Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Siobhán leaned the sled against the bistro as she stamped snow off her boots. She was desperate for a mug of tea and a biscuit, not to mention she needed to pitch in at the bistro, but just as she was preparing to enter, someone grabbed her arm and yanked her away from the door. She almost screamed when she turned around and saw Tracy Mallon, blond hair flying behind her, pouty lips flapping, and eyes flashing.

  She was so pretty. Yet, there was something about her that equally repelled Siobhán. It was as if she was wearing a hard armor. “Sorry. Wanted to grab you before you went in.”

  “You managed,” Siobhán said. She was grateful they hadn’t tipped over.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Siobhán pointed to the door. “There’s a perfectly nice somewhere in here.” It was freezing and she just wanted to put her feet up and have a nice cuppa tea. Just one.

  “The others are there. I need to speak with you privately.”

  Siobhán nodded. “We could go to a pub, or the shops, or for a stroll, although it’s mighty cold out here. . . .” She shivered for good measure. Tracy either didn’t pick up on it, or didn’t care.

  “A stroll would be great. I love the fresh air.” Brilliant. One of those. Siobhán ached to go inside. “Let’s go.” They started to walk, with Siobhán in the lead. She headed in the direction of the abbey. If it was privacy Tracy wanted, that was the place to go. The ruined monastery looked absolutely gorgeous when the field was covered in snow.

  Tracy appropriately gasped when she saw it. The ruined abbey stood majestically at the end of the white-blanketed field. The little creek running behind it was frozen over. Icicles hanging over the five-light window gleamed in the sun. “You have this in your backyard? You’re so lucky! The only castle we have back home is a White Castle.”

  “A White Castle?” What an odd color for a castle. Siobhán had never heard of it.

  Tracy laughed. “It’s a hamburger joint.”

  “Oh.” Stranger yet.

  “Rat burgers, some call them.”

  Siobhán frowned. Thank goodness her job wasn’t to understand Americans. That was one mystery she wasn’t likely to solve. “This isn’t a castle. It’s a ruined abbey. The castle is back in the town square.”

  Tracy laughed and grabbed Siobhán’s hands. “See? You’re so lucky!”

  They began to walk around the remains of the abbey. Calmness spread through Siobhán as it always did whenever she was near this magnificent structure. She often pictured the monks moving about, stirring the fire in the kitchen, brewing beer by the river, standing in the tower, gazing out over the green fields. Did they ever wonder what the future would look like?

  Tracy pulled out her phone and began taking pictures. “I wonder if my father got to see this.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Siobhán said gently. “He was at the Kilbane Museum, which is just on the other side of the field. He wouldn’t have been able to miss it.”

  Tears came to Tracy’s eyes. “What did you want to tell me?” Siobhán asked. It was better to keep her mind occupied. Siobhán could say the same thing for herself.

  “Has Brandon been gambling again? I need to know.”

  “I’m only here to listen to information,” Siobhán said. “Not supply it.”

  “He is. I know he is.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “Father would have been furious.”

  “And how would Brandon have reacted?” Siobhán kept her voice light. Maybe he found out. Maybe he was furious.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it.”

  “Pardon?” Siobhán laid her Irish lilt on a little thicker. When around Americans, the Irish accent was a weaponiz-able trait. She wanted to sound pleasant and innocent.

  “Brandon couldn’t kill a fly. He’s a slave to his own weaknesses. He couldn’t look Father in the eye, let alone shoot him.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’ve been investigating Jay Shepard and Hannah Stripes,” she said, coming to a halt and wiping her eyes.

  Siobhán almost plowed into her. “Investigating?”

  “My father was too trusting. I hired a PI back in the States to do background checks.”

  “And?”

  “He hasn’t gotten back to me. Or answered any of my calls. Do you think something could have happened to him?”

  Siobhán was having enough trouble finding out what was happening to folks here. She couldn’t worry about an investigator back in the States. “What is it you think he’ll find?”

