Murder at the Monks' Table (23 page)

“The whole point of attacking Mr. Burns,” Eileen swept on, “seems to have been stealing his Death costume.”

Without uttering a word, Detective Inspector White turned
his dark eyes, sharp as pins, on her. Mary Helen noticed a vein in his forehead stand out like a cord.

“Sister, please, just tell me what you remember. Let the detectives work out the reasons.”

Eileen's cheeks reddened and her lips were set in a tight line—a sure sign that she was angry.

“Excuse me, Sister, if I'm a little direct,” White apologized.

He must have mistaken Eileen's sudden coloring for embarrassment. “Some detective,” Mary Helen wanted to say, but she thought better of it.

Detective Inspector White took time to read his notes while the two nuns sat in silence.

“You two best stay indoors,” he said, obviously trying to dispel the tension that had crept into their conversation. “You never know what you're going to run into out there!”

If you only knew the half of it,
Mary Helen thought, giving an obligatory chuckle.
And you will, my man, as soon as Garda
O'Dea finds an opening to tell you.

“And then, last night,” White was saying, “you found Mrs. Cox on your lawn?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector,” Mary Helen answered, and she told him about getting a ride home from the barbeque with the pastor, Father Keane, and walking across the darkened lawn only to find Oonagh Cox on the ground.

“She said that she had been attacked by someone in Death's costume,” Eileen added. She seemed determined to have the detective inspector at least acknowledge her theory about the costume's importance.

This time it was Detective Inspector White's face that colored. “Right,” he said at last, obviously just as determined not to give the costume its due.

Why in the world not?
Mary Helen wondered, stealing a furtive glance at his face, which revealed nothing.

“Do either of you remember anything else?” he asked at last. “Any more flowers?”

Now that he mentioned it, Mary Helen had noticed a fragrance when she rolled over Oonagh's body. One look at Detective Inspector White's thunderstorm face, however, and she decided to keep it to herself. She was in no mood for his ill humor. Abruptly White slapped his notebook shut and rose from his chair.

“Is that it, Detective Inspector?” Mary Helen asked.

“For now,” the detective said. “If you think of anything else, I'll be in the village for the rest of the day.”

“How is Oonagh this morning?” Eileen asked as they walked White to the door.

“I understand she's in pain, but that she'll be fine. I intend to go to the hospital this afternoon and see what she remembers.”

With a smile, Eileen shut the door behind White. “Isn't he a right pain in the neck today?” she asked. “
Narky,
as the Irish would say.”

“What do you suppose is bothering him?” Mary Helen peeked out the window and watched the detective return to the Monks' Table. He was shaking his head and looking for all the world as if he was carrying on a heated conversation with himself.

“Most likely he is getting a great deal of pressure to solve this case, and instead of his wrapping it up, more people are getting hurt. That can't be good for the detective inspector's nerves.”

“I don't suppose that the young garda has told him about Oonagh and Owen Lynch.” Mary Helen turned on the water in the sink and began to wash the lunch dishes. “Surely he'd have mentioned it if he knew.”

“I wonder.” Eileen picked up a towel to wipe. “And what was that about a fragrance? I don't remember you mentioning that before.”

“I didn't remember it before,” Mary Helen admitted, “what with the shock of finding the man and all. And from Detective Inspector White's reaction, I wish I hadn't thought of it yet. He acted as if I were imagining it, at best, or making it up, at worst. What did you think?”

“I don't know what to think,” Eileen said. “I guess I would have expected the man to be happy to have another clue. Although you must admit, old dear, that smelling a fragrance you can't identify isn't much of a help to the poor fellow.”

“If he'd just let me sniff around,” Mary Helen said wistfully.

“But he won't,” Eileen said, “and I suspect if we even try we'll get the rough side of Detective Inspector White's tongue, which I imagine is something to behold.”

“What about the young garda, Liam O'Dea?” Mary Helen asked brightly, although she didn't have much faith in him herself.

“Don't even think about it,” Eileen said.

“What harm, I ask you, can thinking possibly do?” Mary Helen asked.

The expression on Eileen's face was all the answer she needed.

 

 

Liam O'Dea had canvassed the entire village. No longer could he avoid the lane where his Auntie Zoë lived.

Taking a deep breath, he fervently hoped that Zoë was in the back of the house or, better yet, watching the telly. But even he knew that was too much to hope for.

The Lynch house was the first he passed on the lane. He stopped by the gate leading to the garden and took a quick look inside, then gave a sigh of relief when Patsy Lynch was nowhere to be seen. Sure if she caught a glimpse of him, she'd be on the horn with his auntie, as quick as a wink.

He'd often wondered why those two were such fast friends. Patsy seemed so loving and sweet while Zoë could drive a body to drink without a penny in his pocket.

Liam looked around the Lynch garden. Like so many of the village women, Patsy Lynch had her washing on the line. It looked to him as if every sheet, pillowcase, and towel in the house was being sun dried.

He half wondered if the beds of Ballyclarin would ever have clean linens if the sun didn't come out once in a while. Not that he'd say that to any ladies in the village, including his mother. He knew better than to criticize their housekeeping.

