Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  The last time she had stepped into the house, it had been dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. She had to hand it to Chris Gordon, the change was outstanding. He’d given it a fresh coat of paint, and everything was tidy. She wondered if the place had had a woman’s touch. Chris had no shortage of suitors. Girls were constantly hanging around in his shop, and Siobhán knew it wasn’t for the gory comics.

  He hummed as he set about making the coffee, and for a few seconds she felt as if she were on an awkward first date. When he set his coffee down in front of her, she could smell his cologne, or aftershave, and she had to admit it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She immediately thought of Macdara, and felt a flush of shame, then irritation for his intrusion into her thoughts. She was a grown woman, fully capable of smelling any man she wanted to.

  “Everything okay?” Chris said, flashing his dimple.

  She sat up straight, pulled out her notebook, and slammed it on his table. “You volunteered at the Kilbane Museum the week Peter was in town.”

  “Oh, my God,” he said. “You’re right. He did come into the museum.”

  She stood. Her anger flaring. “Don’t give me that.”

  He concentrated on stirring heaps of sugar into his coffee. “So you are mad at me.”

  “Of course I’m mad at you. How could you keep this from me? I should arrest you right now for interfering with an investigation.” She sank back into her seat, mainly because her feet were tired and she didn’t want to stand.

  Chris held his arms out. “I panicked.”

  “Explain.”

  “I’m working in the museum. Some fellow American man comes in and starts telling me this magnificent story.... Really it was so cool—”

  “Wait. Peter Mallon told you his great-grandfather’s story?” She clenched her fists, wishing once again that she could dole out punishment for deception and/or stupidity. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, having read somewhere that it helped to induce a calm state. It did not.

  “Are you okay?”

  She pointed at him. “From now on, you don’t think. I’ll do the thinking for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ever call me that again.”

  “Sorry. Garda.”

  She drummed her fingers on the table, imagining Peter in the museum, a glint in his eye as he spoke of his great-grandfather. For some reason she was jealous that Chris had heard Peter Mallon’s story firsthand. She hoped she wasn’t getting too emotionally involved with the victim. “Tell me everything Mr. Mallon said.”

  “He told me a love story.” Chris held eye contact with her.

  She squinted at him. “A love story.”

  “John and Ann Mallon.”

  Siobhán felt a tingle up her spine. “Go on.”

  “They were young and in love during The Great Hunger. Stole away on a ship called the Swan.”

  Siobhán sat up straight. “The Swan. Are you sure?”

  “That’s what he said. It sailed from Cork to New York.”

  At least he’d been paying attention. She had a new nugget of information. The Swan. It was a lovely name for a sailing ship. She would have to do some further research.

  Chris shrugged. “There was a friend in America waiting to help the young couple. They started a restaurant to feed the poor, while going on to have a beautiful family. Made a fortune and gave back to the people. It’s the quintessential American story. You know. Via Ireland.”

  Siobhán frowned. “While regaling you with the love story, Peter Mallon may have stolen an antique revolver and bullets right out from under your nose.”

  Chris almost fell out of his chair. “What?” His shock was genuine. Siobhán almost relished delivering the news.

  “Do you know the antique revolvers that hang in the glass case at the museum?”

  “Of course.”

  “One of them is missing.”

  “Which one?”

  Siobhán was flummoxed. “What does that matter?”

  “I’m just trying to picture the case.”

  “The third one from the left.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing there.”

  “My God.” He held up his hands. “I didn’t take it.”

  “Could Peter Mallon have taken it while regaling you with this love story?”

  “If he did . . . that would make me look like a freaking idiot.”

  Siobhán sighed. He was only thinking of himself. “No one is worried about that. Think back. What was that day like? Is it possible Peter Mallon took the gun from the case?” If Peter brought the gun, it means the killer wrestled it from him. Perhaps there was a quarrel. Maybe the killer shot in self-defense. She couldn’t discount the fact that Peter had been in the museum in close proximity to the murder weapon. She had to leave room for all the possibilities. But why would Peter bring a gun in the first place? He could have felt uneasy about the meeting. Spooked even. Imagine. Killed with the very gun you stole to protect yourself. How was that for the luck of the Irish?

  Chris poured more sugar into his coffee. Then stirred. Then poured some more. “I didn’t see him do it, but it had to be him. Right?”

  Siobhán moved the sugar out of his way, just in case he was thinking about diving in headfirst. “You’re positive you didn’t see him do it?”

  “I swear. I would have told you.”

  “Was your back ever to him?”

  Chris looked up and to the right. “I would have said no. But it had to have been, right? For him to steal it?”

  “Unless you think you wouldn’t have noticed if he did it right in front of you,” Siobhán said, unable to stop the sarcasm this time.

  “And he had been asking about the gun.”

  Siobhán felt a jolt. “He did?” Her fists curled in. Why on earth did she have to squeeze information out of people? There was seriously something wrong with human beings. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the detective. I don’t know what matters and what doesn’t.”

