Macdara came to her side and stared at the gold object resting underneath the bed. “What is that?”
“It looks like . . . a gold coin. . . .”
He tilted his head. “If you say anything about a leprechaun missing his pot the wedding is off.”
“Wasn’t even thinking it.” Although she was now. First the rainbow, now this . . . all this talk of fairies was clouding her head.
He sighed. “I wish we could touch it.”
“Me too.” She was dying to see what it was.
“Every second we’re in here we’re contaminating the scene.”
“Let’s go.”
Back in the hall they briefly explored the remainder of the cottage. A second bedroom, presumably Jane’s, sat directly across from Ellen’s. The inside was sparse, a neatly made twin bed, side tables without debris, and a wardrobe. Like Ellen’s there were no decorations. Siobhán thought the room looked lonely, but nothing seemed amiss. A bathroom was to the right and a back door led out to the garden. Near it, Wellies were propped up in a row, and a basket held multiple gardening gloves. The washroom was tidy, the shower curtain closed. But a single towel was draped lazily over the tub. Siobhán snapped a photo, as it seemed out of kilter. She turned her gaze across the hall and back to the woman on the bed. “She’s been arranged.” Posed. There was something sinister in the peaceful way they’d folded her hands after what they’d done to her. This village contained something more evil than fairies. Someone. “Someone arranged the body, and yet they left the pillow and teacup on the floor.” Her thoughts circled back to the open door and the broken window. It was a mystery of this profession that the same clues could either point to a killer who was careless, or cunning. Like a fairy. Stop it, Siobhán. Get a grip. “Do you think she had a date?”
“A date?” Macdara sounded horrified.
Why else would she be wearing a red dress on a Friday evening? “She’s a single woman, isn’t she?”
“She was my auntie.”
He was definitely too close to the victim to investigate this case. “We should check if she’s been on any internet dating sites.”
“You’re joking me.”
“You’re personally involved. It’s already affecting you.”
“Look around. Does it look like they have internet? There isn’t even telly.”
“But there is a laptop.” Siobhán pointed to a vanity dresser she’d just now noticed, squeezed next to the wardrobe. On it sat a silver laptop.
Macdara stared at it. “It’s probably Jane’s.” He started for it.
“You can’t.” She blocked him with her arm. They knew the correct thing to do was get out of the cottage immediately. But it was torture not to start touching things. “The guards will want to take a look at it.”
“For dating sites?” The outrage was still in his voice.
“Yes, and e-mails, and sites she visited, or chat rooms, or anything else they can learn.” She scanned the room once more. “There should be a handbag and mobile phone somewhere around here.” The guards would have to search for them. It was maddening to have their hands tied.
“Chat rooms?” Macdara looked as if he’d choked on his tongue. “I’ve never heard of her doing any of those things in me life.”
“You said you hadn’t seen your auntie in years.”
His mouth set in a hard line. “I thought we’d have time,” he said softly. “Had I known . . .”
“Of course.” They quickly exited and stood just outside the front door, examining the glass. Shattered bits were on either side of the window. Investigators would have to determine if it was smashed from the outside or within. Jane sat on the rock in front of them, her head bowed. Siobhán lowered her voice to a whisper as Macdara stared at his mobile.
“What of your aunt’s husband? Did he pass?”
“Yes, ages ago.” He glanced at Jane, pain stamped on his face. “It’s not going to be our case.”
“I know.”
The local guards would probably work in conjunction with Cork City, even Dublin. They would assign a detective sergeant and send their forensic team. A village this small wouldn’t be left to handle a murder probe on their own. Siobhán and Macdara would be expected to step back. She turned to Macdara and kept her voice low. “Is that going stop us?” she asked.
“If you believe that,” Macdara answered, “you might as well believe in fairies.”
