“I wasn’t spying. I was worried about you, that’s all.” Siobhán’s eyes landed on a broom propped in the far corner of the room. Why on earth does Sheila look like death warmed over yet the salon was scrubbed as if she was expecting the queen? Something was definitely not right here.
“How was he killed?” Sheila asked.
With a pair of your scissors. The ones you were handing out all over town like you were sharing a bag of sweets. How do you like that? Now we can’t narrow the suspect list at all. Siobhán needed to change the subject, get control of the conversation. “How did Niall seem when you shaved his head?” she asked casually.
Sheila crushed out her cigarette and stepped closer to Siobhán with a menacing glare. “What did ye say?”
“Did Niall say why he wanted it all shaved off? Was he going to a wedding, or a funeral, or—”
“How did you know he was here?” Sheila’s head darted left and right as if she was expecting someone, perhaps Niall himself, to jump out from behind one of the chairs.
“Who else would he have gone to for a cut and a shave?”
Sheila opened and shut her mouth like a fish trying to decide whether or not to chomp down on the bait. “You’re right, of course,” she said, finally deciding she wanted the worm. “Of course, he came to me. Everyone comes to me.” She stepped even closer. “Except the O’Sullivans. Always cutting your own hair, aren’t ye?” Before Siobhán could leap out of the chair, Sheila sunk her nicotine-stained fingers into Siobhán’s long, red locks, roughly drawing her fingers through them.
“That hurts.” Siobhán squirmed in the chair. “Our mammy liked to cut our hair. It’s nothing personal. I just want to carry on the tradition.”
The last thing that manky woman should have is a pair of sharp scissors in her hands, her mammy always said about Sheila.
“You could use a wee trim. Sit back.” Sheila shoved Siobhán’s head back into the sink. The back of her head thunked against the porcelain rim, and pain shot through her skull. “Idle hands entice the Devil to hold them,” she sang. She reached to her left, and before Siobhán knew what was happening, she was staring at a pair of scissors with hot-pink handles.
“No,” Siobhán said. She struggled to get up. Sheila held her down.
“What’s the matter with ye?”
“I can’t get my hair cut.” Was Sheila going to stab her through the heart as well? Right here, right now? Why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going? She doubted the young ones would even miss her, not when they had endless telly, and sweets, and crisps.
“Why can’t ye get a hair cut? You don’t think I can do a good job?”
“It’s not that, like.”
“You t’ink yer hair is so special? Would ye look at the oldest O’Sullivan girl, with hair like fire?” Sheila twisted her hair even harder. Jaysus, she was mental. Siobhán never should have come. Was Pio upstairs? Should she yell for help?
“It’s not that.” She wished her hair was really made of fire so she could set Sheila aflame.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s like you said. We need to show respect today for Niall. Especially me.”
“Why especially you?”
“The poor lad was found murdered in my bistro. How would it look if the next day if I was in here getting me hair done?”
“Like you’re getting ready for the funeral,” Sheila said. She finally loosened her grip on Siobhán’s hair.
The funeral. Oh, God. Not another one. After her parents’ funerals, Siobhán hoped it would be at least a decade before she ever had to go to another one.
“I’ll tell ye what,” Sheila said, stepping back. “I’ll tell ye why Niall was getting his hair cut if you let me get my hands on yours.”
“Another time?”
“Then I’ll tell ye another time as well, like.”
Shite. Siobhán needed to know. For James. “Will ye also tell me about the black rubbish bag I saw you carrying into the shop that mornin’? And why your door was wide open, and your lights blazing one minute but plunged into the black the next?”
“I’ll tell ye everything,” Sheila said. “Do we have a deal?”
“Please just a wee trim.” Siobhán’s plea came out with a squeak. Was that what Niall asked for and instead Sheila shaved his head?
