And since it had only taken seconds for the killer to strike, it was plausible the killer could have also been a customer. Everyone in attendance who wasn’t on stage or in a booth was a suspect. “If you think of anything else, you know where to find me.”
“Good luck, luv,” he said. “The guards are lucky to have you.”
She smiled and thanked him, feeling very much like she had yet to earn her wings.
* * *
“I still can’t believe Santa Claus is dead,” Ciarán said. He was standing in the front dining room of Naomi’s Bistro, hugging a squirming Trigger.
Siobhán gripped her cappuccino. “Have you set the poor thing down once since last night?”
“Nope,” Ciarán said. “Except for when I fell asleep.”
“I see.” Siobhán was dressed for her run, but the rest of the O’Sullivans were still in their pajamas. If Siobhán had her way, they’d stay like that forever. Eoin was cleaning up breakfast plates; James was piling wood in the fireplace. Gráinne was painting her nails by the window, and Ann was watching her, most likely vying for Gráinne to paint hers next. Ann glanced over at Ciarán.
“He’s a man who played Santy,” Ann said. “There’s no such thing as Santa.”
“I know that, eejit,” Ciarán said, his face turning red.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Siobhán said. “Let’s all take deep breaths and stop insulting each other.” She stared at the yet-to-be-decorated Christmas tree, which was now set up in the back dining room.
“I’m not quite in the mood,” James said, turning from the fireplace and nudging one of the Christmas boxes with his toe.
“Of all the ways to go, drowning in hot cocoa never crossed me mind as a possibility,” Gráinne said, holding up her painted nails to the window. “What other horrible ways to die are there that I haven’t thought of?”
Eoin clunked his mug of hot cocoa down on the table. “T’anks a lot. I’m off it for life now.”
“Do I have to stop drinking it?” Ciarán wailed.
“No, luv, let’s all try to relax.”
“Relax?” Gráinne said. “With a killer running around?”
“Yes. Because the guards will handle it. The best thing we can do is be there for poor Eileen O’Shea, and go about our business.”
Ciarán stood up straight. “I’ll decorate the tree.”
“I’ll help,” Ann said.
“Thank you.” Siobhán wished they could all enjoy it, but it was impossible, given the circumstances. But her advice was correct. They had to carry on. “I’m going for my run, then off to buy what we need for Christmas supper.” She’d talked to James and Eoin last night. They would have turkey and ham. It was times like these that tradition was needed more than ever. She was looking forward to time with her family. Detective Sergeant O’Reilly was right. She wasn’t on duty yet. They could handle this murder probe without her. “I hope all of you join in to decorate the tree. It’s times like these where we need the Christmas spirit most of all.”
“We will,” Ciarán said. “We’ll make it the best ever.”
Siobhán bit her lip, afraid the tears would come. She wanted to call Macdara Flannery. Anytime anything happened, like the sun going up or coming down, he was the first person she wanted to call. But he’d moved to Dublin soon after she’d enrolled at Templemore Garda College, thus ending their brief romance. Ending was a relative term. In her heart she still felt him. Thoughts of him followed her like her own shadow. They had unresolved issues, but the time was piling up behind them, making the possibility of resolving their differences fade away with each passing day. Often she picked up her mobile to give him a bell, only to put it down again. There was nothing wrong with his fingers, he was quite capable of dialing her. He would hear about this murder, that was for sure. Someone was probably ringing him right now. If they didn’t figure out who did this terrible deed, it would hang over every Christmas, tainting it worse than the Grinch ever could. And Gráinne wasn’t wrong to be worried. The type of person who would kill the town Santa posed a danger to them all.
Eoin returned from the kitchen and knelt beside one of the Christmas boxes. “We’re doing the train this year?” He lifted a shiny black engine out of the box, then looked to the ceiling. The tracks ran along the top of the wall, all around the restaurant. Their father had made the structure necessary for it to run and the lads knew how to set it up. But it took hours to do it properly. Still, the Lionel trains were always a big hit. Siobhán, for one, could sit all day by the fire, watching it chug around and around. The engine even blew smoke and whistled. She even loved the faint smell of burning smoke. “I know it’s a lot of work. But we need to lift everyone’s spirits up. They’re bound to be shaken.”
“Deadly,” Eoin said. “We’ll set her up.”
“You’re joking me,” James moaned.
“It will keep your mind off Elise,” Siobhán said, turning to her older brother. He had been moping around ever since she’d gone back to Waterford for the holidays. The girl was annoying, but she also grew on you. Go figure.
“You’re getting quite good at delegating,” James said.
“T’ank you,” Siobhán called out as she headed to the door for her run. She was outside before anyone else could have the last word.
* * *
Rain the night before made the morning run a slog, yet the trip around the abbey lifted Siobhán’s spirits nonetheless. The sun was just beginning to rise behind the ruined priory’s five-light window, and spears of orange set the ancient stone aglow. It buoyed her. Every time she ran past, she visualized the monks as if they were still here, going about their day, brewing beer by the river, stoking the fire in the abbey. She was part of this village, these stones, this green grass, Ireland. Home was in the bones, the heartbeat, the blood. She would not let a murderer rob her village of the Christmas spirit. He or she would be caught and brought to justice. She ran faster, imagined the monks cheering her on. By the time she was back at the bistro, her running watch had five minutes left. A record! It was only because she was looking down at her watch that she noticed a brightly wrapped box glimmering on the bistro’s doorstep. Shiny red foil and a golden bow. Siobhán nearly tripped over it. It had not been there twenty-five minutes ago. There was no tag. Who could have left it? Was it for all of them?