  “I don’t know. But one of them has to be the killer.”

  “Hannah or Jay?”

  “You can’t think a member of his own family is guilty?!”

  “It does happen.”

  “Not in this case. I didn’t do it, of course, and Brandon didn’t do it, and neither did Uncle Frank.”

  “You left out a family member.”

  Tracy’s face clouded over. “If you’re talking about that woman . . . she is not family.”

  “So you think Greta is capable of murder?”

  Tracy began to pace. “Perhaps. However, what’s her motive? Brandon and I are the ones who inherit.”

  Greta was right. As soon as Tracy and Brandon found out Peter had changed his will, they were going to accuse her of murder. Maybe they already knew and were setting the groundwork to accuse Greta. Could all this have been planned? Kill their father and frame his third wife? Do it somewhere far away. Away from their customers and the American police? “Money is often a strong motive,” Siobhán said. “But not the only one.”

  “I hate to think Frank would do something like this.”

  “Did your father and Greta seem happy?”

  Tracy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “No fights?”

  “Not that I ever heard. But if she was milking him for his money, she wouldn’t want to cause trouble, now would she?”

  But she must have, if Peter was referring to her with his comments about never really knowing someone. Perhaps they kept their difficulties private as well. With children like Tracy and Brandon, Siobhán couldn’t blame him. “Are you quite sure the documentary was your father’s idea?”

  Tracy frowned. “I think so. But ‘quite sure’? No.” Tracy’s eyes widened. “Do you think this was a setup from the very beginning? That someone used the documentary to lure us to Ireland? That the killer intended to murder my father?”

  “I don’t know,” Siobhán said. “Please let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. Besides, what could your family history have to do with any of this?” It did, however. In her bones Siobhán knew it did. But she was missing something. It seemed like the perfect story. An Irishman makes good in America. Becomes rich. Gives to the poor. Who would take issue with that? It was generations ago. Surely, she was reaching by trying to find any kind of connection.

  But he was killed in a cemetery in front of his great-grandfather’s headstone. She couldn’t just ignore that.

  “What can you tell me about Ann Mallon?”

  Tracy frowned. “Who?”

  “Your great great-grandmother.”

  Tracy shook her head. “I can’t tell you anything. I didn’t get into that genealogy stuff. You’ll have to ask Greta.”

  “Got it.” Tracy was trying to remain in control of the conversation, regulating her answers, to make it sound as if she didn’t care. But Siobhán wasn’t quite buying it.

  Tracy grabbed Siobhán’s arm. She had a strong grip. “Do you think the killer will come after Brandon or me next?”

  Siobhán not-so-gently extricated herself. “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “As soon as you hear back from the investigator, you must let me know if he found anything on Hannah or Jay. Anything at all.”

  “But he’s not answering my calls.”

  “Why don’t you give me his information, I’ll see if our detective sergeant can make any headway.”
>
  Tracy removed a Biro and paper from her purse and scribbled down the number. Siobhán tucked it in her pocket. Tracy shoved her hands in her pockets. “You need to catch the killer soon. We all need to get back home.”

  How long could they legally hold them here? Siobhán had no idea. Probably not long. “When your father left the Titanic Experience, are you sure everyone else in your group remained?”

  “Immediately after? Yes. But once Father left, there was only a few minutes of the tour remaining. As soon as it was over, we went our separate ways.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Tracy’s eyes flicked over Siobhán. “Are you asking for my alibi?”

  “Of course.”

  Tracy closed her eyes. When she opened them, she offered a sad smile. “I went shopping. Then I went barhopping. I never do that. I was barely aware of what time it was, or who was around, when I came back to the flat. I’m afraid I passed out.”

  They began to walk back to the bistro. If Siobhán was going to confront Tracy, it was now or never. “I heard your father was somewhat upset with you.” Siobhán hated rubbing salt in the wound. She could imagine nothing more painful than having unresolved issues with someone who had passed. The time to say “sorry” was always now.

