Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Or any age,” Grace said.

  Colin looked at me and explained, “I’ve never had the time to devote to hunting, which makes me a bit of an oddity here in Thurles, but that’s fine.”

  “And it’s fine with me that you never introduced me to guns,” Patrick said.

  “Imagine how it must have affected Mr. Sweeney, when his son shot himself,” I said.

  “It affected him terribly, according to Enya’s mother,” Patrick said. “She never heard anything about it when it happened—about a year ago, I think it was—but a neighbor she’d known on the Sweeneys’ street called her when Mrs. Sweeney died and filled her in on everything the family had gone through. The boy’s suicide, Mrs. Sweeney’s kidney disease that she’d battled for a long time, apparently, and one more thing that fits into the equation. Mr. Sweeney spent several weeks in a psychiatric hospital after his son killed himself.”

  For a minute, all of us seemed to hold a collective breath, taking it all in. This last piece of information did fit into the equation. Losing a child was the most horrible thing imaginable, under any circumstances. This case was compounded by suicide as the manner of death and again by the weapon that the boy’s father owned and had taught him to use. It was heartbreaking, too, to think of the dying woman, mourning her son’s death, and so alone during the time her husband was in the psychiatric hospital, even if friends or relatives had assisted her. Mr. Sweeney returned to their sad life and witnessed his wife’s slow decline and, finally, her death. And then he had nothing left but the fire in his belly that insisted, Someone must pay.

  Colin whispered, “Mother of God,” and then he said, “I need to finish some things in the office. Let me know if you find anything else.” He nodded at the pages. Probably it was true that he needed to work. It was also a way of wrenching himself from this depressing conversation.

  A minute later Patrick stood up to leave as well. Grace asked him about Enya, and he gave a shrug.

  “She has to decide what she wants,” he said, his eyes turning hard as steel.

  “And what do you want, Patrick?”

  “I’d like to see her come back, of course,” he said, “but not if she’s bloody miserable—here—with me.”

  Grace got up and went to her son. At about five foot two, she did not quite come up to his chin. She reached for his large hands and took them in her own small ones. “Here’s a thought, Patrick. Colin and I talked about it at length today. Bridget will get well and come home. I know it will happen. If Enya will come back—after a little time with her parents, sorting things out for herself—the two of you should look for some other place to live in Thurles. You could still help out at Shepherds with the computer work, if your work at the institute allows it, but Little Jimmie will have his mother. Enya won’t be bound to us the way she’s been.” Grace let go of her son’s hands. “Think about it, and talk to her. I believe you and Enya could make a go of it if you just didn’t live here at Shepherds.”

  Patrick gave his mother a quick hug. “I’ll think about it, and I’ll talk to her,” he said, and he hurried out.

  “Now, let’s get back to our work,” Grace said.

  Knowing that Mr. Sweeney had been in psychiatric care at least once shed a certain light on what we read. Though much of the notepad was simply dates, times, and phrases like Booked 2 wks at Shepherds B&B, Thurles, there were passages that read like a therapy journal. From those entries, in particular, it was easy to construe that after his wife’s death, Mr. Sweeney had become obsessed with the man he believed had engaged his son in homosexual behavior. He had gone to Ian’s website and found photos, so he knew that Ian was an attractive schoolmaster. He mentioned the photo of Ian with several boys, sitting under a tree in what might have been a study group—the photo I had seen. Mr. Sweeney wrote: Tim, reading one of those damnable verses? His own? Or some other that corrupted his mind? Does I.H. lust after other boys or just Tim?

  From the website, not only had Mr. Sweeney learned that Ian was going to Shepherds on holiday, but he’d read the two stories Ian had posted from his manuscript. In another entry, Mr. Sweeney had referred to the story where the owl came into play: Man guilty of murder but acquitted. Goes mad with guilt. Three times owl reminds him of his crime. Third time he takes his own life. Interesting that I.H. put up this story. Makes me think I.H. should be reminded of his own guilt. Maybe he would take the out that Tim did.

  Each page that I read, I passed on to Grace. The clock’s ticking seemed to grow louder, as I read on, feeling Mr. Sweeney’s increasing obsession. After he’d come to Thurles, his entries were often brief: 5-10 12:05 a.m. I.H. walked home from pub, two nights now. Making my plan. And 5-11 12:40 a.m. Scared him good with hooting owl.

