Siobhán looked away. She had feelings, not enough to amount to a theory, and she wasn’t ready to commit to them. And even if her feelings turned into a solid theory, she still didn’t have any hard evidence. “I have a few more things to look into.”
He pointed at her. “You aren’t supposed to go rogue.”
“It’s nothing dangerous. I want to finish researching John Mallon’s descendents.”
“Oh,” Macdara said, relief lighting up his eyes. “Yes, you can do that all by yourself.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But ring me if it unveils anything. Anything at all.”
* * *
Siobhán had just reached the bistro when she heard someone running behind her. Brandon was on her heels, sweating profusely. She turned around and he came to an abrupt stop in front of her.
“I just thought of something.” He paused to catch his breath, then stepped closer.
Siobhán wanted to back up, but didn’t want to signal weakness, so she forced herself to endure his invasion of her space. “What?”
“Something’s been bothering me.”
“I’m listening.”
“My father was left-handed.”
“Okay,” she said. “So?”
“Why was he pointing with his right finger?”
“Maybe his left was occupied. Or maybe his arthritis was flaring up.”
“Arthritis?”
“Yes. His index finger was crooked.”
Brandon shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that. I didn’t even know he had arthritis.”
“Happens to all of us when we age.”
Brandon’s face darkened. “I still think he would have pointed with his dominant hand.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. See if anything occurs to me,” Siobhán said.
* * *
She put the DVD into the player. Dancing Irish. Most of it was centered on the talented and adorable little girl. She watched the entire thing. Nothing seemed to relate to the current case. She sighed, then made herself a cappuccino. The door banged open and Ann came in, dragging her camogie bag. She dropped it in the hall and entered the bistro with Gráinne.
“It was right in front of her face!” Ann said. “How can you not hit a ball when it’s right in front of your face?”
“Ah, don’t let your pride get the best of ye,” Gráinne said. She was wearing high heels and a short skirt. She kicked the heels off. “How do women walk in these things? My feet are killing me.”
“I told ye,” Ann said. “You look ridiculous in them too.”
“Do you want to say that again, to my fist?”
“You mean to my face.”
“No. To my fist.” Gráinne made a fist. Ann stuck out her tongue. Siobhán stared at the heels on the floor.
Right in front of my face.
* * *
The Kilbane Museum had a copy of Jay Shepard’s documentary Dancing Irish. Siobhán assumed Jay Shepard had dropped the documentary off recently. On this visit to Kilbane. But when she’d told him George Dunne had found a copy of the DVD in the museum, he was browned off. Annoyed that someone dared to donate his precious documentary. So if he didn’t donate it recently, how long had it been at the Kilbane Museum? Siobhán threw on her coat and headed over.
Pio was behind the counter, plucking strings on his guitar. Siobhán asked about the DVD. “I told you, I don’t know what happened to our copy.”
“I just want to know when you received it.”
“When?”
“Do you keep a log of donations?”
“Hold on.” He leaned under the counter and came up with a notebook. He flipped through it. Turned the records around to Siobhán. Six months ago. The DVD had been donated to the museum six months ago. No name was attached to the donation. But it didn’t matter. It was the timing that interested Siobhán. She took a photo of the page. “Keep this book safe. The guards might be asking for it soon.”
Pio’s eyebrow shot up. “Why?”
“Official business. Not a word to anyone.”
Pio mimed zipping his lips. “Must be some documentary,” he said. She stared at the space under the counter, where he’d retrieved the donation book. An image of the counter in Kelly’s flashed into her mind. The mirror was a secret door. It opened into a safe. Mike Kelly used to hide valuables in there. She’d forgotten all about that. Had the guards checked behind the mirror? Probably not, she hadn’t even thought of it until now.
She had an appointment in Limerick to check into more records of John Mallon. Cork County didn’t have a marriage license or any records of his children, so she was going to check Limerick. But that would have to wait. On the way out she noticed a flyer for Kilbane’s Day of Giving hanging by the door. It was coming up. She thought back to the charities to which Peter Mallon had left the bulk of his estate, including ones in Ireland. Something else that warranted more research. She could feel the clues gathering around her like storm clouds, hovering and threatening. She was close. There were a few more dots left to connect, and then she needed to prove it.
* * *
Siobhán was hurrying back to Kelly’s when Macdara popped up in front of her. “Where are you going?”
“Kelly’s. I think the briefcase could be there.”
“We searched the pub.”
“We forgot a hiding place.”
“Let’s go.”
She was so close to solving this that there was part of her ego that didn’t want to share. She understood Jay Shepard a little more, his desire to launch a big surprise, a dramatic reveal. But she was a member of a group now, a tribe. She told him about her visit to the museum and how the DVD was donated six months prior.
“What are you thinking?” he said. “That Jay Shepard was visiting Kilbane six months ago?”
“It’s worth checking out. But not necessarily. The documentary could have easily been purchased by someone in Kilbane, and when they were done watching it, they donated it to the museum.”
“Right,” he said. “I guess we can check into travel records for Jay Shepard, or ask him about it.”
