The last cards of the night were dealt. Anticipation hovered in the air until Shane Ross pushed a few chips into the center. Clementine did the same, using her long red fingernail. The Octopus hesitated, then bulldozed his entire mound of chips into the center. “All in!” Declan exclaimed. The crowd tilted forward, eager to see what Shane and Clementine would do.
Shane went all in.
Clementine stared. She uncrossed her legs and leaned on the table, for the first time blending in with the boys. Hearts suspended in the throats of those who watched and waited, but she paid them no mind. Then she leaned back with a sigh and shoved her remaining chips into the pile.
Shane laid down his cards. The coordinator hovered by the table, announcing the verdict. “Two pairs. Sevens and fours.”
Clementine smiled, then gently fanned hers out. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”
Maria elbowed Siobhán. “I love her.”
“Three jacks,” the coordinator bellowed. The crowd hummed. Three jacks. “All the boys” indeed. Siobhán found herself digging for the rules of poker. Three of a kind beats two pairs.
All heads swiveled to the Octopus. He broke out in a grin, sending goose bumps up Siobhán’s spine. He slammed his cards down with a satisfying smack. A gasp was heard, and then two. Even the coordinator seemed too stunned to call it. Maria shoved Siobhán off her crate.
“Hey.”
“You’re a giant, get over yourself.” Siobhán was tall, but a giant? She resisted the urge to shove Maria, who was feverishly piling Siobhán’s crate onto her own and climbing on top. “Declan. Binoculars,” she barked like a surgeon.
Declan tossed a pair to Maria, who held them up like a pirate spotting treasure on a distant shore. She called out the hand: “The ace of spades, ace of clubs, eight of spades, eight of clubs, and a joker.”
This time Declan gasped, a sound Siobhán had never heard in her life. “What?”
Declan crossed himself, and when he finally spoke, his voice was gruff. “Dat’s ’the Dead Man’s Hand.’ ”
“ ’The Dead Man’s Hand’?” Siobhán had never heard of it.
Clementine Hart shot out of her chair. “Impossible.” She pointed at Eamon. “Cheater!”
“Joker’s wild,” the Octopus sang. “Would you look at that! I’ve got the Dead Man’s Hand, but I’m still alive. And jokers are wild, so that’s a full house, if I do say so m’self.”
Shane Ross looked as if he wanted to overturn the table. He had emotions after all. “I smell a cheat.”
Eamon screeched his chair back and folded his arms across his chest. “You really think I wanted the Dead Man’s Hand?” He shook his head. “I’ve had enough bad luck in me life.” He glanced at his wife.
Siobhán poked Declan. “The Dead Man’s Hand?”
Declan crossed his arms. “It’s a legend in poker. Black aces and black eights, with a hole card.”
“A hole card?” He might as well have been speaking a foreign language.
Declan waved his hand. “It means it doesn’t matter what the last card is. But this time it does. It’s a joker. Jokers are wild, so he can pair it with the aces for a full house.”
Siobhán was still lost. “Is it bad luck or good luck?” The Dead Man’s Hand. Definitely doesn’t sound good.
Declan’s eyes lit up. “Legend has it ’Wild Bill’ Hickok was holding that exact hand when he was murdered.”
Wild Bill Hickok. Another thing for her to Google on a long list of things she was never going to Google. Clementine and Eamon shot to their feet, shouting as they circled each other.
“Look!” Shane Ross pointed at Eamon’s chair. The crowd moved in.
“What is it?” Siobhán asked Maria.
“There’s a deck of cards sitting on Eamon’s seat,” Maria narrated.
“A cold deck,” Shane said. “He switched them out.”
Eamon whirled around and looked at the deck of cards on the seat. “That’s not mine.” He held his hands up as if that proved his innocence. Was it an act? Was he bluffing? Siobhán couldn’t tell.
“That blond tart,” Clementine said. “Was she the one who slipped you the cold deck?”
Heads swiveled. The blondie waitress was nowhere to be seen. The one-woman parade had vanished.
