“How did he manage to fill a tank with hot cocoa?”
“One kettle at a time,” the elf said with a frown.
She wasn’t sure if he was making a joke, but either way he was definitely not happy about it. A hot water tank. Poor Paddy. Why hadn’t somebody noticed he needed this much help? “It’s not scalding, is it?”
“He’ll be fine,” the elf said. “Do you know how hard it is to actually hit the target enough to dunk him?”
“I have no idea,” Siobhán said. It just sounded like a waste of good cocoa.
The elf rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say that by the time he goes in, it will be cooled off.”
“How on earth did he come up with this?”
The elf sighed. “He’s been crazed about those two.” He jerked his head to the other Mr. and Mrs. Claus. “Last week he was out here pacing and muttering like a nutter trying to come up with the perfect idea. He was tipping the bottle a bit too. The guards threatened to throw him into the drunk tank.”
“Drunk tank!” Siobhán said. “That’s what I thought.”
Cormac frowned at her before continuing. “I tried to cheer him up with a mug of Declan’s hot cocoa.”
“It’s so good,” Siobhán said, holding up her mug. “His mam’s recipe. He melts squares of milk chocolate with the cocoa powder, that’s the secret.”
“Did you want me to finish me story, or do you want to tell one of your own?”
“Sorry. Continue.”
He waited a moment to make sure she was going to keep her gob shut. She thought elves were supposed to be cheerful. “I told him how popular it was. And just like that, drunk tank became dunk tank of hot cocoa.”
He paused and seemed to be waiting for a response. “Wow,” she said.
The frown was back. He leaned in. “He had the tank ’specially made. By a man who makes giant aquariums for people who can’t figure out a better way to spend their money than to build mansions for little fishies, if you can believe dat.” The elf certainly had a lot of complaints. It seemed like cheer should have been a requirement for the job, but she kept the thought to herself, where it belonged.
One thing was clear: Paddy O’Shea was not a well man. The lights on the stage flickered; it was time to just enjoy the moment. Chris plopped next to her and soon the seats were filled. This holiday tradition always utilized a fairy tale and this year’s panto was Jack and the Beanstalk.
Chris Gordon leaned into her, his hot cocoa sloshing, his cologne nearly overpowering her.
“What is this again?”
She sighed. Apparently, they didn’t have pantos, or pantomimes, in America. “It’s a play,” she said, explaining this to the Yank yet again.
“Pantomime?” he said. “No talking?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “They talk. And sing.”
He shook his head as if it made no sense at all. It was lucky for him he had movie star good looks, for his personality left a lot to be desired. “A fairy tale,” he said. “What’s so Christmasy about that?”
She sighed. “They will sing Christmas songs, and wear Santy hats, and . . . you’ll see.” Christmas pantos were family affairs. Children and adults ate it up. How could they not? There was something for everyone. Women played many of the male roles, and there always was a man in drag. The villains would be booed and the heroes cheered on. Siobhán couldn’t wait to see who would play the cow. Rumor had it that it would be Declan O’Rourke. No matter how many times she’d pressed, her siblings had kept it mum. How she hoped it was Declan! She glanced over and, sure enough, someone else was stationed at his hot cocoa tent. The audience took their seats again as her sister Gráinne strolled onto the stage, her wavy black hair hidden under a green cap. She was playing Jack. The oldest of the O’Sullivan Six, James, entered from stage left, sashaying his hips, dressed in a curly gray wig and a yellow dress. He was perfect as Jack’s mother. The audience whistled and cheered. James winked and took a bow. Gráinne formed a finger gun behind his back. It was greeted with laughter, but Siobhán was pretty sure her sister had just gone off-script.
