Murder in an Irish Cottage

by Carlene O'Connor

  “What did she leave?”

  Molly chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d better call the guards.”

  “Yet you haven’t so far.”

  She blinked. “It was for me. A tip.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I don’t have to turn it over to the guards, do I?”

  A flash of gold underneath Ellen’s bed rose in Siobhán’s mind. “A gold coin.”

  Molly gasped. “How did you know?”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In a safe place.” She leaned in. “What is it worth?”

  “Did she hand it to you?”

  Again with the lip biting. “It was left by the table.”

  “By the table?” She was choosing her words carefully.

  “It was under the table.”

  “She dropped it.”

  “She never came back for it.” For a moment she looked stricken. “I just mean . . .”

  “It’s okay. Either she didn’t realize she dropped it, or she meant it as a tip.”

  Molly exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “However . . . you must call the guards.”

  “I will, of course.”

  “I’m sorry. You have to do it now, or I will.”

  “Did I do anything wrong?”

  “You won’t be in trouble for waiting this long, if that’s what you mean. But I can’t promise you’ll get it back.”

  “Is it a clue? I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been meaning to take it to the charity shop, see if yer man can appraise it.”

  “I understand. But it is part of an ongoing investigation.”

  The petite owner sighed, then rose and headed back to the counter. Siobhán watched her place the call. She tore open the envelope. The letter was typed, most likely on a computer:

  When a guard is dating a suspect, how can they promise a fair inquiry?

  * * *

  Siobhán stared at the strange message. Were they talking about her and Macdara? No one here knew them and they weren’t officially on the case. Then again, someone had left this note for her, so she’d better rethink it. Besides, neither she nor Macdara was a suspect—unless someone thought otherwise. It could be a crank. Sadly, the garda tip line was often flooded with nefarious calls during murder probes. Liars, gossips, and begrudgers.

  Molly returned to Siobhán’s table, wringing her hands on her apron. “The guards are sending someone now.”

  “You’ve done the right thing.” From the look on her face, Molly did not agree. Siobhán held up the envelope. “Who left this for me?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that. The envelope was slid under me door during the night.”

  “Do you have a camera inside or outside the shop?”

  “No, sorry, luv, we’ve never had the need for anything like that.”

  “Has anyone ever slipped a note underneath your door before?”

  “This would be the very first.”

  “Have any of the locals been chatting to you about me, or this case?”

  A faint trace of pink flared at her cheeks. “You know how it goes, so.”

  “Right.” They were all talking about the outsiders, and the case. “Has anyone behaved out of the ordinary or said anything that struck you as odd?”

  “Everything has been odd and out of the ordinary when it comes to that cottage.”

  “Did you know Ellen Delaney well?”

  “We all knew them, but I don’t think anyone knew them well. They’d slip in early to mass, and be the first to leave. At the farmers’ market, they were all business, didn’t seem to like the chin-wagging. They’d barely say hello to you in the shops, or the pub, and although Ellen joined the painting class, she kept to herself.”

  “Why don’t you have Ellen’s paintings hanging here?”

  “You’ll have to ask Annabel; she chose the paintings.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “From what I hear, Ellen Delaney refused for any of her work to be shown.” She shook her head as if that in itself was a crime. “She must have been jealous.”

  Siobhán’s ears perked up. “Jealous?”

  “Of Annabel’s star pupil.”

  “Star pupil?”

  Molly nodded. “Annabel sent her over to Geraldine’s, to butter her up, can you imagine? Gush about how much she loved Ellen’s work so that I could get one of her paintings.”

  “Why was it that important?”

  “Annabel liked showing off her students. It irked her that someone would refuse to participate.”

  “When was this?”

  Molly scrunched her face and stared off into space. Then her mouth widened. “A few days before the murder.” Her hands flew up to her mouth. “It’s still so shocking. She could have had her work admired while she was still alive. More’s the pity.”

  “And who is this star pupil?”

