Niall looked around, even though they were still alone in the shop, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “I was planning on coming to see ye.”
“What for?” Couldn’t Niall see that she didn’t even want to be in the same room with him?
“When can we meet?” He glanced around the shop. “Somewhere private like.”
“Never,” Siobhán said. Niall stared at her, and she stared back. There it was. She couldn’t pretend, couldn’t be polite. If he was back in town, that was his business, but she wanted him to stay far away from her and her siblings.
“Don’t be like that.”
“I have to go.” Siobhán headed for the door. Niall blocked her.
“You’ve turned into a beauty since I’ve been gone.”
Was he hitting on her? Siobhán felt the familiar flush of heat scorch her face. She’d always hated how she blushed at the drop of a hat. When she was younger it was a curse to be so tall, with flaming red hair. But now that she was twenty-two, everything that was once ugly about her had somehow pulled together and blossomed into something beautiful. She still wasn’t used to it. It thrilled her secretly, and that in itself was probably a sin.
Imagine Siobhán O’Sullivan succumbing to vanity. Beauty came and went, Siobhán was well aware, but it appeared this was her time, and wasn’t it just as much a sin not to enjoy a rose in full bloom? She’d been looking forward to what kind of a splash she could make in Dublin. But she didn’t like Niall Murphy looking at her like that, saying those things. Where was Séamus?
Niall brought his face close to hers. She stood her ground despite desperately wanting to back away from him. “Listen to me, gorgeous. It wasn’t Billy’s fault. He didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do it?” Fury rose in her as the sight of her parents’ twisted white Volvo accosted her once again. “Are ye mental?”
Niall put his hands up, as if surrendering, looked around, and stepped so close she could smell whiskey on his breath. “I have proof.”
“Proof?” Instantly she saw Billy’s flashy red car zooming around Devil’s Curve and barreling head-on into her parents, who had been returning from a weekend in Waterford. When the guards arrived, Billy was found slumped over the wheel, concussed, but alive, and muttering excuses. Later he was found to be three times over the legal alcohol limit.
“Are ye saying someone forced whiskey into him and pushed him into his sporty car? Made him press down harder on the pedal? Ignored all warnings to slow down around Devil’s Curve? Is that what you’re saying to me?” Her voice was raised now, and she didn’t care.
Niall shook his head. He had a wild look in his eye. “There’s so much. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“The proof. It’s worth something. You know?”
“I have to go.” Siobhán stepped forward, and Niall blocked her path.
“Me mother is in bad health. My brother is rotting away without good legal help.” She’d never seen such a look in anyone’s eyes before. It was as if he was pleading with her and threatening her at the same time. Like a wounded animal you feared would tear into you the minute you stepped in to help. Move, move, move. But she couldn’t. Scooters were lined up behind her, and Niall hadn’t budged an inch. She was trapped.
“I need you to move,” Siobhán said. Poke him in the eyes. Is that what she should do if he didn’t let her pass?
“Look here. I’d rather give it to you. That’s the right thing to do. But he’s my brother. And he’s locked away for something he didn’t do.”
“Give what to me?” He wasn’t right in the head. Why was she even talking to him?
“I need ten thousand euro.” Niall inched even closer.
“Ten thousand euro?” Mad. He was absolutely mad. They barely had a thousand euro in the bank. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t give Niall Murphy the lint from her pocket.
“I figure you must have some money tucked away for college. You said yourself, you won’t be needing it now.”
“You’re despicable,” Siobhán said.
“I’m tellin’ ye. Yer one would give me twenty thousand euro for it. But I’m trying to do the right thing, can’t ye see?”
Siobhán instinctively stepped back, and her backside bumped into the handlebars of the first scooter in line. Before she could even turn around, it tilted over and knocked into the next, then the next, and with surprising speed and clatter, the scooters fell like a line of dominoes. “Jaysus!”
Siobhán reached out to fix the mess, only it was too late. The lot of ’em lay on their sides. Oh, Jaysus, no. Siobhán crossed herself. Were they broken? Scratched? She couldn’t afford one, let alone all of them. Why had she come to the shop today?
