“That sounds like a lot of waiting.”
“Where were you this weekend?” Siobhán asked, purposefully keeping her voice free of accusation.
“Why, Siobhán O’Sullivan,” Jane Delaney said. “Are you asking for my alibi?”
Chapter 6
“I am asking for your alibi,” Siobhán answered honestly. “Where were you last night?”
“I was at an herbalist conference in Dublin. I’m studying to be an apothecary.”
She would know all about poisonous herbs. That explained the lush garden out back. Ellen Delaney could have poisoned herself, as improbable as that sounded, but she couldn’t have smothered herself, posed herself, or driven off in her truck.
“Do you have a program from the conference?” Siobhán asked.
“A program? Do you think I killed my own mother?” Her tone was one of defiance.
Careful. She’s family. “Of course not,” Macdara said, cutting Siobhán off with his return. He shot her a disapproving look.
“It’s a good idea to get your alibi on record.” She would not be deterred, not even by Dara. “The name and location of your conference, the hotel where you stayed. Your train ticket. The car you took from the station back to the cottage. The sooner we have it all collected the better.”
“We?” Macdara asked.
“The guards,” Siobhán corrected.
Jane lifted her chin. “Of course.” She made no move toward her suitcase, which was still sitting by the door. Siobhán thought of the suitcase in the wardrobe. She mentioned it to Jane. “It’s normally tucked away on the top shelf,” Jane said. “Mam always said: a place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Could she have been planning a trip of her own?” That would explain the outfit and the suitcase.
“If she was, she was keeping it from me.” There it was again, a jealous tone.
“It’s not our case,” Macdara said. “I’m sure the local guards are capable of handling this.”
“You are?” Siobhán said. That didn’t sound like Macdara and minutes earlier he had stated the exact opposite.
“I wish I had your confidence,” Jane said. “You watch. They’re going to blame it on the fairies.”
“The guards won’t pay attention to such nonsense.” Macdara sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.
“You’re a fool if you think that. The councilman will cave to the villagers. We’re outsiders.” The last word was spoken with venom.
“A friend of mine from Templemore is a new guard here,” Siobhán said. “Danny MacGregor. He will do everything by the book.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “Garda MacGregor. The handsome one.” She lifted her face and smiled. “He has excellent cheekbones.”
Siobhán was distracted for a moment by the thought of Jane fondling her ex-classmate’s cheekbones. She was right though. Danny MacGregor was a looker.
“Handsome, is he?” Macdara said with a pointed look to Siobhán.
“The green-eyed monster courts me cousin,” Jane said with an exaggerated lilt. She turned to Siobhán, a smirk on her face. “Jealousy can be good for knocking boots.”
“One of the protesters said that multiple residents of this cottage had died?” Siobhán was desperate to change the subject; her intimate life with Macdara was no business of his cousin.
If Jane heard the question she didn’t address it. “I need to walk. I have all this useless energy.” She turned her head toward them. “You mentioned you saw the fairy tree on the hill?”
“We did,” Siobhán said. “It’s quite striking.”
“Shall I show you the other fairy tree and fairy ring?”
Macdara’s eyes flicked toward the road. “I told the guards I’d meet them here.”
“I’d love to see it,” Siobhán said. Perhaps they could walk in the direction where the Peeping-Tom-of-a-Farmer had crouched with his binoculars. Siobhán wrestled with whether or not to bring it up. Perhaps there had been enough upsets for the day. She would make sure and tell the guards, and Macdara could break it to Jane another time. The peeper could be the killer and there was no point frightening Jane any more than she already was.
Jane started them off at a fast clip, her cane moving expertly side to side. “Follow me.” Jane knew the path well, every dip of the terrain. She seamlessly maneuvered around the trickiest spots, where rocks took over the path and small holes waited to trip an unsuspecting foot. It was apparent she’d walked it many times. “My mother is the sixth,” Jane said out of nowhere.
“The sixth?”
“Resident of the cottage to die while living here.”
