Murder at an Irish Wedding

by Carlene O'Connor

  Would anyone notice if Siobhán happened to sneak into the woods?

  Having a peek wasn’t a crime, was it? It wasn’t that she wanted to see another dead body, and she crossed herself just thinking of it. But she had sharp eyes; Macdara had said so himself.

  She had just resigned herself to being sensible and staying put when she spotted a man, clothed in black, hunched over and running in the direction of the woods. Did he really think all he had to do was crouch down and he would be invisible? She looked closer and caught sight of a camera in his hands. It was Ronan, the photographer. He was headed for the crime scene to take pictures.

  How morbid. Someone had to stop him. This was the perfect excuse. Siobhán could say she had seen Ronan run into the woods and had followed him as protection, like.

  Or to warn him not to disturb a crime scene. Yes, that sounded like a much better reason to be inserting herself into the crime scene.

  Chapter 5

  Due to the country’s violent past, most of Ireland’s woodlands had been viciously stripped, and now Ireland was the least wooded country in all of Europe. Siobhán was grateful for their patch of woods, although truth be told, the hillside was mostly formed with craggy rocks, thick hedges, and flowering shrubs. But there were enough trees in the mix to still call it the woods, and that’s exactly how everyone in Kilbane referred to the steep hillside with sweeping panoramic views.

  The minute Siobhán stepped foot into the woods, something dark and fuzzy darted across her path, and she nearly died with fright. Her head whipped to the left just as a squirrel scurried up a tree. She wanted to laugh at herself, but this was no moment for gaiety. She placed her hand over her thundering heart. Jaysus. She’d better keep her wits about her. There was a marked dip in temperature, and an earthy scent hugged the air. Ronan was at least twenty feet ahead of her, crackling leaves and snapping twigs as he plowed ahead. Macdara would hear him a mile away. She looked down and spied a packet of Newton cigarettes tossed to the right of the path. She froze. They could belong to the killer.

  Or the victim.

  Or any random person who had ever wandered into these woods.

  But just in case they were evidence, she resisted the urge to pick them up. She’d make a mental note to point them out to the guards.

  The path continued straight for another fifteen feet, then rose sharply, beginning the uphill slope to the peak of the hill. Male voices floated down, raised in anger. As she suspected, Macdara didn’t sound happy about the intrusion into the crime scene. She’d better hurry up if she wanted her excuse to hold water. She began to run and, thanks to her daily jogging practice, managed the hill with only a little heavy breathing. She stopped at the crest to catch her breath. Macdara, Chef Antoine, and Ronan were facing each other in defensive stances.

  And although it was hardly the time to appreciate the view, she’d have to be dead not to. The panorama from the top of the hill was stunning. Ireland’s hills undulated below them like emerald waves. Medieval walls encircled her village like a protective maze. The steeple of Saint Mary’s Cathedral rose high in the air, offering a bit of stoic comfort, and the gentle mounds of the Ballyhoura Mountains completed the postcard-perfect picture.

  Siobhán was purposefully not looking at the body, although she could see a human form on the ground just past where the men were standing. She would work up to it, but for now she wanted to examine the immediate area. Had the victim come here to have a smoke? Sadly, the underbrush was probably full of cigarette butts. She’d have to let the guards sort that out. For now she continued the train of thought. He had had a smoke, stood, and looked at the view. He had finished his smoke. Tossed the butt to the ground. And then what?

  “Ah, for the love of God,” Macdara suddenly called out. Siobhán’s head snapped up. Macdara was looking right at her.

  Siobhán pointed at Ronan. “I saw him run into the woods, and I wanted to warn him not to disturb the crime scene.”

  “Did you now?” Macdara said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his mobile. “Couldn’t have just given me a bell?”

