“Fifty thousand will go to his wife, Greta Mallon.”
“What?” Greta said. She slumped, almost in relief. “I’m glad,” she said. “I didn’t want it all. I really didn’t.”
“Who gets it?” Tracy asked. “Who gets the estate? The restaurants? The millions?”
The executor cleared his throat again. “You’ll find on the next page a list of charities and organizations that will be splitting the estates, including the chain of restaurants—”
Tracy and Brandon cried foul at the same time. “ ‘Charities’?” they cried. “Charities?”
“Including quite a few in Ireland,” the executor said.
“Well, isn’t that just great?” Tracy said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Brandon pointed at Greta. “Somehow you’re behind this.”
“Why?” Tracy said. “Why would he do this?”
“Because he wanted us all to be free,” Frank said. “Free of generations of secrets and lies.”
“What ‘lies’?” Tracy said.
Frank hung his head. “It turns out our great-grandfather was no hero.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Brandon said. “Of course he was.”
Frank shook his head. “There’s proof. We were being blackmailed.” He reached under his chair and set a briefcase down on the table. Everyone stared at it as if something horrible was going to leap out the moment he sprung it open.
Macdara shot to his feet. “Hold on,” he said to Frank. “Not another word.”
“No,” Tracy said. “We have to hear this.” She lunged for the briefcase.
“Who was blackmailing you?” Brandon demanded. “And why?”
“Don’t touch it,” Macdara said to Tracy, using his sternest voice. He turned to Frank. “You’ll come back to the station with us. The guards will be the first to see this information. The rest of you will have to wait.”
“Of course,” Frank said. He hung his head. “I should have told you. I’ve made so many costly mistakes.”
Brandon pounded the table. “We still contest this will,” Brandon said. “We contest it!”
“You can’t just say, ‘We contest it,’ ” Tracy said. “It’s a legal process.” She glared at Greta. “But we will be contesting it. And we will thoroughly check that one of you isn’t behind one of these so-called charities that stand to inherit our fortune.”
The screen flickered and went black. The executor had had enough.
“You,” Tracy said, advancing on Jay Shepard and pushing his camera away. “Did you know about all of this?”
“No,” Jay said. “Peter must have had a flare for surprise. No wonder he was acting so mysterious.”
“I’m going home.” Tracy stood. “And I mean the United States. I’m booking my ticket now.”
“We’re still investigating,” Macdara said.
“Then arrest us. Because anything short of that and I’m on the next plane back.”
“Me too,” Brandon said.
“Three,” Hannah said.
“But we have a documentary to finish,” Jay said.
“Consider it done,” Tracy said. She flipped off the camera.
“Come on,” Macdara said, standing and turning to Frank. “Let’s go.” Siobhán was just reaching for her handbag, which she’d placed under her seat, when she heard a sizzling sound, and then the room plunged to black.
Chapter 24
Siobhán immediately thought of Ciarán in the other room and prayed he wasn’t afraid. She caught herself. He was probably loving it. That settled it. She was refusing to admit that he was growing up. Still, she’d never stop worrying about him.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
“Nobody move,” Macdara said. “Everyone, stay calm.”
“The killer!” a woman’s voice cried out. “One of us is next.” Mass panic ensued and Siobhán could feel people shuffling around her. She heard a thud and then the sound of books pouring off the shelves and tumbling onto the floor. There was a scream, followed by a moan.
“Stay still,” Siobhán echoed, but it was no use. Someone elbowed her in the ribs.
“Do you have a torch?” Macdara called out to her.
“There’s one on my mobile,” she said. “But I can’t find my handbag.”
“I’ll try to find the door,” Macdara said. “Call out to the librarian.” Just as suddenly the lights came back on.
Books lay piled up on the floor; chairs were upended. The participants were scattered around the room, standing still. Mouths were open, eyes wide with fear. Siobhán scanned the room. Everyone was present.
“My briefcase!” Frank said. Everyone’s head jerked to the table, where the briefcase once sat. It was empty.
“Is everyone alright?” Macdara said. Heads began to nod. “Stay where you are, everyone.” He turned to Frank. “What was in this briefcase?”
“Evidence,” Frank said. “Evidence that Peter and I were being blackmailed.”
There were several gasps. “You have to tell us everything,” Tracy said. “Right now.”
“No,” Macdara said. “He’ll tell the guards everything. In private. I’m going to have a quick look for this briefcase.”
“I’m going to check on Ciarán,” Siobhán said. She headed out as Macdara began hunting for the briefcase, picking up the fallen books as he searched. Siobhán found Ciarán asleep in his chair. Relief flooded through her. Magda strode into the room, shaking.
“What happened?” Siobhán said. “Are you alright?”
Magda tucked a stray gray hair behind her ear. “I think someone deliberately flipped the fuse box.”
“Did you see anything else?”
She nodded. “Someone slammed into me as they ran past. They had long gray hair.” The librarian shuddered and brushed her arm.
“Could it have been a wig?” Siobhán wondered if their mysterious old lady was back.
“It did feel odd,” Magda said. “But it was pitch-black.”
