YOU IDIOT. I knew it was you.”
“You mean, the toad in the steam bath?”
“Who else would pull a stunt like that?”
Toby grinned and spread some marmalade on his toast. The rain, which had held off for most of the week, had come down heavily during the night. Outside it was gray and everything was dripping.
“So, tell me what you thought of the club,” Toby pursued. He took a sip of his coffee. “Would you go to one again, just for fun?”
“By myself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He knew I was teasing.
“With you?”
“Of course with me.”
I reflected for a moment. “Well, seeing you naked in a roomful of your peers was educational.” I paused. “You held up pretty well.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But if you’re thinking of adding swinging to our repertoire, forget it. I’m not excited about sharing you—or being shared.”
Toby actually looked relieved.
“And I’d never consider going by myself. Tell you what, though. If I ever change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I should hope so,” said Toby. “If I were the second to know, it would already be too late.” He rose, leaned over the table, and pecked me on the cheek. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“I want to see Aunt Laura again, to follow up on what I learned last night. But I think it’s best if I go by myself. What do you think?” Toby nodded, waved, and went off to his shower, leaving me to do the dishes.
While cleaning up, I considered what I had learned at the Achill Arms. Island gossip said that Laura and Frank Hickey were lovers, and I could believe it. Frank wasn’t my idea of a match, but he was attractive. Anyone could see that. Nonetheless, at this point the affair was only gossip. What’s more, an affair didn’t prove that Laura and Frank had conspired to murder Bert. Still, I had to pursue every possibility in hopes of exonerating Mom.
It was too early to call on Laura, so I decided to stop at the Deserted Village on the way. If there was no one supervising the crime scene, I would mount the hill and take a look. I wanted to remember exactly how Bert lay within the ruined cottage.
As I approached the village, my eyes went to the tented ruin, standing white and geometric, surrounded by the remains of other houses, half-destroyed by weather and time. I tramped up the hill, over wet grass, losing my resolve with each step. I was loath to confront the memory of Bert’s body.
In the end, the site gave me no data. The officials had tented the scene so thoroughly that I couldn’t make out what I had come to see: the size of the room where Bert had fallen, how close his body was to each wall, how much room the killer would have needed to fell Bert with a blow to the head.
Yet that moment did give me something. My mind made a projection screen of the white sheet before me. I saw Frank Hickey standing at Bert’s back, raising a ragged rock and crashing it onto his partner’s head. That was completely plausible. I imagined Laura sitting at home, erect on her couch, with hands folded, waiting for word that the evil deed had been done. Though it didn’t come as naturally, I tried to transform the picture so that it featured Laura, rawboned Laura, bringing the rock down on her husband’s skull. I realized she wasn’t tall enough to have hit him while he stood. He would have to be bent over or already knocked to the ground. But it could have been done, perhaps by herself alone or perhaps with Frank’s assistance.
What about Declan O’Leary? Yes, I could picture him killing Bert with a stone, but it seemed a stretch to believe that he would murder Frank just to obtain a painting.
As for Michael O’Hara or one of his crew, there would be no trouble downing the older and less active man. One stroke, and the environmentalists would have had their victory.
But Mom? She was a healthy woman, with the sort of strength built by housework and moving boxes at the store. I had to admit she was stronger than Laura, as well as several inches taller. She might be as fit as Frank Hickey, for that matter. But I couldn’t imagine her striking anyone from behind. She would confront her opponent face to face, I was sure.
That was all I could glean from my stop at the Deserted Village, so I picked my way down the slippery hill and followed the lane to my aunt’s door. She was the one who answered my knock. Her ravaged face hinted that she was grieving over two men. I scotched my prepared script and took a few minutes to take off my muddy shoes and talk about the rain. That done, I offered condolences regarding her husband’s partner. The graciousness of Laura’s response surprised me. She offered me tea and took me to the kitchen to make it. There was no false ceremony, just the homely movements of two women brewing a cuppa with tea bags in mugs. I carried the mugs into the living room, and she brought a plate of store-bought cookies. We were set up for a talk, not an interrogation. I thought I had better let her lead the way.
