Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

Frank turned to Macdara and Siobhán with a slight bow. “I stand by my conviction. I hope you thoroughly investigate the man behind the camera.”

  “I’d love that,” Jay said, turning his camera on the pair of them. “I’d love to show you my work.”

  “Excellent,” Macdara said. “Because we’ll be needing all of your footage from the very beginning of this project.” Jay lowered the camera and frowned. “Will that be a problem?” Macdara asked, his voice dropping into a lower octave.

  “I guess not. It’s just. Not finished yet.”

  “Good. Deliver it to Kilbane Gardai Station by tomorrow noon. Every scrap of footage.”

  “Or what?” Jay’s tone was playful but challenging.

  “Or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation,” Macdara said.

  Siobhán was pretty sure he could do no such thing, but Jay seemed to take the threat seriously.

  “Tomorrow at noon it is.”

  Would he mess with any of the footage? Delete anything?

  “Unless you want to come back with me now,” Macdara said. He had probably just had the same thought. The less time they gave Jay, the better.

  “As soon as I get to my room with my laptop and I can e-mail you all the digital files.”

  “I also want all e-mails you ever sent anyone regarding this project.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Why?’ ” Macdara repeated, sounding as if he couldn’t believe Jay had just asked that.

  “I’m willing to cooperate, but you seem to be picking on me.”

  “We’re going to pick on everyone eventually,” Siobhán said. “Just so happens you’re first in the rotation.” She smiled. He cocked his head.

  “There’s something interesting about you,” he said, pointing at Siobhán. “Besides your classic beauty. There’s something simmering beneath your surface. I’d love to film you.”

  Siobhán shook her head. “All my simmering takes place above surface,” she said. “What you see is what you get.”

  Macdara cleared his throat, once again making it impossible for Siobhán to ascertain if he was laughing or choking.

  Jay scanned the group with the camera. “Everyone, notice I’m cooperating. Let’s all cooperate. Help find Peter’s killer. We know it’s not one of us, so just let these people do their jobs.”

  Hannah stepped forward. She was wearing a black coat with a fur collar. It didn’t look fake. Did she not get the memo that real fur was out? “I remembered something last night,” she said. “Should I say it in front of everybody?” She stroked her collar. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m keeping secrets.”

  The outburst seemed to startle everyone and they turned to the pretty brunette and waited. “Just before he left the Titanic Experience, Peter told me he made a possible new discovery about his great-grandfather. He said it was explosive.” Her long eyelashes began to blink.

  Tracy was the first to turn on her. “You’re asking us to believe that just slipped your mind?”

  “Nonsense,” Frank said. “I hardly think anything he learned could be ‘explosive.’ ” Macdara caught Siobhán’s eye. She wondered if he was thinking of the headstone too.

  “What was your great-grandfather’s first name?” Macdara asked.

  “John,” Frank answered. “John Mallon.”

  Despite a feeling that this was where it was going, Siobhán still felt a shiver. Peter found his great-grandfather’s grave right here in Kilbane. That must have been quite a pleasant shock. It was rare though, that a relative be returned home for a burial. Most who left were buried in America. He must have made his wishes quite clear, or perhaps the man himself had returned to Ireland to die. Ireland was definitely where Siobhán intended to be buried. Anywhere else was unthinkable. But it bothered her. It would have been so difficult back then to arrange travel home. Siobhán looked up to find Macdara staring at her. Tracy suddenly pointed between Macdara and Siobhán. “You two keep looking at each other. Why?”

  Macdara held up his hand. “When it’s no longer a crime scene, we want to take you to the cemetery where Peter was found. We have some idea what he discovered.”

  “ ‘Explosive’ pretty much covers it,” Siobhán added.

  “Keeping us in suspense,” Jay said. “Film thrives on suspense.”

  “If you’re going to keep filming, you must stop making such heartless comments,” Greta said. “This isn’t a celebration.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jay said. “I just get excited. Like Peter.”

  “Nothing like Peter,” Greta said. “There was nobody like Peter.”

