Murder at the Monks' Table (6 page)

But by now, regardless of what the band was playing, everyone in the tent seemed to be dancing—men and women, women with women, children with one another and with adults, even one of the brown-robed friars.

Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen found two vacant chairs along the wall of the tent and hung a folded raincoat on the back of each. A universal “reserved” sign, Mary Helen thought as they went to join the food line. Returning to their chairs with full plates, they were content to sit, eat, and people-watch. Mary Helen realized with a sense of accomplishment that she was beginning to recognize some of the villagers.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the band took a well-deserved break.

“Did you get something to eat?”

Mary Helen turned to find Patsy Lynch, the chairman's wife, grinning down at them. Patsy had dolled up for the evening, Mary Helen noticed, even put on some makeup and a drop of a flowery perfume.

“It seems as if we've done nothing else except eat,” Eileen said, “but thank you.”

“Well, don't hesitate. There's plenty,” Patsy said, then looked away, frowning. Obviously, someone or something else had caught her attention. “If you'll excuse me,” she said. Mary Helen watched Patsy's gray head disappear as the woman elbowed her way toward the front door.

The nun stretched to see what was going on, but the crowd was too dense. Besides, Eileen and she had deliberately sat far enough away from the entrance so that they couldn't hear the drums. Both of them had had enough of the I Believe Team to last a lifetime.

“We meet again.”

Mary Helen looked up. It was Oonagh Cox. She wore a lovely sky-blue silk dress that highlighted her eyes and a large diamond lavaliere with matching earrings.

At first glance, it would have been difficult to recognize the wet, angry woman of this afternoon. It was as if she had been transformed.

Oonagh smiled apologetically. “I'm glad I ran into you,” she said. “I hope my little fit at Moran's didn't drive you away.” Her cheeks reddened. “It is just that I see Willie Ward and I rear up. I should know better than to let him bother me.”

“Not at all,” Eileen said, patting an empty chair next to her. “Do you want to join us?”

Oonagh appeared as if she might, but the band started up again and a tall, handsome, young man tapped her on the shoulder. “May I have this dance, Mam?” he said.

“My son, Dermot,” Oonagh introduced him, then linked her arm through his. “If you'll excuse us.”

“Sweet,” Eileen said, watching the pair waltz away in a swirl of sky blue.

A sudden roar from the bar area caught Mary Helen's attention. She thought it had come from a tall sinewy man with straight black hair slicked back to reach his collar. He was nose
to nose with Owen Lynch, and neither man appeared to be giving an inch.

“Enough, me arse!” she heard the tall man shout. She was about to ask Eileen if she knew who he was, when Paul Glynn and his redheaded wife danced over to them.

“How're ye keeping?” Paul asked cheerfully.

“Grand!” Eileen answered for the two of them.

Paul looked around. “It's a beautiful party now, isn't it?” he said.

Mary Helen nodded, waiting for her opportunity to ask about the man with the slicked-back hair, but when she looked up, he was gone, and Owen Lynch was making his way to the bandstand.

Tapping the microphone, Owen called for attention. Amazingly, the crowd quieted down as the chairman once again introduced the Oyster Queen, Tara O'Dea, in her green taffeta dress and rhinestone tiara.

Tara smiled shyly as Owen handed her a bouquet of deep red roses. The applause rose to a roar, and the friars picked up their barrels for one final metallic drum roll. Zoë O'Dea stood below the stage, unself-consciously wiping tears from her cheeks.

Sister Mary Helen looked around the crowded tent. Where was Willie Ward? she wondered. Shouldn't he be here to interview people for his column? It looked as if everyone in the village was present except Willie and the shrouded figure of Mr. Death. Maybe that was where Willie had gone, to interview Mr. Death.

Sister Mary Helen was glad to see her friend yawn, at last. “Tired?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Party or no party, she could barely keep her own eyes open, although she was making a brave try at it, not wanting to spoil Eileen's fun.

“Exhausted,” Eileen admitted. “All that fresh air.” She studied
Mary Helen's face. “Oh, my!” she said. “You're the color of death warmed over. I forgot about jet lag. We ought to both be in bed. Tomorrow is another day.”

“What's the event tomorrow?” Mary Helen asked, hoping it started late.

Eileen rummaged in her pocketbook and dug out a bright yellow brochure. “An art and photo exhibit at the school hall,” she read, “from noon to five. And then, in the evening, a game of whist at Rafferty's Rest in Kilcalgan. That's the next village,” Eileen explained. “With generous prizes, it says here.”

Quickly, the two nuns picked up their raincoats and slipped through a side exit of the tent. Mary Helen hoped no one spotted them. She doubted if she had enough energy left to smile and say, “Good night.”

Mary Helen hadn't realized how warm the tent was until a blast of cold air hit them as they stepped outdoors. It felt as if it had come right off the Atlantic. Beside her, Eileen shivered. Although the rain had stopped, the grass under their feet was still damp and smelled of wet earth.

Head back, Mary Helen stared up at the night sky, a welter of bright stars. Away from the city lights, the stars always appeared closer. But here in Ireland, they seemed even clearer and nearer still. Almost as if she could reach above her head and touch them. She drew in a deep breath. Ireland! She still could not get used to the idea that she was actually here.

“Isn't it beautiful, Eileen?” she whispered, still fixed on the heavens.

But Eileen was digging in her pocketbook again.

“What in the world are you looking for?” Mary Helen asked.

“This.” Eileen pulled out a small flashlight. “Without our torch, God knows where we'll end up. At night, it gets as dark as pitch around here.” Eileen offered her arm. “Hang on to me,” she said.

They had moved only a few yards away from the lighted tent when Eileen proved to be right. Carefully, they followed the torch's beam, trying to avoid the bumps and dips in the lawn. Mary Helen's damp feet were beginning to feel frozen.

