Chapter 20
Jeanie Brady was waiting for Siobhán on the footpath outside Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. “Can we take a walk?” Jeanie said the minute Siobhán approached. “I need to stretch me legs.”
“Of course.” They headed in the direction of the town square, Jeanie taking the lead. She was a brisk walker, and Siobhán had to double-step it to keep up.
“I’m confident she was poisoned and that it caused her to fall ill, foam at the mouth, and possibly be in a state of delirium.”
There was hesitation in her voice. “But?”
“There were no traces of poison in the teacup.”
“Is it possible that the tea was poisoned but it wouldn’t leave a trace in the cup?”
“Not remotely possible.” Jeanie Brady’s eyes gleamed. “Do you want to know why?”
“I certainly do.”
“There wasn’t even a trace of tea in the cup.”
A red herring. Either Ellen Delaney was in the habit of having a clean teacup next to her bed, or the killer thought it was a good distraction. He or she hadn’t picked it up off the floor because the killer had placed it on the floor.
“Then why are you suspecting poison? The foam?”
“She had a high level of alcohol in her blood. Whiskey.”
“You think her whiskey was poisoned?”
“I do.”
“Yet we didn’t recover a bottle.”
“Exactly.”
Siobhán stopped walking. “She was rumored to be out in the woods that night. Something about spending the night near the fairy tree to prove no harm would come to her.”
Jeanie Brady visibly shuddered. “That didn’t work out so well.”
“We need to search that area for a bottle of whiskey.”
“I would say that’s a good use of your time.” She jabbed her finger at Siobhán. “Better you than me.”
“You don’t believe in fairies and curses, do you?”
Jeanie gave a nervous laugh. “Me?”
“You seem a bit . . . on edge.”
Jeanie sighed. “It’s not fairies or the dead we should fear. It’s the living.”
As Jeanie continued through town, Siobhán could see where they were headed—Annmarie’s gift shop. It was originally called “Courtney’s” after her late sister, but even though the sign hadn’t changed, people now simply referred to it as Annmarie’s. Jeanie was being led to the imported pistachios that Annmarie kept in stock. Siobhán had the feeling she was about to lose Jeanie Brady’s attention. She stopped her on the footpath just outside the shop. “What else did you find?”
“Her official cause of death is suffocation.”
“The pillow?”
“Yes.”
“Could it have been done without the poison?”
“I believe they worked in tandem. The alcohol rendered her helpless, unable to fight back.” She gazed longingly into the window of the gift shop. “Grisly business.”
“Do you have samples from the plants in her garden?” Siobhán had no idea what kind of investigation the guards were running, and so far she’d resisted hounding Danny for facts.
Jeanie shook her head. “I’ll put in a request to do just that. But those tests can take ages. And that’s when we know which poison to look for. You know yourself—anything can be poisonous. The difference between medication and poison is . . . ?” She left it hanging, waiting for Siobhán to answer.
“The dose,” Siobhán said.
“Correct! The difference is in the dose. But with a poisonous herb garden right at the crime scene, it would be helpful if we could narrow our suspect list.” Plants. Plants were their suspects. Jeanie gestured to the store. “I’m going to just pop in; are you coming?”
“No, thank you,” Siobhán said. “I’ll be right out here.” Jeanie nodded and hurried into the shop.
Whiskey. Did the killer steal the whiskey bottle? Is that why he or she planted the cup of tea on the floor of her bedroom? So they wouldn’t look for a missing whiskey bottle? Moments later, Jeanie returned with several bags of pistachios. They began to walk as Jeanie cracked into them. “Would you like to come to Naomi’s for a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely,” Jeanie said. “However . . . I have some paperwork to finish up and I don’t know about you, but I could use something a little stronger.”
“It’s half ten in the morning,” Siobhán said.
“Perfect!” Jeanie said. “Shall we?”
Siobhán laughed. “Absolutely.” They headed back to Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub.
“Anything to suggest she fought back?” Siobhán asked. “Anything underneath her fingernails?”
“No. That’s why I’m assuming the poison did its job.”
“Would she have been able to taste the poison?”
“Not if it was added to the whiskey and was the type hard to detect. Or—by the time she did—it may have been too late.”
Maybe that was what sent her racing across the meadow that evening. Had she figured out she’d been poisoned? Was she trying to get help? “Everyone heard an awful scream that night, then saw her tearing across the field toward her cottage.”
Jeanie nodded. “The sense of terror boosts my theory of poison. Several of our suspected poisons can cause hallucinations. Especially when mixed with alcohol.”
Siobhán struggled to piece it together. Ellen had been outside, presumably to spend the night near the fairy tree. Something spooked her, and she ran back to the cottage. Perhaps it was the poison, making her hallucinate. She would not have dressed up to spend the night in a tent. Was someone else through her cottage that evening, expecting her to be gone? Had she interrupted a robbery? Maybe Ellen didn’t have just one gold coin, maybe she had piles of them. The pile of dirt by the side of the cottage flashed in her mind. What if Ellen had found coins buried on her property? Was that why she was so keen on purchasing the cottage?
* * *
They entered the pub and mortuary under the large oval sign with a painting of a distinguished gent drinking a pint: BUTLER’S, UNDERTAKER, LOUNGE, AND PUB. The punch line, which was often displayed on a chalkboard on the footpath: IF YOU’RE NOT IN ONE, YOU’RE IN THE OTHER. Today, there was no sign, but the door to the stone building opened with a creak.
