“I’d rather one of your fancy coffees,” Macdara said. “I get the feeling I won’t be sleeping much the next few days.” They entered the bistro but stuck to the front room. Siobhán made them cappuccinos, and it was the first time it didn’t bring her joy. They slurped in silence. When they were almost finished, they heard the front door open. Seconds later, James stumbled into the dining room.
“Siobhán.” His clothes were disheveled and dirty, his hair matted. But it was his swollen eye and bloody mouth that made her gasp.
“James.” She rushed up to him. “James, James. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he slurred. “Don’t you worry about a t’ing. I’m in perfect form.” He stumbled forward and grabbed the back of a chair. It slid away from him, and he had to two-step not to fall. He failed at this as well, stumbled, and then collapsed to the ground. Siobhán stood over him, seething.
“Look at the state of ye,” she said. And at the worst possible time. Macdara made a move to help him up, but Siobhán’s arm shot out in front of him. “Leave him.”
James opened one eye and groaned. “Is it true?” he asked, looking up to her. “Is Niall Murphy really dead?”
Siobhán kneeled down. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She reached for his face, wanting to examine the wounds.
“Don’t touch him,” Macdara said.
“Don’t touch him?” Siobhán said.
Macdara stepped closer and peered down at James. “Is every guard in this town a right eejit? How could they let him come home? He’s covered in blood.”
Siobhán’s head snapped back to James’s dirty clothes. “No. That’s just . . .” She stepped closer. Oh, God. Macdara was right. It wasn’t much, but there were drops of blood on James’s shirt. Startled, her eyes locked on James. “What happened?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” James said. “I don’t know.”
“You blacked out,” Siobhán said.
James squeezed his eyes shut. Then nodded.
“Tell me everything you do remember,” Macdara said. He put on a glove, then helped James up and sat him in a chair. Siobhán couldn’t help but stare at the glove, then at the pad of paper and Biro in Macdara’s hand as he waited for James to speak. Should Siobhán warn him to keep his gob shut? Was her brother in big trouble?
“I went to O’Rourke’s,” James said. He glanced at Siobhán. Shame was stamped across his face. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“Continue,” Macdara said.
“Can I get washed up first? Have a cup of tea?”
“Of course,” Siobhán said. She should have said something to warn him. But she didn’t want Macdara to think James had anything to hide.
“No,” Macdara said.
“What?” Siobhán turned to Macdara, hand on her hip.
Macdara pointed to James’s shirt. “It’s evidence.”
“Evidence?” James said as if he didn’t understand the word.
“He didn’t kill Niall,” Siobhán said. “You know that. It’s James. You know him.”
“Kill Niall?” James said. “Me?”
Macdara ignored James and turned to Siobhán. “Do you want people to think he got away because I let him wash off evidence?”
“It’s probably his own blood. Look at his mouth. Clearly he’s the one who took a beating last night!”
“I think I got in a fight with someone,” James said, as if Siobhán had never spoken. “In the alley behind O’Rourke’s.”
“What was your first clue?” Siobhán snapped, unable to contain her sarcasm. James tried to frown, but he was so hungover he couldn’t even pull that off.
Macdara stood. “I’m going to have to take James into the station.”
“Why? If you want, I’ll put his clothes in a bag, and you can just take them,” Siobhán said.
“The detective superintendent is going to want to question him. Come on, Siobhán. You have to let me do my job.”
“He’s right,” James said. “Where are the others?”
“They’re with Bridie and Séamus.”
James nodded. “I’d rather he take me now. With them gone.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll be back before they are.” Siobhán glanced at Macdara for confirmation, but for once he avoided her eyes. “Can I get him a fresh set of washing, or are ye going to send him home in his birthday suit?”
James laughed. Siobhán silenced him with a glare.
“Go ahead,” Macdara said.
James put his hand out as Siobhán started to walk out of the room. “How is Gráinne?” Alarm bells rang inside Siobhán’s head. Why was he specifically asking about Gráinne? The panicked look on his face confirmed it. He knew something. He was hiding something. How she wished Macdara wasn’t here. Was Macdara going to think it odd that James was asking specifically about Gráinne?
