Murder in an Irish Pub

by Carlene O'Connor

  “What? No.” She tried to straighten her lips out, but they curled right back up again. Now she was excited. This is exciting. But thirty thousand euro? Macdara didn’t have that kind of money. “It’s too dear,” she said again, almost giddy at the thought of it on her finger. But really . . . why is he doing this during the middle of an investigation? Just to throw me off? Laughter bubbled out of her once more. She hated that she was acting this way, but her body was reacting on its own. She could feel that ring on her finger like it was a phantom limb.

  Macdara was on high alert. “Are you drunk?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Yes. Let me see your pupils.” He edged forward and stared into her eyes. “Tell me it’s not pills you’re taking.”

  She stood still, waiting for him to show some little sign that he was messing with her. “I’ll behave,” she said. “Can we go back inside now?”

  “Not until you tell me what this is all about.”

  “I will. I swear to you. Let’s finish with Tom Howell and then I’ll tell you everything.”

  His eyes focused intently on her before nodding and gesturing for her to go back inside. She was all mixed up now, her stomach flopping one way and then the next as she imagined the ring on her finger. But he couldn’t spend that much, there shouldn’t even be a ring that costs that much. She did have expensive tastes indeed. Wasn’t a man supposed to spend the equivalent of a month’s pay, not six months’?

  “Start from the beginning,” Macdara said to Tom.

  Tom eyed Siobhán. “Everything sorted?”

  “Carry on,” Siobhán said, getting a little annoyed they were both dragging this out at her expense.

  “I came in and opened the shop as usual. It’s been slow since the festival. I was going to head out to our tent this afternoon. I was coming out of the break room”—he gestured to the door at the end of the counter—“when I saw this was open.” He pointed at the sliding glass door of the jewelry display case. It was open. “The tray was still inside, although my heart was already thumping, because I never leave it open, never, so I bent down like so, and there it was.” He pointed at the empty space again. “The pièce de résistance of my collection.” He nodded at Siobhán. “You know the one.”

  Macdara whirled around. “You do?”

  This was all going sideways. “Yes. Shane Ross pointed it out to me this morning.”

  “I think it was you who pointed it out to him,” Tom said.

  “Thank you,” Siobhán said, hoping her tone conveyed that she wasn’t thanking him at all.

  “Why were you in here with Shane Ross?” Macdara sounded browned off.

  “He said he was looking for an engagement ring for his girlfriend and he wanted a woman’s opinion.”

  “And she picked the most expensive one,” Tom added. “The one that’s now missing.” He eyed her as though he suspected her of lifting it.

  Macdara gave her a look. “I didn’t know what it cost,” Siobhán said. “Thirty thousand euro is way too expensive for a ring.” She looked at Tom. “No offense.”

  Tom sported a pained smile.

  Macdara picked up his mobile. She heard him tell a guard to find Shane Ross and bring him to the station.

  Siobhán was starting to think this was not a proposal after all. What an eejit she was.

  Macdara turned his back to her and spoke to Tom. “Did you leave your front door unlocked?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Is there a back door?”

  Tom nodded, then turned. “I’ll show you.”

  “Hold on,” Macdara said. He went to the front door, shut and locked it. “You might want to put your tray back and lock it up first.”

  “Good idea.” Tom followed his advice, and then they followed him to the back door. It was locked and bolted. No broken glass.

  “Have you checked your cameras?” Siobhán asked. She assumed Tom would have had them repaired straight away.

  Tom hung his head. “I’ve had no time to get them seen to. If someone hadn’t messed with them in the first place they would have went off when Shane was pacing around me shop.”

  Just like Sharkey’s. This is a real robbery. Macdara glanced around. “Nothing else is missing?”

  “It’s very odd,” Tom admitted. “Why didn’t they just take the entire tray?”

  “Because they were hoping you wouldn’t notice right away?” Macdara said. “Buy the thief some time?”

  “If it were me I would have taken the tray and replaced them all with cubic zirconium. Buy myself time and get away with the lot,” Siobhán mused.

