They were only looking at a fifteen-minute window of time.
What kind of argument could it have been to ignite that kind of rage in such a short time? The evening had been cheerful. Festive.
The second possibility was that Paddy’s murder was premeditated. The killer was already in a rage, and determined to confront Paddy. He or she figured the best place to do it was surrounded by everyone in town. Everyone would have the same alibi, too much commotion to notice someone slipping into Santa’s tent during intermission. Quite cunning. If the O’Sheas owed Ed Healy money, who’s to say they didn’t owe others? Eileen was going to have to be thoroughly questioned. It was heart-wrenching to put a widow up as a suspect and start digging into her darkest secrets, but finding the killer took precedent. This business was not for the faint of heart.
But what if it wasn’t the blow that killed Santa? What if it had only succeeded in knocking Paddy unconscious and he’d died by drowning in the hot cocoa? If that was the case, had it been intentional? Did the killer think the tank would help hide evidence? Paddy had kept his dunk tank very secret. Either this murder was impulsive and the killer used the tank to his or her advantage at the last minute, or . . .
The killer was someone who knew about Paddy’s dunk tank.
Mrs. Claus? The elf? The other Santa and Mrs. Claus? The man who made the tank who normally made mansions for little fishies? Maybe he hadn’t been paid, and she could only imagine what kind of money was involved in building a dunk tank from scratch. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She needed to get the name of the maker straightaway.
Chapter Nine
Once the crime scene tape was removed and the town square was once again open to the public, candles and flowers and mass cards were placed on Santa’s throne. Soon folks began leaving copies of pictures of children taken with Paddy over the years. Siobhán had added a few of her own. Paddy O’Shea had been a vibrant and chubby Santa much longer than he’d been a thin, raging one. Siobhán was thrilled to see everyone recognizing that fact. Eileen stood with Father Kearney and her dear friends, going through all the photos, and reminiscing. Residents took to putting antlers on their dogs and bringing them along to show they had no hard feelings.
Back in town, Declan advertised hot cocoa of the Irish variety, which folks were happy to purchase. He had both a Baileys, an Irish cream, and a whiskey version. Siobhán found some quiet morning time to make batches of brown bread with cranberries. Every season she tried to add a different touch. It came out divine, if she did say so herself. Meanwhile, the town was scrambling to find a replacement Santa for the children. Siobhán would leave it to them, as she had more important work to do, not to mention she hadn’t even started her Christmas shopping. Eoin and James had volunteered to handle Christmas supper so that was one less burden to bear. Annmarie had done her best to make a list of everyone she remembered who bought a nutcracker, and then they split the list among the guards. O’Reilly was looking into the maker of the dunk tank and the finances of the O’Sheas. The guards were like reindeer, preparing to pull the sleigh of justice. She kept this observation to herself, one of the many thoughts that was best kept to herself.
Jeanie Brady had confirmed that a nutcracker was a match to the blow to Paddy’s head and that his final death had been caused by drowning. It was horrible to hear, but every fact would help lead to the killer. The morning after Jeanie’s report was issued, Siobhán finished her run, changed her clothes, and headed out to speak with the folks known to have purchased a nutcracker. Ed Healy remained on the list, simply because he’d mentioned he’d planned on buying a nutcracker. It was possible he’d sent someone else to do it. Ed wasn’t one of the people on Siobhán’s list. However, she had decided that when this murder probe was over, she intended on speaking with the sisters at Saint Mary’s Church to see about raising money for Adam’s rehabilitation. She had no idea whether or not Ed had been exaggerating the cost, so she placed a call to the rehab center in Limerick and left a message about her inquiries. No one was available, but she was assured they would return her call as soon as possible. For now, she was on her way back to Charlesville to speak to the other Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
* * *
Siobhán secretly had more than one reason to return to Charlesville. One was to follow up on Aideen Callaghan’s nutcracker collection, and the other reason was to visit the antique store where Paddy had told Cormac Dooley to sell the stolen items. She was surprised to find that Aideen and Barry Callaghan lived in town above the antique shop. She didn’t know why, perhaps stereotypes of Santa were influencing her, for she had imagined them in a North Pole–like farmer’s home, complete with elves, and reindeer, and sleighs, and, of course, Santa’s workshop. Instead she found herself climbing the steep stairs above the shop, and by the time she reached their red door at the top, she was out of breath. She was going to have to step up her runs.
The door was opened by Aideen Callaghan, still dressed as Mrs. Claus, and for a second Siobhán had a hard time focusing on her, for the small flat behind her was jammed with Christmas. Multiple Christmas trees, nutcrackers, knickknacks, a train going around the floor, and every bit of space on the wall was filled with stockings. Mrs. Claus was smiling and waiting patiently; she apparently had this reaction often enough that she knew to wait for it.
“I don’t know what to call you,” Siobhán admitted. “Do you prefer Aideen or Mrs. Claus?”
The woman smiled. “It’s the holiday season. Whatever you like, but I’m used to Mrs. Claus, pet.”
“Mrs. Claus it is.”
“Come in, come in, have a cup of tea.”
