Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Brandon’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

  Siobhán put her hands up. “I don’t want to start rumors. But it’s possible Greta might be inheriting more than you think.”

  Brandon pounded his fist on the table. A temper. “Lies! My father wouldn’t have done that. He knew how we felt about Greta.”

  “She seems alright to me.”

  Brandon groaned. “You don’t have to live with her.”

  “You don’t live on your own?” Siobhán kept her voice as light as possible. A grown man living under his father’s roof and complaining about it.

  “We have a very large house. We all run the family business.”

  “Of course.” And it’s hard to pay rent if you gamble it away.

  “I’m going to have Tracy contact our attorney. We’ll need to have his will read as soon as possible.”

  “I’d be so grateful if you didn’t repeat what I’ve told you to anyone.” She smiled. “Just like I won’t tell them about your gambling.”

  He nodded, sweat gathering on his forehead.

  If Brandon truly didn’t know about the will changing, he would either run straight to Tracy and blab, or try and contact the attorneys about the will. Hopefully, they could monitor what he did next. If he had killed his father and removed the original will, he wouldn’t need to check on it. They’d never be able to get his mobile records quickly enough. If only she could somehow sneak a peek at it in a few hours. Find out if he immediately called anyone or not. But stealing someone’s mobile was hardly playing by the book. Policies and procedures! So inhibiting to an investigation.

  She leaned in and lowered her voice as if they were the best of friends. After all, they were now sharing each other’s secret confidences. It wasn’t exactly a technique she learned in college, but it was a nifty skill. “Have you seen any of them with a firearm?”

  “Of course not.” He shifted in his chair. “However . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Frank owns them. All that talk about my father. He’s the one who knows how to shoot.”

  “He said he and your father learned as young lads.”

  “ ‘Young lads,’ ” Brandon said. “I love your accent.” This time his eyes traveled over her face, and down to her chest.

  Siobhán took note of it. “Do you have a girlfriend back home?”

  Brandon continued staring. “I’m available,” he said. “And I quite like it here.”

  Great. All I need. Another American stalker. “What about Jay Shepard?”

  “You’re interested in him, are you?” Disgust rang through his voice. “Join the club. Hannah definitely drools over him. I daresay Tracy does too.”

  “Actually, I was just wondering if he knew his way around a firearm.”

  Brandon shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. I know so little about him.”

  “Hannah?”

  Brandon laughed. “My father’s nurse, with a gun? Are you crazy?”

  “Because she’s a woman?”

  “Because she’s Hannah. The poor thing looks frightened all the time. Watch her sometime. She’s tensed up as if bracing herself for someone to jump out at her and yell ‘boo.’ ”

  “And who hired her?”

  “I assume it was Greta. Anytime you ask who did anything, the answer will usually be Greta. She’s a librarian through and through. My father was way too trusting of her.”

  “And you’re not?”

  He scoffed. “Tell me what a woman her age is doing with a man my father’s age?”

  “If he’s made her the beneficiary of his will, that must make you very angry.” Siobhán had to tread lightly. Riling up a possible murderer could have grave consequences. A gear in her mind jammed as she replayed that thought. Grave consequences. Pun not intended. She was grateful no one could read her mind, unintended or not; the danger was too serious for puns. An angry killer might not just come after her, but the bistro, and her family could be possible targets as well. She had to always be mindful of that, and protect them every step of the way.

  Brandon’s boyish demeanor vanished, as a hard look came into his eyes. “Our father fell for women too easy. Made him an easy target. The second one left him heartbroken and vulnerable. I know what you’re getting at—his greedy, grown children—but that’s not the case. We were only trying to protect him.”

  By making sure you kept the family fortune. Siobhán gently laid her hand on his arm. “Our job will be to check into all angles. I’m trying to find your father’s killer.”

  “Well, you can rule me out, and you can rule out Tracy. We’ve sacrificed everything to make him happy.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m serious. You’re wasting your time investigating us.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  He stood. “Please. You must not tell them where you found me.”

  “You’re a grown man. Why would it bother you so much?”

  He sighed, as if she were a child constantly asking why, and he the weary parent, tired of coming up with an answer. “I made a promise. Let’s just leave it at that.” Now would have been the perfect time for him to confess that his father had threatened to cut him out of the will if he was caught gambling again. Instead he stuffed one last curried chip in his mouth and strode for the door.

  Siobhán wrote a single word next to his name in her notebook: Defensive. “I’ll see you at the bistro,” she called after him.

  He turned, his eyes like lasers bearing into her. “Does that mean you’re not going to tell?”

  “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.” They held eye contact. He broke it with a curt nod, and exited, the door slamming shut behind him. She watched through the window until he was out of sight.

  He wouldn’t keep her “secrets,” of course. He’d leak like a sieve. And that’s exactly what she was counting on.

  Chapter 11

  Early that evening every member of the American group showed up at the bistro for a spot of dinner. Elise had made shepherd’s pie, which Siobhán reluctantly admitted was terrific. The crust was just the right amount of crisp, the lamb savory, the vegetables fresh, and the potatoes fluffy. Siobhán wanted to go back for a second helping, but couldn’t run the risk that Elise would use the revelation to negotiate her way into making the brown bread.

