Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Macdara eyed her. “Where are you going with this?”

  Siobhán scanned the room again. “Maybe he was forced to write it.”

  “How’s that now?”

  “Somebody else came in, threatened Frank, tossed the room looking for . . . whatever evidence Frank had in that briefcase . . . then forced him to write the confession and kidnapped him.”

  “You’re reaching.”

  “I disagree. If Frank is not the murderer, then the murderer is getting desperate. There must have been something incriminating in that briefcase!”

  Macdara shook his head. “We have no proof of that.”

  “Because suddenly there is no briefcase.”

  “But there is a note. And a solid confession.”

  Siobhán threw her arms up. “So is your theory that Frank tossed his own room, looking for the gun? And what? He couldn’t remember where he hid it?”

  Macdara folded his arms. “That’s my guess.”

  “That means he’s out there somewhere with a gun.”

  “Or he’s already taken his own life, and his body is out there somewhere.”

  “Or he just wants us to think he took his own life and he’s on a plane to an exotic island as we speak.”

  Macdara shook his head. “He wouldn’t have time. My guess is he hasn’t left Kilbane. We’d better send out the search party.”

  “We’re the search party,” Siobhán said.

  “Then we better start looking,” Macdara replied.

  * * *

  Macdara gathered the rest of the Americans and convinced them to stay in the comic-book store while they searched for Frank. He also got them all to agree to let the guards search their rooms. Siobhán had just started a door-by-door search for Frank Mallon when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around to see Garda O’Reilly standing behind her. She tried not to stare at his ears.

  “Well done,” he said.

  “We haven’t found him yet,” Siobhán said, frowning.

  “All in due course. But the murderer has been unmasked. We’ll all rest a lot safer tonight. Why don’t you head back to the station, there’s a load of paperwork awaiting you, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to say good-bye to the detective sergeant.”

  Alarm bells rang loudly in her head. She couldn’t process any of it. Especially saying good-bye to Macdara. Besides, there was still a killer out there. “You’re closing the case?”

  O’Reilly held up a plastic bag. Inside was Frank’s confession. “Of course. We have our man.”

  “He’s missing. Macdara . . . ,” she caught herself. “Detective Sergeant Flannery and I are about to organize a search.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I have other guards looking for him.”

  “We don’t know for sure that he wrote that note. Frank Mallon could be a victim. And if that’s the case, he’s in imminent danger.”

  “The family has verified it’s his handwriting. If I have to get in a handwriting expert, I will.”

  “What if he was forced to write it?”

  O’Reilly’s face hardened. “I am satisfied that he’s our killer.”

  “I’m not satisfied. Neither is the detective sergeant.” She glanced around. Macdara was nowhere to be seen.

  O’Reilly shook his finger at her. She wanted to bite it off. “You should be thanking your lucky stars you weren’t suspended. You are not in charge here. You follow orders. My orders. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. But—”

  O’Reilly swiftly cut her off. “This investigation is closed. The sooner we get the Americans out of here, the sooner we can go back to business as usual. Either get back to the precinct and start on that paperwork, or go home.” He stared at her. “And if you choose the latter, you best not be coming back.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  * * *

  Siobhán sat at her desk, fuming. This case is nowhere near solved. How can he do that? Is Macdara fighting back?

  He wasn’t in the office. He hadn’t called her; and she was too terrified to step outside the lines, so she hadn’t called him either.

  Where is Frank Mallon? Is he really the killer? Is he still alive?

  She was in the middle of these thoughts when she looked up to find Macdara staring at her. After eye contact he bowed his head. Siobhán rose instinctively.

  “He can’t do this.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Macdara said softly, with a glance around. The few other guards and employees on duty weren’t looking at them, but she knew they were probably straining to listen.

  “You can’t leave,” she said. “I think our killer is still out there.”

  Macdara shook his head and took another step. “One of the hardest lessons to learn doesn’t come from college,” he said. “You’re not in charge. You must learn to take orders.”

  “We don’t even know where Frank is hiding. Or if he’s still alive. Even if it is his handwriting, he could have been coerced to write that letter. Or he’s protecting someone. Or, at the very least, we have to find him and get his official confession.”

  Macdara took off his hat and sighed.

  “Don’t you outrank O’Reilly?” she implored.

  “Yes, but I have superiors. And O’Reilly has already informed the detective superintendent—with much fanfare, I might add—that we’ve caught the killer. The rest is follow-up and paperwork. I’m to head back to Dublin immediately.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep digging.”

  “No,” Macdara said. “You won’t. Not if you want to be a guard.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  Macdara sat on the edge of her desk and removed his cap. “You’re not a quitter.”

  “Why aren’t we opening a new case, then? Frank Mallon is missing.”

  “There are guards looking for him.”

  “We should be looking for him.”

  “We’re not one-man bands. Life here will go easier if you remember that.”

  “I had more freedom to catch killers when I was nothing more than a bistro owner.”

  “You’ve always been more than a bistro owner.” He locked eyes with her.

