Rose put her hand over her throat. “He was going to win the tournament. Heaps of money. Do you know what that kind of money means to a woman like me? Everyone here knows he was going to win!”
Siobhán nodded to Macdara. “Glass of water.” He nodded and headed for the sink.
“No!” Rose shrieked. “I’ll take that mug of tea.” She dropped her handbag on the floor and stumbled back to the bed.
Siobhán sat next to her. She nodded to Macdara who flipped the switch on the tiny kettle situated near the telly. “I cannot imagine what you’re feeling. But we are here for you. We are going to investigate thoroughly.”
Rose shook her head. “It’s not fair.” She began to cry. “That money was for our baby.”
The money, the money, the money. Was this just grief, or was Rose Foley really that greedy?
Once the mug of tea was ready, Macdara pulled out the desk chair and sat across from her. “We found a note.”
“A note?”
Macdara nodded as he removed the evidence baggie with the note. “You can’t take it out of the plastic evidence bag. But could you tell us if this is your husband’s handwriting?” He held it up.
Rose’s lips moved as she silently read. Her hand began to tremble. Siobhán gently removed the mug of tea as hot water began to splash out. “It is his writing. Why would he write that?”
Macdara exchanged a look with Siobhán. In his book this was strike number two for murder. If the pathologist didn’t find something, the case would be closed as a suicide. “Are you sure?”
“I know my husband’s penmanship!”
“Do you have any samples we can use to compare?” Macdara asked.
“Compare what?”
“To verify it’s his handwriting.”
“I just told you it was his handwriting. Are you calling me a liar?” She was getting too worked up. Siobhán made a point of looking at Rose’s pregnant belly, then at Macdara.
He nodded and put the note away. “It’s not that we don’t believe you. It’s our job to gather all the evidence we can.”
“You need evidence that he killed himself?” Outrage poured out of her.
Macdara cleared his throat. It was his nervous little habit. Siobhán found it endearing. “In any death we have to consider foul play.”
“Foul play,” Rose repeated.
“Are you saying he might not have killed himself?” Rose asked.
“Correct,” Siobhán said.
This time it was Macdara who threw her a look. He turned back to the widow. “We simply have to look into that possibility. Can you think of any reason why he would have taken his own life?”
“No. I can’t. Not right now.”
Siobhán gently touched Rose on the shoulder. “We will leave you to get dressed. You can come to Naomi’s Bistro. We’re closed for the festival, but you can sit by the fire and we’ll make you breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I understand. But you can eat a little something, can’t you? For the little one?”
“Oh,” Rose said, her hand landing back on her belly. “I forgot.”
“It’s settled then. In the meantime . . . is there anyone you’d like us to call?”
Rose shook her head. Siobhán and Macdara headed for the door.
“What will happen to the money?”
They stopped. Macdara took this one. “Pardon?”
“The winnings. I told you he was going to win and we all knew it. Can I still get my money?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Macdara said.
Rose jammed a finger at Macdara. “Foul play is right! It’s one of the players that did this. Show me that note again.”
“We’ll have time to go over everything later,” Macdara said.
“You were trying to trick me! I don’t know if it’s his handwriting. Do you think he wrote me love letters every day?”
“You really mustn’t worry about this right now,” Siobhán said. “Let’s all take a little break.”
Rose jabbed her finger at them. “It’s one of them players who did it. That pasty spades fella or the Queen of Hearts. Queen of Black Hearts.”
Siobhán’s radar went up. Was she referencing Clementine’s skin color, or was Rose Foley the one who marked the playing cards? “By any chance, were you at Sharkey’s last night?”
Rose pointed to her belly. “Are you joking me?”
“Is that a no?”
“I was here. I slept. All I do is sleep and pee.”
“When you’re ready, come to Naomi’s Bistro,” Siobhán said. Mother-to-be or not, grief-stricken or not, Siobhán needed a break from this woman. She could see how living with her might wear a man down to the bone.
