Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Can’t believe you’ve turned into a jock,” Gráinne said, eyeing her younger sister. “That’s mad.” Ever since Gráinne had come home from New York City, she’d been observing Ann like she was from another planet. Gráinne was most certainly a wee bit jealous. Ann wasn’t a child anymore, and her days of following Gráinne around like she was the queen of Kilbane were quickly becoming a thing of the past.

  “‘Jock,’” Ann said with a shake of her head. “What a misogynistic thing to say.”

  “What are ye on about?” Gráinne said.

  “America is rubbing off on you,” Ann said. “And not in a good way.”

  America. Most likely where the dead man was from. Why else would he be wearing a pin of the American flag?

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Gráinne said.

  Is his family here with him, or had he been traveling on his own?

  “‘Cheeky’ is another diminutive word.” Ann put her hand on her hips. Gráinne’s mouth literally dropped open and this time she glared openly at Siobhán. Siobhán stared out the window, replaying the crime scene.

  “I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore,” Gráinne said. “Just forget it.” She swiped her latest fashion magazine off the counter and headed over to an armchair near the fire. She dangled her lean legs over the armrest and buried her face in the pages.

  “‘Jock’ is a misogynistic thing to say, because it implies that girls aren’t supposed to get into sports or be any good at them.” Ann stood over Gráinne, with hands on hip.

  “Whatever,” Gráinne said without looking up.

  “And ‘cheeky’ applies to a naughty child, instead of a young woman.”

  “Are ye listening to yer one?” Gráinne said to Siobhán, jerking her thumb at Ann.

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “And I want to go and happily squeeze her teachers and coaches to death.”

  Ann grinned. Her pale blond hair was cut short and framed her face beautifully. She’d nearly shot up to Siobhán’s height of five-nine, missing it by an inch.

  “But be careful,” Siobhán said to Ann with a wink. “‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ ”

  This time both girls’ mouths dropped open. Siobhán had imitated their late mother, Naomi O’Sullivan, perfectly, down to the pursed mouth and fist planted on her slim hip. The three soon dissolved into laughter, and the earlier tension dissipated. What a sigh of relief. Siobhán worried about those girls nearly every hour of the day. As much as she supported their independence, and was proud of all her siblings, she equally loathed how everyone was changing, and changing fast. She was guilty of it herself; only five years from thirty, now wasn’t that just completely out of control?

  “Are ye coming to my game on Saturday?” Ann asked.

  “I’ll be there with bells on,” Siobhán said. Unless they assign me weekend work as punishment. She would find out soon enough.

  “I meant Gráinne,” Ann said. “But I don’t mind if ye come too.”

  “You warm the cockles of my heart,” Siobhán said. Ann cocked her head and squinted in confusion. Siobhán sighed, turned to her beautiful machine on the counter, and set about making herself a cappuccino. Some days the heavenly concoction was her only comfort.

  “God, I miss New York,” Gráinne announced, her voice rising over the hissing and gurgling of the machine as Siobhán frothed the milk. “The only hurling that goes on there is after a long night of drink.” She threw her head back and laughed. Then lifted it and sighed. “Yanks really can’t hold their drink.”

  Siobhán and Ann exchanged a look. Since moving to New York City last year, Gráinne acted as if Kilbane (and most likely all of Ireland) wasn’t class enough for the likes of her. If that’s what the Big Apple did to folks, Siobhán didn’t even want a bite. And to think, Siobhán had been so happy to see her a month ago, just in time for Christmas. Siobhán thought she’d go back right after the New Year, but a fortnight had passed and Gráinne was still hanging around. Even so, Siobhán wanted her to stay. She’d begged her to enroll in college, but Gráinne insisted she wanted a year off. Who in her right mind would think waitressing in Queens, New York, was better than going to college? Siobhán had no idea how her parents would have handled it, but all her attempts at persuading Gráinne to choose a different path had failed miserably.

  “Why haven’t you headed back if it’s so perfect?” Ann asked.

  “She’ll have to wait until the snow melts now,” Siobhán said. Their little village would be practically shut down.

