Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “What were you really doing hiding behind George Dunne’s shed?” Siobhán asked.

  “Following you.”

  “Stalking a police officer is a serious offense,” Macdara said.

  Jay shook his head. “I was just getting B-roll. For the film. Siobhán is very photogenic.”

  “That’s Garda O’Sullivan to you,” Macdara said.

  Siobhán nodded. “George Dunne thinks you came to his house to kill him.”

  Jay looked startled.

  “Did you hear me?” Siobhán said. “He told us you’re the killer.”

  Jay cried out. “It’s not me. I swear.” He started pacing.

  “Why were you passing out the journal entries?”

  “They were copies of the blackmail material Peter had. He’d shared them with me. I was trying to draw out the killer. I wanted to see who would report finding the journal entries and who would keep it a secret.” He threw up his hands. “But they all reported it!”

  “Quite a twist,” Macdara said. “Turning the documentary into a murder mystery.”

  “I would never do that,” Jay said.

  “ ‘Never’?” Siobhán said.

  “Okay, okay, I was caught up in the drama. As a filmmaker. But the only reason I’ve continued filming is to tell the truth. To unmask Peter’s killer. I swear.”

  Macdara took off his handcuffs. “Turn around.”

  “What are you doing?” Jay’s voice was laced with pure panic.

  Siobhán glanced toward George Dunne’s house. Sure enough, he was in his yard, watching. She hoped he had a clear view of Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery leading the filmmaker away in handcuffs.

  Chapter 32

  The Mallons gathered around the churchyard. Siobhán wanted them all in one place, and occupied. Guards were hiding in Kelly’s, ready to alert Macdara and Siobhán if anyone entered. “Go ahead,” Siobhán said to Frank.

  Frank cleared his throat and addressed the group. “John Mallon was not our great-grandfather,” he said. “This was brought to my attention six months ago. An anonymous package was delivered. It contained a ship’s manifest, photographs, the tombstone in Kilbane, and copies of letters written in the late 1800s from John Mallon to his wife, Ann. The letters chronicle everything that happened on the ship. Michael Mallon physically assaulted John, then threw him overboard. Believing he had killed his brother, he claimed his identity and his wife, and made his way to Dublin, Ohio, to start the restaurants. The blackmailer said that the story would be made into a documentary, and then it would go to the American media, and our restaurants would be finished.”

  Siobhán carefully watched the Mallons react to Frank’s confession.

  “It’s true,” Greta said. “I’ve examined all of it.”

  “Believed he killed his brother,” Brandon said. “But John Mallon lived. The tombstone in Kilbane.”

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “ ‘Out to the field’ is a reference to Cain and Abel. And ‘Et tu, Ann’ is pointing a finger at his wife.”

  “This is crazy,” Tracy said. “Who was this blackmailer? Is he also the killer?”

  Frank took a step forward. “We never knew who the blackmailer was. And I never saw my kidnapper’s face. Peter was furious with me for going along with the blackmailer. His entire purpose for coming here was to let the truth come out. He wanted to make the documentary himself. In fact that’s how he found out about Jay Shepard—from the blackmailer!”

  “Why on earth would he want to do that?” Tracy said. “Blacken our good name?”

  “He didn’t see it like that,” Frank said. “He wanted to be free. Free of the blackmailer, and free from the lies our legacy was built on.”

  “Speaking of which,” Brandon said, looking around, “where’s Jay?”

  Siobhán’s radio crackled, followed by Macdara’s. “Stay here,” Macdara told the group. She and Macdara ran for Kelly’s.

  They entered through the back, having secretly cleared the door earlier for entrance. They crept toward the center of the pub. George Dunne was halfway in the safe, hauling out the cardboard box that the guards had placed back inside.

  “Does that belong to you?” Macdara said.

  George whirled around. “It’s an abandoned p-pub,” he stammered. “I use it as storage.”

