Chapter 23
Primo Limo was operated out of Cork City. But the man on the phone informed Siobhán that Ballysiogdun had one driver, and he worked out of his home. He gave her the address and Siobhán booked a taxi. When they reached the limestone house thirty minutes away, a black limousine loomed in the circular drive. She asked the taxi to wait. The driver reclined his seat and lit a cigarette. “Not a bother.”
Siobhán approached the limo, cupped her hand, and tried to peer into the back, wondering if she’d spot bottles of champagne waiting for the next spoiled rider. The front door of the house flew open, and minutes later a short man dressed all in black strode down the walkway. He waved as he drew closer. “Are you the client who called about a visit?”
“I am indeed,” Siobhán said. No harm in a little white lie. She held out her hand and introduced her civilian-self.
“Would you like to book a ride?” There was an eagerness to his tone that made her suspect business was slow.
“I’m thinking about it.” She’d never been in a limo. None of her close girlfriends had married, so no hen parties as of yet. It wasn’t long ago they all would have been doomed as spinsters by this point. She was grateful for being born in a time where women were in no rush to have babies. Tell that to your future mother-in-law.
“Suit yourself,” the driver said. “So why are you here?”
Pleasantries were finished. She introduced her garda-self. “You stopped by Ellen Delaney’s cottage on Friday morning?” She glanced at the date in her notebook and recited it just so there was no misunderstanding.
He took a rag out of his pocket and began to polish the side mirrors on his limo. “Who told you dat?”
“Are you saying you didn’t?” Quite adept at it herself, Siobhán had very little patience for deflection.
“I’m not saying a thing. I run a discreet business.” He moved to the other window and continued his polishing.
“It’s the only limousine in town. You were seen.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“I’m trying to catch a killer.”
“You don’t belong here. If the local guards want to question me, so be it.”
Siobhán glanced at his windshield. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a medal. She had to lean in to see it. Saint Francis of Assisi. The patron of animals, merchants, and ecology, but also the saint of families. “What if her daughter gives you permission to talk about her mother?”
“The blind daughter?” His interest was piqued.
“Yes. She’s hired us to bring justice to her mother.” This was a man who respected work and family.
He stopped polishing. “I suppose that would be alright then. Will she be able to hear me?”
“She’s blind. Not deaf.”
“I see. Will we go to her then?” He glanced back at his house. “I don’t have any ramps.”
“Why would she need a ramp?”
The driver shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong man.”
She so was. “Perhaps you can come to Kilbane.”
He scrunched his face like it was a dirty word. “Why would I do that?”
“The funeral will take place this weekend. I’m sure your services will be needed.” Siobhán felt guilty for fobbing this limo on the residents of Kilbane, but she needed to find out what he knew.
“I could use a change of scenery. These are me rates.” He opened the passenger door, rummaged around in the glove compartment, then handed her a sheet.
“I see.” He should have been hanging a medal for the Patron Saint of Price Gouging. There had better be champagne. This was going to cost somebody. She tucked the price sheet in her handbag so she would remember to give it to Macdara.
* * *
The weekend arrived in no time, so when the limo pulled its long, sleek body up to Naomi’s and purred at the curb, mourners spilled out of the bistro and gathered around it like curious moths. Ciarán began bouncing around. “Is it ours?” he asked. “Can we keep it?”
“No,” Siobhán said.
The driver got out and hurried over to Jane, who was standing next to Siobhán. He took off his hat and placed it over his chest. “Hello,” he said.
Jane tilted her chin. “Hello.”
“How ya?” His tone was as nervous as a lad on a first date. “I’m sorry about your mam.”
“Thank you.”
Siobhán had filled Jane in on their meeting with the driver, and she knew he was here to hopefully give information, so why was Jane suddenly clamming up? “This is the driver who saw your mother over the weekend,” Siobhán said, hoping to move things along. Jane did not respond.
“She hired me for the weekend,” the driver said, with a worried glance to Siobhán.
“The entire weekend?” Finally, Jane spoke up.
“It was to be an enjoyable weekend. I’m sorry they didn’t get to go.”
They. Jane caught it too; it was quick, but Siobhán caught it. She’d flinched.
“It’s okay,” Siobhán said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “We’ve spoken to the councilman.” This was a pure shot in the dark, not to mention a power move. Jane could immediately dispute it if she wished. Siobhán waited, her heart in her throat. To her relief, Jane did not interrupt the play.
“He was very kind to pay my cancellation fee. Had I known, I would have gone to him instead of Mrs. Delaney. My cancellation policy is very clear. It’s written down like.” He stared at Jane. “Would you like a copy in braille?”
She snorted. “Do you have a copy in braille?”
“No.”
“That’s sorted then.”
“Why did you go to the cottage Friday morning if the gig had been canceled?” Siobhán asked.
“She owed me for the entire weekend. I came to collect.”
“And she sent you to the councilman?”
“Yes. He wasn’t in. Which surprised me. I don’t know where he went or with who, but I was the one he hired for the weekend.”
“Hired to go where?”