Eamon’s face was now scrunched in rage. So much for his poker face. “I’m being set up!”
The coordinator stepped forward, clutching the lapel of his blazer. Clementine bulldozed his path. “You’re the referee.”
“Coordinator is my official title,” he said with a grin. Then he tapped his chest. “Nathan Doyle.” He bowed.
Clementine didn’t seem to care about his name. She was on a mission. “You must immediately disqualify Eamon Foley for cheating. He switched the decks.”
“Prove it,” Eamon said. He pointed at Clementine. “She set me up.”
“Me?” Clementine was indignant. “If I was going to set someone up with a good hand, I would have chosen me.”
“Someone did.” He looked at his seat as if it had betrayed him. “Would I have jumped up if I was hiding a cold deck under me leg?”
He had a point there. Nathan Doyle appeared terrified of angering either player. He threw a desperate look to Macdara.
Macdara stepped out from his post in the corner. “Everyone sit down. Sit down and calm down.”
Clementine stormed to the table. She pointed to the cards on the table, then held up the cold deck. “They’re identical. This was a switch operation.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Eamon said.
“The Dead Man’s Hand?” Clementine said. “You expect us to believe that?”
“Someone might be taking the piss, alright, but it isn’t me.” Eamon held his arms up and began to bounce like a boxer celebrating his knockout victory. “The jokes on them—or the Joker’s on them, I might say—because I’m still number one!” Patrons cheered and fists pounded on tables.
“Why don’t we compromise,” Nathan said, attacking his eyeglasses with his handkerchief. “Let’s throw out the results of this game. You can replay it in the morning.” He placed his glasses back on, blinked, and looked around for confirmation.
“Count the cold deck,” Clementine said. “If he cheated, it will be five cards short.”
Eamon whirled on her. “If you’re setting me up, it will be five cards short.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You were caught red-handed.”
The Octopus let out a howl. “I was set up!” He picked up his chair as if it were a projectile.
“Hey,” Declan said. He stepped toward the Octopus. “Put that down.”
“I’ll review the video!” Nathan tried to shout above the boisterous crowd. “Announce me decision in the morning.”
Declan had arranged all cameras in the pub so they were aimed at the playing tables. There was too much money in these games to leave it to chance. One bad call and there would be mutiny.
“Review the tape now!” Eamon demanded.
Nathan threw yet another desperate look to Macdara, who shook his head. Siobhán suddenly understood. If the Octopus was to be kicked out of the tournament, they weren’t going to announce it to an oversized crowd drunk on pints and greed. Macdara asserted himself. “As stated, the coordinator will review the tapes this evening and render his decision first thing in the morning.”
When, hopefully, the angry mob would be sleeping it off...
That didn’t sit well with Eamon Foley. He lifted the chair again and this time hurled it across the room. Heads ducked as it flew overhead. It struck the back wall, knocking down one of Declan’s beloved Laurel and Hardy posters. The sound of glass breaking mingled with splintering wood.
“Me favorite poster,” Declan bellowed, fist raised. “You’ll pay for dat.”
“He should be disqualified,” Clementine added. “He’s a danger to us all.”
“Don’t you dare talk about me husband like dat.” Rose Foley was o
ff her stool and looked ready to go to the mat.
Declan lunged for the Octopus, stopping short of touching him. “This is your only warning. If you so much as knock over your pint, you will be tossed out on your ear for good.”
Eamon Foley pinned his beautiful green eyes on Declan.
“Don’t test him,” Siobhán said under her breath.
“Don’t test him,” Macdara echoed for all to hear.
Eamon swiped up another chair from the table.
“Don’t you dare,” Declan said, jabbing at the air with his index finger. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
Eamon hurled the chair at the wall. It bounced off The Quiet Man poster and struck Declan in the chest before crashing to the floor. The crowd erupted, boos and cheers in equal measures.
“That’s it!” Declan said, bending down to pick up his chair. “Out of me pub now.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Eamon said. “I’m the reason all these people are here.”