“You and Toby are the ones who found Frank, I heard,” she said in a hoarse voice.
That was my cue to tell the story, omitting ugly details and softening the rest. She knew less about our discovery of Frank’s body than I expected, but that made sense. She wasn’t next of kin—the officials wouldn’t have felt obliged to give her the details.
“He was a lovely man,” she said wistfully, with her eyes cast down. The tension in her face relaxed, as if those simple words gave her solace. She spoke of Frank warmly, and she hadn’t spoken of her husband at all. That said something.
I watched her pick up her mug in both hands, as if to steady herself. She looked up and said, “Thank you for coming, Nora. Your parents were here last night. You’ve been so kind, all of you. After all these wasted years.” She said she was sorry that our families had become estranged. As a consequence, Emily hadn’t had Angie and me as friends while she was growing up. Seeing Emily alone in her sorrow, with her cousins so close to hand, made Laura realize what her daughter had missed. It hardly seemed to me that Laura was at fault here, and I said so. As far as I could tell, it was Bert who had alienated our family.
“I could have set it right,” she protested. “I never questioned Bert’s version of things.”
I waited for her to explain, but she stayed silent, shaking her head, with eyes half-closed. To cover for the awkward moment, I stood up and went to the window, hoping to find something to say about the front garden or the weather. With a remark in mind, I turned back toward Laura, and my eye caught something gold behind the antique cupboard by the window. The edge of a frame, I guessed. I couldn’t help asking about it. “Aunt Laura, is that a picture frame behind the cupboard?”
Her lashes fluttered and she leaned back slightly before saying, “Yes, actually. I’ve put it there for safekeeping.”
I remembered the last time I had heard that phrase. It was in connection with a valuable painting by Paul Henry. “I’d love to see it. May I pull it out? I’ll be careful.” I had my hand on the frame before she could reply.
It was wedged in more tightly than it should have been for safekeeping. I had to get my hand in under the bottom of the frame and support it while I moved it around until I found the exact position from which to retrieve it safely. Then there it was, the painting I had seen on Frank’s phone. It was a wonderful work. The photo hadn’t conveyed the subtle tones of the mist-bleached sky, nor the variegations of green and purple in the mountains rising from the waters of a still, slate bay. The realism of that natural background differed stylistically from the impressionist strokes that rendered thatched cottages in the foreground. Yet some artistic force held the elements in tension. There was no mistaking Paul Henry’s unique touch.
So while the guards were questioning Declan O’Leary about the painting, it was here in Aunt Laura’s house, more or less hidden in plain sight.
Laura broke the silence. “Emily bought that, last year, for the hotel.”
“Oh? I heard that Uncle Bert bought it, at an auction in Dublin.”
She sniffed. “He probably did the bidding. He was good at that sort of thing, you know—bluffing and pouncing—but it was Emily who found the painting.”
I carried it over to Laura and placed it on a chair, so we both could see it.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Was it hung in this room?”
“It was in Bert’s study, but when we went home for the winter he asked Frank to hold it. The islanders know the value of a Paul Henry. Why tempt them to robbery?”
That was pretty much what Frank had said, but it didn’t explain how the painting had ended up here. I gave a warning: “The gardai are looking for it and they think it might be connected with Frank’s death.”
“If you’re thinking I killed Frank to get that painting, it’s the last thing I’d do. Frank was my only friend on the island.”
I decided to be blunt. “He was more than a friend, wasn’t he?”
Laura looked at the floor and then at me. She sighed. “And what if he was?” She held my glance and spoke matter-of-factly, with no hint of embarrassment. “We were both taken in by Bert, and it was a way to get even with him. So, yes, he was more than a friend. I suppose that will all come out now. But it wasn’t a serious relationship. Frank had other women, and I knew that.”
