Murder at an Irish Wedding

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Well?” Alice said.

  “Someone locked me in my room.” His handsome face darkened. “And I have a good idea who.”

  Alice groaned. “Kevin.” She turned to Faye. “Unless it was you?”

  Faye’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

  “Isn’t that an old tradition as well? Lock the groom up so he doesn’t get cold feet?” Alice laughed.

  “Why didn’t ye just give someone a bell?” Faye asked.

  Paul frowned. “There was no phone in me room, and my mobile was gone as well. I must have left it at one of the pubs.”

  “Should be easy to trace; you only visited twelve or so last night,” Alice said with a smirk.

  “And how would you know that?” Paul said, grabbing her by the waist. “You couldn’t even bother to come.”

  “I think the celebrating should take place after the wedding,” Alice said with a seductive smile.

  “I don’t like all these shenanigans,” Faye said. “And I don’t understand why you couldn’t open the door from the inside?”

  Paul threw open his arms in frustration. “I don’t know. I just know that I was locked in.”

  “It’s an old castle,” Alice said.

  “Your point?” Faye said.

  Alice sighed. “Maybe it was stuck?”

  “No,” Paul said. “It was locked.”

  “Locking you in your room,” Faye said, shaking her head. “What if there was a fire?”

  “Kevin having a laugh, no doubt,” Paul said. He looked around as if Kevin might be hunkered behind a shrub, listening to his every word.

  “How did you get out then?” Faye pressed.

  “I was thinking I might have to climb out a window when the innkeeper finally heard me banging on the door.” Paul took a step toward Ronan. “Let’s get on with this photo.”

  “That’s just it,” Alice said, putting her hand on his arm. “We’re also missing Kevin, your father-—”

  “Forget about Kevin. He’ll be dead to the world.”

  “I hear he was quite the spectacle last night,” Alice said. “My mam is rather upset.”

  “I’ve asked Macdara to be my best man,” Paul said. “Kevin is too fond of the drink, and it doesn’t suit him.”

  Alice began to count on her fingers. “Well, we’re still missing my father, and Macdara, and your father. Is that all of us then?”

  Paul laughed. “You insisted on a small wedding.”

  “Yet with this crowd it’s still not small enough.”

  “You forgot Macdara’s mammy,” Paul added, looking around.

  “Macdara’s mam?” Siobhán blurted out. Was that why Macdara hadn’t invited her to the wedding? His mam was his plus one? Nancy Flannery lived in Cork City, and Siobhán had yet to meet her.

  Paul caught the look on her face and laughed. “Didn’t know you’d be meeting the mother-in-law? Ah, she’s a sweetheart.” It was Paul’s second reference to Siobhán and Macdara getting married someday, and even though he was only teasing, the very thought of it sent her pulse racing. His mam was his plus one.

  Alice turned her pretty head toward the swath of blue sky. In the distance, gray clouds gathered in an angry swirl. “Ronan wanted to catch the morning sun. Why, the clouds are going to swallow it whole any minute now.”

  Paul turned. “Here they are now.” Sure enough, a group of tracksuit-bedecked people were headed their way. Leading the group was a very tall man with broad shoulders. Even from a distance, he exuded power. That must be the infamous Colm Cahill. And behind him was Macdara Flannery. He flashed her a private smile, and if Siobhán’s heart was a hammer hitting a bell, it would be ringing by now. He looked very becoming in his navy tracksuit. His brown hair was slightly tousled, his blue eyes smiling. It was odd seeing him out of his garda uniform. She had to admit that, whenever he was wearing it, she always felt a little zing. Especially when he was wearing his garda cap with its golden shield: An Garda Síochána—Guardians of the Peace.

  “Is that everyone then?” Paul asked.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Alice cried out. She clutched her stomach and doubled over.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul rushed to her side.

  “Are you alright, pet?” Siobhán asked.

  Alice began to heave and then sprinted toward the nearest bush, where she promptly got sick. Siobhán threw her hand over her mouth. Paul ran up to his bride and began to rub her back.

