Christmas Cocoa Murder

by Carlene O'Connor

  “That elf?”

  “Sorry. Paddy insists we call each other by our roles during the holiday season. Cormac Dooley.”

  Siobhán wondered if Eileen knew how poorly Paddy had treated Cormac. She tried a subtle approach. “Did Paddy get along with Cormac?”

  Eileen stopped to study Siobhán. “Get along?”

  “Yes.” An image of the elf’s face rose to mind. He’d been agitated, annoyed. Was he always like that? Or had it been the strain of working with Paddy?

  Eileen sighed. “I don’t blame Cormac.” Now she picked up her pace and Siobhán had to double-time it to catch up.

  “Blame him?” For what?

  “Paddy was very sensitive this year. Everyone but Cormac abandoned him. That’s probably why Paddy kept his secrets.”

  “Wait. Kept whose secrets?”

  “Cormac’s, of course.”

  “What secrets?”

  Eileen glanced around. “I couldn’t. I don’t know if I should.”

  “Anything you say will be kept in the strictest confidence.” They were only a few doors down from Naomi’s. “Let’s get tea and biscuits first,” Siobhán said gently. It was obvious Eileen was reluctant to talk, and some tea and biscuits would make it much easier to tell the widow that her husband may have been breaking into homes and stealing.

  Chapter Five

  Siobhán and Eileen stepped inside the bistro. The tree was dressed, baubles gleaming, white lights shining. The tables were adorned with red tablecloths and white candles set in little green wreaths. The fire was crackling, and the train was chugging along the ceiling. Siobhán had never been prouder of her siblings. Although she felt a twinge of sadness that she hadn’t been able to participate in the decorating, this was just the balm her weary soul needed. Eileen gave a soft smile. “My Paddy would have approved.”

  Siobhán sat them by the window, with their tea and brown bread with butter. When they were finished, she gently asked Eileen about the evening before the presents had appeared on doorsteps. “Did Paddy pay any special visits to neighbors?”

  Eileen set her teacup down and eyed her. “Why do you ask?”

  Siobhán hesitated. It wouldn’t be possible to get the answers she needed without filling Eileen in on the thefts. She tried to keep her tone as light as possible. When she was finished, the widow was already shaking her head. “I thought this was all in his head,” she said. “I should have listened to him!”

  “Listened to what?”

  “That elf.” Eileen looked around as if he might be hiding under the tables.

  “Cormac Dooley?”

  “Yes. This is him.”

  “What’s him?”

  “He’s the thief.”

  Siobhán did not expect that. “How do you know?”

  Eileen shook her head as if Siobhán were too slow to keep up. “Paddy said he was always disappearing, never to work on time, and he was convinced he was up to something.” She leaned in. “Paddy told me the elf had sticky fingers. I thought he meant he was sneaking the candy canes. Now I realize he was accusing Cormac of stealing.” She sat back and folded her arms, as if that settled everything.

  Siobhán was hoping for something more specific. “Are you saying you don’t think Paddy stole the presents?”

  “One hundred percent my Paddy did not steal presents. He was Santa Claus!”

  He was the same Santa Claus who had been drinking, ranting, losing weight, verbally abusing elves, stealing dogs, and threatening the other Santa Claus. But Eileen was worked up, so Siobhán kept it to herself. “The tags say, ‘Love, Santa.’” Siobhán pulled one of the evidence bags from her handbag and showed it to Eileen. “Is this your husband’s handwriting?”

  Eileen stared at it and pursed her lips, as if willing them not to speak. “I won’t let you start rumors.”

  “Is it his handwriting?” Siobhán slid the bag across the table.

  Eileen pushed it away. “I don’t have my readers.”

  Siobhán pushed it forward again. “Are they in your handbag?”

  Eileen sighed and glared at her handbag. Siobhán waited. Finally Eileen opened the bag, removed her glasses, and put them on. They perched on the end of her long nose. “It is not Paddy’s handwriting,” she said, taking them off, throwing them back in her bag, and snapping it shut. “It looks like Cormac Dooley’s to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure that it’s not Paddy’s. It looks like Cormac’s, but I’m hardly an expert.”

