Siobhán gasped. It was all she could take. “Have you no decency? She just lost her mam.”
Geraldine’s eyes seemed to dance with excitement. “We warned them,” she said, stomping her staff. “Over and over and over again.”
“What do you think of our lovely neighbors, Siobhán?” Jane said. “Are you listening to your mother?” Jane pointed at Joe with her cane. He jumped and dropped a carton of eggs. They splattered on the ground, yellow goo forming a puddle.
“Confound it!” He stared at the eggs as if weighing his options. Was he going to force a blind woman whose mother was just murdered to pay for the dropped eggs? “Jane, I’m very sorry for your loss.” Good choice. He turned to Geraldine. “Mother, please. Not here.”
Geraldine Madigan set her mouth in a straight line and nodded. “May she rest in peace.” She crossed herself.
“You old witch!” Jane lunged toward Geraldine. “If a fairy did this, it’s you they should have killed!”
“Enough.” Siobhán took Jane by the elbow and literally held her back. “Where is your parish priest?”
This seemed to stop all the chatter. “He divides his time between villages,” Geraldine finally said. “If he’s not at the church, he may be at the other village. Why?”
“Because I swear you all need to go to mass in the morning. I’ve never seen such a shameful display in me life!”
“Putting the fear of God into them,” Jane leaned in and whispered. “I can see why my cousin is taken with you.” Siobhán felt her face flush. It wasn’t like her to hold mass over anyone’s head, but if anyone needed it, it was this lot. Jane turned back to the crowd. “Joe Madigan,” she said, “I assume now that Mam is dead at least we won’t have to live with you peeping at us with those binoculars of yours.”
She knew? Yet another surprise from Macdara’s cousin. She’d meant it when she said her other skills were sharpened. As sharp as knives. There was also a playful tone to Jane’s reprimand that Siobhán found jarring. Ellen Delaney must have known about his peeping as well and reported it to her daughter. Why had they let him continue doing it? At least Joe had the decency to turn bright red.
Geraldine pounded her stick. “What are they on about?” She glared at her son.
“My bird-watching,” he stammered. “Ellen accused me of spying. I’m a bird-watcher!”
“My son is a bird-watcher!” Geraldine repeated with twice the enthusiasm but half the conviction.
“Tweet, tweet,” Jane deadpanned.
“Don’t you dare start spreading rumors about me son being a pervert,” Geraldine said.
“Leave her be, Mam, she’s only joking.” His shoulders hunched. He leaned into her. “And please don’t use that word.”
“I saw you this morning with your binoculars,” Siobhán said. “You seemed to be looking at me.”
“Birds,” Geraldine insisted.
“Birds can be a euphemism for women, can’t they?” Jane sounded thrilled with it. Siobhán imagined her wedding. The reception. The seating chart. Jane Delaney was going way in the back.
Joe looked at Siobhán then, quite openly. His handsome jaw was set. “Who are you exactly?”
“This is Garda O’Sullivan from Kilbane, County Cork.” Jane stated it proudly. Joe Madigan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. Interesting. Guards made him nervous. Guilty conscience? The young mother with the chestnut braid they’d met earlier appeared behind Joe Madigan, this time toting two children, a boy and a girl. “This is me wife, Mary Madigan,” Joe said. “This is Garda O’Sullivan.”
William had his hand wrapped around his mother’s legs, just like he’d been clinging to her in the road when they arrived. The girl looked to be around six years of age and she stood by with her big eyes glued to the visitors. “We are so sorry about your mother,” Mary Madigan said to Jane. She turned to her daughter, now jumping up and down. “Lilly. Don’t make me count to three. One . . .”
The little girl stuck her lip out in a perfect pout but stopped jumping. “Hello, Mary,” Jane said. They exchanged pleasantries, but their voices were sour, as if they could barely force niceties out of their mouths. “Did you see my mother this weekend?” Jane asked.
“Me?” Mary said. She glanced at her husband and began to blink.
