Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I went back to the cemetery the other day. Someone had placed an American flag pin on John Mallon’s headstone.” She held up the business card. “Perhaps it was the one that used to be pinned on here.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just before Frank Mallon was found.” She deliberately left the timeline vague.

  “And you didn’t think to mention this before.”

  “Let’s just say I got distracted.”

  He squinted at her, then sighed. “Let’s go see if it’s still there.”

  * * *

  They stood in front of John Mallon’s grave. Even Siobhán was surprised to see that the pin was still resting on top of the tombstone.

  “Should we call the guards?” Siobhán said. “Get fingerprints?”

  “One of the family members could have left it as a token of respect,” Macdara said. “It doesn’t necessarily point to our killer.” He glanced across the graves and his eyes landed on Kelly’s in the distance. “Uh-huh,” he said.

  Siobhán kept her gob shut.

  They started to exit. In the very back corner of the churchyard was a single mausoleum. Usually covered with moss, and tucked away, it wasn’t a structure Siobhán had ever taken the time to explore. They were just passing it and Siobhán noticed something odd. She stopped and looked closer. The massive iron door, with a tiny viewing window, was ajar. A padlock and chain hung from the handle. She reached out and grabbed Macdara’s arm. “Look!”

  “Slowly,” he said, putting a finger up to his lips. Siobhán nodded. They started for it, bodies alert, and poised. They positioned themselves on either end of the door. Macdara reached for his torch. “Maybe you should stay out here.”

  “No way,” she said. “I’m right behind you.” They stepped into the tomb, torches shining. Their light bounced over a stone crypt, sconces on the walls, dried flowers, ancient mass cards, and numerous Celtic crosses. They shone their lights in the far corners. Cobwebs decorated the ceiling. A damp, musty smell rose up, as if to drive them out. They stepped in farther. A glint of silver in the far corner caught Siobhán’s eye.

  “There!” She moved forward and Macdara followed. A groan sounded behind them as the iron door clanged and swung shut with a thud. They were sealed in.

  “Hey,” Siobhán said. They ran to the door. The padlock snapped, and a heavy chain thudded against the door. Siobhán peered out the tiny window. A tall person in a tan coat, long gray hair, and a red cap was running away. “It’s the old lady.” Definitely a man.

  Macdara edged her out of the way and peered through. “Hey!” he said. “Stop!” Siobhán didn’t have to be looking out the window to know that the old lady didn’t stop. Macdara pushed on the door, to no avail.

  He patted his pockets and brought out his mobile at the same time Siobhán did. She glanced at her screen. “No reception.”

  “Me either.”

  Siobhán tried not to panic, despite her worst fears swarming around her mind. How often did anyone ever come in here? “Never” was the answer. Nobody ever came in here. Now that the door was closed and locked, nothing would look amiss from the outside. Even if someone was standing near the building, could they be heard shouting? She never thought of herself as claustrophobic, but she felt a clawing desire to get out. “We’re going to die in a crypt,” she whispered. “If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.”

  “Might as well check it out,” Macdara said, taking the torch from her and aiming it at the corner. “My God.”

  Siobhán edged her way in. There, under the beam of light, was an antique revolver. “The murder weapon.” She took a step forward, and Macdara’s arm clamped down on hers.

  “Best not to touch it.”

  Siobhán stopped. “Why did the murderer just lock us in here with the murder weapon?”

  “They don’t think it will matter.” Macdara’s soft, deep voice was comforting, but his words chilled her to the bone.

  “Meaning they don’t think we’ll be found in time to talk.” She inched closer to the revolver. “Shine the light again.” Soon the revolver was illuminated. Siobhán saw a white piece of paper sticking out. “It’s another journal entry.” She crouched down as he kept the light steady. She read it out loud: “‘Spoke with Ann. We will part ways with Michael when we arrive in New York. Slip off to Philadelphia. I’m afraid he means me harm.’ ”

  Siobhán sighed. “This may be the last thing we ever read. Why couldn’t he have left War and Peace and some crisps, and some chocolates?”

  “ ‘War and Peace’?” Macdara asked.

  “It’s long,” Siobhán. “I’m trying to be an optimist.”

  “Whiskey,” Macdara said. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m having a whiskey.” He turned to her and tried to smile. “Someone will come for us.”

  She shook her head. “Father Kearney never even comes in here. Nobody ever comes in here.”

  “Just breathe.”

  “Do you have no sense of smell? I’ve been holding me breath!”

  Macdara shone the light around the inside, carefully going over the place, stone by stone. There were small cracks in the ceiling letting in strips of light. “We’ll think of something.”

  She stepped closer to him and he grabbed her hands. “This doesn’t look good, does it?” she whispered.

  “Someone will find us.”

  “We didn’t tell anyone where we were going.”

  He sighed. “We ought to be able to catch rainwater through those cracks.”

  Siobhán jerked her hands away. “You think we’ll be stuck that long?”

  “I hope not. I’m just trying to calm you down.”

  “Try another tactic, because you’re doing the exact opposite of calming me down.”

  “Maybe if we hold our phones closer to the crack in the ceiling, we’ll be able to get reception.”

