Macdara frowned at Hannah, then turned to Greta. “We need you to check all the genealogical records in Cork for John and Ann Mallon. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
Greta’s eyes practically glowed. She truly loved this stuff. “Absolutely,” she said. “Peter had been gathering records too. Do you have his leather satchel?”
Brandon flushed red. All eyes, except his, pinned on them, awaiting an answer.
“Processing is slow,” Macdara said. “I’d prefer to start from scratch.”
“Regardless of what Hannah thinks, you’re still a suspect,” Tracy said to Greta. She glared at Hannah. “And so are you.”
“Me?” Hannah said. “Why would I kill the old man?” The venom that came out of her was incongruous with her pretty face. She seemed to realize it and tried to backpedal. “I mean Mr. Mallon.”
“We might have some information on that soon,” Tracy said, flicking a glance at Siobhán. Macdara picked up on the glance and raised his eyebrow. Siobhán had forgotten all about the private investigator Tracy had hired. She had the number in the pocket of her uniform. She would have to mention it to Macdara as soon as this little soiree ended.
“What do you mean?” Hannah asked. This time her eyes were wide and innocent, her voice that of a frightened child.
“Don’t listen to her,” Jay said, putting his arm around Hannah.
“Stop it,” Greta said. “All of you. I’ll thoroughly dig into the past. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“How are we supposed to trust you?” Tracy said. “You could be the killer. You could skew whatever research you find, or bury them in boring facts that make us all wish we were dead.”
“I can go with Greta and film everything she finds,” Jay said.
Macdara rubbed his hands together. “Perfect. That’s settled.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Greta said.
Tracy jabbed her finger at Greta. “We disagree.”
Greta sighed and glared at Jay’s camera. “Just don’t bother me with your chatter.”
Jay saluted.
They began to file respectfully out of the cemetery. Siobhán walked ahead of Macdara. Father Kearney was standing just outside the churchyard. He appeared to be waiting for them. Siobhán was headed for the priest, when she felt Macdara’s hand on her arm. She turned. His blue eyes bore into her. “You okay, boss?”
She bit her lip. “Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
She’d been doing her best not to think about Macdara and Aisling. Throwing herself into the case had helped. And here she was so proud of herself. Yet he still picked up on an undercurrent. She hated how well he knew her. “Just working the case.”
He stared at her for a minute. His eyes narrowed. “Does this have anything to do with your visit to Chris Gordon?”
He was like a beacon, aiming in.
“You’re asking in an official capacity?” Sarcasm poured out of her. It was taking everything in her not to dwell on the bombshell that Chris Gordon dropped. She wanted to corner Maria first, and see what she could get out of her, but there hadn’t been time. Macdara’s eyes narrowed even more, he seemed to be chewing on how to respond.
Father Kearney cleared his throat. “May I have a word with you two?”
“Of course,” Siobhán said, darting past Macdara and his penetrating gaze. Thank God she’d been saved by the priest.
* * *
The minute they stepped inside the church, they were enveloped by warmth, sweet incense, and soft organ music. Siobhán was grateful to get out of the cold, and drank in the dancing shadows on the walls cast by flickering candles. They followed Father Kearney back to his cozy office, where he offered them mugs of tea and biscuits. After they were settled, Father Kearney slid papers across the desk. “Saint Mary’s burial records from 1903.”
They were copies of the original. At the top it read: Registry of Internments at Saint Mary’s Cemetery in 1903. That portion was typed. Next to it, written by hand, was the month: January. Siobhán shivered at the coincidence; here it was, January once more, well over a century later. She continued to scan the form. The categories were all typed and separated into columns:
DATE. NUMBER. NAME. AGE (further broken down into Years, Months, Days). How sad that some wee creatures only lived for days. She continued across the form. LATE RESIDENCE and lastly REMARKS. The columns were all filled in by hand. She scanned down to John Mallon.
