Murder in an Irish Pub

by Carlene O'Connor

“Don’t jump down my throat.”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  Macdara stepped in and offered Jeanie one of his lopsided grins. “ ’Pistol’ is right. Siobhán gets worked up over puzzles.”

  I do not. Maybe she did. That sounded condescending, but given that Jeanie Brady looked as if she wanted to toss Siobhán out of her crime scene, she was grateful for the save. When she resumed speaking, she tried to imagine they were all having a cup of tea, chatting about the weather. “He was ranked number one. Just days away from winning. Why would he kill himself?”

  Macdara considered it. “Maybe Nathan Doyle announced his decision. Maybe Eamon knew he was out of the tournament.”

  Siobhán shook her head. “Nathan Doyle wasn’t supposed to announce anything until this morning.”

  “And people always do what they’re supposed to?” Macdara quipped.

  Jeanie took a bag of pistachios out of her coat pocket and dove into them. “I was here last night.”

  This was news. “Here?” Siobhán said. “You?” Macdara nudged her from behind.

  Jeanie narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Me. Here.”

  She just couldn’t win this morning. “I don’t mean anything negative. You’re from out of town, so how would you know?”

  “How would I know what?”

  “Sharkey’s has a bit of a reputation,” Macdara said. “It can be a rough-and-tumble pub.”

  “Was Nathan Doyle here?” Siobhán asked. Had he announced that Eamon was out of the games? She hoped not, that was certainly a recipe for disaster.

  Jeanie turned. “You’re talking about the official with the glasses and the belly?”

  “Yes,” Macdara said. “That’s the one.”

  “Is he single?” Jeanie said. “I’m asking for a friend.”

  “No idea,” Macdara said.

  “Get rid of that belly with some brisk morning walks and he’d be a handsome enough devil, I’d say.” She looked to Macdara and Siobhán to see if they agreed.

  “A right handsome devil,” Siobhán said.

  Macdara cleared his throat. “I gather he was here.”

  “Yes. He was here.” Jeanie held up her finger as if it were an antenna she was raising to get a clearer picture. “The female card player was pressuring him to announce his decision, but he stood his guard. Real manly, don’t you know. He said he’d have his decision at half ten in the morning.” She smiled. “I bet he’s punctual too.”

  Siobhán’s ears perked up. “Pressuring him?”

  Jeanie nodded. “She has some fire in her, that one.”

  Siobhán glanced again at the chair, and then the rope hanging from the wood beam. “Putting the dead bolt aside for a moment, how difficult would it be to hang another man?”

  Macdara took a moment to think about it. “Murder by hanging is extremely rare.”

  “Thanks be to the heavens,” Siobhán said. “I’m sure there are easier ways to kill a man.”

  “Siobhán!” Macdara said.

  “Or woman?” Siobhán added.

  “That’s your argument?” Macdara said.

  “No. It’s terrible. I wish we lived in a peaceful world. In the meantime we have a job to do. And hanging, as you say, is a rare way to murder a man. . . .” Macdara and Jeanie waited, their full attention pinned on her every word. Wow. This feels good. She’d never thought of a life on stage before now, but maybe she should have a go at the next production put on by the Kilbane Players.

  “Out with it,” Jeanie barked.

  Or maybe not. “If the method is rare, then that says something defining about our killer.” She began to pace in what little space she had. “Why not come up from behind and strangle him?” She headed for the shelves. Picked up a can of beans. “Or knock him over the head?”

  “With a can of beans?” Macdara looked as if she’d just insulted his mother. It would be a waste of a good can of beans. Nothing like beans and toast for brekkie.

  Jeanie pointed at the body. “Or . . . maybe it’s not murder.”

  Siobhán turned to Macdara. “Suppose he was murdered. How did it go down?”

  Macdara sighed. “If he came in here to sleep it off, as Rory said, and he was passed out . . .” He glanced at the overturned chair. “Say in that chair. I suppose it wouldn’t have been difficult at all to come up from behind, slip the rope around his neck, and pull.” Macdara stared up at the rafter. “The rope would have been pre-tied, ready to go. Is there a ladder in here?”