  Macdara and Tom stared at her. “We all rest easy that you’re on our side of the law,” Macdara said at last. He nodded to Tom. “Come to the station and fill out a report.”

  “You’re going to have to call Nathan Doyle to the station too,” Siobhán said as they were going out the door. Macdara stopped so abruptly, she barreled into him.

  “Ouch!” She stepped back, rubbing her chin. He had a very hard back.

  “Why do you say that?” His defenses were up.

  She sighed. She’d had enough of these games. “You know why.”

  “I’m waiting.” She’d never heard him sound so cross. Not with her anyway.

  “I saw you two in here the other day. Huddled over that same tray of rings, that’s why.”

  His face showed surprise; then she saw him work out her odd behavior right before her very eyes. He stared off into the distance as an awkward silence perched on them like a butterfly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I was waiting for you to say something.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was obvious you were up to something secret. I thought . . .” Oh no! It was bad enough that he knew what she thought. He wasn’t going to make her say it out loud, was he?

  “You thought?”

  He wasn’t going to goad her into saying it. She had her pride. Anger settled at her edges. “I thought you’d tell me the next time you saw me. And you didn’t.”

  “Yet, you didn’t ask me anything about it. That’s not like you.”

  “It’s like me.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I’m maturing.”

  “I see no evidence of that.”

  “I figured you had a good reason.”

  “You did, did you?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “You’re lying to me, Siobhán O’Sullivan. You know how I know? Your cheeks are as red as your hair.”

  My hair is auburn. Or dark red. Except in the sun. They were in the sun right now, so she shut her piehole. “Why are we arguing about this? What were you doing in here with Nathan Doyle?”

  Macdara’s eyes slid away from her. “Are you alright walking back to the festival on your own?”

  “Why?” She put her hands on her hips. He was being squirrely again.

  “I have to take care of a few things. Meet me at the station in an hour.”

  That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say? “No problem, boss,” Siobhán said. He seemed to clock the bite in her tone. Were they having a row? It felt like they were having a row.

  Tom Howell locked up the shop and got into the car with Macdara. They took off, leaving her staring after them.

  Bollix. What just happened? It had something to do with Nathan Doyle. Her radar was tweaking. She had to find out what was going on. Maybe it was time she did a little Googling. See what she could dig up on Nathan Doyle. She doubted he had much of a social media presence, but people could surprise you. Tweeting, or Facebooking, or Instagramming, or any of those other time-sucking activities, did not appeal to her. Luckily, she knew just the person to whom those things very much appealed.

  * * *

  In lieu of a clunky desktop the O’Sullivans had a single laptop that they passed around. The rule was to leave it on the side table in the upstairs hall when not in use, but more often than not, they had to go searching for it. James had his own laptop,
and Eoin and Ciarán (thankfully) didn’t seem too bothered, so the first place anyone looked was in Ann and Gráinne’s room. Since returning from New York, Gráinne typically was the last to use it. Given that Siobhán wanted her help anyway, she waited until her sister retrieved it from under her pillow and brought it downstairs.

  “Isn’t it time I had me own?” she asked.

  “No one is stopping you from buying your own,” Siobhán said.

  “Can I have a raise?”

  “If you go to university I’ll buy you a laptop.”

  “Uni, uni, uni. You’re a broken record.”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “Don’t rush me.”

  “Can we please Google Nathan Doyle?”

  “You’re quite capable of doing it yourself.”

  “Yes, but you know more sites than I do. It all washes over me.”

  “That’s because you’re barely part of the modern age.” Gráinne set to typing, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. It took a couple of tries, as she was like a raccoon, easily distracted by shiny objects. They clicked through every Nathan Doyle that Gráinne could find, and there were a lot. A mechanic in Galway. A racecar-driver-wannabe in Kerry. A musician in Dublin. None of the photos were of their Nathan Doyle. No middle-aged, potbellied researchers randomly volunteering for poker tournaments.