Chapter 5
Jane Delaney hadn’t touched the brown bread. Some people welcomed food in times of stress, others shunned it. Starving one’s grief only led to more trouble, but Jane was in the early stages of shock and it wasn’t Siobhán’s place to lecture or mother her. It was bad enough they had yet to make it known that the clues pointed to murder. Siobhán wanted to say it straightaway but she was taking her cues off Macdara, who was currently staring at the road in the distance as if trying to summon the guards with his mind. “Are they walking from Cork City?” He jabbed at his mobile phone. “I can’t get a signal.”
Jane pointed to the road. “Try standing farther out, luv. The village cretins cut off our access.”
“Who cut off your access?” Uh-oh. Macdara was revved up and ready to race. Siobhán sort of wanted to watch, but not from the passenger seat.
“The village,” Jane replied, spitting out the word. “Which always means the councilman. Aiden Cunningham.”
“We met him on our way in,” Siobhán said.
“He failed to mention he cut off your access,” Macdara seethed.
Jane’s tone softened as if sensing it may not have been the best idea to get her cousin worked up. “That was Mam’s theory. When we first moved in, we could get reception near the cottage. After we refused to leave, we couldn’t. I can’t prove it was on purpose.” She threw open her arms. “We are out in the middle of nowhere.”
Macdara held his phone higher, searching for a signal. “But you had access, and then Aiden Cunningham threatened to remove it, and then you didn’t have access?”
“We had access and then we didn’t, and that’s when Mam accused the village of messing with us.”
That’s when Mam accused . . . Siobhán made a mental note that Jane was leaving room for the possibility that her mother had lied, but she didn’t interrupt Macdara to throw this in. Never touch a hot cooker, her mam always said, and Macdara was boiling.
“When was this?” he demanded.
“A fortnight ago. Shortly after the village held one of their town meetings. After which several of the villagers stormed over here to demand we leave, which, as you can see, we refused.” Her face took on a pained look, as if she had just now realized the price they’d paid for their mistake.
“I can’t imagine Aunt Ellen taking that well,” Macdara said.
Jane laughed. “You’re correct. She said she’d have it sorted this weekend. She was confident she’d reached some kind of a deal.”
Siobhán’s ears perked up. “What kind of a deal?”
“I dunno. She wouldn’t tell me.” Jane chewed on her bottom lip. “Doesn’t matter now. They got their wish.”
“Who showed up that day and demanded you leave?” Siobhán knelt next to Jane.
Jane held her hands up near Siobhán’s face. “May I?”
“Of course.” Jane’s hand quickly traveled over Siobhán’s face, and then stroked her hair.
“I hear it’s the color of fire.”
“Maybe when the sun hits it,” Siobhán said. “Otherwise it’s auburn.” The exact color of Siobhán’s hair was often debated, and it did change with the sun. She referred to it as auburn, but most folks settled on red.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Jane said, dropping her hand. “I’m sorry we have to meet at such a terrible, terrible time.”
“So am I, pet. You were telling me about the people who showed up and demanded you leave?”
Jane nodded. “Geraldine Madigan was leading that bandwagon, but plenty of others hitched their horses to it
.” She tapped her lip with her index finger. “I’m trying to remember all the voices. There was Geraldine, and Aiden Cunningham, and Professor Kelly. I heard children too; could have been Geraldine’s grandchildren.”
“What about this Aiden Cunningham?” Macdara asked.
“That blubbering councilman? I told Mam he was going to side with whoever made his life the most miserable.”
Or perhaps whoever sweetened the pot.
Macdara began to pace, perfecting the look of a man who wanted to punch another man in the face. “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“Are you joking me? Mam was having the time of her life. She loved a good fight.”
“There is a laptop in her room,” Siobhán said. “But we didn’t see a handbag or mobile phone.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not out in the open.”
“Do you think it was a robbery?” Jane’s fists clenched.
“It’s quite possible,” Siobhán answered honestly. It seemed ludicrous, to rob this cottage, but desperate people didn’t always think straight.