“He wouldn’t say. I was told there would be multiple destinations, nothing farther than an hour up the road.”
“When was this shift to begin?”
“The first pickup was scheduled for Saturday evening, half five.”
Sounded like the first stop was out to dinner.
“Are you saying they canceled but you didn’t get paid?”
“When I refused to leave the councilman’s office, his assistant paid me.”
“Did you ever find out why they were canceling?” He shifted his gaze away from them, as if not wanting to answer. Siobhán nudged Jane.
“Please,” Jane said. “I need to know.”
His gaze was back on Jane. He nodded. “She was rattled by something, I tell you that.”
“Rattled how?” Siobhán asked.
“She was shoving things into a bag, an odd assortment of things—she said . . .” He swallowed. “ ‘I’ll show them.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Jane mused. “Who is them? The village?”
“I think she had something to prove and she was going to prove it,” the driver said.
Spending the night near the fairy tree.
“If she was going somewhere, and paying you—why didn’t she just change the route?” Jane asked.
“I have a feeling she was . . . taking off on foot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The bag she was packing. It was a hiking pack. And she had her Wellies and walking stick out. That’s all I can say.”
* * *
Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub welcomed the villagers of Ballysiogdun, and Ellen Delaney’s funeral was conducted professionally and warmly. It was a short service, as requested by Jane, and no one was allowed to mention the cottage, or fairies, or murder.
The crowd stood back as Jane Delaney approached her mother’s coffin. Her hands traveled over her mother’s face, causing multiple hands to reach into their handbags for tissues. Jane was touching Ellen’s hair. She snatched her handbag as if she’d been scalded. When she turned around, as if searching the shadows in the crowd, she looked panicked. Siobhán hurried up to her.
“What’s wrong?”
“We need to speak with the person who arranged her.”
“Okay.” She waited, thinking that if she was about to complain about the job they’d done arranging her, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Why?”
“Can anyone hear us?” Jane tilted her head down.
“No, luv.”
“Her hair. It’s curly.”
Siobhán glanced in the coffin. Ellen’s hair was curly, but Siobhán did not see why this mattered. “And?”
“I know they probably washed it here, but when you found my mother on the bed, was her hair just like this?”
Siobhán thought back. It was the only time she’d ever laid eyes on Ellen and a lot was going on in the scene. She closed her eyes. The white feather on the cheek, the slack mouth with foam, the gray curls—“Yes. It was curly.”
“She was interrupted then. Just after.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mam’s hair was only curly after she showered. She would then put fat rollers in it to loosen the curls. If her hair was in tight curls like this when you found her, it means she showered but never put in her rollers.”
“Is it possible she just didn’t feel like it?”
“No,” Jane said. “Mam never wavered on this. If she didn’t put her curlers in, something interrupted her. Or someone.”
One more piece of the puzzle confirmed. Ellen had showered that evening and changed into her sleeping dress. Next step would have been curlers.
This pointed to the killer dressing Ellen, not Ellen dressing herself. Why? Had the outfit been sitting out? After all, she had originally planned on going out that evening with Aiden Cunningham. It had been confirmed that had been canceled, but with Jane away for the weekend, perhaps Ellen wasn’t bothered about being tidy. Where were the clothes she wore camping? Siobhán needed time to think this through. “Let’s keep this between us for now.”
“Why, Siobhán O’Sullivan,” Jane said, raising her voice. “Are you still keeping secrets from Cousin Dara?” Jane walked away with a smirk, but the comment was like a gut punch. She’d meant to have a heart-to-heart with Macdara and tell him absolutely everything, especially about the sink, but the right moment had never presented itself. Who was she fooling? The longer she waited, the harder it was going to be. But everyone in their right mind would agree: his aunt’s funeral was not the time and the place for creepy-dead-mouse confessions.
* * *
They gathered in Saint Mary’s churchyard for the burial. Nancy Flannery’s parents were buried there, and her older sister went into the plot next to them. It was a relief when everyone was back at Naomi’s, gathered with mugs of tea, and sandwiches, and pie. The weather was pleasant, and after the feed many decided to have a walk-about. Dylan Kelly was among them. Siobhán wanted to hurry after him, eager to talk to him about the pages they’d found in Ellen’s cottage, along with his rejection letter. Hawthorne Publishing, she’d discovered after some digging, had been the name of the publisher. Did he, or did he not have a publishing deal? Macdara was on the phone with them now, pretending to be Dylan Kelly. She waited for him by the fireplace, nearly jumping out of her skin. Would he learn anything?
She was relieved when he bounded into the room, a slight smile on his face. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the exit. “He just left.”
“How did you know,” Macdara asked her when they were out on the footpath, “that I learned something?”
“Your smirk,” she said.
He laughed. “You haven’t even asked me what it is.”
“I’ll hear when you confront the good professor.”
“You always did like a good cliffhanger,” Macdara said, as they ran to catch up with him.
* * *
They found the professor on the footpath in front of Gordon’s Comics, looking somewhat bewildered by the images of vampires and superheroes in the window.
