Amanda Moore was ready to blow. Normal teenage hormones coupled with the love of a horse? Or is she capable of violence? “Do you think the rope I bought is the rope that he used?” Siobhán could see true pain in her eyes. That was a good sign.
“I don’t know, luv. But if it is . . . it’s not your fault.”
“But if I hadn’t bought it, if I hadn’t left it . . .”
“It may have happened some other way, but it still would have happened.” She was not going to let this girl blame herself for a grown man’s death. Unless she’s the killer . . . But if she isn’t the killer, letting a thought like that roll around in her head could damage her forever. “Look at me.” Amanda looked up, her lip quivering. “You bought rope. You left it at a festival. Does that sound that bad?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not when you say it like that.”
“Exactly.” She patted her on the shoulder. “You’re alright, pet.” Someone cleared his throat. Siobhán looked up to find the mechanic waiting for her. She thanked Amanda and sent her on her way.
“Did you find anything in the car?”
“Not a thing,” he said, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. “But there is news.”
“Do tell.”
“I know why the car crashed.” So did Siobhán. Those deadly curves at top speed. She relayed this. The mechanic shook his head. “That may be so, but it would have happened anyway . . . eventually.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The brakes make me say that. The lines were cut.”
Chapter 28
“Before you get mad.” Chris Gordon stood in front of Siobhán, blocking her path each time she tried to sidestep him. Although he was American, he was considered a local now. He owned Gordon’s Comics and rented the flats above through Airbnb.
“What is it?” She wanted to find Macdara and tell him about the brake lines on Eamon Foley’s car. She wanted to go back to the bistro, sit in the back garden, where it was quiet, and think about what this meant.
“I didn’t know it was her, I swear.”
“Chris. You’ve got three seconds.”
“The widow. She’s in one of my upstairs flats.”
The revelation knocked all other thoughts out of her head. “She’s here? In one of your rooms?”
“You don’t have to say it like that.”
“How is that possible?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“First off, she was staying at the Kilbane Inn. And, second, I presume your rooms were booked. Third, we’ve been on an all-out search for the very pregnant widow for the past twenty-four hours, and what? It just slipped your mind?”
“I asked you not to get mad.”
“Tough nuts.” She grabbed his elbow and began marching him toward his establishment. “Pray tell, how did this slip your mind?”
“She disguised herself. I thought she was just a fat lady.”
“And the matter of the booked rooms?”
“The other day a man up and left. Said I could rent the room. He came for a poker tournament and the star player up and hanged himself. He was out of here. Minutes later . . . in comes this fat chick—”
Siobhán held up her hand. “Do not say ’chick’ in my presence.”
“Fine. Can I say ’fat’?”
Siobhán sighed. “How did you figure out it was her?”
“I saw the guy. At the festival. Told him I thought he’d gone home. Caught him red-handed. Asked if he had a problem with the room. That’s when he told me the widow paid him five hundred euro for it. That’s double what he paid me. I thought you could arrest him and give me the money. It’s my business.”
“I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry and you want me to focus on your lost revenue?”
“Too soon?”
Siobhán gently shoved him against the wall of the hardware shop. “You’re going to give me the key to her room. Explain how and when the housekeepers go in, and stay far, far away while we work. Do you understand?”
“And then I’ll get my money?”
“No. Then I don’t haul you into the station for withholding pertinent information to an investigation.”
* * *
Macdara met Siobhán in front of Rose Foley’s new room. “Any news on the car?”
“Big news,” she said.
Before she could get into it, the door to the flat swung open. Rose Foley stood, suitcase in hand. When she saw them, she slammed the door. “Go away.”
Macdara stepped forward. “Police. Open up.”
The door flung open. Rose Foley left it that way, then flopped on the bed. She looked bleary-eyed. Red roses sat on the dresser.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Siobhán said.
“Congratulations. You found me.”
Siobhán stepped into the room. Macdara hung back in the hall. She maneuvered near the flowers. A dozen roses. She scanned for a card. Saw none. “Who gave you these?”
“A fan of my husband.”
“Brilliant. Did you get a name?”
“No.”
There was only one flower shop in town. It wasn’t unusual that a person would give the widow flowers; in fact, she had a hunch that many had been delivered to the inn. Rory Mack was getting flowers at the pub as a makeshift memorial grew. But red roses? And she could swear there was a hint of cologne in the air. She saw Macdara jot down a note as she headed for the bathroom. Maybe she did have a secret lover. “Why did you leave the Kilbane Inn?”
“I wanted a bit of peace.” She rested her hand on her bump. “Is that against the law?”
“We’re in the middle of a murder inquiry. We can’t be using our resources to search for missing people who aren’t really missing.”
Rose plopped on the bed. “I’ll solve the mystery for ye. My husband did it. He took his own life.”
Siobhán was startled by the sudden reversal. “Two days ago you insisted he wouldn’t do that.”
“It’s called denial.”
“You insisted.”
