Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Siobhán leaned in. “What happened?”

  “It could have been the wind. These cameras go off all the time.”

  “That’s all we have?”

  Macdara nodded. “Yep.”

  “Play it again.”

  They watched the old woman stumble down the street once more. “She’s obviously drunk,” Macdara said.

  “Play it again.” Macdara did, and Siobhán leaned in closer. “No,” she said. “He’s just not used to wearing heels.”

  “ ‘He’? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. That is a man.”

  Macdara played the tape a final time and leaned in closer. “My God, I think you’re right. Is this man, dressed as an old lady, our killer?”

  “If so, Brandon is eliminated. He’s way too short and stocky.”

  Macdara shut the television off. “We eliminated Brandon when we walked from Butler’s to the churchyard. It’s just not enough time for him to get into an argument with his father, shoot him, and pick up all the burned papers on the ground before you arrived.”

  “If this old lady is our killer, we’ve certainly just narrowed the suspect list.”

  “Jay or Frank,” Macdara said.

  “ ‘Jay or Frank,’ ” Siobhán repeated. “Or someone outside the Mallon family.”

  “Closer,” Macdara said. “But not good enough.”

  “We can’t just let this case go.”

  Macdara closed his eyes for a second. “Frank Mallon confessed. There’s nothing I can do. There will be other cases.”

  “You’ve changed.” He opened his eyes and stared at her. Then looked away. “I’m not letting this go,” she said softly.

  “That’s a mistake,” he said as he brushed past her. “But it’s yours to make.”

  Chapter 26

  Siobhán returned to the bistro, weary and furious with just about everyone—except her siblings. God, she missed them. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. She didn’t need the stress of a murder probe. Not all mysteries were meant to be solved. Everyone else was satisfied that Frank Mallon was the killer. Maybe Macdara was right. Maybe her instincts were off. She was all hot to run to the station after discovering a photograph of Tracy as a young girl holding a gun. And CCTV footage proved Tracy wasn’t the killer. But Macdara was right about two things: Eliminating suspects meant they were getting closer. And closer wasn’t good enough.

  She hesitated before entering the bistro, wanting first to rid herself of her bad mood, so she stood outside in the cold, under the robin’s-egg–blue sign for Naomi’s Bistro, and kept chewing on the case.

  The fact that no one had found Frank Mallon was a good indication that he hadn’t taken his own life, as he claimed. He’d escaped. Those were the actions of a killer.

  Then what was bothering her?

  Jay Shepard, for one. She knew there was more to that man than met the eye. Was he willing to give up the documentary? Didn’t that mean he was going to lose twenty thousand dollars? She hadn’t been able to find him, or Hannah, or Greta, in their rooms. Where were they?

  The tinkling of the bell as she entered Naomi’s was a welcome sound. The fire was crackling and her siblings were sprawled all over the bistro. For once, Elise was nowhere in sight. The relief of being home, coupled with the fact that there was a killer out there who was going to remain unpunished, hit Siobhán at once, and she burst into tears. Trigger was the first by her side, barking excitedly.

  “Oh, pet,” Ann said. “What’s the matter?” Her sister wrapped her arms around her. Gráinne came in from the other side. “Group hug.”

  Ciarán raced over and piled on.

  “Jaysus,” James said. “It’s a crying lovefest.” He went over and rubbed the top of Siobhán’s head, a little too hard. “Come on, Eoin,” he said. “Make it complete.”

  “Bollocks,” Eoin said. He ambled over and rubbed Siobhán’s head.

  “Let her breathe,” James said. The huddle broke apart. James guided her to one of the chairs by the fire. “Sit here. I can make you one of your magic coffee drinks if you fancy?”

  “A mug of tea will be fine,” Siobhán said, wiping her tears.

  “Thank God,” James said with a wink. “That machine is possessed.” He ambled into the kitchen to make the tea.

  “What’s the story?” Ann said.

