Chapter 31
Siobhán returned to Molly’s Café. She scrutinized the paintings along the wall one by one. When she reached the end of the first wall, dust marked the edges of the empty space. A painting had been removed.
Molly was wiping down tables. “Excuse me,” Siobhán called to her.
Molly smiled as she recognized Siobhán, drying her hands on her apron as she approached. “How can I help you?”
“I thought none of these paintings could leave the shop until the end of the month.”
“That’s correct. You can still purchase one, luv, but it will have to hang here a few more days.”
Siobhán pointed to the empty space on the wall. “So where is this one?”
Molly stared at the spot, then held her finger up and headed for the counter. She reached underneath and pulled out a notebook. She thumbed through it. “Number eleven. Deadly Herbs. It was a painting of Jane Delaney’s garden.” She gasped. “You don’t think?”
“When is the last time you remember seeing it here?”
“I couldn’t be sure. I’m so used to them, I don’t look anymore.”
“What about CCTV?”
“I believe I mentioned before that we don’t bother with that here, luv. I think the ones on the street are aimed mostly at the bank and the betting shop. There’s not much to steal here except the sugar.”
“Was the painting sold?”
Molly ran her finger down the notebook. “No.” She clenched her fists. “First that note, now this. I guess I haven’t been paying enough attention.” She sighed. “I hope Annabel won’t hold me responsible.”
Siobhán wanted to reassure her that Annabel wouldn’t do that, but the more she learned about the folks in this village, the less she was sure of anything.
“Who painted it?”
Molly glanced at the notebook, then at Siobhán. “That’s the other funny bit.”
“Go on.”
She turned the notebook facing outward. “It was the only one without a signature.”
* * *
Siobhán pounded on the door to Annabel’s studio. It took three more goes at it before Annabel came to the door, her blond hair sticking to her face with a drop of paint, a brush in her hand.
“Garda O’Sullivan,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m working.”
“This is urgent. May I come in?”
Annabel looked as if she wanted anything but, yet she finally relented and allowed Siobhán to enter.
“There’s a painting missing from Molly’s Café.”
“Missing?”
“Unless you took one back?”
“No. Sales aren’t supposed to go to the owners until the exhibit is down.”
“I need to know who painted it. The title was Deadly Herbs.”
Annabel scoffed. “That’s the one they stole?”
“Who painted it?”
She hesitated. “I did.”
“You?”
“Is there a problem?”
“You painted the wolfsbane in the Delaney garden?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the poison that killed Ellen Delaney.”
Annabel gasped. “I had no idea.”
“Why did you paint it?”
“It was Ellen’s idea to paint her garden. I often took the group outside to paint. Nothing sinister about it.”
“Did anyone from the group comment on it?”
“Not that I remember.” She frowned. “We were interrupted that session.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joe’s children. He and the missus stopped by for Geraldine and they were running amuck. That was it. His wee one tried to pick the wolfsbane.”
“The girl or the boy?”
“Lilly. The wee girl.”
“Then what?”
“I lightly scolded her that she shouldn’t pick them.”
“Did you tell her they were poison?”
“I didn’t. But Ellen did.” Annabel covered her mouth. “She went into great detail. How the roots when ground up could kill you.” The mean schoolteacher strikes again.
“Are you positive?”
“Yes, it was quite the scene. The poor ting started wailing at the top of her lungs. That’s when Mary Madigan lit into her for scaring Lilly half to death.”
“What’s going on?” The voice was male, and came from behind Annabel. She stepped aside to reveal Danny MacGregor standing in the shadows. “Siobhán. What are you doing here?”
“One of her paintings was stolen from Molly’s Café,” Siobhán said. “I just wanted to let her know.”
“Which one?” Danny asked.
“The murder weapon,” Siobhán said. Just then, her mobile and Danny’s went off at the same time.
“Uh-oh,” Annabel said.
Hers was a text from Macdara. Trouble at the inn.
“The inn?” Danny asked, holding up his mobile. She nodded. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
* * *
Siobhán’s heart leapt in her throat as they pulled up to the inn and she took in the garda cars and folks gathered on the footpath. Where were her siblings? She started to run. It was then, as she drew closer, that she saw the main window of the inn had been smashed. Soon she saw her brood, huddled together. She headed for them. “What happened?”
“Someone threw a rock through the window.”
“A rock?”
Gráinne pulled up her mobile, scrolled through, then turned the screen to Siobhán. On it was the photograph of a rock lying on the floor of the inn. Painted on the rock in red letters it said: “BELIEVE.”
“You!” Siobhán turned to find the front desk clerk glaring at her. “This is all your fault,” he announced, shaking his fist.
“Why do you say that?”
“It was that seanchaí. I caught him running away. He was shouting, ‘Tell the redhead girl she’s after me!’ ”
Siobhán pointed to herself. “I’m after him?”
The clerk frowned. “Why would he want me to tell you, that you’re after him, like?”
