Cash he received from blackmailing the Mallons. Maybe George truly thought he’d donated another box to the museum, but he soon realized his mistake. He returned to the museum, stole the gun, and hid it in the box of socks. He returned once more as the old lady to retrieve it. Money and guns. And George Dunne’s gnarled toes and fingers. It all made sense now. Who would have guessed that the cranky old man from Limerick was a blackmailer, not to mention a cold-blooded killer? Siobhán turned to Macdara. “George Dunne’s mother’s name was Tara,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Tara Mallon.”
Macdara whistled. “What exactly are you saying?”
“Shortly after the murder I was summoned to George Dunne’s house.”
Macdara nodded. “The case of the missing socks.”
“Exactly. At the house I noticed a few things. I didn’t realize the significance at the time.”
“Go on.”
“First of all, his feet were beyond disgusting.”
“What do his feet have to do with anything?”
“They were gnarled and bruised.”
“Do I really need to picture this?”
“High heels.”
“ ‘High heels’?”
“George’s feet were gnarled and abused from stabbing around Father Kearney’s churchyard in high heels.”
Macdara’s face stilled. “Go on.”
“He also had an old computer sitting on a chair. Not plugged in. And a poster of Saint Vincent de Paul, and in addition to his gnarled feet, he has a crooked finger. A crooked right finger.”
Macdara was listening intently. “Start with the computer.”
“Two months ago the library got a donation of brand-new computers. From an anonymous donor.”
“Not a crime.”
Siobhan nodded her agreement. “The donation was left with a card featuring Saint Vincent de Paul.”
“He’s a common saint, the saint of charities.”
“Charities. Peter Mallon’s fortune went to charities.” Siobhán stared at Macdara. Didn’t he see?
“You’re saying the computer in George’s house?”
“One of the old library computers. I believe George had been using them to research the Mallon family. Research he started conducting after he discovered and read his great-grandfather’s journal. You see, he had been preparing a box to take to the museum. But he never did donate the items. Because suddenly they were worth a lot more.”
Macdara pointed at her. “Blackmail material.”
Siobhán nodded. “And then he finds a copy of Dancing Irish. I assumed it was left by Jay Shepard. I checked with the museum, it was donated six months ago. George Dunne admitted to taking the DVD from the museum. Then Peter Mallon mysteriously receives a copy of the DVD, as well as a suggestion that he should make his family story into a documentary—along with the bombshell.”
“That his great-grandfather was Michael Mallon.”
“Indeed.”
“A murderer.” Macdara’s voice was low and ominous.
“Correct. Well, a would-be murderer anyway. Had his brother not survived.” It was so frustrating that they would never know the nitty-gritty of what happened. How exactly Michael tried to kill his brother. How John managed to survive. Did he get back on the boat right away and hide, or did he make it to shore another way? What did Michael tell Ann after the dastardly deed was done? Did she believe whatever tale he spun? Or was she too frightened of a new land to question him? Why didn’t John catch up to them and confront Michael? Siobhán imagined the pain of seeing his wife Ann with his brother, pretending as if he were John, had been too big of a blow. Instead of retaliating, he made his way back home, an embattled and bitter man. If only they’d had Facebook back then. No paper trail in the world would give her the answers she craved, no amount of research would recreate the scene. At least they had the diary, but only snippets from John’s perspective. Oh, it was like having a soap opera chopped off mid-story! She could only imagine what really happened.
A terrible fight. Michael pushes John overboard. He tells a frightened Ann that John accidentally fell? A drunken accident?
Why on earth would Ann go along with it? Was she just that naive?
The story went that a friend of the family was expecting John and Ann Mallon in America, had promised to help them set up a pub and restaurant. Did Michael assume his brother’s identity to make sure the deal would still go through? To protect Ann from the stigma of widowhood? Or was he just aware that a single woman in Ireland was vulnerable to all kinds of shenanigans? The Irish faced so much prejudice in those days, they certainly weren’t always welcome. Ann would have been greiving and frightened. Easily manipulated.
It seemed Michael was ashamed of what he’d done. So ashamed he never went back to his real name. Instead he kept his brother’s identity. Perhaps tried to make up for his sins by feeding the hungry—
Oh this is why she could never be a historian. It wasn’t facts she wanted, it was truths. The truths behind the names and the dates, and the places.
“Earth to Siobhán.” Macdara snapped his fingers.
“Sorry. Just pondering it all.”
“Can you ponder out loud?”
Siobhán laughed. “Where were we?”
“George Dunne and the documentary.”
“Yes. He enticed Peter Mallon with the idea. Hoping to lure him out here and blackmail him.”
“So George Dunne never expected the documentary to be made? It was all a ruse?”
Siobhán nodded. “That’s what I believe.”
Macdara began to pace. “Frank Mallon intercepts the material and starts paying George Dunne.”
“Yes. It all goes swimmingly. Until Peter Mallon decides he does want a documentary, he wants the truth to come out.”
“He hires Jay.”
