Chapter 8
The walls of Molly’s Café were painted a vibrant lavender, making the tiny café burst with cheer. Paintings covered the walls on both sides. Molly’s was a fraction of the size of Naomi’s, but Siobhán was impressed with its welcoming feel. That was half the battle. It was a relief to finally sit down to a mug of tea, and although Jane didn’t want anything to eat, Siobhán slipped in a small scone. Jane excused herself to the restroom. Siobhán stepped up to see the paintings. Most of them were renderings of rolling hills and rocky hedges with cows and sheep grazing. Several were of the fairy tree, and a few were of fairies themselves, depicted as short with bright smiles in some, sinister and dark in others. And beautiful women could be summed up as the description in the third category. Siobhán scanned them for signatures. They were all done by different artists and soon she came to the plaque: ANNABEL’S PAINTERS. This must be the art class that she’d heard about. What did Mary Madigan say? They’d gathered on Friday night to paint the solstice moon but Ellen Delaney had not been with them. Yet later, someone had seen a figure they assumed to be Ellen running toward the cottage. The guards, or herself, were definitely going to have to speak to these student painters.
“What do you tink?”
Siobhán jumped at the voice and turned to find a tiny woman beside her. In her fifties with soft brown hair and big round spectacles, she looked like someone whose spirit animal would be a sweet, wise owl.
“You must be Molly,” Siobhán said.
A bright laugh filled the room. “Guilty as charged.”
“They’re lovely,” Siobhán said.
“I rotate them every two weeks,” Molly answered with pride. “I love supporting the arts.”
“Do you have any by Ellen Delaney?”
Molly’s face changed from friendly to guarded. “Why would you be asking?”
“I’m here with her daughter. I was just wondering.” As if summoned by the mention of her name, Jane returned, saying hello to Molly as she passed by.
“Her other senses are so sharp,” Molly said as if in awe, before hurrying back to her station behind the counter.
Siobhán scoured each painting again, but learned nothing new. Either Ellen’s paintings weren’t here, or her signature wasn’t legible. Underneath Annabel’s plaque sat a placeholder stuffed with calling cards. Siobhán slipped one into her pocket, then returned to the table. “I was just looking at the paintings on the wall. I didn’t see any by your mother.”
Jane shook her head. “Neither did I.”
“Pardon?”
Jane threw her head back and laughed. “Sorry, but if anyone is allowed to make jokes about being blind, it’s me.”
“Oh,” Siobhán said. “Of course.” But she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. It must be difficult dealing with everyone’s pity and ignorance day after day.
Jane didn’t seem fazed and moved on. “Mam went mental the one time I tried to get her to show her work.”
“She did?”
Jane nodded. “One of her paintings used to hang in the cottage. Annabel arrived on one day, looking for pieces for this café. Mam wasn’t around, so I gave it to her. I thought she would be pleased. I’ve never seen her so livid.”
“When was this?”
Jane pondered the question. “Approximately one month ago.”
“Did she say why she didn’t want to show her work?”
“She’s always been private.”
“What was the subject of the painting?”
“I’m sure I asked her, but I don’t remember.”
“What happened to that painting?” Siobhán hadn’t seen any paintings hanging in the cottage.
“That’s another funny bit. I don’t know. She never brought it back. When I asked her she said ‘Don’t you worry about it.’ ”
Ellen Delaney sounded like she’d been a prickly woman. But Siobhán also knew that not all artists wanted to share their work with the world. Her grandfather, who had been a master craftsman, never had any interest in displaying his carvings. He may have become a famous artist if not for that crippling modesty. Maybe Ellen Delaney had suffered from that same shyness. But from everything Siobhán had heard, she wasn’t the cuddly type. And what had she done with the painting? Did it matter? Don’t you worry about it. Prickly, indeed. Siobhán was lucky to have had a warm and loving mother. She wished Ciarán would have had more time to experience Naomi O’Sullivan’s charm. She’d done her best to fill in, but it wasn’t the same. Siobhán gave them a moment to enjoy their tea, before she started in again. “I’m sorry if this is difficult, but can you tell me about the last time you saw your mother?”
Jane bowed her head, and then lifted it. “Dara says you’re a good detective. Are you going to help find my mother’s killer?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “We both are.” It was the truth. Jurisdiction or not, they wouldn’t be able to stay away.
“Then I will tell you everything.” She placed her hands on the tablecloth as if preparing herself. “I left for Dublin on Thursday morning after breakfast. We had a soft-boiled egg, toast, and tea together as usual. I talked about the conference. I go every year and was excited to be returning. I don’t think my mam got two words in.” She took a deep breath. “I asked her what her plans were for the weekend, and she said she’d be doing her usual. Normally she took a watercolor class on Saturday mornings, then the farmers’ market, and goes to Sunday mass.”
“Wait,” Siobhán said. “Did she specifically say the class would be on Saturday?”
