Murder in an Irish Cottage

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Did he have a metal detector too?” Ciarán asked.

  The man scrunched his brow. “I don’t rightly know, lad. I suppose he might have.”

  “I want a metal detector.” Ciarán turned to Siobhán. “What’s a metal detector?”

  “It’s an electronic device used to find metal,” James said, patting him on the head.

  “I’ll take one,” Ciarán said.

  “Won’t do you any good now,” the man said. “Ireland ruled them against the law.”

  “Why?” Siobhán asked.

  “Probably so your average Joe won’t go taking archaeological objects they deem belong to them. If you want to use one you’ll need written consent from the minister for Culture, Heritage, and Gaeltracht. Otherwise you’ll be prosecuted.” He made a horrified face, then winked at Ciarán.

  “Do you have his address?” Ciarán asked.

  “No metal detectors for us, luv,” Siobhán said.

  “How many of these does your friend have?” the man asked, rubbing his hands together. “Depending on the worth of the hoard, a farmer might get a few thousand from the government for their trouble.”

  “I don’t know,” Siobhán said. Were there anymore gold coins? That was an excellent question.

  “It’s possibly an exciting find, but I’d advise them to obey the law.”

  “I’ll pass that along. Thank you very much.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to buy something, now, aren’t you, luv?”

  “Of course,” Siobhán said, then tasked Ciarán and Ann with the troublesome chore of picking out an item. “Under ten euro,” she said as they hurried off. “I’m not sitting on a hoard.”

  * * *

  Lunchtime found them back at the local pub, but Siobhán’s thoughts were more on the gold coin than her fish and chips. Even though the clerk from the shop made it clear it was against the law to keep buried treasures, the treasure hunter may not have been aware of the law. And even if they were aware of the law, mankind did not always follow the law. She imagined if she owned a piece of property and found buried treasure, she’d be a little incensed with the Irish government claiming it as their own. Then again, didn’t archaeological treasures belong in a museum for everyone to appreciate? Ownership was a man-made concept, and at the end of the day, none of it came with you. That didn’t stop people from trying, even killing over it. Once again, she was reminded that you never knew what could crack an investigation open. Sometimes it was as simple as the flip of a coin. And who better to know what was buried on that property than someone who had lived there all her life? It was time Siobhán paid another visit to Geraldine Madigan. The cottage was clear. She was owed a divining-stick demonstration.

  * * *

  Geraldine’s sticks were crossed, and seemed to be pulling down, toward the ground. The shaking increased. “That’s pure energy, that is,” Geraldine said, as sweat rolled down the side of her face. They were standing in the exact spot where the dirt rose into a little hill as if something had been buried there. Or dug up . . .

  “Energy can be good,” Siobhán said. If her current theory was correct, it wasn’t an accident that Geraldine gravitated to this exact spot with her divining sticks. The question that remained was—had Ellen discovered the hoard first, or Geraldine? Siobhán was starting to think it was the former. And finding that treasure had marked her with an X.

  “This cottage kills,” Geraldine was saying. “Is that your definition of good?”

  “May I hold them?” Siobhán wanted to see if the sticks would react the same way.

  Geraldine shook her head. “I don’t let others handle me sticks.”

  “Speaking of sticks . . . I’d like to buy another one. I like the one you have with the round base?”

  “That one’s not for sale.”

  “Why is that?”

  Geraldine squinted as if trying to read Siobhán’s mind. “It took me ages to make.”

  “I see. I’d still like to have another look at it.”

  Geraldine looked at her watch. “It won’t be today. That is if you’re planning on going to the council meeting.”

  “Another day then,” Siobhán said. Not that she needed to have a look now; her theory had just been confirmed. And the meeting wasn’t one she was willing to miss. Not when Aiden Cunningham had proved to be so slippery.

  “I’ll see you there then,” Geraldine said, as she hurried away. It was plain as day that the woman was relieved to have an excuse to leave. Siobhán stared after her. She didn’t need to see Geraldine’s walking stick, the one with a round base, to know what it was. Siobhán had picked it up and recalled it being heavier than the other sticks. That’s because it wasn’t a stick. Not your typical one anyway. It was a metal detector. And the only reason a person would dress a metal detector in colorful yarn was if they knew that it was illegal to use them. Which meant she didn’t care. There were still a million unanswered questions about this case. But Siobhán knew she had a very important piece of it. Geraldine Madigan wanted Ellen and Jane away from the property, not because she thought the cottage was cursed, but because she had been after a buried hoard.

  Had Ellen found Geraldine digging on her property when she returned that evening? Had they struggled? Had Ellen yanked the detector away from Geraldine and busted the window with it? Wait. Didn’t Danny confirm the window was broken from the inside? Maybe the metal detector ended up there. Siobhán was mostly curious to see if the yoke lit up. If Geraldine and Ellen were struggling and the metal detector was blinking through the colored yarn, that would explain “the pretty lights” and “dancing” witnessed by Lilly from the window. Poor thing thought she was watching fairies dance instead of a prelude to a murder.

