The Dead of Achill Island

by The Dead of Achill Island (retail) (epub)

  I ordered ginger ale for my queasy stomach, and Toby predictably asked for Guinness. While we waited, he told me how he had spent the hours I had slept through. He had gone over to Mom and Dad’s to tell them about our discovery of Frank’s body and our interviews in Westport.

  “I wish you’d told me. I should have gone to Mom and Dad before I took the nap. All this is making me muddleheaded.”

  “Don’t worry,” Toby said. “Your folks decided to visit Laura to tell her about Frank. They didn’t want her hearing it on the news.”

  That was a novel picture, Mom comforting Laura.

  Our drinks arrived at the same time as our friends, and there was a bustle at the table. Maggie had Happy on a leash, but he wrapped himself and the leash around the waiter’s feet. Maggie dropped the leash, untangled the waiter, and took Happy by the collar, the better to dress him down, while Declan stood back, wincing. The experienced waiter kept the tray level, served our drinks, and went off to fetch wine for Declan and Maggie.

  She begged us to forgive Happy. He was just a pup, eight months old, away from home, and of a feisty breed.

  “Dogs have to be trained,” Declan huffed.

  “People have to be patient,” Maggie countered. “Look at him now, good as gold.” He was indeed curled at her feet, looking at the floor in submission.

  Declan sniffed to express his displeasure.

  Toby began talking about Frank’s death before I had a chance to warn him off. In my opinion, it wasn’t a good idea to give Declan too much information before the inspector got to him, but Toby didn’t seem to have that concern. He took the story step by step, and when he got to our discovery of the body, Declan pounced. “Do the guards think it was murder?” he asked.

  I sensed it was time for me to roll things back. “All we saw was the body. The guards cleared us out fast, so we don’t know.”

  “You must have given a statement,” he said, with a note of protest.

  “We each did,” Toby said. “They questioned us separately.”

  Maggie leaned in with such interest that Happy rose up, wanting part of the action. With one hand, Maggie batted him down.

  Undeterred, Declan threw out a barrage of questions, but Maggie intervened. “They already told you they don’t know anything. They found the body, that’s all.” There was more hostility in her voice than the situation warranted, and I sensed they had been spatting on the way over.

  Supper was served, and I ate a buttered roll. For the whole meal, Declan and Maggie were at each other. After a while, I dropped out of the conversation. Toby didn’t seem to pick up on the couple’s discord, but he did notice I had withdrawn. He looked around for the waiter. “I know it’s early,” he said, “but I’m going to take Nora home. It’s been a hard day. You can see she’s beat.”

  “I’m all right,” I protested. “We can stay a while.”

  Maggie settled the matter neatly. “Why don’t you boys go over there and throw some darts?” she said, cocking her thumb to the back of the room. “The girls want a chat.”

  “That’s our release,” Declan said. “Come away.” Toby shrugged and followed Declan to the dartboard.

  Maggie waved the waiter over and got him in a huddle. “Would you send those fellas two pints of Gat?” she said, pointing to the banished pair. “Then we’ll be ordering dessert if you’ll bring us a menu. And a bowl of water for the dog, if you don’t mind. Grand.”

  “You’re asserting your dominion over dogs and men,” I said.

  “Staying in the same house with that man, I have to. He’s driving me mental. Everything has to be done just so, his way. I can’t even boil an egg without getting corrected. I’m getting fed up.”

  “So, Declan’s not a threat to your Thierry?” I liked Maggie’s French boyfriend. Though Maggie was considerably older than Thierry, they seemed a good match.

  “Lord, no! I miss his beautiful young body, not to mention his courtly ways. The boy knows how to treat a woman.” She went on shamelessly detailing their romantic life, in and out of bed. It was far more enjoyable to talk about sex than death. Before long, her patter about one appetite whetted another and I began to crave that dessert, so I ordered Irish apple cake with custard sauce. Maggie went continental with tiramisu and prosecco. When her glass was empty, she slapped it on the table. Happy sat up expectantly, inquiring with his snout on his mistress’s knee whether it was time to go. She patted him back down and he resumed his subordinate position.