  “Good idea.” They shone their lights on the ceiling. “We’ll have to climb on top of the crypt.” Siobhán’s voiced echoed in the tiny, damp chamber.

  Macdara sighed. “I know.”

  The crypt was lying on a strong stone base. It would hold Siobhán’s weight, but she hated stepping on it. “It feels so disrespectful.”

  Macdara shone the light on the name. “ ‘Daniel Eagan,’ ” he said. “No disrespect, but we’re not quite ready to join you.”

  Siobhán crossed herself and Macdara followed suit. “I’ll lift you up. Hold your mobile close to the cracks and see if you can get a signal.”

  He lifted her up onto the crypt and she steadied herself before standing up and stretching toward the ceiling. When she had a grip on her balance, she lifted her mobile toward the crack. She watched as it went from no signal to one bar. Then two. It stopped there.

  “Two bars.”

  “Try 999.”

  She dialed. The call immediately cut off. “Not enough of a signal.”

  “Try a text.” She stared at the phone. “Well?”

  “I don’t know who to text.”

  “Who’s the one person you’d text if you were really in trouble?”

  Is he serious? “You,” she said softly.

  “I deserved that.”

  You deserve a lot more. “I’ll try all my siblings.” She started with James, although she knew he was lazy about checking his phone unless he was separated from Elise:

  Help. Locked in crypt in churchyard. Call guards or Father Kearney.

  He was probably going to think it was a joke. “I didn’t get an error message. Hopefully, it went through.”

  “Good, good.”

  “I’ll keep texting everyone I know.”

  “Do you have Garda O’Reilly’s number?”

  “Are you kidding? He hates me.”

  “I have it in my phone. I’ll toss it to you. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” He tossed his mobile and she managed to catch it without falling off.

  “Good catch.”

  “Thanks.” She turned his phone over.
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  “Wait,” he said in a shout, panic in his voice.

  It gave her a jolt and she almost lost her footing. “Don’t do that.”

  “Just toss my phone back.”

  But she didn’t. She looked at the screen. Staring back at her was a photograph of herself. At her graduation ceremony from Templemore Garda College. A lump immediately formed in her throat. “You were there?” she asked. Macdara cursed softly under his breath. Silence echoed through the crypt. “Dara?” She hadn’t used the shortened version of his name since they’d been together.

  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “Where did you get this? Were you there?”

  “Just text O’Reilly.”

  “Answer me. Please.”

  He sighed. “Of course I was there.” Anger and hurt poured from him. “Do you think I would miss it?” In addition to the lump in her throat, tears were welling in her eyes. She was grateful for the dark. “And if you must know, my meetings with Aisling were all about you. She was giving me progress reports, since I’m not on Facebook.”

  “You should really be on Facebook.” Her attempt at humor was undercut by the tremor in her voice.

  “I am never going to be on Facebook. If someone wants to see my face, it’s easy enough to do in person.”

  She was pondering whether or not to tell him how much she loved his handsome face, when her phone dinged, startling her. It was a text from Ciarán: Ha ha.

  She let out an exasperated cry. “It’s Ciarán. He says, ‘Ha ha.’ ”

  “At least it went through. Tell him.”

  Not joking. Call 999 and Father Kearney.

  On my way.

  No! Stay in school. Just make the calls.

  Already thrown out for texting during class.

  Siobhán sighed and repeated the conversation to Macdara. His soft chuckle filled the space. “I’m afraid we’ll have to forgive him for this one.”

  Siobhán crouched down and within seconds Macdara was there to help her down, his arms secure around her as he helped her to the floor. When she landed, he didn’t break away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Me too.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  She nodded, barely trusting her voice. “Back at ye.” She launched herself into his arms, holding him tightly in case she never got the chance again, and soon she felt his arms encircle her.

  “There’s something I’d want more than whiskey if I was facing the end of my life,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This.” Before she could respond, his lips were over hers. She sank into the kiss, and kissed him back, as years of wanting him came rushing into this moment. And it may have been two years since she’d been kissed, and she was no expert, but it seemed even better than before. He certainly hadn’t forgotten how to make her nerve endings sing. When they finally pulled away, she could hear the pounding of their hearts. She could have kept shifting him forever. At least until she really had to pee. Which was pretty much right now.

  Voices rang out, calling their names. They parted and ran for the door.

  “Macdara? Siobhán?” It was Father Kearney.

  “In here!” they said in stereo.

  “It’s padlocked,” Father Kearney said. “Who did this?”

  “We didn’t see,” Macdara said. “Just get us out!”

  “I’ll have to call the volunteer fire department.”

  “Understood,” Macdara said.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Hurry,” Siobhán said.

  “Don’t want to be stuck with me any longer?” Macdara said. “Guess I’m the one who should be nervous. Locked up with you and a loaded gun.”

  “Don’t take it so personally,” Siobhán said. “I drank three cappuccinos this morning.”

  Hearty laughter rang out. “So what should we chat about?” he said, mischief dancing in his voice. “Waterfalls?”