  “It was an expression,” Jay said. He let out a heavy sigh.

  Exhaustion was pinned on their faces. And whereas being tired to the point of delirium might cause one of them to slip up and say something revealing, most of them were not killers. And they deserved a little rest.

  “Your rooms are ready,” Siobhán said. “Shall I take you there?”

  Chapter 10

  True to his word Chris Gordon had the rooms ready, and either the accommodations were lovely, or the guests were too weary to complain. Frank lingered in the comic-book store, and just as Siobhán and Macdara were leaving, he cleared his throat. Siobhán and Macdara stood and waited.

  “I loved my brother,” he said. “But we quarreled a lot. I guess it’s in our Irish blood.” He flashed a grin that disappeared as quickly as it came.

  “I have plenty of siblings,” Siobhán said. “I’m well-aware.”

  Frank looked grateful. “Greta is a wonderful woman,” he said. “I think they would have been very happy.” Siobhán could sense he was leading up to something, so she made appropriate nods and murmurs.

  When he didn’t offer anything more, Siobhán stepped up. “Did you know Peter was going to change his will?”

  Frank’s deep brown eyes darted to the right. “You’ll have to speak with Greta. Peter didn’t discuss his will with me.”

  “That wasn’t what she asked you,” Macdara said.

  Frank lifted an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “She asked if you knew Peter was thinking about changing his will.”

  He sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. Tracy and Brandon can be difficult. Petulant at best, both of them. But they have their reasons. Imagine, my old-fashioned brother a playboy.”

  “A ‘playboy’?” Siobhán echoed. An image of his mismatched outfit came to mind, his wrinkled skin, his gnarled finger.

  “Hard to picture,” Frank said. “But true. Greta was his third wife, and who knows how many women were on the side?”

  “Are you suggesting he had a mistress?” Macdara asked.

  Like his nurse? Siobhán thought.

  “Of course not,” Frank said. “Peter stopped his philandering when he met Greta.”

  “Then what are you trying to say?” Siobhán asked.

  Frank sighed. “One shouldn’t expect Tracy and Brandon to love and trust their father’s women. Even one as gentle and sweet as Greta.” His voice thickened and he immediately looked away. Macdara made eye contact with her. Frank hadn’t directly answered the question, but he had just revealed something he hadn’t intended, maybe something he hadn’t even admitted to himself. Frank was obviously in love with his brother’s wife.

  Siobhán put that aside for now and tried once more. “Did Tracy and Brandon know Peter was going to change his will?”

  “They suspected it. Did Peter actually do it?” Frank’s voice was calm, as if he hardly cared about the answer. But when Siobhán looked down, she could see him twisting his handkerchief into a knot.

  “That’s under investigation,” Macdara said. “What’s of concern to us is whether or not Tracy and Brandon knew.”

  Frank shook his head. “It doesn’t make them murderers.”

  “Money is the strongest motive there is,” Macdara said. “And sadly, the most common.”

  “Even if he changed his will, there’s still plenty of money,” Frank said. “I told them
that. I told them not to get so worked up.”

  “About the will?” Siobhán asked.

  “No. I m-meant,” Frank stammered, “worked up over Greta. They aren’t nice to her. She doesn’t deserve their wrath. Peter would be so ashamed!”

  “What about his first two wives?” Siobhán asked.

  Once again Frank looked startled. “What about them?”

  “Just wondering if they are still in the picture?”

  Frank shook his head no. “Tracy and Brandon’s mother died when they were small. Breast cancer. Peter was a very busy man. We had just started to franchise. He married again quickly. A waitress. I think he did it for the children. She was very nurturing. She lasted a few years. They divorced quietly, with a big settlement. We’ve never heard from her again.”

  “So he was single for a while before he met Greta?”

  “Correct. He said he’d never marry again. He went out with a lot of women. Seemed happiest that way. Until three years ago. He met Greta, and well. I guess he was a changed man.” A bitter look crossed Frank’s face. Yes, without a doubt, he was coveting his brother’s wife. That must have been such a hard secret to keep. Living and working so close to her as he did.

