The Dead of Achill Island

by The Dead of Achill Island (retail) (epub)

  “Then I will,” said Laura. “I won’t be the first widow to save a business, and you’ll be right with me. We’ll take it project by project, starting with the ones on Achill. It won’t be easy without Frank, but we’ll do it.”

  “I’m sorry to ask you, Laura, but did Frank know all this?”

  “Frank’s the one who discovered the truth about this latest scheme and told me. He found out too late, after he and his friends had invested in the death train project.” She shook her head. “You’re supposed to do ‘due diligence’ before you invest, not after. Frank didn’t investigate Barnes Properties until he got tipped off by one of his friends on the county council. They look into a builder’s liquidity before they give permission to build, and they were concerned by what they learned.”

  I could just see it—Frank getting a phone call with the bad news and confronting Bert. Bert blowing him off. Frank waiting till dark to act on his anger. If it happened that way, Frank was a slick pretender. During his condolence call to Aunt Laura, as well as at the pub, he made Bert out to be a business genius. That was just a week ago.

  I asked, “Do you think Frank could have killed Bert over this?”

  Laura looked to the side, as if thinking. I wished I could remember that “tell” they talk about: if you look one direction, you’re recalling; if you look the other, you’re cooking up a lie.

  She said, “Possibly. He was certainly angry. His friends had invested in the project on Frank’s recommendation. And he may have been concerned for me.”

  In case Emily didn’t know about her mother’s affair, I didn’t mention it. “I still don’t understand why Bert was in the Deserted Village that night. You said it was because of your argument. What happened?”

  “I told him he was an arrogant fool. While his debts were coming due back home, he kept his ego inflated with these silly projects. He was playing around with toy trains while my fortune and Emily’s were being wiped out!” She added, as an afterthought: “Frank’s too.”

  Emily jumped in. “Daddy didn’t care about Frank. What made him crack was when you accused him of betraying me. He did, too. He lied to me about everything, and he made me his tool. My job was to convince clients how successful we were, but we were really going under, and I didn’t know.” Her anger was finally showing.

  I asked, “What do you mean, it made him crack?”

  “He’d been drinking during the argument and by then he’d lost control. He shoved her,” she said, her voice rising. “He slammed Mama against the wall, and then he ran out the door. He didn’t even check to see if she was okay.”

  “So you ran out after him and you caught him in the ruin and you picked up a stone and hit him.”

  She stood up. “No, it wasn’t like that! I just wanted to confront him.”

  “Stop!” Laura hissed.

  I didn’t know whether she was addressing me or Emily. But I pushed on. “Emily. Did you hit your father with a stone?”

  Laura shot her arm across Emily’s face, as if to fend off an attacker. “Leave her alone!” she said. “She’s talking nonsense.”

  “No,” I said. “She needs to get out what’s bothering her.”

  “I wanted to tell him what a bastard he was,” said Emily.

  Uncle Bert the bastard. Even Emily thought of him like that.

  Laura barked “Be quiet!” but Emily spoke as if she hadn’t heard. “I can’t undo it. I didn’t mean to do it, but I can’t undo it.”

  Her anguish drew my pity. Impulsively, I said, “We can help you get through this, Emily.”

  Laura scoffed. “Help her? You call this helping her?”

  “Shutting her up is not going to help her. You can’t hide something like this from the guards. They’ve got DNA and fiber analysis and who knows what. She’ll be caught. We can’t stop that from happening. But we can help her build a defense that will keep her out of prison. There must be a story here. She didn’t intend to kill Bert. That’s what she says, and don’t you believe her?”

  Emily whispered, “Tell her, Mom.” She held her head in her hands.

  Laura, openmouthed with exasperation, looked at her daughter, then at me. Eyes flashing, she said, “If you want to know what really happened, ask your mother!”

  “What?” My mouth fell open.

  “You heard me. Ask your mother. This is as much about her as it is about Emily.”

  “I don’t understand.” And I didn’t, but the blow hit me again—Mom, as Bert’s killer. I managed: “Are you saying that my mother was there when Bert was killed? Why would she be?”

