Murder at an Irish Wedding

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I’m just making conversation.” Macdara relaxed. She felt guilty that he bought her little white lie. “Has anyone else reported any robberies?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Peter Hennessy is convinced that someone keeps taking his ladder. But every time I go into his hardware shop, I find it leaning up against a different shelf. He’s getting forgetful.”

  “So that doesn’t count.”

  “A few reports have been filed on the travelers. But that’s also nothing new.”

  Travelers was the polite name for itinerants. Tinkers, gypsies, and bleeding thieves were other names she often heard them called. They set up their caravans on the outskirts of Kilbane, and there was no love lost between their camps and the locals. They illegally hooked up to the town’s electricity lines, their horses and dogs were so skinny you could see ribs, their children didn’t go to school, and quite often you couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Siobhán didn’t feel comfortable around them, but she also didn’t like the names they were called. There were definitely a few heads in town who would love to pin a murder on one of them.

  Siobhán sighed and held up the binoculars. Antoine and Brian were conversing now. Siobhán wished they could hear what they were saying, but it was obvious to anyone looking on that they were in a great state of agitation.

  “Stakeouts aren’t nearly as exciting in person as they are on telly,” Siobhán remarked, biting into a chocolate.

  “Christ, I know. We’ve only been here ten minutes, and I’m itching to move,” Macdara said.

  “Jaysus. Has it been that long?”

  Macdara laughed, wrapped his hand around her waist, and pulled her in for a kiss. Siobhán shoved him away. “We’re on duty.”

  “And your mouth is too busy with the chocolate to bother with the likes of me.”

  She was startled how well he knew her.

  From down the street came the rumblings of a lorry with a rattling muffler. It troddled into view, black smoke belching from the exhaust pipe. It lurched up to the pub with a screech. Passersby backed up; some pointed and laughed. This beat-up piece of tin couldn’t be carrying the shipment, could it? She peered through the binoculars again. MARTIN’S TRANSPORT was stamped across the side. “We were right.”

  “Martin’s Transport,” Macdara said. Siobhán handed Macdara the binoculars. “I can see it with me own eyes. It’s only across the street, like.”

  Siobhán grabbed the binoculars back. “Suit yourself.” Antoine and Brian were now unloading boxes from the back of Martin’s wreck and into the boot of the lorry they’d rented. Thick black exhaust continued to belch into the air. “Pretty clear why Susan didn’t want that mess pulling into Kilbane,” Siobhán said. Another letdown.

  “Hardly a mystery,” Macdara agreed. “The real question is why? Or, more to the point, how? How did Martin Donnelly convince Susan Cahill to switch to his transport company? What does he have on her?”

  “What if it isn’t Martin who has something on her?” Siobhán probed. Macdara waited. “Could it have been Faye? Or Paul?” Her voice cracked.

  “Could be,” Macdara said. A clipped and guarded answer. He didn’t want to appear to be biased.

  “Faye trying to help out her husband, or Paul trying to help out his father.”

  “I get it,” Macdara said.

  “And Paul was angry with Kevin. So angry he fired him as his best man.”

  “And that makes him a killer?”

  “We have to consider everyone,” she said softly.

  “I’ll find out who the original suppliers were—”

  Siobhán held up her hand. “All France for the champagne, Farm to Table in Dublin for the produce, the meat from a butcher in Cork, the cake from—”

  Macdara grabbed her hand. “I get it. You’re three steps ahead of me.” He was definitely browned off.

  It was more likely six steps ahead of him, but once again nobody liked a braggart. Siobhán held up her notebook. “Helps to have one of these.”

  “And be a Nosy Nellie.”

  “That too. Now shall we go to the chipper before heading back?”

  “Curried chips?” Macdara asked, his voice brightening. Siobhán nodded. Nothing sorted sore feelings like a basket of curried chips. Macdara took her hand and squeezed. “You’re my soul mate.”