Siobhán glanced down the street once again, as if the person who left the surprise package might be waiting and watching. It was a medium-sized box and lifted easily. Something light. At least it wasn’t Sheila Mahoney’s holiday fruitcake that she guilted everyone into purchasing every year, announcing it was for “a good cause.” The specifics of this good cause were never mentioned. Although Siobhán often wondered if the local dentist was in on that scheme, because if anyone did dare to bite into one of Sheila’s fruitcakes, they were in danger of mimicking a popular Christmas song and losing their two front teeth. As she picked up the prezzie, she noticed the tag. There was no To, only a command: Do not open until Christmas. Love, Santa.
She nearly dropped it. Santa? Whatever this was, they could not open it. It needed to be reported to the guards immediately.
She found it torture not to open presents. As a child, she’d ruined many Christmases for herself by breaking into her mam’s closet, where she always stored the gifts, unwrapping them all, then wrapping them back up again before Christmas. She then had to act surprised about everyone’s gift on Christmas Day. And then she had to confess her sins to Father Kearney. And then she swore she would never, ever do it again. And yet she always did it again. A wrapped box was a dare. A siren. A throbbing in her throat. She had an impulsive streak, alright, running deep through her veins. She entered the bistro with the box in hand, already imagining tearing it open. Is this some kind of sick joke?
She was only a few steps into the front hall when Ciarán slid toward her in yellow socks, skidding to a stop in front of the package with big eyes. “Is that for me?”
She wished she had somethi
ng to cover it with. “I have to bring it to work,” she said. “Just a boring present for the guards.” She hated lying, but he was already traumatized that Santa was dead. She didn’t want him thinking that his ghost was delivering presents to their door the day after he died.
Ciarán frowned. “What is it?”
She placed the box on the counter and turned with an exaggerated shrug. “It’s a mystery.” She leaned in. “It could be a fruitcake.”
He scrunched up his face. “Ew.”
“Exactly.” She scanned the bistro floor, counting the number of Christmas boxes. “We’re missing some decorations. I think they’re in the crawl space on the second floor.”
“I’ll get them.” Ciarán ran for the stairs.
“Be careful.” Siobhán wanted to warn Ciarán to be careful pulling the ladder down, to be careful climbing the ladder, to be careful coming back down. If she started gushing her worries, they’d be here all morning. “Get someone to help you.”
“On it.” Eoin emerged from the kitchen with a salute, then glanced at the mysterious present. He was still wearing his polar bear pajamas. “What’s that?”
Ciarán was out of earshot. She waved him over. “Found it on the doorstep after my run.”
He read the tag and whistled. “That’s spooky.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s not ticking, is it?”
“Of course not.” Shoot. I should have checked.
Eoin stared at her, a grin forming.
“What?”
“You want to put your ear to it, don’t you?”
She started to contradict him, then put her ear to the box as he laughed. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Good on ya. You’ll be a grand addition to the guards.”
She swiped him with the back of her hand.
“Come on!” Ciarán yelled from the top of the stairs.
“I lied about the present,” Siobhán called to Eoin. “I told him it’s probably a fruitcake.”
He glanced at the stairs and nodded. “I would have done the same.”
Siobhán gathered her handbag and her shopping list, and then finally the present. She’d better drop it off before they accused her of hiding evidence. Who was she fooling? She’d better turn it in before she ripped it open, frothing at the mouth like a rabid, greedy raccoon.
Chapter Four
Outside, the skies were gray, brightened only by gangs of fluffy white clouds. Snow didn’t often visit them during the holiday season, but everyone had been reckoning that this was the year. Siobhán and Detective Sergeant O’Reilly stood outside the garda station. An officer had just taken the mysterious gift inside. The state pathologist was on her way, and the only thing they could do was to guard the crime scene and make sure no one disturbed it. The folks of the village had decided they would set up a memorial, as well as some of the Christmas decorations at the abbey and the surrounding field. Father Kearney would preside over it and offer comfort.
“The town is gathering around Eileen,” O’Reilly said, adjusting his cap. “She wants Christmas to go on in his name.”
The old Paddy would have wanted the children of Kilbane to heal. Siobhán could only imagine the conversations parents were being forced to have with their children this year.
“Are you still willing to help with this investigation?”
“Of course. What can I do?” A part of her wished he would order her to open the present. What could it be?
“We’re going to need you to go door-to-door and see if anyone else received a package from Santa. And you’ll need to collect them.”
That wasn’t the task she’d expected. “Me?”
“You said you wanted to help.”
He was turning her into the Grinch. People were going to hate her. “Some people may have already opened theirs.”
“You still need to collect them, find out where the package was left, what time, and if they still have the wrapping paper or ribbons. I want that too.”