DATE: 17
NUMBER: 22
NAME: John Mallon
AGE: 70
LATE RESIDENCE: 32 Fair Lane
REMARKS: Poor ground. Plum tree at rear.
“‘Plum tree’?” Siobhán said. The handwriting was hard to read.
“Could have been,” Father Kearney said, “the Victoria plum tree. It would have taken some tending.”
“It’s long gone now,” Macdara said.
“Fair Lane doesn’t exist any longer either,” Siobhán said. “But everything sounded much lovelier back then, didn’t it? I wouldn’t mind being buried under a plum tree.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Macdara said with a wink.
She resisted sticking her tongue out, and turned back to the priest. “We can confirm we have the correct John Mallon,” Siobhán said. “Now what?”
Father Kearney folded his hands across his ample belly. “There’s a bit more.” Siobhán and Macdara leaned in. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Father Kearney said slowly, as if he relished drawing it out. “I should have said something earlier.”
“Is this about the old woman?” Siobhán asked. “Have you seen her again?”
“No, no. It’s about the headstone. I believe you’ve misinterpreted something.”
“Go on,” Macdara said.
“ ‘Out to the field.’ It’s from Genesis. Cain and Abel. Cain said to brother Abel, ‘Let us go out to the field.’ ”
Siobhán squirmed in her seat, suddenly wishing she knew her Bible better. Macdara drew in a sharp breath. “What?” she asked.
“And while they were in the field,” Macdara continued, “Cain attacked his brother, Abel, and killed him.”
Chapter 18
Siobhán and Macdara stood outside the church, staring out at the somber gray sky. “Cain and Abel,” Siobhán said. “Was Peter Mallon trying to tell us he was murdered by his brother?”
“It can’t be,” Macdara said. “Not statistically possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“He just happens to be right in front of a tombstone with an epitaph about a brother killing a brother, and he immediately understands the meaning, unlike us? Then points to it with his arthritic finger, just after his brother shoots him, and prays we’ll put it all together?”
Siobhán sighed. “When you put it that way.” She let the rest go unsaid. It makes me sound like a right eejit.
“I do think, however, that Peter was trying to tell us that his murder had something to do with his family tree.”
“Me too.” Siobhán mulled it over. “And we just learned something significant.”
“We did?”
“Of course,” Siobhán said. “We learned that John Mallon had a brother.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?” Siobhán sometimes wondered if he just liked arguing with her. “John Mallon obviously went to a lot of trouble to have the quote put on his tombstone. And I believe the puzzle at the bottom has something to do with his wife, Ann.”
“Perhaps the Cain and Abel quote is a reference to a friend—someone like a brother.”
Siobhán shook her head. “Who’s reaching now?”
Macdara sighed. “Hopefully, Greta will come up with something in her research.”
“Unless she’s the killer and she skews the research,” Siobhán pointed out.
“True,” Macdara said. “But then we’ll have her red-handed.”
“Who’s going to check her work? You?” She didn’t mean
for it to come out as snippy as it sounded so she softened it with a smile.
Macdara sighed. “Regardless, it’s way in the past. How does any of it help us find Peter’s killer?” They started to walk toward the town square.
“A brother. A betrayal. Peter in the museum asking about the revolvers. Peter going around and asking if you ever really know someone. Dropping hints that he didn’t have a good marriage.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Macdara said. “Maybe it isn’t smart to trust Greta to dig up information.”
“Because she could be our killer?” Siobhán said.
“Because she could be our killer,” Macdara repeated.
“Then you’re right.”
“Say that again? Louder?”
“We’ve got the perfect test,” Siobhán said, delivering her reply with a soft punch on Macdara’s arm.
Macdara cocked his head. “How do you mean?”
“We double-check all the research she comes up with. If we find she’s manipulated any of it, we confront her.”
“I just said that seconds ago.” He punched her back.
“Did you?” She grinned. “I didn’t even realize I was listening.”