“Who else was in the library before the lights went out?”
Magda shook her head. “We have brand-new computers and still hardly anyone comes to the library anymore.”
“We come,” Siobhán said. They did too. Faithfully.
Magda patted Siobhán again. “Besides Ciarán, it was just me. And the person with the long gray hair.”
Siobhán headed back to the meeting room. She filled Macdara in on what Magda said.
“Well, it wasn’t one of us,” Tracy said. “Doesn’t that mean we’re all in the clear?”
“No,” Macdara said. He sidled closer to Siobhán. “The briefcase could be hidden in this room still.”
They looked around. It was a large room; there were plenty of places to hide a briefcase. “This is going to take a while,” she said.
“Longer than you think,” Macdara said. “What if the person slipped outside of the room and hid it somewhere else in the library? Then slipped back in before the lights went back on?”
Siobhán nodded. It was within the realm of possibility. The briefcase could be hidden anywhere in the library. “I’d like to get Ciarán home. He should be resting.”
“You go,” he said. “I’ll call in other guards to help search.”
She looked around the room at their suspects, all looking shocked and weary. Most likely, the biggest shock had come from the reading of the will.
“But none of them could have run out and flipped the fuse box,” Siobhán pointed out.
Macdara sighed. “You’re right. It appears that someone has an accomplice.” Macdara and Siobhán locked eyes; no doubt both thinking about the mysterious old lady.
“Someone didn’t want us to get our hands on that briefcase,” Siobhán said.
The entire group filed out, one by one, leaving Siobhán and Macdara sitting there. He twirled Siobhán’s paper on the desk. “That briefcase could have been just the thing we needed.”
“To unmask the killer?”
“To keep our suspe
cts from leaving. I have no grounds to hold them here without evidence.”
“Then we’d better find something. And quick.” Siobhán handed him the portion of the journal from Hannah.
He shook his head. “Someone thinks he’s in control.”
“Or she,” Siobhán added.
“ ‘Or she,’” Macdara agreed. “Isn’t equality grand?” He winked as she headed out the door, lips zipped.
* * *
“I can’t believe I slept through it,” Ciarán said as they headed home, backpack stuffed with books, thumping as he walked.
“You didn’t miss anything,” Siobhán lied. “But did you see anyone else in the library before you fell asleep?”
Ciarán shook his head. “Just Magda. The overbearing librarian.”
“She means well.” Siobhán was relieved. She didn’t want her little brother to be a witness. Even if he wasn’t so little. She settled him into a chair by the fire, stoked it up, and fixed him a ham-and-cheese toastie and chicken noodle soup.
“Are you going back to work?” He sounded hopeful.
“No,” she said. “I’m going to stay with you.”
He smiled, bringing her a bit of peace. Everyone needed someone when they were sick. “So,” she said, “what are we reading?”
“There’s no ‘we.’ Reading is a solo activity.” He pulled out his book. A bookmark fell out. On it was Saint Vincent de Paul. Siobhán turned it over.
KILBANE’S DAY OF GIVING
TIME TO GIVE
A DAY OF FUND-RAISING
It was three days from now. “Are we going this year?” Ciarán asked.
“I’d forgotten all about it,” Siobhán said. It was a yearly event. She was sure they had plenty to donate, but she hadn’t had time to go through their things. She opened the book to stick it back in, when another piece of paper fell out of the book. “What’s this?” She glanced at the familiar handwriting. Another photocopied journal entry.
“I dunno.” He reached for it, but Siobhán snapped it up. “Hey!”
“It’s nothing,” Siobhán said, tucking it behind her back with one hand, ruffling his hair with the other.
He swatted her hand away. “What does it say?”
“Haven’t read it.”
“Read it now.”
Siobhán didn’t want him thinking about murders, or attempted murders, no matter how long ago they occurred. “Just something for work.”
“How did it get in my book?”
How indeed? When the lights went out. The thought of this person being so close to Ciarán when the rest of them were sequestered in the other room made her blood boil. She left him with his soup and headed into the kitchen to read the note in private:
Michael’s behavior is troubling. The boat moves so slowly, rocks too violently. Ann is sick. I’m worried. Michael is drinking heavily. I worry about his mental state. It was a mistake to let him come. Something must be done.
When Siobhán walked into the station the next morning, Macdara was waiting for her. She laid down the most recent journal entry. “This was left in Ciarán’s book during the blackout at the library.”
Macdara slid open the middle drawer to his desk and slid out another piece of paper. “This was on the windshield of me car this morning.”
Sang a hearty rendition of “Irish Rover” last night with the crew. Much needed distraction. Michael stayed in his cabin. So many are ill. The smell in the bunks is enough to make you wish you were dead.
Siobhán clenched her fist. “Someone is toying with us.”
“Someone has John Mallon’s journal.”
Siobhán slumped into Macdara’s guest chair, picked up a rubber ball from his desk, and began to bounce it. For a few seconds Siobhán lost herself in the simple rhythm of the ball thunking off the wall. “When is Frank due to arrive?”