  By the time they reached Macdara’s car, hands full with their curried chips, twenty minutes had passed. Macdara came to a sudden stop, and Siobhán almost coated his back with the delectable sauce. She looked around him to see what had arrested his attention. It was the windshield of his car. Written in bright red lettering, three words were scrawled on the windshield:

  STOP OR DIE

  Chapter 20

  Cars wooshed by, birds circled and cried overhead, and the Shannon River gently flowed while Siobhán and Macdara stared at the threat on the windshield.

  “You have to appreciate the brevity,” Macdara said after a long pause.

  Siobhán edged forward and examined it. “Why, it looks like lipstick,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” Macdara asked.

  “No. That’s why I said, ‘It looks like lipstick.’” She glanced in the direction of the Limerick Pub. “Brian or Antoine?”

  Macdara shook his head. “Now, why would Brian or Antoine be carrying around red lipstick?”

  “That’s what I would do if I was a man and a murderer,” Siobhán said. “Throw us off the scent. Besides, you never know what one does in private, now do ye?”

  Macdara grimaced. “Don’t put thoughts like that in me head.”

  “Don’t be so judgmental. Besides, a man can walk into a shop and buy lipstick as a gift for a woman, can he not?”

  “Alright, alright,” Macdara said, throwing up his hands. “But if Brian or Antoine saw us, then they know we know they’re here.”

  “So?”

  “Why would they risk it when it would be super easy for us to figure out it was one of them?”

  “And yet we still don’t know,” Siobhán said. She edged closer. She wanted to touch the substance and see what it was, but of course she wasn’t going to tamper with evidence. It definitely wasn’t blood, but the color was a warning, along with the words. Siobhán glanced down the street, trying to ascertain which stores had cameras that might have caught anyone approaching the car. “We can get them to pull the CCTV footage.”

  “Cork will have to call into Limerick for them. It’s not going to be quick. Until then I’m going to have to drive with this on the windshield.”

  “Maybe you should call some of your colleagues now. They might want us to leave the car here.”

  Macdara sighed. Then nodded. He took out his mobile and walked a few feet away. Siobhán stared at the message. They would have to suss out what everyone else had been doing while they were here. Was the killer nearby? Watching them right now?

  The killer was getting worried, which had to mean they were getting close. It was broad daylight; someone had to have seen something. So the killer was also getting careless. Was it only a matter of time before they fatally slipped up? They should canvass every single establishment right now. The car was parked on a side street, not directly across from any buildings, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  When Macdara returned, his face was scrunched with anger. She was about to ask him what on earth was the matter when it dawned on her. O’Brien had told him everything.

  Macdara pinned his beautiful blue eyes on her. “Shoved down the stairs?”

  “I had on stocking feet.”

  He took a protective step forward, although his jaw was clenched in anger. “Are you hurt?”

  Siobhán shook her head. “Just a bit sore.”

  “I’m a bit sore as well. You aren’t supposed to be here. Did ye know that?”

  “I did not specifically know that.”

  “O’Brien didn’t tell ye to back off?”

  “He might have done. But he did not specifically cancel this prearra
nged stakeout.”

  Macdara jabbed his finger at her. “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie. I omitted.”

  “Omitted a lot, didn’t ye?”

  Siobhán’s mind raced. What else? “The tree?”

  Macdara frowned. “The alibis,” he said. “What tree?”

  “Right. The alibis and the shove.” And the tree. And Val manhandling her. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re getting a taxi home, I’m dropping you back off to the bistro, and you’ll be done with this whole mess.”

  “I’m still invited to the wedding.”

  Macdara’s eyes flashed. “You were never invited to the wedding.”

  Siobhán thrust her chin up. “Alice invited me.”

  “Did she now?”

  “Indeed she did.”

  “O’Brien just went ballistic. I had to talk him out of arresting you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re withholding evidence and interfering with this investigation.”

  “You’re the one who said I was one of the best investigators they have.”

  “I was wrong. You’re not trained for this. This is all my fault.” A taxi pulled up to the curb. He had called it as soon as he’d finished his call with O’Brien. Macdara opened the back door and gestured for her to get in.