The direct manner in which she admitted the affair suggested she was telling the truth. If so, there was no great ardor on either Frank’s side or hers. So much for my “crime of passion” theory.
“Frank was a friend,” she continued, “but family comes first. I wanted the painting for Emily, and I was afraid he wouldn’t give it up.”
“How could he refuse? It belonged to Bert and Emily, didn’t it? They bought it.”
“In the name of the syndicate. God knows what else is tied up in the name of the syndicate. But that’s another story. The painting is one item I could secure for us, for Emily.” As she spoke her daughter’s name, her voice softened, but it hardened again as she continued. “There’s a legal battle ahead, about who owns what and who owes what. Well, possession’s nine-tenths of the law. I wanted that painting in our house, not in Frank’s.”
“But when did you take the painting? We were on the way to see it at Frank’s house when we found his body.”
“If I’d known you were going to visit him, I’d have stayed away. I knew that Frank was going to Kildownet that morning, to look at the mass graves. He had this idea that if we did something to honor the dead who were brought home on the death trains it would win goodwill for the project. But we couldn’t just duplicate the memorials at the graveyard, so he wanted to take photos of what’s there, and that’s what he was doing that morning. I drove to his house quite early and parked beyond his drive, so I could see when he left. I was in and out quickly.”
If that was true, it meant that Laura had an alibi for Frank’s death. She was at his house to take the painting while he was at Kildownet struggling for his life. She looked at the painting and then made a dismissive wave. “Put it back where it was,” she said.
While I carefully slid the painting into its tight slot, she added, “Keep this to yourself, Nora. I want to take the painting with me when we bring Bert’s body home. For Emily. You understand.”
“I understand, but you need to tell the guards that you have it. They think it’s been stolen and they’re questioning people about it.” I thought of Declan going through a grilling. “It would be better to tell them you have the painting than for them to find it here.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. For the next few minutes we sat in silence together. A clock chimed in the next room and I heard its seconds ticking loudly. Sitting across from Laura, I found it harder to picture her as a killer or conspirator.
Our quiet moment was broken by the sound of the front door opening. I expected to see Emily, but I didn’t expect to see her with my mother. They were whispering, and when they saw me, they exchanged cautionary glances. What were they up to? Aunt Laura must have been wondering the same thing. She seemed uncomfortable at seeing them together.
After a few minutes of sober talk about Frank’s death, Mom and I left. In the car, we pecked at each other. “Come on, Mom,” I said. “You didn’t meet Emily by accident.” She kept her eyes on the road. I wasn’t deterred. “What have you two got to discuss so privately?”
“Privacy is sometimes a good idea, Nora. You don’t have to know everything about everyone else’s business.”
“Mom! We’ve had two murders, and Dad’s brother is one of the victims. You’re a suspect. You can’t be hiding stuff from your family now. We’re the ones who want to help you. Why can’t you see that?”
Right then we were nearly run into the ditch by a van rounding a curve at full speed. Flustered, as she should be, Mom proceeded slowly until the first turnout, where she pulled over and stopped the engine. “Okay, Nora,” she said, with the menacing tone that goes with her witch face. “Are you satisfied? You almost got us killed.”
Mustering the courage I didn’t have as a child, I faced her down. I said, “I’m sorry, but life is going to be dangerous until the truth comes out.”
“What truth? What does it matter to you why I met with Emily?” She looked toward me. She was scowling, but her mouth was trembling slightly. “All right,” she said, “the truth is, I feel sorry for the girl. For Laura too.”
“You never were before.”
Mom looked pained. “A tragedy can bring a family closer, Nora.”
“Well, sure, we feel sorry for them, but that can’t magically erase the fact that they’ve looked down on us for decades, can it? You think we’re going to be best buddies after the funeral?”
“We could try to be civil,” she said, “knowing what we now know, and being free of Bert’s lies.”
I was puzzled by Mom’s change of heart about Aunt Laura. I wondered if there was some explanation other than the shibboleth that tragedy brings a family closer together. I decided to share with her what I had just learned. “Mom, did you know that Aunt Laura was having an affair? She told me so. With Frank Hickey.”