  Chapter 29

  “Now?” Macdara said. “You have to go for a run right now?” The guards had come to retrieve the murder weapon. Ballistics and fingerprints would take some time to come back. Siobhán wasn’t hopeful, chances were good that the killer had worn gloves.

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “I have to go for a run right now.”

  “It’s not your lunch hour.”

  “I have to go for a run right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s something rattling around in my brain and running helps me think.”

  “Something to do with the business card?”

  So he still had it, his annoying ability to read her mind. “Please. Just let me go for a run.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m going to run far and I’m going to run fast,” she said.

  Macdara sucked in his stomach. Then sighed and let it out. “I’ll do me best to keep up,” he said.

  * * *

  There was satisfaction in hearing Macdara strain beside her. Siobhán started the run in her usual way. Down Sarsfield Street, then past the museum and out to the field, where the abbey stood. Over the bridge, through the field to the abbey, and around it. This time, just because he was starting to breathe hard, Siobhán entered the abbey. She sprinted up the steps leading to the bell tower, then flew back down, passing Macdara, who stood at the bottom of the steps with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

  She bypassed him and sprinted out, back to the field, and instead of heading back to the roads, she wound her way up to the medieval fence and settled into a slower pace as she jogged along it. She cleared her mind and focused solely on her breath and the sound of her trainers hitting the ground. She had never imagined she’d be able to reach this state when she first started jogging. The runner’s high she supposed. Where you melted into your body and quieted down. Where nothing mattered but the feel of the wind, and the push of the muscles. Macdara must have entered a similar state, for he was no longer laboring beside her, but keeping up in a comfortable rhythm. She had never run with Macdara before and she was startled how comfortable it was, how easy.

  They headed in the direction of what used to be Sheedy’s cycle shop, now abandoned, circled the property, and headed downhill. Siobhán stopped at the bottom of the hill, put her hands on her knees, and breathed in and out.

  “You’ve upped your game,” Macdara said. “You’re fast.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you solve the case?” Siobhán met his grin with a glare. “Can we unwind my way now?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  * * *

  Maria’s broad smile greeted Siobhán and Macdara as they stepped into O’Rourke’s, sat at the counter, and ordered pints.

  “This isn’t my normal cooldown,” Siobhán said, lifting her pint.

  “I think we’ve earned it,” Macdara said, clinking her glass. “Sláinte.”

  “Cheers.” They sipped in silence for a moment.

  “Start talking.”

  “The killer didn’t want to kill again. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “You mean they didn’t kill Frank.”

  “And,” Siobhán said, “they didn’t kill us.”

  “Tells us he or she may not be as cold-blooded as we thought. Perhaps they didn’t want to kill Peter. Only threaten him.”

  “I believe that Peter’s response to the family’s secret being unearthed enraged the killer.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “First came the blackmail. They blackmailed Frank. He cooperated and was paying. But when Peter learns of the blackmail, the payments stop.”

  “Maybe that’s why they didn’t kill Frank.”

  “I think so too. But there’s something bothering me. According to Greta, Peter would have wanted the truth to come out.”

  “Go on.”

  “Frank was behaving in a way that was predicted. It’s all building up to their arrival in Ireland and the
documentary. I think the killer wanted to hold all the cards, and play them at his or her discretion. Possibly use the documentary to do so.”

  “But Peter started nosing around.” Macdara finished his pint. Siobhán gawked. She’d only taken a few sips of hers. “We’ve been through all this.”

  “But we’ve learned something new. The killer feels remorse. So much so that he or she puts the American flag pin back on Peter’s coat as he lies there in the snow. A killer who didn’t know that Peter had announced to his wife that he wasn’t going to wear it anymore.”

  “Are you saying Greta is no longer a suspect because she wouldn’t have put the pin back on him?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Macdara sighed. “You’re losing me.”

  “Greta made sure to mention it. ‘He must have changed his mind.’ That’s what she first said. I asked what she meant. Maybe she was hoping that we would eliminate her. Come to this very conclusion and say, ‘Why would she put the pin back on when she knew he stopped wearing it? Why else would anyone care to put a pin back on a dead man?’ ”

  “Why indeed,” Macdara said. “But once again you’re suggesting that she did all this hoping we’d catch these little clues. It’s a bit far-fetched. And she doesn’t inherit the bulk of the fortune.”

  “She didn’t know that at the time. And we still haven’t thoroughly checked all the so-called charities that do inherit the bulk of the estate.”

  “True.”

  “And she definitely wouldn’t have killed Frank Mallon.”

  “Interesting,” Macdara said. “Greta somewhat clears herself by distracting us with the bit about the American pin. And Frank clears himself by confessing, then being found nearby, tied up, and claiming it was a false confession.”

  “Making us clear both of them for the murder.”

  “My God,” Macdara said. “If they’re behind this, it’s quite genius.”

  “I thought you said it was far-fetched.”

  Macdara looked at Siobhán. “Do you think it’s them? Did Greta and Frank set this up?”

  “No,” Siobhán said. “I just think that somebody wants us to think that. Somebody with knowledge of the past, a grudge against it, and a flair for the dramatic.”

  Macdara nudged his empty pint glass toward the bar. “What aren’t you telling me?”