The remainder of her siblings—Ann, Ciarán, and Eoin—had accepted the role of seeds that would grow into beans. Siobhán sank a bit in her seat, because she had been offered the role of the beanstalk, but turned it down. Given that in the new year she would be a new guard, she couldn’t stand the thought that for the rest of her career, behind her back, she’d be called Garda Beanstalk. As they delivered their opening lines, the sound of a young boy laughing pealed through the theatre. Siobhán turned to see Adam Healy parked at the end of his row in his wheelchair. Behind him stood his father, Ed. The faces of Ed and Dave Healy radiated joy as they smiled down at the boy. Dave had a handkerchief clutched up to his face as if already anticipating tears of laughter.
The cow lumbered out, and the audience roared. It must be Declan. He was much beloved in Kilbane, both in and out of the pub.
“Where’s the milk?” James said in a falsetto voice.
“He’s dry as a bone,” Gráinne said, pulling on Declan’s udders.
“If it’s Guinness yer after, you’re right, I’m dry as a bone!” Declan’s voice boomed out from behind the cow head. The audience cheered. “But I’ve got some hot cocoa that’s to die for.” He finished his line with an elongated “mooo.”
The audience howled.
“You make chocolate milk?” Gráinne said. “That’s pure magic.”
“You’ll keep me, then?” Declan said.
Gráinne put her hands on her hips. “Are you joking me? A cow that makes chocolate milk? I have to take you to the market and sell you to the highest bidder.”
More cheers rang out from the crowd.
Declan mimicked her by placing his hooves on his hips. “Whatever.”
The kids in the audience wholeheartedly repeated after him. “Whatever!”
James pointed and flipped his curly gray hair and used his best falsetto voice. “To the market, lad!”
Gráinne led Declan-the-cow across the stage. Sheila Mahoney, dressed as a farmer, blocked their path. Ciarán, Ann, and Eoin, dressed all in green, trailed behind her.
“Wanna buy a cow?” Gráinne said. “He makes chocolate milk.”
“I’ll trade ya for me magic beans,” Sheila boomed. Siobhán’s siblings—the beans—jumped up and down. Siobhán beamed with pride. For a split second she regretted that she wasn’t playing the beanstalk. She was taking photos with her mobile and trying not to cry when a loud buzzer rang, startling even those on stage.
“Do we keep going?” Gráinne yelled as the buzzer continued to blare. A mechanical whirring poured out of the white tent as a large glass tank rolled out, with Paddy O’Shea perched on a wooden board that hung over it. Above him was a target with a bull’s-eye.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Technical difficulties.” He looked around wildly as the tank kept rolling. It was on a short track that soon screeched to a stop. Loud whirring started up again, this time from the snow machine situated a few feet from the tank. “I’m afraid the timer went off too soon,” Paddy said. “Can’t be helped. Who wants to try and knock me into the tank?” He began yelling for the elf. Mostly Siobhán saw a sea of shocked faces, but Mr. and Mrs. Claus from Charlesville looked quite smug. Cormac Dooley scurried up and tried to work the controls to send the tank back into the tent. “We should let someone have a go, shouldn’t we?” Paddy said. “Now that I’m out here?”
Siobhán stepped closer, wondering what was different about Santa this year. Was he drunk? She soon realized the most obvious difference. His Santa suit was falling off him. He was skinny. Dark circles were under his eyes. She was starting to think the cocoa in the tank was the Irish variety as well and that Santa had been drinking it, along with filling the tank.
“Somebody try and knock me in!” Santy yelled. “Don’t be shy! Dunk Santa!”
“I’ll do it,” the elf said. He collected the snow that had dropped from the
machine, rolled it into a ball, and aimed at the target. It hit the bull’s-eye head-on.
Paddy O’Shea screamed as his board tilted down and he slid into the tank of hot cocoa, splashing it out both sides. The audience, thoroughly distracted from the play, cheered. Declan ripped off his cow head and stepped up. “We’re taking a short intermission. If you want to drink your hot cocoa instead of being dunked in it, come visit me booth.”