“Out!” Declan’s voice thundered through the pub.
Macdara moved in with other guards, wrestling Eamon’s hands behind his back before Declan could get to him.
“Don’t touch him,” Rose Foley said, pushing forward with her belly. “I’ll sue!”
“Let’s all calm down.” Nathan Doyle’s voice barely rose above the din. Not a single person acknowledged him. The man was in the wrong job. He’d be better suited to help stray sheep cross the street.
“We’re done for tonight,” Macdara said as they marched Eamon through the crowd. “Nathan Doyle will review the tapes and announce his decision in the morning.”
“Yikes,” Maria said, throwing a glance at the coordinator. “Wouldn’t want to be him.”
Neither would Siobhán. The Octopus was beloved. Disqualifying him would take nerves of steel. Men had received death threats for less.
“What did I tell ye?”
Siobhán’s head pivoted to the male voice. Rory Mack had returned, looking triumphant. Is this somehow his doing?
“You can have the lot of ’em,” Declan said. “Eamon Foley is not allowed back in me pub.”
Rory Mack pumped his fist in the air. “The tournament will resume bright and early at Sharkey’s!” He beamed. “Tonight we celebrate. First pint is on me. Everyone. Let’s go to Sharkey’s!”
A whoop ran through the crowd as they began to spill out of O’Rourke’s.
Macdara joined Siobhán at Declan’s side. “I’ll need all the tapes pulled from the cameras.”
Declan delegated his staff and they began tending to the cameras. Siobhán took out her notepad. “Will you be pressing charges?”
Declan shook his head. “No, luv. I just want him gone.” He glanced at Nathan Doyle, who wore the expression of an animal caught in a trap. What a dreadful mess. The clear winner tonight was Rory Mack. Siobhán had a strange feeling he was going to live to regret it.
Chapter 2
Siobhán was up just before the sun; it was the best time to ride her pink Vespa without worrying about cars speeding around the curves. The air was crisp and clean, and the morning birds were singing. If Siobhán kept her gaze up, the world would look serene. But the iron street lamps that dotted Kilbane revealed the ugly truth, the underbelly of the night before. Empty bottles were strewn on the normally pristine footpaths, along with food wrappers, mineral cans, and busted balloons. The downside of festivals. Like tinsel off a tree after Christmas—they’d be cleaning long after the crowds were gone. She resisted the urge to stop and clean up. It would be fruitless until the tourists were back home. Besides, she wanted to be at Sharkey’s before any of the players arrived. She was dying to hear Nathan Doyle’s decision. Hopefully, the camera tapes would show if the blond waitress slipped Eamon a new deck, and whatever the verdict, it would be accepted by all.
By the time she was pulling up to the old stone pub just outside the town walls, the sun was rising, glinting off yet more bottles of ale abandoned in the field alongside the pub. The neon-blue shark with “Sharkey’s” played across his belly was still lit. Probably like most of the folks who had partied the night away. Empty packets of crisps, cigarette butts, and boot prints continued to tell the story of a wild night. She, for one, had been asleep the minute she tucked the young ones into bed and hit the pillow. Much to her chagrin Gráinne and Eoin set off to join the crowd at Sharkey’s. James spent the evening at Elise’s; although he’d been in alcohol recovery for years, he knew not to put himself into tempting situations. Siobhán always thought her moderate approach to drinking had been formed by her brother’s struggles. “There but for the grace of God go I . . .”
Still, there was a part of her that felt as if she had missed out on a fun night. It seemed as if everyone in town had zoomed over to Sharkey’s after Declan tossed Eamon out. She hopped off her scooter, taking in the morning dew on the field and the birds singing away. Siobhán was prepared to sit and wait for the arrival of Rory Mack. She had just started to stretch out her legs, when she noticed the front door of the pub was ajar. Was he here already? Perhaps he’d never gone home. She approached and pulled on the door.
