Murder at the Monks' Table (27 page)

 

Hugh Ryan was like a new man, and it hadn't taken much. Detective Inspector Ernie White had given him permission to reopen the Monks' Table today at eleven, on the condition
that the detective inspector and his men could use Hugh's small office as headquarters for their investigation.

Arrangements were quickly made. The news of the pub's reopening had traveled through the village almost faster than the speed of sound, if such a thing were possible.

A record crowd arrived by noon for a bite to eat or for just a pint and a look around at the murder scene. The waitresses were run ragged, and Hugh himself could scarcely keep up with the Guinness orders.

Old Terry Eagan was back. He had managed to claim his usual bar stool and was full of bad jokes to tell to all who would listen. Over the din, his voice could be heard. “Paddy, Sean, and Seamus were stumbling home from the pub late one night,” he said, “and found themselves on the road which leads past the old graveyard.

“ ‘Come, have a look over here,' says Paddy. ‘It's Michael O'Grady's grave. God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of eighty-seven!'

“ ‘That's nothing,' says Sean. ‘Here's one named Denis O'Toole. It says here he was ninety-five when he died.'

“Just then Seamus yells out, ‘Good God, here's a fella that got to be one hundred forty-five.'

“ ‘What was his name?' asks Paddy.

“Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lighting a match to see what else is on the stone marker. ‘Miles from Dublin,' he says.”

“That's a good one,” Hugh said, sounding happy that business would soon be back to normal.

 

 

As agreed upon, Detective Inspectors Ernie White and Brian Reedy set up headquarters in Hugh's small office, which had a door leading to the field behind the Monks' Table. That is, if
you could call bringing in a couple of chairs and clearing off the desktop setting up headquarters. Simple as it seemed, it had taken most of the morning to do it.

“Reporting for duty, sirs,” Liam O'Dea said smartly when they had finished. He glanced surreptitiously around the room. By this time, he had hoped to find more gardai on the scene. He tried not to show his disappointment when only White, Reedy, and he were on board. Maybe the others were still coming.

“Good morning, lad,” White replied, scarcely looking up from the desk. “As you can see, the men are still needed in Dublin, but we can't let our small number stop us, can we?” He looked up, and his brown eyes caught Liam off guard.

“No, sir,” Liam answered quickly, wondering if his face gave him away.

“No, indeed. Have a seat, Liam.” White pointed to the one empty chair left in the room. “Let's go over what we know and what needs to be done to solve this case.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam answered stiffly, sitting straight-backed in his chair. The muscles in his arms and legs ached from yesterday's hurling match. He had no idea he was in such bad shape. But they had won, and Carmel, in her excitement, had given him a great big victory kiss, which made his pain a small price to pay.

“Good game last night,” Reedy said, raising his teacup in a toast.

“We've no time for games,” White cut in.

Uh-oh,
Liam thought, catching a glimpse of the frown on the detective's face.
Today is not going to be a good one.
“Yes, sir,” he said.

White ran his eyes down his notebook page. “Let's see now,” he said.

It's as if he expects something to pop off the page and hit him in
the eyes,
Liam thought, watching the man's dark scowl.

“The search for Death's costume went nowhere, then?” White grumbled.

Liam couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement, so he said nothing. Actually, there was not much he could say. He knew that most of the families in Ballyclarin were now sleeping on clean sheets, but that hardly seemed pertinent to the investigation.

“Ah.” White stopped and looked up suddenly. “We did have one complaint. One,” he repeated, “from Ms. Zoë O'Dea.”

Liam's stomach cramped, and he could almost feel White's dark eyes boring into him.

“It seems that you touched her unmentionables.”

Reedy snickered, and Liam felt his face grow hot.
Damn woman,
he thought, averting his eyes.

“Was there a reason?” his superior asked, rationally. “There had better be a good reason, lad.”

Liam needed to think of something. Desperately, he searched for a reasonable explanation. “I was just being thorough, sir,” he said finally.

“Thorough? How so?”

Dear God, don't let me stutter.
“Well, sir,” he said, “she seemed reluctant and I wanted to make sure she wasn't hiding anything.”

“In her knickers?” White roared.

This time Reedy laughed out loud.

“This is not a joke, Brian,” White cut back at his partner.

“Sorry,” Reedy mumbled, biting his cheeks.

“This woman is your aunt, is she not?” White asked.

“By marriage,” Liam answered.

“And you were afraid she might be hiding something?”

Liam didn't know whether to answer yes or no. Either way, he was caught.

Fortunately, Reedy saved the day. “She's his aunt, all right,”
he said, “and one colossal pain in the arse. You can't blame Liam for doing his job.” That seemed to mollify the detective inspector, at least for the moment, and he went back to studying his notebook.

“Anything else on your search?” he asked after a few minutes. “Anything significant?”

Not a damn thing,
Liam wanted to say, but he knew that wasn't the answer. The Lynch twins have flowered sheets, he remembered, but he knew White would have his head if he mentioned that.

“Well, garda?”

Liam fidgeted. Would White ever get off him? Probably not until he had another bone to chew. Now was as good a time as any to tell him about Mrs. Cox and Owen Lynch.