Rose followed them to the door, still bellowing. “It’s one of them players! You know it! I know it! Either you find out which one of ’em did it—or so help me, God, I will.”
Chapter 7
Siobhán walked in the middle of the street, taking in her neighbors’ tents, and trying not to take it personally that she received polite nods instead of the small talk that used to greet her. Local gossip, the weather, the latest items in the shops. Siobhán missed how easy she used to converse with her neighbors. The garda uniform was a repelling agent. Mike was setting up his fruit-and-veg stand; Annmarie and Bridie were stocking their tent with accessories and handmade gifts; Sheila had filled her space with hair products, while her husband, Pio, was propped up on a stool with a guitar. Chatter and music filled the air, along with the smells of hamburgers coming from the truck parked at the end of the street. Even Liam from the hardware store had a tent this year.
After the cold, gray winter, it seemed all citizens of Kilbane were out and about. They were finally ready for a lovely few days, but soon the news of what happened to Eamon Foley would ruin it all, spread through the village like a plague. It made Siobhán long for a tiny bit more of normalcy, so she headed off to see her siblings.
The tent for Naomi’s Bistro was standing, looked solid, and the makeshift counter was set up. The menu would be limited: tea, coffee, scones, ham-and-cheese toasties, chicken salad, egg salad, and, of course, brown bread and lemon meringue pie. Her brood was all hanging around the tent. Her sisters, Ann and Gráinne, were writing the menu on the chalkboard sign; James and Eoin were breaking down boxes; James’s girlfriend, Elise, was counting the money in the register. Ciarán was the only one not working. He was preoccupied with a deck of cards, and the minute Siobhán stepped up, he thrust them toward her. As usual, she resisted the urge to tame down his red hair or wipe the smear of dirt off his cheek. He was twelve-years-of-age, a fact she had trouble believing.
“Pick a card.” Ciarán’s face was a study of concentration as he held out the fanned cards, his little tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He’d been obsessed with cards ever since he’d learned the poker tournament was coming to town. She was already dreading the moment he found out what happened to the Octopus.
“Not now, luv. I’m on duty.”
Ciarán frowned. “But you’re standing right here.”
“Just popped in for a quick visit, luv.”
“Then you can pick a card.” Siobhán sighed and removed a card from the pile, and not the one he had sticking out like a sore thumb. His face crinkled in disappointment when she didn’t pick it. She looked at the card. Five of clubs.
“It’s not the king of diamonds,” Ciarán said.
Siobhán laughed. “You’re right, luv. It’s not.”
He beamed. She stuck the card back in and gave him a pat on the head. He swiped her hand away. “Did you know the Octopus drives a sports car?” Ciarán said. His eyes shone. “It’s an orange Mustang.”
“Orange is the new black,” Siobhán said.
Ciarán frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Thank heavens you’re back.” Siobhán turned to her sister’s voice. Gráinne stood in a short skirt and tight top, hands on hips, long dark ha
ir fluffed, fingernails painted neon blue. She’d finally moved home for good, claiming New York wasn’t all that. Siobhán was thrilled at first, but three months had gone by and Gráinne was spending most of it in front of full-length mirrors trying on outfits and painting her long nails rebellious colors. Siobhán’s attempt to enroll her in a local college was so far in vain. Gráinne sighed. “Ciarán’s driving us mental with the card tricks.”
“You’re already mental,” Ciarán said.
“I won’t argue with that.” Gráinne mussed his hair.
Siobhán glanced at James and Eoin, huddled at the back of the tent. Eoin looked up, locked eyes, and then gave her a nod. It was clear what the nod meant. He hadn’t said a word to anyone, not even James. Siobhán wished everything in life were as solid as Eoin O’Sullivan. She had a sudden longing for all the time she used to spend with her siblings. Times that were stretching further and further apart. She didn’t know what was worse. The fact that she constantly felt guilty, or that they all seemed perfectly fine without her. Elise had moved on to organizing napkins, takeaway plates, and silverware.