“Aren’t you in her painting class?”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “The class was moved to Friday night so we could capture the solstice moon. Ellen was not present.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“I wonder why she missed it,” Jane said. She turned to Siobhán. “You must speak with Annabel.”
“Annabel?” Siobhán asked.
“She’s our teacher,” Mary said. “She’s very encouraging.”
“We have to find out if my mam gave her a reason for canceling,” Jane said. Siobhán didn’t like her use of “we,” and the number of times she was being forced to bite her tongue was taking a toll. Jane was right about one thing; she did wish to speak to Annabel. Jane turned back to Mary and Joe. “Did any of you see my mam this weekend?”
Glances were exchanged in the crowd, and folks began to move closer.
“Several have been wondering if . . . somehow . . . she had something to do with the strange events of Friday night,” Joe said at last.
“Why in heavens do you think that?” Jane sounded defensive.
Joe cleared his throat. “A woman was seen running through the meadow toward the cottage. Right after that awful scream.”
“You saw this yourself?” Jane asked.
“Me?” Joe stammered. “No. I’m only telling you what I’ve been hearing.”
“Joe was out of town,” Mary said. She turned to her husband. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “I was gone from Thursday day to Saturday morning.” It sounded stilted, as if he’d rehearsed it, yet his wife gave a satisfying nod.
“What about you then?” Jane asked the farmer’s wife.
“What about me?” Mary’s tone was clipped.
“You must have seen me mother?”
Mary shook her head. “No. But Geraldine saw her.”
All eyes turned to Geraldine. She nodded. “Right after the scream. Running past the fairy ring toward the cottage.”
“Are you sure it was Ellen Delaney?” Siobhán asked.
“Who else could it have been?” Geraldine sounded outraged at the question.
“She was only asking if you were sure,” Jane persisted. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t know,” Geraldine admitted. “The figure was dressed in dark clothing. But she . . . or he . . . was running toward the cottage. No one else goes near the place if they don’t have to, especially at night.” She visibly shuddered. “The things I saw that night. The moon. The strange lights. That scream. That horrible, horrible scream.” She lowered her head. “Something was going on.”
“Every one of you will need to give your account of that evening to the guards,” Siobhán said. If Ellen Delaney had been seen running to the cottage, where had she been running from?
“Sounds like everyone is being overly dramatic,” Jane said. “Or they’re protecting a killer.”
“How convenient that you weren’t here to witness any of it,” Geraldine said.
Jane’s jaw clenched. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Geraldine edged closer, her staff pounding the ground. “Where were you?”
“I was at a conference in Dublin.” She pointed to Siobhán. “Ask her.”
Siobhán was floored. Not only did she have no proof that Jane had been in Dublin, she’d been the one begging for it. “The guards will get to the bottom of this,” Siobhán said. “Alibis will be collected from everyone. Here and now is not the time.”
In the distance, she could make out Aiden Cunningham huddled with Professor Kelly. From the pointing each one of them was doing, it seemed they were in a heated conversation. Siobhán didn�
��t realize she was staring until Aiden’s head whipped around as if he sensed her. He then turned and propelled himself away from the professor. How odd. What had they been talking about so intensely, and why had he reacted that way to her spotting them?
“I can’t bear to be around these people another second,” Jane said. “I’m so tired.”
So much for a nice day at the market. Siobhán touched Jane’s arm. “Why don’t we go and get that cup of tea?”