The elf managed to get the track working as Santa grabbed his board, effing and blinding as he tried to lift himself out of the tank. Parents slapped their hands over their children’s ears and stared openmouthed as his Santa pants started to slide down, the more he pulled himself up. It was a sad day when you realized your town Santa wasn’t fit to be around children. Paddy, oblivious to the reaction of parents, continued screaming at the elf. “You said it would be near impossible to dunk me!” he yelled. Cormac Dooley remained silent at the controls, but Siobhán could swear he was trying to fight a smile. Santa continued to rage as the tank rolled back into the tent. From inside came the sound of sneezing. Seconds after being dunked and poor Santa was catching a cold.
“That was awesome,” Chris Gordon said. He held up his hand to high-five. Siobhán did not give him the satisfaction. All she wanted was another mug of hot cocoa of her own, and definitely with the Irish cream. She was just starting for Declan’s tent, trying to fight the crowds, when the sounds of dogs barking startled her. She stopped. It sounded like an entire pack of dogs. Where was that coming from? People jostled her from behind. “Do you hear that?” she said aloud. The barking had stopped. She waited, trying to filter out the voices and the music. There it was again. High-pitched yelps. One sounded very much like Trigger. She gravitated toward the sound, and soon found herself standing in front of a small wooden shed positioned behind the manger. On the door was a crude painting of Rudolph. She yanked opened the door and a pile of tongues, flapping ears, and wagging tails clamored out, assaulting her, barking indignantly. They all had homemade reindeer antlers affixed to their poor heads.
“Goldie!” Adam screamed. Siobhán turned to find him right behind her, with his father, Ed Healy, pushing him. Ed swooped up the puppy and delivered him to his son’s arms.
“A Christmas miracle!” Ed said with a nod to Siobhán as Adam covered his dog in kisses. “Who put them in here?”
“I’m not sure,” Siobhán said, scooping up Trigger and holding him under her arm. He seemed exhausted from his adventures and was content just to be held. She just wanted to take him home and cuddle him. Santa had really crossed a line, and no one in their right mind would even dream of doing this.
Ed turned and glared at Santa’s tent. “I’d say we know who, alright.”
“Please,” she said. “I don’t think he’s in his right mind.”
“He’s a thief!”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? They’re here in his shed with reindeer antlers on their heads. Who else would have done it?”
Siobhán nodded, and smiled, hoping it would calm him. “I think Paddy is suffering from some kind of illness.” One much more serious than catching a cold.
Ed removed the antlers from Goldie and waved them around. “You think?”
Her smile became strained. “I’m only asking you let the guards handle it.” She glanced at Adam, who was cuddling Goldie and hanging on to every word. She stroked Trigger’s head. “Believe me, I’m just as browned off as you are.”
Ed’s eyes were cold and hard as they flicked to the tent again. His fist balled up at his side. “That elf came into me shop and bought raw bones. Now I know why. He’s in on it too.”
Siobhán looked around, but could not see the elf, or Santa, or Mrs. Claus. “I bought bones too.”
“He bought a dozen!” Ed stormed up to the door of the shed, turned on his mobile torch, and shone it on the ground. Sure enough, gnawed bones littered the ground. That’s why the dogs had kept quiet until now.
“Leave them,” Siobhán said. “The guards will get to the bottom of it.” How could Cormac do that? Was he in on the dognapping?
“Neither of them are welcome in me shop,” Ed said. Folks were catching on and rushing up to the shed to be reunited with their pups. There were eight of them. Eight stolen dogs. Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen . . .
Music blared again, so loud that everyone threw their hands over their ears. “Silent Night” had never sounded so hostile. The dogs howled. The mechanical sound of the tank started up again, and people turned as it began to chug out of the tent yet again. Siobhán was starting to think there wasn’t enough Irish cream to get through this evening.
“Mechanical difficulties,” the elf screamed as he whizzed past her toward the dunk tank, the tassel on his cap flapping. Children squealed as they raced to be the first to the snowball machine. The tank chugged out and screeched to a stop. Santa was not perched on his diving board. He was already in the tank, floating facedown. Laughter rang out. “You can’t dunk yourself, Santy!” somebody yelled. Siobhán had a horrible, horrible feeling, an instinct for trouble; she felt the way some people could feel rain in their bones. Something was terribly wrong. Siobhán hurried over to the tank, pushing her way through the growing crowd. Santa was not moving. The cocoa water was tinged with a puddle of red, spreading faster across the top.