  Smiling slyly, she said, “Remember that swingers’ club we talked about? Declan told me they’re on for tomorrow night.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “Guess what? We’re going.”

  “You’re going to a swingers’ party with Declan?”

  “Not with Declan, darlin’. With you.”

  Through a mouth of apple cake, I sputtered my objection. I meant to give a clear no, but it came out more like ni, ni, ni, ni, choke. Maggie patted me on the back, handed me her napkin, and continued undeterred.

  “We’ll have no trouble getting in. They’re always looking for attractive women, and aren’t we gorgeous?”

  “Getting in isn’t the issue. The issue is what kind of trouble we’ll get into, once we get in. I’m happily married, Maggie. Monogamy is my middle name.”

  “Haven’t you and Toby ever talked about experimenting a little?”

  “To tell you the truth, he’s been pestering me about that club from the moment he heard about it, but I’ve been putting him off. We’re perfectly happy as we are, just the two of us.”

  “Well, then, you’re lucky. I’m not asking you to break your vows. I’d just like to get in there and see what it’s like. I missed my chance, donkey’s years ago. Now’s the time.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Carpe diem. But carp without me.”

  “The thing is, Nora, I’m not brave enough to go on my own. If I have to defend myself from a Celtic satyr, I want a pal to help me out.” When I looked doubtful, she admitted, “If I find a satyr I like, I’ll make a date with him for later.”

  It was fine for Maggie. She would sate her curiosity and maybe find herself an Achill man. What was in it for me? The sight of more pale skin than a Dublin dermatologist sees in a month? “Maggie,” I said. “Look around you. Would you like to see this crowd naked and rutting on the floor?”

  Maggie surveyed the scene. “It might be interesting,” she said. Then, wrinkling her nose, she added, “At least in some cases.” I wasn’t convinced. She assured me that everyone would be clothed, at least at first. “There’s a disco. And I hear there’s a nice spa. You can wrap yourself in an ample towel and just watch.”

  “I still say, no thanks.” You would think that with me sober and Maggie half-sloshed I would be able to hold my own. Maggie, however, had an enticement up her sleeve.

  “If you’re keen to know what happened to Frank Hickey, or your uncle for that matter, you couldn’t find a better place for snooping. There’s more gossip in that club than there’s shells on the shore. Frank Hickey was a member, and people will be talking about his death. What with the music and the dancing and the liquor, folks loosen up. They let it all hang out. Literally.”

  I couldn’t help laughing, and Maggie noted the breach in my dam. I parried weakly: “If I’m going to do this, and I’m not saying I will, Toby has to come. It’s a swingers’ club. People will arrive in couples before they mix it up, right?”

  “On the whole, yes. They need extra women, though.”

  “Why?”

  “You Yanks are naïve, aren’t you? Use your imagination.”

  “If I do, I’ll have to wash it out with soap.”

  Maggie sighed. “We promise nothing by walking in the door. We’ll be welcome because we’re single women. Men have to be vetted by the members. They don’t let them just wander in off the street, and they have to pay a fee. But women get in for free. If we go together, we’ll be fine.”

  “How am I going to sell that to Toby?”

&nb
sp; “You’re not. Don’t tell him.”

  “I can’t do that. He’d be furious when he found out.”

  “He doesn’t have to find out. It’ll be our little secret. Well?”

  I bought time by taking a sip of water. Some women may fantasize about sex with a lot of partners, but I’m not one of them. My hormones are focused on one randy man. I’ve never considered a swingers’ club, with or without my randy man. Now that I had the opportunity, though, I confess I was a mite curious. The prospect of picking up rumors about the murders was a lure, and on that basis I was leaning toward going. Besides, I would have Maggie along as guide and protector. But not telling Toby didn’t sit right.

