Chapter 15
“Should we take this to the garda station?” Siobhán said before Lorcan Murphy could begin his confession.
“It sounds as if we should,” Macdara said, pushing back from the table and standing. Lorcan stood as well and put his hands up. “It’s not what you think. She was already dead.”
The hair on the back of Siobhán’s neck tingled. “Tell us everything.” She didn’t want to wait for the station now. She didn’t want to give him time to rewrite this story, whatever it was.
Lorcan was eager to talk. “I went to the restroom right after speaking with Deirdre. Before the lights went out. I was in there when the lights went out. I tell you, it was quite disconcerting.”
“I can imagine,” Macdara said. “Go on.”
“I don’t like the dark, okay? It’s somewhat of a phobia. There I was, instantly shrouded in black. I panicked. I was at the sink, and had to feel along the wall just to find the door. Then I came out, feeling along the walls again, and I knocked books down. I don’t know how many. And then . . .” He swallowed again, sweat appearing on his forehead. “I bumped into something. Kicked something with my foot. Something soft.” He gulped. “I think it was Deirdre.”
Macdara sat up straighter. Siobhán moved in. “Why do you think she was already dead?” she asked softly. It was time to switch to good cop.
Lorcan ran his hands through his hair. “Because I wasn’t expecting a person to be there, and my boot struck her. When I realized it was a person, of course I was aghast. That must have hurt. Or so I thought. I apologized. She didn’t reply. I’ll be honest—it frightened me. I convinced myself it was just someone being rude. Can you imagine?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was the one who knocked over the books, and if they find a bruise on Deirdre’s leg that’s probably from my boot. I don’t know if they are able to discern whether bruises are postmortem, but I swear to ye, I accidentally kicked her and she didn’t make a sound.”
“Why did you leave this out of your story?” Macdara asked. He glanced at the tape recorder in the middle of the table. Despite his fondness for Lorcan Murphy at least he had the sense to bring it.
“Because it’s too horrible to think about. Kicking a woman when she’s down is one thing. Kicking her when she’s dead is just a whole new level of horror.”
* * *
Macdara stood near his front door, clutching his signed book to his chest. Lorcan Murphy had just left. “What do you make of all that?” he asked, a tinge of hope in his voice that she would declare him innocent.
“I did not expect the part about him kicking her,” Siobhán said.
“Neither did I.” He shuddered.
“But I don’t trust writers,” she said. “They’re too good at making things up.”
Macdara sighed and placed the book back on his shelf. “I don’t see why he would lie about knocking books down and kicking her.”
“If he’s telling the truth, then someone killed her within seconds of the lights going out. As if the killer was waiting to strike and had it worked out perfectly.” Siobhán headed for the door. “I need some air,” she said.
Macdara looked at the clock above his sink. “We could get some lunch. Curried chips?”
“No wonder I’m marrying you,” Siobhán said with a wink. “We should ask Aretta if she wants to join.”
Macdara held the door open. “I would love to have lunch with Aretta, but I was hoping that you and I could be alone. Maybe talk about the wedding?”
They stepped outside. It was gray and drizzling. They began to walk toward their favorite chipper. Siobhán knew this conversation was coming, but she was still dreading it. “I have been giving our wedding date some thought,” Siobhán said. “As you know, I just turned twenty-nine.”
“We are going to properly celebrate your birthday when this is all behind us,” Macdara said, placing his arm around her and pulling her in.
“Not a bother.” She took a deep breath. “What if we—” Siobhán’s phone dinged. “Hold on.”
“What if we?” Macdara said. “What if we what?”
It was a text from James.
WHERE ARE YOU?
It took her a second to figure out what he was on about. When she did, she was mortified. “My parents’ wedding anniversary,” she said, placing her hand on her forehead as if to check if she was feverish. “It completely slipped me mind. We planned a group visit to the cemetery.”
“Understood. Do you want me to join?”
“I always want you to join,” she said. “But I think we need to do this alone.” She kissed him. “Take Aretta to the chipper. She needs to know where to get the best curried chips in town.”
“I completely understand.” He kissed her and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll save you a basket of chips.”
“Don’t bother, they don’t last, you know yourself. I’ll have to get my own basket tomorrow.”
Macdara nodded. “I’ll enjoy them for you then, how’s that?”
“I don’t even want to think about it,” Siobhán said with a laugh. “Enjoy away.”
“Say hello from me.” They kissed again, and Siobhán hurried off for home. When she reached the bistro, she found her brood waiting on the footpath. They were all dressed as if going to mass and each of them held a white lily. James had one for Siobhán. “They’re gorgeous,” she said.
“They’re from Blooms,” Gráinne replied.
Leigh Coakley’s shop. They would be continuing the interviews of their witnesses (suspects) soon and that included Leigh Coakley. Siobhán hoped they could quickly eliminate her as a suspect. The world would be much darker if their cheerful local florist was a calculating killer.