Rose’s eyes flicked to Macdara. “Why is she hovering over there?”
Siobhán ignored her and wandered into the bathroom. On the sink sat men’s shaving cream, a razor, and cologne. She popped her head back out and motioned for Macdara. He stepped in and took in the items.
He stepped up to Rose. “Who’s been staying in the room with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s shaving cream and cologne in the bathroom. And I may not be the most romantic man in the world, but I do know what it means to give a lady a dozen roses.”
“Some men are attracted to women in my condition. I can’t help it.”
“And I suppose the pregnancy hormones are giving you a mustache?” Siobhán piped in.
“They’re Eamon’s. Happy now? I miss him. I wanted his things near the sink. I bought the roses. Pretended they were from him.” Tears filled her eyes. Siobhán felt like an eejit. This was a grieving widow about to give birth. Possibly a murdering widow, but a widow about to give birth nonetheless. “I want to go home. I don’t want to have my baby in the town where my husband died.”
“The wake is in an hour,” she said. “It will raise money for Eamon’s funeral, and I’m sure there will be enough left over for you and the baby.”
Rose wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Not as much as he would have won.”
“We have one more question for you,” Siobhán said. “Where is Eamon’s car?”
Rose’s head jerked up. “Why?”
“Answer our question first,” Macdara said.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he park it when you arrived?”
“We didn’t come together. I had a doctor’s appointment. I rode with the crew.”
“Did you see his car in the parking lot of the inn?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t have parked it there. He loved that stupid orange car more than me. He would have parked it far away from other c
ars.” She clenched her fists. “You’d better find it.”
“Have you ever met the blond waitress who was accused of slipping your husband a cold deck?”
Rose blinked. Sat there as if she was trying to recall the answer to a question on a test. “I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall?”
“I meet a lot of people. I believe you’re trying to trick me. I don’t know who I’ve met and who I haven’t. You know how many of these poker games I’ve had to endure?”
“We’ll let you get changed.”
“Changed?”
“Don’t you want to wear something a little nicer for your husband’s wake?”
“Oh,” she said. “All I have is the yellow dress I wore the first night. It wouldn’t be proper to wear yellow at a wake.”
Siobhán stepped forward. “I’ll take you to Annmarie’s shop. I’m sure she has something.” Rose glanced at her handbag. “It’s on me.”
“Thanks a million,” Rose said.
A thanks-a-million from Rose Foley. Maybe there is hope for her after all. They were almost out the door when Siobhán excused herself to use the jax. The minute she was in there, she ran the water and removed a handkerchief from her handbag. Using the handkerchief to touch the bottle so that her fingers never did, she dabbed some of the cologne onto the handkerchief. It wasn’t to her taste, too cloying, but to each his own. She used the handkerchief to put the cap back on, then tucked the handkerchief back into her handbag.
* * *
Siobhán waited until she and Macdara were back on the street to deliver the news. “The mechanic said the brake lines had been cut.”
“He was sure?”
“Yes.”
“That means . . .” His words wandered off.
“It means if Eamon Foley had survived the tournament, he probably would have been killed on his way home.”
“Along with Rose.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Explain that one.”
“They arrived separately. They had separate rooms. Now she has cologne and roses and a Book Face page that says she’s single.”
“You didn’t buy that it was her dead husband’s cologne?”
“I smelled him. He didn’t wear cologne.” It was brief as he was being dragged from O’Rourke’s fighting and screaming. He had been all masculine, with a hint of soap. She didn’t need to bog Macdara down in those details, nor did she want to think about the way a dead man used to smell.
“Men can have cologne, but not wear it all the time.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he just didn’t wear it the day you were sniffing him.”
“I get it. And I wasn’t sniffing him. He just happened to pass by.”
“I see. Made an impression though.”
“It’s not becoming to be jealous of a dead man.”
He laughed. “My apologies.”
“I just think . . . Rose is lying. I think nearly everything that comes out of her gob is a lie.”
“You think she’s a black widow?” He folded his arms. “In her condition?”
“Her lover could have helped.”
“Shane Ross?”
“He’s the most likely. What if the two of them were in on this together?”
“If they fixed the brakes on his car, why the hanging? Do you think Eamon foiled their plan by hanging himself?”
“It would be the ultimate irony,” Siobhán said. “And it’s quite possible.”
If Eamon Foley committed suicide, could Shane and Rose still be charged with premeditated murder? Would it be attempted murder? She sighed. “It only makes sense for them to wait until after the tournament to kill him—after he’s won all that money.”
“That scenario makes sense for Rose. Doesn’t make sense for Shane. Not if he really wanted to win.”
“Ironic. Maybe the two argued about whether to kill him before or after the tournament.”
Macdara nodded. “Diabolical indeed.”
“How does he have time to do all this and steal diamonds?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t think I understand the full picture yet. Just when one part of it makes sense, the rest of it falls apart. But let’s say this. Someone clearly planned on murdering Eamon Foley. Cut his brake lines and assumed he would crash on his drive home. Then this same person—”
“Or persons.”
