She placed Dara’s cappuccino in a takeaway cup and handed it to him. “Brown bread?” She’d already made three batches this morning and was dying to dig in.
“I’m not hungry.”
She raised an eyebrow. Rare were the days when Macdara turned down any food let alone her brown bread. Enough stalling, he needed a push. “What’s the story?”
“My cousin Jane called. Aunt Ellen is in some kind of trouble.”
Siobhán knew that his mother had a sister and Macdara had one grown cousin, but she’d never met either of them. “What kind of trouble?”
“Jane wouldn’t say. It’s something bad. I could hear the terror in her voice.”
“Terror?” Macdara wasn’t a man prone to exaggeration unless he had a cold, and then he behaved as if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding straight for him.
“She was on the verge of hysteria. Said she didn’t trust her local guards. I told her I would be there straightaway.” His eyes flicked to her right hand. Zoomed in on her ring finger. Not this again. He loathed that she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. It was way too dear. There was no way she was going to wear it. Not while cleaning. Or jogging. Or working. Or riding her scooter. Or going out to the shops or pubs. Or baking brown bread. Or eating brown bread. Too risky. Each outing an opportunity to lose it. She’d rather die.
“It’s safe,” she said. “I’ll always keep it safe.”
“And secret,” Macdara said, sounding none too pleased about it.
“We can’t torture people with a long engagement. You know how nosy folks are. They’ll hound us nonstop.”
“Is that the real reason?”
She frowned. He wasn’t playing nice. It’s not like he had to wear a giant ring effectively announcing that he was off-limits. She was still the newest member of the guards. Before they revealed their engagement, they were going to have to confess their relationship to their superiors. They could even be assigned to different garda stations. He knew all this. Yet he was pouting. “Why are you meeting your cousin in Ballysiogdun?” Deflection was a trick Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery knew well, but she was banking on him realizing the futility of grilling her any further.
She had never been to the village, only through it, but she’d heard tales. As “small world rules” would have it, a lad who was in her class at Templemore Garda College worked in that village. Danny MacGregor. He said the folks there had their own way of doing things. Was he one of the guards Macdara’s cousin didn’t trust? If so, she had the wrong end of the stick. Danny was a good man all around, and in training promised to be an excellent guard.
“It seems they moved there a year ago,” Macdara said. “I only get the news from my mam.”
Siobhán raised an eyebrow. “How old is your cousin?”
“She’s in her thirties. But they have always lived together.”
Given that she would live with her siblings forever if she could have her way, Siobhán wasn’t going to judge. “You didn’t know they moved?”
“Aunt Ellen and Mam had a falling out. Last I knew they were living in Waterford.”
Waterford was a lovely place to visit. Why couldn’t they still be there? “How can I help?”
He relaxed and a soft smile brightened his handsome face. “I was hoping you’d want to come along.”
“Really?” The long list of things she had to do scrolled through her mind.
“You are my secret fiancée, aren’t you?”
“I am.” She mentally crumpled up her to-do list.
“It’s time you met more of my family.”
“I agree. However . . .” He arched an eyebrow. “It doesn’t sound like this is a good time for happy introductions.”
He treated her to a sheepish grin. “I’m not good with hysterical women.”
There it was. The real reason he wanted her to go. He wanted a buffer between himself and a hysterical woman. Typical. “And you think I am?”
“You have your moments, don’t you?”
She poured her cappuccino into another takeaway cup. She could hardly argue with that. She held up her finger. “Let me have a word with Eoin.”
“Grab your Wellies,” Dara said. “We’re going to need them.”
* * *
Siobhán gazed out the car window, taking in the soft hills glowing underneath the summer sun, dotted with grazing cows, fat sheep, and rocky hedges. She was happy to let Macdara drive. Better he focus on the road than her naked ring finger. Ballysiogdun was a long enough drive, and if she didn’t find a way to keep him occupied, she feared he’d try to return to their earlier argument. One cappuccino hardly sufficed as enough fuel for his grudges. Luckily, she had the perfect excuse—she was dying to know more about this mysterious cousin who had summoned him.
