Murder at the Monks' Table (19 page)

 

Even from across the ballroom, Liam O'Dea could tell by her demeanor that his Auntie Zoë was stirring the pot. The woman had a God-given talent for starting trouble.

Liam sniffed.
Look at her chatting up the American nuns, telling them God knows what,
he thought, running his finger through his thick sandy hair.

Why couldn't he have been a garda in Roscommon or Cork instead of Oranmore—any place away from this woman? She was making a holy show of herself, standing like a bantam rooster crowing away.

Sure, he didn't need another headache, and if anyone could give him one it was his Auntie Zoë. What Bertie O'Dea saw in her, Liam would never know. Poor man, stuck with a harridan of a wife. No wonder Bertie stayed in the family business. At least he had a little peace and quiet at work.

Although Liam tried not to look obvious, he couldn't take his eyes off the women. He was dead curious to know what they were going on about.
You don't suppose that the old nun is telling her about Owen Lynch and
Mrs.
Cox?

At the thought, Liam's throat felt as if it were closing, and a trickle of perspiration slid down from his underarm to his waist. God help him. She had to be smarter than that!

Zoë would have it on every tongue by the noon Angelus tomorrow. If it got back to Detective Inspector White before he had a chance to tell him! Liam didn't even want to think about it.

Nor did he want to think about the mess he'd be in if Mrs. Cox really was involved. Would Carmel ever speak to him again if she found out that he had implicated her mother?

Stupid woman, having an affair with Owen Lynch, of all people! A married man—and everyone loved big-hearted Patsy, his wife. If the villagers found out, he'd be considered worse than a murderer, now wouldn't he?

Liam dabbed perspiration from his forehead with a clean handkerchief. He'd swear that this room was as hot as one of those saunas he'd seen on the telly.

Where was Mrs. Cox, anyway? Liam scanned the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. He'd be wise, wouldn't he, to observe her and Owen Lynch like any good detective might, to get a take on their relationship?

He spotted Owen Lynch easily enough. Much to Liam's relief, he was dancing a slow one with his wife. Patsy, for her part, looked a bit uncomfortable being led around the floor by himself. Something about her rhythm seemed a half beat off.

The chairman's face was pinched, but that was no crime. He was dancing with the missus.
A good sign,
Liam thought.

And there was always the hope that the technical team would turn up some evidence pointing to the real killer. Willie Ward must have had dozens of enemies. And they didn't have to live in Ballyclarin, did they? Could it be that the villain wasn't after Willie at all? That might be an explanation for
why Tommy Burns from Dublin was attacked in the field. The fellow was after Tommy and was interrupted.

Liam shook his head. That made no sense. Why kill Willie if you were after Tommy? And why take his costume?

Liam groaned. They'd have their fill of that old sheet tomorrow. If Ernie White was as good as his word, which Liam felt sure he was, they'd search again for that bloody thing.

With all the crowds coming into the village for the Oyster Festival, someone could have slipped in, stolen the costume, put a knife in the man's chest, and slipped out again, just that quickly. Someone who was a total stranger.

That could have been it. Liam hoped it was, but it didn't help him with the mess he found himself in right now. Why had the old nun told him about what she'd overheard? Why not tell one of the other gardai or Brian Reedy? Tall, handsome Brian Reedy would have been the logical one to approach. He was White's partner, after all.

Then Reedy could deal with Auntie Zoë. And the way Reedy was gawking at Liam's cousin Tara these days, sometime soon he'd have to deal with her mother. Poor
divil
! He had no idea what he was in for, and Liam wasn't about to tell him. Liam had enough trouble of his own.

“Oh, there you are!” Liam recognized the voice, and a chill raced down his spine, as if someone had put an ice cube down his collar. It was Carmel.

Turning, he found her gazing up at him. Her face was the color of fresh cream, and her cheeks were rosy. Her enormous blue eyes sparkled with fun, and her thick auburn curls bounced freely to her shoulders. At the sight of her, his stomach knotted.

“I've been all over for you,” she said, gently touching his arm. A tiny shock ran up to his elbow. “Do you want to dance?” she asked with a smile.

“Well,” he stammered.

Her lower lip stuck out ever so slightly. “If you don't, Liam O'Dea, there are others that do.”

“Ah, Carmel, you know I do,” Liam said as quickly as he could catch his breath. Carmel was already leading their way to the dance floor, where the lads were playing another slow one.

Liam would have much preferred something fast so they would not be able to talk. He didn't want to take the chance that anything might come up about her mother.

But Carmel didn't seem interested in talking, either. She snuggled close to him and put her head against his shoulder. He caught the sweet, flowery scent of her hair and felt her soft warm body against his.

All at once, his Auntie Zoë, the American nuns, Willie Ward's murder, and even his meeting with Detective Inspector White tomorrow didn't seem that important.

 

 

Sister Mary Helen's eyes burned, and she wondered if this might have been the longest Tuesday of her entire life. “Are we ever going home?” she whispered to Eileen, who was looking a little weary herself.

“My thought exactly,” Eileen said, checking her watch. “Can you believe it's only eleven o'clock?”

Mary Helen suppressed a groan. “We've been here two hours. It's not as if we ate and ran.”

“Right you are.” Eileen stood and looked around. “I don't see Paul anywhere,” she said. “God only knows where he's gone to, and God isn't telling.”

“Do you see anyone else who might give us a ride?”

“I was looking for Oonagh Cox,” Eileen said, “but I don't seem to see her anywhere.”

Mary Helen frowned. She hadn't seen Oonagh all night. Curious! The woman had been at every other event.

“Ah-ha.” Eileen sounded triumphant. “What about Father Keane? As luck would have it, he's coming our way.”

