Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Siobhán nodded. “Very out of place. Same with Florence Nightingale.”

  Macdara laughed. “Very pretty, that one,” he said lightly.

  “Too pretty to be a killer?” Siobhán said, hoping the depth of sarcasm showed.

  He laughed again, and Siobhán shook her head. She thought Macdara was just going to drop her off at Naomi’s, but instead he accepted her offer to come in and have a mug of tea. The lunch shift had just ended and the CLOSED sign hung on the door. Breakfast and lunch were all they served; dinner was family time. Siobhán was thrilled to find the fire still going. She put the kettle on the cooker and in no time they were settled in front of the fire with brown bread with butter and jam, and mugs of Barry’s tea, Siobhán with her notebook in her lap.

  “More initial impressions?” Macdara asked.

  “Hannah Stripes was awfully sophisticated for a nurse. At the same time she seems a bit immature.” Siobhán fluttered her eyelashes. “Pretty as she may be.”

  “Agreed.” He shrugged. “But she’s young. And American.”

  “But where’s the respect for the dead man and the family? And she certainly wasn’t dressed like a nurse.”

  Macdara grinned. “She was dressed like lads imagine nurses dressing,” he quipped. Siobhán resisted the urge to lob her tea bag at his head. Macdara dropped the teasing. “People can be clueless, even heartless, inappropriately dressed, yet still innocent of murder.”

  Siobhán sighed. He had a point there. Or did he see a young, pretty girl and refuse to think she could be a killer? Siobhán wasn’t that much older than Hannah, but she felt ancient in comparison. “We have a lot more to learn.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Something caused Peter Mallon to abruptly leave the museum tour. We need to figure out what that something was.”

  “Hopefully, the pathologist will find his mobile phone. We can also pull CCTV footage from Cork City—especially around the museum. We’ll talk to the tour guides there as well. We’ll canvass anyone who might have come across him.”

  “He could have even come into the bistro. I’ll have to ask James. Or Elise,” she said with a growl. Macdara raised his eyebrow. “James has a new girlfriend.” Siobhán forced a positive tone. “Her name is Elise.”

  Macdara registered the news in silence. He had warned her not to talk about anything personal, but they had to have some conversation, didn’t they?

  “I can’t imagine anyone visiting Kilbane without coming to Naomi’s,” Macdara said with a wink.

  Siobhán sighed in relief and smiled back. She hated how different things were between them now. If she could turn back time, go back and do it over, would she have chosen a different path?

  There probably wasn’t a soul alive who hadn’t wondered the same thing. And what a woeful dilemma; nobody ever got a do-over. Her father used to say, “If wishes were horses, how Siobhán would ride.” He was right. She wanted it all: the job and the man. Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan. She did the right thing. Why couldn’t he see that?

  “Tracy certainly doesn’t like her stepmother,” Macdara said. “And it seems the animosity is mutual.”

  “‘’Tis only a stepmother would blame you,’” Siobhán quipped. Her mam used to love that saying as well. Naomi O’Sullivan had a million of them, and Siobhán missed hearing every single one, delivered in her mam’s soft lilt with a tilt of her head and a gleam in her eye.

  Macdara winked and twirled his teacup on the plate. “Greta certainly went out of her way to let us know she isn’t after Peter’s money.”

  “She doth protest too much?”

  Macdara tossed his head. “It crossed my mind.”

  “Me too.” She jotted down a few notes. “What were your impressions of Brandon and Frank?”

  “Brandon looked like a coil ready to spring. Could be that gambling addiction Greta was on about. Maybe he’s jumpy from withdrawal. Or his own urges. Frank was very reserved. Hard to get a bead on that one.”

  “Except for the fact that he rubs the top of his head when he’s nervous,” Siobhán said. “We also can’t ignore the fact that Brandon was out all night.”

  “Agreed. It’s an odd group. Interesting days ahead.”

  “When are we going to tell them about the headstone bearing their surname?”