Just like the protestors they met in the road had mentioned. “When was the last death?”
“From my understanding, the cottage has stood empty for two years. The villagers have been arguing about whether or not to tear it down. The councilman rented it to Mam.”
Him again. “Aiden Cunningham?”
“That would be him.” Siobhán would make it a priority to speak with him. She could only imagine how unpopular the decision had been. “Who owns the cottage?”
“Heavens, I’m not sure. I think Mam said something about the real owners abandoning the cottage and fleeing to Spain. I think the village took over ownership after the taxes went unpaid. This will be their final excuse tear it down.”
“Why do you think Aiden Cunningham rented it to you if the village wanted it torn down?”
“Why indeed. Money?”
The usual motive. But Siobhán couldn’t imagine the rent was that dear. Was there another reason?
“We’re here,” Jane said suddenly, stopping and pointing.
Siobhán felt a tingle as she gazed at the hawthorn trees in the distance. There were six of them in close proximity, huddled in a circle, branches stretched out like children holding hands. Fairy rings could be made of wild mushrooms, or stones, or in this case a circle of trees. It was enchanting. She lost herself in it for a moment before turning back to Jane. “Did your mother have any specific quarrels with any of the villagers—other than the cottage?”
Jane stared into the distance. She seemed to be pondering her answer. “We should get back,” she said. “I’m not sure we’re wanted here.”
Siobhán wasn’t sure if she meant here as in Ballysiogdun, or here as in close to the fairy trees. She stopped to see if she could feel anything mystical happening, or hear flutes in the wind, or see Little People dancing. But no. She only smelled the heather and the damp earth, and the fresh grass of the meadow.
When Siobhán looked out at the meadow, and hills, and trees, and craggy rocks, she felt a profound connection to this land. The myths added a certain allure, a depth and appreciation to the beauty. Tales handed down by the people who had lived on this land for hundreds of years and would continue to do so. Respect. She understood that. It was to be admired. But a fairy did not kill Ellen Delaney. A human being did. If the fairies wanted revenge on anyone, it should be on the murderer who was trying to throw the blame on them.
* * *
By the time they made it back to the cottage, the guards still hadn’t arrived and Macdara looked as if he wanted someone’s head over it. This did not bode well for a thorough investigation. Macdara seemed eager to leave. He took Jane’s elbow. “You’ll be returning to Kilbane with us.”
For the briefest moment, Jane looked panicked. Her mouth tightened and she gripped her cane tighter. Then she nodded. “Thank you.” Jane moved closer to Macdara, and as they began to chat, Siobhán sensed this was her opportunity to slip away. She stretched and ambled in the direction of where she’d seen the farmer with the binoculars. She reached the bushes where he had hidden and found them tucked just under the bush. His hiding place. Which meant he came often to this exact spot to spy on them. She assumed the same position and lifted the binoculars. The front of the cottage was in full view. From here she could even see the side and a portion of the backyard. She maneuvered the binoculars arou
nd to the side of the cottage. There wasn’t much to see: the side wall of the cottage, grass, and dirt. She was about to swivel to the backyard when she did notice a little thing. One patch of dirt at the base of the wall rose up, forming a little hill, whereas the rest of it was level. Was that important? Had someone tried to bury something there?
She rotated the binoculars to the garden where lush green leaves and colorful flowers filled the lens, then several small signs popped into view: Painted in vibrant blues and greens against old driftwood, they marked the sections of the garden. MINT, BASIL, THYME . . . She continued along hoping something a little more sinister would come into view. A skull and a crossbones painted in black, perhaps. Or red letters slashing out the word “poison.” Instead, she saw a blooming garden with careening butterflies landing on fat green leaves and spreading their colorful wings. It was a little spot of Eden, and it couldn’t have been more enchanting if the fairies themselves had blessed it with magic dust.