“As long as you’re the one doing the double-checking.”
Siobhán curtsied. Macdara rolled his eyes. She laughed and stopped short of asking him if he could go for a basket of curried chips.
* * *
They arrived at the underpass to King John’s Castle. The fifteenth-century four-storey tower held court in the middle of the square and had quite the colorful history. Over time it had been an arsenal, a hospital, a depot, and even a blacksmith. Now it was a local treasure. Siobhán and Macdara entered the underpass without breaking stride in their conversation.
“I’ve been thinking about our mysterious old woman,” Siobhán said. Her voice echoed in the passage. Siobhán could only imagine the secrets these stones had been privy to over hundreds of years.
“And?”
“I don’t think she’s a woman.”
“Pardon?”
“I think she might be a man.”
Macdara lightly punched her on the arm. Is this what they had become? Would he be pulling her hair next? “I understood what you were saying. Just not why you are saying it.”
They emerged from the underpass and slowed their pace. The guard station was just ahead, but neither of them seemed eager to go inside. Siobhán would much rather be physically active when working on a case. It helped her think.
Siobhán held up three fingers. “Because of her height. Because she hasn’t been seen again. But mostly because no woman I know would walk around a cemetery in high heels. Father Kearney specifically said she was ‘stabbing around.’ I think it was a man not used to walking in heels.”
“Good catch,” Macdara said. “So maybe this man—disguised as an old woman—was following Peter Mallon around town as he made his inquiries?”
“Exactly. And it started to spook him. Maybe that’s why he stole the gun.”
“It still doesn’t explain why on earth he would go to the graveyard after midnight. Especially if he was already spooked.”
Siobhán sighed. For every high in an investigation, there was an equal but opposite low. Every thread they pulled out made four more stick out of the tapestry. “We’re getting closer, though. Don’t you think?”
“We do seem to be on the trail,” Macdara said. “I’ll talk to all the museum volunteers once more. See if we can get CCTV footage from across the street. Maybe we can get a glimpse of our mysterious old woman, just in case the gun was hidden in the box of socks.”
“Have you visited George Dunne?” Siobhán said. “Informed him that I solved the case of his missing socks?”
“Slipped my mind,” Macdara said. “Besides, then I’d have to tell him the box is still missing.”
Siobhán laughed. “Better you than me.” They stopped walking, but they didn’t make a move for the station. “Oh, I totally forgot!” Siobhán pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket with the name and number of Tracy Mallon’s investigator. She handed it to Macdara.
“What’s this?”
“Tracy Mallon was having Hannah Stripes and Jay Shepard investigated back in the States. This is the private investigator’s number. Tracy said she’s been trying to get ahold of him and he’s not answering.”
Macdara tucked the paper into his trousers. “I’ll give him a bell.” He turned his gaze on her. It wasn’t lost on Siobhán that normally they would have been at the chipper discussing the case over a heavenly basket of curried chips. She missed those days. “Anything else on your mind?” he said. His eyes lingered on her face.
Are you dating one of my best friends? “Not a thing.” She curled her fist and dug her fingernails into her palm.
Macdara sighed. “I don’t believe you.”
“Didn’t you tell me we weren’t to discuss anything personal?”
He gazed past her. “I did.”
“That settles that, then.”
“I guess so.”
“Right, so. My shift is over. I need to get back to the bistro.”
He nodded, then turned and headed for the station, while she turned and headed for home.
* * *
Siobhán was halfway down Sarsfield Street when her mobile rang. It was Chris Gordon. “You said to call you if I saw anything.” He sounded out of breath.
“Yes?”
“It’s the young girl. I think she’s planning a runner.”
“Hannah?”
“The young one,” Chris repeated. “Not the librarian or the MILF.”
Siobhán sighed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s hot and I want to—”
“Why do you think Hannah is doing a runner?” Siobhán cut in.
“I saw her sneaking a suitcase down the stairs. She tucked it behind one of the bookcases. As if I wouldn’t notice.”
