The Dead of Achill Island

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

  Laura broke the silence. “Emily bought that, last year, for the hotel.”

  “Oh? I heard that Uncle Bert bought it, at an auction in Dublin.”

  She sniffed. “He probably did the bidding. He was good at that sort of thing, you know—bluffing and pouncing—but it was Emily who found the painting.”

  I carried it over to Laura and placed it on a chair, so we both could see it.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Was it hung in this room?”

  “It was in Bert’s study, but when we went home for the winter he asked Frank to hold it. The islanders know the value of a Paul Henry. Why tempt them to robbery?”

  That was pretty much what Frank had said, but it didn’t explain how the painting had ended up here. I gave a warning: “The gardai are looking for it and they think it might be connected with Frank’s death.”

  “If you’re thinking I killed Frank to get that painting, it’s the last thing I’d do. Frank was my only friend on the island.”

  I decided to be blunt. “He was more than a friend, wasn’t he?”

  Laura looked at the floor and then at me. She sighed. “And what if he was?” She held my glance and spoke matter-of-factly, with no hint of embarrassment. “We were both taken in by Bert, and it was a way to get even with him. So, yes, he was more than a friend. I suppose that will all come out now. But it wasn’t a serious relationship. Frank had other women, and I knew that.”

  The direct manner in which she admitted the affair suggested she was telling the truth. If so, there was no great ardor on either Frank’s side or hers. So much for my “crime of passion” theory.

  “Frank was a friend,” she continued, “but family comes first. I wanted the painting for Emily, and I was afraid he wouldn’t give it up.”

  “How could he refuse? It belonged to Bert and Emily, didn’t it? They bought it.”

  “In the name of the syndicate. God knows what else is tied up in the name of the syndicate. But that’s another story. The painting is one item I could secure for us, for Emily.” As she spoke her daughter’s name, her voice softened, but it hardened again as she continued. “There’s a legal battle ahead, about who owns what and who owes what. Well, possession’s nine-tenths of the law. I wanted that painting in our house, not in Frank’s.”

  “But when did you take the painting? We were on the way to see it at Frank’s house when we found his body.”

  “If I’d known you were going to visit him, I’d have stayed away. I knew that Frank was going to Kildownet that morning, to look at the mass graves. He had this idea that if we did something to honor the dead who were brought home on the death trains it would win goodwill for the project. But we couldn’t just duplicate the memorials at the graveyard, so he wanted to take photos of what’s there, and that’s what he was doing that morning. I drove to his house quite early and parked beyond his drive, so I could see when he left. I was in and out quickly.”

  If that was true, it meant that Laura had an alibi for Frank’s death. She was at his house to take the painting while he was at Kildownet struggling for his life. She looked at the painting and then made a dismissive wave. “Put it back where it was,” she said.

  While I carefully slid the painting into its tight slot, she added, “Keep this to yourself, Nora. I want to take the painting with me when we bring Bert’s body home. For Emily. You understand.”

  “I understand, but you need to tell the guards that you have it. They think it’s been stolen and they’re questioning people about it.” I thought of Declan going through a grilling. “It would be better to tell them you have the painting than for them to find it here.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. For the next few minutes we sat in silence together. A clock chimed in the next room and I heard its seconds ticking loudly. Sitting across from Laura, I found it harder to picture her as a killer or conspirator.

  Our quiet moment was broken by the sound of the front door opening. I expected to see Emily, but I didn’t expect to see her with my mother. They were whispering, and when they saw me, they exchanged cautionary glances. What were they up to? Aunt Laura must have been wondering the same thing. She seemed uncomfortable at seeing them together.

  After a few minutes of sober talk about Frank’s death, Mom and I left. In the car, we pecked at each other. “Come on, Mom,” I said. “You didn’t meet Emily by accident.” She kept her eyes on the road. I wasn’t deterred. “What have you two got to discuss so privately?”

  “Privacy is sometimes a good idea, Nora. You don’t have to know everything about everyone else’s business.”

