Murder at the Monks' Table (16 page)

 

Garda Liam O'Dea caught a glimpse of Paul Glynn's hackney passing the Monks' Table. The two American nuns were on board, sitting just as proper as you please in the backseat.

What are they up to now?
he wondered, watching the car turn down a lane. Could they be on their way to Jake Powers's studio? It was off that lane, but so were dozens of other homes.

“Garda, can you give me a minute?” One of the men from the Dublin Technical Bureau interrupted his thoughts, and it was just as well.

Those two nuns had been on his mind all morning. If the truth be told, they had been on his mind all last night as well. Ever since that one with the slippy spectacles had dropped her bomb about Carmel's mother and Owen Lynch.

He had tossed and turned most of the night, unable, at first, to fall off to sleep. When he did, he had dreamed about those two old gals looking on as Carmel's brothers chased him, threatening to break his head if he dared to say a word.

Detective Inspector Ernie White's brown eyes pinned him like a specimen to a tack card, insisting that he tell all he knew. The beautiful Carmel, her bright blue eyes pleading with him, faded in and out, while Auntie Zoë and her scissor lips clipped away at him.

In the distance, his death bell rang out. He struggled to get away from the sound, which fortunately turned out to be only his cell phone playing a tune.

Detective Inspector Brian Reedy was on the horn to remind him that the forensic team from Dublin would be at the Monks' Table early. As if he could forget!

For several minutes, Liam stared into the bathroom mirror. The face that stared back at him was the color of pale cheese, and there were small dark circles under both of his eyes.

Squinting, he spotted a few gray hairs sprouting from his thick sandy mop. He could swear that they had not been there
when he went to bed. Dread slid down his back like a chill. He had to tell White, and the sooner the better. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't keep what he knew to himself.

Liam pulled up in front of the Monks' Table about the same time the team from Dublin arrived. After shaking hands all around, they went to work immediately.

“These lads are all business,” Reedy said, raising his eyebrows at Liam. “The Monks' Table should be able to reopen by this evening or tomorrow at the latest.”

The publican, Hugh Ryan, standing not too far away, looked anxious. “But will anyone come?” he asked. “Might they be afraid, with a murderer on the loose?”

“Not to worry, Hugh, me boyo,” Reedy assured him. “We'll have the murderer caught soon, as well.”

Liam felt his mouth twitch with tension. His cheeks burned as he visualized Oonagh Cox being led away in chains.

Inside the pub, cold and damp from being closed, cameras flashed while men and women dusted and searched and generally went about the complicated business of trying to uncover clues.

All the while, Liam watched with a pain in his stomach, knowing full well that he might be sitting on the biggest clue of all.

For the next few hours, everyone including the two detective inspectors was so caught up in what was going on that there seemed no time for a decent chat. Each time Liam thought he could buttonhole Detective Inspector White, someone or something interrupted him.

Finally the technical bureau began to wind down. Carefully they packed up everything and readied to leave.

“We'll have the results to you very soon, indeed,” the man in charge said. Then, making a U-turn on the main street, the team departed for Dublin. With a sinking feeling, Liam watched them go.

Inside the pub looked almost deserted with just the two detectives, a few of the local gardai, Hugh Ryan, and himself. A wind off the Atlantic caught the end of the tape that had cordoned off the murder scene and slapped it against the building.

“Will one of you lads take that bloody tape down?” White shouted.

Which is not a bit like him, Liam thought, frozen in his spot while the others rushed to the door.

“It hardly takes four men to take down a tape, now does it?” White asked, giving Reedy a desperate look.

“You most likely scared them to death with your bellowing,” Reedy said. “What seems to be bothering you, Ernie? What's happened?”

White ran his fingers through his dark hair and perched himself on a bar stool. He looked exhausted.
Maybe he isn't sleeping too well either,
Liam thought.

“Would you believe that I got a message from the commissioner himself? He heard complaints from some of the locals that this murder has put a damper on their bloody Oyster Festival. To hear him tell it, you'd think we murdered the poor blighter ourselves.” He stared at the ceiling. “We are missing something, Brian,” he said at last. “For one thing, that costume couldn't have just disappeared. We need to start over. Requestion everyone. Someone saw something or heard something. Maybe they'll remember it now. Maybe there was something they forgot to mention. That happens.”

Liam's shirt collar squeezed his neck until he could scarcely catch his breath.

White checked his wristwatch. “It's time to go home, lads,” he said to the gardai who had just reentered the pub. “All ye get a decent night's rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow.”

The place emptied. “Before he changes his mind,” one wag said aloud.

His mouth dry, Liam lagged behind the rest, waiting for just the right moment to inform his superior about what the old nun had told him.

“What is it, Liam?” White eyed him. “Don't tell me you don't want to go. I hear they are having a lovely barbeque tonight.”

“Sir.” Liam cleared his throat. Now was no time to lose his voice or, heaven help him, stutter. Avoiding his superior's eyes he said, “May I have a word?”

“You can have a dozen words, son,” White said, “if they will help solve this case.”

All at once a vision of tiny Oonagh Cox behind bars in a cold prison cell flooded Liam's mind. His stomach cramped. What if the American nun was wrong about what she had heard? Wouldn't it be the better thing for him to check on it himself?

And then there was Owen Lynch, the chairman of the Oyster Festival. If the locals were complaining now about a damper on their festival, how would the arrest of their chairman set? Liam bit his lip, wondering what he should do.

A ragged ring of a cell phone broke the flat silence. “What now?” White grumbled, digging in the pocket of his rumpled jacket. “Will they give a man no peace? White, here,” he barked into the phone.