  “When it’s no longer a crime scene, we’ll take them to the churchyard and show them. See what kind of reaction it stirs up.” Macdara finished his tea and stood. “I have to get back to the station and meet with the state pathologist.”

  “Shall I come back to the office with ye?” Siobhán asked. She was dying to hear firsthand what the pathologist had to say.

  “Why don’t you start in town? See if anyone met the poor fella and remembers anything that might help.”

  Darn. He wasn’t going to let her. She already canvassed the town and he knew that. Was he purposefully keeping her at arm’s length? “Will do.”

  Macdara tipped his cap and was off. She watched him from the window until he was out of sight.

  * * *

  Siobhán found Bridie Sheedy coming out of Courtney’s gift shop. She was a petite woman with bouncy chestnut curls and an abundance of energy.

  “How ya,” she called brightly to Siobhán.

  “Grand, grand, you?”

  “Not a bother.”

  Bridie began to walk and Siobhán took up alongside her. “I was wondering if you’d seen an American man in the bistro the past week?”

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask me that,” Bridie said. “He came into the bistro, alright.”

  Siobhán came to full attention, and touched Bridie’s arm. “Tell me everything.”

  “Not a bother, pet, but you’ll have to come with me to spinning class. If you’re late, the instructor makes you turn up the resistance to ten.” She shuddered.

  “Why don’t you skip the workout today?” Siobhán said, having no desire to injure her lady parts on a hard bicycle seat.

  “Are you joking me? After working all week with Elise, I’ll go mental if I don’t get in my workout. I wouldn’t have imagined James with such a sour little puss, in all me life.”

  “Why don’t we go shopping instead?” Siobhán suggested. “That’s good for stress.”

  “I’m going spinning,” Bridie said. “With or without ye.”

  Siobhán preferred a good run outside, but since that wasn’t wise with all the ice and snow, she acquiesced. After having spent the day with Macdara, she could stand to burn off some extra energy as well.

  Soon they were both in the gym, pedaling like mad, in a room full of other women pedaling like mad, but none getting anywhere. Not to mention that it hurt. Not just the drill sergeant commands from a tiny woman with a bouncing ponytail, and a set of lungs like a bullhorn, but Siobhán found she had to pedal standing up, or face the torture of sitting down and risk not being able to walk a straight line for a solid week. How Bridie could pedal and talk at the same time was one of life’s little mysteries, but soon she began to fill Siobhán in on her encounter with Peter Mallon.

  “He was a tall, skinny fella. Older. Dressed like a color-blind professor.” Bridie’s curls bounced as she pedaled.

  Siobhán sucked in air. “That sounds like him. What else?”

  “He ordered the Irish breakfast.”

  Eggs over easy, rashers, black pudding, white pudding, sausages, potatoes, brown bread slathered in butter, and Barry’s tea. Siobhán hoped he had liked it. It was sad to realize it had been one of his last meals. At least he had chosen something delicious and hearty. Every second of life counted in the end. Every meal should be savored. “Did he talk about why he was in Kilbane?”

  “Said they were doing a show on telly about tracing his Irish ancestry. Said his great-grandfather emigrated to America just after an Gorta Mór. A friend in America helped his great grandparents start a pub and restaurant, and a hearty portion of the profits were donated to local organizations to feed the poor. They never wa
nted anyone to experience the horror of starvation. A grand tribute to Ireland I’d say. Peter Mallon dropped the pub, can ye imagine that, but continued with the restaurant, and feeding the poor. Said there were six franchises all over the States, and all of them were required to be just as generous with donations to local food kitchens. But he also winked and said Naomi’s was better. He wanted to speak with you.”

  “Me?” Siobhán said. This was news.

  “He wanted to know if we’d be willing to share any of our recipes.”

  “Sweet.” He sounded like a nice man. Not that they would have given him any recipes, but who would want to harm a nice older man whose mission was to feed the hungry? She was eager to learn more about these restaurants from the Mallon family. Maybe she could adopt a similar model with the bistro. She was ashamed she hadn’t thought of it. “Anything else?” Siobhán panted as sweat dripped down her face.