  Siobhán was trying not to let her emotions show. The widow was defensive, she could not take it personally. “Did you receive a gift?” she asked gently.

  Eileen looked startled. “No. What does that prove?”

  “I’m not proving or disproving anything at this point. I am simply gathering facts.”

  “Then get them from Cormac Dooley. Everyone is going to accuse my Paddy of everything. He needed help, as you know. But this latest accusation, breaking and entering. . . Why would he steal the gifts, only to return them?” She stopped. “When did you say they were delivered?”

  “The morning after the panto.”

  “Are you accusing my dead husband of delivering gifts after he’s murdered?”

  “Of course not. But he may have been the one to take them in the first place.”

  “Never!” Eileen pointed at Siobhán. “It’s that elf!”

  “We’ll speak with him. Please, let’s calm down.” Siobhán wetted the tea and brought out more brown bread. Eileen didn’t touch either. “The dogs,” Siobhán said. “Do you know if it was Paddy or Cormac who took the dogs?”

  Eileen’s eyes welled up. “He told me the owners had all proudly volunteered their dogs.”

  “He? As in Cormac? Or as in Paddy?”

  Eileen wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Paddy.”

  “I see.” Not a single owner had even known that Paddy wanted the dogs. Plenty of folks would have volunteered them. “I don’t believe he ever asked any of us for our dogs,” Siobhán said. “He just took them.”

  Eileen shook her head. “It’s that elf. I bet he lied to Paddy about that too.”

  Siobhán was starting to detect a pattern. Instead of a scapegoat they were now looking at a scape-elf. Only, this one wasn’t being put on a shelf, he was being hung out to dry. On the other hand, Eileen O’Shea was a wife grieving her husband. His reputation was all she had left to save. Siobhán reached over and laid her hand on top of Eileen’s. “I promise you. I won’t make any assumptions and I will follow all leads thoroughly.”

  Eileen nodded, then turned her gaze out the window. Once more, the streets were filled with people and their shopping bags. “I know life goes on,” she said. “But it’s still a shock. For me, the world feels upside down, shifted. And then you look outside and everyone else is going about his or her day as if nothing has changed. One has to wonder if a single life matters at all.”

  Siobhán took her other hand and squeezed Eileen’s hands. “Every single life matters. I’ve known your husband as Santy my entire life. Year after year he brought joy to all of us. He mattered. If he was having an issue lately with his mental state, why, it’s no different than if he had been stricken with a terminal illness. He’s not to blame. He was a good man, he brought joy, and he mattered. I will not let anyone tear down his name, and I will not stop until we find his killer.”

  Who might, Siobhán had to admit, be sitting across from me right now, ignoring her brown bread and tea.

  * * *

  Cormac Dooley lived just a few minutes outside of town in an old stone cottage. It would have been cheerful, but the front garden was choked with weeds and debris. Not a single Christmas decoration could be seen. He was pacing in the yard, speaking on his mobile, when she pulled up. He stared at her pink scooter for a moment, then clicked off his phone and studied her.

  “How ya?” He squinted. “You’re not in uniform?”

  “I officially start in the new year, s
o it hasn’t been issued yet. I’ve been called in early to help out with the inquiry into Paddy O’Shea.”

  He held up his phone. “I’ve been calling the guards. Wondering why they haven’t spoken to me yet.”

  “Do you have relevant information?”

  He nodded, then held up his finger as he ran toward her. He came to a breathless stop in front of her, then continued to hold his hand up as he dug in his pocket. He produced an inhaler and took a deep breath before shoving it back in his pocket and exhaling. “It’s that other Santa Claus. You need to talk to him.”

  “Funny, because Mrs. Claus said I needed to speak with you.”

  He frowned. “Which one?”

  “Eileen O’Shea.”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s the other Santa who did this.”

  “The Santy from Charlesville.”