  Molly pointed to the wall, at the center painting. The rotation had changed since Siobhán had been in here previously. This one depicted a little girl kneeling by her bedside, her hands clasped in prayer. Above the bed was a window, through which a full, honey-colored moon was visible. It lit up the child’s blond hair. The painting captured innocence and magic. Siobhán knew who painted it even before she looked at the signature: Mary Madigan.

  “It’s stunning,” Siobhán said. She meant it. The work didn’t look like someone with a hobby, it looked like someone with a job.

  “Annabel said she’s been trying to encourage Mary to apply to Glasgow School of Art.”

  Siobhán nodded. The Scottish institution was renowned. “It’s hard to imagine her having the flexibility to attend.”

  Molly nodded. “That’s what Mary told Annabel. Joe Madigan doesn’t seem the type to pick up and move so his wife can study art.”

  Sadly, she concurred. But it wasn’t Mary’s paintings that Siobhán was focused on. It was Ellen’s. The more elusive they were becoming, the more she was dying to see them.

  Chapter 25

  Siobhán waited until the guards came to take the note and the gold coin before heading back to the inn. Danny or Sergeant Eegan wasn’t among them, and since Siobhán had no clue who could have left the note or what it meant, she wasn’t required to stay long. Ann and Ciarán, who were bouncing out of their seats an hour ago, seemed to be dragging. They would all have a rest and then Siobhán would schedule an appointment with Annabel. When they entered the lobby, they found Macdara checking in. “Dara.”

  He turned and grinned. “You’re not the only one who can’t stay away.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” She tilted her head at the clerk, who was dangling a room key in front of him.

  “She booked your room this morning,” he announced with a sly grin.

  Dara chuckled. “Of course she did.” He took the key and saluted her. “Thanks, boss.”

  Ann and Ciarán headed up to the room for a rest, and Siobhán suspected, to watch telly and eat crisps in bed. Siobhán and Macdara convened by a love seat in the lobby. Sticking to her promise that she wasn’t going to leave him out again, she told him about the note someone anonymously slipped under the door of the coffee shop. He frowned. “Relationship with a guard. Were they talking about us?”

  “I wondered the same. I don’t think so.”

  “You said your friend Danny had a girlfriend. Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. The subject hasn’t come up.” Had they been here under normal circumstances she would have thought to ask. They would have enjoyed a double date, and chatted away about Templemore, and hit the farmers’ market and driven home saying what a lovely village it was and how they had to do it again soon. But this visit had been anything but normal.

  Macdara stood. “Looks like the subject is up now.”

  “It might be nothing.” They ascended the oak staircase on the way to the room.

  Macdara shook his head. “If his lover is one of our suspects, and he hasn’t disclosed that, it’s definitely not nothing.”

  “Dann
y is an honest person.”

  “The Danny you know.”

  “Yes, the Danny I know.” The stairs were old and steep, and by the time they reached the upper floor she was nearly out of breath. She had missed several mornings of running, and it was starting to show.

  “Love makes people do crazy things.” Macdara took her hand and squeezed as they headed down the hall.

  “I don’t even know what this note is accusing him of doing.”

  “He’s one of the lead guards. He could be hiding or changing evidence to protect the woman he’s dating. He needs to be taken off the case.”

  “We don’t even know if what’s in this letter is true.”

  “Fine. If it’s true—he needs to be taken off the case.”

  “It’s not our decision to make.” She let go of his hand, worried that this conversation was about to go off the rails again.

  “It wouldn’t be easy to hide a love affair in this village,” Macdara said as they stopped at their doors. Siobhán was in one room with Ciarán and Ann, and Macdara had the adjoining one.

  “Yet multiple people seem to be doing it.” Like your aunt. And maybe your cousin . . . There were only two good reasons that Jane might be lying about her alibi. She was either the murderer, or she had snuck off with a man.

  “If anyone would know how to hide it, it’s a guard.” He gave her a look.

  “Everyone knows we’re dating and we tried to hide it.”

  “Maybe he’s better at it.”

  “What are you getting at? The guards have the note now. I’m sure they’ll be questioning everyone, even Danny.”

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker if you just asked him?”

