Murder at the Monks' Table (8 page)

“Might as well be drunk as the way we are,” the priest said, pushing his glass forward. Mary Helen hadn't heard that old saw in years.

The publican had just topped off the priest's drink when the tires of a car crunched in the gravel outside the pub.

“Thanks be to God, they're here.” Owen Lynch left his stool and bolted for the front door. Swearing softly, he fumbled with the lock until finally the heavy door swung open.

Two young men in blue stood in the doorway. If Mary Helen
had to guess, she wouldn't put either of them over twenty-five. One still had pimples, for heaven's sake.

“We received a call from—” the one with the pimples began.

“From me, Liam,” Owen Lynch interrupted. He seemed to know the young garda. “I called about an attack on Tommy Burns.” He pointed to Tommy, who smiled self-consciously at the two gardai. “But in the meanwhile, something much worse has happened.” At the very mention of it, all the color drained from Owen's face. “Follow me. I'll show you,” he said. And the two gardai did as he asked.

Almost immediately, a retching sound came from the toilet area.

“It's, no doubt, their first death by misadventure,” the publican said, then shrugged. “Mine, too, for that matter.”

Neither Mary Helen nor Eileen said a word. In fact, as if by plan, they avoided one another's eyes. It would never do to mention how many “misadventures” they had stumbled upon in San Francisco.

Sister Mary Helen said a quick prayer that no one here would have any reason to contact Inspectors Kate Murphy or Dennis Gallagher, both San Francisco homicide detectives, whom the Sisters had worked with on numerous occasions. While the Sisters were delighted to assist where they could, the inspectors, in most cases, were far less delighted to receive their assistance. From where she stood, however, these young gardai looked as if they could use all the help they could get.

One of them emerged from the hallway. Freckles stood out on his ashen face. “I'll put up the tape,” he said to no one in particular, then made quickly for the front door.

“You look as though you could use some air,” Sister Eileen said kindly, pretending not to hear him gag.

The pimple-faced garda whom Lynch had called Liam
reappeared briefly, then ducked into an alcove, his cell phone on his ear.

“He must be giving the Serious Crimes Unit in Galway City a call,” Father Keane said softly.

Fat drops of rain had begun to fall again. They hit the roof of the Monks' Table with an uneven rhythm. The young garda cleared his throat. “I have just talked to the Central Station in Galway,” he said a little breathlessly. “Two inspectors are on their way here now. So, if you'd all just stay seated until—”

Owen Lynch jumped off the barstool. “I am the chairman of the event,” he said, painfully clearing his throat. “I have got to get back to the tent. They are probably looking for me right now to say some closing remarks. My wife must be frantic wondering where I'm off to.”

The pimple-faced garda looked sympathetic but unmoved.

“Owen is right,” Father Keane said. “You'll have the entire crowd of them up in arms. Perhaps you could let Owen go and try to pretend as if nothing happened….”

“Won't they guess when they see the blue and white tape?” Tommy Burns asked. It was the first sensible thing he'd said since the nuns discovered Willie Ward's dead body.

All eyes shifted to the young garda. Without warning, his cheeks flushed a brilliant red. “I'm in charge here,” he said in a voice that startled everyone. “Please, sit down!” he commanded. “We will wait for the inspectors.”

Without another word, they all sat.

 

 

Fortunately, they did not have to wait long. The screech of brakes and the slamming of doors announced the arrival of the inspectors.

“In here, sir,” they heard the young garda say as he pushed
open the pub door. Standing back, he let a short, squat man enter.

Mary Helen didn't know what she expected at this hour, but all she could think of was an unmade bed. He looked as if he had just rolled out of one. His brown eyes were bloodshot and his dark hair, wet from the rain, stood on end, as though he had made some effort to comb it with his fingertips. The collar of his suit jacket was caught at the neck and, unless Mary Helen was mistaken, it didn't really match his pants.

The inspector stood by the front door for a few seconds, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It was as if he was trying to get his bearings.

“Ah, Hugh,” he said, obviously recognizing the publican, “have ye a cup of hot coffee?”

Who did he remind her of? Columbo, of course, minus the trench coat, half smoked cigar, and wandering eye. Columbo with an Irish brogue!

While Hugh was serving up the coffee, Mary Helen noticed a second inspector slip into the Monks' Table. He appeared to be several decades younger than his partner.
Talk about daylight and darkness,
she thought, studying the second man, who was tall and muscular with a full head of red hair cut short.

White shirt cuffs with gold cuff links showed below the sleeves of his tan Burberry raincoat. And Mary Helen was sure that she could smell his aftershave lotion from where she sat.

“I'm Detective Inspector Brian Reedy,” he said in a deep no-nonsense voice. “And for anyone who might not know him, this is my partner, Detective Inspector Ernie White.” He nodded toward the man sipping the coffee. “If you would all remain where you are, please, until we've examined the body.”

“It's Willie Ward,” the publican blurted out.

Inspector White raised his eyebrows. “
The
Willie Ward?” he asked, putting his coffee cup on the bar.

“None other,” Hugh said.

“Holy Mother of God,” White swore softly, “just our luck, Brian, to get a high-profile case when I'm hoping to go on holiday.”

Without further comment, he followed Reedy into the ladies'.

The others sat in a small silent circle. Like six wary suspects, Mary Helen thought, guarded by two of Ireland's finest, standing at ease. Although highly unlikely, she couldn't stop herself from wondering wildly if one of them was guilty. And if so, who?

Owen Lynch's face was so pale that he looked as though he were about to join the poor man on the toilet. He must have felt her eyes on him, for he looked up suddenly, frowning. Their eyes met and he became paler still.
If he ever tried to kill anyone,
Mary Helen thought,
the poor devil would probably keel over, right on top of his victim.