  “Rory Mack said so, but I don’t see one, do you?”

  “And the ladder from the back patio is yours?”

  “Eoin brought it from home this morning.” She looked at the rafter. “What are you thinking?”

  Macdara sighed. “I don’t see how the rope could be tied so tightly around that beam unless someone used a ladder.”

  “It’s not possible to just toss it up there?”

  “Of course. It’s possible to toss it up there, but it’s not possible to tie it off, unless yer man—or woman—had twenty-foot arms.”

  “Could someone have climbed on the shelves and reached it?”

  The shelving unit on the side where Eamon had been found hanging was only a few feet from the rope.

  Macdara examined the items. “The dust hasn’t been disturbed. If someone climbed on these shelves, you’d think we would see a hand or shoe print, or at the very least items shoved over to the side. This hasn’t been touched for ages.”

  “More proof that Rory Mack isn’t a neat freak,” Siobhán said.

  “Doesn’t Eddie Houlihan still do the cleaning here?”

  Siobhán nodded. Eddie was an overweight twenty-six-year-old who kept to himself. Sweet kid, but possibly a bit delayed mentally. “What about him?”

  “We’ll have to speak with him.”

  “If there’s no ladder, then there’s no way Eamon Foley killed himself.”

  “Hold on, boss,” Macdara said. “That’s not true.”

  “You just said he needed a ladder to climb up and secure the rope. A dead man can’t move a ladder. So where is it?”

  “If the killer could have preplanned this, Eamon could have too,” Macdara said. “Suicide victims often do. He used the ladder to secure the ropes early in the evening, then stashed the ladder.”

  “He didn’t know the tournament was going to be moved to Sharkey’s, so exactly when do you think he started planning this?”

  “That’s a good point,” Macdara said.

  “Someone else could have discovered the body. Took the ladder and the mop,” Jeanie mused. “Decided not to report it.”

  Not reporting it, Siobhán could see. “Why would they take the mop and the ladder?”

  “I’ll focus on the body and leave that fun stuff to you,” Jeanie said with a wink.

  “It’s plausible,” Macdara said. “Good theory.”

  Siobhán knew Macdara was just trying to stay on Jeanie’s good side, but they looked so proud of themselves she half-expected them to fist bump. Siobhán wasn’t buying it. “Who would walk into a storage room, ignore a man hanging, and steal a ladder and a mop?”

  Macdara crossed his arms. “It’s still possible that Eamon is the one who secured this rope, then stashed the ladder.”

  “And the mop?”

  “We have work to do, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Murder is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “It’s not the only thing,” Macdara said. “I think suicide is the one that makes sense.”

  That seemed far-fetched, but Siobhán knew it was possible. But to her, it was even more likely that it was a murder. Made to look like a suicide. The killer assumed they would find him hanging, find the note, and then quickly close the case. Game over.

  And yet . . . the killer was also taunting the guards. The strange note, the items in his pocket, the marked playing cards. Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand . . . if this was a murder, had it been premeditated, starting with the dealing of the Dead Man’s
Hand? Siobhán gasped. “Remember the blondie waitress who brought Eamon water?”

  Macdara nodded. “The one accused of slipping Eamon a cold deck.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about her?”

  “Who was she?”

  Macdara shook his head. “I thought she was with the poker crew. But then she disappeared.”

  “Exactly. Isn’t that odd?”

  “What’s your theory?” Macdara watched her intently.

  “Eamon said he was being set up.”

  “Okay.”

  “If this was murder, he was right. He was being set up.” She nodded to the rope, then pointed at the suicide note. “For this.”

  “You’re saying a killer made sure Eamon Foley got the Dead Man’s Hand as some kind of sick warning of his imminent demise?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Are you serious?” Macdara almost sounded angry with her.

  “Foreshadowing,” Siobhán said. “We could be dealing with a sadistic killer.”

  “Diabolical,” Jeanie whispered.

  Concern was stamped on Macdara’s face as he approached Siobhán. “Do you need a mug of tea? You look like you could use a mug of tea.”

