Murder at an Irish Wedding

by Carlene O'Connor

  The castle, a fifteenth-century structure, was a grand affair. It boasted two turrets and a stunning stained-glass window. Stone lions flanked the massive front entrance. Siobhán was dying to have more of a walkabout, but Alice headed straight for the tents, where three women dressed in identical blue tracksuits were huddled in a clump. The eldest two were gripping mugs of tea like they were miniature lifeboats, while the younger one, a blonde, was examining her fingernails. When they neared, the blonde broke out of the group and practically lunged for Alice.

  Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin splotchy, and her hair looked like it could conduct electricity. Like Alice and Siobhán, she appeared to be in her early twenties. Probably pretty if she had a bit of sleep and a bit of sense. She raised her arms as if waving in an aeroplane. “Thanks be to God, the brown bread is here.” Alice’s lips tightened, and she shook her head in admonishment. The blonde just laughed and flicked her eyes to Siobhán. “Alice has been losing the plot.” Her voice was raspy, as if she’d spent the night screaming. “We’ve got a French chef making hot, buttery croissants, and herself wants brown bread!”

  Alice blinked her disapproval. “Macdara said Siobhán’s brown bread is the best he’s ever tasted.” She flashed a smile. “The best in County Cork.”

  The best in all of Ireland, Siobhán thought with pride.

  “It had better be,” the blonde replied with a pointed look. “You’d think Saint Peter himself had blessed it.”

  Alice elbowed Siobhán. “This is Brenna. My maid of honor. As you can see from the state of her, your little town has quite the nightlife.”

  Brenna crossed her arms, accentuating her ample cleavage. Everyone else had their tracksuits zipped well up past the cleavage zone. “It was a wonderful hen night.”

  Siobhán turned to Alice. “You had your hen night, so?”

  Alice sighed.

  “You would t’ink, wouldn’t ye?” Brenna cut in. “Alice didn’t want a hen night. What’s the purpose of having a bloody wedding if you aren’t going to have a hen night? I had to put the tiara and boa to other uses, if you know what I mean.” A smile spread across Brenna’s splotchy face as she fluttered her eyelashes.

  Alice pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, we always know what you mean.”

  Siobhán had yet to go to a hen night, but she’d seen plenty of ladies out, tripping around in tiaras and boas, celebrating the bride’s last days of freedom with bottomless pints and penis-shaped pastries. Part of Siobhán thought hen nights were immature and silly, but another part of her was dying to experience one. She admired Alice for not giving in to pressure.

  Alice offered a tight smile. “I refuse to have a sore head and splotchy skin for my wedding.”

  Brenna groaned. “You would have been sorted by then.” She began to count off on her fingers. “The wedding is Saturday, it’s only Thursday. Last night was Wednesday.”

  “Thank you for the lesson on the days of the week. You had plenty of fun without me, didn’t ye?” Alice snapped.

  Brenna shrugged and then scanned the horizon, where the blue skies were being painted by angry purple streaks. The weather was in turmoil. A light wind started to blow. “You forced me to have a session with the lads instead. The craic was mighty.”

  “I heard you were quite the flirt.” There was an angry edge to Alice’s voice.

  Brenna shrugged. “It’s your own fault. Leaving me at the mercy of Kevin Gallagher!”

  Alice groaned, and all the women exchanged looks. Alice must have noticed the curious expression on Siobhán’s face for she turned and filled her in on the story. “Kevin got absolutely blotto and ruined everyone’s evening.”

  “Kevin?” Siobhán couldn’t help but ask.

  “The best man,” Alice said.

  “Not anymore,” a tall woman said, breaking out of the group and stepping into their semicircle. “Your father told him to pack his things and leave. Did I mention he accosted me on the stairs?”

  A chorus of “yes” rang out from the others.

  So this must be the mother of the bride. She was almost as tall as Alice and appeared to be in her early fifties. Her hair was pulled in a tight bun, and it was apparent that a pricey plastic surgeon had done the same to her face.

  Alice shook her head. “Sorry to ambush you with our drama.”

  “It wouldn’t be an Irish wedding without drama,” Siobhán said with a laugh.