  “Mom! We’ve had two murders, and Dad’s brother is one of the victims. You’re a suspect. You can’t be hiding stuff from your family now. We’re the ones who want to help you. Why can’t you see that?”

  Right then we were nearly run into the ditch by a van rounding a curve at full speed. Flustered, as she should be, Mom proceeded slowly until the first turnout, where she pulled over and stopped the engine. “Okay, Nora,” she said, with the menacing tone that goes with her witch face. “Are you satisfied? You almost got us killed.”

  Mustering the courage I didn’t have as a child, I faced her down. I said, “I’m sorry, but life is going to be dangerous until the truth comes out.”

  “What truth? What does it matter to you why I met with Emily?” She looked toward me. She was scowling, but her mouth was trembling slightly. “All right,” she said, “the truth is, I feel sorry for the girl. For Laura too.”

  “You never were before.”

  Mom looked pained. “A tragedy can bring a family closer, Nora.”

  “Well, sure, we feel sorry for them, but that can’t magically erase the fact that they’ve looked down on us for decades, can it? You think we’re going to be best buddies after the funeral?”

  “We could try to be civil,” she said, “knowing what we now know, and being free of Bert’s lies.”

  I was puzzled by Mom’s change of heart about Aunt Laura. I wondered if there was some explanation other than the shibboleth that tragedy brings a family closer together. I decided to share with her what I had just learned. “Mom, did you know that Aunt Laura was having an affair? She told me so. With Frank Hickey.”

  Mom turned her gaze back to the windshield. Her breathing became audible, as if she were struggling to suppress something. Then she said, “I’m not surprised to hear it. If ever a woman was ripe for an affair, she was.”

  We both let that sit—I, wondering exactly what she meant; she, weighing the implications of what she had said. Finally, she asked, “What about the police? Do they know about Laura and Frank?”

  “If they don’t now, they will soon. I heard about it from a local guy, practically a stranger.”

  “Jesus!” she whispered. She lowered her head over the steering wheel. Then she said, “That’s going to make Frank a suspect in Bert’s murder.” She turned only slightly, to check my reaction.

  “It’s a possibility,” I said.

  Mom squinted through the windshield, raising her head. “It’s in the hands of the police now. Leave it to them.” She started the engine.

  For a few minutes, listening to Mom talk about the investigation as if she were a disinterested observer, I was able to put aside my fear that she herself was culpable—until we pulled up in front of our cottages and found two white garda vehicles parked in the driveway.

  As we entered Mom’s cottage, Inspector O’Donnell and Sergeant Flynn rose politely from the kitchen table, around which were seated Toby, Dad, and Angie. “Good timing,” observed O’Donnell. “We’ve only just arrived ourselves.”

  “They got here ten minutes ago,” Dad added with a scowl, looking put out by the intrusion.

  “They have a warrant to search through our belongings,” said Toby.

  “Looking for what?” Mom demanded, the color rising in her face.

  “Our tech team di
scovered fibers at the crime scene that we are trying to match with articles of clothing,” explained O’Donnell. “They were found on Mr. Barnes’s body but didn’t come from any of the things he was wearing, so they must have come from someone who came into contact with him.” He lifted a plastic evidence bag and displayed it by walking around the table and then approaching Mom and me. “There are several different fibers,” he continued, shaking the bag gently. “Cotton, rayon, and wool. They come from different articles of clothing, and they may have come from more than one person. Or not.” He addressed his last comment to my mother. “So, if you don’t mind, we’d like to have a quick look through your closets and bureaus to check for any item of clothing that could be of interest.”

  “And what if we do mind?” asked Dad.

  “I’m afraid it’s not up to you, sir,” said Sergeant Flynn, tapping a folded document on his hand.

  “They have a warrant,” Toby repeated.

  “It’s best if you cooperate,” said the sergeant. “We’ll try to be careful and leave things as we found them.” He and O’Donnell pulled on thin latex gloves.

  “Go right ahead, then,” Mom said, with a shrug. “We have nothing to hide. Angie, how about a pot of tea while these officers do their work?”

