Murder in an Irish Pub

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention to either London or Cork time.” Her smile was long and easy.

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I thought you wanted an exact time. I’m a people pleaser.” She held out her hands. “Cuff me if you must.”

  “Are you making light of lying to a guard during an active investigation?” Siobhán hated having to take this tone with a woman she imagined would be a best friend. In an alternate universe where no one was ever murdered.

  Clementine’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t used to being challenged. “It wasn’t a lie. It was a bluff.” She shrugged. “Hazard of the trade.”

  “If you bluff to a garda, that’s a lie.” This wasn’t a tea party, even if they were drinking tea.

  Clementine sat up as if she’d just been scolded for poor posture. “I apologize. I don’t know why I lied. I wasn’t paying any attention to time whatsoever. I just wanted that nerdy bloke to make his decision!” She took a deep breath. “He’s the one who followed me out of the pub.”

  “Who followed you out of the pub?”

  “ ’Doddering Doyle.’ That’s what I call him.”

  “Nathan Doyle followed you out of Sharkey’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I believe he thought he was flirting. Can you image? That pasty, middle-aged bloke?”

  “Did he make a move on you?”

  Clementine’s expression turned angry. “Something is off about that man.”

  Siobhán’s ears perked up. She had the same instinct. “In what way?”

  “How did he get the position of coordinator? He doesn’t even know the game of poker.”

  “What have you based that on? Have the two of you played a game?”

  “He asked me if I could recommend a book. Imagine? Useless.”

  Siobhán scribbled on her pad, wondering if she could figure out a smooth way to ask for the name of that book. “Ciarán is mad to learn about poker. Would you mind giving me a suggestion as well?”

  Clementine laughed. “I never read a book on the game in my life. I learned by doing. Rolling up my sleeves. Sitting down at the table with all those useless beasts. That’s how you learn.”

  Siobhán picked up the cards again. “I need you to answer directly. Did you do this?” She jiggled the bag.

  Clementine stared at them. “What if I did?”

  “You’re saying you did?”

  “No. I’m saying, what if I did? What do those scribbles have to do with anything?”

  Siobhán glanced at the cards. Or a taunt. A message . . . Plus, they were found on the body. She could not divulge any of this. “It’s a simple question.”

  “Hazards of your job, I suppose. Everything looks sinister.” Clementine looked at the cards again. “If it’s a threat, does it mean someone intends on cutting my heart out?” She leaned forward. “Should I be looking over my shoulder?”

  “I think it would be wise for everyone to be aware of their surroundings until this matter is closed.”

  Clementine blinked. “I want to go back to London.”

  “We’re asking that everyone remain for the next few days. You planned to be here anyway.”

  “What if I don’t remain?”

  “I have no idea. It wouldn’t look good, I can tell you that.”

  “Fine. I’ll stay. But I’m leaving when the weekend is done, and that is that.” She yawned. “Are we finished here?” She looked at her watch. “It’s time for my catnap.”

  “Just a few more questions.” Siobhán doodled in her notebook. “Did you argue with Eamon Foley that evening?”

  Clementine tapped her lip with her fingernail. “I wouldn’t say ’argue.’ ”

  “What would you say?”

  “I might have called him a few names. After he insisted he was going to take that poor man’s horse. I might have told him he was going to be kicked out of the tournament.”

  “I’d prefer you not talk about what you might have done and instead focus on what you did do.”

  “Eamon was enraged that evening. He’d been caught cheating and was going to be thrown out of the tournament. And rumor has it that baby wasn’t his. That would be a lucky break for the child. He had plenty of reasons to do what he did that night.”

  “Where did you hear the rumor about the baby?”

  “Shane might have said something.”

  “He said he heard it from you.”

  “There you go then.”

  “Do you think this is a game?”

  “Everything is a game, Garda. Life is a game.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  Clementine offered her palms to the sky. “The game continues regardless.”

  “You’re not helping yourself.”

