Chapter 16
The Hills Have Eyes. Was it a comment on Musings on a Hill? Another reference to plagiarism? At the first gathering in the bookshop, Deirdre Walsh had brought up Nessa’s one-star review and Nessa accused her of writing it. Did she? Did she also slip this printed copy to Nessa to rub it in? Siobhán waited until Nessa disappeared into her room at the inn, and she was still standing in the courtyard. She heard footsteps approaching from behind and whirled around to find Emma standing before her hoisting up a huge black bag. “Here’s the rubbish from the rooms, only we’ve made a terrible mistake.” Emma shoved the bag at Siobhán, giving her no choice but to take it. “Actually. Two terrible mistakes.” Siobhán wished she had gloves. The bag was so full it was nearly bursting. It would be her luck to have it rip open on her way home. “I’m so sorry,” Emma added. “Eileen is sorry as well. Two apologies, twice, for two mistakes. Is that making sense to ya?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “What mistakes are you on about?”
“First mistake. We emptied all the trash into one bag. We forgot to say whose trash came from whose room. I’m really, really sorry.”
Siobhán sighed. “Our directions were very clear.”
“I know. They were very clear. We were so nervous that someone would figure out what we were doing that we collected it as fast as we could, and we . . . we . . . just forgot!” Emma threw her arms up, her voice squeaking.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Siobhán said. She didn’t need people poking their heads out to see what was going on. “And the second mistake?”
“We can’t send you the security tape from the night before Margaret died, or the morning Margaret was found—may she rest in peace—or the day of Deirdre’s murder, or the day after the murder, or anything from this week at all.”
“Why not?”
“Something went wrong. The entire week is showing a black screen.”
“You’re joking me.”
“I’m not. It’s all gone. Poof!”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“No.”
“Did you call the security company?”
Emma nodded. “They said there’s nothing we can do. The storm probably interfered.”
“Probably?”
“They’re pretty certain it was due to the storm.”
“And let’s say it wasn’t due to the storm. Are they able to tell us if someone deliberately went into the system and deleted it?”
“I’d be able to tell you that. No. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Certain someone did or certain someone didn’t?”
“Certain someone didn’t. Almost certain.”
“I need you to be certain-certain.” It made sense that the camera would have been affected the day the power went out, but Margaret’s death was days before the storm wreaked that kind of havoc. She was hoping to see if Margaret left the inn on her own two feet.
“I would say that I am close to being certain-certain that no one got into our system because the person would have needed our password to do that.”
“And your password isn’t something obvious, is it?”
Emma started to blink rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“Like twins or twinsinn or thetwinsinn,” Siobhán said.
Emma burst into tears. Siobhán could hardly comfort her while holding a bag of rubbish, so she put it on the ground with a sigh, then patted Emma’s arm. “Alright, calm down, pet. Take a breath.”
“Are you going to arrest us?” Emma was still blubbering. “We’re absolutely gutted.”
“Of course not,” Siobhán said. Emma nodded, then wiped her face, blew her nose, and sighed as if she was disappointed. Perhaps they thought they’d find themselves in front of Judge Judy. “Thank you,” Siobhán said. She didn’t realize she was still holding the one-star review in her other hand until Emma pointed to it.
“The Hills Have Eyes,” she said. “Now that was a spooky film.”
“What?” Siobhán folded the paper in so she couldn’t read the rest, but was crushing it in the process.
“The American horror film?” Emma waited. “A remake of Wes Craven’s film?”
“Right,” Siobhán said. Not a clue. “What’s it about?”
“A family’s car breaks down in the desert and they’re set upon by a group of cannibalistic mutants!” Emma’s eyes flashed with excitement. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Eileen nearly wet herself with that one.”
“I swear I will never mention it as long as I live,” Siobhán said.
“Are you planning on watching it?”
“I prefer movies that keep me knickers dry,” Siobhán said.
Emma trilled out a laugh. “You should watch it with that handsome man of yours. Have you set a date for the wedding?”