  Siobhán knew he was teasing, but she didn’t like him mollycoddling her during an investigation. She crossed her arms. “You asked for my theory. That’s what I think so far.”

  Macdara nodded, reading her mood. “This waitress. What’s her motive?”

  “She might not have one. Someone told her to bring Eamon a bottle of water and slip him the deck of cards. Does it matter why? Money? Blackmail? Or she simply thought she was helping her hero. When we find her, you can ask her. The important bit is that whoever put her up to slipping him the cold deck had more menacing things on his or her mind than setting him up for cheating.”

  “Whether it’s suicide or murder, we have the same conundrum,” Macdara said.

  Siobhán was right with him. “Exactly. Why not wait to kill him until after he wins a quarter of a million euro instead of before.”

  “How do you two do that?” Jeanie said. “Is this some kind of mind-reading trick?” She looked between them. “Usually, it’s only husbands and wives who can finish each other’s sentences.” Heat crawled up Siobhán’s neck. Now she wouldn’t be able to look at Macdara for the rest of the morning. For the first time that day Jeanie laughed. “Could be one of the other players,” she offered. “Competition is a killer.”

  “And we know who the competition is,” Macdara said, picking up the evidence baggie with the playing cards.

  The Queen of Hearts and the Shane of Spades . . . Clementine Hart and Shane Ross. And from what Eoin said, the three of them were brawling last night. Her brother was a straight shooter. If he thought they were brawling, she believed it.

  Macdara closed his notebook and turned for the door. “We’ll interview everyone who was here last night. If we’re clear to move the body, I’ll give Butler’s a bell.” Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub was the only funeral parlor in town and could double as a makeshift morgue.

  Jeanie wasn’t ready to move on, and was finally bonding with Siobhán. “It would be easier if you had to talk with everyone who wasn’t here last night.”

  “Could he have been drugged?” Siobhán asked while she was still in Jeanie’s good graces.

  “I’ll do a full toxicology. But it will take weeks, maybe a month to get the results.”

  “Rory Mack has already stated that Eamon was drunk,” Siobhán said. “Supposedly not in any state to go back to the inn.”

  Jeanie knelt and gently moved the rope aside. His skin was red, the indentation of a V clearly visible. “These marks are consistent with death by hanging. But, of course, we’ll do a full postmortem.”

  “We need to find out what deck those cards are from.” Siobhán took out her notebook and began jotting down notes. Macdara cleared his throat.

  “You know I’m a detective sergeant, don’t you?”

  Siobhán turned to see that Macdara was actually waiting for an answer. “Of course.”

  “Good. You wouldn’t mind then if I take the lead on this?”

  “Lead away,” she said. She waited.

  “Start with the storage room. If you can’t find a secret entrance, I can’t see making a case for murder.”

  Chapter 5

  Once the body was removed, Siobhán headed back to the storage room. It would be a disaster if this case was closed as a suicide and a murderer got away. The thought of a killer running around during the Arts and Music Festival was horrifying. A game-playing, sadistic killer.

  First things first. Suicide. She would go through it, step-by-step, see which way the evidence pointed. She took in the thick rope still hanging from the wooden beam and put aside the fact that someone would have needed a ladder to reach the beam and tie off the rope. Whether it was suicide or murder, the missing ladder was still a mystery they would need to solve. The rope was approximately twenty feet long. Eamon was at least six foot. If it was suicide, he had stood on the chair, adding another foot, and then kicked the chair out from underneath him. Would the measurement of the rope be slightly different if he had been sitting and strung up by someone else from behind? Math wasn’t her forte but someone else could surely figure it out. If he was sitting down would the measurement of the rope be any different as opposed to standing? Unless the killer adjusted the rope after to mimic the measurements of a man standing on a chair and kicking it out from underneath him. Too far-fetched? Or were they dealing with someone that cunning?

