Chapter 24
“You know,” Macdara said, as he stood in the doorway to her bedroom and watched Siobhán pack her bag. “You don’t have to stay involved in this case.”
Siobhán stopped packing and turned around. “Do you have a fever?”
He smiled. Shook his head. “It’s summer. It’s your summer holiday.” He approached her and took her hands in his. “You said yourself, Garda MacGregor is a good guard. They have help from Cork City and Dublin. Maybe it’s not up to us to solve every murder.”
“This is personal.”
“To me. Not to you.”
“We’re engaged. Your family is my family.”
He sat on the edge of her bed. “Your family holiday consists of funerals and witness interrogations.”
Was this toxic residue left over from his mother’s tirade? Do not say it. “They were all charmed by Ballysiogdun.”
“For a few days. Are you actually dragging everyone back now?”
She clenched and unclenched her fists while counting. Never insult a man’s mother; there’s no coming back from that. “Eoin is staying to run the bistro with Bridie. James is staying—whether it’s to work or go back to mooning after Elise, I don’t know. Gráinne starts her job with Sheila. I have to take Ciarán and Ann with me.”
“You can stay here with Ciarán and Ann.”
“I can’t. I have to see this through.”
“You’ll never get this time back.”
“I’m doing the best I can.” Was she? Was lying to the man she was going to marry, a man who happened to be an excellent guard, really the best she could do? She stopped throwing clothes into her suitcase and turned to him. “Remember when you were in Kilbane with your mam and I accompanied Jeanie Brady and Jane back to the cottage?”
“Yes.” Macdara lowered himself to a chair and crossed his arms, as if knowing whatever she was about to say was best heard sitting down.
“Danny had something else to show me.” Macdara did not respond, he simply waited. “Something we missed. In the sink.” Had he blinked? It didn’t look as if he was blinking.
“Go on.”
She took a breath and filled him in on the macabre scene in the sink, the crime scene photo of the mauled mouse, the words “Jane” and “Tree” in the sink written in mouse blood, the shoe print Danny said they’d lifted from near the cottage, and the dust on the wall where Siobhán believed a painting had hung.
He stood. “Are you joking me?”
“I know. It’s bizarre.”
“You know what else is bizarre?” His voice was raised. “The amount of times we’ve seen each other since then, and you didn’t think to mention a dead mouse in me aunt’s sink!”
She went to him and took his hands. He pulled away. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been conflicted. You’re too close to the victim.”
“That didn’t stop you when your brother was accused of murder.”
He was going back over three years now. “I wasn’t a guard then. I didn’t know any better.”
“Convenient.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been eating me up. And you can be as browned off as you wish. Later. Because right now I need you.”
He rubbed his face, looked to the ceiling. “Joe Madigan mentioned dead mice on his farm.”
“Exactly. I think the killer was practicing. With wolfsbane.”
“Jane. Tree,” Macdara said.
“Tree. Jane,” Siobhán corrected.
“Does it matter?”
“I haven’t a clue. There’s more.”
“Your capacity to keep secrets is impressive.”
She placed her hand on his chest and backed him back into his chair. In a rare display of affection she plopped herself on his lap, threw her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do it again. I promise.”
“Well played,” he said, his voice low.
“You’re the best detective I know.”
“Don’t overplay your hand.”
“Honestly. Keeping secrets from you was giving me a constant pain in the head.”
“Good.”
“I think we need to find a missing painting.” She filled him in on her conversation with Jane, and how she’d given Annabel a painting of Ellen’s to hang in Molly’s Café. “Apparently your aunt went absolutely mental, stormed over to Annabel’s, and took back the painting. So where is it now?”
“I have a feeling you know where to look.”
“I need to visit Annabel.” She jumped up. “Oh!”
“What?”