Siobhán picked up her bag of rubbish. “I’d better get back to the station.” She had a feeling the person who wrote The Hills Have Eyes was commenting on Nessa’s book and not mutant cannibals in the desert, but she supposed they would have to examine all angles. But her gut said that that gruesome angle didn’t fit this particular plot. Unless something in the film was a nod to the novel. These writers were going to make her mental! She suddenly had a lot more questions for Nessa Lamb. Did she know who wrote the cryptic note? Did she write it herself? Had she ever watched this horror film? Maybe the person was poking fun. Calling all writers cannibals? Some days she wished she’d never become a guard. She could have stayed with the bistro, feeding Irish people instead of investigating them. Mutant cannibals. Now that was a first.
* * *
Aretta sat in front of the rubbish bag, gloves on her hands, her eyes sparkling with the anticipation of discovery. Siobhán had forgotten what that felt like, when the job was shiny and new, when she was itching to use the skills she’d learned at Templemore. She hadn’t intended on foisting the rubbish job upon her, but when Aretta walked into the station and spotted the bag, she asked for it. Notebook and biro by her side, she was set up in an interview room because they had the largest tables. Aretta had already divided the table into sections with names taped to each: Darren Kilroy. Lorcan Murphy. Nessa Lamb. Deirdre Walsh. And the last one simply had a large question mark, for the pieces of rubbish she couldn’t attribute to any guest in particular. Siobhán had a feeling that most of the contents would fall into that category. She had helped Aretta cover the table in clear plastic, for no matter how excited Aretta was about the task, rubbish was still rubbish.
“My father never throws anything away that can be of use,” Aretta said. “But you can learn a lot about a person from what they choose to discard. What a person deems worthless.”
It was a novel thought. What would a person learn about Siobhán? She ate too many crisps and chocolates. That was hardly a secret. Perhaps one would learn that she was a runner from the number of laces she’d used up. She might be considered an underachiever from her endless to-do lists where she’d be lucky to mark a third of them as done. Or could that be interpreted as an overachiever for having so many items on the list in the first place? Much could be debated about her endless receipts from the chipper. The reason for all the shoelaces would become clear then, wouldn’t it? Perhaps she wouldn’t need to run if she just cut back on the crisps, and chocolates, and curried chips. But, luckily, she always tossed the chipper receipts on site; really, when would she ever need to prove she ate yet another basket of heavenly curried chips? Perhaps Aretta was onto something and Siobhán was relieved her rubbish wasn’t under scrutiny. “Don’t forget they are all traveling,” Siobhán said. “I think we’ll learn less than we would if it was rubbish from their homes.”
Aretta nodded. “We shall see.”
Siobhán stood in the doorway for a moment, wishing she could feel the same sense of excitement. “Are you sure you don’t want another hand?”
“I’m sure,” Aretta said. “I’m tired of doing paperwork.”
“Fair play to ya,” Siobhán said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s not a bother, I’m offering.”
“Yes, please.” Aretta turned her concentration to the task at hand. Siobhán set about fetching the tea, then added a tin of biscuits, and when she returned, Aretta was lost in the process of sifting. She nudged the tea close to her when Siobhán set it in front of her, but she made no move to open the tin of biscuits. Siobhán was dying to ask her if she ever ate, and how much, and what she liked to eat, but she hadn’t figured out a polite way to do it. “Did you go to the chipper with Detective Sergeant Flannery today?”
“We did,” Aretta said.
“Aren’t their curried chips heavenly?”
“I prepared my own lunch today,” Aretta said. “But I enjoyed the conversation.”
“Lovely,” Siobhán said. She wanted to ask what Aretta had prepared for lunch, but maybe if she had wanted Siobhán to know she would have elaborated. Siobhán was nearly out the door when Aretta called out.
“I nearly forgot. Leigh Coakley was in to see you.”
What now? “Oh?”
“She wanted to know if you made any progress on that lurker.”
Siobhán had forgotten all about the lurker. “I’ve been busy with mutant cannibals,” Siobhán said.
This made Aretta stop and look up. “What?”
“I’m only messin’,” Siobhán said. “Have you ever seen the film The Hills Have Eyes?”
Aretta shook her head. “Is it a documentary?”
“No. It’s a horror film.”
“I only watch documentaries.” Aretta stated it matter-of-fact and went back to her sorting.
