“Sorry,” Siobhán said, going in for the hug again. Nancy barely hugged her back, just a quick pat to the back. There was definitely work to do on this relationship.
“Jane, my love,” Nancy said the moment she spotted her niece.
“Aunt Nancy,” Jane said. Her tone was polite but guarded, reminding Siobhán that they had been estranged. “How are you?”
Nancy strode to her niece and wrapped Jane in the hug that Siobhán had longed for. “I’m so sorry, petal. My sister.” Siobhán’s future mother-in-law inhaled and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “If I had known. We were fools, the pair of us. I should have stepped up and mended fences.”
“She could have done the same,” Jane said. “There’s no use torturing yourself now.” Siobhán was relieved to see Jane behaving like a decent human being. Maybe it was the village that had turned her sour. People were like plants, seeking their best environments to thrive. When this nightmare was behind them, if she was found innocent, Jane would be free to move on to a place where she fared better.
“What happened? Who did this to my sister?” Nancy Flannery turned to Macdara, her hands clasping the handkerchief. “Tell me you’ve caught him, luv.”
Or her. Siobhán wasn’t about to correct her future mother-in-law. Nancy hadn’t congratulated either of them on the engagement yet. Maybe Macdara had yet to break the news.
“I’m sorry,” Macdara said. “It’s not our case.”
“But we’re going to help them,” Siobhán said. “We’ll do everything we can.”
Nancy cried out, squeezing the handkerchief even harder.
Siobhán felt eyes on them and turned to find her brood hovering nearby, unsure of how to deal with their sobbing guest.
“Tea?” Siobhán said. “And brown bread?”
“On it,” Gráinne said, pushing her way into the kitchen.
“Everyone sit,” Siobhán said. “A cup of tea will do everyone good.” On her way to the kitchen she ambushed Ciarán with a squeeze, then turned and did the same to Ann, Eoin, and then James. She pulled back from her older brother and searched his face.
“Are you alright?” They both knew what she meant: Had he started drinking again?
He ruffled her hair. “I’m fine, Garda,” he said affectionately. “Just nursing my wounds.”
“It’s good to see you. We’ve missed you around here.”
“Sounds like you’ve been keeping busy,” James said. “Will you give us the details later?”
“I’ll try,” she whispered. Her brood had inquisitive minds and more than once they had helped her work through a case. At the least, they were spending time together, and in the end that was the most important bit of all.
* * *
Gráinne waited until after they’d all had a family supper, a hearty plate of lamb chops, potato, and veg, to announce her news. “I have a job.”
Siobhán’s heart leapt into her throat as she imagined the possibilities and how to talk her out of them. “Where?”
Gráinne pointed out the window. “Sheila’s Hair Salon. I’m the new nail girl.” She flashed them all a look at her own nails, hot pink to match Sheila’s sign. “She said it won’t be long before I move up to personal stylist.”
James was the first to break the awkward silence. “Congrats,” he said, lifting his mineral. “You won’t have a far commute either.” They all glanced across the street. The salon was closed, the neon pink sign muted for the night. Sheila was a large woman whose bite could be as bad as her bark. Siobhán worried that the two combative personalities would be a bad mix. But there were worse jobs for Gráinne, and she did love style. She had even talked Jane into letting her paint her nails bright red, and Siobhán had already noticed her bringing them up to her eyes. She had mentioned she had some sight. Siobhán wondered what life for her was like. Although it couldn’t be easy, she seemed to have accepted it, and had no problem getting around. But if she could make out the red in her nails, wouldn’t she have noticed that her mother had been wearing a red dress?
She had acted surprised, even asked Siobhán if the killer had dressed her. Had it all been an act? Macdara wouldn’t like it if Siobhán pressed Jane for details about her sight, and he certainly wouldn’t like the fact that Siobhán was considering her a suspect, but she had no choice. Jane had been stonewalling when it came to proving her alibi. Siobhán had Googled herbal conferences in Dublin, apothecary conferences in Dublin, and even “plant conference” in Dublin and she hadn’t found anything for the days Jane purported to be there.
