“My God,” Macdara said. “Do you think he staged all of this?”
“It’s possible. Maybe while making his documentary Dancing Irish, he somehow learned the truth about the Mallon family.”
“That seems like a stretch. It took Greta a long time to find all this paperwork, and that was only after we found the headstone. How would Jay have learned about it in the first place?”
That was a valid point. Siobhán thought out loud: “We know that Jay Shepard was in Ireland making his first documentary, Dancing Irish. Wouldn’t it be just as coincidental that he just happens to get hired by Peter Mallon to work on their Irish documentary? Obviously, there’s some connection.”
“Peter Mallon could have Googled ‘Irish documentaries’ and found Jay, not the other way around.”
“True,” Siobhán said. “So let’s assume Peter is the one who researched and found Jay. He just wanted a documentary made about his family history. But Jay, being the dedicated filmmaker that he is, could have started to research the story on his own, and voila! He finds out about the tombstone, and Michael Mallon, thus giving him a great twist for the documentary. Or—even more sinister—a reason to blackmail him.”
“Jay could have threatened to expose his ancestor as a murderer, instead of a hero.” Macdara sighed. “It’s imperative that we speak with Frank. If we can prove Frank was paying a blackmailer, we might just solve this case.”
“We need to get all our suspects in one place again,” Siobhán said. “I’d like to watch them all in action again. Especially Jay.”
“That can be arranged,” Macdara said.
Siobhán grinned. “It just so happens I know the perfect event.”
* * *
The sun was shining on the day of Ann’s camogie game. The last of the snow had melted, revealing shiny green grass beneath it. Siobhán had asked Jay Shepard to film from the sidelines so that he would always be in their line of vision. He was thrilled to take on the assignment, and Siobhán would have no problem keeping him in her sights. She glanced up in the stands where Maria was perched. Maria grinned and waved. Siobhán didn’t wave back. Maria frowned. One thing was clear, after the match she was going to get Maria to spill everything she knew about Macdara and Aisling.
When Siobhán joined Macdara in the lower stands, he seemed to pick up on the exchange. “What in the world has gotten into you?” He touched her arm.
She pulled away. “How long can we keep the Americans here?”
“If they fight it, not much longer.”
“Do they know that?”
“No one has asked yet,” Macdara said. “But they’re definitely getting restless and asking when they are free to go.”
“We can’t just let the killer sail back to America.”
“I think they’re going to fly.”
Siobhán normally would have laughed, and he was waiting for it. But she couldn’t. There was a wall between them now and her name was Aisling. She focused on the game, on her beautiful sister showing off her athletic abilities as she weaved down the field with her stick. Life was about moments like this. Living fully and actively. Human beings were here for such a short time. Every minute was precious. And somewhere, maybe even in the very stands where she sat, was a person with no such regard for human life.
“As soon as the game is over, I’ll start asking our group another round of questions,” Macdara said.
“Don’t you mean ‘we’?”
“No. You should visit with your sister. She’s really something.”
A lump rose in Siobhán’s throat, and she nodded, unable to meet Macdara’s eyes.
Ann scored a goal and Siobhán rose to her feet with a cheer. Her eyes flicked to Jay, who had caught it all on film. Was he just an artist, passionate about his work? Why had he really been following her that day? Was it the act of an innocent man, or a killer who was afraid she was starting to get a little too close to the truth?
The crowd stood and cheered. Siobhán looked down to see Ann beaming, standing in front of the goal. Her teammates lifted her up. Ann was grinning, ear to ear, and looked up at Siobhán. Siobhán gave her a thumbs-up, waved, and grinned. Ann had scored the goal. It may not rise to the level of life and death, but it was important. The little things mattered. Her family mattered. Things were going to have to change. Siobhán was going to get better at balancing life and work. But first she had to unmask a killer before he or she boarded a plane and flew away from justice forever. But in order to do that, Siobhán was going to have to get a personal burden off her chest first.
