Murder at the Monks' Table (32 page)

Mary Helen wondered how to answer. “Yes,” she knew, was not right, and “no” sounded too callous. She was relieved when the band gave a loud drum roll and Chairman Owen Lynch reached for the microphone.

After welcoming everyone and thanking them for coming, he introduced the lead singer, a street theater group that was to perform, and a local group of Irish dancers. The young step dancers filed onto the floor first for a reel. The crowd cheered them wildly as the music began and before they had taken a single step.

Blessedly, Mary Helen could hardly hear herself over the music, let alone hear what Zoë was saying. After a few minutes of fruitless shouting, Zoë moved on.

Father Keane returned with an assortment of desserts. Although he said nothing, Mary Helen thought that he looked relieved that Zoë had gone.

Even though she was enjoying the entertainment, Mary Helen stifled a yawn. The tent was warm and the music was loud. She would really have liked to slip out for a breath of fresh air, but she was a little gun-shy. The last time she had stepped out, she'd overheard Oonagh and Owen Lynch.

She yawned again, trying to decide what to do. Wasn't there an old saying about lightning not striking twice?

“Getting sleepy?” Eileen asked, putting her mouth close to Mary Helen's ear.

Mary Helen shook her head. “Just need some fresh air,” she mouthed.

“Me, too,” Eileen replied. Motioning to Father Keane, who seemed totally absorbed in eating a large helping of trifle, the two nuns slipped out the side door and moved just far enough away that they didn't need to shout to hear one another.

The night was crisp and clear. Thousands of stars shone like diamond chips scattered across a black velvet sky. The air smelled fresh and clean. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a nearby chestnut tree, waking a bird who gave a soft coo.

“This is so beautiful,” Mary Helen whispered, not wanting to disturb the tranquil scene. “I hate to leave. Where did the week go?”

“Maybe we'll come back again someday,” Eileen said.

“Maybe,” Mary Helen agreed, although she knew that neither of them really thought they would.

“Perhaps we should wish upon a star,” Eileen, ever the optimist, suggested. She pointed to one that seemed larger than the rest.

Mary Helen stood quietly, savoring the moment. Tomorrow they would be on their way back to San Francisco. Ballyclarin would be just a pleasant memory. She sighed.

All at once, she smelled something. Was it her imagination, or was that the same fragrance she had smelled in the ladies' the day she discovered Willie Ward? It was hard to describe—flowery, yet woodsy.

Eileen turned to face her. She must have smelled it, too. Mary Helen put her finger up to her lips, and the two nuns moved farther back in the shadows.

“Ah, Patsy, you can't mean it. How could you?” Sister Mary Helen recognized Owen Lynch's voice. The poor man sounded desperate.

“I did it for you, love,” she said. “I'd do anything for you. You know that. I wouldn't let that awful man talk about you. You are my husband. I couldn't let him break up our marriage, now could I? I had to, don't you understand?” It was Patsy's voice, clear and logical.

“You had to murder the man?” Owen asked breathlessly. “There was no other way?”

“He wouldn't stop otherwise, now would he?” she said, quite sure of herself. “I had to stop him.”

“Patsy.”

Owen must have grabbed her because his wife said, “Ouch! You are hurting my arms.”

“Sorry!” he said.

“What's the matter, love?” she coaxed, sounding quite mad. “We had a problem and I fixed it, just like I always fix our problems. Right, my love? That is what a wife is for.”

“Oh, Patsy.” Owen's voice choked. “This is all my fault,” he said miserably. “I'll call Detective Inspector White after the jamboree is over and tell him I did it.”

“But you didn't,” Patsy said. “That would be a lie. I did it and I'm not a bit sorry. He was an awful man, really.”

“But, Patsy, the twins. Who will take care of the twins? Have you thought of them? They need a mother.”

“Oh, the twins.” Patsy hesitated. “Maybe what we should do, love, is not tell anyone. If the detectives from Galway have not figured it out by now, my guess is that they never will. And Liam O'Dea is hopeless.” She gave a high-pitched snicker, which sent shivers down Mary Helen's spine.

“I'm afraid that Zoë suspects. But she won't say anything. She's my best friend. Besides, she hated the way Willie treated her Tara. Don't you remember?”

“Patsy, have you taken leave of your senses? You can't just murder a man and think it will all go away.”

“Why not?” Patsy asked. “I used Death's costume as a disguise. It was just an ordinary old sheet. And, by the way, how much did they charge the festival for that? Some people have no conscience,” she said testily. She thought a moment. “I should have washed our butcher knife, as well, and put it back in the kitchen drawer where it belongs. That was a good knife.”

“You killed the man with our butcher knife?” Owen gagged.

“Yes, love.” She giggled. “Silly man, you have such a weak stomach.” She paused. “My only mistake, I think, was that I forced him into the ladies'. I am so used to using the ladies' myself. I didn't think of forcing him into the men's. I should have killed him in the men's, shouldn't I have?”

“And what about Oonagh?” Owen asked softly.

“Oonagh should be ashamed of herself,” she said primly, “flirting with other people's husbands. But I think she's good and sorry now, don't you?”

“I do, Patsy.” He sounded as if all the air had been knocked out of his body.

“So then, love, do you want to dance? Listen, I just love this song.”

Strains of “Sentimental Journey” floated out of the tent and into the starry night.