“Are you a fan of the graphic novel?” Siobhán said pleasantly as they approached from behind, causing him to jump.
He recovered with a laugh, and a cough, then shook his head. “I was hoping to find more of a traditional bookstore.”
Siobhán nodded. Secretly, she did too, although now that Eoin was into graphic novels, she had a new appreciation for them. “That makes sense. When is yours due to be published?”
“Very soon, I hope. Very soon.” He began to rock on his heels as if consoling himself.
“I’m sure you have a deadline and a publishing date?” She should let Macdara take the lead—he was the one with some news—but she was making the professor nervous, and a nervous suspect was more likely to tip over and spill something out, even unwillingly.
“There’s a bit more work to do.” He stopped rocking and threw a desperate look down the street as if he’d summoned the cavalry and was searching for any sign of them. “But I’m very, very close.” He flashed a disturbing grin.
“Are any of your pages missing?” Macdara asked.
His grin vanished and was just as quickly replaced by a frown. “How did you know?” He stepped closer to Macdara. “Those pages are mine. They belong to me.” If Siobhán wasn’t watching it with her own eyes she wouldn’t have believed the transformation from nerdy professor to menacing thug. His fists clenched and his dark eyes flashed with anger. Macdara didn’t flinch.
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“I’ll tell the guards. The other guards.”
“They’re the ones who have them,” Macdara said. “And I just had an interesting talk with your publisher.” He stopped. “Or should I say—your prospective publisher?”
“They rejected you,” Siobhán said. “And yet you’re telling everyone you have a book deal. Why?”
“This is outrageous,” Dylan Kelly said. “It’s an ongoing negotiation.”
“Because your story wasn’t . . . What was it?” Macdara looked up as if he was struggling to remember. “Relevant enough.”
“My, my,” Siobhán said. “They wanted something more contemporary?”
“And dramatic,” Macdara said. “I’ve seen some of the titles they publish. I must say—they do like stories that are a little more . . . what’s the word?” He turned to Siobhán.
“Sensational?” she said.
Macdara snapped his fingers. “Sensational!” he said. “That’s it.”
Siobhán shook her head. “I bet Ellen Delaney’s murder fits into the sensational category.”
“Makes it relevant too,” Macdara said. He crossed his arms. “They’re very eager for your new pages.”
Dylan Kelly’s face turned red. “As a writer, a historian, I have a duty to write about the cottage, and it’s not like I murdered her just to write a book!”
“Really?” Siobhán said. “Because some might consider yours a very strong motive indeed.”
“Not to mention where they found your pages,” Macdara said.
Dylan’s head snapped toward them. “Where?” He sounded like he was genuinely asking.
“We can’t say,” Siobhán said. “But Garda Flannery is correct. It looks very bad for you.” She glanced across the street where Sergeant Eegan and Danny were taking a stroll. “They must think our killer has shown up for the funeral.”
“They’re going to stay very close until they solve this case,” Macdara agreed. “Breathe down the killer’s neck.”
“Breathe down everyone’s neck,” Siobhan said.
Dylan Kelly started to blink rapidly. “Those pages were stolen from me. Including that publishing letter.”
“When were they stolen?” Macdara added. Since Dylan was responding better to another male, Siobhán stepped back to let Dara continue the questioning.
“At the town hall. During one of the council meetings.”
“Before the murder?”
“Yes. Days before.”
“Take us through it.”
Dylan Kelly sighed. “Aiden Cunningham introduced me at the meeting, told me to come and say a few quick words. I took the podium for maybe ten minutes . . . it could have been more.”
As she listened to him nervously drone on, Siobhán knew it was more. “Go on,” Macdara urged.
“I didn’t notice that any pages were missing. Not right away. It wasn’t until that evening that I noticed them. My opening chapters and the letter from the publisher gone.” Siobhán noted he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word “rejection.” “I thought maybe . . . I thought someone was playing a trick on me.”
He thought it was a fairy. He wouldn’t say it, but Siobhán could see that was what he was thinking.
“If someone stole your rejection letter, it’s reasonable to assume they did so to blackmail you,” Siobhán said.
“Anyone been blackmailing you?” Macdara added.
Dylan Kelly swallowed. “Everyone is jealous when you have a book coming out.”
“Unless it turns out you don’t really have a book coming out.”
“They won’t reject this draft,” he said passionately.
“Because of the murder,” Siobhán said.
He swallowed again. “If you’re not the killer,” Macdara said, moving in closer, “do you think the killer might be threatened by the thought of a book being written about the murder?”
“How could the killer not be threatened?” Siobhán said. “He or she definitely wanted to get his or her hands on the manuscript.”
“Why would they want to do that?” Dylan stammered.
“To make sure there wasn’t anything in the book that reveals the killer’s identity.”
“There’s not! I’m certain there’s not.”
“You don’t mention any names in the book?” Macdara challenged.
“You’re trying to scare me,” Dylan Kelly said. That was true. It was also working. His upper lip was covered in little beads of sweat. “Aiden Cunningham,” he croaked out. “The councilman stole my pages.”