  Siobhán stepped forward. “I was surprised when I first visited your house to see a poster of Saint Vincent de Paul,” she said, “the patron saint of charities.”

  “You shouldn’t have been,” George said. “I’m a very charitable man.”

  “I also noticed your finger,” Siobhán said, pointing to it.

  George held up his gnarled finger. “What about it?”

  “Peter was left-handed,” Siobhán said.

  “So?”

  “He was pointing with his right hand. We thought he was pointing at the headstone.”

  “He was. What else?”

  “He was trying to tell us who his killer was by pointing out your most distinctive feature,” Siobhán said. “Your finger.”

  George Dunne’s face flooded with red. “That’s nonsense!” He looked around. “It’s the filmmaker! I saw you arrest him!”

  “Yes, we arrested him,” Macdara said. “Knowing you would run straight here and try to clear out the evidence.”

  “Lies,” George said. “All lies!”

  “The DVD of Dancing Irish was donated to the museum six months ago,” Siobhán continued.

  “So?”

  “It had Jay’s card attached to it. That’s what gave you the idea to make the documentary.”

  “What is this?” George yelled. “A trick?”

  “I spoke with the costume department at the theatre,” Macdara said. “We have you on CCTV stealing the gray wig, red cap, tan coat, and high heels.”

  “They really kill your feet, don’t they?” Siobhán said.

  George began to back up. “There’s no law saying I can’t dress up!”

  “You were the only person not in the library when the lights went out.”

  “All circumstantial!”

  Siobhán continued. “You volunteered at the museum around the time the gun went missing. You donated your own box of wooly socks, then hid the gun inside, and returned for it dressed as the old woman.”

  “Then reported your socks missing, just in case,” Macdara said.

  “W-where’s the proof?” George sputtered.

  “You sent blackmail material to Frank Mallon,” Siobhán said. “We recovered it.”

  “You did not!”

  “Check the boxes,” Siobhán said. “They’re empty.” George couldn’t help it. He looked. When he looked back up, his face was beet-red. “Your great-grandfather’s journal, which is how you learned about Michael Mallon in the first place, along with Peter’s wallet and mobile.”

  “Anyone could have taken those.”

  “We’re checking the pub for fingerprints. My guess is we’ll find yours on the mirror.” He glanced at George’s hand.

  George glared at Siobhán and Macdara. “You should have been on my side!”

  “We’ll check bank records too,” Siobhán said.

  “You won’t find any bank records!”

  “Because the money is in the socks?” Siobhán said. “Oh, wait. The money was in the socks. The guards have it now.”

  “That’s my money!”

  “Received through blackmail,” Macdara said.

  George clamped his mouth shut. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “Why?” Greta cried. “Why did you have to kill him?” Siobhán and Macdara whirled around.

  “Get back,” Macdara said. “Stay out.”

  George started to shake. “It’s his fault. Peter wanted it his way! It was my movie.”

  “He wanted the truth to come out,” Greta said.

  “Greta,” Siobhán said, “do as you were told. We’re handling this.”

  “Why?” Greta shouted. “Tell me why!”

 
“I didn’t want my family’s dirty laundry spread all over Ireland!” George shouted. He shook his head, spit flying. He picked up an empty bottle. “I just wanted my share. Hadn’t John Mallon been humiliated enough?” George hurled the bottle across the room. It shattered on the wall. Everyone ducked.

  “Hands on the counter,” Macdara said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “I was trying to stop the documentary. He wouldn’t hear of it. I gave him chance after chance. He kept insisting the documentary would be made. I had no choice. Besides, all the money was going back to Ireland. Every single penny to charity!”

  “You killed him for his honesty,” Greta said.

  “I was protecting my family’s name!”

  “You killed him because he wanted to tell the truth.”

  George’s hand trembled. He reached under the counter. “Stop!” Siobhán yelled. “Hands where we can see them.”

  He brought his hands up. He was holding a gun. He smiled. “A man has to have a backup. This is my trusty hunting weapon. I renew it every three years. Never hunted a thing with it. Until now. This one isn’t antique. It’ll shoot just fine.”

