A smile snuck across Gráinne’s face. “They’re at Eoin’s tent.”
Siobhán was going to have to get her hearing checked. “Eoin’s tent?”
“C’m’ere to me.” Gráinne grabbed her hand and began to pull her through the crowd. She heard snippets of conversations. . .
“Found him swinging from the rafters.”
“Murder. Again. She’s a magnet—”
They mean me.
“The Octopus.”
Multiple women were crying. It seemed as if the smells of cigarette smoke, ale, grease, and sugar were stronger as well, as folks took to their vices to cope. With a glob of tourists to worry about, Siobhán prayed everyone would keep it together.
Who was she kidding? Keep it together. Whatever things were, they certainly were not being kept together. They had a man allegedly casing his own jewelry store, a teenage girl on the lam on a racehorse, and a soft-in-the-head pigeon bringing home notes from a killer. That was probably the very definition of not keeping things together. Not to mention the pregnant widow on a warpath. Was it too early in her career to retire?
“Here,” Gráinne announced, pointing to a tent like a game show hostess. Eoin and Ciarán sat behind stacks of what appeared to be homemade comic books. On the front was a sketch of a girl, all in black and white, except for long red hair—Siobhán’s color—although in Eoin’s renderings the girl’s head was literally on fire. She stared at the title: Sister Slayer.
Eoin grinned. “You’re speechless. Deadly.” He and Ciarán high-fived.
Siobhán picked up a comic and leafed through it. The redheaded girl was basically an Irish Wonder Woman. She turned the page to see the girl lifting a sheep over her head as if she were going to launch it like a projectile. He was selling them for five euro each. Despite the jarring content, Siobhán admitted, his drawings were superb.
“How long have you been doing this?” Why have I never seen them?
“Years. What do you think, so?”
“Years? You’ve kept these hidden for years?” Eoin winked. He wasn’t blessed with traditional good looks, but he was full of confidence and charm. And a bit of swagger. “You’re good.”
“T’anks.”
“Are they selling?”
He sighed, rotated his Yankees baseball cap. “It’s early days yet.”
“You should team up with Gordon’s Comics.” Chris Gordon’s tent was propped up a ways down the street in front of his comic-book shop.
“He’s an indie graphic novelist,” Ciarán said. “Chris wanted a cut.”
“A who now?” Gráinne demanded.
“Independent—indie—graphic novelist,” Eoin said.
Siobhán stared at Eoin, wondering when they’d all started keeping secrets from her. She was proud and browned off at the same time. She wanted to cry, and pinch him really hard, and hug him all at the same time. She took a deep breath and smiled. Sister Slayer. “Good luck. These are brilliant.”
Ciarán fixed her with a stare. “You can’t just paw through them for free. Are you going to buy one?”
“Of course. I’ll get my copy tonight. I have to get back to work.”
“Why did he do it?” Eoin said. “The Octopus?”
Gráinne leaned in. “Siobhán thinks it’s murder.”
“What?” the boys said in stereo.
Siobhán couldn’t believe it. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. I can read your mind.” She glanced at the comics. “I t’ink you picked the wrong sister.”
“She’s right then? You t’ink it’s murder?” Eoin asked.
“It’s an open investigation. That’s all I’m saying. I want all of you to stick together. If you hear or see anything strange, let me know.” Her eyes landed on the sketch of the redheaded girl holding the sheep above her head. “Anything else . . . strange.”
“Someone murdered the Octopus?” Ciarán said, as if not a single utterance had pierced him.
Eoin let out a low whistle.
Siobhán nodded at Eoin. “I’m going to need to speak with you and Gráinne about anything you saw and heard that night. This evening. After supper.”
Eoin and Gráinne exchanged a long look and then nodded. Fantastic. More secrets.
Ciarán lifted a deck of cards. “I was going to show him my trick.” Trigger emerged from somewhere in the tent and jumped up on Ciarán’s lap. Siobhán leaned in to scratch the mutt on the head. He licked her fingers. She was glad the dog was with them. Not much of a killer, but criminals didn’t need to know that.