  Besides, Siobhán had work to do. She was most interested in seeing who paired up with whom. Tracy, Frank, and Brandon sat together; Jay and Hannah huddled across from each other at a table near the window; Greta was left on her own. Siobhán felt a stab of sadness for the “widow non grata” and soon joined her.

  “I hope your room is alright.”

  Greta nodded. “It’s fine.” Worry poured from her voice.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Greta glanced over at Tracy and Brandon, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “If Peter did change his will, they’re going to use it against me.” She wrung her hands. “I begged him not to do it. I swear.”

  “You’ve tried speaking with his attorneys?”

  “Yes. They want to wait until we’re all back in the States to read the will.”

  “I’ll need their phone numbers,” Siobhán said. Maybe Macdara could get them to talk. It sure would help to know whether or not the will had been officially changed. Or maybe they could get the attorneys to come to Ireland for the reading of the will.

  “How did this whole documentary business come up again?” Siobhán asked.

  Greta frowned, pushed her glasses up, and sniffed. “How do you mean?”

  “How did the idea first come up?”

  “I don’t remember. I think Peter saw Dancing Irish. He was very impressed with Jay’s work. Yes. I believe that’s how he came up with the idea.”

  “So it was Peter’s idea?”

  “Yes. Peter came to me after seeing the documentary. I’m sure of it.”

  Siobhán wasn’t even sure where she was going with the line of questioning. But she couldn’t help feel
ing like Peter Mallon had been lured to Ireland. Was it possible the entire documentary was just a smoke screen? “I’d like to find out how much Jay is getting paid to make this documentary.”

  Greta’s mouth pursed. “Funny you say that.”

  Siobhán sat up straight. “Oh?”

  “Peter refused to tell me. I was so angry. It was the only time he had ever done that. Kept secrets from me.”

  The only time he was caught. “You have no idea how much Jay is being paid?”

  “None whatsoever,” Greta said. She glanced at Jay and so did Siobhán. He and Hannah were laughing, heads bowed close together. “He certainly didn’t come cheap,” she said as they watched them. She drew her attention back to Siobhán. “But Peter had his own bank accounts. We weren’t a young couple. We didn’t share everything.”

  “I see.” Even though Greta was in her thirties, she behaved like a much older woman. She seemed most attracted to older men. Is she aware of Frank’s crush on her? Does she have a crush on him? Greta’s hand trembled. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Greta shook her head no. Siobhán would never understand these people. “How about a coffee?”

  Greta looked hopeful. “I didn’t know you served that here. There’s not even a Starbucks in this town.” She looked forlorn. “It’s hard to trust a town without a Starbucks.”

  “Coffee it is.” Siobhán nodded and headed for her machine, trying not to imagine serving it by pouring it over her head. While the machine worked its magic, she glanced over at Jay Shepard. He was apparently getting paid quite handsomely. Exactly how much? And if he was getting paid either way, and so obviously loved his calling . . . why on earth would he want Peter Mallon dead? It bothered her when suspects had strong motives, but it bothered her even more when they didn’t.

  * * *

  It was late and the Kilbane Gardai Station was empty of everyone but herself and Macdara. Siobhán had blown up a photo of each of their suspects, and had taped them to the wall with a photo of Peter below them. From the left to right, she scanned each face: Tracy Mallon. Brandon Mallon. Greta Mallon. Frank Mallon. Jay Shepard. Hannah Stripes. Her eye landed on Peter’s photo. “No matter what anyone else says,” one of her instructors had told her during her training, “you work for the victim.” Siobhán was determined not to forget that. Peter Mallon deserved justice, and it was their job to deliver it.

  She turned to Macdara. “Do you have a few sheets of paper?”

  He raised his eyebrow, but turned to a nearby shelf. “How many?”

  “Two will do the trick.” He handed her the paper. She stared at them. He stared at her. “And a Biro. Please.”

  He shook his head, but reached over to a nearby desk to hand her a pen.

  On one sheet of paper she hastily sketched her best rendition of an elderly woman and underneath wrote: OLD LADY. She pinned it up near their suspects. On the next sheet of paper she drew a blank face and in the middle put a question mark. Underneath she wrote: UNKNOWN.

  Macdara folded his arms across his chest as his eyes traveled through all the options. “We’ve certainly covered all bases.”

  Underneath the photographs they combined their notes, everything they’d learned so far about their suspects. Siobhán tapped the piece of paper that read OLD LADY. “Father Kearney hasn’t spotted her since the murder.”

  “Right. But the cemetery has been cordoned off.”

  “True.” She hated when he hit her with logic. “So where did she go?” There weren’t many places to hide in Kilbane.

  “And who is she?”

  Siobhán sighed. She lifted the pile of family tree information dropped off to the station by Greta. “I don’t know how to sort through all of this.”

  Macdara grinned. “Nobody warned you about all the grunt work?”

  “I was a bit naive.” She laughed. “Did Jay Shepard turn over everything he’s filmed?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’ll be slogging through.”

