by Zara Keane
Under other circumstances, I’d be more hospitable, but I wanted Sister Pauline out of the house so I could look through the blind items on Lenny’s flash drive. And given that I was pretty sure the nun was the subject of one of those items, the situation was awkward to say the least.
“Tea?” I asked on autopilot when we reached the kitchen.
“I’d love a cup,” she said, “but, ah, why don’t you let me make it? I’m better with tea leaves than you are.”
I released a slow breath. “Sure. You know where everything is.”
Sister Pauline hummed as she prepared the pot of tea, seemingly at ease in her surroundings. I glanced at the kitchen clock. The seconds ticked by at an achingly slow pace while the flash drive burned a hole in my pocket. Bran, oblivious to my stress, lay down at my feet to take a snooze. Some guard dog he’d make.
When the tea was ready, Sister Pauline placed two cups and saucers on the table and poured one for me. An icy sensation spread over my limbs. “No,” I said with more force than I’d intended, causing her eyes to widen in alarm. “I, uh, prefer coffee.”
“Nonsense. Green tea is good for you, especially when you’ve been under stress. Drink up.”
Was I crazy to wonder if the tea was poisoned? Until Lenny had discovered the unpublished blind about the nun with a secret son, it had never occurred to me to regard Sister Pauline as a serious suspect.
Her eyes followed my every movement as I held the cup to my lips. I pretended to take a sip and swallow, then replaced the cup on the table. “What did you want to talk to me about, Sister Pauline?”
“About Sandra.” The nun’s grip on her teacup wobbled, and she replaced it on the saucer with a clatter. “I think I need to talk to the guards, but I’d like your opinion first.”
I swallowed hard. “If there’s something you think the police need to know, you should tell them.”
“The question is what to tell them. I don’t feel comfortable talking about this topic, and I’m not sure how much I can leave out.”
“Go on,” I urged. “What do you know that’s relevant to Sandra’s murder?”
“Sandra was a blackmailer.” The words tumbled out in a rush, and Sister Pauline appeared shocked by her own admission. She rallied and continued with her story. “For five months before she died, Sandra blackmailed me.”
“Sandra was so desperate for money that she blackmailed someone who doesn’t have any? That doesn’t make sense.”
Sister Pauline’s smile was tinged with bitterness. “There are more ways to blackmail a person than squeezing money out of them, Maggie. I paid in information. Sandra knew that people on the island confide in me, and that I hear things as part of my work at the church. In exchange for gossip she could use in her columns—or, I suspect, to blackmail people—Sandra agreed to keep silent about my theft.”
My grip on the teacup tightened. “What a horrible woman. All the things I keep hearing about her make it hard to remind myself that she deserves justice.”
“It’s a terrible thing to say about a dead woman, but she was evil.” Sister Pauline bowed her head. “I was a fool to give in to her demands. If I’d kept my wits about me, I should have gone straight to Father Nolan and confessed everything. He’s a good man. He’d have understood and helped me. Instead, I let my shame blind me into agreeing to Sandra’s terms. And by doing that, I’ve betrayed parishioners who trust me.”
“What information did you give Sandra?”
Sister Pauline’s mouth formed a hard line. “I was careful to give her nothing about anyone who deserved privacy. I can’t say I feel guilty about mentioning Paul Greer’s overheard confession to Father Nolan. I never liked the boy, and he’s grown into a weak and spineless man. Discovering he’s a cheater and a thief comes as no surprise. Other pieces of gossip were mostly harmless, but Sandra had a knack for twisting the truth to make it appear worse.”
“What did she know about you that enabled her to blackmail you?” I asked gently. “It must have been serious for you to agree to pass on gossip.”
Sister Pauline fidgeted with her hands before placing them on her lap. “When I was a teenager, I had an affair with the married farmer who lived next door to my parents. I fell pregnant, and my family pressured me to give the baby up for adoption. I didn’t want to, but the situation was hopeless. I was fifteen with no money and nowhere to go. I had no choice.” Tears filled her eyes. “They didn’t even let me hold him after he was born. My baby was whisked out of the room before I’d had a chance to look at him properly.”