  “ ‘Upset’ with me?”

  “Were you speaking with his doctors and lawyers behind his back? Trying to have him declared mentally unfit to handle his finances?”

  Tears came into Tracy’s eyes and she angrily brushed them away. “I suppose Greta told you.”

  “So it’s true?”

  “You don’t understand. He wasn’t himself. He was forgetful. Angry. And obsessed. I was simply trying to protect him.”

  “But he didn’t see it that way.”

  “Of course he didn’t see it that way. None of us want to admit we’re weak. I was really, really worried about him.”

  Siobhán kept her voice light again. “Have you ever held a firearm?”

  Tracy let out a wry laugh. “Never.” She shuddered. “And now I absolutely never will.”

  * * *

  “You wanted to see me?” Siobhán stood just outside Macdara’s office. She looked anywhere but at him, fighting with everything she had not to hurl accusations at him, beg him to tell her that everything Chris Gordon said was a lie.

  “Yes, yes.” Macdara grabbed a stack of receipts off his desk and approached. “The betting slips you got from Brandon?”

  “Yes?”

  He fanned through the stack in his hands. “They’re not recent. Most of them, anyway.”

  Darn it. Now she had to make eye contact. “What do you mean?”

  “The dates are from months ago. He must have dug them out of the rubbish bins.”

  That sneaky addict. “Show me.” He handed her the slips. It took her forever to find the dates. The typeface was so tiny, she practically needed a magnifying glass. Still, she should have paid more attention; she should have looked for the dates. “I’m such a fool.”

  “We all make mistakes. You won’t make it again.”

  “But why dig betting slips out of the rubbish? Just to lie about his alibi?”

  “A lie with props,” Macdara said. “He must have counted on you not scrutinizing them.”

  She bit her lip, hating that he had been right. She wished she weren’t so new at this. A rookie mistake. Still, she found it odd. Brandon wasn’t exactly proud to be gambling. Even giving her that alibi could cost him his inheritance. Logic dictated that if he was going to lie about anything, it would be about the gambling. And if he wasn’t gambling, what was he doing the night of the murder? Following his father around Kilbane? “I’ll have another word with him.”

  “Before you do that.” Macdara pulled a betting slip out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was a slip from the Cork Racecourse Mallow, under an hour’s drive from Kilbane.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is the one exception. Look at the date.”

  Siobhán studied the slip. “The day after the murder,” she said. She got the chills. If this slip belonged to Brandon . . . Who in the world would go to the racetracks the day after it was discovered that their father had been murdered? “Couldn’t it just have been a slip someone threw in the trash and our man picked it up with the rest?”

  Macdara nodded. “Could be.”

  But it might not be. “Looks like I’m taking a trip to the races?”

  Macdara shook his head. “We’re taking a trip to the races.”

  Siobhán tried to ignore the flash of heat that flared inside her at the thought of spending time alone with him. “You think we might find something at the races?”

  “That,” Macdara said as a slow smile spread across his face, “and I have a hot tip on number fourteen.”

  Chapter 15

  The Cork Racecourse was hopping. On the banks of the River Blackwater in Mallow County Cork, it was known to have the best horse racing in Ireland. A mix of flat racing and jumps, but in the winter it was all jumps. The dirt track was surrounded by a simple fence that allowed viewers to stand “up close and personal” to the horses thundering by. The sun was peeking out from puffy gray clouds, and the crowd was immense and noisy. Large stands surrounded the perimeter, selling food and beverage. There were a total of five public bars at the races, just in case folks got a little thirsty. There was a carvery restaurant, a hot-roast-beef and snack stand, and a fast-food restaurant. Siobhán’s mouth watered as soon as the smell of burgers hit her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Garda work was the best diet she’d ever tried.