  Emily picked up her head. “I don’t know, but I heard screams and I ran toward them. I found my father struggling with your mother in one of the ruins.” Her hands were waving in front of her, acting out what she had seen.

  “All right,” I said automatically. It was certainly not all right. “The three of you were at the Deserted Village. You saw my mother arguing with Uncle Bert. Then what?”

  “I shouted at them, but they didn’t stop. Then I saw that Daddy had his hands around your mother’s throat. He was choking her. I tried to pull him away but he flung me aside.”

  “And then?”

  “I took a rock from the rubble.”

  “And you struck him on the head.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Emily saved your mother’s life, is what happened,” Aunt Laura said. “Since then it’s been a nightmare, one horror after another.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the guards and tell them it was a matter of saving a life?”

  “Because it would be too easy for them to assume that Emily hit Bert in anger, after the argument we had,” said Laura. “He ruined her, so she killed him. That would be the story they’d seize on: murder and revenge. So we agreed to say nothing.”

  “My mom agreed too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when Frank Hickey was killed, you hoped the guards would pin Bert’s murder on him?”

  Laura’s silence was the answer.

  “Who killed Frank, Laura?”

  “I swear I don’t know.” She looked completely in earnest. “But I’m asking you to keep our secret.”

  “It’s too late for that,” I said.

  Emily stood up and swayed. “It’s over, Mama. I’ve ruined my life, and I’ll end up in prison. I’d be better off dead!”

  “Don’t say such a thing,” Laura cried. But before she could block her, Emily bolted for the door.

  “Go after her,” Laura implored. “She’s desperate, she could do anything.”

  I whipped my jacket from the back of a chair and chased my cousin into the night.

  The rain was now a drizzle, but gray fog had rolled in from the ocean, making it hard to see more than a yard ahead. I called Emily’s name and thought I heard movement heading down the lane, so I followed the sound. My head was spinning, trying to make sense of what I had just learned—that Mom was at the Deserted Village struggling with Uncle Bert on the night of the murder. I couldn’t imagine why Mom would be there, but I certainly could see her in a fight with Bert. Did Emily really save her from being killed by Bert? If so, Mom had kept Emily’s secret—their secret—from our family and the police. I called out again but my voice was muffled by rain and fog. I jogged on until I reached the road. I decided to turn toward Slievemore Mountain, and sure enough, I heard a runner ahead of me. I guessed that Emily was returning to the Deserted Village, driven to revisit the scene of horror.

  The country road had no lights, and I feared running into the deep ditch that edged the road. When I reached the parking lot of the village, I was temporarily disoriented, but turning around, I saw the lights of Laura’s house, and then I knew the tented crime scene was somewhere above me on the slope, though it could be in any one of several directions. A light source might help. I didn’t have a flashlight, but I did have a phone in my jacket. When I pressed the right icon, it created a triangle of light. Holding the phone like a lantern
with my arm extended, I made my way slowly up the hill, from one ruin to another. Almost every cottage had lost its roof and provided no shelter from the weather. Several, though, retained odd bits of overhang and offered refuge, however slight, in the corners of the structure. I was drawn to these. I would step through a break in the rubble that had once been a doorway, shine my light into the corners looking for a huddled figure, and move on.

  Halfway up the slope, I came to one of the larger ruins and saw that someone had been camping in it. My phone light picked up a bedroll with a backpack and tin can sitting next to it. My first impression was that the bedroll was empty. I was wrong. It sprang to life and a snarling figure hurled himself at me, knocking me on my back and sending my phone sliding away. Michael O’Hara straddled my chest and pinned my wrists to the ground. I struggled, and his head mirrored my movements. He was trying to make out who I was, and when he did, he pressed me even more tightly to the ground. “You’re the bitch who put the gardai on to me. How did you find me here?”