  “If you had that gun, why steal the antique one?” Siobhán just wanted to keep him talking.

  “Now why would I use my own gun as the murder weapon?” He tapped his own head. “Think! Anyone could have stolen the antique gun. Plus I liked the optics. Ancient gun to settle an ancient feud.” George’s eyes swam with pride.

  “Well you’re in plain view of two guards right now,” Macdara said. “So why don’t you just put the gun down before you make a bad situation worse?”

  “I’ll fight to the bitter end,” George said. “I’ve nothing more to lose.”

  “What do you know of your great-grandfather?” Siobhán asked. “What happened on that boat? Were there any family stories?” If anyone knew what happened, it had to be George.

  George jerked his head. “John Mallon was a surviver. That’s the only story that matters.”

  “I’m sure it was quite the tale,” Siobhán said. “I guess you don’t know. I guess no one will ever know.”

  George’s face contorted. “I know! Of course I know!” He took the bait and let the story spill. “Just before the Swan reached the shores of America, John told his brother Michael that he thought they should part ways. Told him he didn’t like his erratic behavior, didn’t appreciate how he looked at his wife. His drunken fool of a brother was enraged. A fight ensued. Michael managed to corner John against the side of the boat, then pushed him over. Always a hothead that one. Michael thought John went into the ocean, assumed he drowned. But John Mallon was saved by a porthole. That’s the story. Just enough to get a grip. John never went into the ocean. He clung to the side of the boat. Crawled back up. He probably would have killed Michael. Should have killed Michael. But then he saw his wife in his brother’s embrace. That sinful woman fell for Michael’s lies. He told her John was the one that tried to attack him. Told her he only fought back in self-defense. Even said he tried to save John but it was too late. He said John was drunk and enraged and Michael had no choice. She swallowed it all. He convinced her the friend waiting for them in America might not help if he heard about what happened to her real husband. John Mallon waited for her to scream at Michael, accuse him of murder. Waited for her to say she was going to report this to the ship’s captain. But she didn’t. She didn’t even walk to the side of the boat to look for him in the murky depths below. That’s a woman for you. My great-grandfather was the real hero. He should have killed them both. Instead, he let them go. Watched his brother walk off that boat arm-in-arm with his wife.” He glared at Siobhán. “After that he just wanted to go home. He just wanted to go home.”

  Silence filled the pub. “I’m sorry,” Siobhán said. “I can see why you’re still so angry.” It was true. George spoke as if it had happened to him. For him, it wasn’t a long ago. It was right here, right now.

  “God didn’t even punish them. Let them go on to be rich. That sniveling bastard pretended to be my great-grandfather the rest of his life. Even on his tombstone they carved his brother’s name. That’s the kind of coward he was. My great-grandfather was the hero!”

  “It’s over now,” Siobhán said. “It’s over.”

  “It’s not over until I’m free,” George said. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “We have guards surrounding the building,” Macdara said. “There’s nowhere to go. It’s time for you to be the hero now. It’s time for you to face up to what you’ve done.”

  George jerked his gun to the front door. “I’m going to walk out that door.” He came out from behind the counter. “She’s going with me.” He grabbed Siobhán’s arm.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Macdara said. He was trying to be strong, but Siobhán could hear the terror in his voice.

  “It’s okay,” Siobhán said. “I’ll go.” It was better to have just one hostage than many.

  “No,” Macdara said.

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” George said. He shoved Siobhán. “Keep moving.”

  * * *

  Macdara radioed for the guards to stand down. George marched her out the door and down Sarsfield Street. Muttering the entire way. He hadn’t thought this plan through. That was to Siobhán’s advantage. “My keys are in the bistro,” she said when they were near Naomi’s. Her siblings were all at Kilbane’s Day of Giving.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Keys to what?”

  “My scooter.”

  “That pink thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?”

  “How else are you going to get away?”