“I think one of Geraldine’s walking sticks is a metal detector and the gold coin is probably from a hoard and alone it’s worth around eight hundred euro, but technically would belong to the government, and it’s my theory that Ellen found the hoard and that’s what got her killed. I think Geraldine didn’t realize that Ellen discovered it, and she was in a race to find it. That’s why she made a bet with Ellen that she couldn’t spend the night by the fairy tree. What she didn’t count on was Ellen returning to the cottage in the middle of the night. I think the two of them wrestled while Geraldine was holding the metal detector and that’s why Lilly, who was watching from her window, thought she saw dancing and pretty lights.”
Macdara’s jaw dropped. “I’ve changed me mind. You should stay out of this.”
“We both know I can’t.”
“We both know you won’t.” He sighed. “Just don’t fly too close to the sun.” He pulled her to him and kissed her.
“It’s Ireland, you eejit,” she said softly when they pulled away. “There’s hardly ever any sun.”
* * *
Siobhán entered Molly’s Café. Ann and Ciarán loved the small bistro and its friendly owner. They had a pile of books, and notebooks, and games. Despite Macdara’s lightly delivered lecture, Siobhán was enjoying her time with her youngest siblings. Yes, she had to be careful what she said and did with them in tow, but they were making the best of it. The lunch hour was over, and with the exception of an older couple reading the newspaper and drinking tea, they were the only other customers.
When Ann and Ciarán were happily eating and reading, Siobhán approached Molly. She ordered pie and tea, finding herself in grave need of creature comforts. “Would you be able to join me for a minute?”
Molly didn’t ask why. She knew who she was. She gave a nod and a smile. “I’ll be there in a moment with your pie and tea.”
Siobhán took the seat furthest from the window. She didn’t want folks knowing who she was talking to, and wondering why. Molly removed her apron, set Siobhán’s tea and pie in front of her. “Will you be wanting milk and sugar, luv?”
“Yes, please.” She probably didn’t need the sugar, not with the pie, but maybe just a pinch.
When Molly didn’t sit right away, Siobhán gave her a puzzling look.
“There’s something here for you.”
“For me?” That was odd.
Molly held up her finger. “There’s a note here for you.” She returned to the counter and when she appeared again she set down milk, sugar, and a plain envelope. “SIOBHÁN O’SULLIVAN” was typed across it.
When Siobhán didn’t make a move to pick it up, Molly pointed at it. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“’Tis. I just . . . It’s a surprise.”
Molly shrugged. “Not in a small village.” She sat across from Siobhán and eyed the envelope.
“Fair play.” Siobhán wasn’t going to open it in front of her. “I heard that Ellen used to come here with her laptop.”
“She did, yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
She smoothed her hands across the table and looked up. “Just before the murder. It was Thursday day.”
“What can you tell me about that visit?”
She was already shaking her head. “The same as it always was, so. She’d order a cup of tea and sit by the window.” She gestured to the window. “Hardly a word exchanged.”
“Did anyone else come in and speak with her?”
“I wasn’t keeping a close eye. We were busy. If I’d known she was going to be murdered I’d have paid more attention, like.”
“She was on her laptop that Thursday?”
“She was.” She squinted. “There is one thing. I don’t know if it’s important.”
“Go on.”
“She left something behind. I’ve been waiting to give it to the guards.”
“Have you called them?”
She shook her head. “I thought they’d come to see me.”
“What did she leave?”
Molly chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d better call the guards.”
“Yet you haven’t so far.”
She blinked. “It was for me. A tip.”
“Okay . . .”
“I don’t have to turn it over to the guards, do I?”
A flash of gold underneath Ellen’s bed rose in Siobhán’s mind. “A gold coin.”
Molly gasped. “How did you know?”
“Where is it now?”
“In a safe place.” She leaned in. “What is it worth?”
“Did she hand it to you?”
Again with the lip biting. “It was left by the table.”
“By the table?” She was choosing her words carefully.
“It was under the table.”
“She dropped it.”
“She never came back for it.” For a moment she looked stricken. “I just mean . . .”
“It’s okay. Either she didn’t realize she dropped it, or she meant it as a tip.”
Molly exhaled. “Thank you.”
“However . . . you must call the guards.”
