Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Ciarán tripped down the remaining steps and practically hurled himself at the nearest window.

  “Snow!” he shouted. “Can we go sledding?”

  “I don’t think we have a sled,” James said.

  “We can buy one,” Ciarán said.

  Eoin strolled to the window. “Deadly.” He flashed a grin and turned to Ciarán. “We don’t need a sled. We’ll just sit you down on your arse at the top of a hill and I’ll give you a shove.”

  Ciarán frowned.

  “He’s just joking ye,” James said. “We can buy a sled.” He turned to Siobhán. “So what’s the case?”

  She took a breath. “A break-in.”

  “Sounds horrible,” Elise said. She blinked her Bambi eyes. “How can ye stand your job?”

  “It’s my first day,” Siobhán said. Elise just blinked.

  James glanced at the door. “Aren’t you supposed to work in teams?”

  Siobhán shrugged. “They trust me to handle it.” Her brood frowned. “Better get me legs under me.” Siobhán headed for the stairs and tripped right over Ann’s hurling bag, her nose smacking on the stone tiles as she went down.

  Elise stood over her, hands on hips. “That would have never been left there if I was in charge.”

  “Sorry!” Ann cried out. “Need to mind my sticks and balls. That was a ‘dumb blonde’ thing to do.”

  Gráinne let out a victorious cry. “Who’s the ‘cheeky misogynist’ now?”

  * * *

  Siobhán gripped her notepad, and held her breath as she stood in George Dunne’s messy kitchen, hoping a show of professional concern would put a damper on his outrage. So far it was backfiring, for the longer she stood before him, the redder his face grew. He was a bony old man, with wispy gray hair that sprouted from his nose and popped up in random patches on his head in a manner that made her want to applaud his follicles for the effort. He wore a red jumper with holes in it, and the only thing keeping his tan trousers from hitting the floor was a thin piece of rope tightly cinched around his waist. Despite the cold bite of winter outside, she was dying to open a window. The odor of unwashed feet and stale cigarette smoke strangled her as a nearby cuckoo clock ticked away precious moments of her life. The cup of tea he’d given her tasted as if the milk had come from his great-grandfather’s cow. She clinked the cup down on the table, praying she wouldn’t have a tummyache and mentally counted the seconds until she was out the door.

  “Next time your wooly socks go missing, you should go to the shops and buy some more, instead of calling the guards,” she said firmly. Did that come out too harsh? Her training hadn’t prepared her for this. She wanted her tuition back. There was a dead man lying in the cemetery and she was investigating an old man and his missing dirty socks. The world was cruel.

  George Dunne cried out, shaking his fist, spraying her with spittle. “You think stealing an old man’s socks in the middle of winter isn’t a crime? Shame on ye. I’ve got frostbite. They’re going to have to sever me big toe.” He stuck his right foot up, and pointed to his gnarled toes. They were red and pinched, the most abused little piggies she had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on. He had a crooked index finger to match. Old age was certainly demolishing his digits. She was sure, in that moment, that all the lads back at the Kilbane Gardai Station were busting a gut laughing. Macdara wasn’t going to let them suspend her, so they were going to find other ways to torture her. “Where’s the detective sergeant? I demanded to see him, not some rookie.”

  “I assure you I will take your problem back to the station.” And dump it on them.

  They knew. They knew George Dunne was missing a few pairs of wooly socks and they’d wound her up and shoved her off like a right eejit. Humiliation washed over her. It was bad enough that they’d ordered her uniform a half size too small. She could barely breathe or bend over.

  She intended to hold her head high when she got back to the station, have a right laugh, even though she’d love nothing more than to line them up and give out a series of hard slaps. The case of the missing socks . . . Jaysus. Siobhán suddenly couldn’t remember why she thought spending two years of her life to become a guard was a good idea. She could be in the bistro right now, cozying up to the fire and making herself a nice cuppa. Still, a case was a case. She took a shallow breath.

  George jabbed his crooked finger at her. “I want to see a senior guard.”

