Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I don’t think so.” Jay looked around the room, like a man trying to figure out if he was awake or dreaming. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The dead man was wearing one,” Tracy said. “Did you give it to anyone else or not?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jay said.

  “You ‘don’t think so’?” Tracy said to Jay. “It could mean life or death!”

  Jay retreated to his camera, as if he wanted to hide behind it. He was intimidated by Tracy Mallon, and she seemed quite comfortable with that reaction.

  “Is it or is it not Peter?” Greta said, her voice rising to a panicked pitch.

  “That’s why I asked Jay if he gave the pin to anyone else,” Tracy said.

  “I only gave them to family members,” Jay said. He turned to Macdara and Siobhán. “I thought it would be a nice way of tying them all together. I planned on pinning an Irish flag on them at the final scene.”

  Greta shook her fist. “I am going to scream at the top of my lungs if someone does not explain what Tracy meant by ‘It might not be him.’ ”

  Macdara caught Siobhán’s eye. “We have photographs of the victim,” he said. “We can settle this now.”

  “No,” Tracy said, turning away from Siobhán’s smartphone.

  “I can identify him,” Jay said.

  “You’re not family,” Brandon said. “Show me.” Even though he was a short man, he was strong and muscular, and led with his chest. Siobhán had been fascinated by the brief study they’d done in college of body language. People had different centers from which they led when they walked. The groin, the head, or the chest. Brandon led with his chest—that usually denoted a special attention and awareness to one’s body. An athlete might lead with his chest, whereas an intellectual often led with his or her head. Frank, she noted, led with his head. And, of course, leading from the groin was often a sign of a person who was in touch with his or her sexuality and the power it could yield. Tracy Mallon led with her groin. Greta led with her head. Siobhán kept these observations to herself. Sometimes the biggest mystery she faced was what to do with all the random thoughts ping-ponging through her mind.

  Greta hauled herself out of the chair and lurched forward. “He’s my husband. I want to see.”

  Siobhán reached for the widow. “Why don’t you sit down.”

  Greta jerked away, even though Siobhán wasn’t even close to touching her. “I’ll stand.” Siobhán sighed, then showed her the photo of Peter lying in the cemetery. Greta cried out, then sank back into the chair, tears streaming down her face. “It’s him. It’s my Peter.”

  “There you have it,” Brandon said, throwing a dirty look to his sister. “Satisfied?”

  “Would you rather not know?” Tracy shot back. “Denial is your thing after all.” She stormed back to the bar. “More tea?” she said, pouring herself another shot of whiskey. She raised the glass at no one in particular and then downed it.

  “Pour me one,” Brandon said. “Or two.”

  “You’re swimming in alcohol as it is,” Tracy said. “You reek of it.”

  Brandon’s face flushed red. “I’m entitled to a night out.”

  “Out partying while our father is getting shot in a cemetery.” Tracy’s beautiful face was marred with an angry line cutting across her forehead.

  “I couldn’t have known,” Brandon said. “How could I have known?”

  “Where were you last night?” Siobhán asked.

  “Pubs,” Brandon said. “I was in and out of pubs.”

  “You were in pubs,” Tracy said. “Until you were thrown out.”

  “I’m very sorry to all of you for your loss,” Siobhán reiterated. She stopped short of lecturing them that alcohol was just going to make things worse. Much more time in their squabbling company and she’d be taking a nip off the old bottle herself.

  “My brother was a good man,” Frank said. “His life’s mission was to continue our great-grandfather’s legacy of feeding the poor.” He shook his fist. “You’d better catch the bastard who did this, before I do.”

  Macdara put his hand on Frank’s arm. “I understand how you feel. Believe me. But I cannot have you threatening to interfere with an active investigation.”

  Frank turned to Macdara. “What is your title again?”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Flannery.” He nodded to Siobhán. “This is Garda O’Sullivan.”

  “How long have you been on the job?”