Jane tilted her head. “No, she said ‘her usual.’ I was filling in the gaps. Mary Madigan said the class was moved to Friday evening for the solstice moon and that my mother did not attend.”
“Would you have expected your mother to shift to the evening class with the rest of the group?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t know. She didn’t like to waste money, and she had to pay in advance for the classes, but she could be stubborn. If a class is on a Saturday, it’s on a Saturday. That type of thing. In the end, I say she would have gone unless she had other plans.”
“But she didn’t mention any other plans. Nothing out of the ordinary?”
Jane shook her head. “I wish I’d been paying better attention.”
“You couldn’t have known. Let’s stick to what you recall.”
“I can only say what she does every Saturday when I am here. She does her painting class, she attends the farmers’ market and does her messages, takes walks, works in the garden, and sometimes comes here for a spot of lunch and laptop time.” It certainly sounded like she kept busy.
“Do you know where she stores her paintings?” She needed to learn everything she could about Ellen Delaney as quickly as possible.
“I assume she kept them at Annabel’s workshop. She didn’t paint at the cottage.”
“Did she describe what she paints? Not just the one painting you accidentally handed over, but any of them?” Siobhán took in the paintings around the café once more. She narrated them to Jane. “I wonder if any are hers.”
Jane cocked her head. “Do you think it’s important?”
“You never know.” Jane sipped her tea and waited. “In an investigation you have to pull every string.”
“Or risk getting tied up in them?”
“Astute observation,” Siobhán said.
Jane gave a smile and set her cup down. “I know one assignment was a still-life project, and they were supposed to pick an object that instilled a negative emotion in them. Mam found that objectionable; I think she almost quit over it.”
“Interesting.” Siobhán was dying to meet this Annabel. “Did she tell you what object she picked?”
Jane shook her head. “If she did, I don’t recall.”
“Anything else?”
Jane turned her head in the direction of the paintings. “I think she was painting the cottage.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, she did it to rattle the class.” Jane gasped. “My word. You’re right. It could be important.” Jane pushed back her chair with a screech and stood. “I need to get back to the cottage. Do you think the guards have found anything?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Siobhán left a small tip, then followed Jane outside. They were quiet on the walk back to the cottage, each caught up in her own thoughts. Now that Siobhán had Annabel’s calling card, she would be able to pay Annabel’s art studio a visit. Siobhán couldn’t help but want to see Ellen’s paintings. But Jane was slippery; she’d managed to change the conversation away from her weekend once again. Siobhán had already decided that it was best not to push Jane on the subject of Dublin and proving her attendance at this conference. She would leave that to Dara. As they walked, passersby gave Jane a wide berth, as if her blindness was contagious. Siobhán wondered if Jane could feel their reactions, and once again realized how exhausting that must be.
Siobhán was relieved when they were away from the main street and traipsing next to green fields. “Let’s go over your return from Dublin. From the moment you arrived home.”
Jane took the lead, her cane tapping rhythmically as she spoke. “Mam wasn’t there to pick me up at the bus stop. That’s when I feared something was wrong. She’s the type who would have been there an hour early. If something came up—and I can’t imagine what that something would have been—she would have sent someone and insisted they be there an hour early. When I realized she wasn’t there, it was like someone walked over my grave.”
“I’m sorry if this sounds ignorant, but how do you use a mobile phone?” Why was she so uninformed? She would have to do better.
Jane laughed. “It’s okay, most people are ignorant. It has special features that concentrate more on sound, as well as other functions that help. Why do you ask?”
“Did you call her when she wasn’t there? Did you speak on the phone at all since you left Thursday?”
Jane came to an abrupt stop, and Siobhán had to step into the meadow not to mow her down. When Jane turned, Siobhán couldn’t tell if the stricken look on her face was that of a liar caught in a lie, or if she was concentrating on the question. “I know it seems as if we must have been close.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “And we were. We lived together. But I didn’t intend to spend my precious alone time on the phone with my mother, and I’m sure she felt the same.” Jane lifted her chin to the skies, which had been sunny since the farmers’ market. They began to walk again, once more Jane tapping out a fast clip.
“That is understandable. But what about when she didn’t show?”
“I called her, of course. Her phone went straight to voice mail.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Not at all. Mam only brought that phone with her if we were apart, and she often forgot to turn it on let alone charge it.”
“I thought she was a very organized person.”
“Not when it came to that phone.” Jane frowned. “It bothers me that you didn’t see it in the cottage.”
“Honestly, we were in and out. Hopefully the guards will find it.”
“They’re probably in there right now, touching all of her things. She would hate that.” There were probably other things she would hate more, such as the fact that someone had murdered her, but Siobhán was hardly going to point this out.
“What about the way she was dressed?”
Jane shook her head. “I have never heard Mam describe an outfit like that. The only time she ever dressed up was for weddings and funerals.”
“And you had no inkling or suspicion that she may have been romantically involved with someone?”