  “I will, so.” She glanced at the door. They could hear the sound of the telly and bursts of laughter. She took a minute to enjoy it. When she spoke to Macdara again, her voice was a whisper. “There could be another explanation.”

  “Go on.”

  “This note is from the killer, and we’re getting too close so they’re starting a fire somewhere else.”

  “Let’s just make sure we’re not the ones who get burned.”

  * * *

  While Macdara settled into his room, Siobhán left a message for Danny, asking if they could meet. She got his voice mail and left him a message. Macdara’s mission was to speak with Aiden Cunningham. Siobhán, who was determined to investigate and entertain her siblings, had another destination in mind. Annabel’s. Maybe she’d let Ann and Ciarán do a bit of painting while they chatted. Siobhán could pay for the impromptu lesson. And it just so happened that the art teacher lived in a town house not far from their inn.

  Annabel was pretty and petite, much like Siobhán imagined a Disney fairy would look. She grinned when she saw the young ones, then ushered them in and through her living quarters. Landscape and portrait paintings hung on every surface. Hawthorn trees, and fairy rings, and rolling hills. “Are these yours?” Ann and Ciarán examined each one, praising and exclaiming over them, which made Annabel’s pixie face light up with joy.

  “When I was younger I was embarrassed to hang my own work. Now that I’m older, they’ve become like old friends.”

  “I’d hang every one of them in my room,” Ciarán said. His voice cracked again, a reminder to Siobhán that the little boy she knew was growing up.

  Annabel’s laugh was like music. “You’re such a love.”

  “They’re gorgeous,” Siobhán said, resisting a strong urge to ruffle Ciarán’s head. “You’re a believer then?”

  She laughed. “I love the lore and the legends. I wanted to honor them.”

  She had artfully dodged the question. “I’ll show you the studio.” She led them to a back room that seemed to be a recent addition to the older storefront. Easels and canvas and paints were set up, enough stations for ten students. “My partner built this for me when he realized I wasn’t going to give up on my little hobby.” Siobhán thought of Eoin and wondered how his life as an artist would progress. Annabel set Ann and Ciarán up with paints and canvases, then joined Siobhán at the other end of the studio.

  “I’m assuming you want to see Ellen’s work.”

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “And anything you can tell me about your interactions with her.”

  “I don’t normally judge students on their artwork. Expression should be free from labels. However . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll show you.” She headed to the corner of the room where a stack of paintings leaned against the wall. “See for yourself. They’re in order with the first painting she ever did on top. You’ll find nine of them.” She waited, as if expecting Siobhán to react to the number.

  “Is that significant?”

  Annabel nodded. “In class we’ve only done four. But Ellen started staying late, painting more. The last few were done feverishly. I thought she was just lonely, or working out her frustrations with the town. But now . . . I’m worried I should have seen the signs of her distress. I should have said something. Maybe . . . she would still be alive.” A tear came to Annabel’s eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been eating me up.”

  “I see.” Annabel, tears pooling in her eyes, waited expectantly for Siobhán to assure her that she wasn’t to blame. And Siobhán wanted to. Non-garda Siobhán would have consoled her. But Garda O’Sullivan had to keep a distance. The more freedom you allowed a suspect, the more they revealed. Anguish was an unfortunate side effect.

  Annabel wiped her tears. “When you’re finished, I’ll be with my two bright, new students.” She bounded off to see to Ciarán and Ann. Siobhán turned her attention to the first painting.

  As Jane had surmised, the first painting was of the cottage. It was simple but quietly beautiful. The white stone facade, the red door, a glistening meadow. The view was of the cottage from the front at sunrise. Siobhán tried to see if there was anything sinister in the picture, anything that would scream cursed, or fairies, or killer. But no. It was simply a modest painting of a sweet cottage, by a beginner.

  The second painting was again of the cottage, this time from a side angle. She seemed to be playing with light and shadows, and once again, nothing stood out as alarming, or unusual, just the side of the cottage. Although, and it was very, very difficult to discern, looking at the cottage from this angle reminded Siobhán of the one patch of dirt she’d observed that seemed to be set up higher. The same patch where Geraldine’s dowsing sticks had reacted. Siobhán had yet to tell the Ballysiogdun guards about her suspicion about Geraldine’s walking stick. That was going to have to change today.