  “Why do you ask?” Siobhán said.

  “Because my brother is dead. I need to be sure this investigation is being handled by the best.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “How long?” When neither of them answered, Frank reached into his jacket and pulled out his mobile. “I’ll call the police station.” He stared at the phone and then looked up. “How do you place a call in Ireland?”

  Seriously? These Yankee Doodle Dandies are high-maintenance. Siobhán pointed at his mobile. “You push those little numbers in the correct order, and if you do it right, you’ll hear ring-ring.” He stared at her. “And then most folks say ‘Hello.’”

  Macdara gently shoved her out of the way as Frank glared. “I was promoted to Detective Sergeant a year ago. I’ve been a guard for ten years.” He nodded to Siobhán. “This is her first day.”

  “ ‘Her first day’?” Frank sputtered. “And she’s assigned to my brother’s case?”

  Macdara held up his hand. “She was the first guard on the scene, and as such is in the best position to assist. She graduated at the top of her class, and I will be supervising her every move.”

  Siobhán was dying to tell them she’d unofficially solved previous murder probes, but she had a feeling it would elicit another kick from Macdara. She didn’t realize that Macdara knew she’d graduated at the top of her class. He certainly didn’t hear it from her.

  “I’d like to request more experienced officers,” Frank said.

  “You just did,” Macdara answered. “Request denied.”

  “I’ll go above your heads.”

  Macdara gave a curt nod. “Do whatever you have to do. I assure you we’re committed to solving this case.”

  Siobhán glanced toward the kitchen, where the young nurse in the tight pink dress was apparently still making tea. “Eventually we’ll need to know everything you can remember about your trip here so far,” Siobhán announced to the group. “It might help to write it down while it’s fresh in your minds.”

  Eyewitnesses were the trickiest part about an investigation, and the most unreliable: from faulty memories to little white lies or even out-and-out subterfuge. Still, if everyone was forced to write down his or her accounts, it was easier to track where the stories started to change. Sometimes the best way to solve a crime was to pull on a thread and unravel a ball of lies.

  “I could film everyone’s account,” Jay said.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Macdara said. “If everyone is willing, that is.”

  He glanced around the room, but nobody acknowledged the request. Tracy stared at a spot on the wall. Brandon folded his muscular arms against his chest; Frank rubbed his head; Greta slouched in her chair.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jay announced. “I’ll even include myself.”

  “How big of you,” Tracy drawled from the bar.

  Hannah returned with a tray of tea. As she walked, the cups rattled on the tray like chattering teeth, momentarily distracting everyone. Unlike the rest of them, Hannah’s center of movement seemed practiced. She stood tall, and moved gracefully. Everyone accepted a cup, but then stood around staring at it, as if they weren’t quite sure what to do with it. Jaysus.

  Macdara cleared his throat. “We’ll need to take statements from all of you, one by one, but for now we just came to deliver the news. How long had you planned on staying in Cork?”

  “We’re supposed to check out of the flat today,” Tracy said. “I have to call the owner and see if we can extend.”

  “I h
ave a better idea,” Siobhán said. “Why don’t you all relocate to Kilbane?”

  “I second that,” Macdara said. “It will be easier to keep you abreast of any developments. And once the state pathologist is finished, we can arrange for a local undertaker to help you with arrangements.”

  “Yes,” Greta said. “I want to be near my Peter.”

  “Stop calling him your Peter,” Tracy said. “I can’t bear it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Greta said. “I don’t mean to lessen your grief.”

  “Whatever,” Tracy said. “Fine. Let’s go to Kilbane. I want to see my father.” Brandon and Frank nodded. Jay and Hannah looked as if they were mentally digging a tunnel to far, far away.

  “Whatever needs to be done,” Jay said at last.