* * *
When Siobhán returned, she did not mention the binoculars. Jane needed to be considered a suspect until her alibi checked out. The less information Siobhán fed her, the better. Why hadn’t she shown them a train or bus ticket to Dublin? Her suitcase was right there, and she had a handbag on her. It would have been easy enough to do. Siobhán would settle for a receipt from a shop in Dublin. Why wasn’t Macdara insisting as well? She would mention the binoculars and the mound of dirt alongside the house when she and Macdara were alone.
“I need a cup of tea,” Jane said.
Macdara stepped forward. “Of course you do.” He turned to Siobhán. “Why don’t the two of you go into the village?”
Siobhán would rather be the one waiting for the guards, but this was Macdara’s family and she was going to have to let him take the reins. “A mug of tea sounds lovely.”
He threw her a grateful look, took her hand, and squeezed it. “I’ll fill you in on everything they say and do,” Macdara said. “I promise.”
Siobhán turned to Jane. “What do you think? Shall we get our legs under us?”
“What day is today?” Jane asked.
“It’s Saturday, luv.”
Jane nodded. “The farmers’ market is today. You can buy one of Geraldine’s walking sticks. You’ll need one if you’re going to be doing any more exploring around here. And I have a feeling you will.”
She had a point there. Siobhán adored farmers’ markets. And, she suspected, so did the rest of this village. It was the perfect opportunity to get a glimpse of their suspects. By now, the rumor mill would be churning.
“I would normally be working the market at the herbal stand,” Jane said with a touch of self-pity. She had yet to cry, and Siobhán, wondering if this would be the trigger, gave her arm a light squeeze. Jane took a deep breath and stood straight. If she had been on the verge of tears, they were gone now. “To the market.”
Chapter 7
Downtown Ballysiogdun consisted of a church, a pub, one gift shop, one fruit-and-veg shop, a butcher’s, Molly’s Café, and a French restaurant. Everything else was meadow and stone and trees. The farmers’ market was set up at the end of the main street. It was six rows deep and in full swing when they arrived. Table after table were piled with crates of fruits and vegetables, cheese, milk, eggs, meat, and crafts. The sound of fiddles filtered through the air along with the smells of fresh baked pies. There was nothing lovelier to Siobhán than a good summer farmers’ market. If she were going back to Kilbane she’d be buying fresh flowers and food for the week. She felt a squeeze of guilt. She wished her siblings were here to enjoy the market and help her pick out goodies. Siobhán imagined selling her brown bread here; some healthy competition was always good for a marketplace. A large man with stringy brown hair and draped in a tattered cloak weaved his way through the crowds. Truth be told he looked and smelled like he needed a good wash. “C’m’ere to me,” he called as they passed. “Do you want to hear a tale of yore?”
“We do not,” Jane said as she clicked past with her cane.
“A seanchaí?” Siobhán had to run to keep up with Jane.
“He wishes,” Jane shot back.
Behind them, the storyteller began to mumble to himself, then switched to humming a children’s lullaby.
It made Siobhán smile. “He seems like a character.”
“Eddie?” Jane said. “He’s a nuisance. Blew into town recently. Always looking for a handout.”
That explained the odor. He was probably homeless, trying to make a bob telling stories. Jane seemed to have a hard disposition, with little room for empathy. As they made their way through the stands to Geraldine’s walking sticks, Siobhán noticed Professor Kelly loitering in front of a table hoisting up a carton of eggs, lifting each one out of the carton and offering them to the light. Siobhán put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. When they encountered him on the road he had been urging the crowd to go home. Was he a peacekeeper? Or had he been putting on an act?
Jane leaned in. “Something has stolen your attention. What is it?”
“It’s a who,” Siobhán said. “Professor Kelly.”
“Dylan Kelly,” Jane repeated with a nod. “What’s the story?”
“He’s fondling eggs,” Siobhán said. “Holding every one up to the sun.”
Jane laughed. “Joe Madigan is right. No one here trusts anyone.”
“Pardon?”
“My neighbor Joe Madigan has a reputation of sneaking in cracked eggs.” As they passed, Dylan Kelly spotted Jane and turned. His glasses slipped down his nose and he nearly dropped his egg as he pushed them back up with his index finger.
