Once they were past their magnificent abbey, they maneuvered to the opening in the stone wall, which would allow them to ride the circumference of town. Siobhán wished they were out for a leisurely ride instead of looking for a runaway girl. It was a lovely spring day with the sun shining on the green fields, heather spilling out from the cracks in the wall, birds singing full-throated. As they galloped, Siobhán kept her eyes peeled for hoofprints in the ground. In the distance the steeple of Saint Mary’s rose proudly in the air. They did a full loop, without any sign of Amanda or her horse. It wasn’t until they were several streets away from Sarsfield Street, and nearing the back of Celtic Gems, that Siobhán remembered her visit from Tom. She reminded Macdara.
“We’re here, might as well check it out,” Macdara said. “I’ll touch base with the other teams looking for Amanda. Let them know she’s most likely hiding out at a friend’s or in another village.”
* * *
When they rode up to the front of the shop and dismounted, they found Tom Howell pacing in front like a madman. “Look,” he said, pointing at the ground. “Footprints. Someone was pacing. A wild animal.”
Macdara glanced at the camera above the door. “Did it trigger your alarm?”
Tom’s head jerked up. “Exactly! It did not.” He sounded as if this was proof of something nefarious. “I swear I set it. With all these strangers in town? I definitely set it.”
He wasn’t wrong about the footprints. It did appear as if a madman had been pacing back and forth alongside the building. A madman with massive feet.
Macdara was still interested in the security system. “What usually triggers the alarm?”
Tom stroked his chin. “Wind. Rain. Birds. People. It’s a bit overreactive.”
“And yet it did not react,” Siobhán mused.
“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “You get it.”
Siobhán used her mobile to snap photos of the footprints, then pulled a measuring tape out of her pocket, along with a pair of gloves.
Macdara looked amused. “You carry all that in your pockets?”
“You have no idea,” Siobhán said with a wink. Her pockets were as filled as her handbag.
“Size eleven,” Siobhán said.
“That’s my size,” Tom said, staring at his feet as if they’d betrayed him.
“Common enough,” Macdara said.
“Definitely a man,” Siobhán said.
“If it’s a woman, I’ll let you bring her in,” Macdara said with a wink.
“Very funny.”
“I’ll call this in. Get a cast of one of the prints. Let’s try and find a clear one.”
“A cast?” Tom said, sounding impressed. “Then what? Are we going to make every man in town step on it, see if the cast fits?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “But we’d better do it before the clock strikes midnight and they all turn back into frogs.”
“I think it’s pumpkins,” Macdara said.
She shrugged. “Are you sure these prints weren’t here before?”
“I’m sure. I’ve been keeping the place pristine, hoping I could draw some of the festivalgoers this way. I was really hoping the poker players might spend some of their winnings here.”
Tom stepped to the side to make a call. She waited until he was finished, then sidled up to him. “Have you had many heads in?”
He folded his arms. “No.”
“Have you had any heads in?”
“You really like to rub salt in the old wound, don’t you?”
As a businesswoman herself she knew how one’s mood could rise and fall with customers, so she gave him a pass too. “Couldn’t this just be kids messing?”
“Perhaps. When they start young and aren’t punished, that’s when they end up hardened criminals.”
“Punishing children isn’t a top priority for us this year, but we can take it up at the next department meeting,” Macdara said with a wink.
Tom Howell did not seem in the mood for a laugh. “Does that mean you aren’t going to investigate?”
“Take it easy.” Macdara was using his jovial voice. “I’m only messin’. We will thoroughly investigate.” He turned to Siobhán. “Write that down, will ya?” She bit her lip and nodded. He was in good form today. “In the meantime get your security company out to double-check your system. We have quite a bit we’re chewing on at the moment.”
“Eamon Foley’s suicide?”
“How did you hear?” Word had traveled even faster than she expected.
He nodded his head to the farmhouse across the street. “Heard it from Greg Cunningham.”