“Upset,” Siobhán said carefully. James stared at her, as if trying to tell her something. She glanced at Macdara, who had his head buried in a notebook. Thanks be to Jaysus for once he wasn’t paying attention. As if he could feel her thinking about him, Macdara suddenly popped his head up, then pocketed his notebook.
“Go on,” Macdara said. “Get the change of clothes.” Siobhán hurried upstairs and threw a pair of his denims and a shirt into an overnight bag. She was tempted to write him a note, but she couldn’t think of what to say, and what if Macdara found it first? She had to keep her temper in check. She hurried downstairs and started to hand the bag to James. Macdara took it instead. “Let him have some headache tablets,” she said. James looked like death warmed over.
Macdara nodded. When they were almost to the door, James stopped and looked at Siobhán.
“Don’t spend a quid on a solicitor, you hear?”
“James?”
“Not a quid.”
Siobhán turned to Macdara. “You’d better let him wash up after you collect your evidence. And give him water, and headache tablets, and a bit to eat, and a soft cot—”
“I’ll mind him,” Macdara said. “In the meantime, you make sure to mind yourself and the young ones.” When Macdara and James were almost out the door, James stopped and turned.
“What?” she said.
“Lock yer windows and doors,” he said.
“I will, so.”
Macdara didn’t look convinced. “He’s right. Call Séamus. Have him replace the locks.”
Siobhán nodded. This was good. This meant Macdara didn’t think James did it. It was a stab of relief. On the flip side, it meant he thought there was a killer still out there. A killer who might be coming back for one of them.
Chapter 9
The next day, the young ones were back, and they had scrubbed the bistro clean, said prayers, and set up crosses and candles in the back room, on the very table where Niall had been found, but Siobhán still couldn’t get the horror of death out of her mind. Maybe Father Kearney could come and give the space a blessing. They held hands around the table and said a prayer for Niall and his family. Then they prayed for James. That helped a little.
Ann and Gráinne were pumping out a constant stream of tears. Ann’s tears were because James was once again back at the gardai station being questioned (the first attempt was all but impossible with James experiencing the terrors after so much drink), but Gráinne seemed to be crying for a different reason. She seemed to be crying over Niall. Siobhán took a seat next to her and leaned in.
“What is going on with ye?” she whispered.
Gráinne’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?” She didn’t bother to whisper; she was full-on yelling.
“We’re all shaken up, but you’re crying as if you’ve lost a dear friend.” Or a boyfriend. Hand to God, if Siobhán found out that Niall had been sniffing around her sister, she’d wish him alive just to kill him all over again. A shameful thought, she supposed, but the honest truth. Like it or not, this brood was hers to protect. Siobhán braced herself. “Was there something g
oing on between you and Niall?”
Gráinne shot out of her chair. “Don’t be daft!”
“Don’t speak to me like that.”
“You’re not my mammy.”
“But I am your guardian.”
“So what?”
“So I deserve a little respect!”
“Not if you go around accusing me of terrible things, like, you don’t.”
“It had to be asked. You’re crying as if the love of your life just died.”
“We’ve known Niall our whole lives!” Gráinne said. “How can you be so cold-hearted?”
Ann and Ciarán were looking on, wide-eyed. Siobhán had better back off. No use rattling everyone up even worse than they already were. She’d forgotten how volatile Gráinne could be. If she wanted answers, this was not the way to get them. “Settle down. I’m only asking.”
Gráinne wiped her tears, and hiccuped. She’s still so young. Just a girl. Siobhán went to hug her. Gráinne turned her back on the gesture. “Why aren’t you crying? Why aren’t we all crying?”
“Should I be crying?” Ciarán said.
“I’m crying,” Ann said. “I’ve been crying a lot.”
“See?” Gráinne wailed, pointing at Ann. “So why are you just giving out to me?”
Pick your battles. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. If Siobhán was going to confront Gráinne again, she’d have to wait until they were alone.