As the plates were cleared and dessert served—they had an array of options brought by their generous neighbors, including a toffee pudding that Siobhán found delightful—thunder rumbled and the rain started to come down in buckets. It was late in the evening, later than they usually ate, but the murder had them all wide awake. Everyone yearned for some levity, so despite the weather, conversation turned to summer and their plans. Siobhán was pleased to hear Eoin tell Nancy that he would be applying to colleges and he wanted to study art. It conjured up Geraldine’s comment about her daughter-in-law. “Annabel has been putting silly notions in her head.” It was unfair, how people went out of their way to squash other people’s dreams. Did Mary Madigan think her pursuit was a silly notion?
“I’m bored,” Ciarán said. “May I be excused?”
“Off with ya,” Siobhán said.
He swiped his plate to take to the kitchen and let out a “Yes!”
“Me too,” Ann said, grabbing her plate and following.
She would need to figure out ways to keep Ann and Ciarán occupied for the summer. Her time off work was going to fly by, and she’d be a terrible sister if she spent it all on the case. Why not take her brood with her when she returned to Ballysiogdun?
For she would return, she knew it in her bones. The case had a grip on her, and she had no intention of letting go. They could stroll the farmers’ market and take hikes, and visit the fairy tree. And yes, she’d be working too, but at least they’d be together. A little family time, a holiday of sorts. Even if it was in a village where they believed in fairies and a woman was recently murdered. Imagine that on the postcard.
Not a bother—her brood was sadly used to it. And they would never be alone. When was the last time they’d taken a holiday as a family? She’d talk to Bridie about hiring extra help in the bistro for the summer, and then see if she could talk her siblings into it.
Macdara announced he was taking personal leave for the funeral, and conversation soon turned to the memorial. Everyone agreed that they should have a public memorial service as soon as possible, and then a private funeral and burial once the pathologist released the body, so the date for the public service was set a few days from now. That would give everyone in Ballysiogdun time to travel to Kilbane. In the meantime, Siobhán had learned that Dylan Kelly would be giving a lecture at Lough Gur. The historical park was practically in their backyard, and it was the perfect way for all of them to get their minds off the murder—everyone but Siobhán, who was hoping after the lecture she could steal a little of the professor’s time. On the ride home, she had Googled him, and none of her searches turned up any mention of a book on fairies slated for publication. Or any book for that matter. Had it all been a ruse? If he wasn’t in Ballysiogdun to research a book, what exactly was he doing there?
Chapter 16
The words carved into the wooden oval sign read: BEWARE OF FAIRIES AND 100 STEPS! Siobhán wasn’t sure about the fairies, but there were indeed one hundred stone steps that led to the fairy village on top of the hill at Lough Gur. It was lovely to hear Ann and Ciarán giggle as they read the sign, then sprinted for the top as only children would do. Lough Gur not only boasted the proximity of Grange Stone Circle (Ireland’s largest stone circle, three hundred meters west of the park), it was also considered one of the most magical places in Ireland. At least according to their website. And although it was in County Limerick, Siobhán counted herself a
s a local supporter of the nearby historical park. How could she not? Framed by a horseshoe-shaped lake with Knockadoon Hill on one side and Knockfennel Lake on the other, it packed a six-thousand-year-history into its rugged and magical land.
The Iron Age, the Bronze Age, Stone-Aged houses, ring-forts, hillforts, megalithic remains, and if those archaeological treasures weren’t enough, legend had it the park was home to Fer Fí, the King of the Fairies. The Red Cellar Cave high up on the steep side of Knockfennel Hill was where he dwelled. Not to be outdone, where there is a king, there is a queen, and her name was Áine. She lived in the hill of Knockainey, the Goddess of Summer, Wealth, and Sovereignty, aka Queen of the Fairies. She spent most of her time in the lake, fed from underground springs, beneath which dwelled a realm to the other world. She was not a queen to be messed with. As one of the myths went, the King of Munster forced himself on her, resulting in her biting off his ear, therefore rendering him “blemished” and unfit to be king. That was Siobhán’s definition of a queen, leading her own #MeToo movement way ahead of her time.