Siobhán nodded, as she searched her mind for documentaries she’d watched and could pontificate on, but the only one she could remember was one where some man gained three stone eating nothing but burgers and fries for a year. Given Aretta’s tiny appetite she didn’t think it wise to mention it. “Refresh my memory about this lurker? He was a big man in need of a wash with red hair. She saw him going through rubbish?”
“That’s it.” Aretta smirked. “Not unlike me.”
Siobhán laughed. “I’d say a different goal entirely. Unless our lurker was trying to learn about folks in this village.”
“Doubtful.”
“Indeed.” A lurker hardly seemed like a top priority, but given they planned on speaking with Leigh anyway, and were hoping to do it without making her feel like a suspect, this might just be the perfect excuse to chat with her.
* * *
Leigh Coakley’s interview wasn’t scheduled until the next day. Siobhán headed home for lunch, mulling over the prospect of paying her an impromptu visit. She smiled as the bell to Naomi’s Bistro dinged, announcing her arrival. The front dining room was filled with patrons, but in the back dining room she found Ann and Ciarán huddled at a table near the garden, thumb wrestling. From Ann’s cries of pain, it seemed Ciarán was winning.
“Why aren’t the pair of ye in school?”
“It’s teacher’s day,” Ann said.
Siobhán had forgotten all about it. Teachers used this day to catch up on grading and planning. “Why don’t you come with me to the flower shop. We’ll get some plants and seeds and you can spend the afternoon doing some gardening.”
“Yes!” Ann was keen.
“Can I ride bikes with Paul?” Ciarán asked. Paul was a skinny lad always zipping about town on his bicycle.
“Do you have any homework?”
“Finished it this morning.”
“Good lad. Fine. Wear your helmet and be back in an hour.”
“Two?”
“No more than two.”
Ciarán bounced off. Ann watched him go. “He used to love the flower shop.”
It was true. He would help pick out bouquets and always insisted on carrying them home, then helping arrange them in vases. “He’s growing up,” Siobhán said. “Finding his own way.” She didn’t like seeing the changes either, but it was the way of things. “Ready?” she asked, grabbing a ham and cheese toastie to go.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Heya,” Eoin said as they were about to exit. Siobhán turned. He was slightly out of breath.
“We’re going to the flower shop,” Siobhán said. “Need something, pet?”
“I was just wondering when we might expect Garda Dabiri next?” He was trying to sound casual. Ann slapped his arm.
“You love her!”
Eoin swatted her hand away and turned to Siobhán. “Well?”
Siobhán struggled not to smile. “Honestly, she doesn’t seem to eat much, so I don’t know.”
“Tell her I’ll make anything she likes. Maybe she has some suggestions for our menu.” Ann made kissing noises. Siobhán placed her hand atop of Ann’s blond head. “That’s a lovely idea, I’ll tell her.”
* * *
Blooms had its own bell that announced Siobhán and Ann’s arrival, a tinkling that sounded like wind chimes. Leigh’s daughter, Agnes, just a year ahead of Ann, was at the counter staring into a laptop. She looked up and grinned when she saw Ann.
“How ya?” Agnes was a spunky girl, and despite not participating in any organized sports had an athletic look about her, short black hair in stylish layers. The biggest difference since Siobhán had seen her last was the silver hoop in her left nostril.
“Hello, Agnes,” Siobhán said. “You’re looking well.”
“Tanks.” She pointed to her laptop and looked at Ann. “Have a look at dis.” Ann hurried over to the counter to share in whatever secrets were on the screen.
“Is your mam in?” Siobhán asked.
“Mam,” Agnes yelled at the top of her lungs. The back curtain fluttered and soon Leigh Coakley emerged, wiping her hands on her apron, bits of green leaf stuck to her.
“Ann,” Leigh said with a bright smile. “Lovely to see you.”
“You as well, Mrs. Coakley,” Ann said perfunctorily.
“Would you like to join me in the back?” she said to Siobhán. “I have to get an arrangement finished for the memorial.”
“Memorial?” Siobhán asked, following Leigh past the cooler stocked with colorful flowers and through the curtain and into the back room. “What memorial?”
Leigh stood in front of an easel where she was working on a circular wreath awash with white roses and lilies. “They’re having a gathering at the bookshop for both Margaret and Deirdre as soon as they’re able to reopen.”
