Glad to have Angie to confide in, I told her about the argument Mom had with Bert at the Jubilee, which she hadn’t witnessed. I voiced my fear that Mom might come under suspicion once Aunt Laura talked to the police about the Jubilee dinner.
“Mom couldn’t have had anything to do with Uncle Bert’s death,” Angie insisted. “We just got here yesterday. When do they think he died?”
“I don’t know. They sent me away before the medical examiner had done his work. But it looked to me as if the blood was fairly set, as if it wasn’t done this morning. Perhaps last night. If that’s true, she’s in the clear. Mom told me you all stayed in after dinner.”
Angie went over to the sink to finish the dishes that Mom had abandoned when Toby and I arrived. “Give me a hand,” she said. “I’ll rinse and you put them in the dishwasher.” We worked in silence till the job was done. As I passed her a towel to dry her hands on, she met my eyes. “I think I should tell you something. Mom went out last night when Dad and I were watching TV. She wanted to take a little walk. I’d already changed into my nightgown, so I didn’t offer to go with her.”
“She did say she stepped out for some air for a few minutes.”
“It could have been longer.”
That was not what I wanted to hear. Angie said that it was still dusk when Mom left, since it was Midsummer Eve, the longest day of the year. So they didn’t worry about her being out. But I was plenty worried.
I asked, “Did you talk to her when she came back?”
“I was already in my bedroom, so I didn’t see her come in. Dad had conked out. The drive from Galway did him in. He fell asleep after ten minutes in front of the TV. I had to wake him and send him off to bed. I told Dad I’d wait up for Mom, but I fell asleep too. At some point I woke and went to bed. I turned over when I heard Mom come in, but I didn’t check the time. I just went back to sleep.”
“Was it still dusk by then or dark?”
“There was still some light outside when I went to my room.”
“But when you heard her come in?”
“I’m not sure. The curtains were closed.”
“So it’s conceivable she could have been gone for a short time just as she said, right?”
“Right,” said Angie, looking relieved. “Right,” she repeated to herself as she hung the dish towel back on its hook. Relief wasn’t what I was feeling, though I saw no benefit in letting Angie worry. At my suggestion, she headed outside to unwind for a while by lounging on the terrace.
Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to slip into Mom and Dad’s bedroom to find the sweater. Entering the cramped room, I looked around for Mom’s clothes; nothing was lying out. I checked the closet; the sweater wasn’t there. That left the bureaus. I went through all the drawers. No.
There was only one place left to look. I stepped into the bathroom and checked the towel hooks on the inside of the door. At home, Mom always hangs her clothes there. Sure enough, she had left the robe and apron she had been wearing in the kitchen. The robe was bunched out as if something was underneath it. I hesitated. I could turn and walk away and never know. Maybe that was the thing to do. No. I couldn’t. I lifted the robe. Hanging underneath was Mom’s blue cardigan.
And the buttons matched. I knew that at a glance, but just to make sure, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the one I had found next to Bert’s body. There wasn’t any doubt. It was silvery, polished, identical. My eye went to the spot where the sweater was missing a button. It would have been the third, positioned where a woman’s bust tends to strain the wool. There was just a nub of thread remaining at that spot. For a moment, I thought of sewing the thing back on. Then sanity returned. What would Mom think when the missing button reappeared—that the fairies did it? What would Toby say? What would my conscience say? And what would the law say? That I was an accessory after the fact?
3
I WAS STANDING BY OUR BED, punching up the pillows.
“And you’re sure the buttons match?”
“Yeah.” My own leaden tone alarmed me.
“That still doesn’t mean she’s guilty, you know.”
“Toby, this has got to be the worst day of my life.” I socked one of the pillows hard, disgorging a few feathers.
“That’s right. Give ’em a beating,” Toby urged. “I’ll join you.” He feinted at the pillows on his side of the bed, and I had to laugh.
“Hop on,” he ordered, and we plopped onto the saggy mattress. Toby pulled me to his side and flipped me so my head fell on his chest. I wanted to relax into his warm body, but parts of me stayed stiff. Understanding, Toby loosened his embrace and said, “Talk to me.”