  “It won’t be an Irish wedding without traditions either,” an older woman standing near the tents piped up.

  “Where are my manners?” Alice said. “This is my mother, Susan, and this is Paul’s mother, Mrs. Faye Donnelly.” Faye Donnelly, the woman who had made the comment about traditions, turned at the mention of her name. She was about the same age as Susan, but not nearly as tall. Salt-and-pepper hair framed her soft face.

  “Paul’s mother thinks I’m a bit too modern,” Alice explained.

  Faye held up her hand. “I’ve already made my peace that there will be no bagpipes or harps at the wedding, but your groom should be wearing a kilt.”

  “Paul will look handsome in a suit,” Alice said. “And he won’t have to worry about which way the wind is blowing.” She winked and lifted her head to the heavens as the wind blew her hair back.

  “If only you would postpone this until next month,” Faye wailed.

  “Why is that?” Siobhán couldn’t help but ask.

  “Whoever marry in August be, many a change are sure to see,” Faye recited. “Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine.”

  “Useless superstitions,” Alice said. “Besides, I’m already rich, and my life could stand a few changes. So that’s me sorted.”

  “At least make sure the sun shines on you on your wedding morning,” Faye said. “And try to spot three magpies or a cuckoo.”

  “I’ve already spotted a cuckoo,” Alice said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  “On your wedding day,” Faye emphasized.

  Alice’s eyes sparkled. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “I’m passing out bells at your wedding, and you can’t stop me,” Faye said.

  Alice turned to Siobhán. “Did you know that ringing a bell helps keep evil spirits at bay?”

  Siobhán laughed. “Oh, I love all the old superstitions. I take it you won’t be having your hands tied to your groom’s?” Hand fasting was an old Irish tradition in which the bride and groom’s hands would literally be tied together during the ceremony. It’s where tying the knot came from. Siobhán did love tradition and history, although she wasn’t superstitious. “If you really wanted to be traditional, you’d wear a blue wedding gown and carry wildflowers,” she added.

  “The bride wore blue,” Alice said. She shook her head. “I prefer my lovely white gown. But I adore wildflowers.” She turned to Faye with a grin. “If I carry wildflowers, will it bring me luck?”

  “It’s a start. You’ll also want a magic hanky, a braid in your hair, and whatever you do, on the day of your wedding do not wash your hands in the same sink as Paul. Disaster!”

  Alice sighed. “Disaster indeed.” She touched Faye on the arm. “I’m so happy you’ll be going back to work.”

  “Work either keeps you young or takes you young,” Siobhán sang. All heads turned to her, and every face looked quizzical. “Sorry. Me da always used to say it.”

  “Wonderful,” Alice said, clapping her hands, but still looking confused.

  Siobhán turned to Faye. “What is it that you do?” she asked politely.

  Faye reached into her handbag, pulled out a business card, and handed it Siobhán.

  FAYE DONNELLY, ESQ.

  SOLICITOR

  SPECIALIZING IN DOMESTIC MATTERS

  “Just in case you’re in the market.”

  Siobhán wasn’t in the market, but she politely dropped the card into her handbag and thanked her.

  Susan Cahill’s eyes flicked to the platter of brown bread, and then she star
ed at Siobhán’s forehead as if it would blind her to look her in the eye. “Why are we spending so much time chatting with the help?”

  Alice’s musical laughter rang out. “She’s not the help. Siobhán O’Sullivan is a dear friend of Garda Flannery and, as such, a dear friend of mine.”

  Dear friend. Was that what he said? Was that what they were? Normally Siobhán liked things orderly. Uncomplicated. Her relationship with Macdara was neither. Dear Friend.

  Susan raked an icy gaze over Siobhán. Her eyebrows looked like they’d been drawn in by a thin black marker, arched in perpetual surprise. Nod and smile, her mam would have said. Nod and smile.

  Alice gestured to their outfits. “You’re probably wondering why we’re all dressed alike.”

  Siobhán nodded. “It did cross me mind.” And here she’d been worried that her trousers and black top weren’t dressy enough. It wasn’t practical to ride a scooter in a dress or a skirt.