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Niall said. He stepped in front of her and pulled the first scooter up. Siobhán held her breath. Niall fixed it so it was standing again, then brushed off the dirt on the other side. Siobhán reached to right the next scooter, but Niall blocked her. “I’ll do it. It’s me job.”
Siobhán stumbled back. It was his fault she’d knocked the scooters over—standing so close to her with alcohol on his breath, ranting about his brother being innocent, propositioning her with lies for ten thousand euro. “You’re sick, you know that? You’re sick in the head.”
The door opened, the bell jingled, and Séamus Sheedy entered, wheeling a mountain bike into the shop. He was a middle-aged man, on the short side, and a good ten years older than Bridie, but he had an infectious grin and a full head of chestnut hair, and cycling kept him trim. “How ya,” he called. His grin halted the minute he saw Siobhán’s face. He looked from her to Niall, to the mess of scooters on the floor. “Are ye alright, pet?”
“I’m so sorry,” Siobhán said. “It was an accident.” Séamus shifted his gaze to Niall, still trying to right the last of the scooters.
“It’s alright, petal. You’re fine.” Séamus parked his bike and approached. “What’s the story?” he said to Niall.
“It’s my fault. I lined them up too close together,” Niall said. “So far just a smidge of dirt is all.”
Séamus turned to Siobhán with a smile. “There’s no harm done, pet. They just need a bit of shining is all.”
“I’ll get a rag,” Niall said. He turned and, with a final look at Siobhán, went back behind the counter.
Séamus grabbed a set of keys hanging by the register and approached Siobhán. “Why don’t we make today the day?”
Siobhán was still shaking; she just wanted to flee. “Pardon?” Even with a key dangling in front of her face, she couldn’t make out what Séamus was trying to say.
“Why don’t you finally take her for a ride?” He gestured to the pink scooter.
Oh, God she wanted to. She wanted to ride out of town and never look back. She wanted to run the scooter directly into Niall Murphy.
“Lunch service will be starting. I’d better get me legs under me.” Siobhán headed for the door. She should have never come in. What a silly, silly, girl. What a right joke she was.
Séamus threw open his hands. “There’s a discount on the pink one today, seeing how there’s a wee scratch.”
Siobhán’s hands fluttered to her mouth. “Oh, Jaysus,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it.”
Séamus put his hands up. “I’m just jokin’ ye. But she could be yours for a real good price.”
Siobhán shook her head. She couldn’t think about scooters right now. She couldn’t think about anything with Niall Murphy standing right there. Had he really just tried to extort her for ten thousand euro? She should tell Séamus. He’d fire Niall on the spot. But not now. She couldn’t think, or even breathe. She just wanted to get out of the shop. She’d sort it all out later. Séamus was still waiting for her answer.
“I can’t. But thank you.”
Séamus put the keys back and gestured to them. “The keys are here, anytime you want to give her a go,” he said with a wink.
“
Ba-bye, ba-bye, ba-bye.” Siobhán flew out of the shop. She tore across the field, pumping her legs and arms faster, and faster, pushing herself to the point of pain. She ran all the way back to the bistro, and was about to fling herself at the door when Sheila Mahoney jumped out in front of her, wielding what appeared to be a razor-sharp blade.
Chapter 2
It took Siobhán a good minute to realize that the weapon Sheila brandished was a pair of scissors with hot-pink handles. “Go on, go on,” Sheila said. She was intimidating enough with her extra padding, platinum blond hair, and heavily lined eyes. Jabbing at her with sharp scissors was overkill.
“They’re free,” Sheila said in her gravelly voice. Many in Kilbane were health-conscious, but Sheila Mahoney still smoked two packs of fags a day, even while shampooing and cutting hair. Hers was probably the only beauty salon in the entire world where you went in with your hair smelling better than when you came out. Siobhán figured the only reason someone else hadn’t opened a rival shop was because most of the townspeople were deathly afraid of Sheila’s wrath. Even Sheila’s poor husband, Pio, was terrified of her; you could see it in his eyes.