“I want to change,” she said. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Make it one,” James said as she flew into the house. She quickly took off her uniform and donned a lovely spring dress and flats, took her hair out of its tight bun and shook it loose. It was getting long again and, unless Gráinne cut it off whilst Siobhán was sleeping, this time she figured she would keep it that way. Once outside she took her lily from James and they began their procession to the cemetery. Ciarán and Ann walked ahead, Gráinne and Eoin were in the middle, and Siobhán and James held up the rear. She hadn’t had a proper chat with her older brother in months. He’d been spending most of his time in Waterford where Elise had a new job.
“Have you set your wedding date?” she asked him.
He glanced away, kicked a rock with a shoe, and shook his head. “Have you?”
She mimicked his head shake. “We were just about to discuss it when you texted.”
“Saved by the ding.” James started to laugh, a low rumble, then Siobhán began to laugh with him. Soon, they were howling, drawing looks from the other four. “Elise is right,” James said. “We’re hopeless.”
“I was thinking of mine in a year’s time,” Siobhán said.
“And what does Dara think about that?”
“I’ll let you know when I actually get the words out of me gob.”
James put his arm around her. “I want to wait until I have a better job.” He was working as a handyman in Waterford. “I think I want to fix and sell houses.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Not any houses. The older Irish farmhouses.”
“That sounds promising.” James had always been handy and loved working outdoors. At least before his drinking took over. She would be happy to see him get back to it.
“There’s not much money in it at first,” he said. “Maybe ever.”
“What does that matter as long as you’re happy and can pay the bills?”
“Elise has bigger dreams for us,” James said. “It’s what she’s used to.” The pursuit of money had never been a characteristic of the O’Sullivans. Of course they wanted enough to get by. But apart from Gráinne’s dreams of being a stylist to celebrities, most of them seemed content with well-enough. In her bones, Siobhán always felt that money corrupted people. In her opinion, greed was a deadly addiction. She thought of an old Irish proverb: Money is like muck—no good till spread. Or her mam’s saying: “Your health is your wealth.” But Elise Elliot was from a wealthy family, and Siobhán suspected this was at the heart of James’s angst. “What does Elise think of you fixing up houses?”
James smiled and looped his arm around Siobhán. “I’ll let you know when I actually get the words out of me gob.”
One by one, starting with Ciarán, and going in birth order from youngest to oldest, the O’Sullivans approached the headstones of their parents: Naomi and Liam O’Sullivan. Had they lived, this would have been their thirty-seventh wedding anniversary. They all chatted with their parents, Ciarán telling them he was getting good marks in school, asking if they recognized his deeper voice, and telling them he was taking violin lessons, and he would come back soon to play them a song. Siobhán was secretly hoping “soon” meant after years of practice. Ann regaled them with all her Camogie wins, and told them about the new bookshop in town. Gráinne chattered away about her accomplishments as a personal stylist, beautifying the citizens of Kilbane one by one. When Eoin’s turn came he focused on the bistro and the new dishes he wanted to add to the menu. Siobhán’s ears perked up when he mentioned there was a new garda in town whose family was from Nigeria and that he was interested in learning if she had any dishes from Africa that she could teach him. He didn’t mention his graphic novels. Did he think they wouldn’t approve? Siobhán, not wanting to speak of murder, also told them about Garda Dabiri and the new bookshop in town, and how everyone had piled into Naomi’s Bistro for comfort during the storm. James, the oldest and last to step up, talked about Waterford, and his desire to renovate older Irish houses, steering clear, as Siobhán had, of future marriage plans.
“I bet they’re saying happy birthday to you,” Ann said to Siobhán, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Siobhán squeezed back, resisting the urge to crush her sister in a never-ending hug.
“You’re right,” Gráinne said. “And we never got to celebrate.” Siobhán was about to tell them it was alright, they’d do it another time, when Ciarán’s newly deep voice started to sing.
“Happy birthday to you . . .” The rest of the O’Sullivans quickly joined in and, moments into their full-throated rendition, Siobhán had tears streaming down her face. When the song finished, she hugged and kissed every single one of them, noting how Ciarán rubbed her kiss off when he thought she wasn’t looking.
They each laid their lily on the graves, and Siobhán included a small heart she had whittled. Kisses were blown and they began their walk out of the cemetery. They were nearly at the exit when Siobhán spotted a figure kneeling next to one of the headstones in the oldest section of the cemetery. It took her a moment to recognize Nessa Lamb.
“You lads go ahead,” Siobhán said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
“We’re having cake and tea for Mam and Da,” Gráinne said, disapproval in her voice.
Siobhán sighed. “Murder doesn’t wait for cake,” she said, thinking of her birthday cake.
“We’ll see you later,” James said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll save you a piece.”
“But not if I eat it first,” Ciarán said.
* * *
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Siobhán had come up from behind, startling Nessa Lamb, who jumped at the sound of her voice.
“Oh. Hello,” Nessa said when she recovered. She stood and gestured around her. “I love cemeteries.”
“You do?”
Nessa nodded, her gaze traveling around the headstones, angels, and Celtic crosses. “Older ones, like this one.”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “I do as well.”
