“I heard you the first time,” Hannah said. The girl started to sob. Big, heaving cries, which tugged at Siobhán’s heart. She set her down.
“Smoke?” Sheila said to the girl, holding out her pack.
“Yes,” Hannah said, snatching a cigarette.
“Really?” Siobhán said. “You smoke?” She was always dumbfounded when doctors or nurses smoked.
“What?” Hannah said as she stuck the cigarette in her mouth and lit it. She waited until she had inhaled and exhaled before finishing. “You don’t think girls should smoke?”
“I don’t think anyone should smoke,” Siobhán said. “Especially nurses.”
“Oh,” Hannah said, blinking furiously. “Well, this one does. I drink too. So there.”
Siobhán plucked the cigarette out of her mouth. “Why don’t you come have a cup of tea instead.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you people,” Hannah said, stooping to fetch the cigarette. Siobhán crushed it with her boot.
“Have you ever thought of putting blond streaks in your hair?” Sheila asked, sauntering over and running her hands through Hannah’s hair.
“No,” Hannah said.
“You should,” Sheila said, dropping her hands from Hannah and running a hand through her own platinum locks streaked with hot pink. “You’re a bit on the mousy side.”
Siobhán almost choked. If Hannah was mousy then what did that make the rest of them? Ratty? She waited for Hannah to set Sheila straight.
“Sure,” Hannah said, nervously toying with her gorgeous locks. “Can you do me now?” Even the sexiest of women were insecure about their looks, Siobhán was reminded with a start. How sad. And Sheila sure knew it; she made her living counting on it.
“Of course,” Sheila said.
“No,” Siobhán said. “She’s coming with me.” Before Sheila could wrestle Siobhán away from her, Siobhán grabbed Hannah’s coat and dragged her across the street to the bistro. “Why were you running?” she asked when they were safely on the other side.
“I’m an American,” Hannah said. “I want to go home.”
“You’re a murder suspect.”
“You can’t keep me here. I have rights.”
“We’re doing everything we can to sort this out. You’re not helping yourself by doing a runner.”
“I’m calling an attorney.”
“Why don’t you make the call from my bistro,” Siobhán said. “We can have a little chat after.”
Chapter 19
Siobhán was grateful to be back in her kitchen. She’d missed it. She loved investigating, but the stress of it made her appreciate home and family more than ever. She felt as if she hadn’t seen her siblings in a long time. They were such a part of her, like breathing. Even if it was labored breath at times, and holding your breath other times. She would have to make a point of having supper together soon.
Making brown bread was almost a spiritual experience for her. It put her head in a peaceful, floating space, which she needed now more than ever. She cleared Elise out of the bistro, something she knew she’d pay for later, and set Hannah up on a stool as she donned an apron and started pulling the ingredients from the cupboard and refrigerator. Rolled oats, whole-wheat flour, baking soda, a single egg, brown sugar, and, of course, buttermilk. She continued with the rest of the ingredients, including a little secret touch of her own, and set everything on the counter next to a large mixing bowl.
It was her grandmother’s recipe, and for all she knew, several generations before that. All this business with the Mallons made her realize that she didn’t know much about her ancestors, barring a few stories from her parents about their grandparents. They’d all hailed from Cork and Limerick on her mother’s side, but many of her father’s relatives had been from the west coast of Ireland: Galway, Connemara, and Donegal. She’d visited a few times as a child, but it had been ages. She loved the west coast, its rugged wild features, soaring cliffs, roaring ocean, and the liveliness of Galway. She would have to make it a point to visit again soon. She was hit with a pang now that she hadn’t thought to ask her parents more about generations past. Although it might not have been satisfying, for Siobhán didn’t want just names and dates, it was the stories that she would have loved. Stories lost in time.
Hannah forgot all about her phone call and seemed content to swing her feet and watch Siobhán work.
“Jay is nice to me. But the rest of them are mean. Especially Tracy. I hate her.” Siobhán mixed, all while nodding and empathizing. “You’re a policewoman and you own this bistro?”
“It’s really a family business,” Siobhán said. Once the mixture was ready to go into the baking pans, she tipped a bit more buttermilk on it for luck, along with a sprinkle of oats, doled the mixture into baking pans, and slid them into the waiting oven. The other thing she loved about making brown bread was that it would be done in less than an hour, filling the bistro with its magical scent. She could use a generous slice herself, slathered in brown butter, with a mug of tea.
“Oh. Like the Mallons’ family business,” Hannah said.
“Right. Have you been to their restaurants?”
“Totally. I wouldn’t say they have the best food around, but I like that they feed the hungry. They never wanted anyone to experience the kind of hunger their Irish ancestors did. You know. Like they did when they ran out of potatoes.”
Siobhán bit her tongue at the girl’s naive distortion of an Gorta Mor. She wanted to treat her to a thorough history lesson, but right now she needed answers from her, so she continued to press. “Where did you go to nursing school?”
Hannah blinked. “America,” she said slowly.
Siobhán laughed. “I figured that.” She began to clean up as they talked.
“Oh. Right. Do you know much about Ohio?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, that’s where I went to nursing school.”
