Chapter 13
“Engagement stick?” Macdara arched his eyebrow as he stared at her gift.
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” They stood on the footpath in front of the chemist. Jane was inside, getting any essentials she would need. Siobhán had almost volunteered that they had a chemist in Kilbane as well, when she realized that Jane probably felt more comfortable in her home stores, where she had an understanding of the layout and where everything was located. There were so many little things that sighted people took for granted.
Macdara twirled his engagement stick, then pounded the ground several times. “You shouldn’t have.” From the tone of his voice, he really meant it.
“Don’t mention it.” She took the stick back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to use it while we’re here.” She grinned; he shook his head.
“You two are adorable,” a voice said. Siobhán turned to find Jane standing in front of her, holding her bags from the chemist.
Macdara took the bags. “Right then. Are we off?”
Siobhán was anxious to get back to Kilbane and away from all this talk of fairies. But her stomach growled. “I’m so hungry I could eat a small horse.”
Macdara nodded to the public house across the street. “Why don’t we have lunch before we head off.” Siobhán planned on contacting Primo Limo as soon as possible, but she would have to do it in private. She’d quickly learned that even when you thought Jane wasn’t paying attention, she was actually absorbing every word. Because of that, Siobhán was not yet ready to ask Jane about Geraldine’s account of the calling card on the counter, the bet to spend the night near the fairy tree, or the mention of a stalker in Waterford. Siobhán was going to have to speak to Macdara first, or more likely—Danny. He never did get a chance to show her whatever was in the sink, and if Siobhán tried to make up an excuse to delay their return to Kilbane, Macdara would see right through it. Should she just tell him?
Jane was usually by his side. Macdara would not like it if Siobhán went around him for information—who was she kidding, he would loathe it—but she could not give Jane anymore ammunition than necessary. Not until she was cleared as a suspect. And as horrible as it was to imagine a daughter killing her own mother, statistics proved that murders were often committed by those closest to the victim. No one could push buttons like your family could. And from the sounds of it, Ellen Delaney had treated her grown daughter like a child. Siobhán could see how that might drive a person to her breaking point. Jane was a suspect, there was no getting around it.
The seanchaí from the farmers’ market was guarding the entrance to the pub, using his theatrical voice to entice people inside. “Listen to the tales of yore.”
“Eddie Doolan,” Jane said with a slight snarl. “Don’t encourage him, he’s a bit soft in the head.”
Storytellers. The bearers of old lore. In ancient times, Celtic lore was never written down. Neither was history for that matter. Or laws until the monks started to keep records. Before that, stories were kept by colorful characters memorizing long lyric poems, which were to be recited by bards. The seanchaíthe would rise to carry on that tradition. Storytelling became an art form, passed from one generation to the next, enthralling crowds with legends, myths, and history. In modern day the few who practiced the craft did so mostly at festivals.
“Hurry, hurry,” he said, dancing after them as they tried to pass. “There’s no time to waste now—the fairies are out for revenge. The cottage, she must come down.” He thrust a tin cup at them. Siobhán dug in her handbag for some change, then tossed it in. He flashed a grin, two-stepped, and bowed.
Jane whirled on him. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He jumped as if he hadn’t realized who she was until she was standing right in front of him. Siobhán glanced at Macdara to see if he would try and temper his cousin, but he was staring off into the distance, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here. It wasn’t his place to teach his cousin manners, but head-in-the-sand was not his best look.
“Please,” Eddie Doolan said, leaning in. His breath reeked of onions. “The winds have been stirred, death is still near. Do you dare and defy the fairies now?”
“Where are you from?” Siobhán asked.
He frowned as if you weren’t supposed to talk to him like he was a person. “I go where I’m needed,” he said at last. “I’m only doing me job.”
“You’re not needed here,” Jane said.
“How long have you been here?” Siobhán continued.
His eyes darted left and right as if he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. “I travel often for work,” he said. “Originally I’m a Mayo man.”
“Lovely.” He was talking and she wanted to keep that going. “Do you have family or friends here?”
“Can we go inside?” Jane said. “I’m famished.”
“Find us a good spot, I’ll be right in,” Siobhán said.
“Does she ever take a break?” Jane asked, turning to Macdara.
Dara lifted his head. “Believe me, you should be happy she doesn’t.” He locked eyes with Siobhán and gave her a nod. Thank goodness. The Dara she knew and loved was still in there.
Jane wagged her finger at Siobhán. “Remember he’s a storyteller. He’ll spin whatever tale he thinks you want to hear.”
“I love hearing tales,” Siobhán said. Were there any stories in particular that Jane didn’t want the seanchaí to spill?
“You and I need to catch up on everything soon,” Macdara said to Siobhán as he opened the door for Jane. “Don’t be long.”
Eddie relaxed the moment Jane was out of sight. “She’s blind,” he said, leaning in as if it were breaking news.
“She is,” Siobhán agreed. “She’s also a very capable woman.”
He frowned as if that didn’t compute. “She can’t see.”