  Siobhán took a deep breath that wasn’t at all cleansing and drummed her fingers on the table. “What did he ask you about the antique revolvers?”

  Chris rubbed his chin. “I don’t remember.”

  “You have to. This is important.”

  Chris looked up and to the right, then snapped his fingers. “I don’t think he was very happy with his wife.”

  “What?”

  “I said that was a great love story. His reaction was odd.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said you never know what’s behind someone’s love story. He said you never really know someone at all.”

  It was very similar to the strange comment he made to Bridie. Didn’t he say something to her about never really knowing somebody? Obviously, things had not been so perfect between Greta and Peter. Did this have anything to do with Frank and Greta? Maybe Peter found out his brother was in love with his wife. Or maybe he was speaking of his daughter, Tracy, trying to have him declared mentally unfit. Or maybe it was about Brandon gambling. Siobhán almost groaned out loud. So many options. She urged Chris to go on. “And then he asked about the guns?”

  “Yes. I didn’t think he was planning on shooting anyone. Not with antiques.”

  “Meaning you showed him the case of revolvers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he touch them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you open the case?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he say anything about them?”

  Chris shook his head. “He looked at them closely, then shook his head as if he was disappointed.”

  “‘Disappointed’?”

  “He made some comment . . . What was it . . . oh. He said this was all a waste of time. That there was no need to get dramatic.”

  �
�No need to get dramatic.”

  Did that mean he took the gun, or did he leave the gun?

  “Are you sure all of the revolvers were there the entire time you volunteered?”

  “I’m sure. I mean I wouldn’t have been sure . . . but he asked about the revolvers, remember?” Chris hesitated.

  “Did you think of something?”

  “We had a large donation that day.” He snapped his fingers again. Siobhán wanted to bite them off. She wondered if these mini-thoughts of violence were normal this early in her garda career. “That’s right! When I came in, boxes were piled on the counter. They blocked the view of the case.” He exhaled and crossed his arms. A satisfied grin spread across his face. “Peter could have taken the gun right in front of me without me noticing.”

  Siobhán let that sit for a moment. “Who donated boxes?”

  He frowned. “I think Bridie did. Some of her handmade scarves. And George Dunne.”

  Siobhán nearly spilled her coffee. “Were there any wooly socks in his boxes?”

  Chris nodded. “How did you know?”

  This time Siobhán spit out her coffee and began to choke. Chris sprang up from his seat and pounded her on the back. When she could breathe again, his hands remained, and he gently started massaging her. She tossed his hands off. “Are you joking me?”

  “A box full of socks,” Chris said, going back to his seat with a swagger and a smile. “I thought he was crazy and threw them out.”

  “Oh, no,” she groaned. “He’s reported them missing.”

  “He what?”

  “He’s been railing about those missing socks.”

  Chris was the one who almost choked this time. “Dude is losing it. Poor man. I don’t ever want to get that old.”

  “The alternative isn’t much better. So, did you throw out the socks?”

  “I was going to.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  Chris shook his head. “Someone took them.”

  “What? Who?” That’s all she needed. Who knew that George Dunne’s socks really had been stolen.

  “It was the strangest thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “I had just set the box outside the door. I was just temporarily putting them there to load into my car. I was going to take them to one of the travelers’ camps. I know you Irish don’t like them, but that doesn’t mean they should have cold feet in the winter, now does it? And they were perfectly good socks. But I had to pop back into the museum to shut off the lights and lock up. That’s when I saw a figure go by the door and bend down near where I had placed the box.”

  “A figure?”

  “A tall old lady. Long gray hair—”

  “With a tan coat and a red cap?”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “You know her?”

  “Go on.” This has to be the same old lady Father Kearney encountered in his churchyard.

  “That’s it. By the time I got outside, she was gone. And so was the box.”

  “Did she look homeless?”

  “I’m sorry, it was just a glimpse.”

  “You don’t know for sure if the revolver was still in the case?”

  “Correct. The other boxes were piled up, blocking my view.”

  Siobhán tried to think through it. What if the person who stole the gun, placed it in the box of socks, perhaps to hide it? Maybe it was a freak, random event that some crazy old lady who had already been wandering the cemetery winds up with a loaded gun. Then one night here comes poor Peter Mallon into the cemetery for a prearranged meeting, and he startles the crazy old woman, pacing back and forth, this time with the gun. . . .

  No. She was making things up again. Just the facts. See where the facts lead. All she knew was that this was another confirmed sighting of a tall old lady. That, and she’d solved the mystery of George Dunne and his missing wooly socks. This was getting her nowhere. It was looking like Peter Mallon had taken the gun. And maybe it wasn’t because he was spooked, wasn’t meant for self-defense. Maybe he had much more sinister plans for the gun.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve volunteered at the museum,” Siobhán said. “Are donations just on certain days?”

  “Yes,” Chris said. “Saturday mornings only.” Two days before the murder.

  So someone could have known that boxes would be donated that day. She wished visitors were required to sign in. “Who else besides Peter Mallon came in that day?”