  “I left mine at the bistro,” Siobhán said, as she subtly scanned the perimeter. As a child, she had always been honest to a fault. As she grew older, she saw the need for little white lies. She took a deep breath and finally looked past Macdara and at the victim. The man was dressed in a blue tracksuit and was lying facedown in the dirt. His right arm was out at a slight angle, and his hand was still clutching his blue cap. There was no odor that she could detect; he couldn’t have been dead long. Still, the crisp Irish air was at once a welcome relief. “Is it the best man? Kevin?” From what she could see, he had broad shoulders and short dark hair. He had a long body—tall if he was standing up.

  “I believe so,” Macdara said. “But we won’t know for sure until he’s turned over.”

  “Am I free to leave?” Antoine asked. He was drenched in sweat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds.

  “You can’t smoke near the crime scene,” Madcara said.

  “But of course,” Antoine said. “May I go?”

  “Go on,” Macdara said. “Don’t leave the castle grounds.”

  Chef Antoine looked stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “The guards will want to question you.”

  “Moi? C’est moi?” He seemed to speak in his native tongue whenever he was stressed.

  “Because you found the body,” Siobhán interjected. Antoine turned and looked at her as if noticing her for the first time.

  He shook his finger at Siobhán, and his belly shook in unison. “I was only coming to have a smoke and get a bit of exercise.” He patted his belly.

  “What time was this?” Siobhán asked. She could already feel Macdara’s glare.

  “Just now,” he said slowly, as if Siobhán were incapable of understanding any language.

  Siobhán didn’t let her irritation show. “Tell me everything that happened moment by moment.”

  “What are you doing?” Macdara asked.

  “I come.” Antoine gestured to the spot. “I light.” He mimed flicking a lighter. “I see.” He pointed at the body. “I run!” He pumped his arms and pointed down the hill. He’d be killer in a game of Gestures.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t witness his murder,” Siobhán said. Unless he was the one who killed him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Macdara asked again. If he were a kettle, he’d be boiling. A little distraction was in order.

  “What did you do with your cigarette butt?” She emphasized her point by scanning the grounds.

  Chef Antoine shook his head. “I no smoke. I no smoke. I see. I run!” Once again he pointed to the body, then pumped his arms.

  “Very well.” She turned to Macdara. “The guards will want to search the grounds for cigarette butts, bag them as evidence, and check all of it for DNA.”

  “DNA?” Antoine said.

  “Ah, sure,” Siobhán said. “There will be DNA all over every cigarette butt found in the vicinity. Would you like to change your story?”

  “I no smoke. I swear.” He held both his hands out as if protecting himself from an onslaught. Siobhán took a deep breath in through her nose. This time she swore she could smell a trace of cigar smoke. “Is there a cigar butt anywhere around?”

  Macdara sighed. “Just on the other side of Kevin.” He caught himself. “I mean the body. The name of the victim has not been officially released.” He directed the last bit at Siobhán.

  “Not a bother,” Siobhán said. “Can you manage to point out the cigar butt to the guards, or does it have to be officially identified as well, like?” She didn’t mean to actually say that out loud, but it was too late, already out of her gob. She smiled, hoping to soften the sting.

  Macdara folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll make sure to point it out to the guards.” He gave her a pointed look. “So they can check it out for DNA.”

  Siobhán continue
d. “There’s also an empty pack of Newton cigarettes to the right when you first come on the trail.”

  “Unbelievable,” Macdara shook his head.

  “They are not mine,” Antoine said. “Not mine.”

  “I know,” Siobhán said. “You smoke Marlboro Reds.” He gasped as if she was a mind reader, then looked down at the pack in his hands and nodded. “Do you know if any of the castle employees or guests smoke Newtons?”

  “Siobhán!” Macdara said. “You are not a detective!”

  “Why aren’t you writing this down?” she asked Macdara. She started counting off on her fingers. “The cigarette butt. The empty pack of Newtons by the entrance. The discarded cigar, and the fact that Chef Antoine smokes Marlboro Reds.”

  “I’m going to quit,” Chef Antoine said. “But not today.”

  “Have you tried the patch?” Siobhán asked.

  “I have to ask all of you to leave the crime scene,” Macdara said.

  “May I go?” Antoine asked, his eyes ping-ponging between Siobhán and Macdara.