It was dim inside, but Jeanie brushed past the opening bar and sitting room filled with flowered sofas, parted the velvet curtain, and stepped into a smaller bar devoid of all props for the mourners. John Butler was the lone soul behind the bar, glued to a horse race on the telly. He turned with a nod as Jeanie and Siobhán propped themselves on stools.
“Greetings.” John Butler, a formal man with a shock of slicked-back white hair, and suits that seemed more appropriate for the Elizabethan age than modern day, very much looked the part of an old-fashioned undertaker. In his spare time he was an actor with the Kilbane Players, and Siobhán always got the sense that he operated as if all the world was a stage. Good on him. Undertaking and acting. They may not be bound for the big stage but at least the Kilbane Players were much more lively than the poor souls he usually worked with.
“Two pints of the black stuff,” Jeanie said. Siobhán hadn’t planned on drinking, but she wanted to keep Jeanie on her good side, especially since it was apparent Jeanie only had eyes for her nuts.
“Let’s talk about her clothing,” Siobhán said, once they’d settled in.
Jeanie stopped cracking and raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”
“Pardon?”
“From the way you asked the question, I thought you knew.”
Siobhán leaned forward. “Knew what?”
Jeanie Brady glanced to see if John Butler was listening, and he probably was, but his eyes were glued to the telly. “We’re just two friends chatting here.”
“Yes, we are.” Siobhán smiled, suddenly wishing she had purchased the pistachios for Jeanie.
“The guards made it clear that you’re not on the case.” Jeanie’s eyes locked with Siobhán as she sipped her pint.
“I’m sure they did.” Siobhán shrugged as if it were a small matter.
Jeanie set down her pint. “She had two outfits on.”
“Pardon?”
“Underneath the red dress—she was in a sleeping gown.”
Someone had dressed her. Over her night dress. Why on earth would they do that? “That doesn’t make any sense.” She’d spent part of the night in the woods. Ran home. If she was in her sleeping outfit, then where were the clothes she’d worn camping? And why on earth would she put on a fancy red dress over her sleeping gown? “Do you know if the guards found dirty clothes?”
“I asked the same question and was told they did not.”
“That’s perplexing.” The killer leaves a teacup that never held any tea. They also don’t bother to remove the feather stuck to her cheek. Yet they take her dirty clothes and her truck?
“What’s most unusual is that poisons are chosen because a killer is hoping they will go undetected,” Jeanie Brady said. “The body will only be screened for them if there’s reason to suspect poisoning.”
“And poison is usually chosen because of the hope that it will be so subtle, it won’t be revealed as the cause of death,” Siobhán joined in.
“Correct. In smaller doses, especially over a longer period of time.”
Such as a daughter slowly killing her mother. “But this killer is drawing a red arrow to the causes of death,” Siobhán mused.
“Exactly. The killer did not attempt to wipe the foam from Ellen’s mouth, or remove the feather from her cheek.”
But they planted the teacup. Either this was purposeful because the killer wanted to get caught—or they had been interrupted.... “If those clues hadn’t been present at the scene, would you have suspected poison?”
“No. I more likely would have attributed her death to the suffocation and the alcohol in her system. The foam and the teacup—even though it turns out not to be the source of the poison—and the rumors of a woman screaming, and racing across the meadow were the clues that led me to suspect hallucination and poisoning. Mother-daughter relationships are complex, wouldn’t you say?” Jeanie Brady’s voice was light. She didn’t ever wade too far into theories, but this case seemed to fascinate her.
“Yes, I would. But what are you saying?”
“Either the killer wanted the daughter to be a top suspect in the murder. Or . . . the murderer wants to be caught.”
“Meaning that Jane may have killed her mother, and she’s also trying to tell us that loud and clear?”
Jeanie seemed to be humming to herself, or perhaps she was serenading the pistachios. “It’s a possibility that cannot be ignored.”
“She’s blind. Legally. But technically she has some vision. Isn’t is possible she wasn’t able to see the foam or the feather?”
“Yes, that’s possible.”
“Jane developed the garden using a system to help her know where to find everything. She relies on the placement of her plants and the signs in the garden.”
“Yes?” Jeanie could tell Siobhán was going somewhere.
“What if . . . someone switched them?”
“Meaning Jane could have accidentally poisoned her mother?”
“Is it possible?”
Jeanie sighed. “It’s all possible. However . . . we’re not talking about picking out a few leafs and putting them in tea. Most poisons from plants have to be carefully curated.”
Carefully curated. “So accidental poisoning is out.”
“Correct.”
Premeditated. “There goes my theory.”
“It may actually help the daughter.”
“How so?”
“A loved one usually poisons a little at a time. Ellen was killed with one dose.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The foaming of the mouth was an immediate reaction. Something that took hours, not days, to hit her system.”
“The killer is someone who knew she would take a bottle of whiskey on her overnight adventure,” Siobhán said out loud.
“What do you make of the daughter’s alibi?”
“She’s yet to offer proof of it.” They could no longer allow Jane to deflect on this very important aspect of the case.
Jeanie drained her pint and stood. Siobhán pushed the remainder of hers away. “I’ll get that paperwork sorted and then let’s go to Ballysiogdun and see this garden.”
“You want to identify the poison?”
“That and I’m dying to have a look at the cottage in the middle of a fairy path.” She popped a pistachio and grinned. “How are you at identifying plants?”
“Useless,” Siobhán said. “But I’ve got just the person.”