Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Of course. What man in his right mind wants to be in a cemetery in the middle of the night?”

  “Okay,” Macdara said. “So why burn the letter?”

  Siobhán shrugged. “The deal went bad?”

  “Peter had money. If he wanted the letter so bad that he agreed to the time and place of the meeting, I don’t see how the deal could have gone bad.”

  “Maybe the killer demanded more money. Everyone has pride. A point of no return. Maybe Peter was pushed to the edge.” Siobhan could imagine it so clearly. Poor Peter, finally grasps the letter in his hand when—

  “Or maybe the killer never intended for anyone else to see the letters,” Macdara said, interupting her imaginings. “It wasn’t about money at all. It was all a ploy to lure Peter Mallon to his death.”

  “I said that already,” Siobhán said. Hadn’t she? Maybe she’d just thought it. Macdara always had been a bit of a mind-reader. Siobhán shuddered. Jeanie was watching them wide-eyed, her bag of pistachios nearly gone.

  “Maybe a third person came on the scene?” Jeanie ventured. She stared at her nearly-empty bag of nuts with what could only be described as grief.

  “Did you find evidence of a third person?” Siobhán asked.

  Jeanie reddened. “No. But the snow and time lapse made it very difficult.”

  “We need to find the satchel,” Macdara said. “Along with Peter’s mobile phone and wallet.”

  “And the revolver,” Siobhán said.

  Jeanie cleared her throat. “‘Envy’ might have been too strong a word. You two certainly have your work cut out for you.” She balled up her empty bag of pistachios and shoved it into her coat pocket.

  Siobhán pulled up her photograph of the headstone. She pointed to the letters at the bottom: E_ _u _A__. “What if the last word on here is Ann?”

  Macdara nodded. “Good catch.” He stared at it. “So what’s the rest?”

  “I solved one,” Siobhán said, wishing she knew the rest. “Can’t I just take a second to bask in my glory?”

  Macdara raised his eyebrow. “Bask away. Will you let me know when you’re finished?”

  “You’ve already ruined it,” Siobhán said. “I couldn’t bask now if I wanted to.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Jeanie said, looking totally lost now that her nuts were gone.

  They thanked her and hurried to the museum.

  * * *

  The Kilbane Museum was a small affair—a one-room museum with an attic loft, but it held treasures going back to the fourteenth century and was adored and protected by the locals, who kept it afloat by volunteering for shifts. Siobhán even manned the desk once in a while. Today their neighbor Pio Mahoney stood there, grinning at them as they walked in. He and his wife, Sheila, lived across the street. Sheila ran a hair salon and Pio was a gifted musician. “Ah, a bit of company,” he said. “A fella can go mad in here surrounded by all these artifacts.”

  They said their hellos and got straight to business. Macdara asked if any of the revolvers had gone missing.

  “Not that I’m aware,” Pio said. “But let’s have a look.” He went straight to a glass case on the back wall. Mounted behind it was the collection of revolvers. Third from the right was a blank spot. A faint outline of a revolver, etched in dust.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pio said. “There’s one missing, alright. How on earth did I not notice?”

  Siobhán felt a tingle. This was it. The murder weapon. How did someone get into the glass case without breaking it?

  “How does this open?” Macdara asked. Pio pointed to a hook on the wall where a key hung. “You keep the key right there?”

  Pio looked frightened for a moment, as if the blame was going to fall squarely on him. He held up a mess of keys. “That’s just a spare. Some volunteers don’t like carrying this around in their pocket. Doesn’t bother me.”

  “You leave a spare key hanging in plain sight?” She leaned closer. At least the key wasn’t labeled. There was no sign above it that screamed: KEY TO GUN CABINET. A stranger coming into the shop would probably never even notice it. Unless, of course, they were desperate for a gun.

  “Never had reason to think anyone would take it. With so many volunteers it seemed safer than making multiple copies.”

  Siobhán scanned the room. It was filled to the brim with books, and objects, and photographs. “Is it possible the revolver is lying around here still?”