  Slightly farther away, bookmakers were lined up with their leather bags stuffed with money resting at their feet. The snow had been thoroughly dealt with, the bits that hadn’t melted had been meticulously plowed and the fields were clean. It took a lot more than a little snow to stop an Irishman’s love of the ponies. In between races Irish music blared from speakers. Macdara’s race was about to begin, so Siobhán and Macdara propped themselves near the fence to watch.

  Siobhán had always loved coming to the races, and she felt a familiar thrill swirling inside her. She had to remind herself she was on duty. Number fourteen jumped his little heart out, but he didn’t win. Macdara took it with a grin and a shrug. It was time to show Brandon’s picture to a few bookmakers and see what they could learn.

  They approached the first man they saw, a short barrel of a man with a green cap and a big grin. His smile faded as he took in their garda uniforms and his toe began to tap. “Coming to place a bet, are ye?” His glum tone conveyed he knew otherwise. His eyes shifted, never landing directly on them. This was something they didn’t teach you in garda college: how unpopular it would be to wear the uniform.

  Macdara turned his mobile to the man to show him a photo of Brandon he’d secretly taken. “Two days ago, did you happen to see this American around here?”

  The man frowned, first browned off they weren’t going to place a bet, but then he squinted. He removed a pair of eyeglasses from his jacket, put them on, and examined the screen closer. “A Yank, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the murder probe in Kilbane?” He looked at them with expectant eyes.

  Siobhán groaned. She hated knowing their little village was the center of gossip. “Just answer the question.” Macdara obviously didn’t like it either. Kilbane was home to him too.

  Or is it Dublin now? And Aisling?

  The bookmaker shook his head. “Never saw him.”

  Macdara showed him the photograph again, this time much closer. “You’re sure?”

  He took his glasses off and looked away. “Didn’t come to me.”

  There were at least twenty bookmakers. This was going to take a while. They thanked him and headed for the next one in the row, a tall, slim man with the same “c’mere to me” smile.

  Here were a few of the answers they received when they asked each one if they had seen Brandon a
t the races:

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Could have done. But I can’t be sure.”

  “He’s a short man. Looks like everyone else around here. But I don’t remember hearing an American accent. They’re so loud, you usually can’t miss ’em.”

  “A Yank? We had a few of them in, alright. But they didn’t come to me, they went to him.” He nodded at a bookmaker across from them, one of the very last ones they needed to speak with.

  They approached him. He was younger than most of the middle-aged bookmakers; this was a good-looking lad in his twenties. His leather bag was thinner than the others, and he had it strapped across his body. Macdara showed him the photograph.

  His eyes lit up with recognition. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Great lad. Very generous.”

  Macdara and Siobhán shared an excited glance. This could be the breakthrough they needed. “Left you a good tip, did he?” Macdara asked.

  “I’d say he did.”

  Siobhán frowned. “Brandon doesn’t strike me as a big tipper. He said he lost money on the races here.”

  “Aye,” the lad said. “He did. He won a few bob at first and tipped generously. Then he got cocky. After two wins most of his picks came in dead last.” He laughed and shook his head. “Still tipped me, though.”

  “Who would tip on a horse that came in dead last?” Siobhán wondered out loud.

  “An American?” the bookmaker said cheerfully. He winked. “He thought I’d bring him a bit of luck. I could have sold him a leprechaun. You know yourself.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Macdara asked.

  The bookmaker said no. Macdara turned to leave. The lad’s eyes slid down to his satchel. Siobhán looked at it too.

  “I think we’re done here,” Macdara said, lightly touching her arm. “Let’s go confront Brandon.”

  “I don’t think we’re quite done, are we?” Siobhán said to the bookmaker. Macdara turned around, his eyebrow arched with curiosity. She eyed the leather bag hanging across his body. “He tipped you with that satchel, didn’t he?”

  The answer came in the form of bright red splotches that broke out on the lad’s cheeks.