  “They closed my case,” Siobhán said.

  “Oh,” everyone said in unison.

  “What?”

  “Is Macdara going back to Dublin?” Gráinne asked softly.

  “This isn’t about that,” Siobhán said. “But yes. He’s going back.”

  “Have you told him you wish he would stay?” Ann said.

  “We can tell him for you,” Ciarán said.

  “This isn’t about Macdara,” Siobhán said. She couldn’t even think about him. She had no control over that situation, and thinking otherwise was only going to get her in a world of hurt. “I don’t believe Frank Mallon is a killer. I think he’s protecting someone.”

  James entered with the tea. “If you say he’s not the killer, then he’s not the killer,” James said.

  One by one, her siblings nodded. “Really?” Siobhán said. “You believe me?”

  “I can’t say you’re the best,” Ciarán said. “But you’re pretty good.” Everyone laughed, including Siobhán.

  “What?” Ciarán said, genuinely puzzled. Siobhán ruffled his hair, and he shook her off.

  “Tell us the story,” Gráinne said. “Tell us what you’re thinking.”

  “Are you sure?” Siobhán said. She couldn’t believe how good it felt that they were listening to her.

  “Let’s use the whiteboard in the kitchen,” Eoin said. James reached out his hand, and when Siobhán took it, he pulled her out of the chair. They entered the kitchen and gathered around the whiteboard in the back. She glanced at Ciarán. James punched him lightly on the arm.

  “He can handle it.”

  Ciarán grinned. “And more.”

  “I know,” Siobhán said, sighing.

  “Start from the beginning,” James said, handing her a marker. “And leave nothing out.”

  * * *

  She talked until she was out of breath: She told the story of the brothers and the wife coming over to America, the sordid details of brother attacking brother on the boat, and then assuming his identity. She spoke about Ann and Michael Mallon entering America, pretending to be husband and wife, and the dual headstones. There was the cryptic message on the Irish tombstone, a parting shot from brother to brother and wife, and how Peter was found pointing at the grave with his poor, crooked finger. She went over each suspect. Before the reading of the will there were several possible motives—mostly money. But now they knew that none of them stood to inherit the family fortune. If that was why Peter was murdered, the deed had been done in vain.

  But what if there was another motive? Everything kept circling back to Jay Shepard and the blackmail.

  “What I don’t know,” Siobhán said, pacing the floor, “is whether the blackmailer and the killer are one and the same—or whether they are two separate individuals.” She needed to find the briefcase that went missing during the blackout at the library. She needed to positively identify the blackmailer. She needed to know who had been dressing up as an old woman and why. And dead or alive, she desperately needed to find Frank Mallon.

  She wrote it on the board and circled it: Find Frank Mallon.

  She stopped, looked at her siblings. They were all staring with rapt attention. “Then that’s exactly what you’ll do,” James said.

  Siobhán shook her head. “Work has forbidden me to do it.”

  “That’s never stopped you before,” Eoin said. He turned his Yankee baseball cap around on his head. He loved wearing it backward. He caught her staring and winked. He looked more like a man now than a boy. They were all going to grow up and leave.

  “The Americans are leaving tomorrow,” Siobhán said. “All my suspects, flying a
way.”

  “Then you know what you must do first,” James said. “Find a way to stop them.”

  Siobhán felt a renewed energy. “You guys are the best,” she said. Eoin rolled his eyes and then fist-bumped her.

  “We know,” Gráinne said before flouncing out of the room.

  Ann patted Siobhán’s cheek. Ciarán took her hand. James folded his arms across his chest. “What can I do to help?”

  “You already have. More than you know.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “And let us know if you need us.”

  “Always,” she answered; her fingers were crossed behind her back, though. Almost always.

  * * *

  Chris Gordon was as surprised to see Siobhán standing in front of his shop door in the dark as she was to see him in pajamas dotted with what appeared to be spaceships.