  I took out my phone and accessed the calendar so I could follow the dates. The night Alex and I had arrived in Thurles, we’d gone to the pub and met Ian for the first time. Ian and the Quinn ladies had walked home. About that night, Mr. Sweeney had written: He knows. He is scared. Women paid no attention to owl, but I.H. did. Don’t think he saw me but must find better cover. Time to up the ante. Knowing what he had in mind made a chill seep into my bones, but it would be two more nights before he shot Ian. I read the entry written at 10:10 a.m. the next morning. Mr. Sweeney had gone out early to find another site where he could hide and frighten Ian again. The site he described was the turnoff to Red Stag Crossing.

  “Grace! We may have something,” I said.

  She and I began to read together about the morning Dr. Malone was killed.

  We brought Colin in, to get his perspective on what we had read. “Is it enough to take to the Guard?” Grace asked. “Even though he didn’t name anyone.”

  “The vehicle he described must have been the one the killer used to dispose of the body,” I said. Mr. Sweeney had also noted that it was too dark to get the number on the license plate.

  “Black late-model SUV. That could be something,” Grace said, “even though there may be dozens of black SUVs in Thurles.”

  “Wasn’t Norah Riordan—Malone—driving a black SUV when we saw her, the day we went to the tea house, and she came out of the doctor’s office?” I said.

  “I think that was Dr. Malone’s car,” Grace said. Colin agreed that was what the doctor had driven.

  “Maybe the murderer used Dr. Malone’s SUV to transport the body,” I suggested. “That way, if the police examined the tire tracks, they’d only find a connection back to Dr. Malone, not the killer.” Colin and Grace both gave me a look that reminded me of what Ian had said, that I watched too many crime shows. It was just a thought, though. As Grace had said, there were probably many black SUVs in Thurles.

  “This should be enough to light a fire, get something going with the investigation.” Colin pulled out his phone. “I’ll call the Garda station.”

  “But it’s after ten o’clock!” Grace said.

  “The station won’t be closed. And considering that progress solving the murder has been next to naught, trust me, if anyone’s on duty that’s worth his wages, he’ll want the notepad.” Colin paused before he made the call. “The notepad. We’ll not say anything about these copies you made. You can say you went into Mr. Sweeney’s room to collect his things and clean up, knowing he’s not coming back here.”

  As Colin punched in numbers, Grace said, “Maybe this will make it perfectly clear, once and for all, that Bridget had nothing to do with Dr. Malone’s death.”

  I didn’t believe Bridget was in any danger of being accused, but I understood that Grace would continue to worry about her daughter until all the threads were tied up. I thought of the secret Bridget had shared with me about Dr. Malone. One more loose thread.

  Colin was pleased that he’d reached Garda Mallory at the station. “Might’ve been anyone on duty, so this is good luck. Mallory seems like a reasonable sort. He was, anyway, when he dealt with Bridget,” Colin said. It took longer than he’d expected for Garda Mallory to arrive, and when he did, he was not alon
e. Inspector Perone, spiffy in his dress clothes, did not look happy when Colin brought the two men into the keeping room. Colin did not look happy, nor did Garda Mallory, whose expression wavered between sheepish and just plain annoyed.

  It was apparent what had happened. Mallory had called his superior, who was not on duty but rather at a fancy function of some kind. Someone, maybe his Sergeant, had demanded that he do so. Perone had been having a good time—from the smell of alcohol and cigars, and a whiff of a nice scent that must have been aftershave or cologne applied at the onset of the evening. Whatever activity was interrupted, he wasn’t about to let his underling bring in important evidence in an important homicide—the murder of an important citizen in Thurles, the son-in-law of an even more important citizen in the town.

  Colin reminded the men that they’d met me, “our friend from the States,” on their previous visit to Shepherds—“that morning you were here about Bridget,” he just couldn’t resist saying. Grace welcomed them before she went to the kitchen to bring in the tea she had already prepared. She had put away the copies we had finished reading, tucked them in a drawer. I was surprised that the Inspector didn’t demand to go to Mr. Sweeney’s room right away, but—there was the tea, of course.

