Eoin gave her an appraising nod. “He might have done. If Shane Ross hadn’t stepped up to protect her.”
So much for sportsmanship. Perhaps they should think twice the next time a poker tournament wanted to come to town. Siobhán pointed to the wall below the window. Eoin maneuvered the ladder right where she wanted it. “What’s the story?”
“I think someone is passed out in the storage room.”
He glanced at the window. “You’ll never fit through dat.”
“I don’t need to fit through it, I just need to look in.”
“Right, right. Can I do it?”
“No.”
“But I carried the ladder.”
“This is police business.”
“Dealing with drunks. Was garda college worth it?”
“Hold the ladder, will you?”
“Hurry up. I have to get started on brekkie.”
“I know.” With the festival, it was all hands on deck at the bistro. Eoin had turned out to be a great chef, and once in a while admitted he was considering going to cookery school after he passed his leaving certs. Maybe he would become a famous chef and one day they would all live in a mansion on a cliff, overlooking the ocean.
She climbed the ladder while Eoin held it. When she reached the window and saw layers of grime, she wished she had gloves. She used her sleeve to wipe a patch clear and peered in. Expecting to see a lad laid out on the floor, she was thrown when she saw something suspended in midair. Is that a sack? Even as her mind searched for reasonable explanations, her body was already reacting to the horror. It’s a man. Suspended from the ceiling.
Leather jacket, denims. Wavy black hair, head tilted to the side like a broken doll, face bloated, eyes bulging. Green eyes, which were so alive last night. Eyes that had landed on her. Hands that hurled two chairs across the room. Slotted to win a quarter of a million euro. A rope encircled Eamon Foley’s neck, and she followed it up to the wood beam where it was tied off. Beneath him a chair lay on its side. She gasped and the ladder tipped back. “Eoin!” Eoin immediately shoved the ladder forward, smashing her face into the window.
He’d put the heart in her crossways. She concentrated on her breath to calm the drumbeat in her chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eoin called. “What is it?” She waited for the thumping in her heart to slow enough to peer in again. It was him. The Octopus. Dead. There was no doubt he was dead. “What is it?”
Heaven help him. “I’m coming down.” Her hands and legs shook as she descended. The minute she hit the ground, she took out her mobile. She glanced at Eoin, who was staring wide-eyed, waiting to hear what she’d say. She held up her finger and shook her head before hurrying out of the patio and out of earshot. She was grateful to have Macdara on speed dial.
“He’s dead,” she said the minute Macdara answered. “The Octopus is dead.”
Chapter 3
Macdara arrived with a team of guards and equipment. Paper aprons, gloves, face masks, crime scene tape, and a chain saw, in case they needed to cut the door open. For a brief second Siobhán felt nostalgia for the time when her work tools were sugar, tea, buttermilk, and oats. After photographing and noting that the door to the storage room was indeed locked tight and could not be busted down, a guard began to use the chain saw around the doorknob. Given that the door was thick wood, and there wasn’t enough space underneath to slip any kind of tool to open it, this was the only way they were getting in.
One of the younger guards agreed to drop Eoin back home. Siobhán finally told him that a man was hanging in the storeroom, but explained she couldn’t yet tell him any more, and was grateful when he quickly assured her he would keep it to himself. He was a lad of his word and it gave Siobhán a small bit of comfort. Rory Mack had been summoned from what looked like anything but a good night’s sleep. He tumbled out of his truck and stumbled toward them. Taking in the guards and the crime scene tape, he took out a pack of fags.
“What’s the story? Was I robbed?” He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and let it dangle.
Macdara took the lead. “How would a person lock himself inside your storage room?”
Rory raised his eyebrow. “Is Eamon passed out?”
“You knew he was in your storage room?”
“Aye. He needed to sleep it off. Couldn’t go home to the missus in that state.”
“How could he have locked himself in?”
“There’s a dead bolt on the inside.”
“Why?”
“It was the only way to guarantee a bit of peace.” His look said it all. He’d probably taken a number of “naps” in there himself over the years. She did not want to know. “Why don’t you just bang on the door, get him to open it for ye?”