Greg Cunningham was an old man who kept racing pigeons. He kept mostly to himself. How did he hear the news so quickly? Siobhán wanted to know more. “Were you at Sharkey’s last night, by the by?”
Tom stood up straight, almost toppling backward. “Pardon?”
“I heard it was some craic. I missed it. Were you there?”
“Heavens no. I’m too old and boring for that crowd.”
And yet he suddenly wouldn’t make eye contact. Is he lying? If so, it was a foolish thing to lie about, as the answer could be easily sourced. She followed his gaze to the property across the street. Greg Cunningham was standing by his fence, trimming bushes, keeping up a steady rhythm, impressive for his age. Siobhán nodded to Macdara. He followed her gaze to Greg and nodded. “See if he saw anything, I’ll be here.”
* * *
Greg Cunningham snipped faster as she approached, shrubbery falling to the ground like fairy dust. “How ya,” he called without stopping.
“Afternoon,” Siobhán said. “Grand fresh day, isn’t it?”
“’Tis.”
“Have you been outside long?”
“Aye.”
He was a man of few words. As a normal person going about her day, she appreciated that. As a guard she found it challenging. “How are the pigeons?” She glanced toward the coop. Their soft coos filled the air.
“They’re flying it.” He winked. “What’s the story?”
“Have you seen anyone lurking outside Celtic Gems the past few days?”
Gary glanced up while snipping. “Was he robbed?”
“No, sir. But he suspects someone has been lurking around. There are footprints.”
“Only person I’ve seen is Tom himself. Pacing out front. I t’ink he was expecting a big crowd.”
Tom was pacing? Tom, with the size-eleven shoes? “Are you sure?”
“Aye.”
Was Tom lying? Or was he losing mental capacity? Could he be unaware that he was the one pacing in front of his store, leaving the footprints? Or is Greg lying? Siobhán couldn’t help but glance at the old man’s feet. They were probably a size nine and she was being generous. There was probably no way to whip out her measuring tape and measure them without it being awkward. “Are you sure it was Tom? Could it have been someone else?”
“It could have been him and someone else. All I saw is him.”
“How did you hear about Eamon Foley?”
He stopped snipping and regarded her. “That the poker player?”
“Yes. Tom says he heard the news from you. Where did you hear it?”
Greg shook his head. “It’s a grisly way to go. Wife about to give birth too. How could a man be so selfish?”
It was more words at once than she’d ever heard Greg speak. He was stalling. “How did you hear?”
He held up his clippers. The blades glinted in the sun. “Say what you want about me pigeons. But they always come home.”
“Mr. Cunningham, I need to know who told you.” Greg Cunningham was close to being a total recluse. He didn’t take up space in the pubs, and wouldn’t be gossiping with the hill walkers in the morning. She’d only seen him in the bistro a few times over the years, and when he was in the shops, he shuffled through and kept his hat pulled down low. She was glad he had his pigeons, although it made her sad. If he had been born now, would he be diagnosed with a social an
xiety disorder that they could treat?
Then again, diagnosing an Irishman, let alone getting him to follow treatment, was a challenging feat indeed. Freud’s alleged quote about the Irish rose to mind: “This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is no use whatsoever.” It made her want give the famed psychiatrist a box to the head, but perhaps that just proved his argument.
Greg glanced at his pigeon coop. “What about Henry Moore’s girl? Have they found her yet?”
Maybe it was time to reevaluate the label of recluse. He’d certainly been squeezing the grapes on the gossip vine lately. Siobhán glanced across the street and caught Macdara’s eye. She waved him over.
Macdara jogged across. Siobhán met him just out of earshot of Greg. “Did he see something?”
“He saw Tom pacing in front of his own shop.”
“You’re joking me.” Macdara turned as if to immediately confront Tom.
“But he’s certainly hearing things,” Siobhán said.
Macdara lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He knows about the Octopus. And Amanda Moore.”
“Is that so?” Macdara frowned. “To whom would you be talking?”
