Murder at the Monks' Table (25 page)

Carmel frowned and her face crumpled as if she was about to complain, but Oonagh patted her hand. “That's a good girl, now,” she said. “If you hurry, you can catch the same lift down with the Sisters,” Oonagh said.

Detective Inspector White shut the hospital room door behind Carmel. For a moment, the room seemed unnaturally quiet. “Well, well,” he said, surveying the place, “if I didn't know better, I'd think this was a florist shop.”

Oonagh sighed. “I know what you mean, Detective Inspector. Too many flowers, really. My knock on the noggin must have made the florist's day.”

“Never mind day,” Reedy said. “I'd say month.”

Quietly the three of them admired the beautiful bouquets. Outside dark clouds tumbled across the sky, dulling the sun. Deep shadows filled the corners of the room.

Oonagh cleared her throat. “This came with the last bouquet, the pale yellow roses and the maidenhair,” she said, handing the detective the small white enclosure card.

White read it, turned it over, then handed it to Reedy.

Silently, Liam stood by, wondering what in the devil was on that little card that could be so important. When Reedy kindly handed it to him, he knew.

Neither detective said anything, so Oonagh spoke up. “Those are the exact words the person who attacked me said. You remember what I told you last night?” She sounded frustrated.

“As I recall, you said that you weren't really sure to what the sender was referring,” White said softly as if he were thinking aloud.

Oonagh averted her eyes and Liam couldn't tell if she nodded or simply adjusted her head on the pillow.

As he took the card back from Liam, White's whole face brightened. “Oranmore Florist,” he said. “As soon as we have a chance, we'll give him a call. With any luck at all, the florist
will remember who ordered these flowers. Yellow roses and maidenhair, you say?”

Liam watched White take in all the bouquets around the room. “That was the only one with yellow roses?” he asked.

Liam heard the optimism in his voice.

“Maybe our murderer finally made a mistake. They all do eventually, lad,” he said, giving Liam a friendly punch on the upper arm.

“Yes, sir,” Liam said, trying not to wince. It seemed almost too simple. The murderer orders flowers in the village from a florist who most surely would recognize him, then sends a card practically giving himself away.
No murderer is that thick, is he?
Liam wondered.

From nowhere, a nurse appeared in the doorway of the room, the picture of an avenging angel in white. “Pardon,” she said softly, “but it is time for Mrs. Cox's medication.” She held a small tray in front of her like a battering ram.

“We'll be on our way, then,” White said, taking his notebook out of his pocket. He flipped it open and read down the page. Then he snapped it shut and put it back in his jacket pocket. “Is there anything you may have remembered about last night that you may have forgotten to tell us?” he asked.

Oonagh seemed to be thinking. “No, Detective Inspector,” she said finally. “Except that if Willie Ward wasn't dead himself, he'd be my first suspect.”

 

 

“Maybe we should be looking more closely into Willie's enemies,” Reedy said as they waited in the hallway of the Bon Secours for the lift.

“He seems to have had so many,” White said. “What do you make of it, Liam?”

At the sound of his name, Liam jumped. Both sets of eyes
were on him. Liam could feel his face growing warm and his shirt collar pinched his neck. He hoped neither of them asked him what he was thinking about. Sure, they'd not expect him to say Carmel Cox, but he was. He was hoping she'd come to the game tonight, even if her mother was in hospital. He would be playing in the match, and after it, he'd ask her for a drink. And, maybe if he were lucky, she'd let him walk her home. Liam felt his face redden as he thought what else they could do.

“Well, what do you make of it?” White sounded impatient.

“The case?” Liam asked, stalling for time.

“Of course, the case.” White grumbled.

To be honest, Liam didn't know what to think. He knew he was glad he hadn't told his superior about Oonagh Cox and Owen Lynch. Since Mrs. Cox was attacked, she could hardly be the murderer. Someone had used the Death costume as a disguise and then murdered Willie Ward and attacked Oon-agh Cox.

Somehow it all fit together, although for the life of him he couldn't think how.

Maybe the answer was with the florist. He'd be glad not to have to search anymore for that costume. It was humiliating to have to pick through people's clotheslines.

And wait until his Auntie Zoë told his mam what he had done to her. Now he wished he hadn't, but it was too late. She had driven him to it, hadn't she, the old bat? His mam would be furious with him and he'd never hear the end of it, now would he? He knew his da would think it was funny, but that wouldn't save him from his mother's tongue.

Something else was bothering him about today's search. To save his soul, he could not put his finger on what it was. Maybe if he stopped thinking about it, it would just come.

“I don't know what to make of it, sir,” he said at last and was glad when the lift door opened.

 

When Sister Mary Helen and Sister Eileen arrived back at the mews, they were surprised to find two young men crawling around on their lawn. The late afternoon sky looked bruised as the sun flittered in and out, creating dark shadows on the grass.

“They must be the technical bureau from Dublin,” Eileen whispered.

“I hope so,” Mary Helen replied. “How do?” she called aloud.

Both men stopped and sat back on their haunches. She could swear that neither of them looked a day over twenty.
You'd have to be young to crawl around like that for long,
she thought.

“Good day to you,” one of them answered pleasantly.