  Susan Cahill headed for her daughter. “What on earth is going on?” From nearby, the camera began to click.

  “No pictures,” Paul said, holding up his hand. “That’s quite rude.” Ronan glowered but backed away. He caught Siobhán’s stare, and his eyes bore into hers. Then, as she gawked at him, he snapped her picture.

  Brenna pushed her way front and centre, bosom heaving. “Looks like the best brown bread in all of County Cork has been poisoned!”

  Siobhán gasped. “I assure you, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”

  Brenna turned her back to Siobhán. “I’m not at all assured.”

  “We’ve all been eating the bread,” Siobhán said. “No one else is sick.”

  “I didn’t touch it,” Susan Cahill said. “Thank God.”

  “The bread is fine,” Siobhán said. “It was never out of me sight.”

  “Maybe Alice is in a family way,” Brenna said. “Could explain why they decided to have such a small wedding instead of a grand affair.”

  “You had better hold your tongue,” Susan snapped.

  Brenna pursed her lips. “I was only messing.”

  “I’m fine,” Alice said, making her way back to the group with Paul at her side. “It’s just me nerves.” Her pretty face looked as if all the color had drained out of it. Siobhán wished she has some rouge in her purse just so she could dab it on Alice and bring her back to life. There couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with the brown bread. It was quite possible that Brenna, as crude as she was, had inadvertently stumbled on a secret. Was Alice pregnant? It would certainly explain her preternatural glow.

  The smell of cigar smoke infiltrated the air. Colm was puffing away and talking on his mobile while pacing. “Father?” Alice approached her father, and he held up an index finger. Siobhán caught the look on Alice’s face: hopeful and rejected at the same time. She was obviously used to coming second to his business dealings. At least Paul seemed like the type of man who was going to put her first.

  “We should get you up to your room so you can have a lie-down,” Paul said to Alice.

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “A sup of water, please.” She sunk into a chair near the tents and gently placed her hand over her stomach. Paul hurried to fetch the water.

  “Siobhán?” Siobhán turned to find Macdara standing next to a petite woman with a large frown. Her brown curls matched Macdara’s, only hers were most likely helped along by the hair salon. She was dressed in a sensible brown dress and flat shoes. She wore a matching brown hat and white gloves. She clutched her handbag as if expecting any minute now someone would try to rip it away from her. Macdara cleared his throat. “I’d like you to meet my mam, Nancy.”

  Siobhán stuck out her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Nancy looked Siobhán up and down. “She’ll do, so.” She shifted her gaze to the distance as if they’d just concluded a business deal. Macdara laughed and shook his head. His mother didn’t break a smile.

  Just as Siobhán was trying to suss out how to gracefully slip away, a man’s voice rang out from direction of the woods. “Help! Help! Help!”

  “What in heaven’s name?” Siobhán said. Macdara looked as if he wanted to bolt toward the woods, but his mother gripped his arm fiercely.

  Soon a blur of white was sprinting in their direction across the expanse of green. Every so often the man jumped a hedge like a horse at a hurdle competition.

  “Why is the French chef exercising in his uniform?” Susan cried out. He was fast and nimble, despite his hefty frame, and by t
he time he approached, his face was covered in a sheen of sweat. Instinctively, half the group took a step back as he stood panting and sweating in front of them. Apart from the exercising, Antoine indeed looked the part of a French chef with his dark mustache and round belly. A look of absolute horror was stamped on his face.

  “Chef,” Paul called. “What’s wrong with ye?”

  When he didn’t answer, just blinked and gulped for air, Macdara stepped forward. “What’s the story?”

  “The woods,” Antoine said, pointing, gasping for breath. “A man.” The wedding guests closed in now, eager to hear.

  “Is someone hurt?” Macdara said.

  “He no longer hurts,” Antoine said with a flip of his hand.

  Macdara shifted, and a worried look crossed his face. “A drunk then?”

  “No, no, no. There is a man. Hard attack.”

  “Heart attack?” Siobhán said.

  “Ring the paramedics!” Macdara shouted. “A man is having a heart attack.” Mobiles appeared and blinked from tracksuit pockets like fireflies.