  “I thought we should talk to a few shop owners—”

  “In.” Siobhán got in the car. Macdara got in after her and slammed the door shut. “It’s your car,” she said. “I think the message was meant for you.” Macdara gave her a sideways glance. She didn’t want to joke about either of them dying, but it worked. A tiny smile broke out on his face. “You have to stop,” he said. “I’m not joking.”

  She smiled and nodded, suddenly feeling very drained. Maybe he was right. She wasn’t a trained investigator. She had a bistro to run, young ones to mind. University catalogs to peruse.

  STOP OR DIE

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that Macdara might be in danger. And she really couldn’t shake the feeling that one of Macdara’s oldest and dearest friends might just be the killer. Colm was bearing down on him, trying to break up this wedding. It was working too. Alice was having doubts. There was no other way to explain those letters in her rubbish bin. What if Paul had read them? Wouldn’t he kill to keep the woman he loved? She didn’t want the killer to be Paul, but that was exactly why she had to clear him. If he was innocent, she would prove it. And if he wasn’t? Well, no one else was going to go there. From what she could see, O’Brien was spending more time fixing wobbling tables than investigating this case. Macdara was barred from investigating, and he was way too close. Paul might have even planted Macdara’s cap at the scene to throw suspicion on him. Again, she didn’t want it to be true, but it was a distinct possibility. Either Kevin was wearing that cap, or someone wanted to set Macdara up for murder. She wasn’t the one who should stop investigating. She was making headway. She was rattling the killer. She was going to keep asking questions. She would do her best to keep under the radar. And she knew just where her next line of inquiry should begin.

  * * *

  Siobhán found Martin Donnelly in Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub, which was her very last shot since asking around and hearing from several sources that it wouldn’t have been unusual for him to have snuck out for a nip. A wave of sadness hit Siobhán as she entered the establishment; she hated the pall, and the dim lights, and the sad boxes of tissues on nearly every surface. Her parents had been taken care of here, as was everyone else in town, and if she had her way she’d never walk in here again. Martin Donnelly was alone at the bar, hunched over at the very last stool. John Butler, the undertaker and bartender, peeked out from behind a pair of red curtains upon her entrance. He was a middle-aged man with a rather formal and theatrical appearance. His eyebrows were penciled in. He had a gaunt face and a slim build. He always wore a buttoned-up suit and often carried a cane. Today he looked like a man who didn’t want to see or be seen. He raised his eyebrow as if to ask her if she was here for a drink, and when she shook her head no, he disappeared again without another word.

  “Martin?”

  His head jerked up in surprise, and when he met her eyes, for a second she saw a flash of what felt like rage. Just as quickly, he recovered and even offered a smile, which Siobhán found way creepier.

  “You found me,” he said.

  “Small village.”

  “I’m beginning to notice.”

  “You’re blackmailing Susan Cahill.” Some people you had to warm up, but Siobhán got the feeling that Martin would say more if he was knocked off-kilter.

  “She’s lying!” He shot up from his stool and knocked over his pint. Siobhán grabbed a box of tissues and began mopping it up, a reflex from working in the bistro.

  Siobhán decided to play along with his suspicions. “I figured as much. I wonder why would she lie?”

  Martin’s left eyebrow began to twitch. “What exactly did she say?”

  “What do you think she said?” Siobhán tried to say it with as much attitude as possible.

  “It was a gesture, that’s all. We’re family now.” He sounded as if he was trying to talk himself into it. He also sounded as if he hadn’t been the mastermind.

  “I think it’s admirable that Paul is looking out for you,” Siobhán said. It was a shot in the dark.

  The twitch grew more pronounced. “I don’t know what you mean.” But he did know what Siobhán meant. Had Paul insisted that Susan use Martin’s transport company?

  Siobhán sat down next to him. “You must be very conflicted about this marriage.”

  “I never said any such thing!”