Inside, the darkness was choked with the smell of ale and smoke. Siobhán opened the door wider and waited for her eyes to adjust. “Hello?” Tables had been pushed to the side, their tops still littered with pint glasses. Multiple shoe prints were visible on the floor. The evening had no doubt ended in dancing. Playing cards were strewn on multiple tabletops.
“Rory? It’s Garda O’Sullivan.” For all she knew he was asleep behind the bar, or in the storage room, or under the pool table.
The place was a ghost town, the floor sticky. She shone her torch, but there were no stray lads sleeping under the tables. She would much rather wait outside in the fresh air.
She was on her way out, when the beam of her torch caught a stream of liquid snaking out from beneath a closed door in the back corner of the pub. The storage room. Over the years she’d seen Rory Mack ferry in and out of it, carrying napkins and pint glasses. She’d heard tale of lads sleeping it off in there. She glanced at the liquid again. She wanted to think it was water—some kind of leak—but the smell of urine was too obvious to ignore. Making great pains not to step in it, she pounded on the door. “It’s the guards. Open up.” There was no sound, not even a creak of a floorboard. She tried the door. It was locked tight. Some yoke was in there, most likely passed out. If his little accident didn’t wake him, he might be in danger of alcohol poisoning. She had to check it out.
She stepped back and kicked the door with the heel of her boot. It didn’t budge. She thought of the patio directly behind the pub. If memory served, there was a small window on the back wall of the pub, situated up high. It was in the right position to at least see inside the storage room—not a window big enough to climb into, most likely designed to vent the air. But if she could reach it, she could at least peer inside. She didn’t want to call in the cavalry unless it was absolutely necessary—every guard would be on duty all weekend and sleep was a precious commodity.
The door to the patio was several feet from the storage room. It swung open and Siobhán stepped out, noting with disgust the overflowing buckets of cigarette butts and empty bottles just tossed on the ground. Rory Mack and his crew should have stayed behind to clean. She sighed and looked up to the window. There it was, just below the roof, a narrow window, about the size of a bread box. She was going to need a ladder. Ironically, there was probably one tucked away in the storage room. The patio housed a wobbly picnic table. She wasn’t in a mood to try and drag it underneath the window. Besides, it might not be high enough. The window was a good fifteen feet in the air. A ladder was the smart way to go. Would Liam’s hardware store be open this early?
The only phone number she had for Rory Mack was the number for the pub. Even if she called information and tracked down his home number, chances were good that he was dead to the world. She would call home and see if one of the lads could hurry over with their ladder.
Her brother Eoin showed up on the patio fifteen minutes later, ladder held aloft. His head was topped with the usual: a Yankees baseball cap turned backward. If he’d spent all night at Sharkey’s, he didn’t look any worse for the wear. She breathed a sigh of relief that unlike James he’d dodged the alcoholism bullet.
“That was fast.”
Eoin grinned. “I hitched a ride.”
Siobhán frowned. Normally, this was the type of village where one could feel safe climbing into their neighbors’ vehicles. But with all the strangers in town, she didn’t like it.
“From who?”
“Mike.”
Relief settled on her shoulders. Their family friend Mike and down-the-road neighbor was good for more than selling fruit and veg; he and his pickup truck had been a real friend over the years. “Did he ask why you were hitching a ride with a ladder so early in the morning?”
“He did indeed.” Eoin’s eyes glowed with mischief.
“And you said?”
“ ’I would tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ ” A grin spread over his face. He’d been holding on to that one.
She shook her head. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“He loved it. Never heard him laugh so hard.”
Siobhán laughed at the thought of it. “Good man.”
Eoin glanced around the patio. “Why do you need it?”
“Tell me about last night.”
Eoin shrugged. “It was jammers. A lot of drinking. A bit of brawling.”
“Brawling?”
“I’d say a few of the games got out of hand.” He sighed. “Yer man nearly came to fisty-cuffs with the other player.”
“Eamon Foley?” Eoin nodded. “He almost hit Clementine?” It was a guess. Clementine had been convinced Eamon was cheating, and Siobhán had a feeling she wasn’t going to let up.
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 2