  “Am I still getting paid?” Hannah asked. It took her a moment, but she finally registered the shocked expressions on those around her. “I just w-wondered,” she stammered. “B-because with him gone. He no longer needs a nurse. Right?” Hannah continued to blink as the group stared at her. With her fluffy hair, big eyes, and wide mouth, she reminded Siobhán of a pretty, young owl, obliviously hooting from the nest.

  “We’ll arrange for the lodging,” Macdara said. “You have transportation?”

  “We have a rental car,” Jay said. Macdara wrote down directions to Kilbane and took Jay’s mobile number.

  “We’ll call as soon as we have lodging,” Siobhán said. “It won’t be long.”

  They took their leave and walked back to the car in silence. On the way Siobhán turned over everything she had just seen and heard, cataloguing her first impressions, and wondering which one of the Americans might be a cold-blooded killer.

  Chapter 8

  Siobhán waited until she and Macdara were halfway down the street, about to cross over Patrick’s Bridge, when Siobhán whirled around and faced him. “That was a mistake.”

  Macdara cocked his head. “You’ll learn.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re new at this. Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You. You should have never told that man it was my first day on the job, and you less than a year.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It made us look like neophytes.”

  “He would have found out on his own. He seemed determined.”

  “I’ve solved murders in the past.”

  “Not as a guard you didn’t.”

  “He’s inferring that we don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “Only amateurs think they know what they’re doing. Professionals admit that half the time they don’t have a clue.” He turned his blue eyes intently on her. “Since when do you give two figs what other people think?”

  Siobhán shook her head. “Frank knows something, but he’s holding back because he doesn’t trust us.”

  “You got all that from a brief chat?”

  “I did.”

  At the sound of someone sloshing through the snow, they turned to find Greta Mallon running full tilt toward them, her thick glasses bouncing on her nose, no coat on her frail, shivering body. “I just remembered!” Macdara and Siobhán came to such an abrupt halt that Siobhán started to slip on the footpath and suddenly Macdara’s arms were around her waist, holding her up. She wondered if his hands were lingering longer than necessary, but then, as if he could read her secret thoughts, they dropped to his side.

  “What’s the story?” he said to Greta, his voice husky.

  Greta clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Peter had been especially interested in visiting memorials for The Great Hunger. Does Kilbane have one?”

  The Irish referred to it as An Gorta Mór, but this was no time for a history lesson. “Of course,” Siobhán said. “We have a grand famine memorial.”

  Greta nodded. “Peter would have definitely paid a visit.”

  Siobhán doubted there would be any clues to find, but the widow was grieving and trying to help. Or she was a killer and she wanted them to think she was grieving and trying to help. In either scenario, a nod and a smile was the required response, so that’s what she gave.

  “Thank you,” Macdara said. “Anything else?” Greta looked behind her, her eyes wide and frightened. “Go on.”

  “I think I know why Peter wasn’t quite himself these last few days.” She looked around again, as if worried someone was listening.

  “We’re alone,” Siobhán assured her.

  “I told him he was being ridiculous.” She dropped her voice and leaned in closer. “He was convinced Tracy was conspiring against him.”

  Macdara stepped forward and lowered his voice. “ ‘Conspiring against him’ how?”

  “He said she was trying to have him declared mentally incompetent.”

  Siobhán did her best not to react. It was a potential game changer. “What made him think this?”

  She shook her head. “We never had time to get into the details. But he changed his will so that I’m the beneficiary. You must know that I didn’t want him to. I loved Peter. I’m not a gold digger. Research is my passion.”

  Siobhán noticed that she did not exactly answer her question. “Why did Peter think Tracy was conspiring against him?”

  Greta threw her arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know. He just did.” A bitterness crept into her voice, she was annoyed that Siobhán had pressed the question. “I don’t want his money. What would I do with all that money?”

  “Most folks could think of a few things,” Macdara said.

  “I had a good life,” Greta said. “All I wanted was Peter. Not everyone has dollar signs in their eyes.”