He wasn’t quite putting the pieces together the way she was. And yet he wouldn’t be able to accuse her of not sharing. She then told him about Brandon’s declaration that his father was left-handed.
“I think a person could easily point with either hand, don’t you?” Macdara asked.
“I’m right-handed,” Siobhán said. “I would not point with my left.”
“He’d just been shot,” Macdara said. “Hardly a time to think, let alone worry, about which hand was which.”
Siobhán disagreed. She had been mulling it over and she agreed with Brandon. Instinct would have kicked in. Reflex. His left hand was lying by his side, not occupied, as she’d suggested to Brandon earlier. So why did he point with his nondominant hand? It bothered her. They reached the pub. This time they could walk in the front door. For a moment she and Macdara stood, taking it in.
“You had your first pint here,” Macdara said softly, as he took in the pub.
Siobhán was shocked. She was instantly back to her eighteenth birthday. Her parents had given her a new blouse, the prettiest shade of blue-green she had ever seen. “You were right,” her da said to her mam when Siobhán walked down the stairs in her new blouse. “It makes her eyes glow.”
Siobhán turned to Macdara. “How did you know?”
He laughed. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
A flush crept into his cheeks. “I bought it for you.”
“Bought what?”
“Your first pint.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I just didn’t want you to know.”
“You were here?”
He pointed to a stool in the back corner of the pub. “I sat right there. You walked in, big grin on your face, your hair on fire from a ray of sun that seemed to follow you, wearing a blue blouse. The color of a summer sky.” Siobhán was, maybe f
or the first time in her life, speechless. She was jammed up by the competing feelings running through her. “Moving on,” he said. “I don’t think we missed any spots.” The guards had indeed gone through the pub. Cabinets were open, drawers searched.
Siobhán walked behind the bar. She stood in front of the mirror. “I forgot all about this until Pio fetched the donation register from under the counter.”
She pulled it open.
“A secret hiding space?” Macdara said.
“Mike Kelly used to keep the expensive liquor in here.” The hiding space was the size of a small closet. Inside she saw a cardboard box and a briefcase. “Bingo,” she said.
“Well, I’ll be,” Macdara said. “Don’t touch them. We have to call this in.”
Siobhán sighed. Her hands were twitching. Macdara laughed behind her. “What?” she said. It came out testier than she intended.
“Some people just don’t play well with others,” he said.
“When the guards get here, do you think they’ll let me go through the box first?”
“No,” he said. “Definitely not.”
* * *
Siobhán gathered in the gardai station with several other guards, Macdara, and O’Reilly. Two cardboard boxes were recovered from the hiding place. The first held letters, photos, and a journal kept by John Mallon. Siobhán couldn’t wait until she was allowed to read them. The second box held a wig, high heels, a tan coat, and a red hat. Underneath everything they found Peter’s wallet and mobile phone. They were going to examine the phone straightaway to see if Peter placed or received any calls on the night of the murder.
O’Reilly wheeled around and pointed at Siobhán. “How did you know they were there?”
Siobhán met his gaze. “I didn’t know for sure. I remembered the hiding place and I thought it was worth checking out.”
“I didn’t approve of the mission,” O’Reilly said.
Macdara stepped up. “I did.”
“Oh,” O’Reilly said. “Very well. Good work.”
“Garda O’Sullivan should get the credit,” Macdara said.
O’Reilly cleared his throat. Siobhán didn’t need his approval. “Will we be able to get fingerprints off the high heels?”
“We’ll send them out and see,” O’Reilly said.
“We could go around the village and ask old ladies to try them on,” one of the guards joked.
“They are rather large,” Siobhán said. “It fits my theory that they were worn by a man.”
“And what theory is that?” O’Reilly said. He couldn’t hide his disdain. Macdara tensed.
“I believe a man was dressed as the old lady.”
“Please tell us all about your theory.”
Siobhán blinked. “I just did,” she said slowly.
“A theory I second,” Macdara said.
“The woman was described as over six feet tall. No woman I know would wear high heels in a churchyard. And the indentations in the ground that so disturbed Father Kearney suggests this person was stumbling around because he was not used to walking in heels.” She pointed to the wig in the box. “And then there’s that.”
O’Reilly pursed his lips. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. There were no wig shops in Kilbane. She could only think of one place where a person could have obtained that wig in Kilbane. “I think we should check with the Kilbane Players. See if the wig is one of their props. If it is theirs, they may be able to help us ascertain who took it.”
“Great idea,” Macdara said.
“Why don’t you do that?” O’Reilly said.
“I’ll do it,” Macdara said. “Siobhán was going to check on some genealogical records.”
“Thank you,” she said once they were outside.
“Ring me as soon as you find anything.”
“Yes, boss.”
Chapter 30
The clerk at the Limerick Courthouse was a studious young lad with thick black glasses. He agreed to search for any records related to the Mallon name, but warned her it was just going to take some time. Siobhán didn’t mind, one of her favorite chippers was in Limerick and it was a grand excuse to get a basket of curried chips. She was headed out the door, when the clerk called after her. “Are you related to the fellow who was in here a while back asking for these same records?” he asked.