My heart ached for her. I reached across the table and squeezed her arm. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a clean tissue. “It was the Sixties. That’s what they did in those days.”
“How did Sandra find out?”
“About a year ago, my son got in touch with me and wanted to meet up. I was delighted, of course, and had visions of grandchildren and all the things I’d never dreamed would happen to me.” She grimaced. “Reality was rather different. My son, Jimmy, is a drug addict. He’s had a rough life and is currently unemployed and begging on the streets of Galway.”
My gut twisted and my fist itched to punch Sandra for using this information to hurt Sister Pauline. “I…don’t know what to say.”
“Neither did I. I’ve tried to help him, but my resources are limited. When he called me one day and said he owed money he didn’t have to a drug dealer, I panicked.” She covered her face with her hands. “In desperation, I stole cash from the church collection box and sent it to Jimmy.”
That explained the published blind item about the nun who stole from the church collection box.
Sister Pauline sighed. “In hindsight, I’m not even convinced Jimmy’s desperate plea was genuine. I suspect he wanted money to buy drugs.”
“How did Sandra discover your secret?”
“She’s the church treasurer, and she’d seen Mrs. Greer put a fifty-euro note into the collection box the Sunday I stole the money. Sandra put two and two together and realized that either me or Sister Juliette must have taken the money. When she confronted me, I cracked, and she’d soon wormed the whole sordid tale out of me. Sandra said if I told her everything, she wouldn’t tell anyone about the stolen money. What she failed to add was that she’d use the information to blackmail me.” Sister Pauline’s eyes rested on my untouched tea. “Drink up. It’ll do you good.”
The uneasy sensation I’d experienced earlier returned. Sister Pauline’s story was plausible. Frighteningly so. Had it driven her to kill Sandra? I picked up my cup and went through the motions of drinking it without allowing the tea to touch my tongue. “Sister Pauline—” I began, but she cut me off.
“I know what you’re about to ask me, Maggie, and the answer is no. I often fantasized about strangling Sandra Walker, but I didn’t poison her. I’d never have acted on my evil thoughts, and I certainly wouldn’t have framed my best friend.”
I wanted to believe her, but I knew she’d need to give a statement to the police and allow them to investigate.
“What do you think I should do?” Sister Pauline twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t want this story getting out, and Sergeant O’Shea has a tendency to be loose-lipped when he’s with his golfing cronies.”
“I have reason to know that your story will come out, Sister Pauline, and probably today.” The moment the police looked at Sandra’s blind items folder on the laptop Lenny was on his way to hand in, they’d follow the breadcrumb trail to Sister Pauline. “You need to talk to Sergeant Reynolds. If he’s not at the station, insist on waiting until he arrives.”
Sister Pauline squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t think I can face going there alone.”
“I’ll come with you.” I stood and urged her to do the same. “We’ll leave your car here and take mine.”
As if on cue, Bran opened one lazy eye, assessed the situation, and realized I was going out. H
e raced to the door and began to whine. I stared into his large doggy eyes and exchanged an amused glance with Sister Pauline.
“When he gets like this,” she said, “Noreen always takes him with her. Otherwise, he howls for hours.”
“I guess it can’t hurt to bring him along for the ride.” I took Bran’s leash off its hook and shook a finger at him. “If you behave, I’ll take you for a walk in Smuggler’s Cove when I’m finished at the police station. Do we have a deal?”
Bran’s only response was a woof.
23
On the drive to the station, Sister Pauline was subdued, and I was deep in thought. If I ruled out Sister Pauline as the killer, I needed to sift through the other unpublished blind items and match them up to their subjects. Despite the discovery of Sandra’s laptop and its secret file, Paddy Driscoll and Paul Greer were still at the top of my list of suspects. With a bit of luck, I—or Sergeant Reynolds, I conceded grudgingly—would link them to one of the unpublished blind items.