Within minutes the two nuns, having left a message for Paul with Owen Lynch, were seated in Father Keane's black Mazda.

“I hope this is no bother,” Eileen said as the priest pulled out of the car park.

“Not a'tall,” he answered. “I was hoping for a reason to make my excuses, and you two were the perfect answer.”

They drove in silence past the old convent school, the church, and the Monks' Table. There didn't seem to be a light on anywhere. And, except for one stray dog, the village looked absolutely deserted. The only sound was the hiss of their tires on the macadam.

It must have rained a bit while they were at the barbeque. Although now the night sky was clear and brilliant with sparkling stars.

“Will I leave you here, then?” Father Keane asked, as he pulled up and parked in front of the gate leading to their mews.

“This is fine,” Mary Helen said, climbing out of the car. “Thank you so much.”

Eileen had pushed open the heavy gate and was waving.

Carefully making their way toward their front door, Mary Helen was very glad they had remembered to leave a light burning. Even so, the stone path was difficult to see.

“Next time, we should bring a torch,” Eileen said.

“Next time, we will,” Mary Helen agreed as her foot hit against something soft. What could that be? She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and tried to make out what was on the grass. A faint groan sent goose bumps up her arm. “Eileen,” she whispered, “did you hear that?”

“Indeed, I did,” Eileen said, opening the front door and throwing on all the lights. “Who's there?” she called loudly.

Blinking at the sudden brightness, Sister Mary Helen bent forward, trying to get a better look. Her scalp prickled as a rush of panic shot through her. “It's a woman,” she stammered, her mouth furry, as she bent closer still to the crumpled form.

Gently touching the shoulder, Mary Helen noticed a faint flowery fragrance. She rolled the body toward her. Another moan ripped through the stillness.

With a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Mary Helen stared down at the round face. She recognized it immediately. The short curly gray hair was matted with blood, but at least the woman was breathing.

“It's Oonagh Cox.” Sister Mary Helen's voice sounded distant even to herself.

All at once Oonagh's eyelids fluttered, and she attempted to get up on one elbow. “Ooh,” she moaned.

“Lie still,” Mary Helen said softly. “We'll get someone.”

“It's freezing on this grass,” Oonagh said, her teeth chattering. She reached out for Mary Helen's hand. “And I'm getting my new dress all dirty. I paid a fortune for it in the city.”

Although a dirty dress seemed to Mary Helen to be the least of Oonagh's problems, the nun tried to steady her.

“Ooh, my head,” Oonagh groaned, struggling to her feet.

“Eileen, help,” Mary Helen called, but Eileen was already on the telephone.

Trying desperately to remember what she'd learned of first aid, Mary Helen led Oonagh to a comfortable chair in their parlor and wrapped her in a blanket in case she went into shock.

“Ouch,” Oonagh said when Mary Helen put a cold compress on her head for swelling.

“Do you remember what happened?” Mary Helen asked gently.

Oonagh shook her head and then let out a sharp yelp. “Not entirely,” she said. “But whatever happened, it hurts.”

“How about a nice cup of hot tea?” Eileen asked, putting on the electric kettle. “That might help.”

Oonagh gave a weak smile. “That would be grand,” she said. “Ta.”

The tea water had just boiled when Detective Inspector White arrived at their front door. His face was puffy with sleep, and his dark hair stood out like iron filings on a magnet. He had on exactly the same clothes he'd worn earlier today. From the look of his suit, Mary Helen wondered if he might have slept in it.

“The ambulance is on its way,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from Oonagh Cox.

“That's not needed,” Oonagh started, but White interrupted her.

“Better be safe than sorry,” he said, crossing his legs. Mary Helen noticed that the man's socks were two different colors. At least he had changed those.

“Before they get here,” White said, his dark eyes studying Oonagh, “can you tell me everything you do remember about what happened?”

“I was on my way to the hotel for the barbeque,” Oonagh hesitated, obviously in pain, “when …” Her voice began to tremble.

“No hurry, love,” White said. “Take your time.”

Oonagh swallowed hard. “I was on my way,” she repeated, “and I was just passing the mews, when I heard someone behind me. When I turned around to greet whoever it was, I nearly wet my knickers.” Her cheeks reddened. “Sorry,” she said. “But I was met by Death, or at least by someone dressed in his long white gown and his black mask. I thought he was playing with me. I didn't think anything of it. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, scaring an old lady,' I said, joking.

“ ‘It's I that ought to be ashamed?' the person said, almost as if it were a question. And he just kept coming. All at once, I felt something hit my head.”

She put her finger on the spot and grimaced. “After that, I don't remember a thing until the Sisters were here helping me off the wet grass.”

“Why do you suppose he left you here?” White wondered aloud.

“Maybe someone came along and surprised him,” Oonagh said. “Or maybe he ducked in here so he wouldn't be seen.”

White did not comment, just stared up at the ceiling. Mary Helen wished she knew what he saw up there.

“You didn't recognize his voice or notice anything familiar about him?” White asked.

“It all happened so fast,” Oonagh said, “and his voice was muffled. It was as though he were trying to sound different.”

“Was he tall?”

“Taller than I am,” she said.

Which covers most men and quite a few women,
Mary Helen thought. Oonagh must be only a little over five feet tall.

“Did he say anything else, besides asking ‘It's I that ought to be ashamed?'” Detective Inspector White accepted the cup of tea Eileen offered him.

“Not a word. That was what was so frightening.”

“And you said he changed his voice. Can you be sure then it was a man, or could it have been a woman?” White asked.

“No, not entirely sure,” Oonagh admitted, “but I did think it was a man. It doesn't sound like anything a woman would do, now does it?”