  “Let me give a look.” Pio slowly looked around the shop. Macdara and Siobhán joined in, combing through shelves and boxes. They came up empty.

  Macdara sighed. “Since you didn’t know it was missing, I don’t suppose you’ve any idea when it was taken?”

  “This is my first shift in ages. Nobody mentioned it, and I wasn’t really looking.”

  “Do you have the schedule book?” Siobhán asked. All the volunteers were required to sign in and out of their shifts.

  “Sure.” Pio dipped into the shelf behind the counter and handed Macdara the schedule book. Macdara tucked it under his arm.

  “You’re keeping it?” Pio asked, alarmed.

  “Just going to photocopy the last few weeks,” Macdara said. “I’ll have a guard drop it off as soon as I’m finished.”

  “What about bullets?” Siobhán said. “Are there any here for that revolver?”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s the only one that has bullets. We keep ’em in a jar in this cupboard.” Pio knelt and unlocked another cupboard. “That can’t be!” he exclaimed.

  “They’re gone,” Siobhán said.

  “They’re gone,” Pio said.

  Siobhán pointed to the hanging key. “Don’t tell me they open with the same key?” Pio’s bright red face provided the answer they needed.

  “Someone has a flare for the dramatic,” Macdara said, staring at the empty spot where the antique revolver once rested.

  “And a lot more bullets,” Siobhán said.

  Chapter 12

  Lough Gur, just a short drive away in County Limerick, was a local historic park defined by a horseshoe-shaped lake banked by a short trail where swans and cows alike came to drink, swim, and bathe. It was the site of megalithic remains, stones that remained from prehistoric dwellings. Behind the lake towered Knockadoon Hill. Humans had lived here since 3000 B.C., making it an important and rare archaeological site.

  Siobhán always felt a deep sense of appreciation and awe whenever she was here, and today was no exception. Part of her wanted to show the Americans the magnificent site, and the other part of her selfishly wanted to keep it a secret. The largest Grange Stone Circle in Ireland was located near the lake, as well as an ancient dolmen. In addition, the remains of three artificial islands, called crannogs, were present, as well as Stone Age houses, ring forts, and, last, a hill fort overlooking the lake. In another life Siobhán wanted to be an archaeologist, spend her days unearthing secrets from the past, and preserving treasures for generations to come. She never wanted to lose the link between the past and the present, the strong bonds that were literally etched in stone. She loved walking along the lake, although today the snow was covering most of the treasures. It was still a fresh and stunning sight. It was here Siobhán and Macdara agreed to go over the case while away from the prying eyes of the Americans. That was his official excuse. Siobhán expected the truth was somewhat different. The office was stifling. They were forced to sit in close quarters and stare at each other. Here, they could gaze into the distance and not be confronted by accusations in each other’s eyes. Siobhán suspected that was the real reason Macdara had driven them out here, but she wasn’t going to complain. She would rather be outdoors even if the chill could take off her toes.

  In addition to the visitor’s center there was a castle at the entrance of the car park, named Bourchier’s Castle, but it was on private farmland, and inaccessible to the public. That didn’t stop the farmer’s collies from trotting into the park to check out visitors, three scraggly-looking dogs that eyed M
acdara and Siobhán from a safe distance, ears back and tails tucked between their legs.

  As they strolled along the path by the lake and inhaled the fresh scent of the earth and water, Macdara handed Siobhán the volunteer log from the museum. It didn’t take her long to find it. “George Dunne,” she exclaimed. “He volunteered a few days before his socks went missing.”

  A gleam shone in Macdara’s eye. “You have good instincts. But the socks just aren’t speaking to me.”

  “Maybe if you put one on your hand and move it like a puppet, it will,” Siobhán said, doing her best demonstration.

  He threw his head back and laughed. It filled her with joy. “Regardless,” he said when he’d recovered. “If you have an instinct about it, then I agree that we need to speak with him.”

  “There’s no ‘we,’” Siobhán said, staring at the lone cow who had made its way through ice and snow to poke at the lake.