  “Now what’s this evidence you called about?” Perone sat in the comfy chair Colin offered but made no effort to get comfortable. He perched on the edge in what seemed an awkward position, his back straight, hands on his knees, his neck stiff, chin jutted out.

  “I know you’ll be glad to solve the case on the shooting that injured Ian Haverty—a guest here at Shepherds—and the shooting out at the Curreeny Hedge School,” Colin began. “Seamus Sweeney, also a guest here, the man who shot himself today at the Cliffs of Moher, confesses to being the shooter in the notepad we found.”

  What a shrewd tactic, to begin on this note, a case solved. Perone’s posture did not change, but the muscles in his face relaxed a little. “Go on,” he said.

  “As for Dr. Malone’s murder, you’ll decide if anything is useful, but Mr. Sweeney was at Red Stag Crossing at 5:15 that morning, so you’ll be interested in his account,” Colin said.

  “Now what was this Sweeney fellow doing out there at 5:15 a.m.?” Perone asked with a trace of skepticism. Had he concluded already that the contents of the notepad were probably not trustworthy? Colin gave a brief answer and promised the notepad would explain everything.

  Grace set down the tray. Tea all around. Cream, sugar, spoons clinking on china, the ritual. The air felt a little less tense as we all sipped our tea.

  “And how did you come to have this notepad?” Perone asked.

  “I found it when I cleaned Mr. Sweeney’s room,” Grace said, “after we heard about—the tragic thing that happened at the Cliffs. I packed up his belongings—poor man, he didn’t have much—and changed the bed, and I found the notepad.” Grace was all innocence, a fine act, but I knew the underlying sadness about Mr. Sweeney was sincere.

  “Where is it now?” Perone asked.

  “I put it back where I found it, under the mattress.”

  “But you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would have been best if you’d left it where it was, for us to examine.”

  Colin chimed in. “If you’ll pardon, Inspector, my wife wouldn’t have known it was anything for the Guard to see if she hadn’t read it. Could’ve been anything. A record of the man’s expenses. Could’ve been something pornographic.”

  Inspector Perone took a long swallow of tea, and another. And then he finished it off, set his cup on the table, and forced a quick smile.

  “I’ll need to see the notepad now,” he said.

  “I’ll take you to Mr. Sweeney’s room,” Colin said.

  CHAPTER 26

  After Inspector Perone and Garda Mallory had left, Grace and I got out the pages again and pored over Mr. Sweeney’s small, tight script. Colin went back to work in his office. The door to the keeping room was open, and we saw Alex come to the kitchen. He acknowledged us, and a minute later he came to the door. Dressed in blue pajamas, he was holding a glass of milk—warm milk, I assumed. “I heard a commotion,” he said. “Did someone from the Guard go up to Mr. Sweeney’s room?”

  “Colin called them,” Grace said. “They took Mr. Sweeney’s notepad.”

  I indicated the photo copies on the low table before us. “Grace had the foresight to make a copy of the notepad. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” If Alex was having trouble sleeping, he didn’t need to get into Mr. Sweeney’s notes tonight. I wondered if I’d ever sleep, after delving into the writing that revealed Mr. Sweeney’s troubled mind.

  Alex accepted my promise and went on to bed. Grace and I kept reading and discussing the significance of certain passages. After Mr. Sweeney heard that Dr. Malone’s body had been found at Red Stag Crossing, he knew he’d probably seen the murderer in the black SUV that morning. He wrote: Might recognize man’s face if I saw it again, but can’t tell authorities I was there without explaining why. Mission not accomplished yet and I won’t jeopardize mission.

  He’d made an entry at 11:50 p.m., the night after he’d shot Ian, his handwriting more shaky: Can’t get over how my aim failed me. Didn’t mean to harm but maybe the clipped wing is not bad. He might be ready if I put pressure.

  “Put pressure means he would send the message to Ian’s website. ‘If you were meant to be dead, you would be,’ ” I said.

  Grace reminded me that Ian had told her and Colin all about it after the shooting at the Hedge School.

  “The message accomplished part of what Mr. Sweeney intended. Not only did Ian know for sure that he was the target, but he began to think about the owl in his story and the guilty man. He just didn’t go as far with it as Mr. Sweeney thought he would. He didn’t connect any of it with Tim Sweeney.”

