“Thank you.”
“Ed isn’t behind this. He wouldn’t take charity from anyone. You know yourself.”
Siobhán did know. Ed Healy was the last person to rig a contest in his favor.
Annmarie watched Siobhán pace. “I just want the killer caught by Christmas. Is that going to happen?”
The question stopped Siobhán in her tracks. “Given what day it is, I highly doubt it.”
Annmarie nodded and thrust Siobhán’s purchases at her. “Happy Christmas Eve.”
* * *
Siobhán was heading out for her run when the rehab center in Limerick returned her call. The woman on the line quickly got to her point. “It’s lovely you wanted to start fund-raising for Adam Healy. But I’m thrilled to report his treatment has been paid in full. He’ll start in the new year.”
“Wow,” Siobhán said. “May I ask who paid for it?”
“I’m afraid we can’t give away that kind of information.”
“You may need to give it away to the guards,” Siobhán said. “What is the cost of the treatment?”
The woman wouldn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. Siobhán had a pretty good idea. It was a hundred thousand euro. The same amount as the prizewinning nutcracker.
* * *
She went for a run, needing to work out all the thoughts in her head. This case was all about a theft . . . and a nutcracker. And money. And a preordained winner. Who wouldn’t have been privy to the plan because he would have rejected it. She ran faster.
Someone needed to give someone else money. Only this someone would have been too proud to take it. Even if it was for a very good cause: a handicapped child’s rehabilitation. It had bothered Siobhán that the woman who crafted the nutcrackers and this contest had been careless when it came to protecting them. A simple seal over the flap that could easily be removed. But now it made sense. She wasn’t worried about folks cheating, because she knew exactly whose hands the winning nutcracker would wind up in.
The elf said he heard Santa sneeze as he was leaving the tent. Siobhán had heard it too, and assumed it was Santy getting sick. Instead, it was the killer. Cormac had allergies to dogs, but his manifested in a wheezing chest, for which he used an inhaler.
The sneezer, the killer. Another person who was allergic to dogs. Dave Healy.
He had snuck into the shed and removed the bones that he’d originally placed there to keep them quiet. Once he removed the bones, he counted on the dogs to start barking. He then slipped into the tent to find his stolen nutcracker—the one with the shining star. Stolen from the counter at the butcher’s. Right out from under his nose as he worked the register. When Siobhán had spoken with Ed in his back garden, they’d returned to find Dave gone and the shop closed. Ed mentioned he was having problems with bank fraud. Most likely, he was contacting the craftswoman to let her know the prize had been stolen. Bet they were sorry the nutcrackers hadn’t been better protected then. Dave hailed from Mayo, only forty-five miles from Sligo. And Ed had been friends with the craftswoman for years. Why wouldn’t the craftswoman and a devoted uncle concoct a sweet little contest to benefit a disabled boy at Christmas? What could go wrong?
When did Dave Healy glom on to Paddy O’Shea as a thief? He must have heard rumors while working in the shop. And then, at the panto, he’d seen Paddy O’Shea bring a nutcracker into his tent. One with a distinct teal head. It was a spur-of-the-moment rage that must have ignited him; he’d mistakenly assumed Paddy had stolen the nutcracker on purpose. He would have known about their running tab at the butcher’s. It must have infuriated him.
Dave Healy had planned the perfect Christmas. A new puppy and top-notch rehab for his nephew. Dave was the one Cormac heard sneezing. He must have been hiding in Paddy’s tent, waiting for intermission to take back his nutcracker. Was the shining star already gone? Was that what caused him to strike the minute Paddy turned his back?
Paddy must have known the shining star was in the nutcracker, for it was one of the few items he didn’t task the elf with returning. The other was the valuable figurine. Given their financial difficulties, he’d been too tempted; and as far as the nutcracker was concerned, he may not have even known to whom it belonged. He wouldn’t have been afraid to see Dave Healy in his tent.