  Macdara stopped. “Boss?”

  “It’s all you. He hates me. You’ll have to go it alone.”

  “I’ll do me best,” Macdara said. She could feel him watching her as she watched the cow. She grew tired of looking at the cow, who was chewing extremely slowly, but she never grew tired of Macdara watching her, so she remained staring at the bovine as if fascinated. When she could take it no more, she flicked her eyes to Macdara and tried not to notice how blue his eyes looked against the gray Irish skies. “We’ll have to speak with everyone who has volunteered at the museum in the past week,” he said.

  Siobhán shivered. “If the missing revolver is indeed our murder weapon, then that means this was premeditated.”

  “That is pretty much a foregone conclusion.”

  “Right. Who accidentally shoots someone in a cemetery at one in the morning?”

  “Unless they went there for another reason, then fought, struggled, and the gun went off.”

  “That letter has to be what brought Peter to the churchyard. If only we could read more of it.”

  “And find Peter’s wallet and satchel.”

  “The killer certainly isn’t making this easy on us,” Siobhán said with a sigh. “Do you think that particular gun holds any significance? The fact that it’s an antique?”

  “You mean the killer was sending some kind of message?”

  “Yes.” They started walking again. In the distance the cow lifted her head from the water and studied them for a second before turning around and showing them her large arse. Siobhán couldn’t help but think it was on purpose.

  “My guess?” Macdara said. “Someone in the museum mentioned it was the only one that had bullets.”

  “How would one of the Americans know not only about the gun, but where to find the bullets?”

  Macdara let out a laugh. “The Kilbane Museum isn’t exactly Fort Knox. The key to the guns and the bullets was hanging in plain sight. Anyone who stood there long enough chatting with a volunteer could have put it together.”

  Siobhán sighed. “We Irish do love to chat.”

  “In their defense . . . you can’t blame the volunteers for not looking at every tourist as if they were possible murderers. Even if they were Yanks.”

  “So no significance that the gun is antique?”

  Macdara shook his head. “I think it was about access and bullets.”

  “We’re going to have to round up all the volunteers and see who opened his or her piehole.” Macdara nodded. “Still. We’ve got an antique revolver and a family paying homage to an ancestor.”

  “Your point?”

  “We also have to dig into the Mallon family tree.”

  Macdara grinned. “You have the files from Greta. You should get started.”

  She gave him a look and he laughed, but the truth was she didn’t mind. Paperwork didn’t lie, or sidestep, or insult. She’d take a stack of papers over a shifty eyewitness any day. “Bridie suggested that Mallon could be a surname for someone’s maternal line in Kilbane.” Macdara’s face went still. He looked so stern. Siobhán felt her stomach twist. “Something wrong?”

  “You’ve been discussing private details of this case with Bridie?” He turned and headed back to the car. Instead of the leisurely pace they had been enjoying, Macdara was speed-walking now. She had to jog to keep up, his words feeling like a slap to the face. Even the collies turned tail as Macdara strode by, then tucked and hustled up the hill back to their farmhouse and private castle. For a second she was jealous of them, jealous of scraggly farm dogs. She hadn’t been discussing the case with Bridie. She had been asking questions. Just enough to get her talking.

  “I was gathering information, not giving it,” Siobhán said to the back of Macdara’s head. “And she met Peter Mallon shortly before he was murdered. Of course she needed to talk about that.”

  “What did you learn?” Macdara asked while still walking ahead.

  Infuriated, Siobhán kept up with his pace. “Peter asked her if she was aware of any Mallons living in town.”

  Macdara stopped. Stared at her. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Are there? Any Mallons living in town?”

  “Only time I’ve seen the surname in Kilbane is that tombstone.”

  “And you’re sure Bridie doesn’t know anything more about the case?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You need to be more careful.” He started walking again.

  Siobhán crossed her arms. He was so stubborn. She took a deep breath. This wasn’t about them. There was a murderer out there. Siobhán softened her voice. “Even if we find a long-lost relative, why on earth would they want Peter Mallon dead?”