“I just don’t like seeing you in such a state,” Siobhán said. Gráinne folded her arms across her chest and sat back down. At least she hadn’t stalked off to her room. It was best to leave it for now. It seemed every time she opened her mouth lately she said the wrong thing. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be minding young ones.
“I’ll wet the tea,” Ann said.
“Good girl.” Siobhán took a deep breath and made her way to the front window, trying to settle herself down and collect her thoughts. Across the way, she spotted Sheila Mahoney dashing into the salon and slamming the door shut behind her. Now there’s someone she needed to have a chat with. Niall’s recent head shave, not to mention the scissors plunged in his heart, warranted a fair look at Sheila. Yet Macdara was focused only on James.
Did Sheila even know that her scissors were the murder weapon? Macdara would be raging at her if she gave away evidence. She wouldn’t say a word about the scissors, or anything else. She would simply take in information. Should she grab a Biro and paper to take notes, or would that look too official? She’d sneak them in her pocket and write everything down the minute she was on her own. It couldn’t look like she was investigating, which, of course, she wasn’t. Paying a visit to Sheila was the neighborly thing to do. They all had to band together, keep each other safe.
Siobhán grabbed her handbag and ordered her siblings to stay upstairs. She was met with protests until she said they could watch all the telly and eat all the sweets and crisps they wanted, but they were not to come down in any circumstances. She forbade them to answer the door or the mobile. She had to promise puppies, and cars, and trips to London, but at least she was able to get out of the bistro.
She headed straight for Sheila’s shop. She definitely should have told Macdara about Sheila’s strange activities this morning; maybe then he wouldn’t be so focused on James. She would make up for her mistake. The quickest way to free her brother was to find out who really killed Niall Murphy.
Siobhán hurried across the street and tried to open the door to the salon, but it was locked. Siobhán looked at the window. The curtains were drawn tight. At this time of day they were always thrown open. Where was Sheila? Not only had she expected it to be open; she was convinced the shop would already be full of ladies there on the pretense of getting their hair done just so they could stare at the bistro across the street and gossip. It was looking as if everyone was at the pub. Siobhán pounded on the door.
On the third bang the curtain finally twitched. “Sheila. I know you’re in there.” Siobhán made sure her voice was loud. Sheila would be forced to open the door just to hush her up. “It’s Siobhán. We need to talk.” The curtain twitched again, and this time Sheila’s round face appeared. Her eyes went wide, she put a plump finger to her lips, and a second later the door swung open. Before Siobhán could say another word, Sheila grabbed her arm, yanked her inside, then slammed and triple-locked the door. Next she jammed a chair underneath the doorknob, then made sure the curtains were drawn tight.
When she whirled around to face Siobhán, she was out of breath. But it was Siobhán who got a fright. For the first time, maybe ever, Sheila wasn’t wearing a lick of face paint—not mascara, not rouge, not heavy black eyeliner, not lipstick, not foundation, or even cover-up for the dark circles underneath her eyes. Definitely not a pretty sight. A cigarette dangled from her fingers. Her fake nails had even been stripped off, and the jagged short ones revealed her to be a biter. Siobhán wasn’t surprised.
“Are ye well?” Siobhán asked. It was the only thing she could think to say.
“I am, yea. Why wouldn’t I be, with a killer on the loose?” Sheila’s voice rose and wobbled. Smoke from the cigarette curled up and soured the air. She seemed right mental, and Siobhán had an urge to flee. Her eyes flicked to the fortified door and covered windows.
“You closed the shop?”
“Everyone has closed their shops,” Sheila said. “Out of respect, like.” Siobhán glanced at the chair jammed into the door. “Just because we’re fierce scared as well doesn’t mean we didn’t do it out of respect.”
“Of course,” Siobhán said.
“Would you like a cuppa and a biscuit?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sit down, sit down.” Siobhán turned to the salon and was momentarily stunned to see that it was clean. Remarkably clean. The scent of bleach hung in the air. Had Niall been murdered here and that’s why they’d done such a thorough cleaning? She’d have to tell Macdara about this straightaway. The pristine shop floor was a sharp contrast to Sheila’s naked face, chewed nails, and ratty bathrobe.