“That’s the wife’s line,” I protested.
“I mean it. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I did, and felt better when I had finished.
We went back to the other cottage soon after we heard the car bring my parents home and then depart. It was nearing suppertime, and Angie was heating up a prepared meal from the grocers. She said Mom and Dad were too tired to socialize. We should keep the meal short.
Socializing wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to know what Mom had told the detectives. She reported that the interview room smelled of cigarettes and lye. Dad said he had been left in the lobby under the pitying gaze of the young female garda. I learned nothing during the family meal of chewy lamb patties and over-roasted potatoes.
In bed that night, nestled against Toby’s bare skin, I confessed I was hurt that Mom hadn’t shared anything with me. A wise inner voice said, It’s not about you, so I corrected myself. “It can’t be good that she’s not talking. That means she’s trapped. She feels she can’t talk without revealing something.”
“That could be anything,” Toby said. “Maybe she’s fighting with your father. You heard what he said about how your mother always bad-mouthed Bert. Now your dad’s been robbed of his only brother. He’s lost any chance to be closer to him. Could be he blames your mother.” I drew back from Toby.
“No,” he protested. “I don’t mean he thinks she killed him. I mean she was always so angry with Bert that she kept your father from seeing him. And now he never will.”
“That’s not how it was, Toby. I’m sorry, you weren’t there. She believed Bert was a crook and a liar. Of course she didn’t want her kids exposed to him, but she never stopped Dad from seeing him.” Toby propped himself up on an elbow and looked at me. I shut up and thought. Then I did a revision. “Okay, so she did keep our families apart.”
We talked about what Bert had done. We talked about being judgmental. We talked about truth, speculation, and distortion, until I couldn’t talk anymore. Toby rubbed my back and said my feelings were understandable. As I suspected, there was a “but.” “But your feelings aren’t the facts. The facts will come out, and when they do, whatever they are, we’ll face them.”
I woke to the ping of a text. As I suspected, it was Angie. “Come to u at 10. See Laura Emily 10:30.” I tapped my question: “Who sees them?” Instant reply: “You and me. Condolence call.” Apparently, she had committed me, so I texted back: “ok.” I left Toby smiling in his sleep. (I always wonder what that’s about.)
The walk to Aunt Laura’s retraced the route I had taken the morning before, since Uncle Bert’s house lay just beyond the Deserted Village. It was a warm morning, with a pleasant breeze rippling through the roadside shrubbery. I let the swing of my arms relieve my tension, while Angie recounted the drama of the previous night.
She told me that after dinner Dad decided to visit Aunt Laura and asked Mom to go with him, but she refused. He created a lot of noise leaving the house, and he made the car wheels spin in the gravel. Mom went into her bedroom. Angie respected the closed door and stayed in the kitchen, doing the dishes. When Dad returned, he told Angie that Laura looked broken. That didn’t surprise him; Bert had been her whole life. It worried him more that Emily was silent, closed in upon herself. That’s what gave him the idea that Angie and I should visit
in the morning. Emily needed someone her own age to talk to, he said.
It must have been hard for Dad to face Aunt Laura. He knew she had told the detectives about the argument between Mom and Bert at the Jubilee dinner, because the inspector’s questions had started there. In spite of that, he knew his duty. He visited his brother’s widow, but he was unable to provide comfort. Angie felt that Dad wanted us to succeed where he had failed—a tall order, in my opinion. Aunt Laura couldn’t be expected to have warm feelings toward anyone in our family. But maybe Dad was right and we could console our cousin.
