Murder in an Irish Pub

by Carlene O'Connor

  The guards did not move. The skinny one spoke again. “Let’s say we find a great big hole in the wall. How did the killer put the shelves back, like?”

  “First I want to know if there’s a big hole,” Siobhán said. “Then we’ll deal with the shelves.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible that someone moved these shelves, escaped, and then moved them back.”

  Siobhán resisted the old cliché—we don’t pay you to think—even though it ran through her head. Besides, she was the newest guard on the force. Diplomacy was in order. “Our job is to examine this storage room. That’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Did the detective sergeant approve this?”

  “Would I be doing this if the detective sergeant didn’t approve it?” They stared at her, waiting. She sighed. “Yes. D.S. Flannery is the one giving you the order, I’m simply the messenger.”

  “Messenger,” one said. “Is that what you call it?”

  “They probably exchange a lot of messages,” the other said under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” They know. She and Dara had been fooling themselves. They all suspected the two of them were together, and she could only imagine what other guards were saying behind their backs. “Remove the shelves.” Her voice didn’t waver. She was grateful.

  “We’re on it.”

  With her gloves on, she began moving cans and rolls of paper towels out of the way so that she could get a look at the back wall.

  It only took thirty minutes to confirm there was no passage or hole on the walls behind the shelves.

  Siobhán looked down. “Now the floor.”

  They were incredulous. “The concrete floor?”

  “Unless you see any other floor.” She was losing her patience with these two.

  They spread out, running their hands along the floor, searching. They found normal cracks, but no possible way of exiting through the floor. No hidden tunnels.

  “That’s it,” the skinny guard said. “There’s nothing here.”

  Siobhán’s eyes landed on the window.

  “You’d have to be a pigeon to squeeze through there,” the guard quipped.

  That left the ceiling. She looked up. The guards groaned as they followed her gaze.

  “We have to make sure,” she said.

  “We’re looking for Spider-Man, are we?” The guards laughed.

  “Fetch the ladder from the patio, will you?”

  “This is ridiculous,” one of the guards said. “It was a suicide.”

  “The ladder,” Siobhán said.

  “You can see the ceiling is intact.”

  “It looks intact. But we have to get up on the roof and touch it, go over every inch and make sure nothing gives.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t mind if we double-check this with the detective sergeant, do you?”

  Yes, she did mind. She minded very much. She minded so much, she used her mam’s secret weapon. She smiled. “No bother at all.”

  * * *

  Siobhán and Macdara stood just outside Sharkey’s, staring out into a field as the scent of sugar and yeast filtered through the air. The guards had just informed them that there were no signs of any kind of disturbance on the roof. They photographed every inch. “We’ll compare the handwriting on the note,” Macdara said. “If it’s Eamon’s handwriting, and the postmortem doesn’t hold any surprises, I don’t see any other choice. I’m going to close this as a suicide.”

  Siobhán was running out of leverage. “If blood alcohol levels show he was blotto—which I’d guess he was—wouldn’t you need some coordination to hang yourself?”

  “Maybe it was just enough to allow him to do it.”

  Dutch courage. Where did that ridiculous saying come from? What did the Dutch do to deserve it? The Irish certainly drank and they didn’t call it Irish courage.

  Why did these questions haunt her at the worst times? Maybe it was a defense mechanism. “Where did he get the rope?”

  “We’ll have to ask Rory,” Macdara said.

  “You don’t seriously think Eamon brought a twenty-foot rope with him and nobody noticed?”

  Macdara flicked her a look. She was getting wound up. A second run might be in order. Or she could whittle something. It had been a while since she’d whittled. There was something calming about shaving little pieces of wood with a sharp knife. “The note. Maybe the brass knuckles. And the killer’s calling cards.”

  “What calling cards?”

  “The queen and the jack.”

  “I could make a case that the playing cards are proof that he took his own life.”

  “Do make it.”