  Angie got up and set about making the tea while the detectives went off to the bedrooms. Heat washed over me, and I pulled at my sweater’s sleeves, to cool myself off. Fibers, I muttered to myself. If Mom had lost a button from her sweater at the scene, it was more than likely a thread had come off too. Now the detectives had recovered the thread, and it was only a matter of time until they matched it with her sweater. My effort to shield Mom by concealing the button had been in vain. I could feel my heart pumping me into a panic. My eyes darted around the room and met Toby’s. He glanced nervously at my parents’ bedroom door. Mom, however, seemed confident and calm as she went about setting the table for tea. From Angie’s room, we heard the sounds of bureau drawers opening and closing. About a quarter of an hour passed.

  “Nothing here,” announced the sergeant as he emerged from Angie’s room and crossed the hallway to my parents’ bedroom, where the inspector was doing the search. Dad looked sour. Toby feigned indifference. Angie and Mom fussed with the tea. And I stared at the floor, trying to hide my anxious thoughts. The last time I had seen the sweater, it was hanging on a hook inside the door of my parents’ bathroom. Mom hadn’t worn it since. Had she gotten rid of it? That was a possibility. Or maybe it was hanging in her closet or folded in a drawer. I listened to the sounds of rifling from the bedroom. I hoped she had gotten rid of it. Then it occurred to me that Mom’s sweater wasn’t the only item of clothing that could implicate her. According to O’Donnell, multiple fibers had been found at the crime scene, not only wool threads. What if fibers from a different article of Mom’s clothes could be matched with those in the evidence bag? She must have been wearing a blouse under her sweater and probably cotton pants. It wasn’t just the matter of a button; she was in double, maybe triple jeopardy. My heart sank as my belief that she was innocent and someone else guilty slipped away.

  Mom poured the tea. I stirred an extra sugar into mine. Dad asked, “Where have you been all day?”

  “At Laura’s,” Mom replied, which was partly true.

  “You missed a call from Sister Bridget,” Dad told us. Bridget had been at a week-long retreat following her Jubilee celebration and had just learned of the events on Achill Island. “She’s coming up tomorrow to be with the family.”

  “It will be good to see her,” said Angie. “It’s too bad she can’t come today. She’ll miss my performance tonight.” The production of The Playboy of the Western World, in which Angie had a minor part, was scheduled for that evening. We all were going. Despite the death of Uncle Bert, we were determined to root for her.

  “I expect she’ll be a help to us,” said Dad.

  I thought so too. “Where will she stay?”

  “At a B&B in Keel,” said Dad. “It’s run by one of her friends.”

  Sister Bridget had friends all over the island. We were here because of her recommendation—unlucky though it had proven to be.

  We sipped our tea quietly. The only sounds were the clinks of spoons on saucers.

  “All right, we’re done here,” announced Inspector O’Donnell from the hall to the bedrooms. As an afterthought he added, “Sergeant, will you show Mrs. Barnes what you found?”

  “Aye,” came the reply. Sergeant Flynn emerged, carrying one of Mom’s old pullovers—it wasn’t the cardigan with the missing button but a different sweater. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. “I don’t think this is going to be a match a-tall,” he said as if to reassure us, “but we’ll just take it with us and run a few tests. I’ll write you a receipt and you’ll have it back soon enough.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Dad stood up from the table.

  Mom forestalled him. “You do what you have to, Sergeant. I guess I can get by without it for a day.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation, missus,” he said, folding the sweater into a large plastic evidence bag. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” They made ready to leave. Well, I said to myself, they still don’t know about the missing button. And Mom doesn’t seem at all disturbed about the pullover. So that’s good.

  Then the inspector said, “May I have a brief word with you?” motioning me to step outside.

  Now what? He followed me out the door.

