Chapter 29
Jane’s Garden was a quaint little shop just past the Kilbane Museum. Jane O’Reilly stood behind the counter elbow-deep in flowers. She was making arrangements for the wake, and when the bell dinged, she looked up in horror. Her eyes flew to the clock. It was four o’clock.
“Don’t tell me you’re here already. I plan on dropping them off at Sharkey’s at half six.”
“You’re fine, luv,” Siobhán said. “We just need to ask you a question.”
Her shoulders relaxed. She held up a rose and her clippers. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk.”
“Not a bother,” Macdara said.
“Were you working on Saturday?”
Jane laughed. “I’m always here.”
“We need to know who came in to buy a dozen red roses for Rose Foley.”
“That’s an easy one. They were from the entire poker tournament.”
“Who purchased them?”
“The fella himself.”
“We’ll need you to be more specific.”
She sighed, stopped cutting flowers, and turned to her register. She picked up a receipt. “I had him give me his autograph.”
She turned it to them: Thanks for the good deal, Shane Ross. “Isn’t that sweet? A little note with his signature.”
“Thanks a million.” Siobhán grabbed Macdara’s elbow and headed out.
Jane nodded. “Of course.” As they headed out, she kept talking. “D.S. Flannery, if there’s ever a beautiful woman you want to buy flowers for, do come see me.”
* * *
The minute they were outside, Siobhán stopped. “Did you just realize what I just realized?”
“That I don’t know how long it’s been since I bought you flowers?”
“No.” Yes . . .
“That Shane Ross is our killer?”
“No.”
“Spit it out, Siobhán.”
“ ’Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand . . .’”
“I thought about that for a second, but the handwriting is completely different.”
“Yes, different because they were written by different men.”
Macdara frowned. “Then I’m not following.”
“What if the note we found on Eamon wasn’t a suicide note? What if it was an autograph for a fan?”
“My God.” Macdara began to pace. “If you’re right—if that wasn’t a suicide note—it’s one more check in the column that Eamon Foley did not kill himself.”
Haven’t I been insisting that all along? “I’m right,” she said. “Eamon Foley was murdered.”
“It would help if we could confirm he signed that as an autograph to someone. No one has mentioned it so far.”
Siobhán was way ahead of him. She plowed forward.
“Where are you going?”
“There’s no time to waste. We’re going to have to divide and conquer.”
* * *
One hour until the wake . . . Siobhán was in her best black dress approaching Sharkey’s. But before she could reach the door, someone stepped out in front of her. She was shocked to see Greg Cunningham. On second glance she was a tad disappointed that Layla wasn’t with him. “Are you here for the wake?”
He shook his head. “I gave me donation though.”
“That was so kind of you.”
He thrust his hand out. A tiny piece of paper was protruding from his fingers. “Another note from me bird.” He turned before she could ask any more questions. She opened it: Who are you? Eddie
Eddie Houlihan.
She tucked it in her handbag and headed inside.
* * *
Sharkey’s had been transformed. Flowers sang from every surface, white lights had been added around the room, candles flickered from tabletops covered in white linen, and it smelled as fresh as the spring air. Rory had a turf fire going, and all the food was waiting on a long banquet table in warmers. A photo of Eamon Foley took center stage. In front of it sat two large donation boxes. By the end of the evening they would be stuffed. There were gorgeous flower arrangements nearly everywhere you looked and a giant wreath in front of the storage room. Volunteers were already here, as well as Father Kearney. It didn’t take Siobhán long to spot Eddie Houlihan. He disappeared into a hallway, pushing a mop. She hurried after him.
“Wet floors,” Rory Mack yelled as she ran past.
Eddie turned to find her in front of him and visibly jumped.
“Apologies,” Siobhán said. She held out the note from the pigeon.
His eyes widened. “You know Layla?”
She smiled. “Yes, we’ve met.”
He grinned, revealing a gap between his teeth. “I love Layla.”
“She’s a sweetheart.”
“She likes me.”
“Does she?”
“Yes, she visits me nearly every day.”
“Did you send a note with Layla to Greg Cunningham?”
His cheeks brightened. “I just wanted to tell somebody.”
“Why him?”
“He’s like me.”
“Like you?”
“He doesn’t have many friends.” Her heart gave a squeeze for the lad. He must be so lonely. When this mess was over, she’d have to see about doing something to rectify that. Lonely lads could get themselves into trouble. “I send him a lot of notes.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Listen. You’re not in trouble. But you must tell me everything. When did you discover Eamon’s body?”