Siobhán was surprised to see she was almost home. She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she’d run on autopilot. She intended to go into the bistro, then shower and change. Afterward, she’d confront Dave Healy, see if she could get him to turn himself in. He wasn’t an evil man. He wouldn’t kill her. Would he? Just in case, she’d pick a public place. She’d invite him to O’Rourke’s. But just as she was opening the door to Naomi’s Bistro, she saw a sea of red behind the windows. The café was filled with men auditioning to be Santa Claus. She’d forgotten all about Gráinne’s scheme.
Is Dave Healy among them?
Had he heard that Eileen was now being questioned and he was worried she would squeal about finding the shining star in the stolen nutcracker? Or did he have the shining star now, ready to be opened by Adam on Christmas? Tomorrow. He had to keep his plan going until tomorrow. Was he in one of those Santa outfits milling around the bistro?
* * *
“You need to work on your ho, ho, ho,” Gráinne said to the Santa standing in front of her. “I didn’t believe you.”
“Excuse me,” Siobhán said with a smile to the poor man, who definitely was not Dave Healy. She took her sister by the arm and pulled her away.
“Hey, I’m busy.”
“Is Dave Healy here?”
Gráinne frowned as her eyes flicked over the Santas. “He’s the skinny uncle of Adam, right?”
“Yes.”
“Adam’s here.” She pointed. Adam was in the back room in his wheelchair, looking up at the train going around the room. Kneeling next to him was a skinny Santa. “That him?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. As they spoke, Dave Healy looked up and locked eyes with Siobhán. He couldn’t possibly have heard her say his name from across the room. And yet there was a warning in his eyes. Maybe she should go straight to the guards.
“You better not be vying for him, because this time we’re getting a fat Santa.” With that, Gráinne pulled away and went back to her interview.
Siobhán needed to think. It wasn’t smart to confront him here. She wished she had the backup of the guards, but all she had was a theory and the fact that Adam’s rehab had been paid for. And an allergic, loving uncle. It wasn’t proof. She certainly wasn’t going to confront him in front of Adam. She needed evidence. Her mobile rang as she was mulling over her options. She could barely hear the caller over the din of the Santas. She excused herself and took the call in the back garden.
“O’Sullivan?” The voice was muffled, hard to hear.
“Yes?”
“O’Reilly here. I’ve had a report about a break-in at the warehouse.”
“A break-in?”
“Someone messing with the dunk tank. It’s probably lads acting the maggot. I’m sending every guard I can, to check it out. Are you free?”
“I’ll be right there.” Finally. He’s finally seeing me as part of the team. Christmas would come early this year. She wondered if she should run upstairs and change into her uniform. Time was of the essence. She would grab her torch and head over straightaway.
* * *
The warehouse was located a few miles outside of the main part of town. She took her scooter, and arrived just as the sun was going down. The area around the warehouse was deserted, except for sheep and cows grazing on the soft hills around it. She thought she was the first to arrive until she saw the warehouse door was ajar. “Hello? Garda O’Sullivan here.” When no one answered, she stepped in. It was pitch black, but when she turned on her torch, nothing happened. She shook it and tried again. Nothing. She unscrewed the bottom. No batteries. Classic mistake. Someone had probably switched them out recently. They were all doing that. She kept the torch in her hand, an
yway, and tried to visualize the location of the light switch. On the left, about ten steps in. She stepped in, hoping the door would stay open at least until she reached the light, but it slammed shut the minute she was inside. She whirled around. The door had been ajar. Why had it suddenly shut? “The guards have been notified,” she said. “They’re on their way.”
There was no response.
The guards are on their way.
Unless, that hadn’t been O’Reilly on the phone.
She wasn’t necessarily afraid of the dark, but she also didn’t want to trip over anything and land in hospital with a broken ankle. She walked three steps toward the light switch, and a loud click sounded from the door. The sound of a lock being turned—from the inside. She whirled around, still blind.