“To ‘right a great wrong.’ ”
“Not the reaction George Dunne wanted?”
Siobhán shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He’s Irish. Prideful. Old-fashioned. Wouldn’t dream of his family history being splashed all over telly.”
“He must have been surprised when Peter Mallon showed up in Ireland.”
“Shocked. Frightened. He started stalking the cemetery, waiting to see if Peter would discover the grave. Dressed up as an old lady.”
“Why?”
Siobhán knew that Macdara was following her train of thought, yet inviting her to expand, think it through. He was a good mentor. “He lives right next door to the churchyard. I’m sure he was afraid Father Kearney would recognize him.”
“And he was at the museum when the revolver was stolen.”
“Donating his own box of socks, which he later picked up, dressed as the old lady.”
“And the revolver was inside.”
“That’s my guess.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Macdara said.
“But there’s a lot of it. He’s the only one who would have tried to burn the journal to keep Peter from using it in his documentary. He was the only one who couldn’t have realized Peter Mallon stopped wearing his American flag pin.”
“Why would George Dunne put the pin on him?”
“He probably assumed it came off during the struggle. He couldn’t have realized Peter had just given it to Brandon. George had an extra pin—from the business card Peter had left at his house. George would have noticed Peter wearing it then.”
“You’re saying Peter Mallon visited George at his house?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said.
Macdara shook his head. “I can only imagine how that family reunion went down.”
Siobhán nodded. “Peter probably insisted he was going to go ahead with the documentary. That’s when George knew he had to stop him. On the day he donated his box to the museum, he used the donation boxes to block the gun case and steal the revolver. Then he used the journal as bait to entice Peter to the cemetery.”
“We’ve no hard proof.”
<
br /> “Poor Peter tried to give us a clue.”
“What?”
“His finger. His nondominant hand. It was pointing, yes, but it was also crooked. I thought the poor man had arthritis.”
“My God,” Macdara said. “He was imitating George’s finger.”
“That’s my guess.”
“It’s still not proof. We need hard evidence.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “But it might not exactly be by the book.”
“How far afield are we talking?”
“I want to stir the pot.”
“ ‘Stir’? Or knock it over?”
“Just a little stir.”
Macdara sat on the edge of the table and rubbed his chin. “I’m listening.”
Chapter 31
Siobhán knocked on George Dunne’s door once again, but louder this time. When he finally opened it, he was glaring. His eyes narrowed when he saw Siobhán standing there. “Did you find my wooly socks?”
“You donated them to the museum, remember?”
“Why would the museum want my wooly socks?”
“They didn’t. They threw them out.”
George Dunne shook his fist. “I’ll sue!”
Siobhán pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t sure if he was truly this forgetful or if it was an act. “Did Peter Mallon visit you? Perhaps leave this card with you?” Once again she showed him Jay Shepard’s business card. The one with the family tree. The one he made especially for Peter Mallon.
“I can’t read that,” George Dunne said, waving her away with his hand. “I don’t have my glasses.”
“Why did Peter Mallon visit you?”
“Poor fella,” George said. “Who did it?”
“Why did he visit you?”
George leaned against his door frame and exhaled. “He wanted to know about me mam, if you must know.”
She shoved the marriage certificate at him. “Your mom was a Mallon.”
“I just told ye that.”
“No, you didn’t. I found the records at the courthouse in Limerick. Tara Mallon.”
“So?”
“John Mallon is your great-grandfather. You didn’t think of mentioning this?”
He grinned. “I had no idea she had rich relatives in America.” He leaned in, his breath bad enough to be a murder weapon. “Have they read the will yet? Am I in it?”
“Did Peter Mallon pay you a visit?”
George sighed. “Yep, yep. I told him too. That’s my great-grandfather.”
“What did he say?”
“He tried to argue with me.” George shrugged. “I told him he had the wrong end of the stick.”
“He was using the legend of your great-grandfather to build a family dynasty,” Siobhán said.
“Imagine,” George said, “Americans lying about their Irish ancestry. Shocking.”
“Did Peter Mallon believe you?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Did he say anything else?”
George blinked. “Like what?”
“Anything.” Siobhán knew it was a virtue to be kind to the elderly, but she wanted to throttle George Dunne. And force-feed mouthwash into him. “Why didn’t you tell me this when I visited you before?”
“I thought you were calling on me to report my theft.”
“I asked you if you saw any Americans in town.”
“Did ye? I don’t recall.”
Siobhán bit her lip and curled her fists. Just one little punch. What would the punishment be for that? “Do you have anything of your mother’s? Any information on the Mallon line?”
“I took a box of her stuff to the museum.” They locked eyes.
“How many boxes did you take to the museum?”
“Just the one.”
“Before they went missing, where did you store your wooly socks?”
“In a box.” Finally the light switch flipped. “Wait a minute. I think I took the wrong box to the museum.”
“You think?”
He squinted as if trying to figure out whether or not she was being sarcastic. She sighed. “May I see the other box now?”