Siobhán could see the news of Eamon’s death was affecting all of them. “It’s a tragedy. We’ll all say our prayers. Please. Stay alert.”
“You think someone here is a killer?” Eoin said it matter-of-factly as his eyes roamed over the crowd.
“I do,” Siobhán said. “I wish I didn’t. But I do.”
* * *
Siobhán didn’t even get a chance to leave Eoin’s tent. Rose Foley was making a beeline for her, belly leading the way. “Have you caught him?” she yelled. “Do you know who murdered my husband?”
People stopped, heads swiveled, exclamations rang out. “Murdered?” The crowd drew closer.
“Rose,” Siobhán said. “Please.” She gently placed her hand on Rose’s shoulders. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
Rose yanked away. “Did you talk to Clementine Hart? Shane Ross? It was one of them that did it. They killed their competition!”
“I thought it was suicide?” a man yelled over the crowd.
“It was murder!” Rose yelled back. “My husband was murdered.”
Accusing eyes landed on Siobhán as if she was personally responsible for their assumptions. “Calm down. Getting riled up is going to make it harder to investigate.”
Rose, buoyed by the crowd, continued with her bullying. “Where is Clementine Hart? Where is Shane Ross? Take me to them right now.”
“The guards are handling this. I promise you. In the meantime—”
“Forget it. I’m going to the garda station. If you won’t answer my questions, I’ll find someone who will.” She glanced down at Sister Slayer, then back at Siobhán. Her look said it all.
Rose hurried off, faster than Siobhán had ever seen a woman with a belly that size move.
“Nightmare,” Gráinne said. “She’s going to go into forced labor.”
“Like a slave?” Ciarán asked, scrunching his eyebrows.
“ ’Labor’ as in having a baby, not as in the workforce,” Eoin said.
“But having a baby is work,” Ciarán pointed out.
Siobhán ruffled his hair. There were moments she just couldn’t resist.
“Did they find Amanda?” Eoin asked.
“No,” Gráinne said. She gave Siobhán a pointed look. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?”
“There are a lot of things I should be doing, a few I could be doing, and endless t’ings I wish I were doing.”
They all stared at her. Eoin shook his head. “Maybe I did pick the wrong sister.”
“Lesson learned.” Siobhán grinned and walked away, while baskets of curried chips danced in her head.
* * *
By the time Siobhán made her way through the crowd to the garda station, the entrance was swarmed with reporters and folks wanting to get any drip of information they could. “Rose is getting everyone worked up,” Macdara said when Siobhán made her way through.
“I’m well aware.”
“Did you say something to her?”
“She ambushed me.” She had to shout as people yelled out questions.
“Was the Octopus murdered?”
“Will the tournament be shut down?”
“Didn’t he hang himself?”
Macdara sighed. “There’s a fire lit now.” He held open the door to the station. “And not the good kind.”
“What’s the ’good kind’?”
“A turf fire of course.”
She c
ould instantly feel and smell the burning peat. “What I’d give for a nice turf fire.” If only they were cuddled up by one now, instead of wrestling with a hormonal widow. She took a moment to imagine it, then steeled herself and entered the garda station.
* * *
Nathan Doyle was leaning on the clerk’s desk as if he owned it. Clementine Hart and Shane Ross were sitting in the waiting chairs on opposite ends, as if they wanted to be as far away from each other as possible. Interesting. You would think they would be huddled together gossiping about the news. Macdara hurried Siobhán past them and into the belly of the station, where guards sat at their desks in the open-concept room. Macdara had a large office, Siobhán shared a tiny one with other guards, and, otherwise, they worked out of the main communal space in the center. Lastly the station had a patio, a break room, and two interrogation rooms situated side by side. There was a window cut into the shared wall dividing the interrogation rooms, but a privacy shade kept subjects from being able to see into each other’s rooms.
“We’re going to interview Shane Ross in IR1, while Clementine Hart waits in IR2.”
