“Can anyone hear us?” Jane tilted her head down.
“No, luv.”
“Her hair. It’s curly.”
Siobhán glanced in the coffin. Ellen’s hair was curly, but Siobhán did not see why this mattered. “And?”
“I know they probably washed it here, but when you found my mother on the bed, was her hair just like this?”
Siobhán thought back. It was the only time she’d ever laid eyes on Ellen and a lot was going on in the scene. She closed her eyes. The white feather on the cheek, the slack mouth with foam, the gray curls—“Yes. It was curly.”
“She was interrupted then. Just after.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mam’s hair was only curly after she showered. She would then put fat rollers in it to loosen the curls. If her hair was in tight curls like this when you found her, it means she showered but never put in her rollers.”
“Is it possible she just didn’t feel like it?”
“No,” Jane said. “Mam never wavered on this. If she didn’t put her curlers in, something interrupted her. Or someone.”
One more piece of the puzzle confirmed. Ellen had showered that evening and changed into her sleeping dress. Next step would have been curlers.
This pointed to the killer dressing Ellen, not Ellen dressing herself. Why? Had the outfit been sitting out? After all, she had originally planned on going out that evening with Aiden Cunningham. It had been confirmed that had been canceled, but with Jane away for the weekend, perhaps Ellen wasn’t bothered about being tidy. Where were the clothes she wore camping? Siobhán needed time to think this through. “Let’s keep this between us for now.”
“Why, Siobhán O’Sullivan,” Jane said, raising her voice. “Are you still keeping secrets from Cousin Dara?” Jane walked away with a smirk, but the comment was like a gut punch. She’d meant to have a heart-to-heart with Macdara and tell him absolutely everything, especially about the sink, but the right moment had never presented itself. Who was she fooling? The longer she waited, the harder it was going to be. But everyone in their right mind would agree: his aunt’s funeral was not the time and the place for creepy-dead-mouse confessions.
* * *
They gathered in Saint Mary’s churchyard for the burial. Nancy Flannery’s parents were buried there, and her older sister went into the plot next to them. It was a relief when everyone was back at Naomi’s, gathered with mugs of tea, and sandwiches, and pie. The weather was pleasant, and after the feed many decided to have a walk-about. Dylan Kelly was among them. Siobhán wanted to hurry after him, eager to talk to him about the pages they’d found in Ellen’s cottage, along with his rejection letter. Hawthorne Publishing, she’d discovered after some digging, had been the name of the publisher. Did he, or did he not have a publishing deal? Macdara was on the phone with them now, pretending to be Dylan Kelly. She waited for him by the fireplace, nearly jumping out of her skin. Would he learn anything?
She was relieved when he bounded into the room, a slight smile on his face. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the exit. “He just left.”
“How did you know,” Macdara asked her when they were out on the footpath, “that I learned something?”
“Your smirk,” she said.
He laughed. “You haven’t even asked me what it is.”
“I’ll hear when you confront the good professor.”
“You always did like a good cliffhanger,” Macdara said, as they ran to catch up with him.
* * *
They found the professor on the footpath in front of Gordon’s Comics, looking somewhat bewildered by the images of vampires and superheroes in the window.
“Are you a fan of the graphic novel?” Siobhán said pleasantly as they approached from behind, causing him to jump.
He recovered with a laugh, and a cough, then shook his head. “I was hoping to find more of a traditional bookstore.”
Siobhán nodded. Secretly, she did too, although now that Eoin was into graphic novels, she had a new appreciation for them. “That makes sense. When is yours due to be published?”
“Very soon, I hope. Very soon.” He began to rock on his heels as if consoling himself.
“I’m sure you have a deadline and a publishing date?” She should let Macdara take the lead—he was the one with some news—but she was making the professor nervous, and a nervous suspect was more likely to tip over and spill something out, even unwillingly.
“There’s a bit more work to do.” He stopped rocking and threw a desperate look down the street as if he’d summoned the cavalry and was searching for any sign of them. “But I’m very, very close.” He flashed a disturbing grin.
“Are any of your pages missing?” Macdara asked.
His grin vanished and was just as quickly replaced by a frown. “How did you know?” He stepped closer to Macdara. “Those pages are mine. They belong to me.” If Siobhán wasn’t watching it with her own eyes she wouldn’t have believed the transformation from nerdy professor to menacing thug. His fists clenched and his dark eyes flashed with anger. Macdara didn’t flinch.
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“I’ll tell the guards. The other guards.”
“They’re the ones who have them,” Macdara said. “And I just had an interesting talk with your publisher.” He stopped. “Or should I say—your prospective publisher?”
“They rejected you,” Siobhán said. “And yet you’re telling everyone you have a book deal. Why?”
“This is outrageous,” Dylan Kelly said. “It’s an ongoing negotiation.”
“Because your story wasn’t . . . What was it?” Macdara looked up as if he was struggling to remember. “Relevant enough.”
“My, my,” Siobhán said. “They wanted something more contemporary?”
“And dramatic,” Macdara said. “I’ve seen some of the titles they publish. I must say—they do like stories that are a little more . . . what’s the word?” He turned to Siobhán.
