Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Siobhán closed her eyes for a second. “Not exactly,” she said, “but we’re closer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Did you donate a box to the Kilbane Museum recently?”

  His eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “What about it?”

  “Your socks were in it.”

  His jaw dropped open. He scratched his chin. “Must have taken the wrong box. So why didn’t you bring them?”

  “Because someone already took them. I’m sorry. You’re probably just going to have to buy more.”

  “That’s outrageous! Those were my socks!”

  “You gave them away.”

  “It was a mistake. I want them back.”

  “I don’t know who has them.”

  “You came here just to torture me, did ye?”

  “No. I need to speak with you about another matter. May I come in?”

  “No, you may not.”

  She sighed. She was dying to see if the business card was still under his kitchen table. She didn’t trust him to tell the truth. She had no doubt that George Dunne wouldn’t hesitate to lie through his false teeth. Especially to her. But she couldn’t force her way into his home, so she took out the business card and held it up.

  “What can you tell me about this?”

  “Nothing.” His eyes flicked away.

  “You didn’t even look.” Siobhán held it closer.

  George turned his head. “I don’t have me glasses.” She shoved it even closer. He squinted and bent down to read it. “Still nothing.”

  “Funny,” she said, “because I saw this exact card under your kitchen table. Maybe it’s still there?” She took a step. He blocked her.

  He used his hooklike finger to jab at the business card. “That’s the filmmaker.”

  “Yes.” Siobhán gritted her teeth. Whoever said people should be kind to the elderly had never met George Dunne. He held up his gnarled finger again, this time to ask her to wait, but then slammed the front door in her face. She sighed. It felt like an eternity before the door opened again. He was holding a DVD in his hand. He held it up: Dancing Irish. “The card was attached to this.”

  Jay Shepard’s documentary. “And where did you get that?”

  “The museum. Someone donated it.”

  “I didn’t know you were a fan of Irish dancing.”

  He glared at her, and then to her shock, he broke out in a few dance steps. “I used to be good in me day.”

  “Impressive.”

  “T’anks.” He shoved the DVD at her.

  She took it, at a loss as to what to say next. “When was this donated to the museum?”

  He glared. “How should I know?”

  “Did you get it before or after the Americans came?”

  He scratched his chin. “I’d say well before. I’ve had it for ages.”

  This was a surprise. Someone in Kilbane had had a copy of Dancing Irish before Jay Shepard came to town. “Are you sure?”

  He shrugged. The old man had reached his cooperation limit for the day. “Will that be all?”

  “For now.”

  “Wunderbar.” He did a few more dance steps back into his house, flashed a nasty grin, and then slammed the door shut in her face, a second time.

  Siobhán headed off the property, and had just passed George Dunne’s garden shed when she stopped cold. She’d almost missed him. A man was crouching behind the shed, dressed all in black. She stopped, placed her hand on her baton. Her mobile was in the other pocket, at the ready. “Don’t move.” She used her sternest voice.

  The man’s head popped up. It was Jay Shepard.

  Chapter 21

  “Policewoman,” Jay said, coming to a standing position. “Hey.” He flashed a smile as if it wasn’t unusual at all that he had been crouching behind an old man’s shed.

  Siobhán released her grip on her baton, then grabbed it again and squeezed. “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged and gestured around him. “Just scouting the village for places to film.”

  “Really? Because it looks to me like you were hiding behind George Dunne’s shed. Dressed like a cat burglar.”

  “All filmmakers wear black.”

  “And crouch behind sheds, spying on people?”

  He sighed. “If you must know, I followed you.” He held up his camera.

  “Why?”

  “To see where you were going. Why else?” He glanced at the DVD in her hand.

  “Hey! That’s my film.”

  She took out the business card. “Did you used to have this attached to the DVD?”

  “No,” he said. “I made those cards especially for Peter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted the job, so I tailored my business cards to fit the assignment.” He pointed to the tree. “Voila. My other cards have cameras on them.”

  “Like the one you gave me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But this card must have been attached to the DVD when it was donated to the Kilbane Museum.”

  “What do you mean ‘donated’?” Jay’s handsome face was marred by a flash of rage.

  “George said he got this copy at the museum. That someone had donated it. Ages before your arrival.”

  Jay looked petulant for a moment, and Siobhán couldn’t figure out why. “Hope they at least watched it before they got rid of it,” he said. Ah, that’s why. Because everything is about him. Jay couldn’t imagine someone donating his precious film to the museum. She silently thanked the heavens she wasn’t an artist.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t give this DVD to the museum, nor did you leave your business cards there.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you just happen to be spying on George Dunne.”

  “Who?”

  She pointed at the house. “The old man who lives there.”

  “No. I swear. I was following you.” He looked around again. “I could have taken this to the other fellow, but I like to consider myself a feminist.”

  “Excuse me?” She stepped closer. “Taken what to whom?”

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I found this lying on top of my camera bag. Just a few hours ago. I followed you so that you could be the first to see it.”