  “I’ll let them know.”

  “Give them a bell right now.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  George Dunne shook his head. “No time for an old man? Why?” He leaned in closer. “Something to do with those sirens screaming last night?”

  Siobhán ignored his question. “How do you dry your socks?”

  His brow furled. “How do ye mean?”

  “Do ye put them in a drying machine, or do ye hang them somewhere to air-dry?” It wasn’t the weather to be hanging anything on the clothesline, so she imagined George draped his socks over chairs and windowsills. They had probably slipped to the floor, and with the state of his place, you’d never notice. Stacks of mail were piled in the corner on top of a heap of old newspapers. Books spilled out of their shelves. Dirty dishes rose from the sink like a porcelain mountain. Even the cuckoo looked terrified to peek his head out of the clock. Maybe the old fella didn’t wash his socks at all. That could explain the odor.

  “I wash them in the basin and hang them around so,” he said. “What was it?” George asked, his filmy eyes bulging with curiosity. “Did somebody get taken to hospital? It’s not Father Kearney, is it? The commotion was at the church.”

  So he didn’t just hear the sirens, he went out and had a look. The gossip had already begun no doubt. “Father Kearney is fine.” She looked around. On the wall hung a painting of Saint Vincent de Paul, the patron saint of charities. It seemed incongruous, his calm, saintly face hanging directly above a scowling George Dunne. She had the urge to tell him that one should be charitable in word and deed, a practice that would keep on giving long after a donation had been spent. However, she wasn’t here to lecture the man on how to be a decent human being, so she turned her attention back to the case. “Have you carefully searched the floor and underneath furniture?” As she spoke, she bent down and peeked underneath the kitchen table. It had succumbed to crumbs, and dust, and yesterday’s dreams. Top of my class at Templemore Garda College. Yay, me. There was a discarded business card with a tree logo wedged underneath a dining chair. She was reaching for it, when the old man poked her with something hard. She turned to find him wielding a broomstick.

  “Hey,” she said. “Don’t even think about doing that again.”

  “I didn’t give you permission to go snooping around.”

  She stood tall and crossed her arms. “Socks can be very slippery. I can help you look.” As long as she didn’t have to do any deep knee bends. She’d been keeping up with her running and she was lean. They had definitely ordered her the wrong-size uniform.

  “Someone took them out of me hot press.”

  Siobhán raised an eyebrow and wrote hot press on her notepad, then drew a little sock puppet with a scowly face. If he was telling the truth, then someone was probably messing with the old man, having a right old laugh.

  “Maybe I should have a look at the hot press.”

  “It’s in me bedroom. I’m not letting a colleen in my bedroom rooting around me drawers.” He stared at her breasts as if they were unwelcome intruders.

  Siobhán drew a noose around the sock puppet’s neck. “And they’ve not taken anything else? Just your wooly socks?”

  He slammed his fist on the table and a mess of sour tea splashed out of her cup and crashed onto the worn surface. She watched it seep into the cracks in the wood and disappear, along with the last of her pride. “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “Have you seen anyone lurking around?” Her eyes landed on a black-and-white photograph of a somber young man, framed and hanging askew on the
wall next to a calendar that was a decade old. It looked like George Dunne as a young man. Better-looking, but the exact same scowl. It was fascinating to her that moods could be genetic.

  “What happened at the cemetery last night? Catch a lurker, did ye?”

  Siobhán started to think this business about his socks was a ruse to get the dirty details. Since he brought it up, she figured it couldn’t hurt to continue the conversation. “Have you run into any Americans in town?”

  “The lurker is a Yank?” Excitement rang from his voice.

  Siobhán bit her lip. She was skirting the edge. She wasn’t here to inquire about the dead man. But she had to ask. “Or tall old ladies?”

  “‘Tall old ladies’?” He shuddered. This appeared to offend him even more than Yanks, and his face went nightmarishly still.

  Siobhán took a step forward. “Anything unusual at all?”