  “What evidence was at the scene that makes you think it was murder?”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “Are my fingerprints at the scene? My DNA? Strands of my hair?”

  Siobhán was losing control yet again. Clementine was simply better at this than she was. She’d make a great garda herself. “Did anyone see you after you left Sharkey’s?”

  Clementine traced the edge of the table with her finger. “If I’d known how fragile Eamon Foley truly was, I wouldn’t have badgered him.” She leaned in. “I wanted to beat him fair and square.”

  “Then why press for him to be thrown out of the tournament?” Clementine arched an eyebrow and remained silent. Siobhán felt she’d won a small victory. She had her there.

  “If someone in that pub did it, it seems they would have had to be sober.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Eamon was a scrapper. Fought as good as he played. It would have taken great coordination and strength to hang a man like the Octopus.”

  “Go on.” Siobhán wanted to keep her talking. Let her think she was in control.

  “I didn’t see any sober people. Except Doddering Doyle.”

  Clementine was really shining a spotlight on him. Deflection? “What did he say to you when he followed you out of the pub?”

  She sighed. “He wanted to know what I planned on doing if he didn’t kick the Octopus out of the tournament.”

  Why was she just hearing about this now? And didn’t Nathan say he made his mind up early on, even if he kept the decision to himself? If so, why would he ask Clementine that? They needed to question this group while they were in the same room with each other, to weed through the lies. Siobhán wished there were a foolproof lie-detector test other than plying them with too many pints of Guinness. Maybe Declan should get all their suspects blotto and see what he could learn. “Go on.”

  “I quoted the famous ’hell hath no fury’ line.” She grinned. “He was shaking in his boots.” She leaned in. “I bet he marched right in and announced the Octopus was out.”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “He should have.” She shook her head. “I felt a bit sorry for the bloke.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Imagine the pressure. If he threw Eamon out of the tournament, he’d have an angry mob against him. If he let him stay, he’d have me and Shane against him. A terrible spot for a weakling.” Clementine certainly looked proud of herself. She picked up the jack of hearts. “My guess is that Eamon killed himself. But if he didn’t . . . there’s one person I can think of who might have done this.” She made the card move, as though dancing.

  “Shane Ross?”

  “With the Octopus gone, he moves up to a second-place ranking.”

  “And you move up to number one,” Siobhán said lightly.

  “Doesn’t matter. I was still number two. Shane didn’t stand a chance with the two of us in the tournament. But he’s arrogant enough to think he can beat me.”

  “But Shane had to know that if the Octopus was found dead, the tournament would be canceled.”

  “Not canceled. Postponed.” True. Is Shane that desperate for the winnings? Could he be in fin
ancial trouble? “Shane was really livid about the horse too. I didn’t know the bloke was an animal lover. He looked like he wanted to tear Eamon apart with his bare hands.”

  “Did you see any rope lying around the pub that evening?” Clementine shook her head. “Did Eamon talk about having problems with Rose?”

  “He wasn’t friendly with the other players. We all keep our distance. Otherwise it’s too hard to have a poker face. However . . . you could see it. I could feel him tense up every time she entered the room.” Clementine rose and stretched. “Feels like we’ve been sitting for ages.”

  It had only been twenty minutes, but Siobhán was finished with her for now. She needed to think it all through. After Clementine’s exit, Siobhán stepped out into the back garden. Clementine had thrown suspicion on a multitude of others. Rose. Eamon. Nathan. Shane. Sleight of hand? Was that all, or did she have other cards she was holding back? There was a final option: Clementine Hart was a cunning and cold-blooded killer.

  Chapter 13

  Jeanie Brady wanted to meet Siobhán and Macdara at Sharkey’s to go over her preliminary findings. She also wanted to have another look at the storage room where Eamon was found hanging. The three of them stood in the middle of the space and tilted their heads back to take in the rafters.

