She turned to Rory. “Did anyone have access to your laptop?”
“It sits behind the pub when I’m working. The place was jammers. Someone could have messed with it. But it’s password protected.”
Siobhán knew that was hardly a barrier. “Do you have the password written anywhere?”
“Of course not.”
She nodded. “As long as it’s not something simple, like Sharkey’s. . . .”
Rory beamed and shook his head.
“Or Finnegan’s,” Macdara added.
Rory’s face reddened. He opened and shut his mouth several times. Then he shook his fist. “You can’t trust anyone!”
“Do any of your employees still refer to this place as Finnegan’s?”
Rory frowned. “Most everyone does. You’d t’ink a neon shark would have done the trick, but no. Finnegan’s, Finnegan’s, Finnegan’s.”
So it could have been any local yoke.
“Do you have a typewriter in the pub?”
Rory pointed. “That one?”
Siobhán and Macdara stared. There by the cash register on the back of the bar was a typewriter. The antique kind that Siobhán loved.
“At least one item is still here,” Macdara said. “We’re going to need that list of all your employees.”
“Especially those scheduled to work Saturday morning,” Siobhán said.
“Is that all?” Rory said, sounding like it was a giant bother.
“We’re taking your laptop as evidence,” Macdara said. “When you get it back, change your password.”
Rory cursed again. Siobhán was starting to wonder if he knew any other words. Maybe she’d get him a dictionary for his grand reopening. As Rory was leaving, Siobhán asked him again about the rope. “I told ye. I didn’t have rope lying around me pub. Someone else brought it in.” He let the door slam behind him.
Siobhán didn’t hesitate. “Now are you starting to see that something sinister took place?”
Macdara nodded. “The coincidences are piling up.” He started to pace. “On one hand, what man who is about to kill himself is going to be concerned with a camera?”
“Correct. Only a murderer would be concerned with the cameras.”
Macdara stopped. Looked at the banner. “What man would bring a twenty-foot rope to a poker game?”
Siobhán didn’t hesitate. “Only one kind of man.”
“And what kind is that?”
“The kind who has a plan to get away with murder.”
Chapter 14
Macdara continued his pacing while Siobhán propped herself on a bar stool. They had been in Sharkey’s for a while as they went over and over the case. “How on earth would the killer know the Octopus would end up sleeping it off in the storage room?”
“Perhaps he or she made sure the Octopus would be in no state to go home. Either that or the killer acted on an opportunity.”
Macdara stopped pacing and tilted his head. “Go on.”
Siobhán hopped off her stool and used the pub as her stage as she tried to work through it. “The killer saw the state the Octopus was drinking himself into, then he came across the rope. Say at the beginning of the evening. The wheels start turning.”
“Wait,” Macdara said. “You’re the one who said that if this was murder, it all started with the Dead Man’s Hand.”
Siobhán sighed. “Yes. I did say that.” Why was his memory so sharp?
“This is either premeditated or impulsive. But you can’t have it both ways.”
“I know. Doesn’t stop me from wanting it both ways.”
“Let’s get some fresh air,” Macdara said. “I need to see sky.”
Siobhán couldn’t agree more. Outside, they found Rory Mack waiting for them by his truck.
He waved them over. “You’re going to want to see this.” He peered into the back.
They walked over and followed suit. Under a scrunched-up tarp lay a ladder. Rory put his hands up like they were going to arrest him. “I didn’t do this. I swear. I put it back in the storage room.”
Macdara gave Siobhán a look before turning back to Rory. “This is the first you’ve noticed it?”
Rory pointed to the tarp. “I’ve had this down on the bed for days. It was only now I noticed there was something underneath it.”
“So it’s possible it’s been in here since you used it Friday day.”
“I definitely put the ladder back in the storage room. Someone else must have hidden it in my truck.”
Macdara sighed. “Why would they do that?”
Siobhán scanned the bed. “Nothing else was in the truck?”
“No.”
“When is the last time you used the back of the truck?”
“I hauled tent poles for Liam. That was early Friday morning. No ladder. Then I used the ladder Friday afternoon. Put it back in the storage room.”
“When I first asked you about a ladder, you said it should be on the back patio,” Siobhán said.
Rory’s face reddened. “I know. That’s where it was before Friday. I had just woken up when you asked me. My apologies. I swear to ye. I used the ladder Friday afternoon to hang the welcome banner for the players and then put it in the storage room. I knew the place would be jammers and I didn’t want eejits on the patio playing around with it, or tripping over it and suing me.”
“Have you touched the ladder?” Macdara asked.
Rory shook his head. “I was waiting for you.”
“We’ll be taking it as evidence,” Macdara said.
“You might as well,” Rory said with a sigh. “You’ve taken everything else.”
* * *
The slouched lad at the tent for Liam’s hardware store saw Siobhán’s approach and straightened up like he’d been on a deserted island and she was the first human he’d seen in years.
Siobhán gave him a smile and a nod. “How ya. I’m looking for Liam.”
He kicked the street with the tip of his shoe and sighed loudly. “He’s back at the shop.”
“T’ank you.”