IR1 and IR2: Interrogation Room Number One and Interrogation Number Two. Siobhán liked knowing all the guard lingo. There was so much of it. Alphabet soup.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s too early for sarcasm.”
“It’s never too early for sarcasm.”
“I think Shane will respond best to you, so I’m going to let you take the lead.”
Excitement zipped through her. “No bother.”
“Are you going to be good garda or bad garda?”
“Wait and see.” He frowned. “I’m perfectly capable of switching it up. I’ll start out good, and if warranted, I can bring down the hammer.”
“Hammer away.” Macdara entered the room and sat in the corner as if punishing himself.
Siobhán entered IR1 and pulled the black shade down between the rooms before ushering Shane Ross in. The rectangular table had four chairs. He seemed overwhelmed with the choices, so Siobhán finally pointed to a chair. He was pale and visibly shaking. Was it from the drink the night before, the shocking news this morning, or a combination?
Siobhán sat across from him, pulled out her notepad, and hit RECORD on the digital player in front of her.
Siobhán offered a friendly smile. “Let’s start with where you were last night.”
“We were all in Sharkey’s last night.”
“What time did you arrive, and what time did you leave?”
“I arrived at half seven. I left . . .” He scratched his chin. “Should I guess?”
“If you must.”
“Half one?”
“Were there many around when you left?”
“It was still jammers. I assumed the rest were going to stay until sunup.”
“Was it your intention all along to swindle the locals into playing poker?” Macdara’s eyes flashed. She hadn’t intended on saying it. He was settled in now, slouching in the chair as if this were a mere inconvenience. He sat up at the question.
“Eamon was the one who started playing poker with the locals.” He traced his index finger on the table. “When yer man put his racehorse into the pot, I tried to stop it.”
Siobhán reached into the cubbyhole underneath the table and then slid the clear evidence bag in front of Shane. Inside was the jack of spades with his mouth blacked out. Shane stared at it. She gave him a moment and then slid the evidence bag with the queen of hearts. He stared at the blackened heart and let out a low whistle. “Was it Eamon who done this?”
“Did you see him do anything like this?”
Shane shook his head. “He was a sick man, alright.”
“It’s quite possible that someone else did this,” Siobhán said.
“Are you asking if it was me who done it?” He tapped the jack of spades. “You know that’s what they call me. Shane of Spades. And Clementine, Queen of Hearts. So why would we do it?”
“Throw off suspicion,” Siobhán said.
Shane crossed his arms and considered it. “If that’s the case, it didn’t work.”
“Please answer the simple question. Was it you?”
“I’ve no memory of it.”
Siobhán’s ears perked up. “Are you saying you cannot accurately recall the evening?”
“You know yourself. Nobody can totally recall an evening like that.”
“Did you black out?”
He grinned. “If I did, I don’t remember.”
The bluffer. She could not let him get to her. “I’m not referring to the playing cards. I’m referring to you. Were you so drunk that you blacked out?”
“You already asked me that.”
“This time I want a straight answer.”
“That’s as straight as I can get. I was so drunk. If I blacked out, I don’t remember.” A smirk appeared on his face. He no longer looked boyish. Was his public persona just an act?
“I’m going to mark it as affirmative that you may have been the one to mess with these cards.”
He sighed, slapped his hands on the table. “I didn’t mess with the cards.” He looked at his fingertips. “I’d have black marker all over me.”
“You could have washed them by now.”
He shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Did you see anyone with a black marker, or scissors, or messing with playing cards in any way?”
“No.” He slid the bags back to Siobhán. Then he raised an eyebrow and held up his finger. “Except for that kid.”
The back of Siobhán’s neck tingled. “What kid?”
“The little redheaded one.” He stopped and stared at Siobhán, then cocked his head. “Is he yours?”
“Pardon?”
Shane tilted his head, and from the gleam in the poker player’s eye, Siobhán knew the blow he was about to deliver seconds before it left his cruel lips. “Ciarán O’Sullivan, is it?”