“That is the definition of blind.”
He shook his head and leaned in. Siobhán was forced to take a step back. “She can’t see the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
“She’s in danger here. She must not stay.”
“Danger?” Siobhán looked him in the eye. “From you?”
He leaned back theatrically, whipping his cape around as he poked his own chest. “Me? From me?”
“Are you threatening her?”
He took the side of his cloak and bowed low. “I am but the messenger.”
Siobhán did not know what to make of him. Bumbling, and sweet, and theatrical, and as much as she hated the way Jane put it—maybe he had some cognitive delays. At the least, he seemed confident in his storytelling, but cripplingly shy when it came to real conversation. So much drama for such a little village. “Did you see the mysterious events of Friday evening?”
He straightened up, his hair now standing straight from static. “Your hair is gorgeous,” he said. As he reached out to touch it, she brought her arm up and blocked him. “I want to touch it.”
“No, thank you.” He withdrew his hand as if he’d been scalded. “It’s not just you. I don’t allow any strangers to touch my hair.”
“I’m a stranger,” he admitted. Then nodded as if he’d just figured it out.
“My name is Siobhán. Or, if you prefer, Garda O’Sullivan.” He took a step back. “Your name is Eddie?”
He blinked. “I don’t remember names. I never remember names.”
“It’s okay.”
“I remember songs. I sing.”
“You are very talented.”
He gave a bow, then stood and flamboyantly gestured to the door. “They’re waiting.” His demeanor had changed instantly the minute she said she was a guard.
“I’d like to hear more of your stories.”
He turned and bolted, his coins rattling in his cup as he ran.
* * *
Dark wood paneling and sconce lighting gave the pub a homey feel. A small group of trad players were set up in the corner, their instruments ringing out with jaunty tunes. Siobhán ordered a ham-and-cheese toastie, curried chips, and a mineral. She really wanted two ham-and-cheese toasties, but resisted. This way she could have a slice of pie for dessert. There was something about this village that just made her want to sit down and eat comfort food. Macdara ordered fish and chips and a Guinness, and Jane sat in front of her potato-and-leek soup barely touching it. Siobhán’s heart squeezed for her. “You know,” she said. “Why not get something indulgent? A slice of pie?”
“Pie,” Jane said as if she’d never heard the word. She waved the publican over. Siobhán felt a silly flush of pride. “I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”
Macdara and Siobhán exchanged a look. “I’ll have a slice of lemon meringue pie, as well, like,” Macdara said as he slid his Guinness over to Jane. “And she’s sorted with this pint.”
“We’re engaged,” Siobhán said.
“Congrats,” said the publican. “One slice of pie and one Guinness coming up.”
“Two slices of pie, please,” Siobhán said. “And a Guinness for me too.”
“If you’re having Guinness and pie, then I’m having Guinness and pie,” Macdara said, clearly outraged.
Jane slid the pint back to Macdara. “Three slices of pie, and two pints of Guinness.”
He nodded and hurried away before they could change the order again.
“How did it go with Geraldine?” Jane was eager for details.
“I’m going to speak with Danny,” Siobhán said. “If there are any inconsistencies between her account and that of Joe and Mary Madigan, I’ll make sure he knows about it.”
Jane slapped the table and laughed. “Are you listening to this, Dara? She’s a sly one.”
“Honestly, that’s not my intent,” Siobhán said. “But it’s best not to engage in rumors while in the middle of an investigation.”
“I’m not asking you to engage in rumors, I’m asking you what Geraldine said. Word for word.” Siobhán shot Macdara a look, hoping for a little emotional backup, but he was suddenly examining the walking stick as if it was speaking to him. “You can’t keep it from me. She’s my mam.”
“I’m sorry. My goal is the same as yours. To find your mother’s killer. I can’t bring you into the investigation.”
She shook her head. “Cousin Dara will tell me. Unless you’re going to keep it from him as well, like?” Siobhán didn’t answer; she was too busy mentally whittling the words “MEAN GIRL.” Jane reached out for Macdara’s hand. “Are you okay with your fiancée keeping secrets from you?”
“We’re just here to enjoy our lunch,” Macdara said, setting the walking stick down. The tip of his boot nudged Siobhán’s toe under the table. He was not okay with her keeping secrets from him. What did he want her to do?
“Maybe you can help me,” Siobhán said. “What can you tell me about Eddie the seanchaí?”
“Why? Did he say something?” Jane leaned forward eagerly.
“It’s what he didn’t say. I tried to talk to him and when I wouldn’t let him touch my hair, he bolted.”
“Touch your hair?” Macdara said.
She shrugged. “It’s a thing.”
“You let me touch your hair,” Jane said with a smirk.
“Different situation entirely.”
Jane laughed, but quickly sobered up. “As far as I know, his name is Eddie Doolan and he’s homeless.”