  The French chef waggled his index finger back and forth. “Non, non. Not heart attack.”

  “Not a heart attack?” Macdara was clearly flustered.

  The French chef held his hands apart about a foot wide. “Big rock.” He mimed throwing it.

  “Hard attack,” Siobhán said. Macdara and the rest of the guests looked to the chef as if waiting for him to correct Siobhán’s sinister interpretation.

  Instead, he nodded. “Oui. Very hard attack.” He leaned in and uttered the one French word that needed no interpretation. “Meurtre.”

  Chapter 4

  Macdara was the first to fly into action. He used his mobile to call the police, then turned and addressed the crowd. “The guards are on their way. Everyone stay exactly where you are until they arrive.” He instructed Chef Antoine to show him the crime scene, and the pair made a beeline for the woods. It wasn’t normal, and she’d hardly admit it outright, but Siobhán was dying to go with them. Instead, she focused on the collage of shocked faces in front of her.

  “Someone needs to alert the Huntsmans.” Siobhán gestured to the castle.

  “I’ll do it,” Susan Cahill said. “They will have to answer to this.” Susan strode to the castle, her long legs taking purposeful strides. Oh, Jaysus. Siobhán hoped Susan wasn’t going to start accusing them of wrongdoing straightaway. Personally, she thought it best to warm up to damning accusations.

  “It’s Kevin,” Brenna cried. “Oh my God. It has to be Kevin.” She threw a desperate look to the woods.

  “Keep calm,” Paul said. “We don’t know anything.”

  “Who else could it be?” Brenna’s distress seemed genuine.

  Faye Donnelly cried out. “Martin.” She grabbed Paul’s arm. “Where’s your father?”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “Oh heavens.”

  “Don’t worry,” Alice said. “I saw him early this morning when I went out for a walk, and he said he was headed into town.” She threw a weighted glance at Paul.

  Paul slapped his forehead. “Our early-morning walk. I completely forgot.”

  Alice touched Paul’s arm. “It hardly matters now. Even if you had awoken in time, you were locked in your room.”

  Paul sighed.

  “Please, about Martin,” Faye said.

  Alice gestured toward the road. “He was standing by the castle gate. I didn’t see him until he stepped out of the shadows. Nearly put the heart in me crossways.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t go into the woods?” Faye was growing impatient.

  “As I said, he was headed into Kilbane,” Alice repeated. “Said he wanted to have a look at the medieval walls.”

  “That’s nowhere near the woods,” Siobhán added, hoping to reassure Faye. She admired this Martin’s appreciation of history.

  “But he should have been back by now,” Faye cried. “What if he came back and went into the woods?”

  Paul put his hand around his mother’s shoulders. “You know Father. It’s more likely that he’s chatting up folks in town, dropping a word or two about his lorries.”

  Alice turned to Siobhán. “Martin runs a transport company.” Siobhán nodded politely, although at the moment she didn’t really care.

  Carol and George Hunstman soon emerged from the castle. Carol was a striking woman from Jamaica, and her husband George was a pale man from Manchester. His mother was Irish born, but he seemed to identify more with his English heritage. They headed straight to Val, who was pacing near the gate. No doubt as the castle’s only security guard, he was afraid he was going to catch some of the blame. Siobhán couldn’t help but stare at the couple as they strode by without so much as a glance in anyone’s direction. Had it been Siobhán, she would have stopped to soothe her guests and assure them that everything was going to be alright.

  Carol paced and George gesticulated wildly, no doubt berating Val. Siobhán found herself drifting closer and closer to their conversation. She stopped when she was close enough to hear Carol talking. “How do they know the dead man is with the wedding party?”

  “I assume he’s wearing one of the blue tracksuits,” Siobhán said before she could stop herself. The three heads snapped her way.

  Carol put her hands on her hips and stared at Siobhán. She was wearing bold colors and bright red lipstick that looked gorgeous with her dark skin. “Who are you?”

  “Siobhán O’Sullivan. A friend of Garda Flannery.” In times like these it never hurt to toss around the name of a guard.