“Brilliant.” Sheila threw an apron over Siobhán, tied it around the back of her neck to the point of choking her, and shoved her under the water to either drown her or shampoo her. Siobhán gritted her teeth, praying that she would have enough hair left to cut, as it felt like strands were being ripped from the roots. She was pretty sure she didn’t have as pretty a head as Sinéad O’Connor, and she didn’t want to find out.
She silently scolded James. If only he’d stayed in that night, Macdara would surely be the one over here questioning Sheila. James had better appreciate the sacrifice she was making. Sheila continued to be rough, but Siobhán didn’t give her the satisfaction of crying out. When she had been brutally shampooed and conditioned, Sheila began wringing out her hair, and that hurt even worse. Then came the raking with a giant brush, and next the dreaded scissors.
Siobhán flinched as she flashed on poor Niall again. Would she ever get that image out of her head? She squeezed her eyes shut as Sheila began to snip. This too shall pass, she said to herself. This too shall pass. If only she believed it.
Chapter 10
True to her promise, Sheila began to talk as she worked. “Niall came in around seven that night. I think he’d had a few pints at O’Rourke’s. He wanted it shaved off, all proper like.”
“Did he say why?” Siobhán moved her head, trying to see in the mirror, but Sheila grabbed her by the chin and yanked her eyes back to hers.
“No peeking.”
“Sorry.”
“Niall just said he needed to look his best.”
For what? Or who? “Was he wearing a suit?”
“Why would he be wearing a suit?” Sheila froze mid-cut. “Was he wearing a suit when he was killed?” Curiosity oozed from her pores.
“No,” Siobhán said quickly.
“He must have been. Why else would you ask me that?”
“You didn’t ask him why he needed to look his best?”
“I’m not a Nosy Nellie,” Sheila said.
“Of course not,” Siobhán said. “But you must have been curious.”
“I assumed he was sweet on someone.”
“Any guess who?”
“How would I know?”
Siobhán sighed. This wasn’t worth getting her hair cut. “Why were you up so early, and what about the rubbish bag?”
“I wasn’t up early; we were just getting home. Pio played at Fitzgerald’s until the wee hours of the morning.”
“And the rubbish bag?”
The scissors started to move faster. Siobhán glanced down at the floor and was horrified to see a sea of red hair. She cried out.
“What in heavens?” Sheila yelped.
“Are you cutting it short?”
“No fussing until after you’ve seen it.”
“I asked for a trim. That doesn’t feel like a trim.” It was true. Her head felt light. Way too light.
“You said you were a runner now. Runners need short hair.”
“I don’t want short hair.”
“Hush now.”
Siobhán hated her. She hated her. “What about the rubbish bag?”
“I broke a vase. Pio threw out the pieces before I could collect ’em. I wanted to try and glue it back together.”
“What happened to your eye?” The question spilled out of Siobhán before she could stop it.
“None of your feckin’ business.” Sheila slammed the scissors down and got out the hair dryer. She turned it on full heat and practically scalded Siobhán’s scalp. Only this time, Siobhán let herself yelp. Sheila ignored her. After drying and wrestling her hair with a brush, Sheila turned her around to face the mirror. Siobhán braced herself t
o hate it, to see that she was practically bald, or looked like a lad. Instead, she couldn’t believe the image in the mirror.
It wasn’t as short as she feared. It fell just below her chin, with soft, jagged layers. She couldn’t believe it. She looked stunning. Sophisticated even. This would have been the haircut she would have wanted for her first day at college. Tears came to her eyes.
“You hate it?” Sheila said.
Siobhán’s hands fluttered around, as she touched it all over. “I love it.”
“You mean it?” Sheila’s voice softened.
Siobhán nodded. “I really mean it.”
An actual smile crept across Sheila’s face. She straightened her robe and stood up tall. “Well, then. Maybe you’ll let the young ones come to me too.”
“I will indeed,” Siobhán said. She continued to stare in the mirror as Sheila went to the corner and got the broom. When she removed it, Siobhán noticed a pile of broken glass. Was that the vase Sheila was on about?