Macdara told him to stay put and stay quiet until they were ready to talk to him. He began to pace and smoke alongside his truck.
“Didn’t you used to have a ladder?” Siobhán asked Rory.
He looked up, squinted. “Aye. It’s in the storage room.”
Siobhán returned to the storage room and scanned for the ladder as crime scene photographs were snapped. She could not see a ladder, nor were there any places someone could hide a ladder. The room was approximately two hundred square feet, with enough space for shelves on either side, and enough room in the middle to fit a cot. The door was directly across from the venting window, and she gauged the distance at ten feet.
She took in the chair lying on its side; then her eyes followed the rope up to the wood beam, where it was looped and tied off. Siobhán wasn’t versed in the variations of knot tying, but even a layman could see that this one was sturdy and looked practiced. Did all lads know how to tie knots? The guards took in the body with a moment of silence.
“There were a lot of shenanigans last night,” one said. “But I never imagined it would come to this.”
Macdara began delegating. The rest of the storage room looked as if it hadn’t been touched. Shelves lined the sidewalls, stocked with cans of beans, pint glasses, and paper products. A thick layer of dust covered the tops of everything on the shelves. No one had touched them recently. The dead bolt was rusty but sturdy and it had been firmly locked in place. They would not be able to go through Eamon’s pockets or do anything with the body until the state pathologist arrived. If she was in Dublin, it could take days for her to arrive. Siobhán lamented the fact out loud.
“A bit of luck then,” Macdara said. Siobhán lifted an eyebrow. “Turns out Jeanie Brady is a poker fan.” Macdara nodded to the body. “She’s already in town.”
“That is a bit of good luck.”
“Rumor has it she was here last night. And she isn’t a morning person in the best of times.” He took out his mobile and handed it to Siobhán.
She frowned. “You want me to call her?”
He winked. “Being the boss has to have some perks.”
* * *
After the rope was photographed, including a close-up on the knot, guards measured the position of the body. Eamon Foley’s feet were hanging twenty-four inches from the ground. It didn’t take more than that to asphyxiate. It looked consistent with a man standing on the chair, and then knocking it out from underneath. She couldn’t imagine what went through a person’s mind in that moment. Suicide was such a cruel way to go, and disrupted the mourning process as loved ones were left to struggle with a haunting, relentless question: Why? Why? Why?
Jeanie Brady arrived in a timely manner. She was an inquisitive woman with bright hazel eyes and an extra layer of fat around her short body, but she had a quick and graceful way about moving, which made Siobhán wonder if she used to be a dancer. She spent some time examining the body, the marks on his neck, the bulging of his eyes, the bloat in his face, taking notes and double-checking their photographs. Once she was satisfied, she called for the rope to be cut so they could take him down.
Siobhán felt a strange sense of relief once Eamon Foley was laid out on the floor. Jeanie Brady fell to her haunches, and with
gloved hands she started through his pockets. She narrated each of her moves.
“We’ve got a note,” she said, holding it up. It was white-lined notebook paper and looked as if it had been torn from the book by hand.
Macdara nudged forward. “What does it say?”
Jeanie frowned, moving the note away from her eyes, then close-up, then away, driving Siobhán mad with anticipation. “ ’Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand.’ With his signature underneath.”
A chill ran up Siobhán’s spine. “What?”
Jeanie seemed eager to explain. “Ace of spades, ace of clubs, eight of—”
“I know what the hand is,” Siobhán said. “Wild Bilcock or some such.” She was messing up the name. How was she supposed to keep such facts in her head? “I’m just shocked that’s what the note says.”
Jeanie didn’t look happy to be interrupted and a quick glare from Macdara confirmed Siobhán should have kept her gob shut. Jeanie turned the handwritten note around to reveal large, looping black letters:
Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand
Eamon Foley
Jeanie cocked her head as she studied Siobhán’s expression. “Why the reaction to the note? Does it mean something else to you?”
Macdara edged in. “Were you at the games Friday night?”