I slowed the car as we drove the winding cliff road that led past Carraig Harbour. A couple of boats dotted the harbor. In the winter, few boats docked there, and this time of day, the fishing boats were already out for the day. I scanned the water and then peered down at the pier.
And then I hit the brakes. “Whoa.” My heart thumped in my chest. Someone—a woman, I thought—was loading what looked to be a lot of luggage onto a small yacht.
“What’s wrong?” Sister Pauline asked.
“Hang on a sec. I need to check something.” I pulled the car over to the side of the road and retrieved my binoculars from the glove compartment.
I leaped out of the car and ran to the edge of the cliff. I peered through the binoculars. Through the powerful lenses, Joan Sweetman was clearly visible. I sucked in a breath. She threw half-closed suitcases haphazardly onto the deck of her boat. I’d have thought Joan was the type to pack everything with tissue paper. My pulse pounded.
Sister Pauline joined me at the edge of the cliff, Bran panting at her side. “Is something the matter, Maggie?” Before I could answer, the nun gasped. “Goodness, that’s Joan’s yacht in the harbor. What’s she doing with all those suitcases?”
“That’s what I want to know,” I said grimly. “Did she mention she was going on a trip when you spoke to her earlier? A trip that would require a lot of suitcases?”
The nun frowned. “Why, no. She’s due to call around to the convent for dinner and a game of bridge this evening. We were making the arrangement when we passed you and Lenny outside the café.”
And what had Lenny been clutching outside the café? Sandra Walker’s laptop. Joan must have recognized it and realized that the broken laptop that had been sent to forensics wasn’t Sandra’s. Oh, heck.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed the number for the Whisper Island Garda Station. Sergeant O’Shea answered on the second ring. “This is Maggie Doyle. Could you put me through to Sergeant Reynolds?”
“Reynolds is busy at the moment,” O’Shea said, clearly loving having the opportunity to yank my chain. “Can I take a message?”
“I need to speak to him now.”
“And I told you he’s busy. Despite what you may think, Ms. Doyle, you’re not a member of the Irish police force or affiliated with this station in any way.”
I bit back a scream. “Okay, pass on a message. Tell him to look for a gossip column relating to Joan Sweetman on the laptop Lenny handed in, or will hand in any second. This is urgent.”
Sergeant O’Shea chuckled. “Sure it is. Anything you and your alien-obsessed stoner pal have to say is bound to be of the utmost importance.”
“I’m serious, O’Shea. Get off your butt and tell him.”
This proved to be an unfortunate choice of words, but it was too late to retract them. “Stick to burning scones and stop sticking your nose into police business,” the man snapped before hanging up on me.
I swore and punched in Lenny’s number.
“Hey, Maggie. What’s up? Did you find anything in Sandra’s files?”
“Are you anywhere near the station?”
“Yeah. I just left.”
“I need you to go back and tell Sergeant Reynolds to get to Carraig Harbour right away.”
“Maggie, Reynolds isn’t there. I had to leave the laptop with O’Shea.”
“I thought we agreed you’d wait for Reynolds,” I exclaimed.
“I know, but according to O’Shea, Reynolds left the island earlier today. O’Shea challenged me about hanging on to the laptop, and I gave in and let him have it. When I left, he was performing a two-fingered dance across the keyboard.”
I snorted. “O’Shea was lying. I ran into Reynolds up at the school just before I met you.” I looked through the binoculars again. Joan was still frantically getting her boat ready to sail. “Listen up. Joan Sweetman is loading a ton of her belongings onto a yacht. Way more than anyone needs for a vacation.”
“Joan can’t be going away,” Lenny said. “She told my mother she’d meet her for lunch tomorrow.”
“And she made an arrangement with Sister Pauline for this evening. Something spooked her, and I think it was seeing you and me with Sandra’s laptop.”
“Are you serious? Dude, I can’t see Joan killing anyone.”
“Well, someone killed Sandra, and Joan’s behavior is atypical. Lenny, I don’t have access to a computer at the moment. I need you to look through the blind items and see if one could refer to Joan.”