* * *
Maria did not know what she was walking into when Siobhán invited her to the bistro for dinner. They were closed for business and her siblings were scattered. James and Elise were out on a date, Ciarán and Eoin were playing one of their video games, Ann was having a well-deserved rest, and Gráinne was on a marathon phone call to someone in New York. Siobhán had Maria just where she wanted her. After their supper she topped up their wine, and waited for a gentle lull in the conversation.
“Have you spoken with Aisling lately?”
Maria held her wineglass and gazed into the fire. “Sure,” she said. “But not often. She loves Dublin. I don’t think she’s ever coming back.”
Siobhán’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Is she still seeing that Scottish guy?”
Maria started biting her lip. “No. They broke up.”
Siobhán could already feel herself heating up. She set the wineglass on the table a little too hard, wine splashed from the top. “Is she dating Macdara?”
Maria was startled; she, too, set her wineglass down and sat up straight. “Oh, no,” she groaned. She held up her hands. “I am not getting involved.”
“Don’t say that,” Siobhán said. She wanted to cover her ears like a child.
“It’s not what you think,” Maria said. “Breathe.”
“Then what is it?”
“Who told you?”
“That’s not what matters here.”
Maria shook her head. “They’re friends. That’s all.”
“Friends? Since when are they friends?”
“It’s lonely to move to a big city.”
“I know.” It was also exciting. The independence! So freeing. They must have felt free. Free to do whatever they wanted. Without so much as a gentle heads-up.
Maria stared at her until Siobhán made eye contact. “Why are you freaking out? They’ve been hanging out in Dublin. It’s no big deal.”
Siobhán rose from her chair. “If it’s no big deal, then why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t she?” Why didn’t he?
“You should talk to Macdara about this. Not me. Not Aisling. Macdara.”
Siobhán didn’t want to tell her that as her boss Macdara had forbidden her to speak of anything personal. “How often do they hang out? Where do they go? What do they do?”
“I think they just meet for a drink now and then. What does it matter? It’s been two years. He’s there, and you’re here. Are you even trying to have a long-distance relationship with him?”
“It’s complicated.” Siobhán sighed. “We work together.”
“He’ll be going back to Dublin soon. Then what?”
“Whose side are you on?”
Maria cocked her head. “Yours, pet. I’m always on your side.” She reached over and tugged on Siobhán’s hair, like she used to when they were children. “It’s not what you think. Talk to him.”
“Why don’t you just tell me everything?”
“It’s not my place.” Maria’s face softened. She took Siobhán’s hand. “You’re a good detective,” she said. “You need to figure this out.”
Maria was right. Siobhán would have to take this up with Macdara. Maybe after the case was solved.
The door opened and James and Elise stomped in. Siobhán sank back into her seat. There was silence in the hallway, followed by what clearly sounded like a heavy make-out session. Seconds later something th
umped against the wall.
Wow, Maria mouthed. A grin spread across her face. Siobhán buried her face in her hands as pictures on the wall jiggled. Trigger hid under a chair; Maria howled with laughter.
* * *
The reading of Peter Mallon’s will took place in the Kilbane Library. Ciarán wasn’t feeling good and wasn’t able for school. Siobhán couldn’t cancel the reading, and the rest of her siblings had plans. He tried to argue that he was old enough to stay home on his own, but Siobhán couldn’t stomach the thought. Not when there was a killer out there. She was grateful when he agreed to tag along. Magda, the cheerful, plump librarian, volunteered to keep an eye on him. Ciarán rolled his eyes. “Humor her,” Siobhán whispered. “She probably wishes she had a lad of her own.” He gave a good-natured nod and settled into a comfortable chair in the fantasy section and soon lost himself in a book. Magda stood behind him, hands resting on her belly, smiling over the top of his head. Ciarán threw Siobhán a searing look, and she gave a thumbs-up. He shook his head and went back to the book. Magda was probably going to drive him mental. Siobhán smiled at the sweet librarian, touched Ciarán’s forehead, and was relieved to see the headache tablets she’d given him had already taken his fever down. He was right. He wasn’t a baby anymore. Siobhán didn’t want to admit that. It was partially his fault. There were times he clung to his role as the youngest in the family as well. He was at that awkward in-between age. She pointed to the door leading for the meeting. “I’ll be right in there if you need me.”