“As far as you know?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t smell him.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“It’s quite possible he’s homeless.” Siobhán hoped she didn’t sound as judgmental as Jane. She was not the type of person who looked down on others’ hardships. She was grateful for the roof over her head and the food that was always on her plate, and despite sharing it with five siblings— which meant the water was often cold by the time it was her turn—she was grateful for their shower and bathtub. It didn’t make her a better person that she had these things, it made her a luckier person. And although it could be argued that one made their own luck, it was equally true that fate could be a cruel mistress. As her mam used to say, “There but for the Grace of God, go I.” She teared up just thinking about it.
“He sleeps outside,” Jane continued. “I’ve heard people throw coins into his cup, but it’s either not enough to get a place to sleep or he doesn’t want to.”
“Is he a local?”
“No. He arrived just after we did.”
Another new resident in this tiny village? What were the odds of that? “Strange,” Siobhán said. “Do you know why?”
“All I know is that he’s the only person in this village that is hated more than Mam and I.”
“Is there a chance you know Eddie from Waterford?” Could he be Ellen’s stalker?
Jane’s head jerked up. “No. Why on earth would I know him from Waterford?”
“Have you learned something?” Macdara asked.
“It seems they all arrived in the village around the same time,” Siobhán said. “That seems curious.” If Jane was aware that her mother had a stalker, now would be the perfect opportunity to bring it up.
“I’ll leave that to you,” Jane replied. She wrung her hands. “I guess now it’s just me and Eddie left for this village to hate. I keep forgetting Mam’s gone.”
Siobhán reached over and patted her hand. “That’s normal, pet. It takes a while.”
Their pie and pints arrived and for a moment everyone buried themselves in them, each preferring it to the discussion at hand. Siobhán was wondering what brought Eddie the wandering storyteller into town at the same time as Ellen and Jane. She was going to have to dig into Eddie Doolan a bit more.
“Get out!” The reprimand came from the publican. Their heads swiveled to the bar.
“Speak of the Devil,” Macdara said, filling Jane in on what was happening.
Eddie was back, pleading a case to the publican. “Picture this, story night!”
“I said no.” The publican stood with his arms folded across his chest. “Off with ya.”
“A nice turf fire, pints all around, some music, and a story that will enthrall ye.” He raised his voice to a theatrical level, gesturing around.
“My mother was murdered and all you can talk about is story time?” Jane rose from her chair, matching Eddie’s theatrical tone.
Eddie lumbered toward them, his eyes wide, his hands reaching. “Murdered?” Although he was a performer by trade, his shock seemed genuine to Siobhán. He leaned in. “Was it the fairies?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “It was a person. A human being.”
“They can look like humans,” Eddie said, clasping his hands to his chest, his eyes darting around as sweat dripped down his broad face.
“It happened last night,” Siobhán said. “You hadn’t heard?” That seemed nearly impossible. She had to remind herself he was a performer, an actor. Was he acting now?
He looked to the ground. “I heard she died. I thought . . . well, she was an older woman, a bit on the heavy side—”
“She was only in her sixties!” Jane said.
“A bit on the heavy side,” he repeated.
Jane turned her head toward Macdara and Siobhán. “Eddie feels big to me. Is he big?”
“He’s . . .” Macdara said, looking up at the gentle giant.
“Big,” Eddie said. “I’m big too.”
He reminded Siobhán of a child. A giant child in desperate need of a wash.
“And wide,” Jane said. She waited. “There you have it, no denials.”
Eddie smiled as if he hadn’t copped on that Jane wasn’t being nice. “Who murdered Mrs. Delaney?”
“The guards are looking into it,” Macdara said. “Where were you Friday night and Saturday day?”
“Me?” Eddie repeatedly poked at his chest with his finger. He stammered the words, revealing a slight stutter that seemed to disappear when he was in storytelling mode. “M-m-m-m me?”
“Yes, y-y-y-y-y-you!” Jane said.
Siobhán gasped. Macdara shook his head at his cousin, although Siobhán had no idea whether Jane could see it. The verdict was in. Jane Delaney was not a nice person and, cousin or not, she was no longer invited to the wedding. Making fun of a man’s impediment was just downright cruel. As a blind woman, didn’t she realize how the worst part of a disability was dealing with the ignorance of well-meaning people? Even well-meaning stupid people would be hard to take. “It’s okay, pet,” Siobhán said to Eddie. She reached into her handbag and handed him twenty euro. “You can tell the official guards where you were, luv, and in the meantime, the pie here is delicious.”
He clasped the money in his hands and bowed. “My d-d-d-d-d-eepest sympathies,” he said.
“You should try singing,” Jane said. “It will help with the stutter.”
“I kn-kn-kn-know.” He bobbed his head. “I can s-s-s-sing.”
“Save it for the shower,” Jane said, turning her back to him.
“Your mother,” Eddie said, slightly singing it. “Your mother was murdered.” It sounded so eerie in his singsong voice.
“You catch on quick,” Jane said.
Eddie nodded, his lips moving silently as if he was singing to himself, before he turned and fled yet again.