“I will, of course.”
“I’m sorry. You have to do it now, or I will.”
“Did I do anything wrong?”
“You won’t be in trouble for waiting this long, if that’s what you mean. But I can’t promise you’ll get it back.”
“Is it a clue? I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been meaning to take it to the charity shop, see if yer man can appraise it.”
“I understand. But it is part of an ongoing investigation.”
The petite owner sighed, then rose and headed back to the counter. Siobhán watched her place the call. She tore open the envelope. The letter was typed, most likely on a computer:
When a guard is dating a suspect, how can they promise a fair inquiry?
* * *
Siobhán stared at the strange message. Were they talking about her and Macdara? No one here knew them and they weren’t officially on the case. Then again, someone had left this note for her, so she’d better rethink it. Besides, neither she nor Macdara was a suspect—unless someone thought otherwise. It could be a crank. Sadly, the garda tip line was often flooded with nefarious calls during murder probes. Liars, gossips, and begrudgers.
Molly returned to Siobhán’s table, wringing her hands on her apron. “The guards are sending someone now.”
“You’ve done the right thing.” From the look on her face, Molly did not agree. Siobhán held up the envelope. “Who left this for me?”
“I couldn’t tell you that. The envelope was slid under me door during the night.”
“Do you have a camera inside or outside the shop?”
“No, sorry, luv, we’ve never had the need for anything like that.”
“Has anyone ever slipped a note underneath your door before?”
“This would be the very first.”
“Have any of the locals been chatting to you about me, or this case?”
A faint trace of pink flared at her cheeks. “You know how it goes, so.”
“Right.” They were all talking about the outsiders, and the case. “Has anyone behaved out of the ordinary or said anything that struck you as odd?”
“Everything has been odd and out of the ordinary when it comes to that cottage.”
“Did you know Ellen Delaney well?”
“We all knew them, but I don’t think anyone knew them well. They’d slip in early to mass, and be the first to leave. At the farmers’ market, they were all business, didn’t seem to like the chin-wagging. They’d barely say hello to you in the shops, or the pub, and although Ellen joined the painting class, she kept to herself.”
“Why don’t you have Ellen’s paintings hanging here?”
“You’ll have to ask Annabel; she chose the paintings.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “From what I hear, Ellen Delaney refused for any of her work to be shown.” She shook her head as if that in itself was a crime. “She must have been jealous.”
Siobhán’s ears perked up. “Jealous?”
“Of Annabel’s star pupil.”
“Star pupil?”
Molly nodded. “Annabel sent her over to Geraldine’s, to butter her up, can you imagine? Gush about how much she loved Ellen’s work so that I could get one of her paintings.”
“Why was it that important?”
“Annabel liked showing off her students. It irked her that someone would refuse to participate.”
“When was this?”
Molly scrunched her face and stared off into space. Then her mouth widened. “A few days before the murder.” Her hands flew up to her mouth. “It’s still so shocking. She could have had her work admired while she was still alive. More’s the pity.”
“And who is this star pupil?”
Molly pointed to the wall, at the center painting. The rotation had changed since Siobhán had been in here previously. This one depicted a little girl kneeling by her bedside, her hands clasped in prayer. Above the bed was a window, through which a full, honey-colored moon was visible. It lit up the child’s blond hair. The painting captured innocence and magic. Siobhán knew who painted it even before she looked at the signature: Mary Madigan.
“It’s stunning,” Siobhán said. She meant it. The work didn’t look like someone with a hobby, it looked like someone with a job.
“Annabel said she’s been trying to encourage Mary to apply to Glasgow School of Art.”
Siobhán nodded. The Scottish institution was renowned. “It’s hard to imagine her having the flexibility to attend.”
Molly nodded. “That’s what Mary told Annabel. Joe Madigan doesn’t seem the type to pick up and move so his wife can study art.”
Sadly, she concurred. But it wasn’t Mary’s paintings that Siobhán was focused on. It was Ellen’s. The more elusive they were becoming, the more she was dying to see them.