  Ann frowned, then bounced to the front windows overlooking Sarsfield Street. “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “It’s really coming down.” She turned her face, beaming. “School will be canceled.”

  “Most likely,” Siobhán agreed. Which meant when the news of the murder hit, everyone would be snowed in and stir crazy. Not a good combination.

  “You won’t have a game on Saturday,” Gráinne said.

  “There’s loads of time until Saturday,” Siobhán said to Ann’s worried face.

  “New York wouldn’t shut down after a few measly flakes,” Gráinne bragged.

  Her constant praise of the city was getting to Siobhán. Last night she dreamed she was competing with the Statue of Liberty for Macdara Flannery’s attention. “He likes a girl who can stay in one place,” the Statue of Liberty said, hoisting her torch.

  “I am in one place,” Siobhán said.

  “I’m tall,” the statue said.

  “I’m tall,” Siobhán said.

  “I’m green,” the statue said. “And I never change.”

  She woke up in a sweat.

  After they squabbled some more, Ann and Gráinne buried their heads in their smartphones, disappearing into their electronic worlds so thoroughly Siobhán had an urge to push them to see if they’d topple over like stones. Apparently, limiting their exposure to mobile phones and iPads as young ones had done nothing to quell their addiction. Perhaps denial had made things worse. One never knew whether one’s parenting skills were effective, no matter how well-intentioned. It was a thankless job. “Are the lads still sleeping?” Siobhán asked. Neither of her sisters looked up.

  As if on cue James burst out of the kitchen door. “I’m awake. Been a slave to the cooker since dawn.” His dark hair was mussed and there was a spot of bright red lipstick on his cheek.

  “Have ye?” Siobhán said, staring at the lipstick.

  His eyes narrowed. “Rashers are on, eggs are at-the-ready, brown bread cooling on the rack.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “No need to thank me. We all do our part.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “But you might want to thank Elise.”

  “Right,” Siobhán said. “Not a bother.”

  “She’s a little sensitive,” he said.

  “Understood.”

  “She thinks you don’t like her.”

  Gráinne made a strangling noise, and Siobhán shot her a look. She smiled at her older brother. James was as handsome as ever. He so strongly resembled pictures of their da when he was the same age, that it brought a pang to Siobhán every time she looked at him. And although he could change moods like the weather, when James was good, he was very, very good. And these past two years that she had been studying to become a guard, commuting from Templemore, he had been an absolute saint. “Schools are officially closed for the day,” he announced with a grin. Even though it meant the young ones would be home and underfoot, James always did like a good snow day.

  Gráinne looked up. “Lipstick on you. At this hour of the morning?” She flicked her eyes to Siobhán. “How do you like his ‘missus’ now?”

  The thought of Elise actually being married to James made Siobhán cringe. James didn’t appreciate the tease either. He narrowed his eyes, then turned to Siobhán, as if daring her to answer. Siobhán twirled a strand of her long auburn hair around her finger and flashed what she hoped would be mistaken for a genuine smile.

  The kitchen door swung open again
and Elise darted out like a young deer. Big brown eyes, long fawn-colored hair, and all bounce. Just like Bambi. If Bambi had grown up to be an evil dictator.

  Siobhán cleared her throat as James stared at her. “Good morning, Elise,” she said. Elise squinted as if trying to puzzle out Siobhán’s meaning. “Thank you for getting up so early to start the breakfast. It smells wonderful.”

  Elise scanned the room, eyes narrowing in disapproval. “Did anyone hear sirens screaming in the middle of the night?”

  “I thought that was the two of you,” Gráinne said without looking up from her magazine.

  “Do you need any help with the breakfast?” Siobhán said, wanting to change the subject.

  Elise frowned. “James and I have it sorted. It’s all prepped, except for the brown bread.”

  “James said the brown bread was cooling on the rack.” Siobhán kept her voice even. Elise was so confounding.

  “But you prepared the batter. All I did was pour it into pans and slide them into the oven.” Her voice was on a pitch slightly higher than everyone else’s and twice as loud.