  “I don’t know. But somebody certainly did. And he was pointing to one of the graves in the cemetery.”

  “Or ‘he was reaching for something,’” Siobhán said, echoing Macdara’s words back at him.

  “Reaching for what?” Macdara said.

  Seriously, did he not remember saying that? “The gun?” Siobhán said. “Maybe there was a struggle and it dropped.”

  “Number one rule. Do not make up facts and then try and get the evidence to fit. Follow the evidence and see where it wants to fit.”

  “I’m keeping an open mind while throwing out possibilities. The evidence, at best, is vague.”

  “Then we keep digging until it becomes clear.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, a bit more sarcastically than she’d intended.

  If he picked up on it, he didn’t let on. “I’ll arrange for the group to go to the cemetery. It should be quite a surprise for all of them.”

  They got in the car. The heat inside was undone by the coolness that had risen between them. Macdara hesitated before starting it up. “I’m going to set up a time for all of us to meet at the cemetery. Continue watching Jay’s footage.”

  Siobhán nodded. “And I’ll look over the family tree.”

  “You could,” Macdara said. His voice suggested he had a better idea.

  “Or?” Siobhán said.

  “There’s another name on the volunteer list I found interesting.”

  “Who?”

  Macdara handed her the notebook again as he started up the car and headed out. She looked through it, saw the name, and cursed.

  Chapter 13

  Siobhán shivered as she waited for the heater to crank up in the guard car, wishing it were warm enough to take her scooter. She stared at the name in the schedule book: Chris Gordon. He’d volunteered at the museum a few days before Peter was murdered. Had Peter come into the museum then? Surely, if Peter had come into the museum, Chris would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t he?

  She had to ask him if he remembered seeing the revolver while on his shift. But she couldn’t help but think back to how he answered one of her previous questions. She had asked him if he had seen Peter Mallon in the comic shop. She remembered his answer sounded very stilted, rehearsed even. Something along the lines of: “No, I did not see Peter Mallon in the comic-book shop.” Was there more to that? Possibly, “B
ut I did see him in the museum. . . .”

  If that was the case, she was going to throttle him. It was one thing to have one of the American strangers lie to her—or all of them—but it was a worse betrayal coming from a man who had decided to call Kilbane home.

  Siobhán thought she’d find him at the comic-book store, but was instead greeted by a surly young lad who barely looked up from his werewolf comic to mumble that Chris was doing some work back at his house. She wanted to roll up the comic and smack him across the head with it; instead she thanked him and walked out.

  Chris lived in a farmhouse just outside of town. Given that the lad who killed her parents in a drunk-driving accident used to live in that house, Siobhán wasn’t thrilled to go. And with the snow making it difficult to drive, well, she was tempted not to go at all. But if she was right, someone stole that revolver right out from under his nose, and any information she could glean might just help their case.

  She found Chris shoveling his driveway. A snowman was built next to it. She felt a moment of guilt. She should have made a snowman with Ann and Ciarán. She should have bought a sled and found a hill to careen down, or started a snowball fight. There simply hadn’t been any time.

  Chris looked alarmed when her car pulled up; then he smiled when he saw Siobhán step out.

  “How ya?” she said. It took all her control not to lunge at him.

  “Better now,” he said, leaning on the shovel with a grin. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Do you mind if we step into the house for a chat?” She blinked rapidly, hoping it passed as flirting. He looked alarmed. “It’s a bit nippy out here,” she added. “I could use a mug of tea.”

  “Did I do something?”

  “Did you?” She smiled sweetly. Her stomach turned.

  He sighed and tossed his shovel down. “Is this about Peter Mallon?”

  “It is, yeah.”

  He held her gaze, then abruptly broke it off. “I’m out of Barry’s tea. I only have instant coffee.”

  She sighed. It would be nothing like the liquid heaven her cappuccino machine spit out. “That’ll do.”

  * * *