  He scratched his chin. “Just me missing socks! And I want the bastard caught and punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

  “Right, so. Until we do that, may I suggest you buy a few pairs and find a new hiding place for them?” Siobhán took a deep breath and tried, but failed, not to look at them. “Like, say, on your feet.”

  He squinted hard, stared forlornly at his ruined toes, and then eyed her garda uniform. As she slipped out the door, his parting comment rang after her long after she was gone. “Went to college for this, did ye?”

  Chapter 5

  Siobhán entered the Kilbane Gardai Station, wedged herself into the hard seat at her wobbly desk, and began to fill out a lifetime of paperwork about missing wooly socks. Several guards were huddled in a clump, just a few feet away, no doubt sharing information about the murder. She sighed. She was dying to be a part of it.

  To make matters worse, someone had hung a framed photograph of Macdara Flannery where she would be forced to look at his handsome face every day. Even though she hadn’t attended, she could tell it was taken at his going-away party. He was standing in front of a banner that read: CONGRATULATIONS!

  Yes. Well-played, Macdara. Get out of Kilbane as fast as you can.

  * * *

  At least it was nearing her lunch break. If she just happened to ask a few questions, or overhear gossip by the locals while she was out and about, no one could fault her for that, could they? By now the news of the murder had surely spread. She wanted to find out if anyone had run into tourists in town lately. The thought of doing some real investigating lit a fire in her. She grabbed her coat and was out the door before anyone could stop her.

  O’Rourke’s pub was at the end of the street, several blocks past Naomi’s. Before entering, Siobhán stood on the footpath and stamped snow off her boots. The one snowplow Kilbane owned hadn’t been used in ages, and clearing the streets would be slow-going. The people of Kilbane were taking advantage of it: Children were sledding and sliding down the streets; snowmen sprouted up on footpaths; a line snaked out of the hardware store as folks swarmed in for salt, gloves, and shovels. Their village was magical under the soft blanket of snow, and for a moment Siobhán allowed herself to enjoy it.

  A snowball whizzed by, narrowly missing her head, and exploded onto the window of the pub. She glared at the culprit, a chubby boy with bright red cheeks. She shook her head at him and he roared with laughter before bending down and gathering more snow in his oversized mitts.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Siobhán bent down, as best she could in her tight uniform, and gathered up a ball of her own. But the youth was faster, and before she could let it fly, his icy weapon hit her directly in the chest. She threw hers at him, aiming for his sleeve.

  He ducked and pointed at her chest. “You’re dead!”

  “You got me.” She stamped snow off her boots again and stepped into the pub before his third snowball could hit her in the arse. Her best friend, Maria, was wiping down the counter, chatting easily with a man at the end of the bar as she rotated the cloth. She was a short girl with long, dark hair and a strong body, like a gymnast. Hers was a loud cheerful voice, and it warmed Siobhán at once. Just recently, Maria had returned from a few years at Trinity College in Dublin. Homesickness, mostly for a lad, got the best of her, and she returned without getting her degree.

  Siobhán approached the bar. Due to the snow and the drama, every stool was filled, forcing Siobhán to lean at the end of the bar while she watched Maria serve a row of lads without missing a breath or a beat. Declan O’Rourke must have been fetching ice or taking a break.

  When Maria finished serving her patrons, she headed for Siobhán. She took one look at her in uniform and brought her a mineral, instead of asking if she’d like a pint.

  “Thank you.”

  Maria leaned in. “What’s the story? Who found him?”

  Siobhán sighed. She was here to get the gossip, not give it. “I’m sure you know more than me. Has anyone seen an older American man around here recently?”

  Maria pointed at Siobhán. “I see what you’re doing.”

  Siobhán blinked. Declan waltzed in with a bucket of ice and grinned. “Hi, petal.” He passed her and dumped the ice into the bin. He was bigger than life, as round as he was tall. An institution in Kilbane, he was a Renaissance man, who loved everything from the opera to old Westerns, as evidenced by the posters on the walls. This was his pub and he was respected and adored. He could also strike fear in any lad who decided to get cheeky.

