Murder at the Monks' Table (30 page)

“And what?” Eileen asked.

“And, I don't know,” Mary Helen said, frustrated, “but I do remember detecting a fragrance when I found Mr. Ward in the ladies'. Not a familiar one, for sure, but one, nonetheless.”

“And you told that to Detective Inspector White, didn't you?” Eileen asked.

“You know I did.”

“So, what is bothering you?”

“He seems to be ignoring it, or maybe he has just forgotten,” Mary Helen said, “and it could be important.”

Eileen looked at her quizzically. “How so?” she asked.

“I just assumed the fragrance was from soap or some air freshener, but it could have been on a person.”

“Do they make men's perfume, as well?” Eileen wondered aloud.

“I don't know, but we should find out.”

“Stop right there,” Eileen said. “Tomorrow we are leaving, so even if Detective Inspector White wanted you to, there wouldn't be time.”

“Now you know what has me fidgeting,” Mary Helen said, momentarily distracted by the glorious rainbow stretching across the sky. “We really should remind the detective inspector.”

“Then, let's,” Eileen said, much to Mary Helen's surprise. “I cannot bear to see you fidget the whole rest of the time we're here, even if it's only a day.”

Handing Sister Mary Helen an umbrella, Eileen dropped the key to the mews in her pocket. “He can't have left the village already, can he?”

 

 

“Hello, Sisters,” Father Keane's voice called out across the road. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? You look to be in a hurry.”

Checking both ways for traffic, the two nuns crossed over quickly and joined the priest in the car park of the church. There was no sense shouting out that they were looking for the inspector. It would be all over the village in seconds.

“Have you any idea where Detective Inspector White has gone?” Mary Helen asked, looking up at the priest. She had forgotten how tall the man was.

“I just saw his car going down the road out of the village,” Father Keane said. His gray curly hair was damp with rain. “He said he was on his way to Bon Secours to see Oonagh. I'm on my way there myself to make a few sick calls. I'd be happy to drive you. And bring you back,” he added. “If you can wait until I'm done. I shouldn't be long.”

Without further discussion, the two nuns climbed into the priest's black Mazda.

Even before they were halfway to Galway City, Mary Helen
felt better. She'd done the best she could to help solve this case, and, as the old saying went, angels can't do more than their very best.

Father Keane left them in the lobby of the hospital and was led away by a Sister in a white habit to do his spiritual rounds.

It was only in the elevator that Mary Helen had a second thought. “What do you think Detective Inspector White will say when he sees us?” she whispered to Eileen.

“There's no telling,” Eileen said, “but if he has any sense, he'll be glad to have the information.”

“You're right,” Mary Helen agreed with more assurance than she felt.

The elevator door opened and the nuns hurried down the hospital corridor to Oonagh Cox's room. They paused in the doorway and listened. The room was so quiet that, at first, it seemed empty.

“Maybe we've come on a wild goose chase,” Mary Helen whispered. “Could Oonagh have been sent home?” She peeked in, half expecting to see an empty bed.

Instead, she was met by five frozen sets of eyes staring at her. Tension hung like fog over the little group.

“Who's that?” Owen Lynch demanded, his red face twisted into an ugly scowl. He squinted at them through his hornrimmed glasses.

Mary Helen smiled sheepishly. “Sorry,” she said. “We didn't mean to disturb anything. We just needed a word with Detective Inspector White. Tomorrow is our last day and …” She stopped, feeling as if she were babbling.

“Now is not a good time, I take it,” Eileen said, stating the obvious.

“Not at all.” Oonagh was the first to recover her poise. “Of course you can speak to the detective inspector. After all, you
were the ones who found me. We'll be sorry to see you go.” Her blue eyes were damp, as if she'd been crying.

All at once, Mary Helen realized what they had stumbled in on. “We can wait,” she said, trying to back out of the room.

Oonagh smiled sadly. “No need.” She reached out to Owen. “I'm sure you've heard, or maybe you've even noticed that Owen and I are more than friends. We didn't want to be, but—”

“Stop, Oonagh,” Owen commanded angrily. “Is nothing sacred?”

“Not when it involves a murder, my darling.” She studied the nuns as if she was trying to decide just how much to tell them. Swallowing, she closed her eyes and began. “You see, Willie Ward knew of our affair. Somehow we hadn't been careful enough. And for all practical purposes, he was blackmailing Owen. Threatening to tell Patsy.” Her voice softened. “Neither Owen nor I wanted to hurt Patsy, so Owen gave in to his demands.”

“His demands?” Mary Helen said, looking over at White. His face could have stopped Big Ben. “Sorry,” she muttered.

White acted as if he hadn't heard her. “What demands?” he asked, turning his full attention to Owen. The chairman sank like a deflated rubber toy into the chair by Oonagh's bedside. “Such as choosing Tara over Carmel for the Oyster Festival Queen,” he said.

“Why?” The question was out of Mary Helen's mouth before she even thought. She avoided looking at either detective.

“For no other reason than to hurt Oonagh.” Owen swallowed, again. His mouth seemed dry. Mary Helen looked around for a glass of water. She pointed to one on Oonagh's bedside table.