Nessa smiled. “I like reading the names, imagining what their lives were like.” Her eyes traveled to the headstones for Liam and Naomi O’Sullivan. “I hope you don’t think I’m being disrespectful.”
“Not a bother.” She gestured to her parents’ headstones. “Give it a try.”
Nessa shook her head. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be fair. I know they’re your parents. I know your mam has a bistro named after her, Naomi’s Bistro, and there are six of you, the O’Sullivan Six to be exact, and I know your parents were tragically killed in a motor vehicle accident by a drunk driver several years ago.”
Interesting. Had Nessa Lamb been investigating Siobhán? Was she simply a curious writer, instinctively doing her job? Or the killer, trying to get a bead on the enemy? Nessa opened her arms, then dropped them. “I listen. People talk. It’s a hazard of the job.”
“We have that in common,” Siobhán said.
“Oh?” Nessa said with a slight smile. “What have you heard about me?”
This could be the perfect time to mention the plagiarism, but Siobhán wasn’t quite ready to play that card. Not until she sat down for her official interview. For now, she could hover around the subject. “I heard you didn’t get along with Deirdre Walsh.” She had also witnessed it herself at the first author gathering, but she wanted Nessa to think she was on her side.
Nessa shook her head. “I hardly knew her.”
“Did you like her?”
“I know plenty like her,” Nessa said, doing some skirting of her own. “Authors who wear the stink of desperation.”
“Have you read her work?”
“I’d never even heard of her. It’s a mystery to me how she was included in this group.”
“Why don’t I walk you back to the inn and we can continue this chat.” Siobhán didn’t want to remain here discussing the case any longer. This was a place she came to chat with her mam and da about her siblings, and the lighter side of life. Once again it crossed her mind that they didn’t need an earful about murder.
“What’s this?” Nessa pointed to the carving of the wee heart Siobhán had left on the headstone.
“I whittle. It’s a skill I learned from my grandfather.”
“I’m impressed.”
Siobhán shrugged. “It’s hardly a novel.”
They walked in silence at first, and Siobhán watched Nessa take in her village. Planters filled with spring flowers were starting to appear around the town square. On Saturday mornings townsfolk often gathered to plant more, the local garden committee summoning volunteers with their favorite motto: Many hands make light work. In addition, King John’s Castle with its passageway through the first floor of the four-story structure drew one’s attention to the town square. In the background the steeple of Saint Mary’s Church rose proudly, in front of them shop fronts awash in an array of pastel colors emitted a welcoming and friendly vibe. And in the other direction their ruined Dominican priory, affectionately shortened to the abbey by most in town, sat in the field with the river gurgling nearby, all of it encased within Kilbane’s medieval stone walls. This was home, and always would be. “Have you wandered everywhere about town?” Siobhán asked, as she pointed in the direction of the abbey.
“At least twice,” Nessa said. “You’re quite lucky to have such architecture and history in one little village.”
“We are indeed.” This was the most she’d heard Nessa speak and she wanted to keep her talking. “Where do you get your ideas?”
“Everywhere. Ideas are all around us, all the time. I pick a little here, a little there, and start to put it together, like a wee bird building a nest.”
Interesting. It was a little bit like investigating a case. “Did Deirdre say anything to you about her new project?”
“The one dat was going to blow people’s minds? Her memoir?” Nessa used air quotes with the word memoir.
“That’s the one.”
“No. Why? . . . Oh. You’re looking for a motive. Yet another similarity.”
“How so?”
“Characters need motives too.”
“Oh?”
“Of course. Their desires drive the story.”
“And if you were writing Deirdre Walsh as a character, what would her desire be?”
“That’s easy,” Nessa said. “Success at any cost.”
“That sounds like a specific gripe,” Siobhán said.
“You’re astute,” Nessa replied. She sighed. “I suppose you’re going to hear this from someone so it might as well be me.” She reached into her handbag and handed Siobhán a folded-up piece of paper. When Siobhán went to open it, Nessa put her hand on top of hers. “Would you mind waiting?”
“What is it?”
“I think it will be clear when you read it. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m called into the station for my interview.”
“Why don’t you want me to look at it now?”
“Because I’ll get too worked up. I’ll meditate on it before I see you again, and hopefully I’ll be able to keep my anger in check.”
“That’s why I whittle,” Siobhán admitted, feeling a kinship with Nessa.
“It’s that kind of detail that makes for a great character,” Nessa said.
Siobhán nodded, not sure she fully understood. She supposed everyone lived life through the lens of his or her career. And some were more cheerful than others. But rage was one thing for an everyday citizen, and quite another for a murder suspect. Before she knew it, they had reached the Twins’ Inn. Nessa waved goodbye and headed for her room. Siobhán turned and began the walk back home. The minute she was out of sight from the inn, she opened the sheet of paper. It was a one-star review of Musings on a Hill. The review was typed and short. It seemed to have been printed from a Web site:
Save yourself loads of time. This trash belongs in the rubbish bin.
Below, in black biro, someone had scrawled an additional sentence:
The Hills Have Eyes