  “Me? Ride a pink scooter out of town? Are ye mad?”

  “Unless you want to steal a guard car. But that’s back the other direction.”

  George chewed on this. Then nodded. “No funny business.” He steered her to the bistro.

  * * *

  “I don’t want you coming in,” she said when they reached Naomi’s. He was an ornery type, the kind who would do the exact opposite of anything one asked.

  “Too bad.” His hands were shaking. He was afraid. And his fear, more than anything, worried her the most. She wanted to keep him talking.

  “I understand why you didn’t want the truth to come out. We’re Irish. We’re proud. The Americans don’t get that.”

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me. Inside. Get the keys. Now.”

  Siobhán opened the door to the bistro. She passed the keys hanging on the coatrack. Maybe if she could lead him into the kitchen, she could get ahold of a frying pan. Hit him over the head with it. They had to step over Ann’s camogie bag.

  “Where are the keys?” he demanded.

  “In the kitchen.”

  He shoved her. “Move.”

  She passed the window just in time to see Ann’s pretty face coming home. Siobhán quickly turned and began backing up into the rear dining room, near the garden. She held up her hands. “I lied. I’m sorry. The key is in the garden.” She tried to catch Ann’s eye, to warn her, to wave her away. There wasn’t any time. Ann would come through that door any minute.

  “Listen,” Siobhán said. “This is between us. Nobody else knows you’re a killer.”

  “What in the world are ye on about?” George Dunne began walking toward Siobhán. His back was now to the front dining room.

  “Be careful with that gun,” Siobhán said. “Why don’t you put it down?”

  “Get the key.”

  “Is it really loaded?”

  “You want to take the chance?” George asked.

  “Put down the gun.” She pointed at a nearby table. “Put it right there. If I try anything funny, you’ll be able to reach it before me.” He frowned. “Put it down or shoot me.” She made sure her voice was loud and clear.

  “That’s a stupid thing to say.”

  “I’m not getting the key unless you put that gun down. You don’t want to kill me. You
only killed Peter because you had no choice.”

  “He left me no choice.”

  “Well, now you have a choice. I don’t want any trouble. Just put the gun down.”

  “Is this some kind of a trick?”

  “Guns make me nervous.”

  “You’re a guard.”

  “Now, you know we don’t carry them, and I’m new on the job. Please.”

  “You’d better not be trying something funny.”

  “I’m not. I swear. And you’re wasting time. You know the guards are on the way.”

  He glared at her, then put the gun down on the nearest table.

  “Now!” Siobhán yelled. “Not the head!”

  “What?” George’s frown deepened, and it took him a minute to turn around. When he did, it was just as Ann’s hurling stick was coming straight for him. Ann aimed it at his side, bringing him down with one whack. Siobhán lunged for the gun as George Dunne moaned on the floor.

  “Good hit,” Siobhán said when she caught her breath.

  “Thank you,” Ann said, beaming. “Aren’t you glad I leave my sticks and balls lying around, now?”

  Chapter 33

  The Americans had their last meal—their last Irish meal, that is—at Naomi’s Bistro. Siobhán cooked bacon and cabbage, and veg, with a lemon meringue pie for dessert. A fire crackled, and traditional Irish music played in the background. For those who wished to imbibe, there were pints of Guinness rolled over in a keg by Declan O’Rourke, and for those abstaining, there was Barry’s tea or minerals. Her siblings helped prepare the meal, and then watched from the back portion of the dining room as if it were a show on telly. Siobhán had grown fond of the quirky Yanks, faults and all, especially since it turned out that none of them were cold-blooded murderers. She hoped she hadn’t been too hard on any of them. The least she could do was fill their bellies one last time.

  “I told you it wasn’t one of us,” Tracy said when they were all too bloated to move from the table.

  “You did indeed,” Siobhán said. “You did indeed.”

  “We can hardly blame her,” Brandon said. “Seeing as how Siobhán was brand-new to the job and all.”