Mom turned her gaze back to the windshield. Her breathing became audible, as if she were struggling to suppress something. Then she said, “I’m not surprised to hear it. If ever a woman was ripe for an affair, she was.”
We both let that sit—I, wondering exactly what she meant; she, weighing the implications of what she had said. Finally, she asked, “What about the police? Do they know about Laura and Frank?”
“If they don’t now, they will soon. I heard about it from a local guy, practically a stranger.”
“Jesus!” she whispered. She lowered her head over the steering wheel. Then she said, “That’s going to make Frank a suspect in Bert’s murder.” She turned only slightly, to check my reaction.
“It’s a possibility,” I said.
Mom squinted through the windshield, raising her head. “It’s in the hands of the police now. Leave it to them.” She started the engine.
For a few minutes, listening to Mom talk about the investigation as if she were a disinterested observer, I was able to put aside my fear that she herself was culpable—until we pulled up in front of our cottages and found two white garda vehicles parked in the driveway.
As we entered Mom’s cottage, Inspector O’Donnell and Sergeant Flynn rose politely from the kitchen table, around which were seated Toby, Dad, and Angie. “Good timing,” observed O’Donnell. “We’ve only just arrived ourselves.”
“They got here ten minutes ago,” Dad added with a scowl, looking put out by the intrusion.
“They have a warrant to search through our belongings,” said Toby.
“Looking for what?” Mom demanded, the color rising in her face.
“Our tech team discovered fibers at the crime scene that we are trying to match with articles of clothing,” explained O’Donnell. “They were found on Mr. Barnes’s body but didn’t come from any of the things he was wearing, so they must have come from someone who came into contact with him.” He lifted a plastic evidence bag and displayed it by walking around the table and then approaching Mom and me. “There are several different fibers,” he continued, shaking the bag gently. “Cotton, rayon, and wool. They come from different articles of clothing, and they may have come from more than one person. Or not.” He addressed his last comment to my mother. “So, if you don’t mind, we’d like to have a quick look through your closets and bureaus to check for any item of clothing that could be of interest.”
“And what if we do mind?” asked Dad.
“I’m afraid it’s not up to you, sir,” said Sergeant Flynn, tapping a folded document on his hand.
“They have a warrant,” Toby repeated.
“It’s best if you cooperate,” said the sergeant. “We’ll try to be careful and leave things as we found them.” He and O’Donnell pulled on thin latex gloves.
“Go right ahead, then,” Mom said, with a shrug. “We have nothing to hide. Angie, how about a pot of tea while these officers do their work?”
Angie got up and set about making the tea while the detectives went off to the bedrooms. Heat washed over me, and I pulled at my sweater’s sleeves, to cool myself off. Fibers, I muttered to myself. If Mom had lost a button from her sweater at the scene, it was more than likely a thread had come off too. Now the detectives had recovered the thread, and it was only a matter of time until they matched it with her sweater. My effort to shield Mom by concealing the button had been in vain. I could feel my heart pumping me into a panic. My eyes darted around the room and met Toby’s. He glanced nervously at my parents’ bedroom door. Mom, however, seemed confident and calm as she went about setting the table for tea. From Angie’s room, we heard the sounds of bureau drawers opening and closing. About a quarter of an hour passed.
“Nothing here,” announced the sergeant as he emerged from Angie’s room and crossed the hallway to my parents’ bedroom, where the inspector was doing the search. Dad looked sour. Toby feigned indifference. Angie and Mom fussed with the tea. And I stared at the floor, trying to hide my anxious thoughts. The last time I had seen the sweater, it was hanging on a hook inside the door of my parents’ bathroom. Mom hadn’t worn it since. Had she gotten rid of it? That was a possibility. Or maybe it was hanging in her closet or folded in a drawer. I listened to the sounds of rifling from the bedroom. I hoped she had gotten rid of it. Then it occurred to me that Mom’s sweater wasn’t the only item of clothing that could implicate her. According to O’Donnell, multiple fibers had been found at the crime scene, not only wool threads. What if fibers from a different article of Mom’s clothes could be matched with those in the evidence bag? She must have been wearing a blouse under her sweater and probably cotton pants. It wasn’t just the matter of a button; she was in double, maybe triple jeopardy. My heart sank as my belief that she was innocent and someone else guilty slipped away.