  “That’s right,” Siobhán said for the umpteenth time. “I’m the one who makes the brown bread.” Siobhán’s brown bread was well-loved around Kilbane, and the minute Elise got wind of that, she’d been trying to insert herself into the game. That wasn’t happening—even if James smiled so much, he’d need his jaw wired shut.

  “Yes, Queen Bee.” Elise curtsied. “Or should I call you Garda Bee now?”

  Siobhán clenched her jaw. “Siobhán will do.”

  “Siobhán ‘will do’ what?” Elise said. Her eyes sparkled and her teeth gleamed as she bared them. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Siobhán flashed a pained smile in return. The lass had been curtsying and coming up with cheeky little sayings ever since Siobhán had made it clear that she was the only one in the bistro who made the brown bread. Siobhán felt her fists curl at her sides. Elise continued. “The kettle is on the cooker, and the pots and pans are soaking. Bridie is three minutes late.” Elise scanned the bistro as if Bridie might pop out from underneath a table. “I’m docking her pay.”

  Bridie was a neighbor, a dear friend, and a part-time employee. She’d been with Siobhán through thick and thin. She was an energetic and kind woman, and the fact that Elise had taken an instant dislike to her just confirmed Siobhán’s suspicions that there was something seriously off about Elise. But for James’s sake she kept her gob shut.

  “You don’t handle anyone’s pay,” Siobhán said. “And with this weather she’s entitled to be late.” Elise had apparently spent the night. She wished James wouldn’t do that with the younger ones still at home, but he was a grown man and it wasn’t her place to lecture.

  Was it?

  “You should let me handle the pay.” Elise brightened. “It would save you time and trouble.”

  “What on earth would I do with myself without time and trouble?” Siobhán replied with a smile, hoping it would elicit a smile in return.

  Elise frowned. “You should at least let me make the brown bread. It’s not magic, you know.”

  “Never,” Siobhán said.

  Elise frowned and began to hum. Or was she making a buzzing noise?

  “Why can’t you both make brown bread?” James said. Ann and Gráinne gasped from their respective corners.

  “Elise is free to make whatever she wants in her own kitchen,” Siobhán said. “But we are running a business. You know they love my brown bread.” Revered it, worshipped it, craved it. Even during her two years at Templemore, she’d come home on the weekends and double up on the batches so that all James had to do was slide the batter into the pans, and the pans in the oven, during the week. She was doing her best to be kind to Elise, but she was never going to let someone else make the brown bread. Besides, no one knew the secret ingredient, although many tried to guess.

  Elise curtsied. “Yes, Queen Bee.” Siobhán bit her lip. Just one little punch. Maybe two. Instead she entered the hallway and dragged Ann’s camogie bag to the wall alongside the front door.

  “Something was definitely going on last night,” Elise said, following her into the hall. “There were loads of sirens.”

  As Siobhán ignored Elise’s implied question and turned to make her way back into the dining room, a loud rap came upon the door, sending her heart crashing in her chest. What would garda college think of her if they knew a simple knock on the door could startle her so?

  Probably take away her credentials, make her do the past two years at Templemore College all over again. She glanced at her certificate framed on the wall, and had half a mind to take it down, just in case anyone wanted it back. Siobhán edged toward the curtains and lifted the end for a peek.

  Garda O’Reilly was planted on her stoop, with his face pressed to the glass. His cheeks were ruddy, his hair hidden under his cap, large ears poking out like antennas. He jerked back when he saw Siobhán staring at him, then jabbed a stubby finger at her. Siobhán pointed to the front door and he nodded. Were they going to skip formalities and let her go straightaway? Or was he here because he wanted her help? She couldn’t get the dead man out of her mind. And she couldn’t think of him without being reminded that there was a killer out there.

  “Who is it?” James asked.

  “Work,” Siobhán said. She hurried and opened the front door, wishing she had changed out of her running clothes. She smiled and stepped back to let him in. He did not smile back and remained on the footpath.