  “You will have to stay on the castle grounds until the guards have cleared you,” Macdara said.

  Antoine began to pace. A horrified look swept across his face. “Will they cancel the wedding?”

  “One thing at a time,” Macdara said.

  “Of course they’ll cancel,” Siobhán said. She felt a quick pinch to the back of her arm and jumped. Macdara. She stopped talking.

  Antoine shook his fist. “I’d better still get paid. If the wedding is off, I’d better still get paid!” He turned, wiped his brow with his chef’s hat, and shot Siobhán such a searing look she took a step back. She was relieved when he stormed down the hill.

  Siobhán’s gaze was drawn back to the body. There was a large rock lying by the head of the corpse. The rock was washed in crimson. She leaned forward to see the same dark color red clumped on the back of Kevin’s head and running into the earth. She crossed herself. “Oh. The poor fella.” Instinctively, Siobhán moved forward.

  “Don’t come any closer.” Macdara clamped down on her arm. Suddenly the click, click, click of a camera brought her attention back to Ronan. Siobhán had forgotten all about him. What was it about someone behind a camera that rendered one invisible? She looked at Ronan, and he returned her stare as if she was challenging him to some kind of dare.

  Macdara pointed at the camera. “Every single photograph is going to be the property of the gardai. Do you hear?”

  “Yes sir,” Ronan said. This was the first time Siobhán had seen him up close. She pegged him to be in his thirties, and he had olive skin, spikey black hair, and green eyes rimmed with black eyeliner. A silver hoop dangled out of his left nostril. Streaks of neon green dotted his hair, making it seem as if blades of grass were growing out of his skull. Very artsy. He was rail thin and jittery. He looked like a cat burglar at the end of a long hunger strike. She had the urge to shove him into a chair and feed him bacon and cabbage until he filled out a wee bit.

  “If one of those photos shows up anywhere else, I’ll arrest ye meself,” Macdara added. In lieu of an answer, Ronan snapped a picture of Macdara.

  “What if he’s still alive?” Siobhán said, glancing once more at the body. “Hello?” The body did not move.

  “He’s definitely not alive,” Macdara said. “You need to leave the crime scene.”

  Siobhán crossed herself. “Who did this to you?” she asked the dead man.

  “For the love of God, off with ye,” Macdara pleaded.

  She didn’t move. The killer could still be in the woods, watching them. What if he or she followed Siobhán? Or what if she left and the killer attacked Macdara? If they both ran for help, what if the killer tried to hide the rock? Or remove the cigar butt? There could be loads of evidence they could cover up.

  “Obviously the rock is your murder weapon,” Siobhán said.

  “No,” Macdara said.

  “No?”

  Macdara shifted. “It could be alright, and it probably is, but you can’t say for sure. It’s a mistake to draw conclusions before all the evidence is in.”

  Siobhán nodded but continued mulling it over. “If the rock is the murder weapon, then it was an impulsive kill.”

  “Not necessarily,” Macdara said.

  “Explain.” Siobhán waited. Ronan stopped snapping his camera and watched them.

  Macdara sighed. “On Wednesday morning and afternoon, all the wedding guests took strolls in the woods. The killer could have seen the rock, maybe even taken it then.” Macdara looked around, as they imagined the scene unfolding. “They could have even hidden it up here, waiting for an opportunity to strike.”

  “Literally,” Ronan chimed in.

  “Premeditated,” Siobhán whispered. “How did they know Kevin would be here?”

  Macdara pointed at her. “You are not investigating this murder.”

  Siobhán folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  “What?” Macdara looked genuinely confused.

  “If men can say it to me, I can say it back.”

  “I swear I’ll never say it to ye again. Now would you get out of here before the guards arrive and you become a suspect?”

  “Why would I become a suspect?”

  “Because murderers often like to revisit the crime scene,” Ronan said. He sounded very enthusiastic.

  “You could be the murderer then,” Siobhán said, eyeing him.