We rounded a bend in the road and Angie got her first glimpse of the Deserted Village, where I had found Bert’s body. Even from this distance the little town looked spooky, with its hundred abandoned houses clinging to the slope of Slievemore Mountain. Looking at the ruins from afar, I thought of the writer Heinrich Böll, who came to Achill after World War II, seeking refuge from the horrors he had witnessed as a soldier drafted into the German army. He wrote a memoir about his time on the island called Irish Journal, which I had read before the trip. He was fascinated by the Deserted Village, where instead of the detritus of bombed-out cities, he found only crumbling walls and chimneys, the elements having slowly eaten away thatched roofs, wooden doors, and everything else but stone. He was struck by the thought that this was what a village looked like if left to die a natural death, instead of being destroyed by war.
But with Bert’s death the village had become the scene of a violent crime. Pointing up the hill to the tent with a single figure standing at the entry flap, Angie asked, “Is that where you found the body?” She wanted a recap, step by step. I took her through it again as we turned our back on the village, heading straight toward the sea.
According to Dad’s directions, Bert’s house would be found on a side lane opposite a farmhouse and a meadow spotted with sheep. The farmhouse came into view just as I caught the faint line of the ocean in the distance. The entrance to the lane wasn’t visible yet, obscured by bushes, but I could see the house on the bare hill above. Too substantial to be called a cottage, Bert’s rental property fit its location well. Its footprint was small, but the house rose high, to three stories. From the top floors, you would be able to spot boats sailing in the bay at Keel or passing by the treacherous Minaun Cliffs. From the other side of the house you would have a view of Slievemore Mountain and the whole Deserted Village. And on the sides between, you would be looking at the sunrise or sunset. Leave it to Bert to snag the best location on the island.
I mentally slapped my wrist for harboring that resentful thought. We were here to offer comfort, I reminded myself. But truth to tell, I had another agenda for the visit. I wanted to find out what Aunt Laura was thinking. Did she know anything that might throw light on the murder and help put my mother in the clear? For instance, when did Bert leave the house? Was that the last time she saw him? What was he doing at the Deserted Village? Did she know of anyone who had a motive to attack him?
Emily opened the door before we knocked. Thin, blond, and fine-featured, she looked fragile enough to break under stress. As a child, I had envied her delicate beauty. I used to think of her as the angel on the top of the Christmas tree: radiant, otherworldly, and too far above me to touch. We grew up and I stopped believing in angels, but I never felt at ease with my cousin. Thrown together occasionally at holidays, we found things to do—we would play cards or she would tell stories—but she seemed to live on another plane. Now it was her grief that set her apart from us. She gave us a whispered welcome and took us to the living room. Aunt Laura was standing erect, awaiting our arrival. In spite of her upright posture, she seemed about to fold like a marionette.
“Mama, sit down,” Emily said in a low voice. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
My aunt stepped forward and opened her arms to me. It was the first time we had embraced since I was a child, and it felt artificial. There was absolutely no cushion on Laura’s bones. She was meanly thin, and she held herself stiff. It was like hugging a skeleton. She touched her cheek to mine and then turned to greet Angie.
“We’re so sorry about Uncle Bert,” said Angie.
Laura nodded in acknowledgment and let Angie hug her.
I said I was sorry too and that Dad was heartbroken.
“Yes, I could tell he was when he came to see us, dear.” Her scratchy voice suggested real concern.
“Dad always spoke well of Uncle Bert,” I said. “He loved him.”
“I believe he did.” She looked at me with sorrow in her eyes. Who knows what she was thinking, perhaps that her husband was hurt by Dad’s coolness, or perhaps that she knew what had kept them apart. Then again, Aunt Laura’s eyes were always sad. Despite her perfect makeup and fashion-model’s figure, her eyes betrayed her age or, rather, her suffering, whatever it was.
She sat down on the couch and gestured for me to join her. Angie took a chair, and Emily went into the kitchen to make tea. Angie and I probably should have opened a conversation, but neither of us did. Finally Laura said, “They told me you were the one who found him.” She leaned toward me, her body sending an appeal for a moment of shared anguish. But a lifetime of aversion had raised a barrier on my side that death couldn’t lower.
“It was ghastly,” I replied, too bluntly. “I was walking in the Deserted Village and I found him stretched out on the ground. It’s horrible to think he might have been lying there all night. Do the guards think that’s what happened?”