  “Dat’s the one.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Cormac threw his hands up. “How am I supposed to know that? Tried to ask him once, he just kept saying, ‘Santy, I’m Santy.’ He stays in character, I’ll give him that.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Paddy said the other Santy was out to get him. I thought it was just a turn of phrase. But now . . .” He looked out into the distance and sighed. “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “I just had a cup, thank you.” She took a step closer. “Can you give me an account of your past week or so with Paddy?”

  “He was feverish. Demanding. Determined to beat this other Santa. I knew he was working on a winter carnival theme, and I was his number two, but he was keeping me in the dark. I wasn’t allowed in his workshop at home, or in the town square when he finally set up. Every day there was a new naughty list.”

  “He actually kept a naughty list?”

  “This year he did. Practically everyone is on it!”

  Siobhán wasn’t on it, was she? She was dying to ask, but she was here to do a job. “Did you know about the kidnapped dogs?”

  Cormac Dooley stretched out his neck, as if it was aching, then looked away. “Did I hear about them, or did I know about it beforehand?”

  “I’ll let you answer how you see fit.”

  He sighed and finally made eye contact. “I had no idea he was stealing dogs.”

  Is he telling the truth?

  As she contemplated it, Cormac whistled. Grass rustled in the distance and then suddenly three pairs of ears were flopping as hounds bounded to his feet. Cormac knelt and began lavishing them with pets and kisses. He introduced each with a hand to the top of their head. “Bubbles, Patches, and Angel-face.” He looked up at her. “I would never steal someone’s dog. Someone’s babies.”

  “Did you buy bones for them at the butcher’s?”

  “Of course. For Christmas.”

  “Are they in your freezer now?”

  “They are.” He squinted. “Would you be wanting one?”

  He had a sense of humor after all. “I’ll just be wanting to confirm they are in there.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Ed Healy mentioned you bought a dozen bones recently. Our kidnapped dogs were given bones in the shed to keep quiet.”

  “Follow me.” He turned and began to walk to the cottage. The weeds were nearly as high as he was tall. She followed. When they reached the front door, he held up his hand. “Do you mind if I bring them out to you?”

  “Not a bother.”

  “T’ank you. I’ve been too busy and the place is in shambles.” He hurried in, barely opening the door before slipping in and slamming it shut. The dogs raced up the steps and stared up at her, tongues flopping, tails wagging.

  “Sorry, pups. Official business, like.” She squatted and petted them. Moments later the door opened and Cormac stepped out, holding a bag of frozen dog bones. She snapped a photo with her mobile, as they weren’t really evidence of anything other than Ed Healy jumping to conclusions. “Thank you.”

  “I would never take someone else’s dog without their permission.”

  She believed him. “What about someone’s . . . things?”

  He sighed as the dogs begged at his feet. “Is it Christmas Eve? I don’t think so. Off with ye.” He waved them away and the dogs bounded off. Trigger would have continued to beg. He was a much better trainer. “Now you’re on about the stolen gifts, are ya?”

  “Yes, what can you tell me about them?”

  “I believe that was Paddy himself.”

  She pulled out the tags from the gifts. “Is this your handwriting?” Cormac looked at it, then looked away.

  “We can find out. It would help if we heard it from you.”

  “Yes. He had me write tags. But that’s the job requirement.”

  “Did you ask him what the tags were for?”

  “It was obvious. He was giving out gifts this year. I assumed it was part of the competition.”

  “Why would he steal gifts, just to return them?”

  Cormac’s face contorted. “I didn’t know he stole them! I wouldn’t have gone along with that.” He began to pace and patted the pocket where his inhaler had been stashed, as if worried he was going to need it again. He stopped, and must have read her mind. “I’m allergic to the dogs. I just can’t live without them.”

  “As long as you’re okay.”

  “Is anyone?” They held eye contact.

  “We all do our best to get by.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to live without those big eyes, floppy ears, and wagging tails.” He motioned to her. “Follow me.”

  It was a short distance to the back garden where a small shed stood. ELF’S WORKSHOP was splayed across it in red paint. Cormac opened the door, flipped on a light, and stepped in. Siobhán followed.