Patsy's line had several flowered sheets that he figured must belong to the twins, Doreen and Noreen. Hanging among the towels and pillowcases were a number of large white sheets—he counted seven—from a double bed, no doubt.

Staring at them, he wondered if Owen ever felt a twinge of conscience when he was sleeping on them beside his wife. Or maybe he had the twinge when he was in bed with Oonagh Cox. At the thought of it, he felt his face grow hot.

That is, he reminded himself, if what the American Sister told him she'd overheard was true. How was he going to find out for sure? He couldn't just walk up to Mr. Lynch and ask, now could he?

But why not? He was a garda, wasn't he? Owen Lynch, on the other hand, was chairman of the Oyster Festival and an important businessman in the county.

But nobody is above the law, are they?
Liam took off his hat and mopped his forehead. This heat was a killer.

Chairman or no, no one is above the law,
he repeated to himself. And he was the law.

Liam was dredging up the courage to knock on Lynch's front door when his uncle Bertie stormed out of the house next door, slamming the front door behind himself.

Even from this distance Liam could see that his face was crimson. “Don't get married, son, if you can avoid it,” Bertie shouted at him. “Above all, avoid a woman with a sharp tongue!”

“Are you all right?” Liam asked, but Bertie O'Dea didn't seem to hear him. Or, if he did, he wasn't answering.

Making a sharp turn by the front gate of his cottage, Bertie jumped into a waiting black funeral hearse, revved up the ignition, and raced away as if the devil were on his tail.

“And what is it you're gawking at?” It was Zoë's voice coming from the open front window. “Don't you have anything better to do than to snoop into decent people's business? If I remember correctly, there's been a murder in our village and one of our leading citizens has been attacked. Shouldn't you be trying to find the one who did these things?”

In case he hadn't heard her, she flung open the front door and stood with her hands on her hips. Her face was contorted with anger. “Well,” she said, “has the cat got your tongue? Or are you so high and mighty in that uniform that you don't speak to your own relatives?”

Liam fought down the urge to arrest her, clamp handcuffs on her skinny arms, and drag her off to Mountjoy, then throw away the key. Instead, he walked slowly into the front garden and moved ever so purposefully among the laundry hanging on her lines.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing?” she shouted as he deliberately picked up one of his uncle's shirts and examined it.

Her small dark eyes stared unblinking, and her mouth twitched with fury.

Without a word, he examined her towels, bedsheets, and three pairs of cotton stockings.

“Don't you dare touch my laundry, you bold stump!” Zoë
screeched, but Liam acted as if he hadn't heard her. Instead, with two fingers he picked up each side of a pair of her knickers and pulled them as wide as they would go. Raising his eyebrows, he looked from Zoë to the knickers and back again as if measuring them for a fit.

“Be Jaysus,” Zoë screamed, her voice swollen with rage. “Leave those be and get out of my garden, you
eejit,
before I murder ye!”

Her words had the cold chill of ice, and Liam wondered for the first time if his Auntie Zoë could be the one.

Walking quickly back to the Monks' Table, Liam could not shake the feeling that Zoë was a possible suspect.

Just because a person says that she wants to murder you doesn't
mean she will do it,
he reminded himself.

And just because she's your auntie doesn't mean she's innocent,
he countered.

“How did the sheet search go?” Detective Inspector White asked when Liam stepped into the pub. “Did you uncover anything unusual?”

Brian Reedy laughed at his wording, and the expression on White's face made it difficult for Liam to tell whether or not the pun was intended.

The young garda hesitated, not sure exactly what to say. “Well, sir,” he said at last, “I'd say that we'll not find one made bed in the whole of the village.”

“But you found nothing?”

Liam shook his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It was a long shot,” Reedy said, grabbing Liam's shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “We are just on our way to hospital to visit Mrs. Cox. Maybe we'll have better luck.”

Liam felt Detective Inspector White's eyes studying him. “Join us, lad,” White said. “Three heads are surely better than two.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam said, trying to hide his pleasure and relief. Surely Mrs. Cox was no longer a suspect. She was a victim, wasn't she? And hadn't he been right, after all, not to say anything about her and Owen Lynch? What a fool he'd feel, now that Mrs. Cox had been attacked.

Carmel would be at hospital, too, with her mam. He wondered what she'd think when she saw him keeping company with the detectives. He hoped she wouldn't get all giddy. Sure he didn't need another headache, now did he?

 

 

Sister Mary Helen could not settle down. She tried reading. But she couldn't concentrate. She flipped through several magazines left on the bookshelf by previous guests at the mews, but she'd be hard-pressed to tell anyone what she looked at.

Out the window, she noticed a brilliant white cloud bank forming along the horizon, and the sky was beginning to show patches of steel gray. A sudden wind slammed the trees in the backyard, sending a flock of crows cackling and wheeling into the sky.

Mary Helen shivered. Was that all the sunshine they were going to have?

Eileen, too, seemed unsettled. Maybe it was the weather.

“I can't seem to get Oonagh Cox off my mind,” Eileen said finally. “Regardless of what her son said, I think we should pay her a visit.”

“You do?” Mary Helen was surprised.