“Yes, they put the time of death at between 8:00 p.m. and midnight.” Her voice caught, but she continued. “He went out to the ruins after dinner. Bert often goes there in the evening. You know, we’ve been here on and off since the spring because of his work.” She said “because of his work” with reverence, as if the world had just lost a man of great achievements. “His main project is over near the causeway, but he also wanted to restore part of the Deserted Village. That’s why he rented here, to have it nearby and in his thoughts. He liked to walk there and think about how it could be done.”
“I see. When did you start to worry?”
“I didn’t know anything was wrong. He usually comes to bed after I do. But he wasn’t there in the morning.” Her scrawny hands went to her mouth.
“Is that when you called the guards?” I asked.
“I didn’t call them. I thought Bert came in late and then went out early. The guards came to the house, after he was found.” Her face contorted, and she covered it with her hands. We waited until she regained control.
Angie responded. “It must have been a shock, hearing that from the police. I’m sorry. Nora broke the news to my parents. Then some detectives showed up at our place and took them in for questioning. Dad says the detectives were hard on Mom. I hope they were kinder with you.”
Laura folded her hands in her lap, like a pupil in grade school. “I suppose. They didn’t give me time to take it in. They asked me so many questions, so fast.”
“I understand you told them about the argument Mom had with Uncle Bert at the Jubilee.” I tried to keep my tone neutral.
Laura looked up. “Well, you know, I had to. They asked about things like that.” She sounded defensive but forthright.
“You don’t really think our mom had anything to do with what happened to Uncle Bert, do you?” asked Angie.
Laura looked at her fingers, knotted tightly in her lap. “Surely not,” she said. It could have been more forceful.
“Because she didn’t,” said Angie.
Laura’s lips tightened into a line. We sat in a frozen tableau until Emily returned with the tea. She set the tray on a table, to allow the tea to steep.
“We’ve been over all this with the guards,” Laura said.
I apologized. “You’re right. This isn’t the time or place. It’s just that they’ve been questioning us too and I’m trying to get the facts straight. It’s been upsetting for Mom and Dad.”
Angie added, “It’s a bad time for everyone in the famil
y.” She was right. Grief was the appropriate topic now, not guilt or suspicion.
“I’m sorry if I sounded insensitive,” I said. “How can we help right now? Is there anything we can do for you, either of you?”
“It’s kind of you to ask,” said Laura. “We’ll be all right, won’t we, dear?”
“Yes,” said Emily. She roused herself to check whether the tea was ready. It wasn’t.
“Do you have everything you need in the house? Do you need anything from the store?” asked Angie, addressing Emily.
“No. Nothing,” said Emily. She checked the tea again.
While she was pouring, the front door opened and a man burst in. It occurred to me only later that he hadn’t knocked. He was stocky but good-looking, in a very Irish way—bluebell eyes, peaches-and-cream complexion, thick white hair, and handsome bone structure. He reminded me of Ted Kennedy in his middle years. “Laura—” he began, but he stopped when he saw that she had company. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know . . .”
“It’s fine, Frank,” she assured him. “These are my nieces, Nora and Angie. They’re the daughters of Bert’s brother.” We stood and shook hands.
“I’m Frank Hickey,” he said. “Bert’s partner. And friend,” he added. “It’s a shame we have to meet under these circumstances.”
“Frank was born and raised on Achill,” Laura said. “He knows every hill, beach, and bog. Bert relied on him.”
She gestured for us all to sit. Frank thanked Emily for the cup she handed him, but he placed it on a side table without taking a sip and went on, still in a hurry. “I’m just after talking to the guards,” he said. “I told them I was worried something like this could happen, what with the sniping we’ve had. I gave them names too. I want you to know we’ll find out who did this.”
Aunt Laura said by way of explanation, “Frank and Bert have been having words with some of the locals who are against their plans.”
Frank shook his head in dismay. “I said it was only a matter of time till there was violence.”
The Dead of Achill Island Page 4