Greg began to rake up his fallen shrubbery. “Just me pigeons.”
“Your pigeons told you about the Octopus and the Moore lass?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Heard about the Moore lass from Henry Moore. He was out here looking for her.”
“Why look here?” Siobhán asked.
“I suppose he’s looking everywhere. And Amanda likes to come visit me pigeons now and then.”
That was sweet. Made sense. Amanda was such an animal lover. A sixteen-year-old girl could not hang a grown man all by herself. But what if she had help? Her passion for her horse was epic. Hopefully, they would find her soon.
“And the Octopus?” Siobhán asked.
“That would be me pigeon,” Greg said without a trace of sarcasm. Macdara and Siobhán exchanged a look.
“And where does your pigeon get his news?” Macdara said, barely holding his temper.
“Here and there,” Greg said. “He picks it up in town.”
Macdara glanced at the shears in Greg’s hand. “Mr. Cunningham, these are serious questions.”
“I’m just a man trimming me shrubs.”
Siobhán eyed the bushes. “If you trim them any more, they’re just going to be sticks.” She imagined plucking one off and beating him with it. Take that, Sigmund! “Please answer the question. This is an official inquiry.”
Greg sighed, put down his shears. He turned and started to walk toward his pigeon coop.
“Mr. Cunningham?” Siobhán called.
He didn’t look back. “Follow me.”
* * *
The pigeon coop was Triple D: dark, dank, and damp. Greg flicked on a light that buzzed and snapped. He shuffled to cubbyholes built into the wall. He stuck his hand into one and pulled out a fat gray pigeon.
“Aw,” Siobhán said before she could help herself. The little thing was adorable. “Can I hold her?”
“’Course you can.” Greg handed her the wee thing. It melted into a puddle of softness in her palm as it vibrated and cooed. Bliss. Forget therapy dogs, they should use soft, fat pigeons. Every sad person should just sit and hold one until their heart eased.
Macdara gave her another one of his looks. “Would you like to be alone with her?” She gave him a look of her own and reluctantly handed the pigeon back.
Greg removed a curled piece of paper from her tiny claws. “Layla brought this to me early this morning.”
“Who’s Layla?” Siobhán asked.
Greg gave her a dirty look and lifted his bird. “Me pigeon.”
“Ah, right, so.” Didn’t quite fit the image she had of the famous Clapton song, but then again Greg on his knees for his pigeons didn’t seem like such a stretch. She wondered how many hours she’d save in a day if she could stop innocuous thoughts from taking space in her head.
He handed Siobhán the note. It was typewritten: THE OCTOPUS HUNG HIMSELF IN FINNEGAN’S.
Finnegan’s. The previous name of the pub. Rory Mack hated when folks still referred to it as Finnegan’s. Whoever sent this note, one thing was for sure, he or she was a local. Siobhán handed it to Macdara. “Your pigeon brought you this note?”
“Layla,” Macdara corrected.
She grimaced. “Layla brought you this note?”
Greg appeared to be growing tired of the humans. “I said so, didn’t I?”
“Where did she get it?”
Greg kissed the pigeon’s head and placed her back in the cubbyhole. She cooed. Siobhán tried not to melt. “Could be from anyone. All the locals know me pigeons. You wouldn’t believe the t’ings people send.” He walked over to another cubbyhole and pulled out a basket filled with tiny little notes.
“Wow,” Siobhán said. “Are any of those recent?”
“Nothing from before the poker tournament came to town. But you can read through them if you like. Some of the messages aren’t fit for delicate eyes.”
Siobhán could only imagine. She hoped none of them were cruel. Tormenting a man through his own pigeons. Why did human beings pick on the vulnerable? It made her blood boil. “Why didn’t you call the guards when you received this?”
“I didn’t know what to t’ink.” He gestured to the basket of notes. “There’s one in there that says Elvis is alive and in Ireland.” He nodded to Siobhán. “But I knew the rumor about the octopus was true, once I saw this one’s face. Lucky she’s not one of the poker players.”