She noticed that he was holding what looked like a plastic bag and a large pair of tweezers. Several bags had been sealed, labeled, and set in a pile near the edge of the lawn. It was impossible to tell what they contained. Even close up Mary Helen doubted that she would recognize what was in them.

“Are you finding anything?” she asked.

“We are,” the man answered, “although it's hard to tell what or if it's important till we get it back to the lab.”

“Can we get you anything? Tea? Coffee? A cold drink?” Eileen offered.

“That would be grand,” the same fellow admitted, “but we've no time. The detective inspector wants our report tonight.”

Without any further conversation, the two men went back to work and the two nuns went inside.

“What time did Paul say that he's picking us up for the hurling?” Mary Helen asked.

“He said that it starts at seven and that he needs to be there
a bit before, so half six would be fine. He'll take us to the pitch.”

Mary Helen must have looked puzzled.

“That's what they call the field,” Eileen explained.

Sister Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “Why don't I make us some supper and you see if you can find something on that bookshelf about hurling?”

A quick search of the small refrigerator yielded enough to make a delicious omelet. Served with soda bread, real butter, and tea, it would be perfect for supper.

Eileen uncovered a short but comprehensive article on hurling, written, no doubt, with tourists in mind.

By the time Paul stopped by for them, they knew that hurling was best compared to lacrosse. They had learned that it was played with a “hurly"—a wooden stick made of ash—and a small ball, on a field larger than a soccer field. It was a seventy-minute game with fifteen players, two halves, and a ten-minute intermission in which the teams changed sides.

The point, they discovered, was to drive the ball either into the goal or over the bar. The goal was worth three points, the bar, one.

When they arrived at the Ballyclarin Pitch, a high-spirited crowd had already gathered and was quickly filling in the bleachers. Despite the fact that the seats were sheltered, Mary Helen was glad they had dressed warmly.

“Sisters, over here.” They turned to find Father Keane beckoning them. He seemed to have saved them seats.

“Thank you, Father,” Mary Helen said, settling down among the enthusiastic fans.

They were barely settled when a loud roar went up as the Ballyclarin players in gray and black came onto the field. An equally loud cry rose when the opposing team from a neighboring town appeared, dressed in blue and gold.

The voice of Festival Chairman Owen Lynch came over the loudspeaker. He welcomed everyone and introduced the referee, two linemen, and four umpires in white coats. Finally he yielded the microphone to what must have been the Irish equivalent of a sportscaster. Everyone seemed to know him, because a cheer rose from the crowd at the mention of his name.

“We're in for quite a night,” the man began. Or at least, that was what Mary Helen thought he said. He spoke so rapidly and with such a thick accent that she could not understand much of what he said. Considering a few of the words she did catch, it was probably just as well.

The players moved so quickly that it was difficult to tell who was who. She thought she recognized Paul zipping down the field. She asked Father Keane to make sure it was he.

“Indeed,” the priest answered. “He's a fine player, though he'd never be the one to tell you. One of the stars, is our Paul.”

Mary Helen felt a little reflected glory watching him race toward the goal. The way the sticks were swinging and the ball was speeding through the air, she was especially glad he was wearing a helmet.

And wasn't that Liam O'Dea running close to him? If she wasn't mistaken, she thought she heard the announcer say, “He's the last person to let you down. His people are undertakers.”

A roar went up and the crowd went with it. Someone must have scored, although Mary Helen couldn't say who and Father Keane seemed so engrossed in the game that she didn't want to bother him.

Looking around, she realized that the bleachers were packed. If she wasn't mistaken, the hurling match was the best-attended event of the festival so far. She wondered if Carmel Cox had come to the match. There were familiar faces from the wine tasting, the art contest, morning Mass, and the gala.

It wasn't hard to spot Patsy Lynch sitting with Zoë and Bertie O'Dea. Tara, who had mercifully abandoned her green taffeta dress for a pair of blue jeans and a jacket, was there with Detective Inspector Reedy. Hugh Ryan, the publican, had actually left the Monks' Table for an hour. And there among the spectators was Jake Powers, the tinker, whose face looked as if he was studying a thing of beauty. Paul's wife sat close to the field. Her red hair was pulled back and tied with black and gray ribbons.

Only Oonagh Cox, who was in hospital, and Detective Inspector White were missing. Possibly he was the only fellow in the west of Ireland who was still working. Sister Mary Helen hoped that the technical bureau had uncovered something in the grass.

The minutes passed quickly, and Mary Helen was surprised when an official called the end of the half. The players filed into the clubhouse for a well-deserved break.

The crowd used the intermission to move around, get tea and chips from the vendors, and visit with their friends and neighbors. Eileen set off to get them each a hot drink.

“Sister Helen.”

Mary Helen was startled to hear someone call her name. She turned around to find Jake directly behind her. His straight black hair was slicked back and fell to his shoulders. His brilliant blue eyes studied her.

She hadn't heard him coming, but with all the noise, how could she?

“How do?” she said, smiling.

“I came by your place last night,” he said, his voice low.

“Oh!” Mary Helen was taken aback. Had he seen Oonagh on the lawn? If so, why hadn't he called the police?