Peter Mallon certainly had gotten around in the short time he was here. “No,” Siobhán said. “No relation.”
“Limerick man, wasn’t he?”
Siobhán nodded. “They set sail from Cork, but he was believed to be a Limerick man.”
“Who?”
“The man he was researching,” Siobhán said. “His great-grandfather.”
“I was on about the fella who came in. He was the Limerick man.”
“Right,” Siobhán said. “His ancestors, anyway.”
“No,” the clerk said, frowning. “I’m pretty sure he was a Limerick man.” Siobhán sighed. Irish pride was strong, especially within the counties. She was surprised the clerk even cared where an American was from, but maybe that wasn’t very generous of her.
By the time she arrived at Donkey Ford’s, and was sitting in front of a basket of curried chips, she started putting the clues together, rearranging them, testing them out. After she ate, she walked the path along the River Shannon. It always calmed her down to be near water. Finally it was time to go back to the courthouse.
As soon as she walked in, the young clerk nodded and slid documents across the counter. He’d found two birth certificates and another marriage certificate. “Hope this helps,” he said, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. Siobhán looked at the first birth certificate: Tara Mallon. She looked at the marriage certificate. Tara Mallon married a man named Danny. Her eyes landed on his full name: Danny Dunne. A slight shock rippled through her. She looked at the last birth certificate, although she already knew what she would find.
George Dunne. John Mallon’s great-grandson was George Dunne.
She stared at the clerk. His face mirrored her concern. “Everything alright?”
“The Limerick man you mentioned. He was an American, right?”
The clerk scrunched up his nose. “How could an American be a Limerick man?”
“I thought you were talking about his ancestors.”
The clerk shook his head. “I think I can tell an Irishman from an American, t’ank you very much.”
“An old man? Kind of crabby?”
The clerk grinned. “That’s the one.”
* * *
Magda was standing outside the library, locking the doors, when Siobhán caught up to her.
“How ya?” Magda said with a smile.
“Grand, grand, you?”
“Not a bother.”
“I need to ask you about your computers.”
Magda glanced at her watch. “They’re lovely. But I’m afraid we’re closed.”
“You said brand-new ones were donated.”
“That’s right.”
“How long ago?”
Magda looked up and to the right. “Ah, let’s see. Four months, I’d say. Yes, four months it would be, alright.”
“Who donated them?”
She clasped her hands in delight. “It was an anonymous gift, can you believe it? Men arrived, took the old computers, and replaced them with the new ones.” She looked toward the heavens. “Someone is looking out for us, I’d say. An angel.”
“You don’t have any idea who donated them? Not even a guess?”
Magda shook her head. “But they did come with a lovely card. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes.”
Magda unlocked the door and they slipped in. She went to the counter, where the card was proudly displayed. “Here it is.” On the front was a rendering of Saint Vincent de Paul.
* * *
Siobhán burst into Macdara’s office, and caught him sitting at his desk in front of a basket of curried chips. She gasped.
For some reason it never occurred to her that he was eating them without her.
A guilty look stole across his face; then he covered the chips with a napkin and stood. “Wait until you hear what was in the second box,” he said.
He isn’t even going to offer me a chip?
Macdara snapped his fingers. “My eyes are up here.”
“I found something,” Siobhán said. “A few things actually.”
“Same as,” Macdara said. “We found George Dunne’s box of woolies, and Declan O’Rourke positively identified Jay Shepard as the man who announced he had come to Ireland to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”
The second news stopped her. “Declan? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I have his statement right here.” Siobhán couldn’t believe it. She’d spent all of her time questioning Maria. She’d missed another opportunity that had been right in front of her face. “That means Jay Shepard knew Peter was being blackmailed, and he knew they were going to use the documentary to tell the truth.”
“Or,” Macdara said, “it means Jay Shepard was the killer.”
“What great wrong would Jay be righting by murdering Peter?”
Macdara threw his arms open. “I haven’t worked it all out yet.” He stole a glance at his basket of chips. “There’s more.”
“Go on.”
“Jay admitted he was the one who had been leaving journal entries.”
“Jay had the journal?”
“Well,” Macdara said, “Jay claimed he only had copies of the journal. It was part of the blackmail material that had been sent to Peter.”
“Was the original journal in the box recovered from Kelly’s?”
“Yes,” Macdara said. “But Jay could have put it there.”
“What about the box of wooly socks? Where did you find them?”
He brightened. “C’mere.” She followed him through a maze of desks to the evidence room. They put on gloves, signed the checkout sheet, and were buzzed into the evidence locker. Macdara headed straight to the back. The cardboard boxes were set upon a table, the evidence laid out. Piles of socks dominated one corner. They were bursting at the seams. “Is that . . . ?” Siobhán stepped closer and peered at the socks.
“Cash,” Macdara said. “They’re stuffed with cash. Now we know why he was so desperate to get his socks back.”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 26