Macdara cleared his throat. “Have you told anyone about our engagement?”
Her efforts had been in vain. “I whisper it to the stars at night.”
“Do you now? I suppose I should count m’self lucky.”
“The Little Dipper approves, but the Big One says the jury is still out.” She paused, and when he didn’t laugh she figured it was too late to stop now. “I guess that isn’t any constellation.” She laughed so hard it took her a while to realize she was the only one. Nothing. Not even a smile. Why didn’t he understand? Once she started wearing the ring it would become everybody’s business. They’d never get this time back. A secret just between them. “It’s not that I’m not chuffed to bits.”
He gripped the steering wheel, and she gripped her seat as he sped up. “You’ve changed your mind about the ring?”
“Macdara Flannery, I love that ring nearly as much as I love you.”
He frowned, and then laughed. Finally. It melted her heart just a little. “Then why?”
“Don’t you see? We’ll be hounded nonstop. ‘When is the wedding? Where is the wedding? Why are you waiting so long?’”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Wait so long.”
They had agreed not to set a wedding date. In her mind, they could be engaged for five years or more. What was the rush? Things were going well, and it was an unspoken rule that you didn’t mess with things when they were going well. She listened to the sound of the tires on the pavement, the wind whistling through the open window, and imagined she could hear the soft thwack of the windmills churning in the distance. She focused on the greenery outside. It was calming. “What is your auntie like?”
“Are you changing the subject?”
She gently shoved his shoulder. “Marrying a man with big brains, aren’t I?”
He shook his head, but she could tell he was going to leave it for now. “Well. You’ve met me mother.”
“Yes.” She had met Nancy Flannery a few times. An image of her downturned mouth and disapproving eyes came to mind. It was impossible to imagine her being thrilled with the news. No one was good enough for her son.
“She’s the pleasant one.”
“Your mam is the pleasant one?” She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. When Macdara laughed again she almost committed to marrying him whenever and wherever he wanted. His laugh always sounded like home. She would have to be careful around the subject of his mother. Nancy Flannery was a good woman. She just didn’t seem to approve of Siobhán, and it was nearly impossible to have a conversation with her about anything but Macdara. The Irish mammy and her golden boy. Like a boomerang, the subject always came back to him. Given he was her only son, and Siobhán happened to agree that he was somewhat wonderful, she could hardly blame Nancy Flannery for wanting only the best for him. Nancy Flannery’s dreams for her son didn’t include a much younger woman and her five siblings, struggling to make a go of it. Siobhán had a feeling Nancy also didn’t approve of Siobhán becoming a guard. Life was hard enough without the weight of other people’s expectations.
“I wonder whose feathers Aunt Ellen has ruffled this time,” Macdara s
aid, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they sang along to an old Christy Moore CD. “ ‘I stumbled into a fairy ring and jeezuz I couldn’t get out. . . .’”
“She’s a feather ruffler is she?”
“Aye. More accurately, she’s a feather plucker. Her entire life she’s rubbed folks the wrong way. As a schoolteacher, it was rumored she was worse than the worst of the nuns.” Siobhán shivered as she always did when school and nuns were mentioned in the same sentence. “I have no idea why they’ve moved to Ballysiogdun. There must be a story there, but they aren’t telling it.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Siobhán felt a tingle. Stories. Secrets. How she loved them. As long as they weren’t hers.
* * *
The rest of the ride passed pleasantly as they sang and chatted. Before she knew it, over an hour had flown by. Up ahead a weathered sign on the side of the road welcomed them to Ballysiogdun. Just beyond it the narrow road ended abruptly. A large tree lay across the roadway, blocking their progress. Macdara pulled to the side and parked in a grassy embankment. “Guess we’re here.”