  Had they wrestled for the coins? Who dropped one under the bed? Would Ellen have had time to take a shower and put on a sleeping dress? Where were her dirty clothes? Why take her truck and not anything else? Siobhán loathed the part of an investigation where a single answered question unleashed nothing but an avalanche of more.

  * * *

  The town meeting was held on the first floor of a storefront building on the main street. Aiden Cunningham started off by welcoming them all and assuring them the murder inquiry into the death of Ellen Delaney was well under way. “What about the cottage?” Geraldine Madigan called out. “When will it be bulldozed?” She was still harping on that. Did that mean she’d yet to strike gold?

  “No decisions will be made until the investigation is closed.”

  “My divining sticks indicated great evil all around the cottage. She saw it for herself, an outsider!”

  All eyes turned to Siobhán, which was when she realized that Geraldine Madigan was pointing at her.

  “I’m not sure what I saw.”

  “You saw my stick quiver!”

  “There was a bit of a quiver, alright.”

  “Could have been her hand that was doing the quivering!” someone called out.

  “I’m a teetotaler, so just why would me hand be quivering?”

  “Old age.” Geraldine frowned as several in the crowd laughed.

  “The lease on the cottage expires in two months,” Aiden Cunningham said. He cleared his throat. “We won’t be renewing it.”

  “Will you be bulldozing it or not?” an older man called out.

  Dylan Kelly stepped up to the podium. “Perhaps preserving the cottage is a better idea, finding a way to keep the fairies appeased, as well as honoring our beloved folklore. We can come up with a compromise.”

  “You want the people of the hills to stay enraged, do ye?” Geraldine, face red with fury, scanned the room. “I heard all of you say it. One more death and we’ll have to bulldoze it. Are ye going back on your word now? All of ye?”

  Sergeant Eegan stood from a chair in the very back. “There’s nothing to be decided right now. If I see anyone but Jane Delaney and her family stepping beyond the gate, on the bramble path, or anywhere near the cottage, they’ll be arrested stra
ightaway.”

  “That goes for my property too,” Joseph Madigan said. He was sitting up front with Mary, his children, and his mother.

  Aiden Cunningham was up for reelection, and trying to appeal to both sides of the argument. Had Ellen given Aiden Cunningham that money for his political campaign, hoping for assurance in return? Did he promise them they could continue to live in the cottage?

  Why on earth would they want to?

  There was only one possible answer. Buried treasure.

  Siobhán had been studying Aiden Cunningham, wondering about his relationship with Ellen. If they were lovers, he was foolish not to come out and volunteer the information. Had he given it the Ballysiogdun guards? No one was required to tell Siobhán anything, and it was a loathsome, powerless feeling. When the meeting was over, she meant to have a word with the councilman, and she was beginning to wonder if he was half man, half eel, for once again he slipped out. He was a curious fella indeed. Not interested in talking, Councilman? That was okay. Siobhán could think of one other place that just might shed some light on the mysterious man.

  Chapter 23

  Primo Limo was operated out of Cork City. But the man on the phone informed Siobhán that Ballysiogdun had one driver, and he worked out of his home. He gave her the address and Siobhán booked a taxi. When they reached the limestone house thirty minutes away, a black limousine loomed in the circular drive. She asked the taxi to wait. The driver reclined his seat and lit a cigarette. “Not a bother.”

  Siobhán approached the limo, cupped her hand, and tried to peer into the back, wondering if she’d spot bottles of champagne waiting for the next spoiled rider. The front door of the house flew open, and minutes later a short man dressed all in black strode down the walkway. He waved as he drew closer. “Are you the client who called about a visit?”

  “I am indeed,” Siobhán said. No harm in a little white lie. She held out her hand and introduced her civilian-self.

  “Would you like to book a ride?” There was an eagerness to his tone that made her suspect business was slow.

  “I’m thinking about it.” She’d never been in a limo. None of her close girlfriends had married, so no hen parties as of yet. It wasn’t long ago they all would have been doomed as spinsters by this point. She was grateful for being born in a time where women were in no rush to have babies. Tell that to your future mother-in-law.

  “Suit yourself,” the driver said. “So why are you here?”

  Pleasantries were finished. She introduced her garda-self. “You stopped by Ellen Delaney’s cottage on Friday morning?” She glanced at the date in her notebook and recited it just so there was no misunderstanding.

  He took a rag out of his pocket and began to polish the side mirrors on his limo. “Who told you dat?”

  “Are you saying you didn’t?” Quite adept at it herself, Siobhán had very little patience for deflection.

  “I’m not saying a thing. I run a discreet business.” He moved to the other window and continued his polishing.

  “It’s the only limousine in town. You were seen.”

  “I’m saying nothing.”

  “I’m trying to catch a killer.”

  “You don’t belong here. If the local guards want to question me, so be it.”

  Siobhán glanced at his windshield. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a medal. She had to lean in to see it. Saint Francis of Assisi. The patron of animals, merchants, and ecology, but also the saint of families. “What if her daughter gives you permission to talk about her mother?”