“Patsy,” Owen said gently, “listen to me. You need help.”

Patsy's voice was strong. “God helps those who help themselves,” she said with a high wild giggle that made Mary Helen's blood run cold. “Come on now, love. Hurry or we'll miss this dance.”

“God have mercy on us,” Eileen whispered once the Lynches were safely out of earshot.

Sister Mary Helen let out her breath. “The poor woman is mad,” she said.

“Mad or not,” Eileen said, “we have to tell someone. And the sooner the better. There is no telling what she'll do next. But who?”

“That young garda is here,” Mary Helen said. “I saw him dancing with Carmel Cox.”

“Good idea.” Eileen turned on her heel. “I'll go get him, you stay here.”

Within minutes, Eileen was back with Liam O'Dea in tow. Quickly and succinctly they told him what they had overheard.

Liam stared at them, openmouthed. “Are you sure?” he asked not once but twice.

And who could blame him?
Mary Helen thought. It was bizarre. “We are positive,” she said, “and I suggest you call Detective Inspector White as soon as possible.”

Back in the tent, the two nuns made a pretense of watching the dancing and the entertainment. Both of their minds were somewhere else.

“Are you all right?” Father Keane's dark eyes studied them. “You're so quiet. Is something wrong?”

“No, Father,” Eileen answered brightly.

“You are sorry to be leaving, I guess,” he said, and they let it go at that.

 

 

Liam O'Dea stood for several seconds outside the jamboree tent. He felt as if his two feet were growing into the lawn. What should he do? he wondered. He'd have asked Reedy's advice, but a while back he had noticed Brian slip out of the tent with his arm around Tara and a lovestruck look in his eyes. You needn't be a great detective to figure out what those two were up to.

He gazed up at the starry sky, glad that he was out here alone. Thank goodness, Carmel had gone to freshen up, whatever that meant, when the nuns came for him. How could he explain that he'd found the killer, not by clever deduction, as it is supposed to be done, but by eavesdropping? A simple case of eavesdropping!

Not even his own eavesdropping, but a confession overheard accidentally by a couple of old nuns. He had never expected that the murder would be solved this way.

He wondered what Detective Inspector White would think. Quickly he slipped into the empty pub and made his way to Hugh Ryan's office to call the detective inspector at home.

Liam could hear White breathing as the young garda repeated the story. “That explains the extra sheet on Lynch's clothesline,” White said.

Liam had completely forgotten about that.

“And why he was found in the ladies',” the detective went on quietly. Liam wasn't sure if White was talking to him or to himself.

“Yes, sir,” Liam said, hoping that would cover either scenario.

“Good work, lad,” White said. “You'll make a fine detective some day.”

Liam could hardly believe his ears. A fine detective indeed!

“Sir,” he said, “I've been thinking.”

“Yes.” White sounded impatient. “Keep that thought until I get there,” he said and hung up.

Liam scarcely had time to get his speech in order, let alone summon up the courage to give it, before White arrived. Quickly the detective outlined a plan to take Patsy Lynch from the tent to Galway City with as little commotion as possible.

“Now, then.” White turned his attention to Liam. “You said you had a thought?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Liam felt the blood drumming in his ears. “I did, although I'm not sure this is the time for it.”

“Let's hear it, then,” White said, not unkindly.

Closing his eyes, Liam blurted out, “I don't think I'm cut out to be a garda, sir.” There, he'd said it!

He heard White sigh. “And why do you say that, lad? You've certainly helped me in this case.”

“That was an accident,” Liam said miserably. “Detective work had nothing to do with it. In fact, it was worse than an accident. It was eavesdropping, pure and simple, and not even my own!”

Detective Inspector White sat on the edge of the desk, and for a few moments Liam watched him stare at that blasted spot
on the ceiling. “You have the one thing that any good detective needs,” he said at last.

Liam waited to hear what exactly that could be. When he could stand the silence no longer, he asked, “And what is that, sir?”

“Luck, lad,” White said. “Dumb luck. ‘Tis better to be lucky, they say, than to be wise.”

“Thank you, sir,” Liam said. “I think.” He could feel his face burning. Detective Inspector Liam O'Dea! He threw his shoulders back. There was a nice ring to it, he had to admit as he followed his superior officer out of the office.

 

 

Almost no one seemed to notice Detective Inspector White arrive, nor did anyone see him leave with Liam O'Dea and Patsy Lynch.
So sad,
Mary Helen thought, watching the trio exit quietly by the side door.

“Are you ready to go home?” Father Keane asked above the music. Mary Helen smiled wearily. “Paul said he'd take us.”

Father Keane pointed to the dance floor. “He and the missus are having a wonderful time. Let me tell him I'll take you home.”

“Paul wasn't too disappointed?” Mary Helen asked, climbing into the priest's black Mazda.

“Not a'tall,” Father Keane said. “He said he'd pick you up at half ten tomorrow for the plane.”

They rode the short distance in silence. “I saw Detective Inspector White come for Patsy Lynch,” he said.

“Yes,” Mary Helen said, wondering just how much Father Keane knew and what he had been doing in the field the night they found Tommy Burns. These were two things, she realized, that she would probably never know the answers to.

“I feel as if I've just awakened from a nightmare,” Eileen
said, making sure the door of the mews was closed and locked behind them.