Although her mind raced to find any plausible excuse, especially when a tank of hot cocoa was bizarre enough, nothing made sense except one thing. The red tinge snaking its way through the tank of hot cocoa was blood, and Paddy O’Shea was doing the dead man’s float.
Chapter Two
Siobhán raced for the dunk tank. “Somebody help me!” She spotted Mike Granger, their friend and neighbor, and motioned him to her side. The two of them leaned over the tank and pulled Paddy toward them. Mike was able to turn him over, Paddy moved easily in the water despite not moving a muscle himself.
Death was always in the eyes. Paddy’s brown eyes were open, but the lights were out. Siobhán felt his neck. No pulse.
“We have to try CPR,” she said. Two guards appeared at their side and took over.
“Get these people back,” one called to her.
“Watch his head,” she said. “I believe he was struck.”
She and Mike did their best to get people to step back as the guards lifted Paddy’s body out of the tank and set him on the ground. There they called 999 and started CPR.
She knew it was too late, and now they were contaminating the crime scene. But they had to at least make an attempt to revive him. Eileen O’Shea wailed from a few feet away.
“He’s gone,” she heard one say. “Is there a tarp in the tent?”
The other disappeared inside the tent, then came out with a large blue towel. “There’s this.”
“Let’s get him covered.”
“No!” Eileen shouted. “Paddy!”
The guards allowed her to kneel by her husband, waiting respectfully with the towel.
“Is anyone in that tent?” Siobhán called to the guard.
He shook his head. “Why?”
Was he really asking her that? “Someone struck him over the head,” she said. “He was murdered.”
The guard swiveled his head around. He picked up his mobile, presumably calling Garda O’Reilly who was acting as the interim detective sergeant until a permanent one could be found.
“Hey,” she heard a male voice say behind her. Siobhán whirled around, to find Cormac Dooley standing in front of her, gripping his elf cap with both hands, his face white.
He swallowed. “Is he . . . alright?”
“Santa?” a child said, moving closer.
“Everyone back,” Siobhán said again. “No,” she whispered to Cormac. “He’s not. Were you in the tent at intermission?”
Cormac shook his head. “He sent me to fetch something to eat. I came running back when I heard the tank roll out.” He pointed at her. “You saw me. I ran right past you.”
I did? He
did streak by her, but now she couldn’t remember if it was before or after she found the dogs. Paddy could have been dead when Cormac ran out, pretending to fetch dinner. “Was anyone else with him?”
“No, he was alone.”
Her youngest brother Ciarán appeared by her side, still dressed as a bean, and she resisted the urge to kiss him and squeeze him as she handed Trigger over to him. “Go,” she said as several men reached Paddy and began to turn him over. She patted his head. “You were a great bean.”
“I was just a seed. I didn’t get to become a bean.”
“You were brilliant, now please go.”
“Where?”
“Find James. Away from here, please.”
Ciarán didn’t budge. “What is Trigger doing here?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later.” Great, I’m going to have to fess up that I knew he was missing. That was the least of her worries.
Ciarán was trying to see past the tank. “What’s wrong with Santa?”
“Later, luv. Please get back.” She gently shoved her brother away.
“Is Santy coming?” she heard a child call from somewhere in the crowd.
No, luv, Siobhán thought. Santy has come and gone.
* * *
The first order of business was to get everyone, but the guards, out of the town square. Detective Sergeant O’Reilly fought his way through the current of exiting townsfolk, making a beeline for Siobhán. O’Reilly was a short but powerful man with ears that were hard not to stare at; they were so large and pointy. Truth be told, he would have made a good elf himself, but this was a horrible time to be having such thoughts.
“O’Sullivan,” O’Reilly barked. “You don’t start until the new year.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Christmas Cocoa Murder Page 2