“School would have been less painful,” he said with a smirk. “Off with ye. I’ll be fine.”
“And I’ll be right here!” Magda said.
Ciarán rolled his eyes. Siobhán avoided kissing his cheek, patted Magda’s shoulder, and headed for the private meeting room in the back. Before she could enter, a hand clasped her wrist tightly. Hannah Stripes was tugging on her, dragging her behind a stack of bookshelves. Siobhán glanced at the section: MYSTERIES. How apropos. Before she could scold Hannah or ask her what she thought she was doing, Hannah removed a slip of paper from her purse and shoved it at Siobhán.
“Here.”
The lack of provisions on the ship is maddening. The men drink so that the women have more to eat. Michael was delirious with fever. Still, I shan’t forgive the things he said. I don’t know how much more I can stand.
Anger bubbled up in Siobhán. “Where did you get this?”
“Does it mean anything?”
“Answer the question.”
Hannah bit her lip. “It was taped to the outside of my door.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
The flats above Chris Gordon’s shop were accessible by a stairwell in the back of the shop. Anyone who wandered into the store could have taken the stairs and left the note. But only those who were staying in the room could avoid suspicion for being up there. “Did you see anyone up there who didn’t belong?”
Hannah shook her head. It was maddening how these tidbits were being dropped randomly. Siobhán supposed she should be grateful that they were being brought to her attention. Had any of the others received them, but kept them hidden?
Was someone testing the Americans? Seeing who hoarded their secret bread crumbs and who shared? Was it some kind of sick game? Or even, more sinister, a test? If so, how did one “win,” and what would happen to the loser?
It was a troubling thought. The longer Siobhán stood staring, the more terrified Hannah looked. Siobhán placed her hand on her shoulder. “You did well. Bringing this to me. Not a word to the others.”
Hannah nodded, and the two of them headed to the reading of the will.
* * *
The conference room was the best part about the Kilbane Library. Siobhán loved the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, gilded mirror, and roaring fireplace. An oak boardroom table, large enough to accommodate the group, was situated in the middle of the room. A large screen was pulled down, awaiting the executor, who was going to place a video call that would be projected onto the large screen. Greta sat at the opposite end of the table from Brandon and Tracy; Hannah and Jay sat together, as usual; while Frank sat in the middle, stealing more than a few glances at the oblivious Greta.
The poor woman had been so stressed about this will reading that Siobhán was relieved that one way or another it would soon be over. Would everything be left to Tracy and Brandon, or would it all go to Greta? Siobhán had a feeling that Tracy and Brandon were ready to fight the outcome if it didn’t go their way. She, for one, could not understand this kind of greed, and was relieved her family hadn’t had to deal with it. What money and insurance her parents had was left to the entire family. But if her parents had decided to do anything else with it, donate it, or bequeath it to a stranger, or ask them to fling it off the nearest bridge, Siobhán liked to think they would have respected her parents’ decision. It was their money. Entitlement should be one of the seven deadly sins.
Then again, it paled in comparison to murder.
The screen crackled and soon a middle-aged man in a suit appeared, smoothing over his comb-over, tugging at the end of a bushy mustache, and adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Hello, hello,” he said. “Am I on?”
“You’re on,” Macdara said.
Siobhán had to look away, so strong was her urge to rip off his mustache.
“Shall we begin?” The man cleared his throat, then stared at the document in front of him. He seemed afraid to look at the group. Siobhán straightened up.
“We’re all here and ready,” Tracy said.
The man cleared his throat again, pushed up his glasses.