Owen shook his head. “I'm fine,” he said. “He also made sure Jake Powers didn't win the art award again, although Jake is clearly one of the best photographers we have in the county. For that matter, maybe in the whole country. I made sure that
my twins' work was chosen—the poor angels can hardly draw breath, let alone a landscape—to show how ridiculous it was having a second winner.” Owen took a deep breath. “Willie hated Jake, you know, and he threatened to tell Patsy if I let him be the lone winner.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the small hospital room. “But I didn't kill the man.” Owen Lynch sounded pathetic. “Honestly, much as I would have liked to, I didn't.”

“Can you prove that?” White asked gently.

“I can,” Oonagh said. “We were together.”

White frowned. “Come on now, Oonagh! How do you know you were together when you don't even know what time he was killed?”

Oonagh's face went white, and then turned a brilliant red.

“Best we stick with the truth,” White said.

“Sorry,” Oonagh said. Her eyes welling up with tears, she reached for a tissue.

“You say Patsy has no idea about you two?” Reedy asked, handing her the box.

“None that we know of,” Oonagh said.

Ernie White cleared his throat and turned toward the nuns, as if seeing them for the first time. “Sisters,” he said formally, “maybe we should step outside.”

“Of course.” Mary Helen followed the man into the corridor.

“Now then,” he said when he had shut the door for privacy. “What is it you want to see me about?”

Mary Helen was so taken up with what had gone on in the room that it took her a moment to remember. “Oh yes, Detective Inspector,” she said, “the smell.”

He looked puzzled.

“Don't you remember? I told you I smelled something that I didn't recognize in the ladies' room when I found Willie Ward's body.”

He nodded.

“I was wondering if the fragrance could be from the Burren Perfumery. It's quite unusual and maybe a person who wears it…” Her voice trailed off.

Detective Inspector White's dark eyes studied her. “You mean that the killer might have been wearing the scent?”

Sister Mary Helen nodded.

“Would you recognize it if you smelled it again?” White asked, taking his notebook out of his suit jacket pocket.

“I think so,” Mary Helen said. “In fact, I'm sure I smelled it when I found Oonagh on our lawn. And I think I saw a small bottle of the cologne on the window ledge when we came to visit her in the hospital. She must wear the same fragrance.”

Mary Helen watched as he jotted down a few words in his notebook. She wished she could read what he was writing.

“Are you ready to go, Sisters?” Father Keane's voice floated down the corridor. “Sorry!” he said when he realized that they were talking to the detective inspector. “I'll just stick my head in to Oonagh,” he said, and before anyone could stop him he was in the room.

Detective Inspector White ran his fingers through his dark hair, which looked as if it hadn't seen a comb or brush for at least a week. “This is no way to conduct an investigation,” he muttered to himself. “Father,” he called after the priest, but there was no need. Father Keane came right out.

“Ready, Sisters?” he asked again.

This time Detective Inspector White answered for them. “They are, Father,” he said. “They definitely are!”

 

 

Liam O'Dea could hardly believe his eyes when Father Keane popped into the room. Owen Lynch's face became so red that Liam feared the man might have a stroke.

“Father, what are you doing here?” Owen blurted out rudely.

“I just came to check on Oonagh,” the priest said, seeming to take no offense. “But I can see she is being well cared for.”

Then, appearing to be a little uncomfortable, he gave the woman a quick blessing, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and left the room.

What
, Liam wondered, watching relief flood Owen's face,
was that all about?
Could it be that the priest knew something that Owen was afraid he'd tell? Owen would have to know that if Father Keane heard it in confession, he'd be forbidden to reveal it. Or had the priest seen something?

Oonagh reached out her hand. “What is it, Owen? What is the matter?”

Before he could answer, Detective Inspector White reen-tered the room, stopped, and locked the door.

“What are you doing?” Oonagh asked. She sounded frightened.

“I need a few uninterrupted minutes is all,” White said. “I want to ask you some questions without some visitor or other popping in.”

White studied the notebook in his hand for several seconds. Liam shifted from one foot to the other while they waited.

“First of all, Mrs. Cox,” he began, his mouth tightening, “what kind of perfume do you wear?”

“I beg your pardon?” Oonagh asked, as if she didn't understand the question.

Who can blame her?
Liam thought. It seemed to come from nowhere. For a moment, he wondered if he had heard it correctly himself.

“What kind of perfume do you wear?” White repeated.

Oonagh frowned. “Do you mean the brand or the fragrance?”

“Both,” White said. His dark eyes never left her face.

“Well, Detective Inspector,” she said, “I favor Ilaun, and it is from the Burren Perfumery.”

“Can you describe its fragrance?” White asked.

“Better than that,” Oonagh said with a shy smile. “Owen bought me some as a get-well gift, although he shouldn't have. It is very dear.” Her bright blue eyes caressed him, and Owen, a boyish grin on his face, actually seemed to blush.

How in the world did they think to keep their affair a secret,
Liam wondered,
looking at one another that way? All you need is two
eyes to see.

Oonagh stretched out her arm so that the detectives could sniff her wrist. Liam felt like a perfect
eejit
when it was his turn to smell Mrs. Cox. Thanks be to God, the hospital room was locked. He'd die if Carmel came in on it.

The perfume was so light he had to smell twice. If anyone asked him—and he was hoping no one would—he'd say it smelled faintly of flowers and maybe fern.