Siobhán tried to think through what Sheila said. She and Pio had come home in the wee hours of the morning. Somehow Sheila broke a vase. Pio threw the pieces out. Sheila fetched them. Had they been having a row? Sheila got mad and threw a vase? Did Pio hit her? Then what? They went to bed and Sheila shook the broken pieces out onto the floor? Did that make sense?
Siobhán would have to try and make sense of it later. What else? Niall had his hair cut, wanted to look good for something. Although that wasn’t really all, was it? Why did the place smell like bleach? Not to mention that Niall was killed with a pair of her scissors. Maybe Pio had a dark side. Maybe Sheila was sleeping with Niall, and Pio killed him in a drunken rage. Maybe Niall had broken into their salon that day and the shards of glass were actually from a broken window.
“Go on with ye now,” Sheila said. “I’m done cutting and I’m done talking.”
Just then, Sheila sneezed, and a memory came hurling through Siobhán’s mind: Sheila at the calling hours for her parents’ service. She’d stood too close to the flower arrangements and starting sneezing. “I’m allergic,” she’d said when Siobhán glanced over at her. “I feckin’ hate flowers. I don’t even own a vase.” Why would someone who hated flowers, and never owned a vase before, go to such lengths to glue one back together? If it was anyone else, maybe for sentimental reasons. But Sheila wasn’t a sentimental gal. Siobhán had once seen her crush a cigarette out in one of her wedding photos. If it were just the vase, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But when you took into consideration the bleach, the bruise, and how she was hurrying back into her bistro with a rubbish bag just before Siobhán discovered Niall in their bistro—it was all just too odd to ignore.
Siobhán had to go to Macdara and tell him to come to the salon straightaway. She handed over her credit card and practically vibrated as she waited for Sheila to charge her. When it was done, she thanked her and flew out of the shop, and didn’t stop running until she’d reached the gardai station.
“You just missed James,” Macdara said the moment Siobhán stepped into his office. “He’s back home. For now.”
“I’m not here about him,” Siobhán said, hating how he said For now.
“We’ll see what we’re dealing with when the results come back from his shirt,” Macdara continued.
Siobhán didn’t want to think about that, and arguing about it now might only distract Macdara. “I went to question Sheila.”
“You did what?” Macdara stood up and approached Siobhán. She’d never seen his nostrils flare before. Macdara’s office was tiny, and in any other circumstances she would have been all aflutter to be this close to him. Now she just wanted to get away. She wasn’t used to him being angry with her, let alone apoplectic. Still he was mighty attractive, even now. She wanted to cross herself, but she didn’t want him wondering why. She was definitely going to have to go to confession after all of this.
“I’m only telling you what I observed when I went to get my hair done.” She nervously touched it as Macdara’s eyes flicked to her hair, then her face, and she couldn’t help but notice his eyes lingered on her lips.
“It suits you,” he said gruffly, then looked away.
“Thank you.”
“Let me get this straight.” His voice was clear and stern again. “There was a murder in your bistro a few days ago, your brother is our top suspect, and you just happen to decide to get your hair done?”
“Top suspect? I thought you were just questioning him.”
Macdara sighed. “Please, sit,” he said.
“No.”
“If the blood on him matches Niall, he’s going to be arrested. You need to prepare yourself for that.”
“He didn’t do it. You know James. You know he didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know that at all. Neither does he.”
“What?” What had James been saying?
“He says he doesn’t remember a thing. He can’t say whether he did it or not.”
Why couldn’t he have just kept his gob shut? She was going to kill him. She’d better stop using that expression. But she was. She was going to kill him. She put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you supposed to have a solicitor present when you’re being questioned?”
“He didn’t ask for a solicitor.” Macdara sat in his chair and turned to his computer as though signaling that the conversation was over.
“You should have advised him to get one.”