  Macdara rose to her challenge. “He was furious with Clementine Hart and Shane Ross for accusing him of cheating. So why not take a dig at them—with both the note and the cards—before he goes out?”

  “Why not win before he goes out?” She kept to herself her theory that he might have done it as a dig to his wife. She was trying to win the argument, not sabotage it.

  “Maybe Nathan did announce his decision. Maybe Eamon learned he was out. Enraged, he takes his own life.”

  They were going in circles. “Right. Which suggests impulsivity rather than preplanning.”

  “Yes,” Macdara said. “And?”

  “What did he do with his money, sunglasses, mobile?”

  “Someone could have robbed him after. Or he gave them away. Suicide victims often do that.”

  So we do think alike. “But you said it yourself. He would have needed time to tie the rope up to the rafters.” Macdara sighed. In the distance Rory Mack leaned against his pickup truck. Siobhán nodded to him. “Do you mind if I speak with him?”

  “You’re doubting I was thorough?” It seemed a rhetorical question. He gestured to Rory. “Speak away, boss.”

  * * *

  Macdara followed her as Siobhán stepped up to Rory. “What time did you leave Eamon here on his own?”

  Rory scratched his chin. “Must have been almost four in the mornin’.”

  If he was correct, the time of death was narrow. She was no expert, but he looked as if he’d at least been dead for several hours, putting the time of death shortly after Rory Mack left. Or shortly after Rory Mack killed him. She needed to remember that every witness was a possible suspect until they were ruled out.

  “What went on here last night?”

  Rory glanced at Macdara, who nodded. Siobhán clenched her fist. Was it because she was female that they did this or because she was a new guard?

  Rory shifted. “A few games, a bit of craic. You know yourself.”

  Siobhán had her biro poised over her notepad. “Who else was here by the time you left?”

  “It was just me and the Octopus. I’m not running a hotel.”

  “But you let him spend the night?”

  Rory nodded. “I thought it was for the best, given his missus is expecting and all. She probably needs her sleep.”

  “You’re telling me you let him stay out of concern for Rose Foley?”

  Rory threw his arms up. “He’s a celebrity. He was langered. There was no harm in it.”

  “Did he ask if he could sleep here or did you offer?”

  Rory took a minute to think about it. “He wanted more shots. I told him he had a big game in a few hours and he needed his sleep.”

  Macdara turned to Siobhán. “Wouldn’t he be thinking along those lines himself if he planned on continuing the tournament?”

  Macdara had a very good point. What professional poker player, even an Irishman who liked his pints, would do that to himself pregame? Maybe Nathan Doyle had announced his decision last night, and maybe it hadn’t gone in Eamon’s favor.

  “I believe it was my idea,” Rory said. “I thought he was just drunk. If I had any idea where his head was at, I wouldn’t have left him on his own.”

  Siobhán made a note. Bet the wife wasn’t happy he stayed out all night.
“You mentioned taking naps in the storage room. Wouldn’t you have a cot in there?”

  “Aye.”

  “We didn’t see it.”

  “I got rid of it. If you’re a good enough detective, you’ll figure it out for yourself and save me the embarrassment of tellin’ you why.”

  “She is,” Macdara said. “She will.” He edged closer. “Is there any way in or out of that storage room other than the one door?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Did you by chance mop the storage room last night?”

  “Me?” Rory said, affronted. “No. Eddie does that.”

  “We’re going to need to speak with him,” Macdara said.

  Rory nodded. “Suit yourselves.”

  “We’ll need a list of everyone who was working here last night,” Siobhán added.

  Rory sighed. “No bother.” It clearly was.

  Siobhán shifted gears. “Did you have rope in the storage room?” Rory shook his head. “Did you see anyone in here last night with rope?”

  Rory sighed. “We were jammers. It was wall-to-wall people in here most of the night. Everyone was having the craic! Music, dancing, drinking, playing cards. The Octopus was cleaning up. No. I didn’t see any rope.” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re going to want to talk to Miss Queen of Hearts.” Disdain dripped from his voice.