“I’m just trying to clarify.” She’s after me. Who? Geraldine? Or had Danny started in on Eddie after their talk? Did Eddie think Siobhán was going after him?
“Calm down.” The directive came from Macdara, who had snuck up behind them, putting Siobhán’s heart in her crossways.
“Eddie Doolan did this?”
“He’s mental,” the clerk insisted. “Standing in front of me, shouting.”
“What was he shouting?”
“I just told you twice. Do I need to make it tree times?” He was clearly incensed. “Then he throws a rock through me window!”
“Did he say anything else? Anything about where to find him?”
The clerk sighed. “Something about back where it all began.”
Siobhán turned to Macdara. “I know where he’s going.”
“You’re not going alone.” He glanced at the guards. “Do you want to tell Danny?”
She shook her head. “Let’s check it out first.”
He nodded. “Let me get Mam and your ones sorted first.”
“Ask James to stay with them.”
* * *
“Why do you think he’s out here?” Macdara asked as they traversed the meadow on their way to Ellen’s campsite.
“Back where it all began,” she said.
“You get his riddles.”
“I’m working on it.” Soon they were past the hawthorn tree again, and almost on the campsite. “Look.” Ellen’s tent was positioned where she’d first found it, standing tall as if it had been recently erected. Something didn’t feel right.
Macdara shifted beside her as he eyed the tent. “The guards didn’t remove it?”
“Or someone put one back up.”
They stopped. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Macdara said.
Siobhán pulled two sets of gloves out of her pockets. “That’s why I brought these.”
They pulled the tent flap open together. Eddie Doolan lay on his back, eyes closed. A large knife protruded from his chest. Blood pooled in the middle. A piece of clothing was balled up next to him, a white lump covered in streaks of dirt. “Dear God,” Siobhán said. “I think that’s Ellen’s top. The missing one.” She crossed herself and said a little prayer. On the side of the tent, in blood, there were three tic marks and a single word:
III
RUN
“Run.” Macdara’s head snapped around. “What if that is meant for us?”
Goose bumps rose on Siobhán’s arms. It looked like the same handwriting in the sink. Both done in blood, only this time, it was way more than the blood of a mouse. Was this a trap? Someone out there, waiting for them. Not just anyone. The killer.
Siobhán searched the rugged grounds in front of them, the bushes, the trees, the rocks. Too many places one could hide. The skies were dark and the clouds nearly on top of them. In the distance the gnarled hawthorn tree stood on the hill, as if reigning over the land. “It feels like someone is watching us,” she said.
“They want us to run. So we stay still.” He put his arm out protectively as he took out his mobile and dialed 999.
“I’ll call Danny,” Siobhán said as she removed hers. Thunder rumbled overhead and soon the rain was coming down.
“The blood,” Siobhán said. “Don’t let it wash away.” She tried holding the flaps of the tent together, but the wind wrestled her for them, blowing rain into the tent.
“We can’t stay here,” Macdara said. “It could be a trap.” He felt it too, and she had learned to trust that feeling. Maybe it was nature who was watching. These beings who kept coming and going throughout time while they remained.
“Geraldine’s house is the closest,” Siobhán said. She had to shout to be heard.
“What if she’s our killer?”
“The cottage then.” The cottage was the last place she wanted to be trapped in a storm, but Macdara was right. Geraldine could have lured them here, knowing the storm was coming, hoping they’d make a run for her house. And although the two of them could certainly hold their own against the older woman, where there were two knives there was a set. If it was a trap, the killer was several steps ahead of them.
“Come on,” Macdara said, grabbing her hand, as the rain pelted its unforgiving fury. “Let’s make a run for the cottage.”
“They’ve changed the locks.”
Macdara shook his head. “I have the key. I was supposed to retrieve things for Jane.”
Finally, a little luck. They ran.
* * *
Inside the cottage they locked the doors, pulled the curtains tight. They changed out of their wet clothes and found warm ones. Macdara put on a flannel shirt and work trousers of Ellen’s that were actually loose on him, and Siobhán slipped on one of Jane’s dresses. The rain continued to beat on the roof as Siobhán made a fire and put on the kettle. Macdara was staring into the sink. Siobhán followed. The sink was free of the dead mouse but the eerie words remained.
“Jane. Tree,” he said. He turned to Siobhán, a pained look on his face. “Was I wrong? Is my cousin a killer?”
He had it wrong again. The order. Tree. Jane. Not Jane. Tree. There was a difference. This time she didn’t correct him. She ruminated on the balled-up shirt in the tent next to poor Eddie’s body. She’d seen it before. She was just about to go through it all again in her mind when Macdara interrupted her.
“Was this here before?”
Siobhán turned to find him staring at the wall of the living room above the sofa. On it hung a painting. The hooded purple flowers. Some called it friar’s cap. Other’s wolfsbane. Or aconite. But its roots, by any name, were poisonous. She moved in closer. This one had been titled: Dead Beautiful.