“Careful of the sprinklers,” Eileen cautioned, her flashlight picking out the round disc.

“Maybe we should have used the front door,” Mary Helen whispered, beginning to feel a little panicky. The road had seemed much closer in the daylight. And it was so still. Even the band music was beginning to sound far, far away.

She stumbled forward, still holding tight to Eileen's arm. Wasn't there a large drainage ditch bordering the other side of the Monks' Table? Who would find them if they stumbled into it? She was just about to ask if Eileen was sure they were going in the right direction when she heard a low muffled growl. Goose bumps ran up both her arms. That's all we need, she thought, wild animals.

“What is that?” she whispered.

“What is what?” Eileen stopped abruptly.

“That sound. Listen. Can't you hear it?”

Eileen shook her head, but she arched the beam of her flashlight to the right and then to the left, just in case. All they saw was wet grass. “Maybe it's a bird,” Eileen said. “We may have disturbed a sleeping bird.”

“Maybe,” Mary Helen conceded, although she hadn't noticed any trees. Don't birds usually sleep in trees? she wondered, and she hung tighter to Eileen's arm.

They moved forward several yards. The stifled noise sounded again. Louder, this time. Far too loud to be a bird.

Much to Mary Helen's relief, Eileen heard it, too. She swung around. “It seems to be coming from over there,” she whispered.

Her light fell on a clump of red fuchsias that seemed quite
out of place on the lawn. Cautiously, they crept toward the noise.

“What kind of animals roam around here at night?” Mary Helen asked, wondering if approaching the noise was such a wise idea. Maybe they should go back to the tent and get Mr. Lynch.

“Not bears or tigers, if that's what you're worrying about,” Eileen said, as her flashlight beam fell on two stockinged feet sticking out from behind the fuchsia bush. “Whatever it is, it looks pretty human.”

The muffled noise grew louder.

“And it sounds human, too.”

Slowly she let the light travel up the hairy legs until the two nuns were staring down into the frightened blue eyes of a young man who seemed to be wearing only his undershorts. He was bound hand and foot with what looked like an old piece of clothesline, and a large white handkerchief had been shoved into his mouth.

His eyes filled with quick tears of relief when he saw the two nuns. Obviously he recognized them, although Mary Helen had no idea who he was. Eileen held the flashlight steady while Mary Helen untied the hankie and deftly removed it from his mouth.

“Thanks be to God,” he said hoarsely, then, shivering, squirmed around so that she could untie his hands. “I thought I'd bloody well freeze to death before anyone found me.”

“What happened?” Eileen asked while Mary Helen and the young man worked on the ropes binding his feet.

“Damned if I know,” he said, his teeth now chattering uncontrollably. “I just stepped outside of the tent to have a fag and someone hit … hit me from behind.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I must have gone … gone out for a few minutes. When I woke my head was throb … throbbing and I had that gag in my mouth. I tried to move but I was bound
like a pig … pig for market and my clothes were g-gone.” He squirmed self-consciously and looked grateful when Mary Helen threw her raincoat around his shoulder.

For her part, she was happy that she had decided to wear a sweater underneath it. They all needed to get inside out of this cold.

“You didn't see anybody then?” Eileen asked.

“Not a soul.” He rubbed his wrists, which were red and swollen. “But I swear, if I ever find out who did this, the bastard will wish he'd died as an infant.”

He stood and pulled himself up to his full height. He might have looked ferocious, if he hadn't been dressed in white cotton work socks, jockey shorts, and a woman's raincoat that only half covered his body.

“Why do you suppose someone took your clothes?” Eileen asked, handing him her raincoat as well. She moved the flashlight away to give him a bit of privacy.

“All I can figure out is that someone wanted the Death outfit pretty bad.”

Mary Helen's heart raced. “You are Mr. Death?” she asked.

“Actually, I'm Tommy Burns with a raging headache,” he said weakly. “I only wish I was dead.”

Eileen shone the flashlight in his face. The color was gone, and he looked as though any minute he might collapse back onto the wet grass.

Mary Helen grabbed his arm, not that she'd be much help if he actually did fall. “You sit back down, Tommy,” Eileen said as she helped steady him. “We'll go back to the tent as quickly as we can and find Owen Lynch and a blanket,” she said softly. “Sit yourself down, now.”

With a moan, Tommy Burns lowered himself to the ground and drew the raincoats around him. “What kind of an arse would take me costume?” he called out after them.

Let's hope it's not one who intends to put it to good use,
Mary Helen thought, following Eileen's flashlight beam back across the damp lawn toward the tent.

 

 

“Who's there?” a deep voice boomed out of the darkness.

Both nuns froze. Mary Helen's heart was thudding. Quickly Eileen switched off the flashlight and grabbed her arm. Except for the dim lights of the tent, still several hundred yards ahead of them, they were in total darkness.

Mary Helen was sure that she'd heard that voice before, but who was it? Her mind raced, but for the moment fear had short-circuited all its connections. For the life of her, she couldn't place it.

She felt Eileen's grip on her relax. She must be having better luck. Or, at least, Mary Helen hoped so.

“Is that you, Father Keane?” Eileen asked with obvious relief. Her flashlight beam came back on and hit the parish priest full in the face. For some reason, he loomed even taller than Mary Helen remembered, and the dampness of the night air had made his gray hair curlier.

Blinking, Father Keane's hand shot up to protect his eyes from the glare. “Turn that blasted torch away,” he said, still trying to determine who they were. “Who is it?” He squinted against the light. “Are ye the nuns from America?” he asked in disbelief.

“We are.” Eileen beamed the flashlight on the ground between them.

“Why in God's name are you two out here in this field? Don't you know there are all kinds of potholes? You could easily stumble in the dark and hurt yourselves?”