“Who’s there?” She waited, her heart beating in her ears. “It’s Garda O’Sullivan. Who’s there?” She turned again and sprinted for the light switch. Dave Healy had called her from inside the bistro, pretending to be O’Reilly. He’d taken one look at her and knew that she was onto him. This one mistake could be the last she’d ever make. Her eyes were starting to adjust, and the hulking form of the dunk tank could be seen just ahead. A gurgling sound, like water, echoed through the warehouse. What was that? She pawed along the wall. Come on, switch, come on. She felt someone behind her, but before she could turn around, a sack covered her head. She screamed.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” It was him. Was he telling the truth? She stopped struggling for a moment. The hood stayed on, but didn’t tighten. “Hands behind your back.”
She hated herself in this moment. She hated that guards couldn’t carry guns. She hated that she didn’t know whether or not to try to kick behind her. He grabbed her hands and yanked them behind her back. She felt heavy rope and he began tying her hands together. She was full-on sweating behind the sack he’d thrown over her head. It smelled like oats. At least he hadn’t used something that had stored raw meats or bones.
“Let’s talk,” she said. Her voice was muffled.
“If you listen, you won’t get hurt. I promise you.”
“You’re just adding to your sentence.”
“I’ll be gone soon. They won’t find me.”
“It’s not too late to do the right thing.”
“Walk.”
He shoved her forward. She walked. “What are you doing?”
“No more talking. I do the talking. A few more steps.” After a few more steps he told her to stop. To her surprise, he whipped off the hood. Dave Healy stood in front of her, his gaunt face nearly skeletal in the dark.
“What are you doing?” she said. Her voice was still firm, she would not plead.
“I just need a head start.” He pulled out a flask. “Drink this.”
She shook her head. She turned to see where he had marched her. They were in front of the dunk tank. The ladder was propped against it. It was filled with water. “How can that be?” she said. “There are holes cut in it now.” And yet it was filled with water.
“It’s not the greatest patch job, but it will hold long enough.”
She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she didn’t like it. “Go,” she said. “Get your head start.”
“You need to drink this.”
“I will not.”
“It’s not going to kill you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s Declan’s hot cocoa. With a little twist.”
“Just go. The guards are on their way.” They weren’t, but maybe she could make Dave believe that they were.
“O’Sullivan?” Dave said, mimicking the voice on the phone. “O’Reilly here.” Or maybe he would see right through her lie.
“Please,” Siobhán said. “You were only trying to help your nephew. You don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
“Two hours of sleep and then you’ll be awake.” He shoved the flask near her mouth. “Drink it.”
“I won’t.”
“You have no choice.” He reached behind him and pulled out the nutcracker. “I used it once, I’ll use it again.”
“You did this for Adam.”
“I had it all worked out, and that fool almost ruined everything.”
“You funded the contest with the craftswoman so your brother would accept the money for Adam’s rehabilitation.”
“And he will.”
“He’s going to find out what you’ve done.”
“Are you going to stand there and keep telling me things I already know, or are you going to drink this?”
“Just leave. It will take me a while to get myself untied. Or take my scooter. I’m not drinking that.”
“I don’t want to knock you out. I might accidentally kill you.”
She didn’t want that either. “I have a family,” she said. “I have young ones to mind.”
“I know. You’re a good person. I used to be. The world did this to me. It’s a few sleeping pills from the chemist. If I were you, I’d take it over a box to the head. You’ve got seconds to decide.”
He pushed the flask to her mouth and backed her up against the tank. “Easy,” he said. “Drink.”
He was forcing it into her and she didn’t want to choke. She drank. He made her drink it all. “Why didn’t you just turn Paddy in to the guards?”