  “I can only imagine how I’d feel if Colm and Susan were about to become part of my family.”

  “I have no feelings,” Martin said. He lifted his pint. “This helps.” He guzzled the remainder of his pint. “Publican!” John Butler did not appear.

  “You argued with Kevin the night he died?” Since almost everyone seemed to have had a run-in with Kevin, this wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark. More like a shot in the dim.

  “Wrecked chicken,” Martin muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’ve heard it. I know you’ve heard it.”

  “Wrecked chicken?”

  “Go ahead. Have a laugh.”

  Siobhán kept perched on her stool even though she’d rather run from the place as if she were on fire. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Are ye messing?”

  “No. Haven’t heard a word.”

  Martin harrumphed. “You already know I have me own transport company.”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “Had an awful mess about six months back. Had a little accident. I was transporting chickens. Loads of ’em. Hit a bump in the road, and me truck veered off into a ditch. Rolled onto its side. Poor fellas. Most of them didn’t make it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, well. They weren’t going to make it much longer anyway, you know.”

  This was not the conversation Siobhán planned on having, and she really didn’t know how to respond, so she just nodded and made a comforting tsk-tsk sound.

  “But Kevin thought it was mighty hilarious. All night long he says to me, ‘What’s for dinner tonight, Martin. Wrecked chicken?’ ”

  Martin looked outraged, and Siobhán did her best to copy his expression. “But do you think I would kill him over that?” He shook his head. “Pah.”

  Siobhán believed him. Sitting before her was a shrunken man. She couldn’t imagine him bashing anyone with a rock. She couldn’t even imagine him expending the energy to lift a rock unless he thought there was a pint buried underneath. “What about your wife?”

  “You leave her out of this.” Suddenly Martin was in Siobhán’s face, his finger pointing directly at her, his jaw clenched with rage. “She was right about one thing. This bloody wedding was a huge mistake!”

  He stood, and t
urned. “It was one of the Cahills who killed Kevin. You mark my words. That insufferable couple would do anything to get their way. Anything!”

  With that, he stormed past her and slammed out the door. John Butler appeared through the curtains and stared at her. “Oh my,” he said and disappeared as quickly as he came. Siobhán hurried out of the depressing lounge. So either Faye or Paul had convinced Susan to use Martin’s company to deliver a new shipment of champagne. One of them had something on her. Which one, and what exactly were they holding over her head?

  * * *

  Charleville, County Cork, was situated in the Golden Vale, on a tributary of the River Maigue. The area was renowned for its lush, rolling pastures. It was bordered to the west by the Galtee Mountains and backed up by the picturesque Glen of Aherlow, a delightful valley that drew many an eye, tourists and locals alike. The third largest city in Cork, Charleville was the closest city to Kilbane, and Siobhán loved not only the change of scenery but the plethora of shops. It was the most logical place to come for the bits and bobs needed for the wedding, starting with flowers.

  Alice, Brenna, Susan, and Siobhán had no sooner stepped into the flower shop when an argument ensued between mother and daughter.

  “White lilies,” Susan said, gravitating toward a bouquet.

  “No,” Alice said. “Lilies make me think of death.” She shuddered. “We’ve had enough of that.”

  “Marriage is a form of death, dear,” Susan said. “Besides. They’re traditional.”

  “Bells of Ireland are traditional too,” Siobhán suggested. “Or wildflowers.”

  “I’m not paying for wildflowers,” Susan said.

  “You don’t pay for wildflowers, Mother, you pick them.” Alice rolled her eyes and glanced at Siobhán. “I loved the flower arrangement Siobhán had on her table. White roses with two red in the middle. That’s what I’d like.”

  “We need flowers for all the tables,” Susan said.

  “The beauty of a small wedding, Mother, is that we only have one table.”

  “Everyone is going to sit at the bridal table?” Susan sounded horrified.

  “I’ll get one bouquet to take down the aisle, and you can get whatever else you want for the table at the abbey. Except white lilies. Anything except lilies.”