Murder at the Monks' Table (10 page)

Although Liam O'Dea had only been a
Garda Siochana,
a Guardian of the Peace, for a little over six months now, he could not remember a time when he hadn't wanted to be one.

Maybe for a week or two after his First Holy Communion he had thought he might like to be a priest, saying Mass and passing out the hosts at Communion time and hearing everyone's sins, even his da's.

But then one of the lads in his class told him that priests weren't allowed to kiss girls, and he had abandoned the idea immediately. Especially when he thought of never being able to kiss Carmel Cox, the doctor's blue-eyed daughter. When they were youngsters, Carmel with the long auburn curls had lived down the road with her parents and her three brothers.

Liam felt his face grow warm. Now it was not the priesthood that kept him from trying to kiss the beautiful Carmel. It was her brothers. Somehow after their father had passed on, they felt it was their duty to keep everyone away from their sister. The way they were going at it, poor Carmel might as well be a nun.

“What is going on in there?” a sharp voice cut into his thought. Liam froze. That voice could only belong to one person, his Auntie Zoë. He had been so preoccupied he hadn't heard her coming in time to make his escape.

“The woman has a tongue so sharp,” his da had said many times, “it could clip a hedge.”

Liam pressed his lips together to keep from grinning at the thought of two sharp clipper blades protruding from Zoë's thin lips and snipping away.

“I can't say, Auntie,” he replied, avoiding her piercing eyes.

“Can't say! Humph! Won't say is more like it. Ever since you went to that garda school, you've been acting like a perfect
eejit.
If you had any brains at all, you'd have gone into the funeral business, like the rest of the O'Dea clan. And you wouldn't be standing on your feet all day guarding a door!” She stared up at him.

Liam clenched his teeth, trying to keep his face from showing any emotion. The old cow! Dumb as dirt, she was. He had no intention of guarding doors all his life. No, indeed! He was set on being a detective inspector. As a lad he had watched hundreds of hours of detectives on the telly—Inspector Morse and that nice chap, Inspector Barnaby from Midsummer. Although they did seem to have an excessive amount of murders in Oxford and that little village, but that was England for you.

Then there was the American telly with the detectives shooting and jumping and chasing.
The Streets of San Francisco
had been one of his favorites. He remembered as a lad bragging at school that he had a second cousin who had actually visited that dangerous, hilly city.

He could feel his aunt's eyes still on him. “Well, Liam?” she said. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Not,” he said, feeling his cheeks burn. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared straight ahead, wishing that she would go away.

“That's beautiful,” she said sarcastically, “a young man who wouldn't even give his auntie the time of day. After all I've done for you!” She took a breath, ready, he knew from
past experience, to start a long harangue on the ingratitude of modern youth with a number of pointed references to himself.

Feeling like one of the martyrs Father Keane often talked about at Mass, Liam was determined not to hear a word.
The woman is mad,
he kept repeating to himself,
plain mad.

He was concentrating so hard that he almost missed the slamming of the car door that saved his day.

“Morning, Liam,” Detective Inspector Brian Reedy called in a cheerful voice, despite the fact that he'd only a few hours of sleep. The man was remarkable!

Checking the sky, Reedy slipped into his raincoat. Although a watery sun still shone, dark clouds were tumbling into view. You didn't have to be much of a detective to realize that rain was on its way.

“And what can we do for you today, Mrs. O'Dea?” Reedy asked, not bothering to lock his car door.

“Not a thing, Brian,” his auntie said, her thin face burning. Then, muttering something that Liam was just as glad he could not make out, she hurried away.

“She's quite a woman.” Reedy shook his head. “But what a beautiful daughter.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” Liam answered, aware that Reedy had that look on his face again, the one that he always had when Tara was mentioned. It reminded Liam of the look of a sick cow.

Brian Reedy was one of the nicest fellows you could ever meet on a day's walk, yet Liam was not sure how he'd feel about having Reedy as a cousin-in-law, if that was Reedy's intention. Would Liam still call him sir?

“Ernie here?” Reedy interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” Liam answered smartly. “He's here and he sent for the two nuns from America.”

Reedy looked at him quizzically.

“They are in there with him now,” Liam said. “They've been inside for about twenty minutes.”

“Poor old dears must need a cuppa by now,” Reedy said. “I could use one myself.” He checked his watch. “How about you, Liam?”

Liam tried not to answer too quickly. If the truth be told, he would do just about anything to get inside and watch Detective Inspector White at work. Although Reedy was a grand fellow and full of chat, White was a regular genius when it came to solving crime.

Garda Liam O'Dea was determined to learn as much from him as he possibly could.

Inside, the Monks' Table was dark. Only a few lights were on, and the whole place reeked of spilled beer and stale smoke.

What this pub needs,
Mary Helen thought, wondering if her clothes would retain the odor,
is a good airing out.

Obviously the smell was the farthest thing from Detective Inspector White's mind. Sister Eileen and she had told him and retold him their every move from leaving the tent to finding the fully clothed body propped on the toilet seat. So much so, that Mary Helen was beginning to wonder if the man was a little thick.

“Is everybody ready for a cuppa?” Brian Reedy called out as the heavy front door of the pub closed behind him.