“Sure. I’ll pull the van over and use my laptop. It’s here in the back somewhere. Wasn’t there a published blind that everyone thought referred to Joan and one of her stepsons?”
“Yes. Joan told me about it. I’m wondering if there was another more serious one that was never published and that Joan failed to mention.”
“Okay. I’ve got the laptop open and I’m looking.”
“Call me when you find something. I’m going to stay here and keep an eye on Joan.”
“Will do.”
I disconnected and Sister Pauline and I continued to observe Joan’s progress. She’d almost finished loading her stuff onto the yacht and was moving at a frenzied pace that was at odds with the cool and collected woman I knew. Cripes. I couldn’t wait around for Lenny to get back to me. I’d have to go down to the harbor and try to delay Joan. I swallowed hard. The fastest way to get there was via the rickety elevator I’d deftly avoided on the night of my arrival. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed deeply. I hated enclosed spaces.
My phone buzzed, ending my contemplation of elevators. I held it to my ear. “Lenny?”
“I’ve hit the jackpot,” he said breathlessly. “Remember the unpublished blind item I mentioned about a bigamist? I went back and reread it. The blind is about a wealthy widow who inherited the bulk of her late husband’s fortune. His children from his first marriage received a sizable chunk, but the widow got the lion’s share of the money. What no one knows is that she’s a bigamist.”
My heart rate kicked up a notch. “Go on.”
“Apparently, the widow married another man when she was very young and living in England. When her husband ran off with another woman, she moved back to Ireland. Even if she’d tracked down her husband, divorce wasn’t recognized in Ireland at the time. When she met the wealthy islander, she edited her previous marriage from her life story and married him.”
“And if her bigamy came out, the money and property she’d inherited would be forfeited and given to the man’s sons,” I finished.
“Exactly.”
“Okay. I need you to call the police. Not that lazy lump O’Shea, but a national number. Call the coast guard and whoever else catches criminals in Ireland. I gotta go.”
I disconnected the call and started to run.
24
I reached the elevator with Sister Pauline and Bran puffing behind me. “I only heard your half of the conversation with Lenny,” the nun said as the elevator doors slid shut, “but you’re
under the impression that Joan killed Sandra?”
My teeth chattered from being inside a moving metal coffin and I struggled to breathe—the first signs of an impending panic attack. I squeezed my eyes shut and stuttered out the story as I knew it.
“Joan a bigamist? I can’t believe it.” Sister Pauline sounded horrified. “Mind you, the will was a scandal at the time. Niall Sweetman left Joan almost everything he had. Nick and James received very little money, but Joan promised them she’d leave them everything she had in her will, seeing as she and Niall had no children of their own.”
“I suspect this news will cause more of a scandal,” I said dryly. “The money wasn’t Joan’s to inherit if she’d never been legally married to Niall.”
When the elevator doors opened, Joan Sweetman’s yacht was heading out to sea.
“Wait,” I yelled and sprinted down the pier. “Come back.”
Joan turned around and saw me.
I plastered on a smile. “Are you on your way to the mainland?” I yelled. “Could you give us a ride?”
Sister Pauline and Bran joined me on the edge of the pier, and the nun waved to Joan.
Joan’s expression froze as she took in the party waiting for her on the pier. She returned her attention to the controls. Suddenly, her boat sped up.
I swore under my breath. Joan Sweetman was no fool. I whipped my head around and scanned the pier. All the fishermen were out for the day, and the ferry ticket office was empty.
I clenched my fists. “I have to go after her. I’m not letting her get away with murder.”
“Look,” Sister Pauline cried. “Try that boat over there.”
A small speedboat was docked farther down the pier. My legs were in motion before I could formulate a response. I held my phone to my ear as I ran and hit Lenny’s number again. It was busy.
“There’s no time to call anyone else,” Sister Pauline said when we reached the speedboat. “Can you hot-wire that boat?”
“I can, but I can’t do anything else with it once I’ve got the engine going,” I said gloomily. “I avoid boats as well as elevators.”