“It was half six Saturday morning.”
Half six. If Rory’s account was correct, and he left at four in the morning, then the killer (if it wasn’t Rory) was lying in wait. Most likely, dead soon thereafter.
“How did you discover him?”
“I came early because you wouldn’t believe the mess.” I believe it. I saw it. “I knew I’d need most the day to clean.” He gulped. “I noticed the storage room door locked right away, because that’s where I’d left the mop.”
“We didn’t find a mop in the storage room.”
“It’s where I left it.”
“When?”
“Friday evening.”
“What time?”
“Before midnight.”
She glanced at his mop. “Where did you find it?”
“This isn’t it. I had to buy a new one. The old one was disgusting.”
Siobhán felt pinpricks on the back of her neck. “Where did you find the old one?”
“Leaning in this back hallway. Filled with gunk.”
The killer forgot to take the mop with him. Maybe he heard Eddie coming. She was grateful the lad hadn’t walked in at the wrong time, and grateful he didn’t seem to realize the danger he could have faced. “Filled with gunk . . .” Gunk like rope fibers?
“What did you do with it?” she asked. They’d thoroughly gone through the rubbish and they didn’t find a mop.
“I tossed it in the rubbish bins down the street.”
“Why?”
He looked away. “Rory would have told me to keep using it. He’s like that. But it was disgusting.”
“Down the street where?”
He looked shifty again. “In town, actually. I put it in Liam’s rubbish.” He looked at her, his face pure panic. “Am I in trouble? It really was a dirty mop.”
“No, luv.” She sighed. All rubbish bins had been collected this morning. It was likely their mop was long gone. But another piece of the puzzle had just clicked. “Did you notice rope in the storage room?”
He shook his head.
“Come on.” Siobhán tugged on his sleeve, guiding him out to the patio. It, too, had been transformed. The debris was gone, the cigarette buckets emptied and washed, and a lovely tablecloth covered the picnic table. Flowers had been grouped in pots and set along the edges.
“Tell me how you saw into the storage room.” She pointed to the venting window. “When I arrived, there was no ladder. I had to fetch one. So how did you get up there?”
He nodded to the picnic table. “I pulled it over. Then I climbed until I could hang on to the ledge and pulled myself up.”
God, it must be nice to be that strong. She was going to have to start lifting weights. Garda college gave her some muscles, but she handn’t kept up their rigorous regime. Only so many hours in a day. “Why did you go to all that trouble?” His face turned beet red in a hot second. “Ah,” she said. He’d seen the trail of urine. “You were doing a wellness check. Making sure whoever in there was okay?” The nods came rapidly. “Why didn’t you call the guards?”
He swallowed. “I’d never seen a dead body before. But on telly they always suspect the person who finds the body. Plus, I even got his autograph.”
She patted his hand. “I know what a shock it was. I experienced it m’self.”
“I’m sorry. Would he still be alive if I called 999?”
“No, luv. Then what happened?”
“I dragged the picnic table back, and turned to go. Layla was sitting on the picnic table.”
“You feed her brekkie, don’t you?”
“I save the chips from the night before. How did you know?”
“She’s looking a little plump and Greg had thought she’d gone soft in the head because she only flies local. I think she’s smarter than he realizes. Who wouldn’t give up long-distance flying for free chips?” She finally got him to smile. “Were you here all Friday evening?” A nod. “Did you speak with the Octopus?” A second nod. “That’s right. Because you got his autograph. May I see it?”
He pawed the ground. “Someone stole it.”
Siobhán’s heart thumped. “Did he write you anything special?”
Eddie nodded. Then swallowed. “I thought it was great craic. But now . . . it’s not. . . .”
Siobhán knew what the autograph said. “Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand.’ ”
Eddie gasped. “How did you know?”
She was right. That wasn’t a suicide note. “Did you see or hear anything suspicious?” He shook his head. “Did you mop the storage room?”
“When?” he asked.
“Friday evening or Saturday morning?”
“I mopped it Friday morning. I shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Why?”
“It was a mess. This entire place. Took me ages to clean. At least I didn’t have to do the storage room.”
A professional cleaning company had taken care of the crime scene. Not a job anyone would envy. “Do you know any way in or out of that storage room besides the main door?” Eddie shook his head again. “Did you see anyone marking playing cards with a black marker?” Another shake. He’s not a chatterbox. “Just one more question, luv, you’re doing great. Did you tell anyone you lost the autograph?” He shook his head. “Okay, luv.” She patted his hand. “Let’s keep this little talk to ourselves.”