“Does that mean—did someone hurt her?”
“We don’t know, luv,” Siobhán said. “But it’s an open question.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it. I’m blind, not stupid.” Jane stood abruptly, nearly knocking a startled Siobhán over. Siobhán hauled herself to her feet as Jane’s hand flew up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. My nerves.”
“I understand.” And she did. Trauma could turn a person inside out.
“Tell me everything you saw in there,” Jane demanded.
It was a fair request. As a sighted person she would have seen everything. Jane deserved equal access. “I will describe every detail, I promise. First, may I ask a few questions while they’re fresh in my mind?”
“Go on then.”
“Her laptop. Did she use it often?” Why would a robber take the handbag and phone and not the laptop?
Jane nodded. “She was one for research.”
“Didn’t you say they cut off your internet access?”
“She’d take her laptop to Molly’s in town.”
“Molly’s?”
“It’s a wee internet café. The village is mad over it, as if it rivals us with Cork City, or Limerick, or Dublin. We aren’t even Killarney.” She wrapped her arms in a self-hug, nearly breaking every vessel in Siobhán’s heart. “We never should have stayed.”
Siobhán was dying to have a thorough look at that laptop. She only used computers for work e-mails, work-related searches, and typing up mindless reports. She loathed being on it for too long. Her eyes always glossed over, and if she ever got into online shopping or social madness, she was afraid of the money and brain cells she would expend. It wasn’t advisable to give criminals too much information about your private life, and as for shopping, best cut yourself off from temptation. “What was she researching?”
“Fairies, I assume,” Jane said. “Fairy forts, and fairy rings, and fairy paths. She was the type to equate knowledge with power.”
Had she found something to help in that fight? Had it led to her demise? Siobhán gazed out in the distance. “The fairy ring straight ahead.” Siobhán had to stop herself from pointing. “Whose property is it on?”
“Joe and Mary Madigan live in the farmhouse in front of us. I believe his mother Geraldine owns the property behind us.”
“When we came in, the villagers were on about strange lights, and music last night and . . . the wail of a banshee.”
“I wasn’t here,” Jane said. “But it doesn’t surprise me. They’ve been wanting to get rid of this cottage for so long. They did this.”
“Threats, cutting off your access to the village power. That’s clearly against the law.” Macdara had returned to their orbit, and he was taking names.
“This village plays by their own rules.” Jane gripped her cane as if guarding herself from them. “I’ve waited long enough. Tell me everything you saw.” She took a deep breath and grabbed Siobhán’s hand as if bracing herself.
Macdara cleared his throat. “From a glance, we’re worried she may have met with foul play.”
“Because of the window?” Siobhán forgot that Jane was holding her hand until she squeezed it. Hard. It was a good thing she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. She counted to ten before pulling her hand away. “What else?”
When Macdara didn’t speak up, Siobhán did. “We saw foam coming out of her mouth, an overturned teacup and pillow on the floor—”
“Foam?” Jane said.
“It’s possibly an indicator of poisoning.”
“No. No.”
“There was bruising near her mouth and a white feather—possibly from a pillow—sticking to her cheek.”
Macdara winced but Jane remained stoic. Jane looked up. The sun was back out and glinting off her glasses. “Are you suggesting her tea was poisoned?”
“I’m only reciting the facts.”
“She made her own herbal tea. From our back garden.”
“Is there any way your mother may have ingested the toxin on purpose?”
“No! Of course not.”
Siobhán didn’t think so but she had to rule out the possibilities. “The white feather suggests—”
“Siobhán.” Macdara’s tone was harsh. “Let’s leave the conclusions to the state pathologist, shall we?”
“It suggests she was smothered with a pillow,” Jane said. “Suffocated.”
“Yes.” Siobhán turned to Macdara. “I know this is hard. I’m sorry.” He bowed his head.
“Go on,” Jane said. “Please.”