“You look worried,” Ciarán said.
The comment surprised Siobhán and she turned to her little brother. “Do I?”
He nodded. “That’s a tell.”
“It is, is it?”
“Professional poker players don’t let their faces show any emotion.” Ciarán thrust his face forward and stilled everything but his blinking eyes.
“Unless they’re trying to trick you.” This was not going to be an easy bunch of suspects.
Ciarán frowned. He didn’t like being tricked. The sound of hooves galloping arrested their attention. Amanda Moore raced by on Midnight. They were a blur of hair, shiny muscle, and speed.
“Deadly,” Ciarán said. “She’s fast.”
Amanda steered Midnight onto the footpath, nearly toppling into tents and folks on the street and kicking up dust behind her. “Move!”
Gráinne stuck her hands on her hips. “She’s in a hurry.”
She knows what her father did. Siobhán was already dialing Macdara. She maneuvered out of earshot as her siblings continued to converse.
“I want a horse,” Ann said.
“Me too,” Ciarán said.
“No way,” Gráinne said. “You don’t even pay attention to poor Trigger.”
“We would if we could ride him,” Ann said.
* * *
After warning Macdara about Amanda’s flying through town on Midnight, and settling Rose into the bistro, Siobhán headed to the Kilbane Garda Station. She loved that she could walk to work. It helped her rev up in the mornings and decompress at night. Nathan Doyle had been summoned to the station and Macdara thought it best if they questioned him in one of the official interrogation rooms. Since there was no crime in riding your horse, even if she was speeding through a busy footpath and street, they had more pressing issues to deal with.
Siobhán was itching to talk to Henry Moore, give him a proper talking-to about betting a young girl’s horse, but she wasn’t in charge, as Macdara had taken to reminding her. Besides, Nathan Doyle could have critical information. She was anxious to hear what decision he had come to regarding Eamon and the games, and even more anxious to find out if he let the verdict slip to anyone last night.
They met him in the lobby. He carried a travel mug and looked as well rested as the other fools who had spent the evening at Sharkey’s. He was gripping his beverage with both hands as if terrified someone was going to try and pluck it away from him. “Morning, Gardai.”
“Morning,” Macdara said. Siobhán nodded. Macdara instructed Nathan to follow them to IR1, Interrogation Room One. It was only large enough to seat four persons. The walls were the color of fresh cream. She didn’t know if the theory was that a calming color would put suspects at ease, or those who liked to fidget would go mental staring at the blank walls. Macdara shut the door and everyone sat.
“I suppose you’re eager to hear my decision.” Nathan twirled his coffee mug.
“Have you heard any news this morning?” Macdara said.
His eyes flicked from Macdara to Siobhán. “Is there news?”
Siobhán cut in. “What did you decide?”
Nathan gazed intensely at Siobhán. “I know a lot of these folks have turned up to see the Octopus play. But I can’t in good conscience let him continue.” He stopped, waiting for a reaction.
Macdara leaned forward. “What did the video show?”
Nathan sighed. “If it was a cheat, they were good. The young blonde stood just out of the way of the camera.”
“As if she knew it was there?” Siobhán asked.
“That was my read,” Nathan said. “I learned nothing from the videos. In the end I had to resort to good old common sense.”
Macdara pretended to write on his notepad. Siobhán knew he was pretending, for he was sketching a rabbit. “When did you come to this decision?”
“I was up all night. I knew last night what I was going to do. Hadn’t changed me mind by this morning.”
Siobhán tore her eyes away from Macdara’s drawing. “Did you tell anyone?”
Nathan frowned. “No.” He leaned forward. “Is this about Clementine Hart?”
Macdara stopped drawing and dropped his pencil. “Why do you say that?”
“She had nothing to do with my decision. I can handle the heat.”
Siobhán retrieved Macdara’s pencil and handed it to him. “What heat?”