“Look.” Beyond the tree, a crowd of people were standing in the middle of the road. There must have been twenty or more. Voices rang out, and she swore she heard multiple people say something about a fairy ring. Given they’d just listened to Christy Moore crooning about one, Siobhán couldn’t help but shake her head at the parallel.
Siobhán was familiar, of course, with fairy paths, and fairy rings, and fairy forts, and fairy trees. Fairies were a part of Irish folklore, and made for rich stories around the fireplace, mythical tales in books, and of course song lyrics. Some of the fairy forts were stunning archaeological sites and protected under Irish law. Most Irish didn’t believe in fairies, but a certain amount of respect was due. Why mess with a fairy ring or a fairy fort or a fairy tree? Wisdom said even if a fairy tree was in the middle of good grazing land and it would be easier if it was cut down, it was better to leave well enough alone. Even some roadways had been altered to go around fairy trees rather than take them out. Too many tales abounded of those who went on to disturb them and came into grave misfortunes, including death. Even bringing the branch of a fairy tree inside your home was considered bad luck by some, but she knew other families who always had hawthorn sticks in their home. There was no one-size-fits-all especially when it came to superstitions.
Siobhán exchanged a look with Macdara. “Did you hear them say something about a fairy ring?”
Macdara nodded. “I was afraid of this.”
“You were?”
“This is a small village. Some, according to the rumors, believe in . . . the Little People.”
“The Little People?” She’d heard all the terms, of course, the caution that fairies did not wish to be called fairies, and one should respectfully refer to them as the Little People, or the Hill People, or the Good People, or the Good Folk. She just never knew Macdara was in that camp. What else didn’t she know about the man she was supposed to marry? “Macdara Flannery. Do you believe in fairies?”
“Of course not.” He shifted his baby blues away from her.
“Sounds like it to me.” She was thrilled to have something to tease him over. Ammunition for the next time she was tasked to lighten one of his moods. The secret was never to push it too far.
“I believe in leaving well enough alone.”
As did she. And why shouldn’t they honor the tales of yore? People all over the world did all sorts of superstitious things. They avoided walking under ladders, feared black cats, tossed salt over their shoulders. Who’s to say it wasn’t doing something to balance your luck?
Macdara stepped out of the car, and Siobhán grabbed the sack she’d brought filled with a platter of brown bread and followed suit. In the crowd, she spotted a hefty woman holding up an even bigger sign: BULLDOZE THE COTTAGE.
“We’re just going to leave the car here?”
Macdara glanced at the tree in the road. “Would you prefer I drive into the meadow?” The meadow stretched forever and looked as if it held many hills, and dips, and rocks, and patches of mud.
“Is there another road?”
“The directions are to follow this road a little farther to the cottage. We’ll have to hoof it.”
“It must have rained hard last night.” The meadow glistened and Siobhán could smell the peat and imagine how soft the ground would be beneath their feet. The sun was out now, and just as Siobhán had the thought, she turned and saw it; just behind the largest hill arched a magnificent rainbow. The colors were so bright and clear, it didn’t look real. “Dara, look.” She pointed. It was such a gorgeous sight in front of her, the craggy hedges, the rolling hills, yellow wildflowers mixed with heather sprouting on the roadside, and the entire postcard-perfect scene topped off with the show-stopping rainbow. A much warmer welcome than the dilapidated wooden sign. She was suddenly sorry she had dismissed this village out of hand. From what little she’d seen, Ballysiogdun was gorgeous.
Macdara gave the rainbow an appreciative nod. “I told you to bring your Wellies, didn’t I?”
She wiggled her toes in her Wellies, relieved she had listened to him for once. “Are you sure it’s alright to park here?” She winced, hoping she didn’t sound like a nag. That wasn’t the kind of wife she was going to be, was it?
“No car is getting past this tree. By the time a tow truck makes its way out here we’ll be long gone.” They approached the crowd. One by one the members of the group noticed them and began to stare back.
“Let’s find out what’s going on,” Dara said.