  And either way, how could they use rope distance as proof of which way it occurred? She doubted suicide victims were concerned with exact measurements . . . but maybe they would be able to tell from the fibers on the rope if it was used to pull Eamon up over the beam. Eamon Foley had been in good shape, but he was tall. It would have put some strain on a rope. Were there stray fibers on the floor?

  Siobhán glanced at the pristine floor. Not now there weren’t . . . Is that why the floor had been mopped? Is that why the mop disappeared? Not only to hide footprints but rope fibers as well?

  She took out her notepad: Check the fray of the rope. Check the beam for rope fibers. Check the mop for rope fires.

  Scratch that, she thought.

  Find the mop. Check the mop for rope fibers.

  “Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand . . .” That’s a taunt, she knew it. And the playing cards? The calling card of a killer?

  If Clementine Hart or Shane Ross was the killer, would either one of them be stupid enough to throw suspicion on themselves by placing those cards in Eamon’s pocket?

  What if that’s exactly what they wanted her to think? After all, they were dealing with cardsharps here. Someone was playing a very dangerous game.

  Clementine Hart and Shane Ross stood to benefit from Eamon’s death. The top competition wiped out. But, surely, they didn’t think the poker tournament would continue after this? At least not here, not now. Maybe they didn’t realize that? Or maybe someone had a better motive to kill Eamon. Maybe the tournament had nothing to do with it? Still, it was hard to ignore a prize purse as large as this one. If this was murder, it also appeared to be carefully planned. Where did the rope come from? In order for it to be spontaneous, the rope would have had to be lying around. At least that fact would be quick to check. Hopefully, Rory Mack would know if there had been a twenty-foot rope lying about the storage room. And if there had been, what an eejit! Mixing alcohol with rope, a small room, and wood-beam rafters was not a bright thing to do.

  Brass knuckles. No money. No keys. No mobile phone. A mopped room, with no mop. A missing ladder. Dead Man’s Hand. Dead bolt.

  Darn. Macdara was right. They had to figure out how someone could have killed Eamon, locked the door, and exited some other way with a mop and ladder in tow, not to mention keys, mobile, and billfold. It was so crazy, it was almost comical. What if this was a suicide? T
hat still didn’t explain it. Eamon could have bolted the door—and as Jeanie tossed out there, mopped the floors first as part of an obsessive suicide-contemplation ritual, but a dead man could not make ladders and mops disappear. If Eamon had taken his own life, it was planned in advance. He didn’t strike Siobhán as that type.

  As far as the missing items from his pockets, those were easier to explain. Knowing he was going to kill himself, Eamon could have tossed them or given them away. Suicide victims often gave away their belongings before they died.

  Or someone could have come across the body and rooted through his pockets without reporting his death. In that scenario the question of the exit and the dead bolt remained, not to mention you had to swallow the ludicrous thought that this bystander suddenly decided also to remove the ladder and mop.

  Macdara was right. She really did need a mug of tea. Siobhán had not been prepared to go straight into a possible murder probe and quietly lamented her lack of caffeine.

  Her mind returned to the suicide note. The page had been torn from a notebook. Where was the notebook? They’d found none, nor was there a biro with black ink lying around. Everything was missing!

  Siobhán rewound and went back to the beginning: A pregnant wife. Baby due any day now. An image of Rose’s hard eyes flashed in her mind. Was the colorful pair having marriage problems?

  If so, could Eamon Foley have taken his life in this manner out of spite? Leaving her, knowing full well that just by waiting and winning he could have left her rich? Was this one last insult? Despite his winnings rumor had it that the Octopus was not good at hanging on to his money.

  What in the world had happened here last night?

  * * *

  “Everything?” The skinny young guard looked as if she’d just slapped him across the face. “You want us to remove everything?”

  “Everything,” Siobhán said. “We need to check every inch.”

  “Where do you want us to put the items we remove?”

  “Just outside the door.”

  “But isn’t the entire pub a crime scene? If there was a crime, that is?” Two grim faces awaited her answer. Siobhán stepped out and examined the area just outside the door. Hundreds of people had been in here last night. The leaked urine had already been documented. She laid a plastic sheet on the floor. “This area is clear.”