  Jeanie hummed for a minute and then stopped. She began counting off on her fingers. “His widow admitted the handwriting on the note appeared to be that of her husband. The markings on his neck and face are consistent with hanging. The chair was knocked over. The publican, presumably the last to see the deceased, confirmed that the Octopus asked if he could sleep in the storage room, and the door was bolted from the inside.” She stopped. Then looked at Macdara and Siobhán as if waiting for them to argue with her.

  Siobhán stared at the rafters. “Did we learn anything from the knots?”

  Macdara shook his head. “Well tied. The person knew what they were doing. But a common tying method.” He sighed. “It’s a strong case for suicide.”

  Siobhán eyed the window again. “What about Layla?”

  “Layla?” Jeanie said.

  “Sorry,” Siobhán said. “She’s a pigeon.” Siobhán walked over to the window and looked up. “It was closed when I came upon the body. But what if it had been open?”

  “It’s only a venting window. Not big enough for a person to get through.”

  “But it is big enough for a pigeon,” Siobhán said.

  Macdara nodded. “Interesting.”

  Jeanie tilted her head. “I’m lost.”

  “A local man owns racing pigeons. Saturday morning before I discovered the body, he received a note informing him that the Octopus was hanging in Finnegan’s.”

  “Finnegan’s?” Jeanie said.

  “It was the original name of this pub.”

  “Well, isn’t that odd,” Jeanie said.

  Macdara looked uneasy. “All we know from that pigeon is that someone else discovered Eamon’s body before you did. It doesn’t prove murder.”

  “There has to be a reason. Everyone was supposed to meet here by half ten. Why send the note with the pigeon at all?”

  “Concerned citizen. Too afraid to call the cops. Comes into the storage room, sees the body hanging . . . doesn’t want to be associated with it—then, in flies a pigeon.”

  “That means there’s a typewriter in this pub somewhere.”

  “We’ll look. If not, it won’t be our only missing item.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid it still isn’t a case for murder.”

  “There is one more thing,” Jeanie said. She looked at them as if she relished delivering the news.

  Macdara stepped forward. “What is that?”

  “Eamon Foley was wearing a bulletproof vest.”

  Siobhán gasped. She turned to Macdara. “Rose hinted that he was in some kind of trouble in Dublin.” Macdara opened his mouth, then shut it. “We should at least check that out, right?”

  “How?”

  “You were a detective sergeant there. You must know people in Dublin.”

  “I’ve already reached out.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t received the report yet. But if he was in some kind of trouble, that just makes me lean toward suicide.”

  “What suicidal man would wear a bulletproof vest?” Surely, this had to be a game changer.

  “He was afraid of someone,” Jeanie said. “Doubt it was the pigeon.”

  Macdara frowned. “We need to figure out where the vest came from.”

  “Bulletproof vest, brass knuckles . . . as if he had his own little army,” Siobhán mused.

  Macdara nodded. “Who knows what he was up to in Dublin?”

  “Drugs?”

  “As I mentioned, the toxicology report will take ages,” Jeanie said. “But we didn’t find any on him. However . . .” She smiled again. She liked waiting for reactions.

  “Yes?” Siobhán said.

  “You weren’t far off from Eamon having his own little army. The vest is garda issue.”

  Macdara jumped on it. “He was wearing a police vest?”

  Jeanie leaned down and lifted an object out of her bag. There in a plastic bag was a bulletproof vest. AGS could be seen in the upper-right corner. An Garda Síochána. This investigation had just taken a bizarre turn.

  Siobhán and Macdara stared. “Where in the world did he get that?”

  Macdara took the plastic bag with the vest. “I don’t like anything about this.”

  “Exactly,” Siobhán said. “Someone is messing with us, and we’ve already established it’s not the pigeon, and it’s certainly not a dead man.”

  “Eamon Foley could have set all of this up—staged his death to confound us,” Macdara said. “A true player until the end.”

  Siobhán turned to Jeanie, who was unnaturally quiet, and for once there was no sign of pistachios. “Is there anything else in your findings that would lean toward murder?”