  I squirmed but couldn’t budge. “I wasn’t looking for you,” I managed to get out. “I’m looking for someone else.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  He glanced around to confirm that I was alone, but he couldn’t have seen much. Beyond the eroded walls of the ruined cottage, all was dark. Inside, the phone, fallen screen side up, illuminated O’Hara’s grinning face. I smelled whiskey on his breath. “You shouldn’t have butted in,” he growled.

  “Let me go. You’ll make things worse for yourself when they catch you.”

  “If they catch me. I don’t think they will.” He reached around to the back of his waistband and withdrew a knife. He had to release one of my wrists to do so, and that gave me a chance. I shoved my hand under his chin as hard as I could. Lying on my back, I didn’t have much leverage, but it was enough to throw him off balance and give me room to bring my knee to my chest. I kicked with all my strength. The blow landed squarely on his shoulder and knocked him back. I rolled out from under O’Hara, got to my feet, and dashed out, hoping that the rain, fog, and darkness would provide cover.

  Now it was a game of cat and mouse, and I was the one with the short whiskers. I ran into the closest ruin and hid myself in a corner until I heard him run by. Then I lit out in the opposite direction, sloshing through the wet grass. But I heard him stop and turn. He knew where I was, and he was coming after me. To throw him off my track, I zigzagged downhill between the empty cottages. He was relentless, though. Panting, I pushed myself against the side of a ruin and waited for him to go by. The cold, moist stone pressed against my hands, and needles of rain stung my face. I heard him before I saw him. He ran by but slipped when he sensed my presence, giving me just enough of an advantage to start out again. This time I headed uphill. I weaved between the ruins, but my strength was giving out. When I thought I had built a lead, I chose the ruin ahead of me and bundled myself inside. I made no sound, and as the minutes went by, I thought I might be safe, until the light from my cell phone, wielded by O’Hara, caught me in its beam like an escapee in a prison yard. “There you are,” he said in a voice as cold as the night. And I saw the knife in his hand.

  If he thought I was trapped, he was wrong. Without walls, the ruin offered a way out in several directions. I stood up, turned, and scrambled over the rubble. Then I ran like hell down the hill. O’Hara followed, cursing behind me. I was increasing the distance between us when my ankle twisted on the slippery ground and I went down in agony. I braced for the attack.

  O’Hara loomed over me. But Toby was behind him. He launched himself at O’Hara and they tumbled in the grass, locked in struggle. Toby grappled for the knife, slamming O’Hara’s wrist against a boulder. The knife dropped. Both men got to their feet, but Toby kicked the knife away. Yet O’Hara landed a roundhouse punch and Toby went down. O’Hara took a step toward me but paused with indecision. Fight or flee? With Toby on the scene, he decided to run. He scampered down the slope, disappearing long before the sounds of his flight faded.

  I limped over to Toby, who was sitting up, rubbing his chin. “Got me with a sucker punch,” he mumbled.

  “Never mind that,” I said. “How did you find me?”

  “Laura sent me after you, and when I got here I saw the light from your phone. Good thing I did.”

  “What should we do about O’Hara?”

  “Call the guards, and tell them he’s at the Deserted Village and on the run. They ought to be able to pick him up. Tell them one of his friends might be here too. I thought I heard something in one of the cottages up there as I ran by.”

  I made the call to the guards, who promised to send a search team for O’Hara, and we went to investigate what Toby had heard. He had to support me to keep the weight off my sprained ankle. As we climbed (or rather he climbed, I hobbled), I told him Emily could be on the hill. We paused every few feet to listen. Then I heard it too: the sound of whimpering. We looked into one ruin, then another, until we found her. Emily was sitting on the dirt floor of the cottage softly sobbing, her legs drawn up to her chest and her head bowed on her knees. I sat down and put my arms around her. “It’s over, Emily,” I said. “We’ll take you home.”

