Murder at the Monks' Table (31 page)

“Do you smell the orchid?” Mrs. Cox asked.

Liam felt his face flush. He'd never in his life smelled an orchid. How would he know one if he did smell it now?

“Carmel likes this, too,” Mrs. Cox said coyly.

Wouldn't you know it,
Liam thought, wondering if he could afford it on a garda's pay.

“From the Burren Perfumery, is it?” Liam asked, for lack of anything better to say.

Oonagh Cox nodded. “Now, may I ask you something, Detective Inspector White? What's your sudden interest in my perfume?”

White acted as if he hadn't heard her. “One more question, Mrs. Cox. Were you wearing that same perfume the night you were attacked?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, “I was.”

 

“What was all that goings-on about perfume?” Detective Inspector Reedy asked as the three men rode in the police car back to Ballyclarin. “Didn't you feel a bit foolish sniffing her arm?”

How could you not?
Liam thought, leaning forward in the backseat to catch White's answer.

“The American nun,” White explained, “remembered an unusual smell in the ladies' when she found Willie's body.”

“That could have been air freshener, or soap, or anything,” Reedy said.

“Right you are, but at the moment we are desperate for a clue, any clue that might lead us to our killer.”

The traffic was light on the dual carriageway as Reedy sped along. “Wouldn't you say that this clue is a little slim?” he asked.

Mentally, Liam agreed with him.

“Even if it was the same fragrance she smelled, how many women in the village wear it?” Reedy continued.

“How are we going to find that out?” Liam asked and then wished he'd kept his gob shut.

Turning halfway around in his seat, White's dark eyes fastened on him. “Are you going to the jamboree tonight, lad?” White asked.

“Yes, sir,” Liam answered, looking out the window at the green fields to avoid his superior's eyes.

“I'll bet the entire village will be there,” White said, thinking aloud. “I'd go myself, but I promised my wife I'd be home for supper tonight. It's her mother's birthday and my life will not be worth living if I don't make it.” White paused. “And you've smelled the perfume.”

Liam's stomach dropped, and for a moment he felt as if he couldn't catch his breath.
Here it comes,
he thought.

“While you're there, see if you can locate the fragrance on any other women.”

“But, sir, how do we know it's the same smell?” Liam asked, clawing for any excuse to get out of what seemed to be the inevitable.

“We don't. But we'll have to give it a try. The American nun says she thinks it was the same fragrance in the ladies' that she smelled on Oonagh Cox.”

“So I just go around during the jamboree, smelling women? Sir.” Liam tried to control his temper.

“Now, there's an assignment for you,” Reedy said, grinning like a hungry alligator.

I swear, if he makes one remark about the knickers,
Liam fumed.

“Liam, my lad, some men would kill for that assignment,” Reedy joked.

At that moment, Liam could have gladly killed Brian Reedy with his bare hands.

“It's a long shot,” White admitted, “but one of the only concrete things we have so far.”

If you can call a smell concrete,
Liam thought.

“That, and the bit of sheet from the tech team and, of course, the affair, which seems pretty obvious when you're around it.”

“You don't have to be much of a detective to see something is going on,” Reedy agreed. “The amazing thing is that they were able to keep it a secret.”

“If, indeed, they were able,” White said. “I guess we should be grateful to the American nuns for telling us.”

I'll be glad to see the backs of both of them.
Liam fought down the urge to scream.
Tonight promises to be one of the longest nights
of my life,
he thought, staring out at a lone cow in a field, chewing her cud.
Sniffing like a drug-smelling dog! What have I
come to? And what will Carmel think? She wants to dance every
dance.

Could he sniff and dance simultaneously? Time would tell. And would it all start to make sense? Who killed Willie Ward and why?

He couldn't wait to find out. Unfortunately, he was one of the ones who had to come up with the answer.
Heaven help us,
he thought,
the answer can't come soon enough.

 

 

Sister Mary Helen and Sister Eileen had no sooner stepped inside the mews than the telephone rang. It was Paul Glynn, ever on the job.

“Shall I pick you up at half five for the jamboree?” he asked. “You won't want to miss a thing. There's entertainment, and you'll want to get a good seat.”

“Do we need to bring anything?” Mary Helen asked. “Besides our tickets?”

“All you need is stamina and a good liver,” Paul said.

The liver is not a problem,
Mary Helen thought,
but the stamina?
If they were lucky they could get in a short nap before Paul arrived.

When Paul arrived at 5:30 sharp, his lovely redheaded wife was with him, looking quite glamorous in a bright green silk dress. Paul, too, was more dressed up than she had ever seen him.

Eileen and she climbed into the backseat of the car, and Paul slammed the door behind them. Mrs.
Glynn not only looks lovely but she smells good, too,
Mary Helen thought, catching a whiff of her fragrance. The nun's heart began to race. Was it the same fragrance she had smelled on Oonagh Cox and, God help us, in the ladies' when she found Willie Ward?