“And you decided to become a private nurse?”
“Are you officially interrogating me?”
“I have to question everyone.”
Hannah sat up straight and a smile stole across her face. “Do you think I’m capable of murder?”
Siobhán regarded the cheeky young girl. “Under the right circumstances, I think, many people are capable of murder.” She shuddered, hating how true this was.
“Peter didn’t deserve this. Do you want to know who I suspect?”
“Of course.”
“Tracy. She did it. She was so mean to him.”
“How so?” Siobhán rinsed her hands, wiped off the counter, and began washing the mixing bowls.
“She was always putting him down. Lecturing him. Hounding him about his medications.”
“Maybe she was worried about him.”
“I heard her whispering on the phone the day before he went missing. I heard something about having him declared mentally incomplete.”
“Incompetent.”
“Hey, I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Wait,” Siobhán said. She placed the clean bowls in the drying rack and wiped her hands on a towel. She took off her apron and approached Hannah. “Did that mean Peter heard the same thing? Did he know Tracy was trying to do this behind his back?”
Just when Siobhán didn’t think Hannah’s eyes could get any wider, they did. She slowly nodded her head.
“When and how did he find this out?”
“I heard him on the phone with his doctor. Tracy had been asking his doctor for all his medical records.”
“What else?”
“He said he was going to call his lawyer, change the will. He said she wasn’t going to get away with this. I think he meant to cut her out entirely.”
“Cut her out entirely.” Much more dramatic than simply leaving more to Greta. Was this why Tracy had come to her with her suspicions of Hannah and Jay? Was she trying to distract Siobhán from the truth?
Macdara was going to have to put pressure on thes
e American attorneys and find out whether the will had been changed.
And there was another option to consider. Even Brandon suggested that Tracy’s concerns could have been valid. Peter Mallon could have been failing mentally. Maybe he was incompetent. Most of his family had described him as worked up lately. Excited. Agitated. He was an older man. What if Tracy saw the signs and was right in taking action?
“What did you think about Peter’s mental state?” she asked Hannah. “As a professional?”
Hannah shrugged. “He seemed fine to me. You know. For an old guy.”
“That’s your professional analysis?”
Hannah cocked her head to the side. “Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“If Tracy finds out I told you, she’s going to kill me next,” Hannah said.
Siobhán studied the girl. “No one is going to be next, if I can help it.”
“What are you making?” Hannah asked as the scent of baking bread began to fill the kitchen.
“Brown bread,” Siobhán said, her voice ringing with pride.
“Oh,” Hannah said. “Yuck.”
The kitchen door swung open and Ciarán rushed in. He was sweaty and his red hair was sticking up like a science experiment. It used to drive Siobhán mad, but she’d come to find it endearing. “Do we have any bandages?” He was cradling his bloody finger within his hands.
“What on earth happened?” Siobhán asked.
“Sledding accident,” Ciarán said with a grin.
“But the snow has nearly melted,” Siobhán said.
“Exactly,” Ciarán said with a grin. “That’s why I crashed into a wall. It was awesome.”
“Let’s get you to the jax and get it disinfected,” Siobhán said. As she hurried to the bathroom with Ciarán, she heard a thud. She turned around. Hannah Stripes had slid off her stool and fainted dead away.
* * *
Siobhán was impressed that her mother’s old smelling salts still did the trick. Hannah came to immediately, blinking her eyes. “What happened?” She tried to sit up.
“Slowly,” Siobhán said. “Here.” She handed her some water. “You fainted.”
“I did?”
“Let’s get you to a comfy chair. Get you a mug of tea and a sandwich. Then you can tell me all about why you’ve been impersonating a nurse.”
Chapter 20
Macdara and Siobhán sat in the dining room of the bistro across from Hannah as she nibbled on her sandwich and eyed her tea. “I am a nurse,” Hannah said. “I just don’t like blood.”
“Remember Tracy Mallon hired a private investigator,” Siobhán said. “He’ll tell us the truth.”
Macdara leaned back in his chair. “It would be much better if it came from you.”
Hannah’s big blue eyes immediately filled with tears. “That old witch.”
Macdara leaned in. “Are you going to make us wait for the official report?”
Hannah sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m not a nurse. But Peter knew that. That’s why he hired me.”
Siobhán cocked her head. “He wanted to hire a nurse who wasn’t a nurse?”
“Exactly,” Hannah said, beaming. She pushed her tea away from her.
“We’re going to need a bit more of an explanation,” Macdara said.
Hannah sighed as if it was a burden to explain the obvious. “He didn’t want a nurse at all. He was furious with Tracy for suggesting it.” Hannah flipped her hair and stuck her chest out. “I was his revenge.”
This meant Peter had known for a while that Tracy was deeply involved in his medical issues. That didn’t bode well for Tracy. “How did Peter find you?”
“Through Jay,” Hannah said. “I’ve acted in some of his films.”
No wonder Jay seemed so fond of her. “Are you two romantically involved?” Siobhán asked.
“You mean me,” Hannah said, “and a dead guy?” Horror was stamped on her faux-nurse face.
“No,” Siobhán said. “You and the handsome filmmaker.”