“Sensational?” she said.
Macdara snapped his fingers. “Sensational!” he said. “That’s it.”
Siobhán shook her head. “I bet Ellen Delaney’s murder fits into the sensational category.”
“Makes it relevant too,” Macdara said. He crossed his arms. “They’re very eager for your new pages.”
Dylan Kelly’s face turned red. “As a writer, a historian, I have a duty to write about the cottage, and it’s not like I murdered her just to write a book!”
“Really?” Siobhán said. “Because some might consider yours a very strong motive indeed.”
“Not to mention where they found your pages,” Macdara said.
Dylan’s head snapped toward them. “Where?” He sounded like he was genuinely asking.
“We can’t say,” Siobhán said. “But Garda Flannery is correct. It looks very bad for you.” She glanced across the street where Sergeant Eegan and Danny were taking a stroll. “They must think our killer has shown up for the funeral.”
“They’re going to stay very close until they solve this case,” Macdara agreed. “Breathe down the killer’s neck.”
“Breathe down everyone’s neck,” Siobhan said.
Dylan Kelly started to blink rapidly. “Those pages were stolen from me. Including that publishing letter.”
“When were they stolen?” Macdara added. Since Dylan was responding better to another male, Siobhán stepped back to let Dara continue the questioning.
“At the town hall. During one of the council meetings.”
“Before the murder?”
“Yes. Days before.”
“Take us through it.”
Dylan Kelly sighed. “Aiden Cunningham introduced me at the meeting, told me to come and say a few quick words. I took the podium for maybe ten minutes . . . it could have been more.”
As she listened to him nervously drone on, Siobhán knew it was more. “Go on,” Macdara urged.
“I
didn’t notice that any pages were missing. Not right away. It wasn’t until that evening that I noticed them. My opening chapters and the letter from the publisher gone.” Siobhán noted he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word “rejection.” “I thought maybe . . . I thought someone was playing a trick on me.”
He thought it was a fairy. He wouldn’t say it, but Siobhán could see that was what he was thinking.
“If someone stole your rejection letter, it’s reasonable to assume they did so to blackmail you,” Siobhán said.
“Anyone been blackmailing you?” Macdara added.
Dylan Kelly swallowed. “Everyone is jealous when you have a book coming out.”
“Unless it turns out you don’t really have a book coming out.”
“They won’t reject this draft,” he said passionately.
“Because of the murder,” Siobhán said.
He swallowed again. “If you’re not the killer,” Macdara said, moving in closer, “do you think the killer might be threatened by the thought of a book being written about the murder?”
“How could the killer not be threatened?” Siobhán said. “He or she definitely wanted to get his or her hands on the manuscript.”
“Why would they want to do that?” Dylan stammered.
“To make sure there wasn’t anything in the book that reveals the killer’s identity.”
“There’s not! I’m certain there’s not.”
“You don’t mention any names in the book?” Macdara challenged.
“You’re trying to scare me,” Dylan Kelly said. That was true. It was also working. His upper lip was covered in little beads of sweat. “Aiden Cunningham,” he croaked out. “The councilman stole my pages.”
Chapter 24
“You know,” Macdara said, as he stood in the doorway to her bedroom and watched Siobhán pack her bag. “You don’t have to stay involved in this case.”
Siobhán stopped packing and turned around. “Do you have a fever?”
He smiled. Shook his head. “It’s summer. It’s your summer holiday.” He approached her and took her hands in his. “You said yourself, Garda MacGregor is a good guard. They have help from Cork City and Dublin. Maybe it’s not up to us to solve every murder.”
“This is personal.”
“To me. Not to you.”
“We’re engaged. Your family is my family.”
He sat on the edge of her bed. “Your family holiday consists of funerals and witness interrogations.”
Was this toxic residue left over from his mother’s tirade? Do not say it. “They were all charmed by Ballysiogdun.”
“For a few days. Are you actually dragging everyone back now?”
She clenched and unclenched her fists while counting. Never insult a man’s mother; there’s no coming back from that. “Eoin is staying to run the bistro with Bridie. James is staying—whether it’s to work or go back to mooning after Elise, I don’t know. Gráinne starts her job with Sheila. I have to take Ciarán and Ann with me.”
“You can stay here with Ciarán and Ann.”
“I can’t. I have to see this through.”
“You’ll never get this time back.”
“I’m doing the best I can.” Was she? Was lying to the man she was going to marry, a man who happened to be an excellent guard, really the best she could do? She stopped throwing clothes into her suitcase and turned to him. “Remember when you were in Kilbane with your mam and I accompanied Jeanie Brady and Jane back to the cottage?”
“Yes.” Macdara lowered himself to a chair and crossed his arms, as if knowing whatever she was about to say was best heard sitting down.
“Danny had something else to show me.” Macdara did not respond, he simply waited. “Something we missed. In the sink.” Had he blinked? It didn’t look as if he was blinking.
“Go on.”
She took a breath and filled him in on the macabre scene in the sink, the crime scene photo of the mauled mouse, the words “Jane” and “Tree” in the sink written in mouse blood, the shoe print Danny said they’d lifted from near the cottage, and the dust on the wall where Siobhán believed a painting had hung.