Jeanie shook her head. “I wanted a bit of supper. By the time I finished, everyone was storming out of O’Rourke’s.”
“Eamon Foley was dealt the Dead Man’s Hand Friday night,” Macdara said. “That’s what started the accusation of cheating.”
“I miss everything!” Jeanie said. “I have the worst luck.” She glanced at the body and her full cheeks reddened. “Perhaps not the worst.” She looked up, her eyes sparkling. “Do you know the legend of the Dead Man’s Hand?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “Black aces, black eights, and a hole card. Supposedly, it’s the hand Wild Bill Whatever was holding when he was murdered.” Macdara started chuckling. “Bilcock?”
“Hickok,” Macdara said. “America. The Old West. Worked the frontier. Purported wagon master, lawman, gunfighter, gambler, spy—”
“Nobody can be all those things.” Siobhán was pretty sure.
“He could stretch the truth, it seems,” Macdara said with a wink.
“Right, so.” Siobhán shrugged and turned to Jeanie. “Americans.”
Jeanie jerked her thumb at Siobhán and Macdara. “Would ya look at Gardaí Wikipedia over here,” she said, clearly unhappy about it.
“Either way,” Macdara said, “he was supposedly murdered shortly after he was dealt that hand. The Dead Man’s Hand.”
“He was murdered,” Siobhán echoed.
Macdara held up his hand. “Don’t go reading into it.”
“How can I not?” Siobhán wished she could touch the note. “That can’t be all it says.”
“And yet . . .” Jeanie made a point of staring at Siobhán. “That’s all it says.”
“What kind of suicide note is that?” Aside from the signature it read more like a taunt from a killer.
Jeanie studied the note again. “I’d say it’s a clever rendition of ’Good-bye, Cruel World.’ ” Her hands plunged into his pockets again. “What’s this?” Her hand emerged and she held up something brass and shiny.
Macdara moved in closer. “Brass knuckles?”
“A bit odd,” Jeanie said, dropping it into a plastic bag. “Then again he was a scrapper, wasn’t he?”
“Don’t scrappers just use their fists?” Siobhán said. Why would he need brass knuckles in Kilbane?
“Why don’t you check Scrappers for Dummies,” Jeanie retorted. Macdara was right. Jeanie Brady was not a morning person at all and Siobhán was clearly on her bad side.
Macdara took the bag and stared at the knuckles. “He didn’t make friends easily.”
Jeanie’s hands went back to rummaging. “This is interesting.” She plucked two playing cards out of his shirt pocket. The queen of hearts and the jack of spades, but that wasn’t the bit that had them all staring. Someone had taken a black marker and marred them. The heart of the queen was now a gaping black hole, and the same treatment had been given to the mouth of the jack.
“Clementine Hart and Shane Ross,” Siobhán whispered. Black heart, black mouth . . . heartless . . . keep your mouth shut?
“Why did you mention them?” Macdara said.
“They call Clementine the Queen of Hearts, and Shane the Shane of Spades.”
Jeanie looked at the cards again, her head cocked. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if his name was Jack?”
Siobhán cut in. “Clementine’s hand in that round was three jacks.”
“Her milkshake,” Macdara said.
“Her what?” Jeanie did not like being left out.
“It’s an R and B song. Kelis. ’Milkshake.’ Clementine quoted from it when she got the three jacks.”
“Why don’t you sing us a few bars there, boss?” Macdara’s grin said it all.
“I could use a milkshake,” Jeanie said with a sigh.
Macdara wiggled his eyebrows at Siobhán. She knew the song wasn’t about milkshakes and that’s why he was making fun. Jeanie didn’t need to be bogged down in the details.
“Chocolate,” Jeanie said. “No. Strawberry.” She put her finger on her chin. “I wonder what they would taste like mixed? Choc-straw. Or should it be straw-choc?”
Macdara brought the conversation back to the cards. “Why would Eamon black out the heart and the mouth? A parting shot at his rivals?”
“I don’t know,” Siobhán said. “Maybe it’s a message.”
“Go on,” Macdara said. “What’s the message?”