Chapter 11
Ciarán? Was he really talking about her Ciarán?
Macdara moved from his corner seat and took the chair next to Siobhán.
“Pick a card.” Ciarán had been obsessed with the tournament and the Octopus long before they’d landed in town. She shouldn’t be shocked. And yet she was. He was just goading her. She wasn’t going to take the bait. If Ciarán had been at Sharkey’s that evening, Gráinne or Eoin would have mentioned it. Right? Right? Siobhán chose her next words carefully. “I’m sure you saw my brother Ciarán at the festival.”
“At a tent selling graphic comics.” Macdara leaned forward with a grin. “Sister Slayer.” He saw it? Siobhán didn’t dare make eye contact with him. “I bought ten copies m’self.”
What was he doing to her? Distracting me so I can’t overreact. It worked. She was distracted. Her cheeks were so inflamed, they could start a turf fire.
“I didn’t see him at the festival,” Shane said. “I saw him at Sharkey’s. Wondered to m’self, who would let such a young lad loose in the middle of that craic? I’m no role model, but even I wouldn’t have let any of my young ones be around dat crowd.” He pinned his eyes on Siobhán. She stared back and mentally started naming everything in the room. Table. Chair. Biro. Notepad. Recorder. Curtains. Fist. Fist. Fist. “I suppose he has no one to look after him. Is that right?” Stab, stab, stab. Macdara’s leg touched Siobhán’s under the table. Steady, steady, steady. “He leeched around until an older lad pulled him out by his ear.”
“Moving on,” Macdara said.
But Shane wasn’t ready to move on. “’Pick a card, pick a card, pick a card.’ ” A smile crept across his face.
Siobhán lurched to her feet and leaned across the table. “Shut. Your. Gob.”
Shane crossed his arms and smiled. “Something wrong?”
Macdara gently tugged her back to her seat. He leaned over and whispered, “Need a break, boss? Cup of tea?”
“No.” She took a deep breath.
“I have a few questions,” Macdara said. He began talking. Siobhán couldn’t listen, her temperature was skyrocketing.
Ciarán! Children were often seen in pubs in Ireland. With their families for a bite, or music, or a special occasion. But not Sharkey’s. How did she not know Ciarán was out all night? She mentally retraced her every movement that evening. She’d tucked him into bed around half eight. A bit early for him, but he was so worn-out from the festival.
Correction . . . he pretended to be so worn-out from the festival. He played me. She had taken a book to bed, and was asleep soon after, dead to the world. And while she slept, he snuck out and went to Sharkey’s. The very thought, imagining him making his way to the pub all by himself . . . down dark streets . . .
Ciarán was just a baby. Maybe not in his eyes. Twelve years of age was still a baby. Which one of her brothers had hauled him out by his ear? Eoin? James? Why had they kept it from her? She was the de facto mother, whether any of them liked it or not. She tugged the collar of her uniform away from her neck. She felt like punching a hole through the wall with her fist. Even the thought of whittling did nothing to calm her down. She’d whittle something pointy and sharp. Macdara’s voice came back into focus.
“Did you see him with a black marker?”
“No.”
“How did Henry Moore react when he lost the horse?”
Shane shifted in his seat, as if his arse wasn’t used to such hard surfaces. “Who?”
“The man who lost his racehorse,” Siobhán said. Shane took a moment to clock the anger in her voice.
“How do you t’ink? Said if Eamon laid a single hand on his horse, he’d see him dead.”
Macdara leaned forward. Siobhán momentarily forgot all about Ciarán. “He said what?”
“His exact words. ’I’ll see him dead before you get a hand on that horse.’ ”
Siobhán slipped in. “That can’t be right.”
Shane frowned. “’Tis. Exactly.”
“No. Not exactly. So try again. In his words.”
“What do you mean?” Shane was on defensive again. Good.
“If Henry Moore had said that to Eamon, he would have said, ’I’ll see you dead before you get your hands on me horse.’ ”
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 9