He stood. “Are you joking me?”
“I know. It’s bizarre.”
“You know what else is bizarre?” His voice was raised. “The amount of times we’ve seen each other since then, and you didn’t think to mention a dead mouse in me aunt’s sink!”
She went to him and took his hands. He pulled away. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been conflicted. You’re too close to the victim.”
“That didn’t stop you when your brother was accused of murder.”
He was going back over three years now. “I wasn’t a guard then. I didn’t know any better.”
“Convenient.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been eating me up. And you can be as browned off as you wish. Later. Because right now I need you.”
He rubbed his face, looked to the ceiling. “Joe Madigan mentioned dead mice on his farm.”
“Exactly. I think the killer was practicing. With wolfsbane.”
“Jane. Tree,” Macdara said.
“Tree. Jane,” Siobhán corrected.
“Does it matter?”
“I haven’t a clue. There’s more.”
“Your capacity to keep secrets is impressive.”
She placed her hand on his chest and backed him back into his chair. In a rare display of affection she plopped herself on his lap, threw her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do it again. I promise.”
“Well played,” he said, his voice low.
“You’re the best detective I know.”
“Don’t overplay your hand.”
“Honestly. Keeping secrets from you was giving me a constant pain in the head.”
“Good.”
“I think we need to find a missing painting.” She filled him in on her conversation with Jane, and how she’d given Annabel a painting of Ellen’s to hang in Molly’s Café. “Apparently your aunt went absolutely mental, stormed over to Annabel’s, and took back the painting. So where is it now?”
“I have a feeling you know where to look.”
“I need to visit Annabel.” She jumped up. “Oh!”
“What?”
“I think one of Geraldine’s walking sticks is a metal detector and the gold coin is probably from a hoard and alone it’s worth around eight hundred euro, but technically would belong to the government, and it’s my theory that Ellen found the hoard and that’s what got her killed. I think Geraldine didn’t realize that Ellen discovered it, and she was in a race to find it. That’s why she made a bet with Ellen that she couldn’t spend the night by the fairy tree. What she didn’t count on was Ellen returning to the cottage in the middle of the night. I think the two of them wrestled while Geraldine was holding the metal detector and that’s why Lilly, who was watching from her window, thought she saw dancing and pretty lights.”
Macdara’s jaw dropped. “I’ve changed me mind. You should stay out of this.”
“We both know I can’t.”
“We both know you won’t.” He sighed. “Just don’t fly too close to the sun.” He pulled her to him and kissed her.
“It’s Ireland, you eejit,” she said softly when they pulled away. “There’s hardly ever any sun.”
* * *
Siobhán entered Molly’s Café. Ann and Ciarán loved the small bistro and its friendly owner. They had a pile of books, and notebooks, and games. Despite Macdara’s lightly delivered lecture, Siobhán was enjoying her time with her youngest siblings. Yes, she had to be careful what she said and did with them in tow, but they were making the best of it. The lunch hour was over, and with the exception of an older couple reading the newspaper and drinking tea, they were the only other customers.
When Ann and Ciarán were happily eating and reading, Siobhán approached Molly. She ordered pie and tea, finding herself in grave need of creature comforts. “Would you be able t
o join me for a minute?”
Molly didn’t ask why. She knew who she was. She gave a nod and a smile. “I’ll be there in a moment with your pie and tea.”
Siobhán took the seat furthest from the window. She didn’t want folks knowing who she was talking to, and wondering why. Molly removed her apron, set Siobhán’s tea and pie in front of her. “Will you be wanting milk and sugar, luv?”
“Yes, please.” She probably didn’t need the sugar, not with the pie, but maybe just a pinch.
When Molly didn’t sit right away, Siobhán gave her a puzzling look.
“There’s something here for you.”
“For me?” That was odd.
Molly held up her finger. “There’s a note here for you.” She returned to the counter and when she appeared again she set down milk, sugar, and a plain envelope. “SIOBHÁN O’SULLIVAN” was typed across it.
When Siobhán didn’t make a move to pick it up, Molly pointed at it. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“’Tis. I just . . . It’s a surprise.”
Molly shrugged. “Not in a small village.” She sat across from Siobhán and eyed the envelope.
“Fair play.” Siobhán wasn’t going to open it in front of her. “I heard that Ellen used to come here with her laptop.”
“She did, yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
She smoothed her hands across the table and looked up. “Just before the murder. It was Thursday day.”
“What can you tell me about that visit?”
She was already shaking her head. “The same as it always was, so. She’d order a cup of tea and sit by the window.” She gestured to the window. “Hardly a word exchanged.”
“Did anyone else come in and speak with her?”
“I wasn’t keeping a close eye. We were busy. If I’d known she was going to be murdered I’d have paid more attention, like.”
“She was on her laptop that Thursday?”
“She was.” She squinted. “There is one thing. I don’t know if it’s important.”
“Go on.”
“She left something behind. I’ve been waiting to give it to the guards.”
“Have you called them?”
She shook her head. “I thought they’d come to see me.”
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 19