“Maybe they gathered to see the rainbow.”
“Something tells me that isn’t the case.”
Siobhán agreed, but she held on to the positive thought. “Well, how do we find out?”
“Find the man in the center of the crowd,” Dara said.
“Or woman,” she called as they climbed over the felled tree and pushed farther into the thick of things.
Chapter 3
Up ahead, they spotted him, the man in the center of the mass. He was tall and slim, dressed in a tan suit (ill chosen for a summer day), with slicked-back hair and thick spectacles that kept sliding down his nose. He stammered as he tried to calm the crowd. “I beg of you. Disperse! We will discuss this at the town meeting.” Sweat trickled down his generous nose, causing his glasses to slide once more. “Let’s handle this with decorum.” He scanned the crowd. Nobody else seemed keen on decorum. “Please,” he croaked. “There’s nothing to see here.” He turned to a hefty man beside him, the only other one in the crowd wearing a suit, only his seemed more suited to a funeral than a protest. “Councilman, do you have anything to add?”
The councilman looked startled to be called upon, then cleared his throat. “As Professor Kelly stated, we’ll take this up at the town meeting.”
“We want it bulldozed now!” It was the hefty woman with the large sign. “Last night was the last straw.” In her other hand she held a large staff wrapped in colorful yarn. She pounded it on the ground causing her gray curls to bounce underneath a floppy yellow hat. “How many more people have to die?”
“Nana, please.” The plea came from a younger woman to the left of her, rubbing the end of her chestnut braid as if it were her rosary beads, occasionally stopping to pat the head of the wee child clinging onto her leg. The child began to wail.
“Sorry, luv.” Nana reached over and patted the small boy on the head. He buried his face into his mother’s hip.
“Die?” Siobhán said. “Did you say die?”
“We should burn it to the ground,” another voice rang out.
“Those were the strangest lights I’ve ever seen in me life,” another one crowed.
A dainty woman stepped forward. “My students were here before it all began. We were going to paint the sunset. That tree”—she turned and pointed to the one blocking the road—“fell just after we heard the scream. As God is my witness, there wasn’t even a
breeze.” She lifted her delicate chin as if inviting the sun to set her blond bob aglow for an angelic effect.
“The Good People,” someone said. “They’re furious.”
“And that black dog, did you see him?”
Siobhán stepped forward, mesmerized. “A black dog?” The ghost stories of her childhood were often filled with mysterious black dogs leading lost children home.
“Siobhán,” Dara said under his breath. He did not want her to get involved.
“I saw a black dog alright. He was the size of a small horse,” a man offered. More voices joined the chorus:
“We warned them, and now look!”
“It’s the scream I’ll never forget.”
“Aye, a banshee.”
Several heads nodded at that. Siobhán stared, transfixed. “What’s the story?” She nudged her way next to the nana with the staff and repeated her question.
“Did you not hear the ruckus last night?” Nana swung her staff to the hill in the distance. There sat a hawthorn tree bursting with white flowers, its gnarled branches stark against the morning sky.
“I’m afraid we’ve only just arrived.”
“The fairies gathered last night under the solstice moon.” The woman pointed once more to the hill. “All of us are here because we heard or saw something last night that we cannot explain.”
Siobhán drew closer. “What exactly happened?”
Macdara touched her shoulder, making her jump. “Who’s a believer now?” he whispered in her ear. She gently shoved him off as people around them began filling in the tale.
“Fairies,” someone else said. “Dancing. We heard the music. Flutes. They were hypnotizing us with it.”
“The strangest lights I ever saw. They were blue and glowing.”
“I saw white lights. And I think I heard the music. Flutes, so many flutes. It was fairy music alright.”
“I saw a flickering light. I thought it was a fire.”
“It was hard to separate the glowing lights from the light of the moon.”
“Then came the terrible, terrible scream, and soon after, the tree fell on its own accord, blocking the road.”
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 2