  Bridie started pedaling faster. “He said something about family being both a blessing and a curse. And then he did ask me a strange question.”

  Siobhán wished she weren’t so out of breath. “Go on.”

  “He asked if I thought you could ever know someone. Like really know them.”

  Was he talking about Tracy? Was she trying to have him declared incompetent? “Anything else?”

  “No.” She was flying it now, pumping away. “Wait. One more thing. He asked if there were any living Mallons in Kilbane.”

  Siobhán thought of the headstone. Apparently, there used to be. “I don’t know of any, do you?”

  Bridie shook her head. Siobhán had to duck to keep sweat from pelting her. “Could be in someone’s maternal line.”

  Siobhán hadn’t thought of that. Maybe she would have to check in with the church records. “Thanks,” Siobhán said, hopping off the bike.

  “The class isn’t over,” Bridie said, horrified.

  “It is for me,” Siobhán said, hobbling away. “I intend on having children of me own someday.”

  Chapter 9

  Chris Gordon, the only American living in Kilbane, and the owner of Gordon’s Comics, had recently purchased the flats above it, and rented them out through Airbnb. Siobhán secured enough rooms for their group from Cork City. She also asked Chris to report anything odd. She stood in his store and watched as he stocked the shelves with violent and glossy-covered comics.

  “You mean I’m like a spy?” he said with a grin. He was a very good-looking lad, the dimpled kind featured on soap operas on telly, yet, despite attracting tons of attention from a variety of local ladies, he had always had a crush on Siobhán. Chris Gordon was definitely a man who led from his groin.

  “Not ‘like a spy,’ ” Siobhán said. “Just alert me if there’s anything suspicious or worrisome.”

  “Like a spy,” he repeated, eyes shining with excitement.

  “I just want to keep everyone safe,” she said.

  “Wait. Are you saying that a murderer will be living up there?” He sounded more hopeful than worried.

  “I’m saying no such thing.”

  “Right,” he said with an exaggerated nod and a wink. “Do you want me to put cameras in the rooms?”

  “No!” Siobhán said. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Sorry.” Chris promised he’d behave, but the grin didn’t leave his face. “First snow and now a murder, with the suspects living right above.” He looked around his empty little shop. “Business is going to be booming.”

  Siobhán nodded, although she knew very well it was his trust fund—and not business—that kept the shop open so that he would have an excuse to read comic books all day. At least she’d found their guests a place to stay, and who better to put up with Americans than one of their own?

  “They’ll be checking in soon. If everything’s ready?”

  “For you?” he said, treating her to a slow grin. “It’s always ready.”

  Siobhán frowned. “But for them?”

  His grinned disappeared. “The rooms are ready. They’ll actually be my first guests.”

  “Good on ye,” Siobhán said. She stopped before leaving the shop. “Did an American man come in here last week?”

  “You mean the victim? Peter Mallon?”

  She sighed. The entire town knew everything by now. “Yes. Did Peter Mallon come into the shop?”

  Chris shook his head. “No. He did not come into the shop.”

  Siobhán nodded. She thought as much. A man here to see Irish history wasn’t about to waste his time in a comic-book shop. She realized she was still staring at Chris. He winked at her. She hightailed it out the door before he started flexing his biceps.

  * * *

  To Siobhán’s surprise, the group wanted to gather at the famine memorial before checking into their rooms or having a spot of lunch. They gathered in the park in front of a somber stone pillar and dedicated plaque that read:

  an gorta mór 1845–1850

  Let us remember the famine victims lying here in

  unmarked graves and without anger or reproach

  dedicate ourselves to ensuring that nobody will

  ever again die in want in this bountiful land that

  God gave to us.

  It tugged at Siobhán’s heart every time she read it. The fields surrounding them took on a high glow as the sun bounced off the snow. A quiet stillness always came over her whenever she was here. Countless victims were buried beneath them in unmarked graves. It was both a somber place for reflection and a gathering place for family and children. The Americans gathered around, and Siobhán was surprised to see Jay was filming.