  “Tell me you’re here because you want me to tell you a bedtime story.” He grinned.

  She shook her head and tried to look stern. “Have the guards come yet for Frank Mallon’s possessions?”

  “They’ve gone through it. Nobody wanted his belongings. I’m going to donate the rest to Kilbane’s Day of Giving.” Once again Siobhán had forgotten all about that; it was coming up quick. She hadn’t had a second to go through their items, but, luckily, the girls were on it. She felt a squeeze of love for her sisters.

  “They’ve sent me for one more look.”

  Chris eyed her up and down. “In the middle of the night? In your civilian clothes?”

  “Of course,” she said, answering as if he was being ridiculous.

  He sighed, stood aside. “Be my guest.”

  She stepped in and looked to the stairwell leading to the upper flats. She glanced at Chris and held back a smile. “ ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ ” she said.

  * * *

  Frank’s room had been straightened. His suitcase was lying on the bed. She rummaged through it and found a paperback tucked in between articles of clothing. From the airport. A thriller. He had been telling the truth about that at least. Almost everyone had lied to her in this investigation. She just didn’t see Frank Mallon as the killer, and absolutely everyone was abandoning him.

  She sighed. What now? Where could he have gone?

  A sob broke out in the room. Siobhán jumped. “Who’s there?” She heard a sniffling. It was coming from the closet. She opened the door. There, sobbing on the floor of the closet with her knees pulled up to her chest, was Greta Mallon. She was clutching one of Frank’s jackets. She was wearing another. And she was crying much harder than she had over her dead husband.

  “Why don’t you come out of there,” Siobhán said.

  “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

  “We can talk about it out here.” Siobhán reached down and pulled Greta out of the closet. Siobhán guided her over to a chair, near the bed. “Sit.” Greta slumped in the chair and started to sob again. Siobhán sat on the edge of the bed. “How long have you and Frank been in love?”

  Greta stopped crying and her face turned. Instead of a sweet librarian she looked like a rabid dog. “Nothing has ever happened between us. Nothing.”

  “I believe you,” Siobhán said. “But you love each other. Don’t you?”

  “How can I love a murderer?” The sobs started again.

  “You believe what Frank wrote in that letter?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Siobhán stood up. She remembered Macdara’s warning about discussing the case and didn’t answer Greta’s question. “Did you hear anything in the middle of the night?”

  Greta shook her head. “Not a thing.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Frank?”

  “After the reading of the will.”

  “Did you know he was paying a blackmailer?”

  “No. I swear. Those Mallon men. They kept me out of everything.”

  “It must have been a shock. Being left out of the family fortune.”

  Greta regarded Siobhán through her red eyes. “I told you. I didn’t marry Peter for money. I loved him. I still love him. But Tracy was right. He wasn’t mentally well. He hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “How so?”

  “Obsessed. Peter was so obsessed with the past. He was also starting to forget things. He had mood swings. He just wasn’t my Peter.”

  “And Frank was there for you.” Greta simply blinked. Siobhán leaned down. “Stay. Stay and help me find Frank.”

  “I can’t. I just want to get home so I can start putting this all behind me.”

  “You’re all leaving behind a family member,” Siobhán said, standing up and moving away. “What would Peter have said about that?” She didn’t like manipulating people with guilt, but she just couldn’t believe they were all so willing to abandon Frank.

  “If you have reason to believe that Frank didn’t kill Peter, tell me,” Greta pleaded. “Tell me and I’ll stay.”

  “I don’t have anything but questions,” Siobhán said.

  “The note was in his handwriting. Frank was skimming from the company. He and Peter were at each other’s throats. I’m afraid it’s that simple. And that horrible.”

  “What were you doing in the closet?”

  “Some people are claustrophobic. I’m the opposite. I like small spaces. I just wanted some comfort.”

  “You were smelling his jacket.”

  “So?”

  “If you think he’s a murderer, why do that?”