  “Garda O’Sullivan,” he said, then took her in from head to toe. The good news, she was no longer in her pajamas. Nonetheless, his look still seemed disapproving. Maybe it was just his default expression. Siobhán could feel herself blush. She reprimanded herself. Members of An Garda Síochána should not blush.

  He thrust a piece of paper at her. “What’s this?” she asked as she glanced at it. On it was an address.

  “George Dunne. Called to report a break-in.”

  Chapter 4

  A break-in? Siobhán’s fingers tingled. George Dunne was an elderly man who had moved to Kilbane last year from Limerick. He kept mostly to himself in a small stone house at the end of Sarsfield Street, behind what used to be Kelly’s pub. There were too many abandoned businesses these days.

  A break-in right after a murder. Could it have been the killer? Searching for a place to hide, or maybe looking for money or a weapon to escape? Riding out the snowstorm while he or she spied on the investigation?

  She was dying to ask Garda O’Reilly what was going on since she’d left the churchyard, but she resisted. Besides, nothing more would happen until the pathologist arrived. “I’m not suspended?” she whispered.

  Garda O’Reilly narrowed his eyes and wagged his finger at her. “Don’t gloat. Detective Sergeant Flannery said he’d handle it. You’ll stay out of trouble until then.”

  She was right. Macdara Flannery was returning to Kilbane to lead the murder probe. Feelings began to spark inside her as images of Macdara played out in her mind, starting with his rain-soaked body holding her close after he delivered the news of her parents’ death, to his contagious laugh, messy hair, lopsided smile, and killer blue eyes. That tall, good-looking, whip-smart man. Who once only had eyes for her. His touch, his desire, his solid dependable frame—all of that was something she thought she’d be able to count on for a long time to come. Life was what happened to you when you were busy making other plans. She hated when clichés panned out.

  Garda O’Reilly snapped his fingers.

  Siobhán nodded. “I’ll be right down in uniform. Shall we go from here?”

  A smile crept over his face. “It’s just you.”

  “Just me?” She narrowed her eyes. She knew for a fact they were supposed to work in pairs. “Shouldn’t I have a team?”

  Garda O’Reilly belted out a laugh. “You weren’t asking for a team last night when you scurried into the cemetery all by your lonesome, now were you?”

>   Siobhán flushed. “I’m very sorry.”

  “If you ask me, you and your imagination would be better off in the Yank’s comic-book store.”

  He was speaking of Chris Gordon, the only American in town who did, in fact, own a comic-book store. Siobhán wondered if the guards had yet to suss out if the victim was American. She supposed it would be rather silly to ask Chris if he knew of any visiting or missing Americans. The rest of the world was not as cozy (nosy) as Kilbane.

  “I’m happy to go on my own, if you’d like,” she said.

  “It’s not a matter of what I like,” O’Reilly said. “It’s a matter of what I say.” She had no idea what that meant, so she just nodded and smiled. “Take thorough notes and report straight back to the office.” His lips were twitching. Was he trying to keep from laughing? If so, why?

  “Got it.” He was gone before she could thank him, doing his best to stride off despite his boots struggling in the deep snow.

  “Your first case?” The question came from James, but she turned to find her five siblings staring at her, including Eoin, who was sitting on the bottom steps shoving on his trainers, signature baseball cap on backward, and the youngest, Ciarán, hanging on the bannister, red hair radioactive as usual. Now that he was thirteen, he rarely let her smooth it down. She wanted to freeze him in time, stick him in a bottle, and put him on the shelf. He had shot up in the past two years, he’d be taller than her any day now. But to her, he was still a little boy. Every time she looked at him, her mam’s saying came hurtling into her head: “A face without freckles is like a sky without stars.” Ciarán’s lovely face was filled with stars. He loathed whenever she mentioned it, and she did her best to honor his wishes.

  “School is canceled,” Ann informed the lads. A cheer rang out. This was Eoin’s last year of school. Then he would get his Leaving Certificate and hopefully go to college. Siobhán had one year left to wear him down. So far he was insisting he wanted to be a chef, and that his training would be “da school of life.” She was going to give him the school of life, alright, he just didn’t know it yet.