“Careful. You drop it you buy it,” a gruff voice said. Siobhán’s head snapped up. There was no doubt, it was the farmer she’d witnessed spying on them through binoculars. He had changed his red shirt and was wearing a muted green one, but the dark hat pulled low was the same. He was younger than she first assumed, in his thirties, and handsome except for the scowl. His expression softened when he noticed Jane. Maybe Siobhán should have come clean to her about him being a Peeping Tom. He did not make eye contact with her. Dare she say, he was refusing to make eye contact with her? Dylan Kelly set the carton of eggs back on the table.
“You fondle me eggs, you pay,” Joe said.
Dylan Kelly shook his head, but removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer and completed his transaction. Joe thrust the carton of eggs at him and Dylan tucked them underneath his arm before heading for Jane. Once he was standing in front of them, he too barely glanced at Siobhán. Maybe they were all under a fairy spell, one that rendered them incapable of noticing anyone who didn’t live in their village.
“Miss Delaney, it’s Professor Kelly,” he said loudly.
“Hello, Dylan,” Jane said. “This is Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan.”
Dylan Kelly removed his hat with his left hand and placed it on his chest. His head was mostly bald with a few side pieces blowing in the wind. “I am horribly shocked and sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” he shouted.
“She’s not deaf,” Siobhán said. She couldn’t help it. He was acting like a fool and nearly pierced her eardrum. “How did you hear?”
Dylan Kelly glanced at Siobhán but did not answer. The phone call Macdara had made to the guards—that was the only way he could have heard. Unless, of course, he was the killer. In that case, it was foolish of him to admit to knowing something that was still under wraps. Somehow the information from Macdara’s phone call had already spread to the village. Typical.
“Murder,” Jane said, raising the volume of her voice to match his. Several heads turned. “My mother was murdered.” She leaned into Siobhán. “Are they looking?”
“Nearly every one of them,” Siobhán whispered back.
“Let me know if any make a run for it.”
Siobhán’s head popped up as if expecting to see someone bolt from the scene. Dylan Kelly’s eyes flicked once more to Siobhán. “Garda,” he said with a
nod.
“Mr. Kelly,” Siobhán replied, trying to sound equally formal. “Or should I say Professor?”
He arched his eyebrow. “Retired,” he said. “I’m an author now, with my first book soon to be published.” He looked as if he wanted to pat himself on the back. He grinned and turned back to Jane. “Murder?” his voice softened. “Are you sure?”
“The state pathologist will conduct a thorough investigation.” Siobhán should have warned Jane not to jabber about the case. It never occurred to her that Jane would do so. “What kind of book are you writing?”
“Poisoned and smothered,” Jane said, stepping forward.
No, no, no. What was she doing? “It’s best not to give away too much information,” Siobhán said. “We need to protect the investigation.”
“They need to hear this.” Jane pushed Siobhán aside. “The Little People did not kill my mother. Someone amongst us did. They poisoned her, and then smothered her!”
This was a disaster, a setback for the investigators. If social decorum didn’t dictate otherwise, Siobhán would have thrown herself to the ground to pummel it.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Geraldine Madigan, wielding her colorful staff, barreled toward them with surprising speed, jostling townsfolk out of her way with her elbows. She planted herself in front of Jane, her bosom still heaving long after she stopped. She held a finger up to Jane’s face. “Shame on you for not listening to our warnings.”
“Geraldine,” Jane said. “I should have known there wouldn’t be an ounce of sympathy in your old bones.”
Siobhán’s mouth dropped open. Jane Delaney was combative. There was definitely boiling water under this bridge.
“That cottage is cursed,” Geraldine said, spit flying from her mouth. “If it had been bulldozed as we told you, repeatedly, your mam would still be alive.”
“And here we were going to buy one of your walking sticks.”
“You can have as many as you want on your way out of this village,” Geraldine said.
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 5