“He had the nerve to bring the nutcracker to the panto. I spotted him go into the tent with it. If he had just let me take it back, he’d still be alive. I’d snuck in just before intermission. When the elf rolled the tank back in, I hid in the corner. They didn’t see me. I thought I’d get out clear. The elf left to fetch something for Paddy to eat. That’s when he saw me. He tried to grab it out of me hands. I told him it was mine. He let go, and said he was getting the guards. Said he’d have me arrested for theft. Isn’t that rich? A man stealing things out of people’s homes and dogs out of their back gardens. A young lad’s dog. The minute he turned around, I didn’t think. I struck. Maybe harder than I intended. He began to fall. The blood . . . I wasn’t expecting it. I panicked. It was pure adrenaline and the fact that he was as skinny as me that made it easy for me to lift him high enough that I could put him in the tank.” He looked her over, then glanced at the ladder. “It’s almost time,” he said. He turned her toward the ladder. “Climb.”
“What?”
“Climb the ladder and lay down on the diving board.”
“I need my hands.”
“You can’t have them.”
“I can’t do it. Not without my hands for balance.”
“You graduated from Templemore. I know the drills they make guards-in-training do. You can do it.”
She gritted her teeth and began to climb, leaning forward slightly to keep her balance. When she reached the top, she nearly panicked. “How?”
“The board is right in front of you. You’ll have to shimmy onto it, laying on your belly.”
She wanted to argue, but she could feel her limbs falling to sleep. She didn’t want to fall in the water. He might just leave her there. She leaned forward onto the board.
“That’s it. Inch forward. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Lie flat and stick your legs out. I’ll give you a push.”
She was too sleepy to argue. She flattened herself on the board and soon felt him pushing her legs until she slid forward.
“Good night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
She heard him climb back down, and take the ladder away. She wanted to yell. She wanted to cry. She wanted a do-over. She prayed she would wake up, and prayed she wouldn’t roll into the water, and sank into sleep instead.
Her head throbbed and her face was smashed up against something hard. Her hands were tied behind her back. She lifted her head with a cry, nearly tilting herself into the water. She wasn’t dead, but she nearly wished she were. How long had she been out? Her throat was dry. Now what? She gave herself a few minutes just to breathe, and then slowly began to move parts of her b
ody. She wiggled her fingers. She moved her feet. Her head. There was a tank full of water below her and no ladder behind her. The floor of the warehouse was cement. Dave Healy had intended for her to lie up here until someone found her. He was probably already on a bus, or a train, or a plane.
“Hello?” she called, because she just wanted to hear a voice, even if it was her own.
* * *
One wrong move to either side and she would go into ten feet of dark water with her hands tied behind her back. She was grateful he’d removed the hood, but he was still off her Christmas list. The only choice was to inch backward and take the drop off the side of the tank. It was, she guessed, at least a fifteen-foot drop. She stilled her mind, took a deep breath, and made her first attempt at inching back. The board wobbled. Had she moved at all? It was hard to tell. She tried it again. The board tilted to the left, and she moved to the right, fighting her pounding heart and her fight-or-flight responses, which were urging quick and decisive movements. It took forever, but soon she was near the end of the board. Her clothing was bunched at the top, nearly off her, but otherwise she had done it. She paused to think through the jump. Normally, her hands would fly out to protect her from this fall. Being tall was an advantage, but the cement floor had an advantage too. It was cement.
The key to falling was to stay loose, but the body always tensed. Once again, she would have to fight her natural instincts. She relaxed her mind and imagined herself in the bistro surrounded by her brood, fire roaring, feet up, mug of tea and brown bread in hand. Her best bet was her bottom. The worst option, her head. A broken tailbone could certainly ruin not only Christmas, but the new year too. Softly on her bottom. For once, and perhaps the only time in her life, she wished she had a bigger bottom.
Her backside took the brunt of the drop. It hurt. It really, really hurt, but she was still alive, her head stayed up, and she was pretty sure nothing was broken. It took another several tries to pull her legs in, roll over, and attempt to stand without using her hands. He had so much rope wrapped around her hands; there would be no cutting it off herself, or rubbing the rope against something sharp in the warehouse. She just wanted out, so she could reach the first person she saw and alert them that their killer was on the run. She headed for the warehouse door, limping from the hit her left-lower half had taken during the fall.
Christmas Cocoa Murder Page 11