  He was leaving. It was now or never. “I’m sure you’re happy to be returning to Dublin.” She diverted her gaze to her desk.

  “I never said that.”

  “Say hi to Aisling for me.” Pulse thumping along with her throat, she sat down and pretended to be fascinated with the paperwork.

  “ ‘Aisling’?” Macdara said. He stood up and hovered over her. “Why would I do that?”

  Siobhán was tired of playing games, keeping secrets. “I hear the two of you spend quite a lot of time together.”

  “I see.” He shook his head. “Mystery of what was bothering Siobhán O’Sullivan solved.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At least that’s one down. You could have just asked me.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “No. I suppose it isn’t.” He stood. Started to walk away. Ignoring her instincts to stay calm, she stood too.

  “I would have never hurt you like that,” she said to his back.

  He turned. “But you did.”

  She shook her head. “I went to college.”

  “You made a life-altering decision without even telling me.”

  “I didn’t need your permission. It’s my life.”

  Macdara looked as if she’d slapped him. “Oh, I know. And what a shock it was to realize how small a part I was playing in it.”

  Is that what happened? Is he right? Did I do that? “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?” He stood close and lowered his voice. “If I had meant anything to you, you would have brought me into your confidence. Shared the news. Not dropped it on me like an atomic bomb.” He started to walk away, then returned. “Everyone knows you don’t date coworkers. Any case you work on together could be compromised, or at the very least looked on with suspicion, just by the existence of a rom
ance.” The entire station was listening now; it was obvious from the blanket of silence and heads bowed across the station. Macdara jerked his head toward the outdoor patio, and Siobhán followed.

  Macdara took a deep breath and faced her. His eyes were swimming with pain. “I just want to know one thing.” Siobhán nodded. “Did you discuss it with your brothers and sisters before you decided?” Siobhán’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded. Macdara turned his back to her. “Of course I would have supported you. I probably would have put in for a transfer to Cork. So we could try to make both romance and career work for both of us. But you didn’t even give me the chance. That’s what hurt. Really, really hurt.”

  Shame started to overwhelm Siobhán, but then her own hurt elbowed its way in. “At least I didn’t start dating your best friend behind your back.”

  “Is that what you really think?” He turned around and looked her in the eyes.

  Confusion landed. She frowned. “It’s what I heard.”

  “I didn’t ask you what you heard. I asked you what you thought.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Aisling never said a word. Maria never said a word. And you. You forbid me to talk about us.”

  Macdara bit his lip. It was obvious he was trying to control his temper. Why was he angry? She was the wronged party.

  “For a second I thought you were on top of this entire murder investigation,” Macdara said. “But you’ve just delivered a stark and sobering reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “Your instincts,” he said. “They may be good. Sometimes even great. But they certainly aren’t always right.”

  She watched, mouth open as he tipped his cap and headed back inside without another word.

  * * *

  Tracy was packing when Siobhán entered her room. The woman let out a startled cry and dropped into the suitcase a blouse she had been trying to fold.

  “Don’t you people knock?”

  “I did,” Siobhán lied. “You must not have heard me.”

  Tracy sighed. “I just can’t wait to get home.”

  “How can you leave when your uncle is still missing?”

  Tracy turned red. “Our uncle? The one who just admitted to killing our father?”

  “I’m not convinced the letter is legitimate.”

  Tracy slammed the lid of her suitcase down. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re obviously obsessed with your job. I know my uncle’s handwriting. He wrote that letter.”

  “What if he was coerced to write it? Or what if he was protecting all of you?”

  “You just can’t accept this had a simple answer, can you?”

  “It doesn’t add up.” The note didn’t even sound like Frank.

  “It does to me. Frank was being blackmailed. My father found out. Was furious that Frank kept it from him. Furious that Frank paid God knows how much money. My father told him he was out of the will, out of the family business. Frank shot him.”

  “So Frank shot him because he was enraged?”

  “Yes. A passion kill.”

  “Who brought the gun?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did Frank bring the gun, or did your father?”

  “Frank. I’m sure of it.”

  “That makes it less about passion and more about premeditated murder.”

  “So?”

  “Either Frank killed his brother out of an impulsive rage, as you suggest, or he meticulously planned it. It can’t be both.”

  Tracy threw her arms up. “Rage.”

  “But the very existence of a prior stolen gun says otherwise.”

  “Okay, then he planned it.” She clicked the locks on her suitcase.

  “And who is this blackmailer?”

  Tracy sighed. “I suppose Greta must go through the paperwork and try and figure it out.”

  “Give me five days. Can’t you just stay five days if it means finding out the truth? And if your uncle is guilty, don’t you want to see him caught?”

  “He said he was going to take his own life. Which proves he has the gun. I’m bringing one relative home to bury. If he killed my father, I don’t care what happens to him.”

  “And if he didn’t? Do you care then?”

  Tracy grabbed her suitcase and stormed past Siobhán. She knocked into her. Her suitcase dropped to the floor and flew open. Photographs spilled over the edge and glided to the floor in a kaleidoscope of memories.