  Siobhán took the slip of paper. It appeared to be a photocopy of an original:

  We set sail in the morning. She’s a big ship but after months on the ocean I’m sure she’ll feel like a tin can at sea. Michael is worried about getting seasick. As the sun set a brilliant red over the horizon, I drank a pint for the homeland. Hope America shines as bright as they say. Ann too thin. Such a beautiful wife. I will do everything it takes to make good in our new home. But my heart will remain, always, forever, at home, Ireland, my beautiful home.

  Siobhán could feel Jay staring at her as she read it. When she finished, he moved in closer. The handwriting looked as if it matched the note found in the cemetery. If that was the case, this appeared to be copied from John Mallon’s journal.

  “Is it real?” Jay asked. “Some kind of diary?”

  “Tell me exactly where you found this.” Siobhán was hoping to avoid his fishing expedition. The less he knew, the better.

  He gestured behind him. “I was shooting in the churchyard, getting some B-roll. B-roll is—”

  “I know what B-roll is,” Siobhán said.

  He grinned. “Very well. I had left my camera bag by the wall to get a shot of the headstones. When I returned, the note was lying on top, underneath the handle of my bag, so that it wouldn’t blow away.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone?”

  “Just you, going by. That’s when I hurried after you.”

  She pictured him hiding behind the shed. Hardly the image he was trying to portray. “Is this the first time anything like this has been left on your camera bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t mention this to anyone else in your group.”

  “If it’s John
Mallon’s journal, I’m going to want to use it for my film.”

  She was sure he’d filmed it already or even made a copy of it. “Wait for us to give the all clear. The investigation must take priority.”

  He held up his hands. “Of course, of course.”

  The paper was plain, white. No definitive marks. There were probably half-a-dozen photocopying machines in town, and, of course, folks had personal printers as well. Still, Siobhán could check at the shops and see if anyone could remember someone coming in to photocopy a journal. But a smart person would have done so in Cork City or Limerick. Lucky for investigators, people weren’t always smart.

  If this was authentic, then John Mallon had kept a journal. And someone had it. The handwriting appeared to be a match, and he mentioned his wife, Ann. Who was Michael? More to the point, who had left this for Jay, and why? “Thank you. I must ask you to report to us immediately if you receive anything more.”

  “Use my camera bag as bait? I love it.” He grinned. He was trying to be helpful. Or he was pretending to be helpful. Either way, the outcome was the same. Overly helpful people annoyed Siobhán. Elise, for example, was one of those overly helpful types that didn’t mean a word of it.

  Siobhán stood tall. “Follow me again and I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Got it.” He let out a long sigh. “May I walk with you back to town?”

  “Fine.” They headed off the property. Siobhán stopped outside the gate to look around. To their right was the churchyard. Straight ahead was the back of Kelly’s. It had been abandoned forever, and litter was piled up around the back door. She’d have to enlist her siblings to go in with her on a cleanup day. Just because a business was closed didn’t mean you let it fall to disrepair. She hoped she lived long enough to see the Celtic Tiger roar again; she hated seeing so many businesses failing up and down Sarsfield Street.

  They walked ahead, passing the churchyard and the pub. When they reached Sarsfield Street, Siobhán stopped. “I thought you were supposed to be with Greta?”

  He shook his head. “She gave me the slip.”

  “How?”

  “Told me to meet her at nine o’clock sharp in the lobby of the shop. I was there fifteen minutes early. Only to find out she left at eight A.M.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ask Chris Gordon. She took the rental car too.”

  Why didn’t she want Jay Shepard to go with her? Was it really because of his chatter, or was it because she was up to something and she didn’t want any witnesses?

  But Greta would have to wait. She had a few more questions for Mr. Fancy Filmmaker. “Want to continue walking about town with me?” Siobhán said. “You can film while I ask you a few questions.”

  “Take one,” Jay Shepard said with a wink. Siobhán just stared at him. “That’s a yes.”

  * * *

  They ambled down the street. Jay stopped at a storefront window that held artifacts from the Irish Republican Army. An original poster of The Proclamation of the Republic was framed center-stage, surrounded by photographs of Michael Collins, as well as photos of other soldiers jailed and executed while fighting for Ireland. She remained silent while he filmed it, then picked up the conversation as they moved along.

  “How did you come to be in Peter Mallon’s employ?”

  Jay kept filming while talking. “Peter found me. Apparently, he’d seen Dancing Irish.” He nodded to the DVD still in her hand. “You really should see it.”

  Siobhán wanted to chuck it into the street. Instead she murmured how much she was looking forward to it.

  “And when did you hire Hannah Stripes to pretend to be his nurse?”

  Jay stopped. He lowered the camera. Then he grinned at her. “You are good.”

  “When did you hire her?”

  “Peter asked me if I knew any young, pretty actresses up for a little game.” A worried look shadowed his handsome face. “If I had known he truly was ill, I never would have gone along with it.”

  “What makes you think he truly was ill?”

  “Look at the film footage. He’d become increasingly paranoid and cranky since arriving in Ireland. Obsessed hardly covered it. He even became angry with me filming him. Perhaps if he’d had a real nurse, she would have caught on to his condition before it was too late.”