  “Peter would have wanted us to continue making the documentary,” Greta said, catching Siobhán’s glance at the recorder. “We all agreed.”

  “Not all of us,” Tracy said, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “I think it’s morbid.” Her coat looked like the latest fashion trend and her blond hair spilled out of a stylish cap. Greta, on the other hand, had a knit cap pulled over her head and a winter coat that was so bulky, she all but disappeared in it. Brandon wasn’t wearing a coat at all, and Siobhán didn’t know whether he was trying to be masculine or was just immune to the cold. But every time she looked at him, she had an urge to wrap him in a blanket. He gave off the air of a man trying to appear more confident than he felt, which was probably true of all men and women, but with Brandon it was easy to spot the forced bravado.

  “I hope Peter made it here,” Greta said, clasping her hands and looking around. “I think he must have.”

  “He would have felt a connection here,” Frank agreed. “This is where our mission started.” He unfolded his arms as if they were wings. His trench coat was similar to the one they’d found his brother in. Although unlike Peter Mallon’s mismatched attire, Frank’s outfit was made up of complementary shades of black and gray. He stood tall and exuded the air of a distinguished gentleman.

  “Your mission?” Brandon said. His shoulders were hunched against the cold.

  Frank looked startled, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. “Your father deserves the credit.”

  “Damn right he does,” Brandon said, chest thrust forward, eyes flashing.

  “That’s enough,” Greta said. “Your uncle has been on board for many years now. Let it go.”

  Siobhán and Macdara’s eyes flitted around the group, taking it all in. Once again she noticed Brandon shivering. “Don’t you have a winter coat?”

  Brandon looked startled, then shrugged. “I had no idea it got so cold in Ireland.”

  Tracy sidled up to him. “What happened to your black coat?”

  Brandon shrugged. “I think I left it on the plane.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Tracy said. She brought out her mobile and swiped through it. She then faced the screen to Brandon. “You were wearing it at the Titanic Experience.”

  Brandon glanced at the photo. “So I was,” he said. His gaze shifted to Siobhán. “We tried to get father to get in th
e picture. He wouldn’t do it. It would have been the last photograph we’d had of him.”

  “You’re right,” Tracy said. Fresh grief appeared on her face. Siobhán knew exactly what they were going through. Grief was a thief, stealing bits of you like a vulture, pecking anew when you least expected it.

  “I went to the restroom after we took the photo,” Brandon said, snapping his fingers. “I bet I left my coat there.”

  “I’m sure if you call the museum, they’ll have a lost and found,” Siobhán said. People were always leaving items behind in the bistro. Umbrellas, sunglasses, jackets, scarves. If they weren’t so honest, they could open a thrift store out the back.

  Frank came up behind Tracy to look at the photograph. In it, even though they were on opposite sides, he appeared to be looking at Greta.

  “I’m sure Peter would have posed for the picture if he had known how much all of you would have treasured it,” Siobhán said gently.

  Frank turned to her. “I didn’t support all of Peter’s business decisions in the beginning,” he said. “I was reluctant to turn our family restaurant into a chain. We fought bitterly. I wish I could take it all back.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Brandon said.

  “You, of all people, casting stones?” Frank lashed out. This time it was Brandon who turned red.

  “I got on board, though,” Frank said. “I helped build the chain into what it is today.” Jay moved in with his camera. Frank’s eyes narrowed as the lens approached. “It was all going perfectly until this documentary business started.”

  Jay lowered his camera and stepped closer to Frank. “You’re so closed off to progress,” he said. “I’m an artist. This is my passion.”

  “There’s something funny about you,” Frank said. “I don’t like this filming business one bit.” Jay laughed. Frank glared. “Is something funny?”

  “You just admitted you were wrong about the family business. So the fact that you don’t like ‘this filming business’” —Jay stopped to make air quotes—“means it’s going to be wildly successful.”