  Was it motive enough to kill his brother? After all, Greta is now free. “How much of the family business do you own?” Siobhán asked.

  “Twenty-five percent. I’m not looking for more.” He used his handkerchief to wipe the excessive sweat off his brow.

  Both Frank and Greta had gone out of their way to declare they weren’t interested in money. Siobhán wasn’t sure she bought it. “What did you do all afternoon and evening the day of the murder?”

  “I parted ways with the group. I’m not young anymore. These bones get tired. I got a bite to eat and then went back to the apartment to read a good book and settle in for the night.”

  “Lovely,” Siobhán said. “What was it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The book.”

  Frank scrunched his nose. “A paperback from the airport.”

  Siobhán edged forward. “A thriller? Mystery? Love story?”

  “Yes, yes,” Frank said, waving his hands. “It’s one of those. Will you excuse me?” He strode to the counter, his coattails flapping. Chris Gordon handed him his room key. The door chimed as he exited in a huff.

  Siobhán nodded to Macdara. “A book with no name or plot.”

  “Noted,” Macdara said. “Meanwhile our real-life mystery seems to be thickening.”

  * * *

  Siobhán and Macdara had just stepped onto the footpath when Macdara’s mobile rang. He spoke quietly and then hung up and turned to Siobhán. “One of my mates spotted one of our Americans in Paddy Power.”

  Siobhán glanced down the street, to where the popular betting shop was located. “Brandon?”

  Macdara nodded. “That’s my guess.”

  Siobhán looked up at the flats above. “I thought he was upstairs.”

  “I have a feeling quite a few folks in our little group aren’t always where we think they are.”

  “Or reading the books they say they’re reading,” Siobhán said. She glanced down the street in the direction of the chipper. “Are you going?”

  Macdara looked away. “Why don’t you take this? I’ll stay here in case anyone else in this little group wants to have a private chat.” He glanced up at the bank of windows where the Americans were staying.

  An irrational jealousy overtook Siobhán as an image of Tracy putting the moves on Macdara swarmed in her mind. Would he fall for the grieving daughter? No, he was a professional. He wouldn’t take up with a suspect. Was he dating anyone back in Dublin? “Why? What are you doing?”

  “I just told you. I’m going to start with this group upstairs.”

  Siobhán heard a scraping sound and glanced up to see one of the windows open. Tracy Mallon leaned out, smoking a cigarette, her ample cleavage on full display. “Brandon’s going to be defensive,” Macdara said, his eyes on Tracy. “I think you’ll have better luck with him than me.”

  “I see,” Siobhán said. She knew her tone was clipped.

  Macdara’s head swiveled to Siobhán. “Something wrong, boss?”

  God, those blue eyes. That sneaky smile. He knew she was jealous and he was enjoying it. “Not a thing.”

  “Good luck,” he said. “I’ll see you at Naomi’s later.” The entire group had been invited to Naomi’s for an early supper. It was an extra shift, but Elise had stepped up and said she didn’t mind hosting the Americans. Siobhán hated to owe her, but was thankful for the favor. She headed off to the betting shop with a nod to Macdara, sans the smile.

  * * *

  Paddy Power was at the end of the street, across from the chipper. It was easy enough to spot Brandon Mallon. He was still standing underneath one of the mounted televisions that played horse races all day long. And when there wasn’t a real race on, lads could bet on cartoon dog races. It was madness. Brandon Mallon was situated in a corner, with a betting slip in his hand, right leg bouncing. The small shop was filled with twitching, sweaty lads. It smelled of money and desperation. Siobhán hated it. She approached Brandon from the side, but he was too engrossed in the television to notice her.

  “I heard you were here,” Siobhán said. He jumped, then turned around, his eyes wild and searching.

  “Oh,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Sweat dappled his forehead. “Oh. Hello.”

  “I thought you were settling into your room.”