  “Look what you did,” Tracy said, dropping to her knees to pick them up. “These were supposed to be for the film. Jay wanted to weave family photos throughout the documentary.”

  “That’s nice,” Siobhán said as she knelt to help pick them up. She loved family photographs, even if they weren’t her own. The poses, the expressions, the moments caught in time. She lifted one, which featured Tracy as a young girl. She was with a group of other girls. They were smiling. Lined up. Posing. And they were all holding rifles.

  She slipped the photograph into her pocket before Tracy could see it. She said she had never held a gun, didn’t know her way around a gun. Would this photograph be enough to convince Garda O’Reilly that the Americans needed to remain? Just a few more days?

  No.

  O’Reilly was furious with her, and elated that he could close the case, call it a success. This photograph wouldn’t be enough to change his mind. What was she supposed to do now? She slipped the photograph out of her pocket and held it up so Tracy could see.

  “That was my 4-H troop,” Tracy said. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Siobhán had no idea what a 4-H troop was, but this was hardly the moment for a lesson in American activities. “You told me you’d never even held a gun.”

  “Oh,” Tracy said. “I forgot about that.” Her eyes fixed on a spot in a distant corner.

  “You forgot that you used to shoot with a rifle?”

  “You misunderstand. We were at a barn that was also a gun range. One of the girls thought it would make a good picture if we posed with the rifles. They weren’t loaded, and I certainly never shot with it.”

  So that’s the story. O’Reilly wouldn’t hold her based on that. And digging into Tracy’s past as a teenager was probably a rabbit hole.

  “Five days.”

  “No.” Tracy made it to the door.

  “Three?”

  “What are you, an auctioneer?”

  “If I have to be.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  “It won’t be the first.” And with that, Tracy was gone.

  * * *

  Brandon was in Paddy Power, eyes glued to the screen in the corner, hands clutching a betting slip. He looked feverish when Siobhán walked in. “I’m free,” he said. “I’m out of the will and I can gamble!” He sounded on the verge of hysteria. “I’m losing,” he added. “I’m losing and it still feels good.”

  Siobhán sighed. The poor lad. He needs serious help. This was out of her wheelhouse. “I’m sure you’re worried about your uncle,” she said. “This is how you deal with stress.”

  “That killer? You think I care what happens to him?”

  “So you’re convinced he’s the murderer?”

  “Of course. Wait. You’re not?”

  “No.”

  Brandon turned away from the television and studied Siobhán. “Why not?”

  “Why confess now? When he’d almost gotten away with it?”

  Brandon shrugged. “The guilt was eating him alive?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he was trying to protect the family.”

  “From what?”

  “The real killer.”

  “If he knew who the real killer was, why didn’t he just tell someone?”

  “Why indeed? They might still have some kind of leverage over the family. Frank has already shown that he’ll go to great lengths to protect the family name.”

 
“Don’t make a martyr out of him,” Brandon said. “He wrote the letter. He’s guilty.”

  “Five days. Just give me five days and then you can leave.”

  “We leave tomorrow morning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend every minute of it here.”

  “I saw a picture of your sister when she was younger,” Siobhán said. “She was with a group of girls, holding a rifle.”

  Brandon laughed. “You’re on about the guns again. You can’t blame her for lying. You were determined that anyone who had ever held a gun could be the killer.”

  So she did know how to shoot that rifle. And Siobhán certainly could blame her for lying. Her job would be so much easier if everyone just told the truth.

  “Your father would want you to stay and finish the documentary,” Siobhán said.

  Brandon turned to her with a sad smile. “Our father basically cut us out of his will. This was never about the documentary. This was about shaming all of us.”

  “I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job of that on your own,” Siobhán said just before she took her leave.

  * * *

  Macdara was loading his car with luggage when she found him. Her stomach flipped and she forced herself to think about anything. Anything other than him leaving. She showed him the picture of Tracy with the gun.

  “Well?” she said when he didn’t comment. “Do you think this will buy us some time?”

  “No,” Macdara said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll show you.” She followed him back into the station. He entered a meeting room with a television mounted in the corner. “Came in this morning. CCTV footage from Cork City the night of the murder.” He pushed the PLAY button. A downtown street in Cork came to life. Macdara pointed to a pub on the corner. “Look at the time.” It was almost two in the morning. “Watch.” She stared at the screen. A few seconds later, and Tracy Mallon came stumbling out.

  “Tracy,” Siobhán said. “In Cork City an hour after the murder.”

  “Pretty solid alibi,” Macdara said. “I’ve already confirmed with the publican. She was in from half eleven to two.” Siobhán frowned. Macdara studied her. “We’ve just eliminated another suspect. You should be happy.”

  “Do we have footage of Brandon getting into the taxi with his father?”

  Macdara shook his head. “But I did find this.” He played another tape. On the screen was an image of an old woman walking toward the Kilbane Museum. She had long gray hair, a long coat, and a small red hat. And she was stumbling. The camera cut off after a few seconds.