“Should we start by opening mine?”
O’Reilly gave her a look. “I’d like them all collected first.”
“Not a bother. It’s not ticking.”
“Pardon?”
“I put my ear to it.”
“Did you, now?”
“Yes. Just in case.”
“You’re acting like a pro already.” He grinned.
“I don’t know how I’m going to collect them all.”
“I will send a guard and a car with you.”
It was settled. She would be the sanctioned Grinch.
* * *
Not everyone was willing to give up their gifts. By the time they reached Sheila’s hair salon, they had collected ten. They stood outside the door, for Sheila was blocking their entrance. She put her hands on her hips and tossed her hair, which was sporting green and red stripes. “A present on me doorstep?” she said, sounding as if she had to think about it. “From Santa?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “We need it.”
Sheila glanced over her shoulder. “It says not to open until Christmas.”
“It’s possible evidence in a murder inquiry.”
“Says you. You’re not even a guard yet.”
The guard behind her cleared his throat. They were under strict orders to keep it moving. Siobhán turned back to Sheila. “Sergeant O’Reilly has ordered me to collect them. If it ends up not being material, I will personally return it to you.”
Sheila stepped back and let them step into the salon with a shake of her head, as if she couldn’t believe what they were asking of her. Siobhán saw the present right away, a box identical to the one she had received, sitting on the counter. Before she could reach it, Sheila was tearing off the paper. “Stop!”
“It’s mine!”
“I’m supposed to collect them unwrapped.”
“Too late.” Sheila tossed the wrapping on the floor and ripped the lid off the box. She stared into it, then lifted out a hair blower. Siobhán stepped closer. “It’s mine,” Sheila repeated.
Siobhán reached for the hair blower. “You’ll get it back, the guards need to check it out first.”
“No,” Sheila said. “I mean it’s mine.” She bent down and opened a drawer underneath one of the styling stations. “Just as I thought. He took my hair dryer from my drawer, stole it, and now he’s wrapped it up and given it back.”
That was odd. Siobhán stepped forward. “Are you sure?”
Sheila turned the hair dryer over. Stamped on it: PROPERTY OF SHEILA M.
That was conclusive. Why would someone steal Sheila’s hair dryer, only to wrap it up and return it? She was starting to think Paddy’s mental condition was even worse than they’d suspected. Siobhán eyed the blower. “I’m still going to need to take it.”
“My property gets stolen, returned, and now you want to take it again?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sure it will be returned to you.” Siobhán allowed the guard, who accompanied her, to take the blower, box, and ripped wrapping paper. She backed out of the shop as Sheila lit a cigarette and glared at her until they disappeared out the door.
* * *
Hours later they were back in the station standing in front of at least thirty opened gifts. Every single one of them was an item that had been taken from their homes, then wrapped and returned. From Naomi’s Bistro it was salt-and-pepper shakers. Siobhán had to admit, it was a right letdown. Others included house slippers, eyeglasses, cups and saucers. A few gifts had been returned to the wrong houses.
“Just another indication that poor Paddy was suffering from a mental illness,” O’Reilly said, removing his cap and scratching his head.
Siobhán was inclined to agree, but she knew it was important not to jump to any conclusions. “Are we sure it was him?”
“The tags say, ‘Love, Santa.’”
“Anyone could have written that.” Or maybe it was the Charlesville Santy.
“We can check with Eileen an
d see if it’s Paddy’s handwriting,” another guard piped up.
O’Reilly turned to Siobhán with a sly grin. “Good idea. Why don’t you get on that?”
* * *
Siobhán found Eileen O’Shea standing outside Saint Mary’s Church, Father Kearney and dear friends huddled protectively around her. When she caught Siobhán’s eye, Eileen nodded and excused herself. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Siobhán said.
“Don’t be,” Eileen answered. “I know they mean well, but if I hear someone tell me they’re sorry for my loss one more time, I’m liable to scream. Does that sound horrid of me?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “Would you like to come to the bistro for a cup of tea?”
“Is this official business?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Good.” That wasn’t quite the reaction Siobhán was expecting. Eileen must have read her expressions. “You’re whip-smart. Top of your class at Templemore Garda College, I heard. If anyone can figure out who killed my Paddy, it’s you.”
“I’m certainly going to do my best.” Siobhán refrained from adding that the people closest to the victims were always the top suspects. Eileen said her good-byes to Father Kearney and her friends, and the pair began their walk to the bistro.
“I suppose you want me to account for my day,” Eileen said.
“Wherever you feel you need to start,” Siobhán said. You could learn a lot from not only what a witness said, but what they didn’t say. The more room a person had to frame his or her story, the more they could accidentally reveal.
“I believe I have to start with the night before,” Eileen said.
’Twas the night before the murder . . . Siobhán shook off the thought, loathing at times how her mind worked. Eileen was willing to talk, that was half the battle. “Please.”
“The night before the winter carnival, I was upstairs in the bedroom. I could hear the floorboards below me. Paddy was pacing for hours. He was worried the dunk tank wouldn’t function properly. He wanted to test it, but he needed help, and that elf insisted he needed his sleep.”
Christmas Cocoa Murder Page 4