“Or persons make sure Eamon Foley is dealt the Dead Man’s Hand. It’s a sick foreshadowing of his demise.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re dealing with a killer who is sadistic. He or she is enjoying the game. First they toyed with the victim, now they are toying with us.”
“Say more.”
“I don’t think the bulletproof vest or the items in his pockets belonged to Eamon at all. The brass knuckles, the marked playing cards—I think the killer placed them there.”
“Including the gun?”
“Including the gun. Remember Margaret said Rose was desperate to get into Eamon’s room. We thought it was to remove the gun. What if it was to plant it?” She thought of something. “In fact, those were her exact words. ’Someone must have planted it.’ ”
“But Margaret said she didn’t let her into Eamon’s room. Do you think our innkeeper is lying?”
“Margaret? Never. Why lie when you don’t care what comes out of your mouth?”
“Maybe Rose found another way into the room?”
“Just like a killer may have found a way out of a locked room.”
“Exactly.” Siobhán thought on it. “Maybe she snuck in when the cleaning lady was there.”
“We still have to be able to prove it.”
“There’s the rub.”
“What about the suicide note? It’s his handwriting.”
“That’s a piece that still doesn’t fit.”
“And the locked door.”
“That’s another.”
“Go on.”
Siobhán did. “So the murder was planned. But something must have happened at Sharkey’s on that Friday evening that sped it up.”
“Like what?”
“What if Eamon realized someone was trying to kill him?”
Macdara nodded. “And maybe he confided in the wrong person.”
Siobhán shivered. “Amanda Moore said she left the rope at the festival. I believe her. Someone brought it to Sharkey’s. Could have been intentional, could have been someone saw free rope and took it on impulse. Once the craziness at Sharkey’s started to unfold, the killer—be it someone else or Eamon himself—saw the rope, and saw no other way out . . . and a new plan was hatched.”
“So now Eamon did kill himself?”
“I don’t know. If this was a work of a murderer, they were smart. This suicide versus murder business has us all tied up in knots.” Siobhán started walking faster as if trying to keep up with her racing thoughts. “In either scenario, how does this waitress fit in?”
“My God, you’re right.” Macdara stopped, took hold of Siobhán’s arm. She turned to face him.
“I am? What did I say?”
“She’s a witness. She knows who put her up to dropping the cold deck.”
“And if we didn’t have a murderer running around, the person who put her up to cheating wouldn’t go to such lengths to keep her quiet.”
“Exactly,” Macdara said. “They would try other methods, like paying her off.”
“Like with an orange Mustang.”
“Like with an orange Mustang.”
“Is it possible we’re dealing with multiple people? Is it possible she stole the car herself?”
“It’s possible,” Macdara said. “But didn’t we hear that Eamon went to great lengths to hide the car?”
“It’s not probable,” Siobhán said.
“Not probable. But what we don’t know is, did the person who helped our little waitress into the car know the brake line had been cut?”
> “Sending her off to her death.” Siobhán shuddered.
“And who else had the authority to give away that car besides Rose Foley?”
Siobhán was right with him. “And who says, ’I don’t recall’ when you ask them if they met a particular person?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to answer the question,” Macdara finished. Indeed.
“Let’s pray our waitress survives.”
Macdara took out his mobile. “I’ll put a guard at her hospital door.” He made the call, then clicked off. “We’re running out of time.”
“Let’s hurry then.” She started down the street.
“Where are you going?”
“The flower shop. We can at least find out who those roses are from.”
Chapter 29
Jane’s Garden was a quaint little shop just past the Kilbane Museum. Jane O’Reilly stood behind the counter elbow-deep in flowers. She was making arrangements for the wake, and when the bell dinged, she looked up in horror. Her eyes flew to the clock. It was four o’clock.
“Don’t tell me you’re here already. I plan on dropping them off at Sharkey’s at half six.”
“You’re fine, luv,” Siobhán said. “We just need to ask you a question.”
Her shoulders relaxed. She held up a rose and her clippers. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk.”
“Not a bother,” Macdara said.
“Were you working on Saturday?”
Jane laughed. “I’m always here.”
“We need to know who came in to buy a dozen red roses for Rose Foley.”
“That’s an easy one. They were from the entire poker tournament.”
“Who purchased them?”
“The fella himself.”
“We’ll need you to be more specific.”
She sighed, stopped cutting flowers, and turned to her register. She picked up a receipt. “I had him give me his autograph.”
She turned it to them: Thanks for the good deal, Shane Ross. “Isn’t that sweet? A little note with his signature.”
“Thanks a million.” Siobhán grabbed Macdara’s elbow and headed out.
Jane nodded. “Of course.” As they headed out, she kept talking. “D.S. Flannery, if there’s ever a beautiful woman you want to buy flowers for, do come see me.”
* * *
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 22