Every civilization was represented here. There was no shortage of stories, and variations of the stories. Regardless, one could not argue that it was a mystical place, and Siobhán was not surprised that Dylan Kelly chose this location for a tour and a talk. Siobhán loved killing two proverbial birds with one magical stone.
They had already strolled around the horseshoe-shaped lake, joined hands inside the stone circle, then slipped into the Heritage Center for Dylan’s tour. Now they were out in the fresh air finishing up the Fairy and Tricky Tree Trail where stone fairy houses were built into the path, delighting children as they stumbled upon each one. Ireland was home to twenty-two native species of trees and every single one of them was planted within these special grounds.
When the official tour ended, Ciarán and Ann were filled with questions, and Siobhán was happy to let them kick off the interrogation of Dylan Kelly.
“What exactly is a fairy?” Ciarán asked, his voice laced with doubt.
“ ‘Fairy’ is a broad term for an array of creatures,” Dylan said. “It started with the Tuatha Dé Danann. When mankind arrived, the fairies agreed to go underground and let the mortals live above-ground among them. When the sun is up they stick to their hiding places. But when darkness falls and the moon rises, that’s when they come out to play.”
“Play?” Ciarán said. “So they’re playful?”
“Of course, lad. They’re tricksters.”
“That’s good. I’d probably like them then. Don’t you think?”
Dylan Kelly leaned in. “If you’re picturing the Disney fairies with glitter and wings, you’d be best heading off to America, for the Irish fairies are no such thing. Fairies are independent of religion and you’ll find them in all cultures. We’ve got two types here in Ireland. The trooping fairies and the solitary fairies. The trooping fairies are social. You’ll find them dancing around the hawthorn trees. The solitary fairies are like they sound. They just want to be left well enough alone.” Ciarán had begun to zone out, and Siobhán could tell he was done with the lecture. “Sounds a bit like human beings, does it not? That’s the thing about fairies, they can change shapes.”
“Change shapes?” And just like that, his interest was back. Ciarán’s voice seemed to be going through the change, hitting a high octave and cracking low in the same breath.
“Ah, sure. A fire-breathing horse with a dragon tail and eagle wings, if you like.”
“I would not like,” Ann said. “Not at all.”
“Why do they change shapes?” Ciarán asked.
“So that one could be sitting next to you and you’d never know it.”
Ciarán turned and stared at Siobhán intently.
“I’m not a fairy, luv. Neither are you.”
“The fairy world and the human world overlap, you see. The fairies are going about their life doing as they please, and all they ask of us is a bit of respect.”
“He believes it,” Ciarán said as he openly pointed at Dylan Kelly. “And he’s wearing a suit.”
A wolf in sheep’s clothing? “He’s part entertainer, luv,” Siobhán whispered into Ciarán’s ear. “And the suit doesn’t look very dear.” She probably shouldn’t have added that bit, but she didn’t like how the professor seemed to enjoy getting children riled up. As if to prove her point, Dylan Kelly continued.
“The problem is us human beings have a habit of walking into their realm and disturbing them. That’s when you’d best watch your back, or your head before it gets lopped off.”
Ciarán did a double-take. “They chop off heads?” He patted his own head, as if trying to assure himself it was still firmly attached.
“They’d rip your throat out if you crossed them.”
“Professor, please. These are children.”
“I’m not a child.” Ciarán reached up and rubbed his throat. “Where can I see a fairy?”
“Look for the hawthorn tree. The sacred tree of the sidhe.”
“She?” Ciarán scrunched up his nose. “All fairies are girls? Is that why they’re so browned off?”
Siobhán inwardly groaned. She was going to have to spend more time at home.