“I have a job to do. Whether you like it or not.”
“James didn’t ask for a solicitor because he has nothing to hide. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“I talked to Declan. He said James and Niall were in a heated argument that night. Almost came to fisticuffs right there in the pub.”
“But it didn’t?”
“Declan and Séamus broke it up. Threw them both out.”
“What time? Was Niall wearing a suit?”
“I can’t give you information on an ongoing investigation.”
“So what if they had a bit of a scuffle? That’s probably where the blood came from. But wouldn’t there have been way more blood if he had been the one who stabbed him?”
“There wasn’t any blood on Niall’s face, love. If James’s shirt has Niall’s blood on him, it came from the wound in his heart.”
Siobhán felt like she had just been stabbed. “It’s James’s blood. From his own mouth. Or his nose. You’ll see. It has to be.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Macdara said.
“So that’s it? You aren’t even going to question anyone else?”
“I’ve got work to do,” Macdara said, gesturing to the door.
Siobhán leaned on the desk. “If James had killed Niall in some kind of drunken blackout near the pub, why would he drag his body all the way to his own bistro?” It didn’t make sense.
“Niall could have followed your brother home. Could have even stumbled in the door after him. Who knows. Maybe it was even self-defense.”
“Ann would have heard the commotion. If she heard glass breaking, she certainly would have heard a violent struggle. And again—he couldn’t have been killed in the bistro—”
Macdara’s head shot up. “Why couldn’t he have been killed in the bistro?”
“Where’s the blood?”
“Someone could have cleaned up.”
“Sheila’s place smells like bleach. Not ours. And you and I both know the guards checked our place thoroughly for more blood. The grass was trampled out back—I think from where he was dragged. Are you sure you didn’t miss any evidence out there?”
“Do I come into the bistro and tell ye how to make brown bread?”
“That’s not fair.”
“I have work to do.”
“If Niall followed James home, and James killed him in some kind of drunken self-defense, then why wasn’t James up in his bed? You’re saying he sobered up enough to clean up the blood—blood you didn’t find, by the way, or our bistro would still be a
crime scene, and you know it—then what? Would he leave his bloody clothes on, go back to the pub, and pass out in the back of O’Rourke’s until Delcan finds him there? Then pretend not to remember any of it? In what universe does any of that make any sense?”
“Maybe he did sober up. It would be natural to be afraid of what he’d done. Try to cover it up. Pretend he can’t remember.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To get away with murder.”
“I cannot believe I’m hearing this.”
Macdara threw his hands up. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions until all the facts are in.”
“Except for the conclusion that my brother is guilty.” Macdara ignored her and began pecking away at his keyboard. “When will the autopsy results be in?”
“This is a murder investigation, not a show on telly. Everything has to go through Cork City or even Dublin, depending. Things will take however long they will take.”
Siobhán bit her lip. If her da was alive, he would have gone with James. Macdara wouldn’t have tried questioning James without a solicitor then. Maybe he wouldn’t even have James’s clothes to test in the first place. “Please. Go talk to Sheila. Go now.”
“I don’t take my directions from you.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman? My place is in the kitchen, is that it, yea?”
“Don’t twist my words. You’re not a detective superintendent, or a garda, or a blood expert. I feel for ye. I do. But I can’t get distracted.” He stared at her for a moment, then looked away.
Stunned, Siobhán headed for the door and yanked it open. She was about to storm out when she turned and took a deep breath. It would be wise to hold her temper, just like her da and Sean O’Casey always said. “I’m telling you, something isn’t right. Sheila was the one cleaning with bleach. Not us. Niall was in her salon the night he was killed. And she had a black eye, and there’s broken glass on the floor, which she said came from a vase, but she’s allergic to flowers. And on the morning of the murder I saw her running into her shop with a rubbish bag. Who brings a rubbish bag into their home?” Macdara’s head snapped up, and he looked at her.
Murder in an Irish Village Page 9