  “Compliments of the castle. I thought it would make a great group photo.”

  “Ah, lovely,” Siobhán nodded in approval. “It will indeed.”

  “It’s not to be.” Alice’s hands curled into fists. “The men have vanished into thin air. Ronan is fit to be tied.” She gestured toward the mote, where a lanky man with a large camera paced back and forth over the small bridge, cigarette smoke hovering above him like a miniature storm cloud. “Kevin smashed Ronan’s favorite camera last night, and even a pile of money hasn’t calmed him down.”

  Siobhán imagined if someone slipped her a pile of money she’d have no problem calming herself down.

  “I don’t understand why you insisted on brown bread,” Susan Cahill said. “The chef here is French.” Brenna sauntered over and took the platter out of Siobhán’s hands. The fashion magazine dropped to the ground, and Alice stared down at her own face.

  Susan Cahill shook her finger at Siobhán. “No autographs. This is a private affair. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Mother!” Alice said. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. She’s my guest.”

  Siobhán quickly retrieved the magazine and tucked it under her arm. “I’m sorry. My sisters asked if I would try and get you to sign it. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

  “Not at all!” Alice pulled it out and looked at it. “I’m airbrushed, and that dress took me nearly two hours to squeeze into.” It was a tight silver dress that indeed looked like it had been painted on. “I’d be honored to sign it.” She looked around. “Does anyone have a biro?”

  Sheepishly, Siobhán produced a pen. Alice signed it with a flourish and even drew a little smiley face on the page.

  “Thank you.” Siobhán tucked the magazine into her handbag and followed Alice to a table under the tent. Just as they were about to sample the brown bread, a young man wearing a pinstriped gray suit and thick black glasses ran up, holding his iPad out like a shield. A hot-pink pocket square protruded from his suit pocket. What a sharp dresser. Siobhán admired a man who wasn’t afraid to wear pink. She had an urge to introduce him to her scooter.

  “Ronan is steaming,” he said. “Maybe we should have a photograph of you lovely ladies first.”

  Brenna shook her head. “I told you not to hire someone who considers himself an artist.”

  “He is an artist,” Alice said. “That’s why he’s so temperamental.”

  “Ah,” Siobhán said. She was temperamental too. Maybe she was secretly an artist.

  “Who, may I ask, is this?” The sharp dresser had penetrating dark eyes, and his chestnut hair was slicked to a point atop his head. He had the appearance of an intense, young hawk.

  “There I go again,” Alice said. “This is Siobhán O’Sullivan, owner of Naomi’s Bistro.” Siobhán felt a familiar pang, as she’d always thought of it as her parents’ bistro. Since their death in a tragic car accident a year and several months back, it now belonged to her and her siblings. The man was studying her like she was an exam he had to pass.

  “This is Brian, my wedding sergeant,” she said in a staged whisper. “He’s forcing us to stay on task.”

  Brian’s dark eyes stayed pinned on Siobhán even as he swiped away on his iPad. “She’s not on the guest list.”

  “I’d better do something about that,” Alice said. “Siobhán O’Sullivan, would you like to be a guest at my wedding?”

  “No!” Brian said.

  “I’d be so honored,” Siobhán said. Did she have anything to wear? Would Macdara be browned off with her?

  Brian pursed his lips. “The photo delay is going to put us at least an hour behind. We’ll take the Dominican Priory off the list. If you’ve seen one ruined abbey, you’ve seen them all.”

  “You mustn’t miss our abbey,” Siobhán said. “Why, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.” Along with the medieval walls and King John’s Castle, Siobhán considered the ruined Dominican Priory to be one of Kilbane’s dearest treasures.

  “It’s settled then,” Alice said. “Keep it on the list.”

  “Your father was very clear,” Brian said. “We’re not supposed to get behind.” A twinge of panic had entered his voice.

  “Is this his wedding or mine?” A childish whine snuck into Alice’s voice. “Besides, like the rest of the lads, my father hasn’t even bothered to show up.”

  Brian looked around. “I saw him earlier.” He looked around, then lowered his voice. “He was in a ferocious argument with the innkeeper.”