It took Siobhán a second to realize the invitation hadn’t come from Mrs. Claus, but rather a large colorful parrot perched on a rocking chair in the middle of the Christmas explosion.
Mrs. Claus laughed. “Bobby is right. Please do come in.”
“Cup of tea,” Bobby said as he spread his wings and ruffled his feathers.
Ciarán would go mad over a bird like this, Siobhán thought. Especially as a Christmas gift. That was all they needed, another mouthy-mouth to feed. “It’s very . . . festive in here.”
Mrs. Claus sighed. “We go overboard. Some call us Christmas hoarders, but we can’t help it. We love Christmas!”
Siobhán had to watch her feet as she followed Mrs. Claus through the living room and into the kitchen. Even the teacups had tiny sleighs on them.
“ ‘Jingle Bells’! ‘Jingle Bells’!” the parrot chirped.
“My husband said you’d be paying me a visit,” Mrs. Claus said when they were situated with their tea and biscuits. “I don’t know what I can tell you. But we feel just awful. And I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m only thinking of ourselves, but do you think we’re in danger? Is the killer after all Santas, or was it specifically Paddy he was after?”
“I’m actually here to see your nutcrackers,” Siobhán said. “Mr. Claus told me you had quite the collection.”
Mrs. Claus looked startled, her eyes darting about the room as if she were counting her collection. Siobhán brought out her phone. “Do you have any with this color?” She showed Mrs. Claus the chip of blue paint. “Most say it’s teal.”
“I’d say that’s sea-glass green-blue.”
“There’s no such color with that name.” Siobhán was getting irritated and they were getting off track. “Regardless, do you have any this color?” Teal. It’s teal!
“Funny, you mention it.” She rose and navigated toward a back shelf in her living room, where she began shuffling nutcrackers around. “I know it’s here somewhere. That sea-glass color is very distinct.” After a few moments of looking, she turned back. “It’s gone!”
“When did you see it last?”
“It’s the latest in my collection.” She began to scan the room, anxiety stamped on her full cheeks.
“Has Paddy ever been inside your flat?”
Mrs. Claus frowned. “As a matter of fact, he and his wife were here. Ju
st after I put out the decorations.” This was news.
“Why were they here?”
“He said he wanted to mend fences. He was horrible to me husband last year. Jealous as a toad, he was. But it was only right to accept his apology. He was so skinny, I kept trying to feed him more biscuits. Where is that nutcracker?”
“By any chance, was Cormac Dooley with them?”
“Who?”
“He played Paddy’s elf.”
“Yes, he was. A delightful fella. Bobby really took to him.”
Siobhán had a feeling she knew what had happened to the nutcracker. She still wasn’t sure if Cormac or Paddy was the thief. Both had blamed each other, and only one was left who knew the truth. If Cormac was the thief, he’d hardly admit it. It would be the height of irony if Paddy had stolen the nutcracker that killed him. “I’m sorry to worry you. I hope you find it.”
Siobhán didn’t mention the nutcracker was the murder weapon. She had to be careful about giving away information pertinent to an ongoing inquiry. And she had no proof that Paddy, or his elf, had stolen the nutcracker. Who was to say which Santa or which Mrs. Claus stole it? What if this Christmas-addicted Mrs. Claus was a killer?
“ ‘Jingle Bells’! ‘Jingle Bells’!”
Mrs. Claus sighed. “I’d better play the song or he’ll harp on it all day.”
“Go right ahead.”
Mrs. Claus was heading to the radio when her mobile rang. She excused herself and left the room to take the call. Siobhán walked up to the parrot.
“Happy Christmas,” Siobhán said, feeling a bit foolish.
“You fraud!” the bird screamed.
Siobhán was gobsmacked. She took a step closer to the bird. “Happy Christmas,” she repeated.
“You’re no Santa.”
“Happy Christmas,” she said yet again.
“Fraud!” Bobby stretched his wings and ruffled his feathers. “Fraud!” He began to scoot back and forth on his perch, bobbing his head. “What did you do! What did you do!”
“What did you overhear?” Siobhán said, mostly to herself. “Who are you imitating?”
Siobhán heard a thud and turned to find Mrs. Claus staring at her. “I’m afraid I have to go,” Aideen said.
Siobhán pointed at the bird. “Who was he mimicking? Who called who a fraud?”
Mrs. Claus folded her hands and straightened up. “No one. He picks up random bits from telly and the radio.”
“I don’t remember any show on telly where someone screams that Santa is a fraud.” “What did you do . . .” What is that all about? “Did Paddy O’Shea threaten your husband?”
“Let the man rest in peace.”
“He won’t be in peace until we find his killer.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you with that.”
“It sounds like an argument took place here in front of Bobby.” Siobhán glanced at the parrot. He had his head cocked and he was watching Siobhán intently. He could hardly be used in a court of law, but so far, he was the most honest witness she’d ever come across. But before she could question him or Mrs. Claus any further, she felt a hand on her arm, and she was escorted to the door.
“I’m going to kill you,” the parrot called after her. “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you!”
Siobhán stopped. “My word.” She pointed at the bird. “How do you explain that?”
“Law and Order,” Mrs. Claus said, then slammed the door.