When Liam dared to look up, White's face was crimson. Liam feared for a minute that he was having a stroke. What do you do when someone is having a stroke? Frantically he searched his memory. All that came to him was to call an ambulance, which was probably the best thing he could do anyway.

“Bad news?” Reedy asked when White snapped the phone shut.

White shook his head. “Not really, Brian, but not good news either. It seems as if the knife that killed our Willie was a common kitchen knife. It could have come out of anyone's kitchen drawer.”

Liam felt his face flush.
Even the Coxes',
he thought.

“Sorry, Liam. You wanted a word?” White said, but his mind seemed far away.

“Sir.” Liam could hear his voice quivering. “It's nothing really. It can wait.”

“He probably wants a day off,” Reedy joked.

“There'll be no days off until this is solved.” White wagged his head as though he were dog-tired.

“I need a cuppa tea,” he said to Hugh Ryan, who hadn't moved from behind the bar all day.

“A drop of anything stronger?” Ryan asked.

“Not yet. I still have some work to do. Garda.” He turned to Liam, who was trying to look invisible and hoping to slip away unnoticed.

“Will you tell those two Americans that I'd like a word?”

Quickly Liam told his superior that earlier he'd seen their car go down the lane.

“You don't miss much, do you, lad?” White's dark eyes focused on him.

Not knowing what to reply, Liam tried not to squirm.

“The moment you spot Paul Glynn's automobile, stop him and tell him to take those two nuns home. Then, let me know and I'll meet them there.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam said smartly.

“What are you thinking, Ernie?” Reedy asked.

“As I said, I think I'd be wise to question everyone again. I'll start with the American Sister first. She did find the body, didn't she? Maybe she'll remember something she forgot to mention the first time around. Then, I need to question anyone else who came in contact with the victim that day.”

“That's a lot of folks,” Reedy said, and then he laughed. “I've a marvelous grasp of the obvious,” he said.

White didn't seem to hear his partner. “Somebody must
know something,” White said. “In a village this size, it's hard, near impossible, to keep a secret. Let's hope, this time around, we'll stumble onto something.”

The blood pounded in Liam's ears and he felt his face grow hot.
Somebody knows a secret, all right,
he thought,
and sooner or later it's got to come out.
Oh, how he wished he'd never gone to Rafferty's Rest at all.

 

 

Sister Mary Helen was a little surprised when Paul pulled up near a brightly painted wooden caravan, the horse-drawn kind that is featured in all the tourist souvenir shops.

“Surely Jake doesn't live here,” she said, knocking on the side of the flower-painted wagon. All she heard was a hollow sound.

“No, indeed.” Paul pointed to a small modern house with large picture windows built just behind it. “As it happens,” he said, “Jake lives there. The caravan is just for show. I doubt if he could even move the thing.

“Shall I wait for you here?” Paul asked, making no effort to get out of his car.

“We shouldn't be long,” Mary Helen assured him, but their driver had already leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Making their way around the caravan, the two nuns approached the front door. They were about to knock when it swung open and Jake stood in the threshold. With his hair uncombed, the stubble of a beard on his chin, and rumpled clothes, he looked for all the world as if he had just rolled out of bed. Yet his blue eyes shone brightly, too brightly, almost as if he had a fever.

“So, you did come,” he said in a near growl. “I thought for certain that you'd be afraid to come to the house of a murderer.”

Narrowing his eyes, he peered out at Paul. “I see you've
brought along a bodyguard. Lot of good he'll do you fast asleep.”

Mary Helen frowned. What on earth had gotten into the man? She thought they had made it abundantly clear at the hotel last night that they had no reason to think he was the murderer.

“So, do you want to come in or don't you?”

“We do,” she managed to say.

“So you're not afraid?'

“Not at all,” Mary Helen said.

“Not afraid of the man who might have killed Willie Ward?”

Mary Helen shook her head. The poor fellow didn't seem to be able to get off the subject.

“Well, are you coming in or aren't you?” he nearly shouted.

“If we are disturbing you,” Eileen put in quickly, “we can come back another time. Maybe we should call before we come.”

“Not a'tall,” Jake said, and his anger seemed to melt as suddenly as it had come. He stepped back to let them in. “What time is it?” He glanced at an ornate grandfather clock against the wall in his front parlor. “Half three. I've been up all night working in my darkroom. I just realized I was hungry. You'll have a cup of tea? Or maybe something a little stronger? And a bite to eat?”

“Please don't go to any trouble for us,” Eileen said. “We won't be staying long. As we told you last night, my friend is interested in your photographs.”

“The tea is brewing and I've something already on a plate. Come in and sit.”

Obediently the two nuns sat on the sofa he pointed out in the parlor

“Well, if you're having something yourself,” Eileen said.

“Indeed.” Jake left the room and quickly reappeared with a
tray containing a pot of tea, cups, cream and sugar, and plates of small sandwiches and assorted cookies.

“I've a woman who does for me,” he said, setting the tray on a low coffee table next to a burning candle. The fresh woodsy scent filled the small room.

“She does for you quite well,” Mary Helen said, biting into a delicious salad sandwich.

“As well she might,” Jake said. “I pay her a king's ransom just to come in.”

Mary Helen stiffened. His voice was becoming strident again.

“God knows what she'll ask for now that I'm not only a tinker, but a suspected murderer.” His eyes were blazing now as they locked on the two nuns. He stared at them as if he expected them to cower.

Mary Helen felt her cheeks grow warm as her own temper rose. Who did this man think he was, anyway? It would take more than a stare and a few hot words to cow her. If he wanted to talk about murder, she'd talk. “What exactly were you angry with Willie Ward about?” she asked bluntly.