  “He’s a spy,” Gráinne said. She looked as if she wanted to marry him.

  Or a killer. “Who doesn’t have a social media presence?” Siobhán mused out loud.

  Gráinne tilted her head and began counting on her fingers. “Loners, losers, psychopaths, and you.”

  “Fair play.” Kilbane already felt like a fishbowl. Why on earth would she go around posting every little step she took? What she had for brekkie, who she talked to, how many times she gave Trigger a pat on the head? Madness. For some it seemed nothing they did in life counted if they didn’t post it for the world to see. Seeking approval like children. Look at me! Social media had turned them all into voyeurs, and stalkers, and begrudgers.

  That said, Siobhán had caved on one point. Natalie’s Bistro had a Book Face page. (She knew it wasn’t what the platform was called, but that’s what she liked to call it.) There had been no getting around setting one up. Patrons liked interacting with it and it was fun to post pictures of the interior, a roaring fire, brown bread cooling on the racks, a foaming cappuccino. It was somewhat addicting. She could only imagine what her mam and da would think of it. Perhaps they would appreciate it on a business level. Or they would be horrified. Maybe a little of both. But she never shared anything personal. At Templemore Garda College they’d cautioned the students against giving too much away on social media. Nonetheless, it could be a useful tool.

  “What about the other players?” Siobhán asked.

  Gráinne typed away, her tongue again hanging out of the corner of her mouth. “Clementine Hart and Shane Ross are pretty active. Eamon Foley never posted a thing.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Who cares about her?”

  “At the moment every guard in Kilbane.”

  “Oh.” Gráinne shrugged and typed her name into the laptop.

  They found her straightaway: her pretty face, soft brown hair, and those hard, hard eyes. Gráinne clicked on her page. Unlike her husband, Rose Foley was a social media butterfly. “She has way more friends than I do,” Gráinne said. She made a finger gun and pointed it at the screen.

  “They’re not real friends,” Siobhán pointed out.

  Gráinne rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “And weird.”

  “Noted.”

  “Does Macdara have a page?” Gráinne asked.

  Siobhán laughed. “No.” Thank God.

  Gráinne typed in his name, and to Siobhán’s utter astonishment, Macdara Flannery had a Book Face page.

  Gráinne shook her head. “I would say he’s leading a secret life, but it’s only secret to those who aren’t on it, and that’s pretty much all the nuns in the nunnery and you.”

  “What does he post?” If he had a single cat meme, she was going to break up with him. A person could only take so many surprises.

  Gráinne scrolled through it. He had a lot of pictures of craftsman furniture and woodwork. “Aw,” Gráinne said. “He doesn’t post any photos of himself or you, but he does have a heart emoji next to relationship status.”

  Siobhán felt a flutter of joy in spite of herself. “Moving on,” she said.

  “You’re so going to look at this later.”

  “Moving on.” I so am. Siobhán tried not to think of the diamond rings, the huge, embarrassing mix-up. Now he was thinking that she was thinking that he was going to propose. She had not been thinking that until she saw him looking at rings. What else was she supposed to think? Could she pretend that she wasn’t thinking at all?

  “Go back to Rose Foley’s Book Page,” Siobhán said.

  Gráinne navigated back to the page. She started scrolling through photos. There were hundreds of them. Many featured her hanging on to her husband. Siobhán was getting dizzy as Gráinne flipped through them. She was going so fast, Siobhán almost missed it. Something flicked by that caught her attention.

  “Wait. Stop. Go back.”

  Gráinne clicked back to the previous photo. Rose Foley and Eamon were standing side by side on Grafton Street in Dublin, grinning in front of a jewelry shop. “I bet he just bought her some bling,” Gráinne said with a jealous sigh.

  That’s not what Siobhán was focused on. In the background, a few feet away from the shop, a familiar face appeared in the crowd. His body was hidden, and the face was thinner, definitely better-looking, but it was him. The man lurking in the background, eyes pinned on the young couple, was the silver fox. Macdara Flannery’s new best friend, Nathan Doyle.