“Do you need any hand tools?” He waved his hand over shiny hammers and screwdrivers.
“Not at the moment.”
He grabbed the rubber circle in front of him. “O-rings?” He stood a ruler up. “Anything to measure?”
“Just here to see Liam, luv.”
“Tent poles?” He gestured to a heap of them lying in the corner of the tent.
“Everyone’s tents are all set up, luv.”
“You aren’t going to buy anything?”
“Have you sold any rope?”
No rope was visible anywhere on his table. He glanced at the items like they had betrayed him. “That’s what you want? The one thing I don’t have?”
Get used to it, lad. “I don’t want it. I want to know if you sold any.”
“No.” He leaned in. “Is this about the Octopus?”
“Did he come to your tent?”
His face caved in disappointment. “No.” He threw up his arms. “No one comes to this tent! We shouldn’t even have a tent. Me boss is a—”
“Watch it,” Siobhán said. “I know Liam very well and he’s employing you, so you’ll be wanting to think very carefully about what comes out of your mouth next.”
He clamped his lips shut. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Garda.”
“Yes, Garda.”
“At least you get to watch people go by. That’s one of my favorite things to do.”
He squinted. “It is?”
“It’s better than telly.” He frowned, as though it was impossible to imagine such a thing. “In fact, you can be my special lookout.”
“What am I looking for?”
“If you see anything suspicious.”
“Like what?”
“Anything that doesn’t fit. Arguments. Thievery. That sort of thing.” He stood straighter, his eyes scanning the streets. “Good lad.”
Siobhán headed for Liam’s hardware shop,
entered, and found Liam behind the counter going through receipts. “How ya,” he said without looking up.
“Grand, grand. You?”
“Ah, ’tis a grand fresh day.”
“’Tis. Perfect weather for the festival.”
“Aye.” His reading glasses slipped down his long nose. He pushed them up and finally glanced up. “Can I help you find something?”
“I wanted to speak with you.”
“Go on.”
“I’d like to see what kind of rope you sell.”
He put down his receipts. “Thinking of using an old lasso on your suspects, are you?”
Siobhán gave a nod. “Couldn’t hurt, could it?” He laughed as he came around the corner, then headed down the aisles. “How’s the missus?”
“Grand,” he said, turning into aisle three. “Still has an ache in her hip when it rains, don’t you know.”
“Sorry to hear. Tell her to come in for a mug of tea when this festival is behind us.”
“Will do.” At the end he gestured to shelves. There was all kind of rope. Clothesline, jumping rope. She did not see the rope used to hang Eamon. That was the real deal—thick, the color of straw. She had a picture on her mobile from the one in the evidence room. She brought it up and showed him.
“Do you sell this kind?”
“Aye.” He scanned the shelves, bending over to search the bottom. “There should be some left. I don’t see it.”
“Left?”
“Special order. I had some left over this time and it was on this bottom shelf.”
“Special order for whom?”
Liam paled. “Rope is a common item.”
“But you just said ’special order.’ ”
“It was the wrong turn of phrase.”
Siobhán didn’t think it was. Liam had blurted something out and he was trying to take it back. “Do your receipts list which items were sold when?”
He sighed. “It would take a long time to dig through them.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to do that.”
“’Course you are.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
“It would help things along if you tell me who it was that the special order was for.”
He sighed. “Henry Moore.”
Siobhán perked up. “When did he order it?”
“Don’t be jumping to any conclusions, Garda. It’s a standing special order. He uses it to train the horses.”
An image of Henry Moore and Amanda walking by with Midnight leapt to mind. This was before the hanging. Amanda was leading the horse with rope. She’d forgotten all about it.
“When was the last time Henry Moore purchased it?”
Liam scratched his chin. “Last month, I’d say.”
“Can you find the receipt?”
“Does this have something to do with the lad hanging himself? Did Eamon Foley use this rope?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He turned and headed back to the register. “I’m sure lads can get rope a lot of places. Charlottesville. Online. Limerick. Cork. I’m not the only game in town.”
“Did anyone come in recently—since Thursday, say—to buy anything from the shop?”
Liam went behind his counter and pulled out a book. He opened it. It was a financial ledger. Every line was handwritten. Old-school accounting. She liked Liam. He ran his finger down the page. “Nobody purchased any rope in the past week.”
He was parsing his words again. Nobody bought any rope. Did anybody buy anything? “Have any of the poker players been into the shop?”
Liam set his jaw. “One.”
The hairs on the back of Siobhán’s neck prickled. She had been expecting him to say no. “Which player?”
“The third one.”
“The third one?”
“Aye. Yer man calls him the dark horse. Said his money was on him. I suppose we’ll never know now, will we?”
“Shane Ross, is it?”
“Aye. Dat’s the one.”
“When did he come in?”
“Friday afternoon.”
Before everyone descended on Sharkey’s. “What did he buy?” Liam stared at her for a moment, only blinking. She edged closer. “Liam?”
“It’s going to be bad for my reputation if folks can’t come in and purchase items without me blabbing to the guards.”
“Shane Ross isn’t going to be a regular customer, and I’m conducting an official investigation, so spill.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “He bought two items.”