Siobhán had a sudden urge to write her own note for Layla to pick up. “We’ll be keeping this note.”
“You will, so,” Greg restated as if he was the one insisting.
Macdara stared at the pigeon as if he had a newfound respect for her. “Is there any way of knowing where Layla picked up this note? Do you have tracking on her?”
“I just track her by her coming and going. Most of my pigeons fly much longer distances. Layla only likes to fly about town. She’s a bit soft in the head.”
Siobhán leaned in and looked Layla in the eye. The old bird didn’t blink or open her beak. Typical. Siobhán was happy when they stepped back outside into the fresh air.
Macdara gently took the note from her hand. “Have any of your other notes been typed?”
“No,” Greg said.
“Can your pigeon type?” Siobhán wanted to lighten the mood.
“Aye, but she just pecks.” The playful retort startled Siobhán, and then she laughed. Greg winked and turned back to Macdara. “I can tell you most of the lads’ handwriting by now. Dis is the first typewritten note Layla has ever brought back.”
“What time was this?”
“Half seven this mornin’.”
Siobhán gasped. Before Siobhán discovered the Octopus hanging. Either the killer sent this note, or someone had discovered the body before she did. A third, remote possibility was that Eamon sent the note before hanging himself. But why? Was there an old typewriter in the pub? Why would he refer to it as Finnegan’s? Eamon sending the note seemed the least likely scenario.
Beyond the “who” was the “why.” Why did someone send the note? Was it simply a concerned citizen who didn’t want to admit to finding the body? Why not place an anonymous call to the guards? The person had to know the Octopus would be discovered sooner than later. This seemed so bizarre. She turned to Macdara. “Do you think we can trace the typewriter?”
“I’m sure there’s someone out there who could. But there’re no letters missing, looks like your typical machine. The time it would take to go door-to-door asking if they have a typewriter, and would they mind typing out for us, ’The Octopus hung himself in Finnegan’s,’ is out of the realm of practicality.”
“Right, so.” It sounded like something a brilliant detective would do in a film.
“We might be calling you into the station to give an official statement,” Macdara said.
Greg sighed, then nodded. “Will you be wanting me to bring Layla?”
“No,” Macdara said. “But why don’t you send her out again. See if she brings back another note.”
“She was out all day yesterday. I won’t let her go until tomorrow.”
“Good man,” Macdara said. “Give her a rest.”
“Can you send a note with her?” Siobhán asked.
“I could. Can’t promise the same person who sent that note will get it.”
“Don’t pigeons tend to fly to the same places?”
“Most do. I told you Layla’s a bit soft in the head.”
“Worth a try,” Macdara said. He turned to Siobhán. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s start with the basics,” Siobhán said. She glanced at a small basket attached to the door to the coop. It was filled with pencils and pieces of paper cut into strips. “May I?”
“Knock yourself out,” Greg said.
Siobhán took a piece of paper and scribbled one simple question: Who are you?
Chapter 10
By the time Siobhán returned to the street festival, word of Eamon Foley’s death had spread. Folks huddled together chattering in high pitches, and the minute they spotted Siobhán, the seas parted as if she was contagious. When she neared the tent for Naomi’s, she saw her siblings were surrounded by gawpers.
She felt a pinch on the back of her arm and turned to find Gráinne. Her instinct to scold was stifled by her sister’s red eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s work, luv.” She put her hand on Gráinne’s arm.
Gráinne yanked it back. “You don’t trust me.”
“There are policies and procedures.”
“Since when do you follow policies and procedures?”
“Since I became an official garda.”
“I heard he hanged himself?” Gráinne had a boisterous voice. Heads turned.
“Let’s go into the bistro. Where are the rest of ye?”
“Ann and James are out looking for Amanda.” Amanda. She’d almost forgotten. There was too much going on. “Where are Ciarán and Eoin?”
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