Mary Helen was almost certain Mrs. Glynn's perfume had come from the Burren, since Paul had mentioned being saved from bringing her more. Surely Paul's wife was not the murderer, but someone was, someone who wore that same perfume.

Stop! Stop!
Mary Helen thought, shaking her head. She'd have to stop or she'd spend her last hours in Ireland preoccupied with who had killed Willie Ward. She had done all she could to help the detectives, more than they actually wanted her to do. And now she'd just have to let it go.

 

 

The streets of the village were packed with people who paid no attention to the traffic. They could have walked to the jamboree faster than Paul could drive them, but it was nice not to have to battle the crowd. Paul and the missus dropped them at the entrance, telling them that they'd see them inside. If for some reason they didn't, Paul said, he'd collect them for home outside the front door of the tent at nine o'clock.

The inside of the tent was already full of partygoers talking and laughing. A band called the American Drifters was playing, and the dance floor was literally packed with dancers of all ages.

Mary Helen spotted the young garda, Liam O'Dea, dancing with Carmel Cox. Did he appear to be a bit uncomfortable, or was that her imagination?

And Detective Inspector Reedy was here, too, dancing with Tara O'Dea. Neither of them seemed to be worrying about who killed Willie Ward, she noticed. Why, then, should she?

If Tara is here, then Mama Zoë can't be far away,
Mary Helen thought. Her gaze swept the floor. Sure enough, Zoë was in the tent, sitting with Patsy Lynch. The two women were so deep in conversation, they didn't seem to notice the partying around them.

“Hello again, Sisters.” Mary Helen jumped as Father Keane came up behind them. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Hello again, Father,” Mary Helen said. “I was so busy looking around, I didn't hear you.”

“Would you believe,” he said, taking in the crowd, “that the first time they held this festival in 1954, only thirty-four people came?”

The priest bent forward so that they could hear him. “They've a table reserved for me,” he said. “Won't you join me?”

The two nuns followed Father Keane across the crowded room to his table.
Thank goodness he's tall,
Mary Helen thought,
or we would have surely lost him in the crowd.

“How about some oysters?” he offered, once he had them seated. “Our oysters are justifiably the best in the world. They are wild, you know, and sit at the bottom of Dumbuleaun Bay where the Clarin and Dunkellin Rivers both empty into the sea. That's what gives them the mild flavor, which is positively addictive.”

“He should be a salesman,” Eileen said, watching the man cross the floor toward the refreshment table.

“He is one of sorts, I guess,” Mary Helen said.

In minutes, Father Keane returned with a tray containing a large platter of oysters, three small knives, and three glasses of rich, creamy Guinness.

The nuns watched as Father Keane pried open the shell and ran the knife under the oyster to loosen it. “Now's the time to check for a pearl, if you're feeling lucky,” he said. Then, he threw back his head and tipped the contents of the shell into his mouth. He savored it for a moment, and then let it slide down his throat. “Ah-h-h,” he said, sounding satisfied, and took a mouthful of Guinness.

“You can have lemon or Tabasco sauce if you'd like,” he said, waiting for them to try an oyster.

Eileen went at it like a connoisseur, and Mary Helen followed suit. After the initial shock of the texture, she had to admit it was delicious, especially if you didn't think about its being alive. After the second one, however, she decided to give up following it with a swallow of Guinness. After all, they had to be up early tomorrow.

Sister Mary Helen was wondering what to do with the oyster shells that were quickly forming a mound on the table when Zoë O'Dea came by with a plastic bag in which to dump them. “Good evening, Father, Sisters,” she said, eyeing the Guinness glasses. “I see you're enjoying yourselves.” Her dark eyes fastened on the priest. “Too bad Oonagh is still in hospital,” she said. “She enjoys a party so.” Without missing a beat, she went on. “How is she?” she asked. “I understand you went to see her today. Nothing serious, I hope.”

Mary Helen could scarcely believe her ears. Was there anything this woman didn't know?

“She seems to be coming along, Zoë,” Father Keane said evenly. “I'm sure she'll be home in a couple of days.” The priest turned to the nuns and asked, “Can I get you some dessert?” He looked so desperate to escape from Zoë O'Dea that Mary Helen didn't have the heart to say no.

“That would be nice,” she said, figuring that once the priest was gone, Zoë would be on her way. Unfortunately, she was wrong.

“And you Sisters are on your way home to America tomorrow?” Zoë asked, as if she didn't know the exact time and number of their flight.

Eileen, who was busy wiping oyster juice from her hands, simply nodded.

“What must you think of us?” Zoë asked, shaking the tight
curls that covered her head. “A murder and two attacks! Have they ruined your stay?”