  Chapter 3

  Worry lines appeared on Alice’s forehead as she stared at the exterior of the castle. “An argument?”

  A look of guilt crossed Brian’s face, then he waved his hand as if it didn’t matter. “Something about a missing fax.”

  Alice sighed. “He promised to leave work behind for a few days.”

  Brian swiped through his iPad. “Shortly after I saw him out for his morning walk.” Brian flicked his eyes to the wooded hillside. Siobhán watched an orange and black butterfly land on a purple flower and unfold its wings.

  “He’s a man of routines,” Alice said. “What about the rest of the lot? Did you see anyone else?”

  Brian laughed. “I can’t be sure. Everyone looks alike in their tracksuits.”

  Alice gazed out at the woods. “Maybe we should send out search parties,” she said. “If we want to keep to our itinerary.”

  “I say we skip Kilbane altogether and go to Cork City.” Brenna sauntered up, swaying her hips, dancing to music only she could hear. “Especially with all the robberies in Kilbane as of late.”

  “Robberies?” Siobhán said. “What are ye on about?”

  Brenna seemed to relish delivering the news. “The castle keep warned us that if we went into Kilbane, we’d have to mind our wallets and handbags. Said people were being robbed right on the streets.”

  The castle keep. George and Carol Huntsman, an English couple. They bought it five years ago from the previous owner. They kept to themselves, and rumor was they did all their shopping in Limerick. Why were they spreading such rumors? “Why, that’s an out-and-out lie!”

  Brenna snorted. “Why would they lie?”

  Alice stepped forward. “I’m afraid I mentioned that Naomi’s Bistro would be catering most of our meals so that the chef could focus on our wedding banquet. Perhaps they were jealous. Chef Antoine is a bit sensitive.”

  “A bit sensitive?” Brenna said. “Chef Antoine is psychotic.”

  Alice shrugged. “He’s definitely passionate about his culinary talents.”

  Siobhán knew there wasn’t a bit of truth to the tale. “I assure you, nothing is amiss in Kilbane. The flower boxes are filled to the brim, everyone is donning their Sunday best, and the streets are so clean you could eat a ham and cheese toastie off them!”

  Alice’s eyes brightened. “Speaking of toasties—I’m dying to try your brown bread.” They merged in front of the platter, hands darted in, and slices began to disappear. Alice took a bite and closed her eyes. When she opened the
m again, a feeling of bliss settled across her face. There wasn’t much in life that couldn’t be made better by a cup of Barry’s tea and Siobhán’s brown bread with butter. “Heavenly. The best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “The best, is it?” Brenna took an enormous bite, chewed as if she was a cow bored with her cud, and then swallowed as if it pained her to do so. Siobhán might have been insulted if not for the fact that Brenna was reaching for her second piece before she swallowed the last bite of her first. Just then a handsome man came striding across the lawn. Siobhán immediately recognized him as the groom, Paul Donnelly. He was well over six feet tall with sandy hair that was feathered back and blowing in the breeze. She could imagine the glamorous life that awaited the pair. Beautiful babies, and summers in Spain, and endless nights in Irish castles.

  “Thank heavens,” Alice called to him. “I thought you did a runner.”

  “I came close,” Paul said. “But then I realized I’d rather die than live a single day without you.” Paul swiped the plate out of her hands, passed it off to Brenna, and grabbed Alice. Then, in front of Ireland and God, he bent her over and kissed her like he was of breath and she was pure oxygen. From a few feet away came the snap, snap, snap of a camera. Ronan, the artist, was capturing the kiss.

  When the two of them finally came up for air, Paul Donnelly turned to Siobhán without missing a beat. “You must be Macdara’s missus,” he said with a grin. “That fiery hair gives you away.” Siobhán’s cheeks were soon fiery as well. She was only Macdara’s girlfriend, and it was a very new relationship to boot, but Irish men loved to tease, and Paul was well-versed in the art. She hated how easily she blushed. Paul treated her to a wink, then turned back to his bride. Her beautiful face was once again furrowed with worry. “What’s wrong, luv?”

  Alice threw her arms open. “Our first photo? In our tracksuits?”

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s the strangest thing.” Paul laughed then looked away.