Mom poured the tea. I stirred an extra sugar into mine. Dad asked, “Where have you been all day?”
“At Laura’s,” Mom replied, which was partly true.
“You missed a call from Sister Bridget,” Dad told us. Bridget had been at a week-long retreat following her Jubilee celebration and had just learned of the events on Achill Island. “She’s coming up tomorrow to be with the family.”
“It will be good to see her,” said Angie. “It’s too bad she can’t come today. She’ll miss my performance tonight.” The production of The Playboy of the Western World, in which Angie had a minor part, was scheduled for that evening. We all were going. Despite the death of Uncle Bert, we were determined to root for her.
“I expect she’ll be a help to us,” said Dad.
I thought so too. “Where will she stay?”
“At a B&B in Keel,” said Dad. “It’s run by one of her friends.”
Sister Bridget had friends all over the island. We were here because of her recommendation—unlucky though it had proven to be.
We sipped our tea quietly. The only sounds were the clinks of spoons on saucers.
“All right, we’re done here,” announced Inspector O’Donnell from the hall to the bedrooms. As an afterthought he added, “Sergeant, will you show Mrs. Barnes what you found?”
“Aye,” came the reply. Sergeant Flynn emerged, carrying one of Mom’s old pullovers—it wasn’t the cardigan with the missing button but a different sweater. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. “I don’t think this is going to be a match a-tall,” he said as if to reassure us, “but we’ll just take it with us and run a few tests. I’ll write you a receipt and you’ll have it back soon enough.”
“This is ridiculous!” Dad stood up from the table.
Mom forestalled him. “You do what you have to, Sergeant. I guess I can get by without it for a day.”
“Thanks for your cooperation, missus,” he said, folding the sweater into a large plastic evidence bag. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” They made ready to leave. Well, I said to myself, they still don’t know about the missing button. And Mom doesn’t seem at all disturbed about the pullover. So that’s good.
Then the inspector said, “May I have a brief word with you?” motioning me to step outside.
Now what? He followed me out the door.
“It’s about Michael O’Hara. It looks like you were on to something when you spotted those bread crumbs on his shirt. The pathologist confirmed an undigested mass of soda bread in Frank Hickey’s esophagus. He could well have been asphyxiated by someone forcing bread down his throat, and O’Hara’s a likely suspect. The thing is, he did a runner when we came to arrest him. Like as not, he was tipped off. Word travels quickly on this island. And if that’s the case, O’Hara could be aware that you’re the primary witness against him, so have a care. He’s at large and dangerous. We’ll find him all right, but until we do, keep an eye out and give us a call if you catch sight of him, will you? Here’s my mobile number, in case you’ve misplaced it.”
The inspector handed me his card. I nodded. As they got into their cars and left, my nodding turned into general shaking. I was scared as hell. Toby, who had come outside at the sound of the departing cars, folded me in his arms and patted my back. I felt like a baby being burped—and that thought shook me back to adulthood. We agreed not to tell Mom and Dad about the warning, to keep them from worrying about me.
Back inside, Mom was attempting to placate Dad, who still had his dander up about the house search. She reminded him that we were all going to the play tonight to support Angie and that we should try to get into the right frame of mind to enjoy the show. A little later, Bobby Colman came by to pick up Angie for the final run-through. Mom announced she would take a nap before dinner. Dad went too. Toby and I returned to our cottage, and while he read, I slept fitfully on the couch. I woke with an ache in my jaw. I must have been clenching my teeth.