They were expecting word from Jeanie Brady any minute now to be granted permission for the body to be moved to Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. And given Jeanie would also have to do an examination on Margaret’s body, it would be a while before either of them had official funerals. A memorial was a good idea, but Siobhán did not like the fact that she was the last to know.
“I see.” Siobhán felt the sting of rejection, even though she understood it came with the territory. Either way they were out of their minds if they thought she would stay away. “Garda Dabiri said you came to the station to see me,” Siobhán said.
“Yes,” Leigh said. “That reminds me. I have a welcome bouquet for her. Will you bring it back with ya?”
“Fair play to ya. Course I will.”
“Thank you.”
“She said you mentioned a lurker?”
Leigh nodded. “He was going through my rubbish bins the night before the murder. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, as the poor thing looks as if he’s living on the streets, but given what happened to poor Deirdre, I thought—well, what if it’s him and I say nothing?”
“What if it’s him?”
Leigh swallowed. “The killer,” she whispered.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He was a big man. Burly. Dirty and baggy clothes. I couldn’t see his hair because he was wearing a cap, but he had a red beard streaked with gray. In his sixties if I were to guess.”
“Could it have been a Traveler?”
“I wondered the same, but then I saw him again this morning passing by the caravan park on my power walk. The Travelers didn’t say a word to him, so no, he’s not with them.”
As Leigh placed roses on the wreath, Siobhán looked around the tiny work space. At the edge of a table near the window was a paperback book. She nudged over and picked it up. The Dragon Files: The Flamethrower, by Michael O’Mara.
“It’s his latest,” Leigh said without even turning to her. “His best yet.”
“I haven’t read him yet,” Siobhán said.
Leigh’s spine straightened. “I certainly hope Oran McCarthy comes to his senses and realizes what a mistake it is not to sell his books.” She snipped away at stems. “Imagine if I only sold one variety of flower in the shop!”
“I am in agreement with you there.”
“Michael O’Mara lives on Bere Island. I always thought of taking a little trip, but it hasn’t happened yet. Not that I would approach him or anything. I’ve heard he’s become a recluse.”
“Oh?”
“Rumors are he’s drunk most of the day. I tell you, you wouldn’t know by reading him.”
“Rumors aren’t facts,” Siobhán said. “Perhaps he simply likes to keep his own company and tis only cups of tea he’s tippin’.”
“You could be right.”
“Speaking of Michael O’Mara, were you able to pick up one of his biros?”
“The ones Darren Kilroy was passing around?”
“The very same.”
Leigh reached into her pocket and pulled out a yellow biro with the megastar’s name splashed across. “Please don’t tell me you’ll be taking it as evidence.”
“No, you can keep it.” Leigh visibly relaxed, then handed Siobhán a white rose.
“Tanks.” She twirled the rose in her hand. “Did you bring roses for all the authors the night of the murder?”
Leigh frowned. “No.”
“What about the day before?”
Leigh shook her head. “I brought a bouquet for Oran and Padraig. You saw it yourself.”
If Leigh was telling the truth, where had Deirdre’s red rose come from? Just then, a vision of Nessa Lamb emerging from the limo rose to mind. She was carrying a bouquet of red roses. Siobhán tapped a note to herself on her phone to ask her about them. She couldn’t recall seeing a discarded bouquet at the crime scene. Then again, the day she saw Nessa with the bouquet was also before the murder. Was it possible one of the roses from either Leigh’s or Nessa’s bouquet dropped and remained on the floor? She had a feeling that Oran or Padraig would have noticed it and picked it up. It seemed like a little thing, but Siobhán had learned that often the little things could lead to big revelations. “I’m going to need a list of all the orders you’ve received since the authors arrived in town.”
Leigh stopped snipping and gazed intently at Siobhán. “I don’t suppose I can ask why.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“When do you need it by?”
“Can you bring it to your scheduled interview tomorrow?”
“Not a bother. Now, when will I be doing your wedding flowers?”
* * *
Siobhán was on her way back to the station when Macdara called. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
She stopped, bracing herself. “Try me.”
“The techs processing Deirdre’s room called. They want to know why we didn’t list her laptop among the evidence to bag.”
“Because it wasn’t there.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re saying . . . it’s there now?”
“Meet me at the inn?”
“I’m on my way.”