  It was filled to the brim with Christmas decorations. A table took up the middle of the room. Wrapping paper, ribbons, and tape covered the table. He removed a list from the table and handed it to her. It was a list of residents on one side and items on the other. Lines had been drawn from the items to the names. At times lines had been erased and redrawn, and some names and items had question marks after them. “I did the best I could.”

  “You returned the gifts?” The tips of his ears flamed red as he nodded. “I’m going to need you to back up and tell me how this all happened.”

  He sighed, then propped himself up on a stool. “Paddy pulled up to me house a few days ago, carting a big wagon behind his vehicle. In it were all the stolen items.” He sighed. “He said they’d all been donated and the money would go into the winter carnival. He wanted me to sell them all to an antique dealer in Charlesville. Get top dollar.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I started to. And then I realized what they were.”

  “Stolen?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Stolen.”

  “How did you realize that?”

  Cormac took the list from her and scanned it. “There.” He pointed. “This figurine. I took it into the antique shop. The proprietor took one look and almost called the guards on me. He knew the owner, and she’d already been in, warning that it was missing. I had to tell him about Paddy’s declining mental state, and I promised him I would personally return all the gifts. He helped me go through the list to see who owned what. I know I made a few mistakes, but I returned every single one.” His shoulders slumped. “I know it was bad timing, returning them after he’d been murdered.” Cormac shivered.

  “Why did you wrap them?”

  A shy grin stole across his face. “I thought it would help lift people’s spirits. Everyone likes surprises and presents.”

  Not when it’s your own item stolen from your home.

  He gave her a look like he knew what was she was thinking. “I just thought it was better than shaming Paddy.” He pursed his lips and crossed his arms tightly. “I promised to do right by him, the old him, and I did.” He jumped off the stool and held out both hands, palms up.

  “What a
re you doing?”

  “Cuff me. Arrest me. I did what I did.”

  “I’m not here to arrest you.”

  He dropped his arms and shrugged. “Then I have no more to say. If I were you, I’d question the Charlesville Santy.”

  Chapter Six

  “Santa Claus?” O’Reilly said. “You want to interrogate Charlesville’s Santa Claus?” His tone was one of outrage.

  Siobhán stood patiently in the doorway of the detective sergeant’s office and nodded. She knew why he was so worked up; he was chummy with the guards in Charlesville. “More than one person I spoke with mentioned the rivalry between Paddy and the other Santy. It doesn’t have to be me who interviews him, but somebody needs to.”

  O’Reilly stared at the mountain of papers on his desk as if he wanted to light them on fire. “Calling the shots already, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He sighed, took his cap off, rubbed his head, put his cap back on, sighed again. “I need you to be subtle. Are you capable of being subtle?”

  She clenched her fists and ordered her mouth to curve upward. “Quite capable.”

  “Don’t go accusing him of anything.”

  “I will stay on his nice list.”

  O’Reilly frowned. Siobhán grinned. Then she left as quickly as possible before her guise of subtle charm fell away and she punched him in the mouth.

  * * *

  The town of Charlesville was bustling. Shop windows were adorned with Christmas decorations, their wares calling to her. She was so behind in her shopping; she wished she were there for Christmas shopping and a spot of lunch. Would life ever be that simple again? The most exciting places to shop were the big cities: Cork City, Limerick, or Dublin, but the smaller towns had a cozy feel that couldn’t be beat. The storefronts and streets were decorated much like Kilbane with wreaths and red bows and twinkling lights. Only here there was no hint of sadness, no folks gathered in gossiping clumps, no rumor mill churning out suspects and theories. It was just Christmas. Their Santa was named Barry Callaghan, and his wife was Aideen. Siobhán was told he could be found in town, socializing with folks as they went about their Christmas shopping. And indeed, just ahead, there he was, in his Santa outfit, which he filled out with a big belly, just as a proper Santa should. Standing next to him was his wife, dressed again as Mrs. Claus. Or maybe that’s how they dressed every day of the Christmas season. Maybe they never wore anything else. It wasn’t her place to judge, but Siobhán hoped they were keeping up with their washing.