Next to him sat Tommy Burns, Mr. Death. A bruise near his left eye was beginning to darken. It must be where he'd fallen in the field.
It couldn't be he,
she thought. He was all tied up. She fought down the nervous urge to laugh at her own unexpected pun.

Beside Tommy was the parish priest, Father Keane. His gray curly hair was still damp from the rain, which seemed to have stopped as suddenly as it began. At least, Mary Helen could no longer hear it battering the roof.

Surely it couldn't be Father Keane,
she thought. He seemed such a good-natured fellow. Besides, he had gone to find Owen Lynch and then Tommy Burns after he'd met Eileen and herself in the field.

Nor could it be Hugh Ryan, the publican. He was behind the bar all evening, wasn't he? Drawing pints, chatting up the patrons.

“And who found the poor blighter?” Inspector White's question startled Mary Helen. She hadn't heard him come down the hall. It took her a moment to catch her breath and respond. “I did, Inspector,” she admitted.

“And who might you be?” White's brown eyes were not unkind.

“This is one of the nuns on holiday from America,” Father Keane spoke up.

“And she looks well able to speak for herself, Father,” White said without taking his eyes off her.

Sister Mary Helen thought she was going to like this man. “Indeed, I am,” she said, adjusting her bifocals, which had the annoying tendency to slip down the bridge of her nose. She swore she would get contact lenses one of these days. “I found Mr. Ward when I went to use the …” She hesitated.
Toilet
sounded a bit indecorous and
restroom
surely did not fill the bill. She pointed down the hallway.

“Didn't you think it odd to find him in the ladies'?”

“I thought it odd to find him dead at all, Inspector,” she said. “After that, I never gave much thought to where I found him.”

Inspector White grinned.

“Ernie,” Detective Inspector Reedy called, emerging from the hallway. “I've notified the lads from forensics,” he said. “They're on their way.”

“Hugh,” a voice called from outside. “Are ye open?” The question was followed by two heavy bangs on the door.

“The gala must be breaking up.” Lynch stood and ran a finger around his shirt collar, as if he were choking. “Patsy will be wild with worry. The streets will be mobbed and the lot of them will be wondering what happened….” His voice trailed off.

“Not a'tall.” Detective Inspector Reedy nodded to the two gardai, who immediately left the pub.

It seemed implausible to Mary Helen that he expected these two youngsters to control hundreds of revelers. She must have looked uneasy.

“The locals are a friendly lot,” Inspector White said. “Just curious, is all. After a few minutes they'll all totter on home.”

Despite the shouting and catcalling, after a few minutes Mary Helen heard car engines begin to rev and tires hiss on the wet macadam. Conversation and laughter grew fainter and fainter, and two tenors singing “Danny Boy” faded into the distance.

“Did any one of you touch anything before we arrived?” Detective Inspector Reedy asked, slipping his cell phone into his raincoat pocket.

“I gave the poor man the Last Rites,” Father Keane said. “I touched the holy oils to his eyes, lips, and ears.”

“What about his hands and feet? Aren't you supposed to anoint those, too?” Reedy asked.

The priest's face flushed. “Technically,” he said, “but Willie and I were having a hard enough time both fitting in the stall without me crawling around him to touch his hands and feet.”

“You've a good point, Father,” Detective Inspector White said, then turned to his partner. “The lads better get here before rigor mortis sets in or they'll have a devil of a time moving him out of that stall.”

Behind her, Mary Helen heard Hugh Ryan's breath whoosh out as if he had been punched in the stomach. Her own stomach felt a little queasy, and she tried not to visualize the scene.

“While we're waiting for the lads, why don't we ask you folks a few questions?” White checked his wristwatch. “It's half one,” he said. “You must be ready for bed.”

Only 1:30! Mary Helen had thought it surely must be nearly dawn. She found it hard to believe that it wasn't later. Then the thought hit her like a bolt. Rigor mortis usually sets in
within a couple of hours. So Willie must have been murdered at about 11:30. Were Eileen and she still in the field when it happened? Was he already dead when they were eating their rhubarb pie and whipped cream? It couldn't have happened when they were in the Monks' Table. They would have heard something, wouldn't they?

Numbly, she watched Detective Inspector Reedy duck into one of the alcoves off the bar. “We can use this room to talk,” he called to his partner.

“Where shall we begin?” Inspector White surveyed the group. “Why not start with the blow-ins?”

“Who?” Mary Helen asked.

“Us,” Eileen whispered. “He means the nonnatives.” Sure enough, Eileen was correct.

Sister Mary Helen sat across from the two detectives, who asked her for some personal information such as why she was in Ireland, how long she planned to stay, and where she lived in America. Her eyes felt gritty with fatigue as she told them as quickly and thoroughly as she possibly could about Eileen, and her finding Mr. Death in the field, telling Father Keane about their discovery, going to the pub to wait for him and Owen Lynch, and finally about finding Willie Ward in the ladies'.

Detective Inspector Reedy said very little; his partner less. Mary Helen had the distinct impression that neither man was missing much.

“That seems to be it, Sister,” Detective Inspector White said finally. “We'll talk to your friend. We shouldn't be long. Then the two of you can go. You're just down the road, so we know where to find you, if needs be.”

As he had promised, Eileen's interview was short, a little too short for Mary Helen's liking. Somehow its brevity made her feel like the chief suspect.
Nonsense,
she chided herself as they bundled into their raincoats. Her rendition had been so
complete that the two men may have seen no need to have Eileen go through it all again, especially at this time of the morning.

“Good night, Sisters,” the pimple-faced garda at the door said, letting them out. The moon shone brightly between the racing clouds. “Sleep well,” the second garda called, tipping his cap.