  “Multiple contusions on his arms,” Jeanie said. “It could indicate he was manhandled, or came to during the incident and there was a scuffle.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There is some wear on the rope that would suggest it was pulled over the beam. But in and of itself, it’s not conclusive. Who’s to say the rope wasn’t already worn in certain places?”

  “Which way are you leaning?” Siobhán was curious to hear Jeanie’s instincts.

  Jeanie threw her arms up. “I’m befuddled.”

  Macdara strode over to the door, shut it, and slid the bolt, then pointed to it. “You tell me how the killer got out.”

  Siobhán sighed. “If I have to explain the door, then you have to explain the bruises.”

  “I was thinking herself,” Macdara said.

  The wife. He had a point there. It was easy enough to imagine Rose digging her claws into her husband. Literally. But unless the Octopus suspected his wife was packing heat, Rose was not the one he feared.

  “Even with the vest, and the brass knuckles, and the bruises,” Jeanie said, “D.S. Flannery is correct. I simply cannot rule it a murder unless you figure out how the killer got out and then bolted the door again.” She looked thoughtful. “How talented is this pigeon? If she can open and slide bolts, I’d say it’s ’fowl play.’ Get it? F-o-w-l.” She threw her head back and laughed.

  Siobhán wasn’t in the mood for a laugh. She stared at the bolt. “It’s murder. I know it.”

  He sighed. “Our suspects will be leaving on Monday. At best, you have twenty-four hours to prove it.”

  Jeanie saluted. “I will keep my report open until the two of you can complete your investigation.” She strode out, humming once again.

  Siobhán and Macdara exited the storage room, but stayed in the pub. Siobhán began to pace. She stopped underneath the far corner where a camera was mounted to the ceiling. She pointed. “Have you checked the camera?”

  She watched as Detective Sergeant Flannery’s face reddened. “I requested the footage. Ha
ven’t heard back.” He pulled out his mobile and dialed. “Rory, where is that footage from your security cameras? Drop whatever you’re doing. We’re here now.”

  * * *

  They sat at the bar stools while they waited for Rory. It was an odd sensation, a pub emptied of its patrons. Missing a trad band in the corner, lads lined up for the pool table, pints of ale sliding across the counter. Banter, and gossip, and the gentle unwinding of a day. A pub without its patrons was like a swimming pool drained of water. If only those beer taps could talk.

  Rory Mack entered, already rambling his apologies, toting a laptop. “Sorry. Sorry. I forgot about the cameras. Guess it was the shock.”

  He strode over to the corner of the room where a camera was situated, and stared up as if it were a leak. “I don’t see the little red light.” He set his laptop on the counter and let out a curse a few clicks later.

  “What?” Siobhán hovered over his shoulder. White fuzz danced on the screen.

  “The camera has been shut off.” He ran through the history. An image of a jam-packed pub popped on the screen. “Here’s from Friday day.” They watched a few seconds of faces, raised pints. She couldn’t make out the particulars. Then the screen turned to fuzz. Rory cursed again and leaned in. “Half five,” he said. “It blew at half five, Friday evening.”

  The security cameras went on the blink. Just like the cameras at Celtic Gems . . . coincidence? Siobhán didn’t like coincidences.

  “Did it blow?” Macdara said. “Or did someone tamper with it?”

  Rory considered the question. “Only two ways to shut it off. Manually or through this website. I certainly would have seen someone climbing a ladder in the corner of me own pub, like.”

  “Speaking of ladders,” Siobhán said. “We’ve been through every inch of this pub and we haven’t found yours.”

  Macdara rubbed his chin and turned to Rory. “When did you last see the ladder?”

  Rory looked up. “I used it Friday day. I hung dat.” He pointed to a banner hanging from the ceiling: Welcome to the Players! Siobhán had been in and out of the pub numerous times and hadn’t even looked up. She would have to do better. “When I finished, I put it back in the storage room.”

  “Where?”

  “Leaned it against the back wall. Near the window.”