“She was wearing a red dress, and red heels, along with a white hat and white gloves.”
Jane tipped her head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did the killer dress her?”
Siobhán started. She hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. We have reason to believe someone posed her. . . . Her hands were folded across her chest.”
Jane cried out. “Who would do such a thing?”
“It’s difficult to say if someone else dressed her. Perhaps your mother was going somewhere.”
“Behind my back.” It was an odd comment. Siobhán would have to keep in mind that Jane was also a suspect; she doubted Macdara would be able to do the same. “Someone in town did this. To prove their nasty point.”
“Does Aunt Ellen collect coins?” Macdara asked.
Jane laughed. “Mam? A collector? No.” She stopped. “Why?”
“We couldn’t touch it, but there was something gold underneath the bed,” Siobhán said. “It looked like a gold coin.”
“That’s odd. . . . You didn’t pick it up?”
“We can’t touch anything,” Siobhán said. “It doesn’t ring any bells?”
Jane let out a half laugh. “Do you think we’d be living here if we had even one gold coin?” She sounded bitter. “I have no idea what it is.”
“It will be thoroughly investigated,” Macdara said.
“Is there any way you could go in and retrieve it now? I can let you know if I hear the guards approaching.”
“No,” Siobhán said, gently but firmly. “We’ve already intruded on the crime scene once. We won’t do it again.”
“Why is it you ask?” Macdara said.
“If there’s a gold coin in the cottage I don’t want them to steal it.”
“We’re the Guardians of the Peace,” Siobhán said. “We take our oaths seriously. They won’t steal it.” She wasn’t sure of it all. Not all guards were honest, they were human, but hopefully it sounded reassuring.
“We’ll make sure of it,” Macdara added.
Jane took a few steps away from the cottage. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left her all alone.”
A soft breeze came through, bringing with it the scent of heather and damp earth. What a mercurial weather display. Mother Nature was the boss here, and she wanted you to know it. Jane’s head suddenly snapped up. “What about Mam’s truck?�
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Truck? There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Macdara and Siobhán simultaneously swiveled their heads. “Where would it be?” Macdara prodded.
“Parked anywhere near the cottage.”
“There’s nothing.”
“It’s a red pickup.”
“There’s no truck, luv,” Siobhán said. She studied the terrain. “There’s no driveway or road either.”
“Mam usually drove straight through the meadow.”
Macdara walked a few paces and stared at the ground. Siobhán followed. There was a definite path in the grass where tires had churned up grass and dirt. “The grass is flat here, and fresh dirt has been kicked up. I’d say someone drove through here recently.”
“The killer took off in her truck then,” Jane said.
Siobhán vowed to never forget her trusty notebook again as she pondered the missing truck. Macdara grabbed his mobile.
Of course, what an eejit. Siobhán could take notes on her mobile phone. She pulled it out, pulled up the Notes app, and began to tap her observations out as fast as she could. Welcome to the present day, O’Sullivan. Part of her hated it.
“What’s the number plate?” Macdara asked.
“I have no idea,” Jane said. “I’m sorry. But everyone here knows Mam’s beat-up red lorry.”
Macdara nodded. “I’m calling the guards back. I’ll let them know to be on the lookout for it.” He headed away to place the call.
“This is my fault,” Jane said. “I left her with these cretins.”
“Don’t think like that. If you had stayed with her, you may have come to the same fate.”
“Foam at her mouth,” Jane said. “An overturned teacup, and a gold coin.”
“Did she take her tea in the bedroom?” Siobhán asked.
“Before bed. Yes. Once in a while.” Jane began to pace. “If the tea was poisoned, the killer had to be someone she knew and trusted.”
“I was thinking the same,” Siobhán said.
“But if she had company—wouldn’t there be two teacups?”
“It’s all conjecture,” Siobhán said softly. “The state pathologist will have to make a conclusive determination about poison, and the cause of death.”
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 4