Siobhán reluctantly took the scissors and glanced at the stem. SHEILA’S SALON was stamped on them in black ink. “Grand reopening. See?” Sheila pointed a long blue fingernail at her salon across the street. A new sign jutted out from the top of the door. It was rimmed in the same neon pink as the handle of the scissors. It was only then that Siobhán noticed Sheila’s choppy blond locks had a streak of neon pink running through them as well.
Sheila changed her hair color as often as lassies changed their knickers. She had probably been a beautiful woman in her day, but middle age hadn’t been kind to her. She’d put on quite a few stone in the past few years, and it seemed the bigger she became, the shorter she cut her hair and the more face paint she slathered on. One couldn’t help but look twice whenever she was standing next to Pio, who was the very definition of beanpole. Siobhán wished her mam was here to see what Sheila had done. Screaming pink. It was some sight.
Sarsfield Street was no stranger to color. Shop after shop had façades that were awash in bright yellows, blues, pinks, and green. It helped to keep the folks sane through all the gray days. Siobhán couldn’t help but to look up at their sign, a simple wooden frame where NAOMI’S BISTRO was written in black script and outlined in robin’s egg blue. The building was painted to match as well—the bottom portion white and the top blue. Many other creative signs dotted the doorways on Sarsfield Street—BUTLER’S UNDERTAKER, LOUNGE, AND PUB was the largest one, almost three feet tall, with a painting of a white-haired gent drinking a pint—but the bistro was the only one with scripted letters and a matching painted frame. Until now. Why, Sheila Mahoney was a little copycat.
“What do you t’ink?” Sheila demanded.
“Lovely,” Siobhán said. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; do not get into a row with Sheila. It was bad enough she was fretting over whether or not to tell James about her dustup with Niall.
Sheila thrust the box of scissors at Siobhán. “Would ye keep these on the counter? For your customers?”
“Our customers prefer to use knives and forks.” Siobhán pushed the box back at Sheila.
“They’re free.” Sheila’s voice rose in volume.
“Why don’t you take them to Courtney?” Courtney’s Gifts was on the opposite side of the street, just down a ways, next to the Kilbane Players, the community theatre.
Sheila wagged her head. “What is wrong with ye? Everyone likes to get something for free. You might think about that the next time you have an extra batch of brown bread.”
“I can’t take your scissors. We have too many young ones about. Imagine if one of them poked his or her eye out.”
“What am I going to do with the rest of these?” Sheila demanded, jiggling the box as if it was Siobhán’s fault.
“Cut hair?”
“You need sharper ones for that. These are promotional.”
“Maybe you should have gone with candy.”
“What does candy have to do with a hair salon?” Sheila barked.
Siobhán jumped. Lord, the woman was a holy terror. “I’m sorry. I can’t be giving away sharp objects to our customers.”
Sheila shook her fist. “Would you at least point out our new sign and let folks know I’m giving away a free gift with a haircut? Or would that be too much for ye?”
There would be no need. Folks would be able to see it in a hailstorm. “Will do.”
“Why don’t you take a few pairs for the rest of the six?”
Around town Siobhán and her siblings were known as the O’Sullivan Six. Siobhán hated it, but not as much as she hated the nickname the Irish Brady Bunch, so she kept her gob shut. “O’Sullivans and scissors don’t mix.” It was actually only Ann she’d be worried about. Still unsteady on those coltish legs, Ann was always falling into things. Although if the scooters could talk they might say the same thing about Siobhán.
“Right, so,” Sheila said. She sighed, and remained blocking Siobhán’s entryway.
“I’ll mention it. I promise.”
“T’ank you.” Sheila set the box of scissors on the footpath, next to the entrance. “Can I leave them here, so?”
“No,” Siobhán said. She nudged them back to Sheila with her foot.
“Right,” Sheila said. She didn’t make a move to pick them up again.
“Why don’t you place them at your own door?”