“It’s not the kind of thing she would have shared with me. In fact, she would have relished keeping a secret like that from me.” Jane stopped again and turned. “Do you think she would still be alive if I had called the guards the minute I saw she wasn’t at the bus stop?”
A butterfly zipped past them and landed on a patch of heather. She wished Jane could see the beauty around them. But that probably wasn’t a helpful thought; perhaps it was better to focus on the positive. “I don’t think so, luv. The pathologist will give us the exact time of death, but in my opinion a few hours wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking about this.” She sped up. “Someone is trying to frame me for her murder.”
“Why do you think that?”
“They poisoned her. Most likely with something taken out of our own garden.”
“But you were in Dublin all weekend. As soon as you give the guards your train ticket, hotel information, and the info on the conference, they’ll drop you as a suspect.”
“I shouldn’t have gone at all. She’d still be alive.”
“You can’t blame yourself.” Unless you’re the killer. Every instinct in Siobhán warned her that Jane was lying about her weekend away. If she wasn’t in Dublin, where had she been? Had it all been a cover to give herself an alibi for murder? If so, did she really think she wouldn’t be asked to prove it? “How did you get back to the cottage?”
“The same way we’re getting around now. I walked.” Siobhán felt like an idiot. Again. “It was more for the ceremony of it that Mam liked to pick me up. I have some sight.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Jane stopped. She pointed to the heather. “I can see the shade is somewhat darker here, than the rest of the meadow.” She turned to the road. “And even darker there.” She looked above them. “Of course I can tell when the sun is out, but even if it weren’t for the lighter shade, I can feel it, of course. It can be difficult to determine when I’m relying on sight alone and when my other senses are filling in. You don’t have to see pitch black to be considered legally blind. I can make out shapes, and certain shades, just not features. Between that and my cane, I get along well enough.” As if to demonstrate, she started moving again, at the fastest clip yet.
Even with a bit of sight it would be difficult to navigate the rugged terrain of this village. “What happened when you arrived at the cottage?”
“I discovered the door was ajar. I didn’t realize the window had been broken until after I stepped in.” Even though Siobhán was walking behind her, she could see Jane shudder. “I thought she was sleeping at first. But she was too cold. Too still. I didn’t want to disturb the scene, but I felt a breeze as I was leaving, coming from the window. I discovered the smashed panes of glass with my cane.” Siobhán heard a sniffle, and when she caught up to Jane’s side, she saw tears rolled down her cheeks. Siobhán wished she had a tissue to hand her, but she was more than a little relieved to see Jane finally shed some tears. “Wait a minute,” Jane said, wiping her tears and stopping yet again. “There’s something else. A smell . . .”
“Go on.”
“At first I thought it was cologne.”
“Cologne? Not perfume?”
“Mam didn’t wear perfume.”
“She was dressed up. Maybe for a special occasion.”
“A date?” Jane’s lips pursed.
“Yes.”
Jane shook her head. “If so, she picked a terrible scent.” She placed her index finger on her lips and tapped. “Some kind of furniture polish? Shoe polish? Something between cologne and . . . leather?”
Siobhán whipped her mobile from her pocket and tapped the revelation into her notes. The method was growing on her. “Anything else? Anything at all? More smells. Or sounds?”
“I could hear there was a crowd gathered down the street. I had no idea what people were doing, gathered in the road.”
“A tree had fallen across it, and they were chattering about the strange events last night.”
Jane nodded. “I thought they knew about Mam. It’s one of the reasons I called Dara. Nobody in this village liked us, not even the guards. Now I’m supposed to trust them to investigate thoroughly? You saw yourself, they’re taking ages to get to the crime scene.”
“It does complicate things,” Siobhán agreed. She stopped talking to focus on her breath. She’d done more walking so far today than she did in a few days in Kilbane, counting her morning runs. Say what you want about the smaller villages, but this was some serious cardio.
“The things they were saying . . . a full moon, strange noises, a scream, the figure running toward the cottage . . .” Jane reached out and put her hands on Siobhán’s shoulders. “Do you think . . . that was my mother screaming?”
It had certainly crossed Siobhán’s mind. Had the killer pursued her home? “Could you think of any reason she’d be out at night?”
Jane shook her head. “Not one. We sometimes went out at night together, for a walk. It’s lovely on a summer night. But my mother running across meadows and screaming?” She stopped and stared as if she was imagining the events unfolding before her eyes. “Ask Dara. Mam didn’t scare easily. She was usually the one scaring others.”
Just ahead several guard cars were parked alongside a gravel path. Siobhán described it. “Finally,” Jane said.
They had almost reached the turn-in when Jane grabbed Siobhán’s arm, then shoved her into the meadow with both hands. Siobhán let out a yelp of surprise as Jane hurled down the hill after her. Seconds later a blur of a car zoomed past, tires screeching, dirt flying from its wheels.
Siobhán scrambled to her feet as the car disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust. She struggled to process what just happened. There seemed to be only one conclusion. The car had been gunning for them, and Jane Delaney had just saved her life.