Macdara glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.” She let the ball drop and it rolled to her feet. She picked it up and placed it back on Macdara’s desk. “Do you think Frank staged the entire bit about the missing briefcase?”
“How could he have done that?”
“Did we look under his chair for it?”
Macdara shook his head. “I think I would have noticed it.”
“There was a lot of commotion.”
“True.” He paused. “But Frank couldn’t have cut the lights in the first place.”
Siobhán sighed. “I’ll be interested in what he has to say for himself.”
“Between Frank and Jay, who has the most to gain from Peter’s death?”
“Before the will was read, it could have been Frank. Perhaps he thought he was going to inherit more than he did.”
“If Frank was paying a blackmailer, as he just claimed, that might have angered Peter.”
“Angered him enough to steal a gun?”
Macdara shrugged. “You tell me. I’m an only child. How far can this sibling-rivalry business go?”
“We know it’s not unheard of for brother to kill brother, all the way back to biblical days. Still, you’re the one who said it was a stretch for Peter to be pointing at that headstone, praying we’d put the whole sordid business together.”
“But we did.”
“Grand. Let’s play it out. Peter finds out Frank has been paying a blackmailer. He’s livid. He steals a gun from the museum. Then he pretends he wants to show Frank the headstone.”
Macdara picked up the thread. “At the cemetery he confronts Frank with what he knows. Tells him he has to stop paying the blackmailer.”
“And what? Frank refuses? Why would Frank want to keep paying?”
“Maybe Peter demanded that Frank get that money back. Demanded to know who was behind the blackmail.”
“Why wouldn’t Frank just tell him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there was no way he could get the money back. Maybe he saw the gun and there was a struggle. Maybe it was the blackmailer that Peter meant to threaten with the gun. Instead things got out of hand. There was a struggle. Frank gets the gun and shoots Peter.”
“Another brother killing a brother.”
“History repeating itself.”
“So who was the blackmailer?”
“My guess? Jay Shepard.”
Siobhán had been thinking the same thing. His presence in their life seemed way too coincidental. Jay wanted to film the documentary and did everything he could to insert himself in their lives. “Let’s say that’s true. Jay learns that the hero of the family dynasty is a cold-blooded killer.”
“How does he learn that?”
“We have yet to figure that out. It must be during his time in Ireland for the other documentary, but stay with me.”
“Okay.”
“Jay goes to the Mallons to blackmail them. Instead of Peter, he first deals with Frank. Frank starts paying him. On top of that, Jay is getting paid to do the documentary. The point of the Ireland trip is to film the revelation. ‘Right a great wrong.’ Jay Shepard wanted the shock value of dropping this bombshell on Peter Mallon. But Peter starts making inquiries of his own while here. He finds out about the headstone. He learns of Michael Mallon. He confronts Frank. Frank admits that Jay has been blackmailing them. Peter calls a meeting with Jay at the cemetery. He lets him know there will be no more payments. He says he wants the truth to come out.”
Macdara nodded. “There goes Jay’s dramatic ending.”
“There goes his money, his dramatic ending, and Peter may have even demanded all the money back. Threaten to sue or press charges.”
“In this scenario who brings the gun?”
“Jay.”
“Jay steals it from the museum?”
“Or his pal George Dunne puts it in a box of socks and places the box outside the museum for Jay to pick up.”
“ ‘His pal’?”
“Remember I caught him sneaking around George’s property? George had that business card. I got the feeling they were both lying to me about it.”
; “The old lady?”
“Could be Jay. He’s tall enough.”
“I don’t think he’s thin enough.”
“The cut of the coat could be slimming him down. And think about it. If the killer was a stranger, there would have been no need to disguise him or herself. The disguise is so that this old lady could follow Peter around without being recognized. It has to be Jay.”
“After Peter was murdered, why wouldn’t Frank tell us if he knew it was Jay?”
Siobhán sighed. “I don’t know.”
“And Jay was in the conference room when Magda saw our mysterious old lady with the long gray hair.”
“Maybe they’re in on it together.”
“Jay is still filming this morbid documentary. Artist or no artist—I find that kind of odd.”
Siobhán seconded that. “After our meeting with Frank let’s go put some pressure on Jay.” Macdara’s mobile rang. He spoke briefly and turned to Siobhán. “That was Chris Gordon.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Frank’s room appears to have been vandalized and there’s no sign of the man.”
Chapter 25
The bedroom had indeed been tossed. The closet door was thrown open. A suitcase was in the middle of the floor. Frank’s wallet and glasses were sitting in the middle of the bed. The confession was propped up on a small table next to the bed.
Dear Family,
I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I never meant to kill Peter. He was putting us in danger. I had no choice. I’m going to kill myself. I won’t do it here. I have too much respect for someone else’s property. Michael Mallon was our great-grandfather. A murderer. I guess it runs in the family. Forgive me.
Frank Mallon
Siobhán didn’t like it. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Go on.”
“Why would Frank toss his own room?”
“Looking for something? The gun perhaps?” He stopped. “Or . . . he wanted it to look like someone else broke in?”
“Why would he do that, and then go to the trouble of writing a confession and suicide note?”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 21