“Oh,” Hannah said, breathing out a sigh of relief, followed by a laugh. She shook her head. Siobhán half-expected cobwebs to come out of her ears. “Jay’s only in love with his camera.” She turned her gaze to Macdara and flipped her hair. “Besides. I like a man with an accent.”
Siobhán laughed, a wry, bitter sound. Macdara pinned his eyes on her and lifted his eyebrow.
“This could be a serious offense,” Macdara said. “You should probably get an attorney of your own.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “What’s a ‘serious offense’? Not dating Jay?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “Your little Florence Nightingale act.”
Hannah scrunched up her nose. “Huh?”
“Impersonating a nurse,” Macdara said slowly.
“Gotcha.” Hannah cocked a finger gun at him, then withdrew it as he stared at her. She folded her arms across her ample chest. “Peter knew I wasn’t a nurse. He hired me as his personal assistant. It was my job to annoy Tracy as much as possible.” Hannah grinned. “I think I did pretty good, if I do say so myself.” She grew somber. “I didn’t know she was going to get so mad she’d kill him. Maybe it is all my fault. Oh, God.” She put her hands over her face and started to sob. “I want to go home. I just want to go home.” Trigger tore over, sat in front of Hannah, and looked up at her. She stopped crying, sniffed, and wiped her eyes. She patted her knees. Trigger jumped up.
“Well, what do you know?” Macdara said. “He’s like a therapy dog.” Hannah hummed as she continued to stroke Trigger. He was practically purring himself.
Or he’s cozying up to a killer, Siobhán thought.
“May I have a word with you in private?” Macdara said.
“Let’s go out to the garden,” Siobhán said.
* * *
The back garden, alive with herbs and flowers in the spring and summer, was a bit sad in the winter, but it afforded them some fresh air and privacy. Siobhán spoke first.
“What do you think?”
“I think it fits. From what we’ve learned of Peter Mallon, hiring Hannah would be the perfect way to get back at Tracy.”
“I kind of agree,” Siobhán said. “She’s a liar and an impersonator, but I just don’t see her as our killer.”
“Plus the dog likes her.” Macdara winked. Trigger used to love everyone but Siobhán. Luckily, that had changed over the years.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Siobhán said. “And I don’t like how Hannah was working for Jay Shepard. I think we need to take a closer look at him.”
“Funny you say that,” Macdara said. He reached in his pocket and handed her a business card. It had the logo of a tree on it:
JAY SHEPARD
AWARD-WINNING DOCUMENTARIES
DON’T JUST RESEARCH YOUR FAMILY TREE
FILM IS FOREVER
“What awards has he won?” Siobhán wondered out loud.
Macdara cocked his head. “Don’t think that’s what we should focus on.”
“He changed his card,” Siobhán said. “The one he gave me has a camera on it.”
“Again,” Macdara said. “How is that pertinent?”
Siobhán shook her head. “I don’t know. But it interests me.” She began to pace in the small yard. Something else was dancing at the back of her mind. “I think I’ve seen this card somewhere.”
“Not surprised,” Macdara said. “He’s been papering the town with them.”
She put her hand on the card, covering most everything but the tree. “That’s it,” she said. “This is the business card I saw under George Dunne’s kitchen table.”
Macdara raised his eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
Siobhán nodded. “I started reaching for it and he poked me with a broomstick.” The memory brought up a flash of rage. Cheeky old man.
Macdara let out a laugh before he could stop himself. Siobhán gave him a playful smack before she forgot that they didn’t do those kinds of things anymore. She recovered
and moved away from him. “Don’t you think it’s unusual that he had Jay’s card?”
Macdara scratched his chin. “He could have picked it up in town.”
“Why would he do that?”
Macdara shrugged. “Maybe he wants a documentary of his own.”
She could see it now: My Wooly Socks, by George Dunne. “I think we should ask him, don’t you?”
Macdara took off his cap. “I suppose we should.”
Siobhán thought of the cup of tea he had given her, the taste of the curdled milk. “Once again—there’s no ‘we,’” she said with a smile. “I told ye. You’ll get much more out of him if you go it alone.”
“Sorry,” Macdara said. “O’Reilly called a briefing meeting today. I’m afraid you’ll have to visit dear old George on your own.”
“It can wait until you’re done with your meeting.”
“I think you should go now. You’re right, it’s odd that he would have Jay’s card under his table. And either he didn’t want you to know that he had it, or he simply liked poking you with a broomstick. Whatever you do, don’t let him do that again.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“And make sure to tell him that we made some progress on his wooly socks.”
“You want me to tell him some mysterious old lady stole his entire box of woolies? That will put him right over the edge!”
Macdara laughed again, then tipped his hat. “Perils of the job, m’lady. Perils of the job.”
* * *
Siobhán stood outside George Dunne’s house, her eyes trained on the front door. The curtains were closed. Maybe he wasn’t home. Wouldn’t it be nice if he wasn’t home? It was a lovely stone house with a blue door—much more charming than the man inside. She knocked on the door and waited.
A few seconds later it opened and she was greeted by George Dunne’s scowling face. “Have ye found me socks?”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 17