  “Including recording our suspects’ accounts of that day?”

  Macdara nodded. “I’ve watched them once. Some of them are more camera shy than others, but given the time of the murder, they either claimed to be in bed or in the pubs.”

  “Let me guess. Brandon was in the pub.”

  “And Tracy. But not in the same pub.”

  She sighed. Definitely not a close brother-sister relationship. She couldn’t imagine going on holiday with her siblings and then avoiding them. “I’ll watch the rest of the films if you want to read through the family tree.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Peter Mallon seems like he was a good man. They all agree on that.”

  Macdara looked thoughtful. “People don’t like speaking ill of the dead.”

  “So you think Peter might have been stirring up trouble?”

  “Somebody stirred something up. And nobody’s perfect.”

  “True,” Siobhán said. “Not a single one of us.”

  “Some of us come closer than others,” Macdara said with a smile.

  “Do they?” Siobhán said. They held eye contact. Is he flirting? Breaking his own rule? She forced herself to concentrate and glanced at the photographs of the suspects again. Her eyes lingered on the UNKNOWN face with a question mark.

  Macdara followed her gaze. “What’s the story?”

  “Isn’t it possible the suspect isn’t somebody he knew?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It was widely reported that Peter Mallon had been nosing around town. What if he angered someone local?” She could think of a few locals who weren’t big fans of Americans.

  “Angry enough to kill him?”

  “It’s not probable, but isn’t it possible?”

  “At this point all possibilities are on the table. But my gut tells me he was killed by one of his group.” They sat in silence for a moment; then their eyes met again, and stayed locked on each other for another few moments. Macdara cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll try rattling the attorneys. Any day I get to rattle a solicitor is a good day.” He grinned.

  Siobhán looked away. “Any news on the state pathologist?”

  Macdara brightened. “There’s a bit of good news.”

  “Tell me.”

  Macdara grabbed his cap. “Better yet, first thing in the morning, she’s going to tell you.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me now, and in the morning she can tell me again, and I’ll pretend it’s the first time I’m hearing it.”

  “No.”

  “Really, I can act surprised. Watch.” She flashed him her best expression of surprise.

  “Impressive. Still no.”

  “What’s wrong with telling me right now?”

  “Nothing.” He grinned. “Consider it a lesson in patience.” She wished she could give him a lesson in face slaps. He chuckled, knowing he had gotten under her skin. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  * * *

  Jeanie Brady, the state pathologist, was a short, round woman with intelligent hazel eyes and a mad pistachio addiction. In between filling them in on her findings, she was cracking nuts into her mouth, and spitting the shells to the ground. It was wildly distracting. She wasn’t sharing to boot. Siobhán and Macdara stood with her just outside the churchyard. Although Peter Mallon’s wallet was missing, along with his satchel, and the snow had obliterated any chance of finding major evidence, she did have a few tidbits to share. A bullet had been found underneath the body and Jeanie said she’d never seen anything like it.

  “It’s an antique bullet!” she exclaimed, holding up the plastic bag that contained it.

  “ ‘Antique’?” Siobhán repeated.

  “It only fits an old-time revolver. Most likely, a British Army revolver from way back. I can’t even imagine where the killer got one.”

  Siobhán and Macdara looked at each other. “The Kilbane Museum,” they said at the same time. It had a collection of revolvers dating back to the earliest gun conflicts in Ireland. Most
of the revolvers would have been from the British Army.

  “Show her the note,” Macdara said to the pathologist. Jeanie Brady held up a second plastic bag. Inside was the remains of the letter Siobhán had spotted on the ground.

  My Dearest Ann,

  How could you? I used to believe the truth shall set

  you free. However, I am a prisoner.

  “What on earth?” Siobhán said. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all that survived,” Jeanie said. “We found matches on the ground. It appears someone attempted to burn the note at the churchyard.”

  “Did you find a matchbook?”

  “No. Just discarded matches.”

  Siobhán sighed. “We’ve basically got nothing.”

  “We know that Ann is the name of John Mallon’s wife,” Macdara said. “Peter’s great-grandmother.”

  Jeanie spit another pistachio shell onto the snow-covered ground. She was going to torture the poor squirrels. “There’s more,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve been able to date the paper and the letter. It’s from the nineteenth century.”

  Siobhán whistled. Macdara nodded. “So we’ve got an antique letter and revolver,” Siobhán said. “Found near headstones from the same time period.”

  “It’s intriguing,” the pathologist said. “I almost envy you.”

  Siobhán groaned. “I wonder if Peter had the letter in his satchel?”

  “Meaning someone killed Peter first and burned the letter second?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t fit.”

  Siobhán gazed out at the cemetery. What would bring a man like Peter here at this hour? Something irresistible. “Maybe Peter was at the churchyard to purchase the letters from the killer.”

  “So we’re assuming this letter was written by Peter’s great-grandfather?” Macdara said.

  Siobhán nodded. “John Mallon. We’ll need to find other examples of John Mallon’s handwriting to prove it, but it would explain why Peter agreed to meet someone at that hour.”

  “In that scenario, it’s the killer who suggests the time.”