  “You’re with the guards?” George said. Unlike his striking wife, he was dressed in neutral tans. He was wearing a vest and a jacket and had binoculars sticking out of one of his pockets. He looked like a man about to go on safari. She could imagine him posing in pictures next to dead lions. The Irish countryside was as gorgeous as any place on earth, but he certainly wouldn’t be encountering big game. Perhaps George Huntsman would have been better suited to prehistoric times, when giant Irish deer roamed the countryside. Their enormous skeletons had been found in Irish bogs. Thank heavens for extinction.

  “I’m in with the guards,” Siobhán said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Whatever got them talking.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Carol said. Gold bracelets jangled on her wrist. “We don’t patrol the woods.”

  “Who did it?” George asked. “A drunk from Kilbane?”

  The disdain in his voice was obvious. Siobhán did her best to ignore it. “Were either of you awake early this morning?”

  “Carol is always at the front desk by eight,” George said. Carol nodded.

  “Not earlier?” Siobhán asked. Brian had stated that he had seen Colm Cahill arguing with the innkeeper this morning over a missing fax.

  “I was up rather early this morning,” Carol said. “The Cahills are very important guests.” She threw a worried look toward the woods.

  “What time?” Siobhán asked.

  Carol shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  George held up his hand. “My fault. The clock above the desk needs a new battery. I keep forgetting.” Carol smiled and patted his hand.

  So much for that line of questioning. It was now half nine. Siobhán had no idea how long the body had been in the woods. And it had already been established that several wedding guests had risen early for morning walks. Alice and Martin, for two, and Brian had mentioned seeing Colm go for his morning walk. Which meant Brian was out and about as well. This was definitely a group of early risers. Siobhán imagined if she were rich she would lie in bed until noon watching telly and eating biscuits. She looked at Carol and tried to keep her voice light. “Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Siobhán didn’t like how quickly Carol answered. Wouldn’t she want to stop and reflect for a moment? “Anything at all?” Siobhán pressed. “I heard one of your guests was upset about a missing fax?”

  Carol gasped. “What on earth does
that have to do with the dead man in the woods?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Siobhán said. “Is there a reason you won’t answer my question?”

  “I put the fax on the basket on the desk. I turned around for two seconds. I don’t know who took it.”

  “Surely they can send another fax,” George said.

  Siobhán was dying to ask if she knew who the fax was from, but their defenses were already up, and of course she didn’t have the authority to press for such personal information. “Brenna said you warned the guests about robberies in the village as of late?” Siobhán resisted the urge to call them dirty liars.

  “Robberies?” Carol said. “What robberies?” She sounded genuinely curious.

  “I knew it!” George said. “That’s your man then.” He gripped his vest and stood taller.

  “Who?” Siobhán asked.

  “Whoever has been robbing the folks in the village.”

  “There are no robberies,” Siobhán said.

  George furled his bushy eyebrows. “You just said there were.”

  “I heard it too,” Val spoke up.

  This was how vicious rumors started. “I didn’t say there had been robberies—I said that Brenna said that the Huntsmans”—she turned to George and Carol—“started the rumor.”

  Carol shook her finger. “We did no such thing.”

  “No such thing,” George echoed, right down to the wagging of his finger.

  Had Brenna lied? If so—why? “You’re denying you said anything about robberies in the village?”

  “Why is a bistro owner asking so many questions?” Val asked, stepping between Siobhán and the Huntsmans.

  “Bistro owner?” Carol asked. Her tone of voice suggested the profession was right up there with serial killer.

  “You said you were with the guards,” George said.

  “I have to check on the others,” Siobhán said. “You can always stop into Naomi’s Bistro if you think of anything else. Or if you want to try our famous brown bread.”

  Carol crinkled her nose. “Our chef is French.”

  Right. Chef Antoine. The man who discovered the body. Now there’s someone she’d like to have a word with. Siobhán turned and hurried away, leaving the three of them staring after her. In the distance, the first of the sirens began to wail. The guards would be here soon.