wanted with my engineering degree so I studied architecture when I arrived here. Another pint?” he asked.

  Charlie and I followed him back to the bar where he refilled our glasses. We strolled past his gallery of photographs, mostly soccer and rugby, stopping to enjoy the one of him on the wing for Scottish Schoolboys.

  “Ah, that was the match against Ireland which we won four-nil.”

  “And this one?” I asked. “You’re playing rugby for Clontarf.” He was very young but his smile was recognizable.

  “Aye, my first rugby game.”

  “You scored a try your first rugby game?” Charlie noted.

  “Aye, I did.”

  We moved on to a blow up of a rugby game. “London-Irish took Blackheath twenty-seven to five. “

  “Was that the winning try,” I asked, nodding toward the photograph of him crossing the goal line.

  “It was that.” He sipped his beer and grinned.

  “And this photo?” Charlie asked, gazing at a picture of Sharkey in sweats, holding a rugby ball.

  He chuckled. “Taken right after I thwarted a band of thieves who were attempting to steal from the cash register of my local pub.”

  “Why the rugby ball?” I asked.

  “My only weapon.”

  “And this one?” I asked, staring at a photograph of Sharkey standing in the middle of a platform, surrounded by a group of people.

  “Enough of my accomplishments,” he said with feigned modesty.

  “It couldn’t have been a soccer or rugby victory,” Charlie commented.

  “Oh, very well,” Sharkey said, staring so hard at the photograph I thought for a moment he might disappear back in time. “Fiji. Twelve years ago. I was on holiday when I managed to meet up with a group of Fijian rugby players. They invited me to their village which was at best, primitive. We arrived just before a tropical storm hit. I gathered everyone around and together we built a large platform to hold several families. The water rose to just below the platform. Everyone managed to stay dry and safe and even cook on the platform for the four days we lived on it.”

  “And you emerged a hero.”

  “How would you be knowing that?” He chuckled as he led us into the kitchen which was state of the art with restaurant quality stainless steel fixtures gleaming at us.

  “A very nice kitchen for a bachelor,” Charlie noted.

  “Well, I do have a live-in girlfriend. And a housekeeper.”

  An attractive woman in her thirties by my estimate, entered the kitchen as though on cue. Dressed in simple cotton slacks and top, I assumed she was the live-in girlfriend.

  “I apologize for dirty dishes, Mr. Eddie. I run errand. It take long. I take care of now.”

  So I was wrong. The housekeeper? Live-in too? Her accent was thick but I could not place it.

  “No problem, Sarai. Whenever you have a chance.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Between her name and her accent, I determined that she was from Thailand.

  Sharkey sighed. “Please, Sarai. You needn’t address me as sir. Sharkey or Eddie is fine.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled for the first time, revealing how lovely she was. “Sorry. Eddie. I fear Miss Aileen not approve of leaving dishes longer.”

  Miss Aileen? The live-in girlfriend?

  I felt as if we were in a play when once again, the woman of mention, entered the room on cue. She too was slim but muscular and could not yet be in her thirties. She swept into the room with a comman
d as only the lady of the house could enjoy. Her jet black hair was loose over her shoulders and her soccer shorts showed off long legs while her snug jersey accentuated her generous breasts.

  “I forgot you had a game this afternoon, Aileen. Let me introduce you. Malcolm MacGregor and Charlie McNair, Aileen Shannon.”

  She reached out and shook our extended hands, then turned to Sharkey. “I see youse have been into the booze already,” she said in a strong Belfast accent. It was subtle, but I detected a look of disapproval directed at Sarai. I wasn’t the only one to notice. Charlie raised an eyebrow as he met my amused look.

  Aileen mumbled under her breath, “You still haven’t taken care of the linens I asked you to change this morning, Sarai.”

  “I most sorry, Miss Aileen, but I have—” Her eyes darkened as she searched for the correct word—“business take care of.”

  Aileen raised a knowing eyebrow as she bent down to tie her shoelaces. “And I’m sure I know what business that is.”

  Sarai winced and turned back to the comfort of the sink.

  “Enough, Aileen.” Sharkey stepped between the two women. “If you’re so insistent that Sarai finish her chores, leave her to them.”

  Dismissing Sharkey’s anger with a frown, she stood up and turned to Charlie and me. “Are youse over on holiday then?”

  “No, we live down the lane,” I answered.

  Charlie’s eyes had returned to the long legs.

  “And I’m sure Eddie is trying to recruit you for the Westside Wanderers, isn’t he now?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Sharkey confessed, leaning down to kiss the cheek Aileen offered as she gathered up her gear.

  “I’m away. Hope to see youse again.” With a quick return peck to Sharkey’s cheek, she was off.

  “That’s the live-in girlfriend?” Charlie asked. “If it’s not a rude question, how old is she?”