  Ronan flashed a smile. “You’re right,” he said as if it pleased him. He took a selfie with his tongue sticking out.

  “The two of you clear out now,” Macdara ordered. He pointed at Ronan. “I want that camera card. Now.”

  “Chef Antoine discovered the body. Does that mean he’s at the top of the suspect list?” Ronan asked as he snapped Siobhán’s picture yet again.

  “Why are you photographing me?” Siobhán asked.

  “Because I like your fiery red hair and gorgeous face.” This time he popped the flash, and for a second she saw nothing but spots.

  “Stop that!” She had a sudden urge to smash his camera and instantly empathized with poor Kevin for doing exactly that the night before. Could that have been reason enough to kill him? Earlier Ronan had been pacing like a caged tiger. Now he seemed calm and happy. Hardly appropriate given the circumstances. Perhaps he’d just been waiting for them to discover the body? “That camera looks very dear.” Siobhán kept her voice light.

  Ronan’s eyes darkened. “I had a better one.” He glared at the corpse.

  “Oh? What happened to it?” Siobhán resisted the urge to flutter her eyelashes.

  “What business is it of yours?” he said. His face showed definite signs of rage. Siobhán could imagine that to an artist a camera might feel like a child. One he couldn’t live without. She’d be out of her mind if anyone ever damaged her prized cappuccino machine at the bistro. Or her pink Vespa. She’d definitely come to blows if anyone tried to scooter-jack her ride.

  Had Ronan followed Kevin up the hill this morning? Tried to get Kevin to apologize? Maybe Kevin taunted him. She could easily see Ronan smashing a rock into the back of his head—just like Kevin had smashed his camera. No. Not just his camera. His baby. An eye for an eye. Ronan whirled around, then darted down the hill without another word. Strange, Siobhán thought. Very, very strange.

  Macdara threw his arms open. “He still has the camera card!”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” He sighed. “What was that all about?”

  Siobhán was thrilled to fill him in. “Kevin smashed Ronan’s good camera last night.”

  Macdara crossed his arms and sighed. “Who is Ronan?”

  “The photographer that was just here, visiting the crime scene, avoiding my questions, and looking strangely thrilled?”

  “Thrilled?” Macdara said. “I saw sulking.”

  “Before the body was found, he was pacing and raging. Had Alice
fretting up a storm. But just now he seemed completely thrilled that a man has been murdered.”

  “Why was Alice fretting?”

  “Apparently he’s some famous artist in Dublin, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “You were all supposed to have a morning photo taken in your tracksuits!” Siobhán pointed to Macdara’s tracksuit.

  “Right, so. I was detained by Mam. She wanted to have tea and biscuits before we joined the others.”

  “He could also stand a good feeding.”

  “Who?”

  “Are you not listening to me? Ronan, that’s who. He’s a twig.”

  “And that makes him a murderer?”

  “Did ye not hear the part about the murder victim smashing his prized camera?” He definitely wasn’t listening to her. Typical. “I take it ye missed all the excitement?”

  “I had to take my mam home early. When I left the craic was mighty.”

  Siobhán crossed herself and sent a silent apology to the body before speaking. “I heard Kevin made quite the scene.” She found herself whispering it. “Colm Cahill had to pay Ronan five thousand euros for the smashed lens.”

  “If he was paid that much for it, then what would be the motive to kill Kevin?”

  “Maybe he followed Kevin this morning to demand an apology. Or”—Siobhán started to pace—“maybe there was something on his camera, one of those camera cards, and maybe Kevin stole it.”

  “Now you’re just making things up.”

  “It’s possible, though, isn’t it? He stole some kind of incriminating picture and was blackmailing the photographer.” She pointed at the body. “We’ll have to search his pockets.”

  “We?”

  “It’s a figure of speech. You. You should search him.” Siobhán pointed.

  Macdara didn’t make a move. “First of all, no one is touching the body but the state pathologist. Second of all, if Kevin was murdered over a camera card or any other object, don’t you think the murderer would have taken the object in question with him?”