Chapter 8
The walls of Molly’s Café were painted a vibrant lavender, making the tiny café burst with cheer. Paintings covered the walls on both sides. Molly’s was a fraction of the size of Naomi’s, but Siobhán was impressed with its welcoming feel. That was half the battle. It was a relief to finally sit down to a mug of tea, and although Jane didn’t want anything to eat, Siobhán slipped in a small scone. Jane excused herself to the restroom. Siobhán stepped up to see the paintings. Most of them were renderings of rolling hills and rocky hedges with cows and sheep grazing. Several were of the fairy tree, and a few were of fairies themselves, depicted as short with bright smiles in some, sinister and dark in others. And beautiful women could be summed up as the description in the third category. Siobhán scanned them for signatures. They were all done by different artists and soon she came to the plaque: ANNABEL’S PAINTERS. This must be the art class that she’d heard about. What did Mary Madigan say? They’d gathered on Friday night to paint the solstice moon but Ellen Delaney had not been with them. Yet later, someone had seen a figure they assumed to be Ellen running toward the cottage. The guards, or herself, were definitely going to have to speak to these student painters.
“What do you tink?”
Siobhán jumped at the voice and turned to find a tiny woman beside her. In her fifties with soft brown hair and big round spectacles, she looked like someone whose spirit animal would be a sweet, wise owl.
“You must be Molly,” Siobhán said.
A bright laugh filled the room. “Guilty as charged.”
“They’re lovely,” Siobhán said.
“I rotate them every two weeks,” Molly answered with pride. “I love supporting the arts.”
“Do you have any by Ellen Delaney?”
Molly’s face changed from friendly to guarded. “Why would you be asking?”
“I’m here with her daughter. I was just wondering.” As if summoned by the mention of her name, Jane returned, saying hello to Molly as she passed by.
“Her other senses are so sharp,” Molly said as if in awe, before hurrying back to her station behind the counter.
Siobhán scoured each painting again, but learned nothing new. Either Ellen’s paintings weren’t here, or her signature wasn’t legible. Underneath Annabel’s plaque sat a placeholder stuffed with calling cards. Siobhán slipped one into her pocket, then returned to the table. “I was just looking at the paintings on the wall. I didn’t see any by your mother.”
Jane shook her head. “Neither did I.”
“Pardon?”
Jane threw her head back and laughed. “Sorry, but if anyone is allowed to make jokes about being blind, it’s me.”
“Oh,” Siobhán said. “Of course.” But she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. It must be difficult dealing with everyone’s pity and ignorance day after day.
Jane didn’t seem fazed and moved on. “Mam went mental the one time I tried to get her to show her work.”
“She did?”
Jane nodded. “One of her paintings used to hang in the cottage. Annabel arrived on one day, looking for pieces for this café. Mam wasn’t around, so I gave it to her. I thought she would be pleased. I’ve never seen her so livid.”
“When was this?”
Jane pondered the question. “Approximately one month ago.”
“Did she say why she didn’t want to show her work?”
“She’s always been private.”
“What was the subject of the painting?”
“I’m sure I asked her, but I don’t remember.”
“What happened to that painting?” Siobhán hadn’t seen any paintings hanging in the cottage.
“That’s another funny bit. I don’t know. She never brought it back. When I asked her she said ‘Don’t you worry about it.’ ”
Ellen Delaney sounded like she’d been a prickly woman. But Siobhán also knew that not all artists wanted to share their work with the world. Her grandfather, who had been a master craftsman, never had any interest in displaying his carvings. He may have become a famous artist if not for that crippling modesty. Maybe Ellen Delaney had suffered from that same shyness. But from everything Siobhán had heard, she wasn’t the cuddly type. And what had she done with the painting? Did it matter? Don’t you worry about it. Prickly, indeed. Siobhán was lucky to have had a warm and loving mother. She wished Ciarán would have had more time to experience Naomi O’Sullivan’s charm. She’d done her best to fill in, but it wasn’t the same. Siobhán gave them a moment to enjoy their tea, before she started in again. “I’m sorry if this is difficult, but can you tell me about the last time you saw your mother?”
Jane bowed her head, and then lifted it. “Dara says you’re a good detective. Are you going to help find my mother’s killer?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “We both are.” It was the truth. Jurisdiction or not, they wouldn’t be able to stay away.