“What other box?”
“The one you were going to take to the museum, but didn’t, because you took your wooly socks instead.”
“Oh,” he said. He shook his head. “Right. No.”
Siobhán was flummoxed. “No what?”
“No, you can’t have the box.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already gave it to the filmmaker.”
“Jay Shepard?”
“That’s the name.” He pointed to the business card in her hand. “That’s the fella.”
“When did you give him the box?”
“When he visited me and asked for it.”
“When was that? Before the murder? After?”
“I don’t recall.”
Siobhán curled her fists. “Do you keep a calendar?”
“What for?”
“Activities, dates, things you want to remember?”
“No.”
She gritted her teeth. “You should.”
“I don’t need to.”
“If you had, it might help us with our investigation.” She knew she should let it go, but he was so maddening. “If Jay Shepard has already taken and paid for the box, then what was he doing back here?”
George paled. “What do you mean?” His brash demeanor was gone. He seemed truly upset.
“When I visited you the other day, I found him crouching behind your shed.”
George grabbed her. “He came here to kill me!”
“What?”
“I’m the witness. The sole heir.”
“You’re the sole heir.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Are you saying you’re Peter Mallon’s long-lost brother?”
“No.” He waved his arms. “Some kind of cousin, I suppose. Many, many times removed.”
“Then you’re not an heir.”
“He came to kill me. I know it!”
“Why? Why would he kill you?”
“Because if John Mallon is my great-grandfather, that means they’ve been lying about theirs. Making him into a hero with this documentary business. Their entire movie is based on the legend of John Mallon!”
“It sounds like you talked extensively with Peter Mallon.”
“It’s a disgrace! In my day you didn’t tell tales out of school.”
“Jay Shepard was bragging about town that he had come to Ireland to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”
George started to stammer. Then he grabbed Siobhán with both arms. “He’s c-cleaning house. I’m a witness. Are you going to protect me?”
This was Siobhán’s chance to really get something out of him. She hated to manipulate him, but fear was a great motivator. “I’ll try. But you have to help me. What was in that box?”
George crossed his arms. “Photographs, a few letters. My great-grandfather’s journal. Nothing that was going to pay my bills. I don’t care much for family. Dead or alive.”
She knew exactly what was in that box, because the guards had it. “In other words, blackmail material.”
George gasped. “That’s why he paid me so well for it.”
“Who?”
“That filmmaker!”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Five hundred euro. For a few photographs and a journal. He fooled me!”
“What did the journal say? Did you read it?” The guards weren’t letting her read it yet; she was dying to.
George shook his head. “My eyesight isn’t any good. I wish I had read it. I just wanted the money.”
“I’ll talk to Macdara. We’ll make sure the guards keep an eye out for you. Keep your door locked.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”
“I didn’t see Jay Shepard with a weapon, and he told me he knocked on your door and you wouldn’t let him in.”
“He
did not. I’m telling you he did not.”
“I’ll look into it. I promise.”
George shook his fist at her, spit flying. “If he comes back to kill me, my blood is on your hands.” And with that, the old curmudgeon slammed the door.
She hurried out of the yard, and met Macdara at the end of it.
“How did it go?”
“He’s blaming Jay Shepard. For the blackmail and the murder. He said he sold the box of his mother’s belonging to Jay for the film.”
“Let’s go,” Macdara said. They hurried off to find Jay Shepard.
* * *
Siobhán and Macdara found him filming outside the churchyard.
“Hey,” he said. He flashed a smile devoid of any real warmth. He wasn’t only a director and filmmaker, but an actor too. Siobhán had an urge to tell him not to bother, he was too transparent. He glanced around the churchyard. “Even the cemeteries are nicer here,” he said. “They have character and charm. You’re very lucky.”
Macdara glanced around. “I’m sure there are a few in here who would disagree with ye if they could.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Jay flashed another hollow smile. “I don’t suppose you’re here to chat about headstones?”
“We just spoke with George Dunne,” Macdara said. Technically, Siobhán had just spoken with George, but she wasn’t going to nitpick.
“Hope you had better luck than I did,” Jay said.
“I’d say,” Siobhán said. “We discovered you’re a liar.” Siobhán hoped her voice was loud enough to carry across the churchyard. She took a few steps away from Macdara in case he wanted to kick her. She couldn’t help it, but she was getting fed up with these Americans.
He lowered the camera and gazed at Siobhán. “Pardon?” This time he didn’t try to sound friendly, and although his tone was polite, it was guarded, and tinged with venom.
“He told us you bought a box of letters and photographs and a particular journal from him.”
“He’s lying.” Jay’s eyes darted right and left as if he was considering making a run for it.
“Why would he lie?” Siobhán asked. She stepped closer to Jay. “If I were you, I would be nothing right now if not very, very cooperative.”
Jay threw his arms open. “I gave you all my footage, I’ve remained here filming, despite the fact that my client was murdered, and the family certainly doesn’t seem to care if I finish the project—”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 27