“ ‘I, Peter Mallon, being of sound mind and body . . .’”
Tracy made a noise. A second later she jumped and cried out, then smacked Brandon. Everyone stopped and looked at them.
“You can’t say he was of sound mind,” Tracy said.
“Shut up,” Brandon said.
“I’ve sent you all copies of the will,” the executor said, already looking exasperated. “You can read it for yourselves. This really isn’t something I normally do.”
“I talked him into it,” Jay said. “I thought an actual reading would be much more dramatic.” He tipped the camera to the group as if giving a toast.
“We never received our copies,” Tracy said.
“I can’t control the Irish mail,” the executor said, tugging his mustache again.
“Please,” Macdara said. “Just give us the overview.”
The executor sighed. “Tracy and Brandon are each bequeathed twenty thousand dollars—”
“What?” Brandon and Tracy said in unison. Brandon rose from his chair and looked around the room, mouth open. “No. We’re supposed to inherit the full estate.”
“I told you he was out of his mind,” Tracy said as she glared at Greta. She pointed at her. “You did this, didn’t you?”
Greta threw a desperate look at Siobhán, shaking her head.
The executor began to speak faster, as if he could outrun the bad news. “Frank Mallon, his brother, twenty thousand dollars. Hannah Stripes, his assistant, twenty thousand dollars—”
That certainly bolstered the theory that Peter Mallon knew she wasn’t a nurse.
“Wait,” Tracy said. “His nurse? He’s giving his nurse the same as his children?” She stopped as if she’d just heard what he said. “‘Assistant’? Did you just say his assistant?”
Hannah, dressed in a pretty yellow dress, beamed. With her brunette hair piled around her head, she looked like a walking sunflower. She touched her heart. “He was so kind.”
“Why did he say ‘assistant’?” Tracy persisted.
“You might as well know,” Hannah said. “I’m not a nurse. Surprise!”
Tracy gasped. “I knew it.” She pointed at Hannah, then glared at Siobhán and Macdara. “Arrest her!”
“Peter knew she wasn’t a nurse,” Siobhán said. “He hired her to get back at you.”
�
�At me? For what?”
“Stop acting innocent,” Brandon said. “You were trying to have him declared mentally incompetent.”
“Because he was! This is proof!” Tracy sputtered with rage. She looked at Brandon for support. He shrugged. “We’re contesting the will,” Tracy said. “This will not stand.”
“She means this will, will not stand,” Brandon corrected.
“What?” Tracy sputtered.
“You weren’t making any sense,” Brandon said. “You said, ‘This will not stand.’ People might say, ‘What will not stand?’ If you say, ‘This will, will not stand’—then it’s clear. Pretty clear. I think.” Tracy stared at him openmouthed. Brandon flushed red and addressed the crowd. “We’re contesting the will!”
“You don’t even deserve anything!” Frank rose and pointed at Tracy. “You were going behind his back, trying to have him declared mentally unfit, and you . . .” He pointed at Brandon. “You’re gambling again, aren’t you?”
“How dare you,” Tracy said, turning on her uncle. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“In a way,” Frank said.
“What does that mean?” Brandon demanded.
“Your father and I decided it was time to face the truth,” Frank said. “I’m afraid we made a very grave mistake.”
No pun intended, Siobhán thought. She’d done it once herself. She kept her gob shut.
Frank sank into his chair. Siobhán hadn’t been paying much attention to him; but now that she looked at him, Frank Mallon looked awful. His complexion had a greenish tint and he had dark circles under his eyes. “This is my fault,” he said. “All my fault.”
Macdara and Siobhán exchanged a look.
“What do you mean?” Siobhán asked softly.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Tracy’s question was not as gentle.
The executor cleared his throat. “Jay Shepard to receive twenty thousand dollars upon successful completion of the documentary—”
“So kind of him,” Jay said. “I’m going to finish it, Peter.” He pointed at his video camera on the table. “Recording as we speak.”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 20