“Then I will tell you everything.” She placed her hands on the tablecloth as if preparing herself. “I left for Dublin on Thursday morning after breakfast. We had a soft-boiled egg, toast, and tea together as usual. I talked about the conference. I go every year and was excited to be returning. I don’t think my mam got two words in.” She took a deep breath. “I asked her what her plans were for the weekend, and she said she’d be doing her usual. Normally she took a watercolor class on Saturday mornings, then the farmers’ market, and goes to Sunday mass.”
“Wait,” Siobhán said. “Did she specifically say the class would be on Saturday?”
Jane tilted her head. “No, she said ‘her usual.’ I was filling in the gaps. Mary Madigan said the class was moved to Friday evening for the solstice moon and that my mother did not attend.”
“Would you have expected your mother to shift to the evening class with the rest of the group?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t know. She didn’t like to waste money, and she had to pay in advance for the classes, but she could be stubborn. If a class is on a Saturday, it’s on a Saturday. That type of thing. In the end, I say she would have gone unless she had other plans.”
“But she didn’t mention any other plans. Nothing out of the ordinary?”
Jane shook her head. “I wish I’d been paying better attention.”
“You couldn’t have known. Let’s stick to what you recall.”
“I can only say what she does every Saturday when I am here. She does her painting class, she attends the farmers’ market and does her messages, takes walks, works in the garden, and sometimes comes here for a spot of lunch and laptop time.” It certainly sounded like she kept busy.
“Do you know where she stores her paintings?” She needed to learn everything she could about Ellen Delaney as quickly as possible.
“I assume she kept them at Annabel’s workshop. She didn’t paint at the cottage.”
“Did she describe what she paints? Not just the one painting you accidentally handed over, but any of them?” Siobhán took in the paintings around the café once more. She narrated them to Jane. “I wonder if any are hers.”
Jane cocked her head. “Do you think it’s important?”
“You never know.” Jane sipped her tea and waited. “In an investigation you have to pull every string.”
“Or risk getting tied up in them?”
“Astute observation,” Siobhán said.
Jane gave a smile and set her cup down. “I know one assignment was a still-life project, and they were supposed to pick an object that instilled a negative emotion i
n them. Mam found that objectionable; I think she almost quit over it.”
“Interesting.” Siobhán was dying to meet this Annabel. “Did she tell you what object she picked?”
Jane shook her head. “If she did, I don’t recall.”
“Anything else?”
Jane turned her head in the direction of the paintings. “I think she was painting the cottage.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, she did it to rattle the class.” Jane gasped. “My word. You’re right. It could be important.” Jane pushed back her chair with a screech and stood. “I need to get back to the cottage. Do you think the guards have found anything?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Siobhán left a small tip, then followed Jane outside. They were quiet on the walk back to the cottage, each caught up in her own thoughts. Now that Siobhán had Annabel’s calling card, she would be able to pay Annabel’s art studio a visit. Siobhán couldn’t help but want to see Ellen’s paintings. But Jane was slippery; she’d managed to change the conversation away from her weekend once again. Siobhán had already decided that it was best not to push Jane on the subject of Dublin and proving her attendance at this conference. She would leave that to Dara. As they walked, passersby gave Jane a wide berth, as if her blindness was contagious. Siobhán wondered if Jane could feel their reactions, and once again realized how exhausting that must be.
Siobhán was relieved when they were away from the main street and traipsing next to green fields. “Let’s go over your return from Dublin. From the moment you arrived home.”
Jane took the lead, her cane tapping rhythmically as she spoke. “Mam wasn’t there to pick me up at the bus stop. That’s when I feared something was wrong. She’s the type who would have been there an hour early. If something came up—and I can’t imagine what that something would have been—she would have sent someone and insisted they be there an hour early. When I realized she wasn’t there, it was like someone walked over my grave.”
“I’m sorry if this sounds ignorant, but how do you use a mobile phone?” Why was she so uninformed? She would have to do better.
Murder in an Irish Cottage Page 6