  “Oh?” Siobhán said. “Why is that?”

  “She was a raving lunatic. The minute it hit midnight she was after that official to disqualify Eamon. I tell ye. I’d be afraid of coming home to that one. No doubt she knows how to swing a frying pan.”

  Siobhán wished she were swinging a frying pan this very moment in the vicinity of Rory Mack’s big head, but she kept her gob shut. It was better to let the witnesses talk even if they were offensive.

  “You’ve stated that no decision was announced,” Macdara said. “Is that still your story?”

  “’Course it is. Yer man said everyone would reconvene at half ten in the mornin’ for the verdict.”

  Someone didn’t want to take the chance that Eamon would still be in the games. Siobhán thought of the playing cards still strewn on the tables. “You said Eamon was cleaning up in the games here last night.”

  Rory gave an appreciative nod. “That’s putting it mildly. Boy-oh-boy, he was something else. Nobody could beat that man. I’m tellin’ ye, he would have won this tournament.”

  “Who were last night’s big losers?” Siobhán pressed. And where is Eamon’s big wad of cash?

  Rory slumped. “I don’t understand why you’re investigating. At the end of the day he’s the one who done it. It’s a right shame. ’Tis. But there’s only one man to blame. No one could have predicted this.”

  “Your job is just to answer the questions,” Siobhán said.

  Rory’s eyes shifted to the distance. “You’re not going to ticket me over letting the lads have a few wee bets, are ye?”

  Siobhán shook her head. “That’s not our concern at the moment.”

  “Who were the big losers?” Macdara pressed.

  “I’d say they’re winners now,” Rory mumbled.

  Siobhán felt a chill go up her spine. “Excuse me?”

  “A dead man isn’t going to be collecting his winnings now, is he?”

  No. He’s not....

  “The big losers,” Macdara said again. “Who are they?”

  Rory did not want to talk out of school, but he had no choice. He gazed into the field. “You’ll be wanting to have a chat with Henry Moore.”

  Macdara took out his notepad. “How much did he lose?”

  Rory laughed. Shook his head. “Well, let me think, so. How much does that racehorse of his weigh?”

  Chapter 6

  “Henry Moore bet his prizewinning racehorse last night?” Macdara sounded outraged enough for the two of them. Amanda Moore would be apoplectic. It was her horse, and here was her da, betting him in a poker game.

  “He did, yeah. Amanda looked fit to kill.” Rory caught himself. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Siobhán imagined it wasn’t far from the truth. A teenage girl and her horse? What on earth had Henry Moore been thinking?

  He wasn’t thinking. That was gambling for you. The addiction that drove some people insane. They were going to have to pay a visit to Henry Moore. If for nothing else than to save him from the wrath of his daughter. She wondered how long Gráinne and Eoin had stayed last night. She’d have to have a word with them too.

  Rory stepped toward the pub. “I need the cure.”

  Normally, Siobhán disapproved of drinking as a hangover cure, but she wasn’t here to lecture. It wouldn’t be necessary anyway.

  Macdara delivered the news. “You won’t be getting inside your pub for a while. It’s a crime scene.”

  “The entire pub?” Rory seemed more horrified by this than the news that a man had been found hanging.

  “The entire pub,” Macdara confirmed.

  “What about the tournament?” Panic rose in Rory’s voice. “Tell me we’re still having the poker tournament?”

  * * *

  Siobhán and Macdara stood outside Room 100 at the Kilbane Inn. Margaret O’Shea, the innkeeper, leaned on her cane and watched them from outside the office. A frail woman in her seventies, she used to click around on a walker until someone gifted her the cane. She wasn’t happy they were here, but their biggest offense was not letting her know why they were here. Gossip was her lifeblood, but Siobhán and Macdara had more important things on their minds at the moment.