Strangely, Mary Helen felt saved.

Without waiting for an answer, Reedy, with the assistance of Garda O'Dea, poured and passed the teacups. He helped himself to a couple of bags of crisps, which he tore open and passed around.

Potato chips and tea were an unusual combination, but under the circumstances, Mary Helen found they hit the spot.

Teatime was over too soon.

“A word, Brian,” Detective Inspector White said, motioning his partner into a side alcove. The two nuns were left with Garda O'Dea, who shifted self-consciously from foot to foot.

Sister Mary Helen watched the color spread like melting butter from his jaw to his hairline as he struggled to look official. She was wondering what she could say to put him at his ease when both of the inspectors returned.
It must have been really just “a word,”
she thought.

“Now, then, Sisters,” White began, clearing his throat. He tilted back as though he were studying a spot in the ceiling. The way he had in the kitchen.

Mary Helen wondered if that helped him think or if it was a technique he used to make those he was questioning nervous. It was impossible to tell.

Without warning, his head snapped forward and his brown bloodshot eyes fastened on her.

“I don't suppose you ever get used to finding dead bodies,” he said out of the blue.

Mary Helen frowned. Had she heard him correctly? “Pardon me?” she said.

“Last night when you told me your name and that you were from San Francisco, I wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

Detective Inspector White blinked several times before he continued. “I wondered if you were the same nun that my wife's cousin sent us a clipping about,” he said finally.

“A clipping?” Mary Helen's mouth went dry.

White nodded. “My wife's cousin Maura lives in San Francisco. She sent us a clipping from the newspaper there about an older nun who was involved in solving a homicide. She thought that because I deal with death under suspicious circumstances myself, I might be interested, which, indeed, I was.

“So when I went home last night, I found it on the mantelpiece where my wife had left it, and sure enough, it was you!” He paused to let that much sink in. “Brian, here, confirmed it this morning with a quick call to San Francisco and to an Inspector Gallagher, whose name was also mentioned in the article.”

Uh-oh, here it comes,
Mary Helen thought, feeling something inside turn over and sink.

“He was helpful, indeed,” Reedy said with a wicked little grin on his handsome face. “A bit gruff, but who can blame him? Poor
divil
had his horn ringing at half four in the morning, his time. I did get an earful about you and your friend here.” He nodded toward Eileen.

Detective Inspector White leveled his eyes at the two of them. “Now, you may get away with these shenanigans in America, but this is Ireland,” he said sternly. “We do things a little differently here. We do not have our nuns, or anyone else for that matter, poking into our homicide cases, putting themselves into danger. Is that clear?”

Sister Mary Helen felt her cheeks burn. “Detective Inspector, we had no intention of—”

“Sister,” he interrupted, a pleasant smile returning to his face, “surely you must know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. As I said, we will tolerate none of it. Am I clear?”

“Very,” Eileen answered for the both of them.

But that didn't seem to satisfy White. “Sister?” He was talking to her.

“Very clear,” Mary Helen replied stiffly, resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue.

Seemingly convinced, he checked his wristwatch. “You are free to go now. You'll be right in time for the art show. Paul Glynn is waiting for you, no doubt. Enjoy yourselves,
and remember.” He paused. “Stay as far away as possible from anything remotely connected with Willie Ward's untimely death.”

The door of the Monks' Table shut behind them.

“Men,” Mary Helen fumed. “They are all alike!”

Sister Eileen started to giggle.

“What is so funny?”

“Can you imagine what Inspector Gallagher said? The phone lines must have been burning blue.”

Eileen's laugh was infectious. “And did you see the expression on that young garda's face?” Mary Helen asked. “I wonder what the poor kid is thinking.”

 

 

Actually, Liam O'Dea wasn't thinking anything very profound, thank you very much indeed. If anything, he was in shock. How was it two elderly nuns weren't frightened to get involved with death under suspicious circumstances? They seemed rather frail, but according to what he had overheard Detective Inspector White say, they had solved murders on the streets of San Francisco.

Liam's heart began to thud as he envisioned the hilly chase and the final shoot-out. Perhaps he should be watching
them
for techniques, as well as Ernie White.

“Find Owen Lynch, will you please, garda. And tell him I have a few more questions.”

Liam almost missed White's order.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“If he's not at home, he's most likely at the art show,” Reedy added.

“Yes, sir,” Liam answered again, and he hurried down the road.

Owen Lynch was at home, just finishing up his dinner, when Liam knocked on his front door.

“Should I go with you, love?' Patsy Lynch asked. Her usual cheerful expression seemed to have been replaced with a worried frown.

“No, pet. I'll be fine,” Owen answered too quickly.

“But you haven't had dessert,” Patsy said.

“When I come home.” He patted her hand.

Liam thought he smelled fear on the man, but perhaps it was just the turnips still on his plate. “The detective inspector only wants to see Owen,” Liam said, hoping he sounded like a man in charge.

“You tell Ernie White—” Patsy began, but her husband hushed her.

“Never mind, pet,” he said, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and polishing them. “It is only routine. I'll be home shortly.”

“The twins have their artwork on display.” Patsy's voice was small. “They are so proud of it.”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Owen assured her, and he bent to peck her on the cheek.