  “It’s about Michael O’Hara. It looks like you were on to something when you spotted those bread crumbs on his shirt. The pathologist confirmed an undigested mass of soda bread in Frank Hickey’s esophagus. He could well have been asphyxiated by someone forcing bread down his throat, and O’Hara’s a likely suspect. The thing is, he did a runner when we came to arrest him. Like as not, he was tipped off. Word travels quickly on this island. And if that’s the case, O’Hara could be aware that you’re the primary witness against him, so have a care. He’s at large and dangerous. We’ll find him all right, but until we do, keep an eye out and give us a call if you catch sight of him, will you? Here’s my mobile number, in case you’ve misplaced it.”

  The inspector handed me his card. I nodded. As they got into their cars and left, my nodding turned into general shaking. I was scared as hell. Toby, who had come outside at the sound of the departing cars, folded me in his arms and patted my back. I felt like a baby being burped—and that thought shook me back to adulthood. We agreed not to tell Mom and Dad about the warning, to keep them from worrying about me.

  Back inside, Mom was attempting to placate Dad, who still had his dander up about the house search. She reminded him that we were all going to the play tonight to support Angie and that we should try to get into the right frame of mind to enjoy the show. A little later, Bobby Colman came by to pick up Angie for the final run-through. Mom announced she would take a nap before dinner. Dad went too. Toby and I returned to our cottage, and while he read, I slept fitfully on the couch. I woke with an ache in my jaw. I must have been clenching my teeth.

  18

  IT HAD STARTED RAINING AGAIN. Driving across the island to Achill Sound, Toby made an effort to sound upbeat. He had read up on The Playboy of the Western World and was trying to prime us for the production. “It’s about this nerdy guy who becomes a celebrity by telling a tall tale,” he explained to Mom and Dad, who were sitting in the back. “He shows up in this backwater where nothing ever happens and tells the locals the police are after him for killing his father with a spade. The kid expects the villagers to turn him in, but instead they hang on every word and the girls start following him around like a rock star.”

  “Angie plays one of them,” I added. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, making a sound like someone beating a rug.

  “I don’t get it,” said Dad. “Don’t they think he’s done anything wrong?”

  “That’s the question,” Toby allowed. “When the play opened in Dublin the audience was s
hocked. In fact, there was a riot in the theater. But Synge based the play on a real event. It happened here on Achill in the 1890s. A man named Lynchehaun attacked an Englishwoman who owned the estate he was working on. She tried to evict him, and he wouldn’t have it—burned down her house and beat her so badly that she never appeared in public again without wearing a veil to cover her face. He was convicted of attempted murder, but he escaped and made it to America. While he was on the run, the people of Achill hid him and fed him, and he became a legend.”

  I asked, “Why would they help a brutal man like that?”

  “For one thing, Lynchehaun was a local man and the landlady was English,” Toby answered. “Another is that he made fools of the police. The islanders built him up into a daring criminal who’d defied the law.”

  “Even though it was attempted murder?” asked Dad.

  “I know,” said Toby. “Anyhow, Synge followed the case and turned it into comedy. I won’t say more because I don’t want to spoil the play for you. It’s full of surprises.”

  “Hmm,” said Dad, still skeptical.

  “Well,” said Mom. “I hope it all goes well for Angie.”

  The Achill Sound town hall, tucked behind a miniature strip mall at the entrance to Achill Sound, had been converted to a theater for the occasion. At one end of the hall a temporary wooden stage with curtains had been erected. Rows of folding chairs provided seating for the audience, and there was a small bar at the rear of the hall for refreshments during intermission. The bar was a permanent installation. Whatever use the hall was being put to, the islanders always could enjoy a pint.

  Even though we had arrived early, the place was packed. It seemed the whole island had turned out for the production. I spotted Aunt Laura and Emily two rows ahead of us on the aisle. We waved and settled in behind them. An usher was handing out folded programs. Mom eagerly opened hers and scanned the cast of characters. Bobby Colman, playing Christy Mahon, the lead, was listed at the top, and in last place at the bottom was our Angie, billed as one of the village girls. “Look,” Mom nudged Dad, “Angie’s name is on the program. Isn’t that a kick?” Dad said “Hmm” again, but this time it meant he was impressed.