“Not ‘she.’ The Irish word s-i-d-h-e. Its meaning is a hillside. It’s come to mean the fairies.”
“Why would a hillside mean the fairies?” Ciarán rolled his eyes.
“Where there is nature, there are fairies. Look for hill mounds, hillocks, or raths surrounded by a ring of stones, or wild mushrooms.” Dylan leaned down and peered into Ciarán’s face. “Do you like to read, lad?” Ciarán simply blinked, no doubt wondering if the fairies would punish him for lying.
“I like to read,” Ann said.
Dylan straightened as he lifted his finger in the air. “Carolyn White in A History of Irish Fairies says that there are three types of humans most likely to interact with the fairies. The poor. The simple. And the sincere.”
“You’d better watch out,” Gráinne said, leaning into Siobhán. “You’re three for three.”
“Not believing in them is the worst offense of all,” Professor Kelly continued.
“Well done, Professor,” Siobhán said, clapping. She gently shoved Ciarán and Ann out of his path. “Have a look around; we’re leaving in ten minutes.” They raced off, presumably in search of fairies. Siobhán turned to the professor. “I’d love to hear more about this book you’re writing.”
He straightened up, like a peacock offering his feathers. “I’m researching remote villages, getting to know the people, visiting the fairy rings, and fairy forts, documenting the stories.”
“Then Ballysiogdun must be a dream come true. For your book that is.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned. “I never expected such an explosive turn.”
“The murder?”
“Yes. I intend to follow it closely. As it seems will you.”
“I’m trying to catch a killer.”
“Don’t be surprised if you never do.”
“Pardon?”
“Strange things tend to happen when it involves the Good People.”
“Drop the act. It’s just us. You can’t really believe in them. Can you?”
“I’ve heard stories. Most I don’t believe. But there have been a handful that I couldn’t disprove. I went to the places, you know? I talked to the people. I’ve stood by fairy forts, and fairy rings, and fairy trees. But never has it felt so powerful as the energy in Ballysiogdun. And that cottage! Tell me, how do you explain all those mysterious deaths? Sent shivers up me spine. I may not entirely believe, but I certainly wouldn’t chance it. Tell me. Would you ever disturb a fairy ring?”
Siobhán felt like a butterfly that had just been pinned to a board. She wanted to lie—after all she was needling him about his beliefs—but the truth was of course she wouldn’t disturb a fairy ring. And if it had been her, she would have moved out of the cottage. Better safe than sorry. “Normally? No.”
“What do you mean—normally?”
“To catch a killer, I might disturb a lot of things. If it was necessary.” She probably wouldn’t. She would try really hard not to.
“You’d best think on it carefully. Or you, or the ones you love, may never have a bit of peace again.”
“Are you threatening me, Professor?”
“Threatening you?” He stepped back as if to distance himself from her. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“You tell me.”
“My dear. I’m trying to save you.”
“I wish you luck there. I hear I’m a handful.”
He blinked rather than laugh, as if her humor was beneath him. “I too bore witness that night. I wrote about it. I’ll show you me pages.” He leaned in even though no one was listening. “You cannot tell anyone else. I have a photo.”
Now he had her attention. “A photo?”
“Quite possibly the only photo that exists of that night.”
He was going to tease her to death. She wanted to frisk him immediately, see if the photo was hidden in one of his suit pockets, turn him upside down and shake him like a rug. “What is it of?”
“The hawthorn tree under the full moon. And there, right next to it, I swear on me father’s grave, you can see an ethereal figure.”
“An ethereal figure.”
“I believe I captured a fairy. It’s remarkable.”
“May I see it?” She held out her hand. He stared at it as if he was expecting her to produce something.
“I’m afraid it’s not quite ready to show to the public.”
That was an abrupt turnaround. “You just said I could see it.”
“Patience, my dear.”
“It’s Garda O’Sullivan.”
His blink was back. “I’ll put you down for an advanced reading copy, Garda.”
“How advanced?”
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 12