  “You can’t possibly ask me to remember that,” Chris said.

  She sighed. Peter might not have stolen the gun; actually, it could have been anyone. She pushed her lousy instant coffee away and stood up. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  Chris saw her to the door. “Now that you’re no longer dating that guard.” Chris let it hang. He knew Macdara and it was disrespectful to call him “that guard.”

  “Detective Sergeant Flannery, you mean.”

  “Is he?” He raised his eyebrow. Siobhán knew he knew that too. “Good for him. Dublin must be an exciting city.”

  “I’d better go.”

  “I messed that up. I would love to take you out sometime.”

  “I’m pretty busy. New job and all.” She gave him a wave and headed off the porch and to the car.

  “Of course. It must be hard on you. Given whom he’s dating and all.”

  Siobhán came to a stop. She felt her insides go cold. She turned around. “Pardon?”

  Chris leaned against his porch rail. “I mean she’s one of your best friends, isn’t she?”

  Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for it. “Who?” She barely had any breath in her chest.

  “Aisling. Your friend who lives in Dublin? And Detective Sergeant Flannery, who now lives in Dublin?”

  “What about them?”

  “I heard they were dating.”

  The skies were low and gray and seemed to sink into Siobhán’s chest. “You’re lying.”

  His eyes widened. He straightened up. “Oh, God. You really didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Maria was in the store the other day. Talking on her mobile. She’s not exactly quiet.”

  Siobhán couldn’t help but picture it as he spoke, couldn’t help but get reeled in. “And what exactly did she say?”

  “She said she was tired of keeping it a secret. ‘Aisling, you have to tell her about you and Macdara, or I will.’ ”

  Maria. If it’s true, Maria is betraying me too. All of them.

  Was this why Macdara had forbidden her to talk about anything personal? Make her think it was too painful for him to talk about them? “I have to go.” She tripped down the porch steps and hesitated at the snowman. She wanted to scream at him and punch him, and kick him to the ground. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t built one with the young ones.

  “I’m really sorry,” Chris called from the porch. “I just assumed they told you. What jerks.”

  She jumped in the car, started it up, and careened out of the driveway. And tried to convince herself it was all about the ice and the snow.

  Chapter 14

  On the drive back to the station to return the car, Siobhán lectured herself. She wasn’t going to believe a word Chris Gordon had to say. She wasn’t even going to dignify it with another thought. Aisling wouldn’t date Macdara, would she? Isn’t she dating a Scottish lad?

  They’d lost touch lately. Siobhán assumed Aisling was just wrapped up in her busy life, as was she. But maybe there was another reason she’d been avoiding her.

  Siobhán sent a Hey There! text to Aisling. She stared at her phone, waiting for a response. None came. That didn’t mean a thing. If Siobhán lived in Dublin, she would be too busy to answer texts as well.

  Maria, on the other hand. Maria couldn’t avoid Siobhán. Her best friend. Whatever was going on, Maria knew the story and she hadn’t said a word. Siobhán wanted t
o find her right now, shake her down, but she’d learned not to react when her temper was this high. Chris Gordon might be making the whole thing up. Maybe he misheard the conversation.

  She could not let this distract her. She was new to this job and could not blow it. She parked her car in the correct spot behind the gardai station and headed home. She had put in a long day, and didn’t want to risk going into the station and running into Macdara. She had to sit with the news, process it first. She took deep breaths as she walked down Sarsfield Street. She waved at Annmarie who was manning the counter at Courtney’s, her move to Spain hadn’t lasted more than a month and she was back. Kilbane had a way of wrapping you in its cocoon, making it hard to leave. Siobhán hoped that was what was happening with Gráinne. Maybe she would stay, instead of returning to New York.

  She popped into the chipper and bought a basket of curried chips, then went back to the counter and ordered a second helping. Some folks might comfort themselves with ice cream during times of stress, but Siobhán would take the curried chips any day. She’d make sure to go for a long run as soon as possible. She was just passing the hardware shop when she saw a sled propped up near the front door. She popped in and purchased it. The snow would melt soon, it never lingered long in Ireland, but Siobhán would be prepared for the next one. She would make snowmen, and throw snowballs, and wave at Ciáran as he careened down a hill.

  No matter what was going on, she wasn’t dating Macdara anymore. He was a free man. She was a free woman. The fact that anger coursed through her, along with the thought, was her problem, not his. She would put it out of her mind. There was a murder to solve. From now on, she was all about this case and nothing else. When it was over, she would confront all of them: Maria, Aisling, and Macdara. They had no right to keep this from her. But right now she had more important things to worry about. Chris Gordon’s pronouncement had thrown her off, but she’d also learned some important clues. She had the name of a ship for one. The Swan sailing out of Cork Harbour. Peter Mallon was at the museum, lamenting about never really knowing someone, and may have stolen the gun. Or one of the volunteers may have placed the gun in a box of wooly socks and set it outside the door for someone else to pick up. She also had a second confirmed sighting of their mysterious, tall old lady.