Shoot. Is he testing me? She looked at the cards. “You’re heartless, and . . . keep your mouth shut?”
Macdara studied the cards again. He pointed to the queen. “Brokenhearted?” He shifted to the jack. “Mute?”
Siobhán shrugged. She liked her interpretations better, but sometimes the secret to maintaining relationships was not to overshare. “Eamon—or someone—is trying to tell us something.”
Jeanie stood. “That’s everything out of his pockets.” She sounded disappointed.
“Keys? Billfold?” Siobhán asked. “Mirrored sunglasses? Coins? Mobile phone? Wads of cash?” If they played poker here last night, the Octopus would have cleaned up.
“No,” Jeanie said. “No keys. No wallet. No cash. No coins. No mobile phone.” She looked at them. “Did he smoke?”
“I’m not sure,” Siobhán said.
“Either way. No pack of fags. No lighter or matches.” She laughed. “I guess we’d be here all day if I kept listing the items I didn’t find in his pockets.”
“Keys, cash, and mobile,” Siobhán said. “Those definitely should have been on him.”
Jeanie nodded. “’Tis a bit odd, isn’t it?”
“Just ask Wild Bill,” Siobhán said.
Jeanie perked up. “What?”
“Murder,” Siobhán explained. “It’s not odd if it’s murder.”
Chapter 4
“Murder?” Macdara gently pulled Siobhán into the corner of the storage room. “How do you make that leap?”
“No cash, let alone wallet, mobile phone, or keys. The brass knuckles and strange note—”
“—signed by him—”
“—the marred playing cards. And the fact that if he had just waited two days, he might be a quarter of a million euro richer.”
“The door was bolted from the inside,” Macdara said. “We had to get in using a chain saw.” Macdara nodded to the venting window. “And you know yourself, you wouldn’t be able to squeeze more than an arm through dat.”
Siobhán eyed the window as if it were an enemy.
“Why have we no footprints?” Jeanie said, looking at the floor. Unlike the dusty window and shelves, the cement floor was shiny.
Macdara stared at it. “Someone mopped this floor recently.”
He was right. With t
he exception of the trail of urine across the floor, the rest of it was spotless.
“Some publicans like to keep things tidy,” Jeanie pointed out.
“The rest of the place is disgraceful,” Siobhán said. “Why would Rory Mack only clean this one room?”
Macdara joined her train of thought. “It’s quite obvious someone mopped this room before Eamon hanged himself or was hanged.”
“Of course. I think we can conclude the room was mopped before he was hanged.” Siobhán hoped it hadn’t come out as sarcastic, but the look Macdara gave her was evidence to the contrary.
Macdara shrugged. “Maybe it was Rory. Keeping it clean for his guest of honor.”
“How did Rory know in advance that Eamon would end up here?”
Jeanie grinned at Macdara and jerked her head to Siobhán. “She’s quite the pistol this morning.” Her gaze returned to the body. “It could have been the deceased.”
“You think a dead man mopped the floor?” Macdara blurted out.
When Jeanie glared at him, Siobhán breathed a sigh of relief that he said it before she did. Jeanie waited for her look to sink in, then resumed. “When it gets right down to it, it’s not easy to take your own life. Maybe he was wrestling with the decision. Cleaning can be calming.” Her eyes traveled up the rope. “Or compulsive.”
Siobhán surveyed the storage room for what felt like the hundredth time. “I don’t see a mop. Do ye?”
Macdara and Jeanie began searching the room like they were playing a game of hide-the-mop. It didn’t take long to realize nobody was going to be a winner.
“Why are you worrying about a mop?” Macdara said. “We have to figure out if there’s any other way to get in or out of this room besides a door with a dead bolt.”
Total sore loser.
Siobhán looked at the ceiling. Above wood-beam rafters was a solid roof. A quick glance showed no disturbance.
“I think we’re looking at a straightforward suicide,” Jeanie said. “What a shame.”
Siobhán could no longer control her frustration. “There is nothing straightforward about this crime scene.”
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 3