“Well, sir.” Liam's Adam's apple felt enormous in his throat, and he was sure beads of perspiration were popping out on his forehead.

“Well, what?” White narrowed his eyes.

With as few words as possible Liam told the detective about what Sister Mary Helen had overheard.

“Oonagh Cox and Owen Lynch?” White repeated in disbelief. “And you say Willie Ward knew?”

“Yes, sir, that's what the American nun said.”

“And why didn't she tell me?” White muttered to himself.

Liam knew the answer, but he also knew better than to give it. He was glad when Reedy spoke up. “Be reasonable, Ernie. You told her to stay out of your business.”

“But she didn't, now did she?” His eyes swung back to Liam. “Is there anything else she told you that you've not told me?”

“No, sir,” Liam said, dreading the next question he knew was coming.

“And when did she tell you this?”

Liam cleared his throat. He was sure his voice was gone.
The sharp ring of the telephone shattered the silence. Liam jumped.

White stared at it as if he'd never seen it before, then reached over to the edge of the desk and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he shouted into the phone. “Yes, this is he,” he said, then listened.

Liam would have liked to get up from his chair, but he wasn't sure his legs would hold him. The temperature in the small office seemed to have soared, and at the moment, he could scarcely breathe. Whoever was on the line had given him a short reprieve, but he knew that it wouldn't last long.

How would he tell his da that he had been let go, which he surely would be when White found out he'd kept the information from him for three days? What would he do with himself? He supposed he could get himself a position in the family business, maybe as a hearse driver. But he had always wanted to be a garda.

And what would he tell Carmel—that he'd been fired? She'd want to know the reason. And how would he tell her about her mother and Owen Lynch? Maybe this was a good time to go to America.

“That was the florist in Oranmore,” White said, frowning.

“Good news, I hope.” Reedy perked up. “Could he tell you who sent the yellow roses and the note to Mrs. Cox?”

“No,” White answered. “It seems that his records show that whoever sent them paid in cash and must have given him the signed card to enclose.”

“And he can't remember who it was?”

White shook his head. “Not at all. He says there were so many orders that day all going to Oonagh Cox that he can't remember one from another.”

“But not everyone pays in cash, I'm certain. And we only saw one bouquet of yellow roses.” Reedy frowned. “You'd think he'd remember that.”

“Right. He does remember several people giving him cash. Most of them women, but he can't be sure this one was. But it could be.”

White rose from behind the desk, put his hands in his trousers pockets and stared into space. “A woman,” he repeated. “This case is getting stranger and stranger.”

“Now what?” Reedy asked.

White shrugged. “Let's talk to the American nun,” he said. “And"—he looked at Liam—”you stay here, lad, and wait for the tech team to call from Dublin. Please God, they will have found something useful.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam said, feeling a little sick to his stomach. Watching the two inspectors walk toward the mews, he thought he knew how a condemned man feels when his death sentence has just been commuted.

 

 

“Uh-oh,” Mary Helen said softly, nodding her head toward the gate leading to the mews.

Eileen turned and quickly rose. “Good morning, Detective Inspectors,” she said. “We were just finishing up. Will you join us for a cup of coffee or a cup of tea?”

Reedy looked as if he might be tempted to accept, but White spoke up before he had a chance.

“Thank you, no,” he said with a voice from the deep freeze. “We need a word.”

“A word?” Eileen asked, her gray eyes wide.

“Can we go somewhere?” White looked around the garden as if he suspected the hedge sparrows skulking around in the underbrush of being bugged.

“It's such a lovely day,” Eileen began to protest, but White had already pulled open their front door and stood aside waiting for them to enter.

Silence fell like a stone as the four settled into comfortable chairs in the living room.

“What can we do for you?” Mary Helen asked finally and noticed that her question had made White's face redden. Was it anger or embarrassment? She couldn't tell.

“We understand from Garda O'Dea,” White began.

Mary Helen felt a sudden relief.
That's what this is all about,
she thought.
The young fellow has finally told his superior.

“I wish that you had come to me,” White was saying in a rather snappish tone, which made Mary Helen's backbone stiffen. Her jaw tightened, and she pushed up her bifocals onto the bridge of her nose as she studied the man.
How quickly we forget!
she thought.

White must have noticed her expression for all at once his voice softened. “No harm done,” he said with largesse.

As
though I were the one at fault.
Mary Helen bristled.

“What's important is that we find who murdered the poor blighter.” White looked directly at her. “Don't we agree?”

Mary Helen nodded. How could she disagree?

“Lovely, then,” White said.

Without warning a towering bank of black clouds covered the sky, darkening the room. A sudden wind bent the trees and rain spit against the windows.

“Maybe we will have that cup of tea,” White said, watching the rain. “Then you can tell me exactly what you overheard.”

Sipping tea and chatting for a few minutes about last night's hurling match did wonders for the meeting. Sister Mary Helen calmed down and Detective Inspector White seemed friendlier.

Eileen refilled their cups as Mary Helen related what she had overheard outside the hall.