  The third painting was the view from the back of the cottage, and included the lush garden. Siobhán peered closely. She’d included the patches of wolfsbane, the purple hoods appearing innocent of any evildoing. The fourth painting was of the herb garden, and this one put Siobhán on pause. Ellen seemed to be focusing on one particular section: POISON. The sign, skull and crossbones, were rendered in dark shades while the rest was muted by lighter strokes making the sign pop in a sinister way. Ellen was improving as an artist. But was she also painting a message? Could one of the other students have gleaned the idea of using wolfsbane or poison from her paintings?

  The fifth and sixth paintings were of fairy trees and fairy rings. They appeared to be the ones on either side of the cottage. The paintings had an ethereal quality about them, as if you could sense the presence of fairies, without actually seeing any in the paintings. Maybe it was the play of light, how parts of the tree and ring seemed to gleam, or maybe it was the brush stokes, playful in some areas, stark in others. But it was the seventh painting that startled Siobhán. Gone were the light colors and idyllic settings. The cottage was dark, and a gnarled and blackened fairy tree hovered directly over it. Hanging from the branches were small but pinched and furious little faces, glaring down at the old stone cottage as if they were intent on causing trouble. In the distance, in the bushes, someone was crouched with binoculars.

  Joe Madigan.

  Elle
n knew all about his “bird-watching”.

  But that wasn’t the most startling bit. Standing in the doorway, in the direct path of the binoculars, her hair shining in the sun, her face turned up and smiling, was Jane. As if she was enjoying the attention from her not-so-secret admirer. Is that why Ellen didn’t want anyone to see her paintings? Was she setting out to reveal everyone’s dirty little secrets? Something else struck Siobhán. The look on Jane’s face in the painting. She was positively basking in the attention. Ellen must have described Joe’s actions to her. Of course she had. She’d confronted him at the farmers’ market. At the time, Siobhán hadn’t stopped to wonder how Jane knew. Partly because she kept forgetting about her disability. Ellen was clearly conveying that Jane liked the attention. Encouraged it even. Or was it Joe Madigan who Jane Delaney liked? Did this have anything to do with why Jane’s name was written in the sink?

  Siobhán almost turned to the next painting, when she realized there was one more figure in the current painting. It was easy to miss if you didn’t look closely, but a female figure was standing behind Joe, hands on her hips, her face the epitome of the betrayed wife. Ellen was not a master painter, but there was no mistaking the figure was Mary Madigan.

  Were Jane and Joe having a secret affair? Joe, Siobhán recalled, was also out of town for the weekend. To look at tractors, he said. Yet he did not buy a tractor. Jane was at a conference for which she’d offered no proof. And Mary Madigan pretended she was with her children and mother-in-law. What if instead she’d been stalking her husband and his lover? Ironically, this would clear all three of them of the murder. What a grave mistake to lie about alibis that could actually clear them.

  The eighth painting was of an old hag. The tip of her crooked nose was red. In her hands she was clutching handfuls of gold coins, so many they were spilling out of her palms. Next to her was a colorful walking stick. Geraldine Madigan. That solidified it for Siobhán. Someone had found a hoard near the cottage. Most likely Ellen. Not only had she found it, she was teasing the Madigans with her discovery. Siobhán eagerly turned to the last painting.

  Two men were portrayed in a seedy alley, one standing, one sitting. The first man lurked at the corner, dressed in a tattered cloak. It flew behind him as if lifted by a great wind. His hands were thrown out in a dramatic gesture. Eddie Doolan was well-rendered except for one thing: his face. It had been replaced by a giant gold coin. A guinea. Ellen’s skills had improved. Behind him, perched atop a pile of books, writing feverishly, sweat dripping from his large nose, was Dylan Kelly. Mouth open, flat pink tongue lolling out. A gold coin rested on top of his tongue, matching the gleam in the two gold coins he had for eyes.