  We were ready to go, but the men were still at the back, surrounded by spectators, male and female. We split the bill and went to join the group, where we found Toby, who had been eliminated in an early round. Declan now was matched against Michael O’Hara, the hothead who had picked a fight at the Annexe pub. O’Hara was wearing a red flannel shirt that matched the color of his face. He had had a lot to drink, and his general appearance was disheveled. Food crumbs clung to the flannel of his shirt, the remnants of a slovenly meal. As he drew his hand back to launch his dart, I noticed that he was sporting a claddagh ring, which led my thoughts back to the cut on Frank Hickey’s cheek. Of course, Bobby Colman had a similar ring and, for all I knew, so did half the men on the island.

  The spectators were all on O’Hara’s side, and I recognized a few faces from the demonstration. They were calling out encouragements. “Knock him out, Michael!” “Kill him!” “You can get him on the double-six!” I knew nothing about darts, beyond that hitting the board is good and a bull’s-eye is better. I assumed Maggie knew more. I asked, “Why are they telling him to go for the six? Shouldn’t he aim for the center? That’s marked fifty.”

  “You’re right for ordinary darts,” Maggie explained, “but this is a game called Killer. You start with several players. The first goal is to become a ‘killer.’ You need five points for that. Then you can knock out other players. It’s complicated. It’s enough to know that Declan was assigned the number six, and his opponent will knock him out if he gets his dart into the double-six. That’s it over on the right, there.”

  “If the guy knocks Declan out, he’s the killer?”

  Maggie shook her head, smiling at my ignorance. “No, they’re both killers already. But he’d be the winner.”

  I didn’t get it, but I pretended to. Declan took his position and swung his wrist back and forth, envisioning the precise arc that the sharp dart would fly. Without warning, he shot the dart into a number just left of the bull’s-eye.

  “Triple-eight,” Declan called. He was smirking.

  O’Hara spat on the floor but offered his hand to his opponent. Declan shook it with the haughtiness of a military victor; the man was nothing if not competitive. I could imagine his irritation when Bert outbid him at auction. It must have galled him to learn that the painting he wanted was now in Frank Hickey’s possession. Would Declan kill to obtain it? He was a killer at darts, but that’s not the same thing.

  I slept badly that night, disturbed by nightmares. I recall only fragments: a room full of naked people throwing darts at me because I was wearing clothes; a body laid out on a dining room table. Then I was trapped under a rock and couldn’t get out until a strange little man lifted the stone and pulled me up. He kept making the universal sign for hunger, repeatedly bringing the tips of his fingers to his mouth. I woke to find myself cradled in Toby’s arms. It was dead black in the room. “Shush,” he soothed me. I must have called out in my sleep. For the next several hours, I teetered on the threshold between sleeping and waking until a weak gray light hit the curtains. Suddenly, I snapped awake and sat up, with the knowledge of who killed Frank Hickey and how it was done.

  15

  CRUMBS CLINGING TO A FLANNEL SHIRT from forcing a loaf of crumbly brown bread down the victim’s throat. Asphyxiation, leaving no marks on the body except a small cut on the cheek that could have been made by a claddagh ring. The signs pointed to Michael O’Hara.

  Excited, I shook Toby awake and shared my solution. “Death by soda bread,” he scoffed. “It’s hard to believe. Besides, a dream isn’t evidence.” He pursed his lips and raised a finger. “Yet there is a way of testing your theory. If you’re right about how Frank was killed, the autopsy will show an unusual amount of bread in his stomach.”

  “But what if he had digested the loaf by the time they did the autopsy?” I protested. “That’s what happened with the landlord who was choked, according to the old man at the tomb.”

  “There’s where the legend has a flaw in it,” Toby reasoned. “When you die, the digestive process comes to a halt. That’s why a coroner can tell what the victim’s last meal was by examining the contents of his stomach. But I’ve got another idea,” he continued. “Tell them to do a test of O’Hara’s ring to see if there are any traces of Frank’s DNA on it. If O’Hara clipped him on the cheek, the ring would show evidence of it.”