  “Hi, Declan.”

  “Snow and a murder probe,” he said, flipping a rag over his shoulder. “’Tis a terrible way to start the year.”

  “Aye.”

  “I heard the dead man was a Yank,” Declan said. “Is it true?”

  “I can’t comment just yet,” Siobhán said. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Of course, pet,” Declan said. “Why don’t you just nod your head if I’m right?”

  Siobhán offered a little smile. “Nice try.”

  He chuckled and ambled over to the other side of the bar. “If he’s not an American, then why did I hear you asking Maria if she’d seen any Americans in town?”

  Darn it. She bit her bottom lip. She’d have an easier go of it if the folks in this town didn’t all consider themselves amateur investigators. The other patrons in the pub, mostly older men, buried their heads into their pints or remained glued to the televisions overhead running sports and horse races. That was odd. Normally they would say hello, and chat about most anything and everything. Maria caught her frown. “They’re not used to it,” she said with a nod to Siobhán’s cap and uniform.

  Siobhán sighed. It had been easier getting information out of people when she wasn’t a guard. “It’s me lunch hour.” She leaned in. “What have you heard?”

  Maria leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. “A few heads say that an American tourist had been spotted in Houlihan’s the past week. I heard he was a nosy fella.”

  “ ‘Nosy’?” Houlihan’s was a pub a few blocks away from Sarsfield Street. It had a younger crowd. They even drew lads as far away as Cork City on the weekends. They had musicians most nights of the week. Siobhán couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out socially and she took a moment to bathe in self-pity.

  “Asked a lot of questions, took a lot of notes.” Maria glanced at the Biro and pad of paper in Siobhán’s hands and frowned. “Like you.”

  “What kind of questions?” Was there a notebook inside the dead man’s trench coat? It wasn’t fair that they couldn’t investigate straightaway. It was a wonderful thing that murders were so rare in Ireland that they didn’t have the authority or resources to deal with it within the village; but all the more frustrating when waiting for the proper channels could compromise a case. It was literally easier to get away with murder here.

  Maria shrugged. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  Siobhán nodded. “I’ll head over.”

  “Now?”

  “They only give me thirty minutes. I’m pretty sure everyone else t
akes an hour.”

  Maria’s frown deepened. “Where’s your lunch?”

  “Who has time to eat?”

  “I’m making you a ham-and-cheese toastie.”

  “I have to get to Houlihan’s.”

  “We’ll go tonight. When you’re finished with work. And you are not wearing that.” Maria gestured vaguely around Siobhán’s entire body.

  “Yes, I am. The lads can keep their dirty paws to themselves.”

  Maria leaned in with a grin. “Do you also want them keeping their dirty secrets to themselves?”

  * * *

  Siobhán stepped into Houlihan’s, hoping to keep her winter coat on, but Maria quickly slipped it off her shoulders, insisting Siobhán would have better luck getting lads to talk if she showed a little of the goods and flirted. Her denims and black top were respectable enough, but Maria had insisted on blowing out Siobhán’s long hair, and had gone a little heavy on the makeup. But some ideas were timeless, and unlike the heads-in-sand reaction she got when in uniform, here the lads were indeed drawing closer and closer to Siobhán and Maria as the evening wore on. Maria was barely five-two, and although not as classically pretty as Siobhán, her sharp wit and outgoing personality attracted plenty of attention. Maria was a natural-born flirt. When they had most of the lads hovering in their orbit, vying for who could make the women laugh, Siobhán waited until there was a short lull in the conversation and then deftly cut in.

  “I heard there was an American man hanging around this pub lately,” she said, disgusted with herself for fluttering her eyelashes. “I’m dying to hear the story.”

  “There was some Yank in here, alright,” a lad to her left said. “Old guy. Said he was ‘Irish.’ ” He made air quotes with his hands. “He was here researching his family tree.”

  Siobhán straightened up. “When was this?”