“If people were coming to me own door in the first place I wouldn’t be needing to give away free scissors, now would I?” Sheila tapped her head, as if she was the only one thinking.
“Why don’t you have Pio take them to trad sessions?” Siobhán loved traditional Irish music. Pio played the banjo and, if you were lucky, the spoons. It was amazing what he could do with the spoons.
“If you asked me to keep a platter of brown bread at me salon, I would do it, so,” Sheila said. She stared at Siobhán, who simply stared back. Finally she snapped up the box of scissors and hugged them to her ample bosom. “Do you want to give me a platter of brown bread to keep at the shop?”
“I do not.” Siobhán made the best brown bread in the village, and everyone knew it.
Sheila snorted and lifted the box of scissors. “Take ’em to the pubs, you say?”
“Why not?”
“A bunch of langered lads running around Kilbane with sharp scissors? Some craic.”
“I thought you said they weren’t sharp.”
“I’m starting to think you aren’t either. Free is free.”
“My answer is no.” Give her long enough and Sheila Mahoney would beat the polite out of anyone, including Father Kearney.
“Your mam and dad wouldn’t have turned their back on a neighbor,” Sheila said. And with that she whirled around and marched back to the salon, her scissors clinking in the box with every step. It took Siobhán a minute to realize she had a pair clutched in her hand, and then it took considerable restraint for her not to lob them at the back of Sheila Mahoney’s head.
The next day the gray skies were back, the rain drummed on the roof and lashed against the windows, and the wind whipped the front bell into a frenzy. It seemed as if the entire town had turned out on a Saturday morning for an Irish breakfast; even Macdara Flannery was there in his garda’s uniform. The blue jacket, cap, and tie suited him. He looked proper, and so handsome. She loved the golden decal on the cap—the shield—An Garda Síochána. Guardians of the Peace. Her eyes were always drawn to it. The shield. The protector. Intoxicating is what it was. Siobhán tried not to stare—especially since every time she looked his way he was staring at her, and each and every time their eyes locked her stomach gave a little flip. What was it about a man in uniform that she found so irresistible?
He was taller than a lot of lads about town, just over six foot. Siobhán towered over most men in Kilbane at five foot nine, but whenever she stood close to Macdara
she felt normal. He was handsome in an imperfect sort of way. His brown hair was always unkempt as if it never met a brush, and his face was often covered in two-day stubble. He had killer black eyelashes and the prettiest blue eyes, a color that stood out against the dark blue of his uniform and the Irish gray skies. Despite women in town going after him, he’d managed to remain a bachelor.
He was once mad about a girl, a blond girl from Australia who’d lived in Kilbane several years back. Siobhán remembered seeing them about town, holding hands or kissing in the rain. The girl had been gone five years now, and although Macdara had dated women since, he’d never stayed with one for very long despite several blatant attempts to domesticate him.
Siobhán had never looked at Macdara in a romantic way, until the day her parents died. He was the one who came to her that awful morning. A series of sharp raps on the door woke her out of a deep sleep. She’d come down in her nightshirt, a ratty old thing that wasn’t meant to be seen. For a few heart-stopping seconds she couldn’t make sense of the fact that he was at her door in full uniform. They’d stood staring at each other through a thin curtain of rain. Then she stepped back; he stepped in, took off his hat, and placed it over his heart. The first stab of fear pierced Siobhán’s heart.
“No,” she said, shaking her head before he even spoke. “No.” Instinctively she reached out with trembling hands and touched his chest. He clasped his hand over hers and squeezed. She knew then, knew a horror she could not name, but she knew, and she wanted to die.
“I’m so sorry.” Despite her silent pleas for him to stop, he delivered the news about the crash with tears in his eyes, and looked at her as if he knew every ounce of pain this was going to cause and would do anything to take it away. When the words stopped, he pulled her into him and held her against his chest while she sobbed. He was wearing cologne, which surprised her. She fit in his arms, which surprised her even more. For one brief second, he even stroked her hair.
Murder in an Irish Village Page 2