  “The blind daughter?” His interest was piqued.

  “Yes. She’s hired us to bring justice to her mother.” This was a man who respected work and family.

  He stopped polishing. “I suppose that would be alright then. Will she be able to hear me?”

  “She’s blind. Not deaf.”

  “I see. Will we go to her then?” He glanced back at his house. “I don’t have any ramps.”

  “Why would she need a ramp?”

  The driver shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong man.”

  She so was. “Perhaps you can come to Kilbane.”

  He scrunched his face like it was a dirty word. “Why would I do that?”

  “The funeral will take place this weekend. I’m sure your services will be needed.” Siobhán felt guilty for fobbing this limo on the residents of Kilbane, but she needed to find out what he knew.

  “I could use a change of scenery. These are me rates.” He opened the passenger door, rummaged around in the glove compartment, then handed her a sheet.

  “I see.” He should have been hanging a medal for the Patron Saint of Price Gouging. There had better be champagne. This was going to cost somebody. She tucked the price sheet in her handbag so she would remember to give it to Macdara.

  * * *

  The weekend arrived in no time, so when the limo pulled its long, sleek body up to Naomi’s and purred at the curb, mourners spilled out of the bistro and gathered around it like curious moths. Ciarán began bouncing around. “Is it ours?” he asked. “Can we keep it?”

  “No,” Siobhán said.

  The driver got out and hurried over to Jane, who was standing next to Siobhán. He took off his hat and placed it over his chest. “Hello,” he said.

  Jane tilted her chin. “Hello.”

  “How ya?” His tone was as nervous as a lad on a first date. “I’m sorry about your mam.”

  “Thank you.”

  Siobhán had filled Jane in on their meeting with the driver, and she knew he was here to hopefully give information, so why was Jane suddenly clamming up? “This is the driver who saw your mother over the weekend,” Siobhán said, hoping to move things along. Jane did not respond.

  “She hired me for the weekend,” the driver said, with a worried glance to Siobhán.

  “The entire weekend?” Finally, Jane spoke up.

  “It was to be an enjoyable weekend. I’m sorry they didn’t get to go.”

  They. Jane caught it too; it was quick, but Siobhán caught it. She’d flinched.

  “It’s okay,” Siobhán said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “We’ve spoken to the councilman.” This was a pure shot in the dark, not to mention a power move. Jane could immediately dispute it if she wished. Siobhán waited, her heart in her throat. To her relief, Jane did not interrupt the play.

  “He was very kind to pay my cancellation fee. Had I known, I would have gone to him instead of Mrs. Delaney. My cancellation policy is very clear. It’s written down like.” He stared at Jane. “Would you like a copy in braille?”

  She snorted. “Do you have a copy in braille?”

  “No.”

  “That’s sorted then.”

  “Why did you go to the cottage Friday morning if the gig had been canceled?” Siobhán asked.

  “She owed me for the entire weekend. I came to collect.”

  “And she sent you to the councilman?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t in. Which surprised me. I don’t know where he went or with who, but I was the one he hired for the weekend.”

  “Hired to go where?”

  “He wouldn’t say. I was told there would be multiple destinations, nothing farther than an hour up the road.”

  “When was this shift to begin?”

  “The first pickup was scheduled for Saturday evening, half five.”

  Sounded like the first stop was out to dinner.

  “Are you saying they canceled but you didn’t get paid?”

  “When I refused to leave the councilman’s office, his assistant paid me.”

  “Did you ever find out why they were canceling?” He shifted his gaze away from them, as if not wanting to answer. Siobhán nudged Jane.

  “Please,” Jane said. “I need to know.”

  His gaze was back on Jane. He nodded. “She was rattled by something, I tell you that.”

  “Rattled how?” Siobhán asked.

  “She was shoving things into a bag, an odd a
ssortment of things—she said . . .” He swallowed. “ ‘I’ll show them.’ ”

  “What does that mean?” Jane mused. “Who is them? The village?”

  “I think she had something to prove and she was going to prove it,” the driver said.

  Spending the night near the fairy tree.

  “If she was going somewhere, and paying you—why didn’t she just change the route?” Jane asked.

  “I have a feeling she was . . . taking off on foot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The bag she was packing. It was a hiking pack. And she had her Wellies and walking stick out. That’s all I can say.”

  * * *

  Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub welcomed the villagers of Ballysiogdun, and Ellen Delaney’s funeral was conducted professionally and warmly. It was a short service, as requested by Jane, and no one was allowed to mention the cottage, or fairies, or murder.

  The crowd stood back as Jane Delaney approached her mother’s coffin. Her hands traveled over her mother’s face, causing multiple hands to reach into their handbags for tissues. Jane was touching Ellen’s hair. She snatched her handbag as if she’d been scalded. When she turned around, as if searching the shadows in the crowd, she looked panicked. Siobhán hurried up to her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to speak with the person who arranged her.”

  “Okay.” She waited, thinking that if she was about to complain about the job they’d done arranging her, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Why?”