  Chapter 23

  A shudder ran through Siobhán. She pointed at Nathan. “Does Book Face list who this man is?”

  “He’s not tagged,” Gráinne said. Tagged? Like some kind of wild animal on safari. Or the tag on the end of a cold, dead toe. “Why? Who is he?”

  Gráinne didn’t recognize him. At least he hadn’t been hanging around her brood. Gráinne probably filtered out any male who wasn’t young and hot. The less Gráinne knew, the better. Siobhán didn’t answer. Was Rose Foley in danger, or was she involved with Nathan Doyle? Is that how he got the job? Were they having an affair? “Check Rose Foley’s relationship status.”

  “Why? We all know she’s married.”

  “Humor me.”

  Gráinne sighed and clicked to her personal details page. Under RELATIONSHIP the status landed like a slap to the face: single. Gráinne gasped. “How did you know?”

  “A hunch.” Siobhán stared at the word. “Is there any way of telling when she changed her status to single?”

  Gráinne scrolled through. “Yesterday. So technically she is single. But that’s cold. Don’t you think?”

  It was cold, alright. Her husband wasn’t even buried. “It’s something.”

  “Do you think she killed him?”

  “I don’t think she was physically capable of it. But there certainly wasn’t any love lost.”

  “It’s not fair. I would have made a good wife.”

  “You are going to find a much classier man than Eamon Foley.”

  “I don’t want a classy man. I want a hot man.”

  Siobhán sighed. Gráinne was a work in progress. “Can we print photos from here to our printer?”

  “I can,” Gráinne said. “I doubt you can.”

  “Print that photo out for me, please.” Nathan Doyle has been following Rose and Eamon. Is he a stalker? Now Rose is missing. Is she in danger?

  “If this is official business, why not do it at the station?”

  Gráinne is sharp. But there was no way Siobhán was going to tell her the real reason why. But she could no longer deny it herself. If s
he was going to find anything on Nathan Doyle, it wasn’t going to be with Macdara’s help. She never thought she’d find herself thinking this, but there was no denying it. Macdara and Nathan were getting on like a house on fire. She stopped short of calling it a bromance. Whatever this was, she was going to have to do a little digging before she dropped it on him that his man crush just might be a murderer.

  * * *

  Clementine Hart and Shane Ross agreed to meet her at Sharkey’s. Clementine wandered around the pub, taking in the photos and memorabilia on the walls. The cliché “if these walls could talk” did not apply here, for the walls did speak. Hurling games, and football games, and stained jerseys and trophies, and racehorses, and trad musicians all sang from the walls, along with old advertisements from Guinness with any number of animals drinking pints of the black stuff. Memories gathered like storm clouds, raining down in mismatched frames, marking the craic over the years. You can take a man out of Ireland, but you can’t take him out of the pub.

  Pubs opened and pubs closed over the years. Currently they were on an upswing. There were seventeen pubs going now, each as unique as a fingerprint. If menace was going to happen in any of them, it was somewhat fitting it was Sharkey’s. She wondered if somewhere in Donegal, Mikey Finnegan had woken up with an awful twinge. He’d be mortified at what his pub had become and she wished blissful ignorance on him. Or maybe once he left Kilbane, he’d never looked back. Siobhán knew, even if she left one day, she’d always be looking back.

  Shane stood in the corner, eyes darting around as if he was a lad in primary school serving out his punishment. The storage room was still cordoned off, but the rest of the pub had been cleared, and soon they’d be setting up for Eamon Foley’s wake. Rory Mack was happy to make Shane and Clementine ham-and-cheese toasties and crisps. Siobhán declined lunch, it wasn’t a good look to conduct an investigation with your mouth full. It was kind of Rory to offer. But she couldn’t help but recall how he’d stormed into O’Rourke’s, demanding he get to host the poker games. Be careful what you wish for.

  They sat at a table in the middle of the pub, and Siobhán purposefully kept the conversation light and not stare at them while the pair of them ate.