  20

  IN THE MORNING, Laura drove Emily to Westport to sign a confession; it was what she wanted to do. It would be up to the Director of Public Prosecution to decide whether to charge her with murder or with a lesser crime such as involuntary manslaughter, but almost certainly she would stand trial. At least that’s what Toby thought. He had spent the night hunched over his laptop, searching for laws, precedents, and procedures that would apply in County Mayo. We weren’t expecting to find a close parallel in this thinly populated “west county,” but we were stunned by the number of bashings and knifings between fathers and children, especially when we widened the search to all Ireland. Christy Mahon had his twenty-first-century counterparts, and they weren’t all sons either.

  Emily’s defense was one issue; Mom’s was another. While I napped between three and five in the morning, Toby kept going, looking for angles on how Mom’s conduct would be viewed. He woke me at dawn saying that, just as in the States, Mom could be charged with withholding information, since she had witnessed the crime but hadn’t said so when questioned.

  “Oh, God,” I said, burying my face in my pillow. Toby lowered himself onto the small space between me and the edge of the bed and enfolded me in his warmth. He didn’t give me time for a pity party, though. He scooped me up to sitting, kissed me on both cheeks, and gave me marching orders.

  “Get on your clothes. We’re taking Mom to Westport.”

  “What? Has she agreed to that?”

  He grunted and said, “Get going.”

  Though I groggily got out of bed, I said, “That wasn’t a yes. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  While I found clothes and washed up, Toby gave me his report. He paced in the cramped space between the bed and the bathroom door, which I kept half-open, so as not to lose a word. He said that before daylight he started tiptoeing into our bedroom, pulling back the curtains to see if there was light next door. At six sharp, the kitchen brightened, and he called Dad’s cell. Together they made a plan. We would give Mom some time to consider what she would tell the guards, and then we would go to the station, all four of us. I wasn’t so sure Mom would welcome my presence, but Dad was grateful for Toby’s offer to drive. Dad was pretty fractured, Toby said. “It’s not enough that his brother was killed. His own wife was there and, in a sense, her being there led to what happened.”

  “Did Dad really say that?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. Dad’s devoted to Mom.

  Toby closed his eyes, as if reliving the call. Then his lids popped open and he said, “Not in so many words. It was implied.”

  “Or inferred.” I was pissed. “You may think she caused the murder, but Dad doesn’t, I’ll tell you that.”

  Toby has the patience of a Freudian shrink. He kept sile
nt. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he had that “Take your time—we have forty minutes” look. I applied a brush to my hair and considered. Then I asked, “What’s going to happen to Emily? Laura’s afraid that the police will think Emily attacked Bert because he ruined her life.”

  “They might have a case,” Toby admitted. “Emily picked up a rock to keep him from choking your Mom. That’s what a good lawyer would point out. But would she have hit him as hard as she did—hard enough to kill him—if they hadn’t had an argument that night? Who knows? Motivation is difficult to calibrate.”

  “I don’t believe she meant to kill him,” I said. “Emily was angry, but not killing-angry. She’s not the type.” Was Mom? It wasn’t beyond believing, or at least not by me. But she didn’t do it, and I needn’t have been thinking so all this time. I didn’t say that to Toby. I guess I was ashamed of my lack of faith in Mom. Over the years, I’ve let Toby get to know me, and he undoubtedly felt my shame, but I couldn’t voice my guilty thoughts just then.

  I emerged from the bathroom and said, “Let’s go.”

  When we arrived, Dad was washing dishes and Mom was at the table, writing on a yellow pad. Toby sat next to Mom and spoke with her quietly. I took a dish towel and joined Dad at the sink. The flow of tap water and the clanking of dishes muffled Toby’s words with Mom. I didn’t say much to Dad. His fear for Mom was shaking him so much that his hand trembled as he handed me a dribbling cup. He asked, “What’ll they do to her?” His voice was faint.

  I couldn’t fake optimism, not with my earnest, suffering father.

  “I don’t know, Dad. They might arrest Emily, but I hope they’ll see Mom wasn’t responsible for Uncle Bert’s death.”

  “Wasn’t responsible?” he said, his voice rising. Startled by his own voice, he turned back to the sink. Looking down at the soapy sponge in his hand, he whispered, “She was fighting him. We can’t let them know that.”