  For a second he looked as if he was going to lie or make an excuse, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m a gambler,” he said. “But they all think I quit.”

  “I see.” Whereas some people had no tolerance for the addictions of others, Siobhán had great empathy. Was there any worse torture than being imprisoned within your own desires?

  “I know how this must look.”

  Siobhán tilted her head. “How does it look?”

  Brandon swallowed. Tears pooled in his eyes. “Like I don’t care that my father has been murdered.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” Siobhán said softly. “Would you like to get out of here?”

  He glanced at the telly, where the results of the latest race were scrolling across the screen. “Lost again,” he said.

  “A basket of curried chips might cheer you up,” Siobhán said. “Does the trick for me.”

  He stared longingly at the betting screen, then shook his head, as if trying to knock the urge out of his head. “I’m in.”

  They ventured out into the cold and the snow, and Siobhán led him across the street to the chipper. Only after they were seated, each with a basket of curried chips—such a sweet, sweet basket—did she speak again. “How long have you been addicted to gambling?”

  He slumped in the booth. “I stopped for two years. My father would be so disappointed.” He pawed in his jacket pocket, as if looking for something, then sighed. “God, I quit smoking too. I’d kill for one. Just one.” He glanced at her.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  He sighed. “Good for you. You’re probably perfect. An angel without faults.”

  Siobhán threw her head back and laughed. “I might have a few wee ones.”

  Brandon laughed and then a curtain of sadness fell across his face again. “The old man would not be proud.”

  “I’d like to think they aren’t judging us after they pass,” Siobhán said. “I’d like to think it’s only our well-being they worry about.”

  He sniffed. “That’s a nice thought,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Why do you think you like gambling so much?” Siobhán was genuinely curious. Her parents had always stressed the importance of earning one’s way. “There’s no pleasure in being handed something,” Naomi would say. “But when you earn something because of this”—she’d tap her head. “Or these”—she’d hold out her hands. “No feeling like it in the world.” Once her mother won a gift basket from a local raf
fle and she immediately marched it over to the nuns and handed it over, despite the O’Sullivan Six whining for just a few wee bites of the chocolate biscuits. Whenever Siobhán ran into the nuns, she still wondered if they enjoyed the basket of sweets, and still felt just a twinge of resentment.

  Brandon straightened up. “There’s nothing like placing a bet. The rush. The adrenaline. When I win?” He patted his heart. “There’s no feeling like it in the world.”

  Siobhán nodded. “And when you lose?”

  His eyes watered with shame. “There’s no feeling like it in the world.” He looked up as if he hadn’t meant to become vulnerable, his face stricken. “Please,” he said. “Please don’t tell the others.”

  She mimed zipping her lips shut and tossing the key. “Where were you the afternoon and evening your father was murdered?”

  He reached into his trousers, pulled out a stash of betting slips, and tossed them on the table. “The races. I’m ashamed to say I was there most of the day and evening. Then I took my meager winnings and drank in a pub.”

  “Which one?”

  “ ‘Which one?’ ”

  “Which pub?”

  Brandon looked perplexed. “I have no idea. They all look alike.”

  Siobhán sighed and reached for the betting slips. “May I?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t need them.”

  Then why did you keep them? The question flashed in her mind, but she kept it to herself. He was open and personable. She wanted to keep that going. “Do you know of anyone in your group who would want to harm your father?”

  He put his head in his hands. “No. No. I would hate to think that.”

  “But if you were forced to think that?”

  “Frank and my father have been arguing this entire trip. And Greta! I don’t believe that ‘I didn’t marry for money’ act for a second. I think she’s a gold digger through and through. Thank God she’s not inheriting the estate.”

  The last comment seemed genuine. Either he didn’t know his father had been thinking about changing his will, or he was putting on a good act. Was now a good time to stir the pot?

  She hesitated as Macdara’s words came back at her: “From now on, everything by the book.” Certainly, a little harmless conversation couldn’t hurt. “It has been brought to our attention that your father was actually going to change his will.”