“Go on.”
Liam had perfected the stare of the put-upon man and he was sporting it now. “He bought a black marker and a pair of gloves.”
Chapter 15
Gloves and a black marker. A dark horse was right. Had Shane been the one to mark the playing cards? And what about the gloves? It was spring. Why did a visiting poker player need gloves in the spring? They were going to have to get him back in that interrogation room. Liam thought he was done, but Siobhán had more questions. “What kind of gloves?”
“Workman gloves.”
That was odd indeed. “Did he say why he wanted them?”
“I don’t pry into the lives of my customers,” he said. “Unlike some people.”
“And I don’t sell hammers,” she said. “Unlike some people.”
He blinked rapidly. “Fair enough.”
“I’m going to need a photocopy of that page from your ledger. And do you mind showing me the kind of gloves he purchased?”
Liam sighed. “Are you going to tell him I told you? That’s bad for business.”
“This is an official investigation. I can only promise I won’t hire a little plane flying a banner announcing your cooperation.”
Liam frowned, and then gazed out the store window like a wild animal trapped in a cage. “I used to play the trumpet in a traveling band. Did you know dat?”
“Must have been some craic.”
“Compared to this, I’d say it was.”
At a loss as how to respond to that, Siobhán was saved by the ding of her mobile. She glanced at the text. It was from Macdara. Drop what you’re doing and meet me at the inn.
Liam never looked so happy as when he watched her go. She sighed and wondered if she’d ever get used to that side effect of her new job.
* * *
Once again Margaret O’Shea took her time making her way up to Eamon Foley’s room, where Siobhán and Macdara waited. With each step she pounded her cane.
The suspense was killing Siobhán. “Why are we here?” Macdara nodded to Margaret. “She just gave me a bell. Turns out Rose and Eamon Foley asked for separate rooms.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Apparently, Rose asked Margaret to let her into Eamon’s room this morning.”
Interesting. “Did she now?”
“Aye. Margaret called me instead.”
“Good woman.” Margaret was a pill, but in this case it worked in their favor.
“Would you be wanting me to open his room or her room?” Margaret shouted down the corridor.
“His room,” Macdara said. “It would be illegal to go into her room without a warrant.”
“It’s me inn, I don’t need the gardai to be telling me what to do. There could be all sorts of shenanigans that require me to go into a room, don’t you know.” Margaret finished her trek and then took her time unlocking the door.
“Did they say why they wanted separate rooms?”
“I asked, alright. Given they were married and she was with child.” Margaret’s eyes shone with mischief.
Given that Margaret is like a vampire and gossip is her lifeblood. “What did they say?”
“They said he was going to be staying out until all hours of the evening with those card games of his and she needed her beauty sleep.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “If you ask me, there’s something in here the widow doesn’t want you to see.”
Siobhán’
s ears perked up. “Why do you think that?”
“She was hissing and spitting when I wouldn’t let her in.”
Siobhán sighed. “That’s her normal state.”
Margaret flung the door open and began pounding the pavement back to her office. “You’ll be wanting to return the key to me office when you’re finished.”
Siobhán put her hand on Macdara’s arm. He turned. “What?”
“Remember what Rory told us?”
Macdara frowned. “Which time?”
“He said he let Eamon spend the night because Eamon claimed he didn’t want to disturb Rose.”
“Good memory. Maybe Eamon just said that because he was too langered to go home.”
“Or maybe Rory Mack is lying.”
“Write it down. We’ll circle back to it.”
They stepped inside. The furnishings were always sparse in the inn, a single cross hung above the bed, a small rendering of the Virgin Mary hung above the door, and the Bible and phone rested on the end table. The bed was tidy. “We’ll have to ask when it was cleaned. We know he didn’t sleep here Saturday night, so my guess is whatever time he left the room on Friday was the last time he had been here.”
Siobhán nodded and scanned the room as they both donned gloves and booties. A bag was tossed on a chair, clothes and a carton of cigarettes tumbling out of it. Near the sink a cup was filled with a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste.
“Bare bones,” Macdara said, going through the clothes in the sack.
Siobhán approached the nightstand. She had been in Margaret’s rooms before. The Bible was always tucked inside the drawer. Was Eamon a man of faith? She slid the drawer to the nightstand open. She registered a flash of black metal. A firearm sat squarely in the drawer. From purely an aesthetic point of view, there was something beautiful about its compact but deadly curves. She wouldn’t touch it, not even with her gloves. “Dara,” she said. “We’ve got a firearm.”
* * *
Rose Foley agreed to answer their questions, but only if they went for a walk. “I cannot sit still,” she said. “Not until my husband’s killer is found.” They took the road hugging the medieval walls surrounding the town. Rose kept a good clip. For a few minutes Siobhán allowed herself to drink in the rolling green fields and feel the soft warm breeze on her cheeks. It was hard to compute such violence when you looked out at the Irish fields. How had man made such a mess of things when the earth was so bountiful? Rose’s harsh voice cut through Siobhán’s moment of gratitude. “I heard the girl has been found. I want my horse. Are you going to get him for me?”
Murder in an Irish Pub Page 12