Siobhán looked around. Was she meant to sit on a styling chair? There weren’t any other options. Siobhán hoisted herself onto the edge of one as Sheila turned and tended to the kettle. A small cooker had been installed in the shop just for tea. Their real kitchen was upstairs, where she and Pio lived.
Siobhán felt instantly comforted as she watched Sheila crush out the cigarette so she could tend to tea and biscuits. It didn’t matter what was happening in the world; there was nothing that couldn’t be softened with a spot of tea. “Milk and sugar?” Sheila asked.
“Yes, please, just a drop and a pinch.” The clink of the spoon and the solid feel of the saucer as Sheila handed it to her helped Siobhán breathe a sigh of relief. Outside it began to rain, and it sounded like a bucket of pebbles slowly being tipped out over the roof.
Her mind flashed to their back garden. Would the rain be washing away evidence? Had the guards missed anything? Her hands instantly warmed as she wrapped them around the mug. Sheila leaned against one of the sinks with her own mug of tea, and for a few seconds they slurped in silence.
“Tell me everything,” Sheila barked just as Siobhán was starting to relax.
Siobhán hesitated. She was the one who was supposed to be asking questions. But she couldn’t afford to rile Sheila up. Sometimes you have to go along to get along. “I got up early that morning for a run,” Siobhán started.
“A run for what?” Sheila furled her eyebrows in utter confusion.
“A run, like,” Siobhán said. “For sport.” Sheila’s frowned deepened. Siobhán kept going. “When I returned, I noticed a light on in your salon, and the door wide open.”
Sheila suddenly stood straight, sloshing a bit of tea onto her robe. “What?” She shoved a biscuit into her mouth and let it sit there for a moment as if attempting to plug up a leaky spout. Crumbs trickled out onto her ample bosom. She didn’t make a move to wipe them off.
Siobhán had an urge t
o yank the wee biscuit out of Sheila’s piehole, see if a confession would burst through. She was dying to tell Sheila that it was her hot-pink scissors sticking out of Niall’s chest, just to gauge her reaction.
“I was worried you’d been burgled. I was going to call the guards when I saw you hurrying up through the passageway.”
Sheila plucked the biscuit out of her mouth, tossed it on the counter, and withdrew a packet of smokes from the pocket of her robe. “You saw me, did ye?” she asked as she stuck the cigarette in her mouth and lit it.
“I did indeed. You rushed into the shop, slammed your door, and your lights went off.”
Sheila blew the smoke directly at Siobhán. “Did you tell Garda Flannery?”
“Why would I tell Garda Flannery?” What a funny thing to ask straightaway, not to mention the menacing tone with which it was said. Siobhán tried to keep her face still. She was a better poker player than Sheila.
“You said you thought I’d been burgled. So why not call the guards?”
“I was headed back to the bistro to do just that when I saw you coming up alongside the salon with the rubbish bag.”
Sheila shook her head furiously, tossing ashes into the air. “What does any of this have to do with the murder?” Her voice was gravelly and deep. She stared at Siobhán, and that’s when Siobhán noticed it. Sheila had a faint bruise under her left eye. Was that why she wore so much makeup? Was Pio a violent man? He certainly seemed harmless enough, but as her mammy always said, you never knew what was going on behind closed doors. It was hard to imagine that skinny husband of hers, the man who could make a set of spoons sing, giving her a punch. But you just never knew. Siobhán resisted the urge to cross herself. “Well?” Sheila barked. Siobhán started. She’d forgotten the question.
“Well?” she repeated. When in doubt it was best to nod and smile or answer a question with a question.
“Why are ye going on about me when Niall was murdered in your bistro?”
“We don’t know for sure that he was murdered in the bistro. In fact, I think he was murdered out back and—”
“What does this have to do with me? What were you doing spying on me, for feck’s sakes?”
Murder in an Irish Village Page 8