“Why on earth would she be doing a runner?”
She could hear Chris sigh through the phone. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
She was going to kill him. “What did you do?”
“I might have said something about how you will get to the bottom of this. Root out the killer.”
“And?”
“And she said something about how she hoped you’d find the guilty party, and I might have said . . .” There was a pause.
“You might have said?”
“I might have agreed, and really I was just making conversation.”
“Spit it out.”
“I might have said how terrible it would be if the wrong person was arrested, and thrown in prison, and how challenging it would be to survive prison in a foreign country—and I’m sorry but I find the history of the Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin fascinating, so I might have gone on a bit about the executions that occurred there—”
“You’re joking me—”
“But it was clear that I was talking about events from so long ago. Who knew she was so sensitive?”
“Who knew?” Siobhán said through clenched teeth.
“I told her the jail is a museum now, that she’d be more likely to end up in a Cork prison. What more do you want?”
“I want you not to frighten any more of the Americans.”
“I’ve kept her here,” Chris said. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I’m on my way. Don’t let her leave.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Think of something.”
“Like you want me to flirt or something?”
“Sure. Give that a try. See if you can do better than chatting about ancient executions.”
“I can totally do that. Do you want me to do that with the MILF too?”
“Stop calling her that.”
Chris laughed. “I’ve already been flirting,” he said. “It’s my thing.”
“I’m chubbed to bits,” Siobhán said.
“What?” She could hear Chri
s’s perplexity across the phone lines.
“I’m happy for you,” Siobhán translated. “Flirt away. Do your thing. Although I highly recommend you keep your thing to yourself.”
* * *
Siobhán stepped into Gordon’s Comics just in time to see Chris Gordon and Hannah playing tug-of-war with her suitcase. “Easy,” Siobhán said.
Hannah turned and dropped her end of the suitcase. Chris Gordon stumbled back, knocking a wall of comics to the ground.
Hannah bolted out the door. “You won’t get me!” she yelled. “Never, ever, ever.”
“Hey!” Chris yelled. Siobhán ran after her. “You’re welcome!” Chris shouted after her.
The girl was fast, already a blur in the distance. “Stop!” Siobhán yelled. Where does she think she can go? Siobhán was gaining, when she slipped on a patch of ice and landed on her back with a thud. She let out a cry. Hannah stopped, whipped around, brunette hair flying in the wind. Then she turned and ran again as Siobhán struggled to her feet, her back and head throbbing. How dare that girl! Anger coursed through her as she moved off the footpath and into the street, where the cars had taken care of all the ice. She ran faster.
Soon she was upon Hannah again. “Stop or I take you to the ground,” she said. Hannah took her chances. Siobhán didn’t know if she was even allowed to take people to the ground, but she wasn’t going to let her get away. When Hannah kept going, Siobhán sidestepped her, wrapping her arms around Hannah’s slim waist. Hannah kicked her feet and screamed. Siobhán lost her balance, and the two of them slid left and then right as Siobhán struggled not to fall. “Taking someone to the ground” meant taking oneself to the ground as well, a tidbit lost on Siobhán until she was in the middle of it. She managed to keep their balance; but throughout, Hannah continued to scream and kick.
Sheila Mahoney sauntered out of her hair salon and lit a cigarette, watching the struggle with an amused smile. “How ya?” she called.
“Grand, grand,” Siobhán said as Hannah squirmed in her arms. “You?”
“Ah, ’tis miserable weather,” Sheila said.
“’Tis,” Siobhán said.
“Seriously?” Hannah said.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Siobhán said. “Stop struggling or I’ll take you to the station and throw you into a cell.” There weren’t any cells in Kilbane, just a regular room that they could hold someone in if they were forced to, but Hannah didn’t need to know that. Hannah stopped kicking and slumped in Siobhán’s arms. “If I have to chase you again, I’m taking you in.”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 16