  Thanks to Toby, I could propose scientific methods to confirm my hunch, which gave me the confidence to share my theory with Inspector O’Donnell. It was too early to call right then, but an hour later I reached the Westport station and was put through to O’Donnell at his home. I laid out my hypothesis, and he was responsive. As soon as the autopsy results were available, he would check the analysis of the victim’s stomach contents, as well as his mouth and throat. I also relayed Toby’s suggestion of performing lab tests on O’Hara’s ring. “Let’s see what the autopsy shows first,” said the inspector, “before jumping to conclusions.” He quizzed me carefully about my observation of the crumbs sticking to O’Hara’s shirt. Even as I was answering, I worried that O’Hara could have cleaned his shirt or trashed it. Without physical evidence, my testimony would be weak. But all this was hypothetical for now. The inspector thanked me and reminded us to stop by the station later to sign our witness statements. Maybe he would have news then about the autopsy.

  It was still early morning, and I had offered to make breakfast for Mom and Dad. Toby encouraged me to go, saying he would make something for himself. I hadn’t mentioned the swingers’ club yet. I needed more time to sort out how I felt about Maggie’s idea.

  I took eggs and milk from the fridge and filched the bread too. (Toby would be reduced to dry cereal.) With these ingredients in my arms, I walked awkwardly to Mom’s door and let myself in. She was at the kitchen counter, frowning as she measured ground coffee. Pale skin and squinting eyes aged her, as did the slump of her shoulders.

  “How about I make you your favorite breakfast?” I asked.

  “You mean your favorite breakfast,” she replied, once she had glimpsed my cargo.

  “Come on, you eat it up like chocolate.”

  “That’s because it’s you making the breakfast,” she said, straightening up. “It’s been a long time.” Her eyes softened.

  She was thinking, I suppose, of the years after Angie’s birth, when I became the family cook. Mornings, from middle school through high school, I made French toast for Eddie and me. And I always made extra, so that after we had gone to school, Mom could have a quiet breakfast. Lukewarm, but quiet.

  On Achill, I didn’t have my secret ingredient, a teaspoon of vanilla, but Mom had some cinnamon that previous tenants had left in the cupboard. In a square baking tin, I whipped up the cinnamon, eggs, and milk, added a pinch of island salt, and sneaked in an unorthodox dash of sugar. Then I put two slices of bread in the pan to soak up the good goop. Funny, I thought, how many uses there were for an Irish loaf. Then, while frying the soaked bread in sweet Irish butter, I told Mom about my interrogation. I felt the trust between us returning as we compared our interviews, hers at Achill station, mine at Westport. We had felt the same anger and fear. At that moment, I chose to believe in Mom, that she was innocent.

  Dad and Angie followed their noses into the kitchen, and together we did in the loaf of bread, si
x brown eggs, and all the milk I had brought. Feeling closer after our feast, we began the day that had long been planned. Toby and Dad were going off to sample “some of the best sea angling in Europe” (as touted by the island’s website). Dad had invited Mom; she was the more experienced angler. As a girl, she worked the lines on her father’s fishing boat, and she still has a passion for the sea. This time she declined, with the excuse that Toby and Dad needed “guy time.” “Meanwhile,” she said, “the Barnes women are going on a tour of the coast towns, in search of artisanal wares.” That was the old Mom, proposing adventures and games.

  Keel is Achill’s hub for the sale of arts and crafts, so that’s where we headed. We parked in the lot at Keel Strand, and were drawn onto the sand to watch a few minutes of a parasailing class. The setting struck us silent: a deep white beach curving for miles along a bay bookended by mountains. The sky had been graying since morning, and it was swept by milky clouds. The beach was empty except for a few figures at the water’s edge. They must have been coaches for the fledgling followers of Icarus. On the water, bright sails fluttered, as wet-suited bodies struggled to fight waves and wind. The effect was bracing.

  When we turned away toward the shops, our hair whipped in our faces. Mom laughed as Angie threw herself into a well-executed cartwheel. It felt like the old days, when we were a family in Rockport, by another shore of the Atlantic. My eyes stung, from the wind maybe, but also from a sense of difference. Then we were young, anticipating joys to come. Now we carried with us the memory of death, and worry for each other in the coming days.