  Macdara was right. Siobhán could think of a lot of things she’d do with extra money. Buy their building, instead of just renting. Pay off college debt. Start saving for her siblings to go to college. Travel. Oh, how she would travel.

  Greta interrupted Siobhán’s daydream. “Tracy and Brandon don’t know about the new will. At least I don’t think they do.” She took a few tentative steps. “When they find out, they’re going to accuse me of murder!”

  “Is it at all possible that one of them found out?” Siobhán asked. Or both of them.

  “I don’t know,” Greta said. Her eyes widened in shock. “I guess it’s possible.”

  “Thank you for telling us,” Macdara said, holding up his hand and throwing a warning glance to Siobhán. “Let us know if you think of anything else.”

  Greta wrapped her cardigan around her and started back for the house. Siobhán called after her. “Where were you and Jay and Hannah when we arrived?”

  “Pardon?” Greta said, turning. She looked like a student who had just been presented with a surprise test.

  “You, Jay, and Hannah came in the door shortly after we arrived. Just wondering where you were?”

  “We had to get out of that flat. Tracy and Brandon were at each other’s throats. Tracy accused Brandon of gambling again.”

  “ ‘Gambling’?” Macdara asked.

  Greta nodded and pursed her lips. “He’s an addict. She thought Peter found out and that’s why he hadn’t come home.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Siobhán said.

  “Before the trip Peter told Brandon if he ever so much as laid a dollar down on a bet that he would be out of the will. And he meant it. Peter was a wonderful man. But he was also a man of his word. Tracy and Brandon, born with silver spoons in their mouths. I know that sounds unkind, but it’s true. Everything they have has been handed to them. You’d think they’d be grateful.” Her voice shook with rage. “He was a good man,” she said. “Not perfect. But good. He didn’t deserve this. No matter what.”

  She turned and was walking away before Siobhán could ask what she meant. “No matter what.” She raised an eyebrow at Macdara and he gave a nod. He’d heard it too.

  * * *

  The back roads of Ireland were filled w
ith dangerous curves, and many lads took them at equally dangerous speeds. Siobhán was grateful Macdara wasn’t one of them. He kept an even pace, which, besides affording them the luxury to look at the scenery, also gave them time to mull over the information Greta had given them. The revelations certainly put Tracy and Brandon in a suspicious light. One child trying to have him declared mentally incompetent, the other warned he would be cut out of the will if he didn’t stop his addiction. With betting shops on every corner, Ireland wasn’t the best place for gamblers trying to quit. And Siobhán couldn’t help but think about the first questions the children asked upon learning he was dead. Did they find his wallet? Did they find his leather satchel? When she found out her parents had been killed in a car accident, money or possessions were the furthest things from her mind. All she wanted was one more day with them, one more conversation, one more precious touch. She’d developed an instant bias toward the Mallon children, she didn’t like them at all, and she’d have to keep that feeling in check. Greta was certainly forthcoming. Too forthcoming? The more she’d tried to convince them she wasn’t interested in money, the less believable she became.

  And even if Peter did visit the famine memorial, so what? Unless he left a secret note there identifying his killer, what could they possibly hope to find? Especially when any possible evidence would be buried under inches of fresh snow. There was no CCTV footage at the memorial. But maybe they could make use of it somehow.

  “We could gather the group at the memorial,” Siobhán said. “See what happens when we force them to interact.”

  “You’ve been trained well,” Macdara said with a wink. They decided as soon as the Mallons arrived and had settled into their accommodations, not to mention have a spot of lunch at Naomi’s, they would take them all to the memorial, see if anything shook loose.

  “We should ask Jay Shepard to turn over everything he’s filmed so far,” Siobhán said.

  Macdara nodded. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  “He was an odd one, don’t you think?”

  “They were all odd,” Siobhán said. “Even for Americans.”

  Macdara gave a nod of his head. “But yer man, Jay. Don’t you think he was a bit too exuberant about the news?”