  Grace said, “That’s what he means by might be ready—Ian might be ready to confess that he was involved with Tim Sweeney. Sexually. Perverting him, in Mr. Sweeney’s words.”

  “That’s what he wanted all along, an admission of guilt from Ian,” I said.

  I turned to the last page, the final entry written Friday at 3:17 p.m. after he’d given Alex a ride back to Shepherds from the Cathedral of the Assumption. Pleasant enough, he’d said about Alex, but talks too much. He wrote about lighting candles for his wife and son and said, I prayed for forgiveness. Don’t think I’ll get it, but heaven or hell, I’ll be finished.

  “He didn’t go the Cliffs of Moher to kill Ian,” I said. “He just wanted to hear a confession from Ian before he killed himself.” The truth was in the notepad, as Mr. Sweeney had promised: Suicide was the plan all along.

  Sunday morning breakfast was a bittersweet time. The guests, except Alex and me, were leaving Shepherds on Sunday, and Mr. Sweeney’s absence hung over us with a heaviness of its own.

  Helen remarked to Grace, “I thought you’d be at early mass. I’m sure Mr. Sweeney can use your prayers.” Grace said she’d go to the eleven o’clock mass, and she would, indeed, offer prayers for Mr. Sweeney.

  “I just didn’t think I could possibly leave Colin and Patrick to manage breakfast on their own,” she said.

  “Right you are! It would have been a disaster!” Colin said, delivering hot soda bread to the buffet.

  They didn’t mention Enya’s absence, and no one asked where she was. Surely they wondered, given that Patrick had returned home.

  All the guests made sure we had each other’s e-mail addresses. Charles and Helen were already packed, planning to leave right after breakfast. “We will miss all of you terribly! Won’t we, Charles?” Helen said, and he nodded. I think he was sincere.

  “But, Grace and Colin, we may very well see you in just another month!” she added.

  Some friends had invited Helen and Charles to stay with them during the Irish Open in County Cork in June. “They have managed to get a wonderful house,” Helen said.

  Charles assisted Helen as she got up from the table. “
Always good to see the old chaps from golfing circles,” he said. He was not as upbeat as his wife, but he was trying.

  “Good to have contacts,” Helen said, patting his arm. She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed as she passed. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I have no doubt,” I said.

  She leaned closer. “I did tell Grace about that—the thing with Lucas Riordan. She was not a bit surprised about the monstrous development he’s planning.”

  Charles said, “No more about that, Helen. It’s over and done.”

  “You don’t think he’ll get the financing he needs?” she asked.

  “I have no interest in whether he does or not. For us, it’s all over with Lucas.” Charles shook the hair out of his eyes.

  And then he turned toward those of us still seated in the breakfast room and raised his hand like a departing warrior, bidding us a formal goodbye.

  “Goodbye, goodbye, dear friends!” Helen sang out.

  Smiles all around at their dramatic exit.

  “They did add a flair to our holiday, didn’t they now?” Doreen said.

  Ian, Molly, and Doreen were making plans to take the train to Dublin. I offered to give them a lift to the train station. Ian said, “If it’s not too much trouble, Jordan, it would be a great favor. Colin said he would take us, but the O’Tooles have gone above and beyond in so many ways. I’d rather not ask for one more thing.”

  “No trouble at all—and you’re right about Colin and Grace,” I said. “What time?”

  They wanted to make the 11:15 train.

  Alex shocked me by saying he was going to mass with Grace. “Something I can probably use in my book,” he said. Not likely, I thought, but I supposed it was possible.

  “I’m about to take this little scamp on a stroll,” Colin said, pinching Jimmie’s cheek. “We don’t get him out in the fresh air enough.” The weather was gorgeous, bright sun in a cloudless sky, warm, with low humidity. Perfect day for a stroll. Perfect last day in Thurles.

  As Ian and the Quinn ladies loaded their luggage into my car, Colin loaded Little Jimmie into the stroller. Alex and Grace were already outside, dressed for mass. Alex had a sudden splendid idea, that we should meet in town for lunch. “I’ve wanted to treat you to a meal but you never could get away,” Alex said to Colin and Grace. “So many obligations at Shepherds.”