  “Even if you’re right, are you suggesting that his paranoia is what got him killed?”

  “I would have bet the farm that he killed himself.”

  “He did not. We have the pathologist’s findings. It was murder.”

  Jay sighed. “He must have angered someone. Accused someone of something.”

  “Such as?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the slightest idea!”

  “It seemed like a very specific idea to me,” Siobhán said.

  Jay shrugged. “Hazards of the job. I am a filmmaker, you know.”

  Siobhán bit her lip. “How could I forget?”

  He stopped, stared at her intensely. “You haven’t told Tracy about Hannah, have you?”

  “Not yet,” Siobhán said.

  “Don’t!” He shouted it, making Siobhán jump. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just . . . well, one of us is a killer. And it isn’t me. And it isn’t Hannah. I would appreciate it if you didn’t give a possible killer the ammunition to go after me or Hannah.”

  “You think she’d kill you or Hannah, just because Hannah isn’t really a nurse?”

  “If she’s cut out of the will . . . and blames us? Yes. I think that might just put her over the edge.”

  “Have you noticed any unusual behavior from Tracy lately?”

  “She’s been herself,” Jay said. “But that’s hardly vindicating.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” Jay said. “Tracy Mallon is a master manipulator. All she’s ever cared about is the family fortune.” He picked up the camera again. “God help us all if he cut her out of the will.”

  * * *

  Siobhán had just finished a strenuous jog, when she returned to the bistro to find Macdara waiting for her, his car idling at the curb.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  “If you’ve got a tip on another horse, I’ve got a tip for you,” Siobhán said. “Ignore it.” She wasn’t supposed to flirt, but she couldn’t help it. This case was wearing on her, and Macdara used to be the one person who could make her feel better, make all the bad feelings go away.

  Macdara laughed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re going back to Cork. Greta is waiting for us at a pub in Cork. She claims she’s found something of interest.”

  “I’ll be quick,” she said, running into the bistro to change. She peeled off her running clothes, pulled off a world-record rinse-off, thanked her lucky stars for deodorant and powder, tucked her hair into a bun, and threw on her uniform. On her way back to the car, she brought the copy of Dancing Irish and the journal entry, and set them on the console between them.

  “What’s that?”

  She tapped the DVD. “Jay Shepard’s other documentary.”

  “Anything good?”

  She filled him in on her meeting with George Dunne and finding Jay crouching behind a garden shed. Macdara slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “So Greta disobeyed us, and Jay is stalking you.” He cursed under his breath.

  “There’s more.” She read the journal entry out loud. After she was finished, Macdara drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before responding.

  “I don’t like this. Jay Shepard lied to us about Hannah. Now this.”

  “Agreed. But it does look like the handwriting found in the note in the churchyard. And that one has been authenticated.”

  “But this is not an original.”

  “Brandon claimed that when he arrived at the cemetery, all the papers were partially burned. Maybe the killer did take papers with him? Maybe an entire journal belonging to John Mallon? Maybe that’s what lured Peter Mallon to the cemetery?�
�

  “Maybe Peter burned them when he realized they were only copies of the original?”

  Siobhán shrugged. “I’m more interested in why this was left on Jay’s camera bag, and who left it.”

  “I think we have to equally examine both.”

  They fell into an uneasy silence. After a few minutes Siobhán felt compelled to break it. “Have you watched the film footage he sent you?”

  “Parts of it,” Macdara said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “And?”

  “Nothing startling. Family interviews, shots of their restaurants in Ohio, and some of the gang arriving in Ireland. It’s strange to watch Peter Mallon on film. Seeing how excited he was to be in Ireland. No idea what was waiting for them.”

  “But nothing useful?”

  “There’s no confession from any of them and nothing sticks out so far. Let’s hope Greta found something good.”

  Chapter 22

  The Welcome Inn was situated in Cork City at 24 Parnell Place, across from the bus station. The mural on the building’s side featured a horse rearing up, a man below him with his fist raised in triumph (Siobhán didn’t know if he was supposed to be a cowboy or just a man who needed to see a man about a horse), and a large MURPHY’S sign. Above it, WELCOME INN was rendered in a dark brown, which popped against the sandstone building.

  Siobhán wasn’t surprised Greta chose this particular pub for their rendezvous, given that she was into history, and, having been established in 1845, this was one of the oldest pubs in Cork. They entered the comforting dim space (Siobhán loved all the old wood) and found the widow sitting at a corner table, with a stack of papers and a pint of Guinness in front of her. She was wearing her thick glasses and drowning in a navy cardigan. Her eyes, which Siobhán had originally thought were brown, were actually hazel, and tonight she had a bit of a spark about her. After a few minutes Siobhán realized Greta was wearing makeup—some rouge and mascara and a touch of lipstick. Interesting. She was also glowing from the aftermath of her research; it was obvious that this family-tree snooping was a passion of the woman’s.

  “We spoke with Jay,” Macdara said. “He said you tricked him.”