Chapter Ten
Siobhán was still fixated on the parrot when she entered the antique shop. If only she had recorded it. There was no way that had come from a show on telly. Had Barry Callaghan found out that Paddy was stealing and confronted him? How would he have learned? Perhaps from his downstairs neighbor, the owner of this antique store. She forced her attention back to her surroundings. The lights in the antique shop were so dim, Siobhán had to wait for her eyes to adjust. Law & Order. As if! If it was so innocent, why had Mrs. Claus ushered her out the minute Bobby started talking?
The shop was jammed with stuff, much like the Clauses’ flat. In the middle of the store, an old man was hunched over a newspaper spread out on the counter, and he didn’t even look up as he spoke to her. “Do not touch anything.”
What customer service! If she were a regular customer, she would have turned around and walked out, but not before touching as many things as possible. A character flaw of hers—this temper—but, nonetheless, her fingers were itching to start mauling at old wooden dressers, porcelain dolls, and dusty candlestick holders. She used to whittle to control her anger. She was going to have to get back to it. She approached the clerk, stood in front of him, and waited for him to look up. When he did so, it was with a heavy sigh.
“I’m Garda O’Sullivan from Kilbane.”
His eyes flicked over her. “You’re not in uniform.”
“Not until the first of the year,” she said.
He frowned. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand that one of our residents came in a short while back and tried to sell you a number of household items. You recognized one as being reported stolen.”
“Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for someone to follow up.”
“Here I am.” In truth, she had come here on a whim. But this was the first bit of enthusiasm he’d shown and she wanted to keep that going. “Was one of the items a nutcracker?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. If it had been, I would have thought of Aideen Callaghan. She’s a collector, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“That’s how I’m sure.”
“Tell me what you remember about the day Cormac Dooley came in.”
“Cormac Dooley?”
She sighed. “The elf.” She wanted their real names used, but it was difficult when they dressed as their characters all season. If she spent all her time trying to be correct, she’d get nowhere.
The clerk leaned over the counter. “I told that elf I knew his items were hot and I was going to call the guards.”
“How did you know?”
The clerk continued speaking, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “He talked me out of it over my better judgment, said he was going to return the items.”
“And he did.”
“Not all of them, he didn’t.”
Siobhán stepped closer. “What do you mean? And how did you know the items were stolen in the first place?” She was starting to feel like Bobby, the parrot, repeating the same things over and over.
The old man stood up, maneuvered around the counter, and headed to the back of the store. Siobhán followed just in time to see him pick up a small figurine. It was a lad in overalls. “It looked just like this. It’s German. Worth nearly eight thousand euro.”
Siobhán gasped. “That?”
He glared at her. “You’ve no eye for antiques. Yes. That. At the right auction maybe even more.”
“How do you know it wasn’t returned?”
“Because the owner was in here when it first went missing, and asked if anyone had brought it in to me. At that time, no one had. But the minute that elf came in with stolen items, I knew it had to be him.”
“You’re saying he admitted he was bringing you stolen items?”
“He blamed it on Paddy O’Shea. Claimed they were all donated.”
“But you didn’t believe him?”
“I told him it smelled fishy. That he should double-check with the owners to make sure they were donated free and clear.”
“Then what?”
“He promised he was going to check with every owner, and get documentation if the item had been donated.”
Cormac Dooley didn’t mention this when I spoke with him. Why not?
“I gave him a chance to honor that promise. But the woman was in again last night, crying her eyes out. Said she didn’t get her figurine back. I told her to report it to the guards.”
>
“I promise I will follow up on it.” She would too. If Cormac Dooley was holding on to this figurine, he was the one guilty of stealing. It didn’t necessarily make him a murderer, but he would need to be held accountable for the thefts.
The clerk made a clicking noise with his tongue and teeth. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Cormac claimed he tried to return all the items, but he mixed a few up. Maybe the figurine simply arrived at the wrong doorstep.” But even as she said it, she wondered. The guards had collected as many of the wrapped gifts as they could. Opened and catalogued every one of them. She didn’t remember seeing this figurine. Did the elf know how valuable it was? Had he kept it? Or was it still sitting innocently in his shed and he’d simply overlooked it?
Or what if it had been returned, and the owner was lying so she could double-dip. “Would an owner insure something like this?”
“If they’re smart.”
“Do you know if this particular owner insured it?”
“I don’t see why she’d be crying to me if she had.”
Siobhán sighed. “I’m going to need her information.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“A warrant?”
“I can’t just give out information about my clientele.”
“I thought you said she wanted the guards involved.”
The clerk headed back to his counter. “She was going to make an official report. If you’re so official, either ask them for it, or come back here with identification, or a warrant . . .” He stopped and looked her up and down. “Or at least a proper guard’s uniform.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight. You think Mr. and Mrs. Charlesville Santa are hiding something because a little birdie told you.”
Siobhán gave a terse smile and counted to five in her head. She was standing in O’Reilly’s office, filling him in on her recent excursion. “Not so little.”
“Pardon me?”
“He’s a normal-sized parrot. With a big mouth.”
“Sounds familiar,” O’Reilly said with a smirk. “Anything else?”
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