  It was, by far, the worst part of this job, the dreadful task of delivering shocking news to the loved ones. In this case it was doubly sad, with Rose expecting any day. Siobhán had their doctor on speed dial in case they needed it. Their gentle knocks turned into multiple bangs on the door before they saw the curtain twitch. “What do you want?” Rose Foley yelled from inside.

  “It’s Garda O’Sullivan and D.S. Flannery. Would you please open the door?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s half nine.”

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “It’s a police matter.” The doorknob turned and the door opened. Rose stood, in a dressing gown that barely came to her knees, belly protruding, hair mussed, eyes red and angry. “May we come in?”

  “Unless you’re going to sit on me bed, there isn’t room.”

  “We can stand,” Siobhán said. “Is there a kettle in the room?”

  “I have to make you tea too?”

  “I was going to make you a cup.”

  “Don’t bother. I have to pee every second of the day. I don’t want any tea.” Siobhán and Macdara stepped in. Besides the bed and a desk, there was little else to the room. Margaret didn’t believe in decorating. A lone cross hung above the bed. “What did he do now?”

  “Pardon?” Macdara said. Siobhán knew he’d heard her, but he was trying to draw her out.

  “Is he in jail? Get in a fight?”

  Siobhán swallowed. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, I would not.”

  Macdara took off his cap. Siobhán took off hers. Rose took a step back, the first signs of alarm on her pretty face. “What is it?”

  “We’re sorry to have to tell you that we found your husband in Sharkey’s Pub this morning.”

  Rose blew out air and rested her hand on her belly. “Passed out, is he?”

  “I found him,” Siobhán said. “He passed away, Mrs. Foley.”

  “He’s what now?” She stared at them.

  “He’s no longer with us,” Macdara attempted.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

  It was a defensive mechanism, denial. The mind protecting the heart. “He’s dead, Mrs. Foley.” Siobhán had to give it straight.

  Rose sank onto the bed, shaking her head. “That’s not right. It can’t be right.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, my God. What did he
do? What did he do?” Her hands flew up to her mouth.

  That is interesting.

  Macdara caught it too. He stepped closer. “Had Eamon ever threatened to take his own life?”

  “Threaten me?” She looked like a snake coiled, but ready to strike.

  “No, no,” Siobhán said. “Did he ever threaten to take his own life?”

  “Never,” Rose said. “He’d just as soon kill the rest of us.”

  Lovely. “I take it there were problems in your marriage?” Siobhán hoped her tone was gentle.

  “How dare you,” Rose said. “He was the love of me life.”

  “It was the way you said he’d just as soon kill the rest of us,” Macdara said. “It sounded like maybe he didn’t always treat you the way he should.”

  Rose stared at Macdara, blinking as if she were trying not to cry. This was a woman who only responded to men. Finally she bit her lip and nodded. “He could have done better.”

  Macdara placed his hand on her shoulder. “That’s no disrespect to his memory, a fact is still a fact, and you can still love him, and him you.”

  “How did he . . . do it?” She gulped and closed her eyes as if bracing herself.

  Siobhán winced, but vowed to give it straight. “I found him hanging in the storage room of Sharkey’s Pub.”

  “Hanging?” Rose’s eyes flew open. She shot to her feet. “Hanging?” She placed her hands over her eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek. “No, no, no.” She dropped her hands, and abruptly wiped her tears. “Where is he?”

  Siobhán had to step out of her way to avoid getting mowed down. “Pardon?”

  Rose grabbed her handbag off the desk and strode to the door as if this was all a misunderstanding she was going to straighten out. She didn’t seem to remember she was still in her dressing gown.

  Macdara resumed his charm offensive. “He’s at Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub.”

  Rose let out a laugh. “He’d like knowing that. Give him a pint while he’s at it.”

  Siobhán felt a deep stab of pity watching her unravel.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him for a while,” Macdara said. “The state pathologist has to do her work first.”