  Greta sighed. “People are complicated,” she said. “I’m complicated.” Siobhán nodded. She checked the rest of the closet and found it empty.

  “I hope you’ll consider staying,” Siobhán said as she headed for the door. “At least sleep on it.”

  * * *

  Siobhán was awake long after her siblings went to sleep. She should be asleep too; she should just forget this failure. She was heading upstairs when she stopped, turned around, and threw on her coat. She was outside before she could even begin to talk herself out of it. The snow was all gone, but the air still held the cold bite of winter. She told herself she was just going for an easy stroll, and the fact that she was headed for the cemetery was just a coincidence. But, of course, she knew better. Criminals liked to return to the scene of the crime. Could the killer be hanging around the cemetery? Did the old lady roam the streets at night?

  She had her trusty flashlight with her. Father Kearney might be awake, and could possibly see her go into the cemetery. She kept her torch off as she crept in. Silence enveloped her, thick and uncomfortable, like a stranger’s hand wrapped around her neck. The headstones looked like hunched creatures in the cloak of darkness, and the statues that were so enchanting in the daylight transformed into menacing figures.

  She started humming to herself, thinking pleasant thoughts. She stopped first at her parents’ grave and offered up a prayer and a kiss. Then she tread across the soft grass until she made her way back to John Mallon’s grave. She almost expected to see Peter Mallon still lying on the ground. Instead the grass was slightly indented. Father Kearney would not be happy. She glanced up at his building. It was dark. She turned her torch beam on low and focused it on the headstone.

  There was a small object sitting on top. She moved closer as the hair on her arms stood up. It was an American flag pin—such as the one Peter Mallon had been wearing.

  Brandon said that his father took off his pin just before heading to the churchyard.

  John Butler confirmed it.

  When Peter Mallon entered the cemetery, he was not wearing the pin.

  Therefore . . .

  After he or she murdered him, the killer placed another American flag pin on Peter. And now, one was back, sitting on top of the headstone. A respectful token, or a killer’s calling card?

  Chapter 27

  Siobhán continued to stare at the tiny American flag pin sitting on the headstone. She was right. Instinct told her she was right. The killer put the pin on Peter after he or she murdered
him. But why? So that the guards could identify him? Because they didn’t realize Peter had announced he wasn’t going to wear it anymore?

  She was dying to pick up the pin on the headstone now. Where had it come from? Jay Shepard said he had only given them out to the family members. Was that the truth?

  Maybe none of that was important in the moment. When had the pin been left? Could she have just missed someone? She turned off her torch and shivered. Then she turned it back to the grass. She could see a swath of grass lying on its side as if recently walked on. She slowly began to walk in the direction of the disturbance. The path led to the opposite end of the cemetery, where, if she remembered correctly, it was possible to exit. She kept the light on the ground, hoping to catch more abnormalities or even objects hidden in the slick blades. If only there was still snow on the ground and she could follow footprints. She reached the stone wall and began to follow it to the exit. After several feet she found it: a gap in the stones where a person could squeeze out, or, if they were so inclined, jump over. She decided to squeeze. Now what? She was facing the back of Saint Mary’s. The rising steeple, barely visible in the dark, still offered a bit of comfort. Around the front was the town square, but if she veered left behind it, she would come upon George Dunne’s house and Kelly’s pub, which had been abandoned forever. . . .

  A perfect place for someone to hide.

  Had Frank Mallon come to visit, laid the American flag pin on his ancestor’s headstone? She began to jog in the direction of Kelly’s, trying to keep her breath even. She would just peek in the windows; if anything looked amiss or if it appeared someone was holed up inside, she wouldn’t go in. She would call Garda O’Reilly this time. One might even say she was learning her lessons.

  * * *

  Siobhán neared the back of Kelly’s. The back door was padlocked. The windows dark. She looked for signs that a human had been here recently. But the grass and footpath to the door were pristine.