“She practically attached herself to me last night. Barking that I needed to disqualify him. Threatened if I didn’t, she would take it up the food chain.” He sighed. “I was a last-minute replacement when the original coordinator dropped out. Doing a favor for a friend. It will be some craic, he said.” He shook his head. “Some craic, alright. When you know better, you do better.”
Macdara’s face remained passive as he scratched out his rabbit. “Where were the two of you during this heated discussion?”
“Sharkey’s.”
“What time were you there?”
“I arrived at seven P.M.”
“What time did you leave?” Siobhán asked.
“I left when it looked like Shane Ross and the Octopus were going to come to fisty-cuffs.”
Macdara leaned in. “What are you on about?”
“Oh yes! They almost came to blows. Clementine’s insistence that he be thrown out riled the Octopus up.” He paused, then leaned forward as if he didn’t trust the room was secure. “But I think our dark horse—”
“ ’Dark horse’?” Macdara cut in.
“Sorry. Shane Ross. That’s me description of him. Shane Ross considers himself a knight in shining armor, I’d say. Before you knew it, he was standing between Clementine and Eamon, ready to do battle. That’s when I left.”
Is Shane Ross in love with Clementine Hart?
This time Macdara didn’t draw a rabbit. He wrote: Eamon/Shane . . . fight? “What time was this?” Siobhán asked.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Try,” Macdara said.
“I suppose it might have been nearing one in the mornin’.”
“How sure are you?”
Nathan shifted, looked between them. “This isn’t just about the tournament, is it?”
Macdara remained cool. “Why do you say that?”
“Something in the way you’re questioning me.”
Macdara folded his arms across his chest. “Eamon Foley is dead.”
Nathan set his travel mug on the desk as if the news rendered him incapable of holding it. “What?”
Siobhán dipped back in. “I found him hanging in the storage room of Sharkey’s early this morning.”
“My God.” He shook his head. “I never imagined.” He clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Let me see. He was drunk when I left, and in a heated argument with Shane.”
“Were they playing cards?”
“Of course. That’s what everyone wanted them
to do. They even let the town in on the games.” He shook his head. “I heard rumors that several people in town lost way too much last night. I hate to say it, there will be a few heads relieved that he’s gone.”
“What heads?” Macdara asked. “What did they lose?”
“Is any of this helpful? Will it explain why he took his own life?”
“We didn’t say that he did,” Siobhán said.
“I thought you said he hanged himself?”
“I said I found him hanging. I did not say who did the hanging.”
“We’re exploring all avenues,” Macdara said.
“Are you thinking it’s murder? If that’s the case, you’re going to have a lot of suspects. That man with the racehorse?”
“Henry Moore?”
“Aye. He was stupid enough to bet him.” He grabbed his travel mug, leaned back, and waited for their reaction to the news. When there was none forthcoming, he leaned in. “Looks like you already know about that little nugget.”
“What else?” Macdara said.
Nathan snapped his fingers. “That’s what flared up tensions between Shane and Eamon. He told him to declare the bet null and void. But Eamon refused. Said he won the horse fair and square.”
“I thought you said it was Clementine who stirred up the tensions between them?”
“Pardon?”
Siobhán leaned in. “All that nagging?”
“Right, so. That came first. The argument over the bet came second.”
“You said you left when they started arguing. The first time.”
“Must have been the second.” He looked around. “Do you not hang things on the wall on purpose, like?”
“Pardon?” Macdara said.
“This room. It could use a few things hanging on the wall.” He pulled on his collar. “Is it hot in here? I feel hot.” The man looked like a thermometer creeping up to the boiling point.
“We’re just trying to get the facts straight,” Siobhán said.
“Take a deep breath and see what you can remember.” Macdara was playing the good cop.
“I definitely left after that business with the horse started. Clementine followed me out of the pub, all the way to my taxicab, stalking me almost—saying now I had to let Eamon go. I tell ye I should have canceled the entire tournament right then and there. None of them are stable.” He sighed. “This is a fine mess, i’n it?”
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 6