Murder at the Monks' Table (11 page)

 

“They have no talent, you know, our twins,” Owen said once he and Liam had stepped out into the street. “But the missus won't be convinced. We've spent a king's ransom on art lessons and dance lessons.”

Odd thing to say about your own children,
Liam thought as the pair walked briskly toward the Monks' Table.

Liam stood tall and threw his shoulders back on the off chance that Carmel Cox might see him escorting a suspect to be interrogated. But no such luck. The village was all but deserted. Liam guessed that the townsfolk were either at the art show or at home recovering from last night's gala.

“In here, Owen,” he heard Detective Inspector White call
as they entered the pub. “Have a seat. When was it, now, you said you last saw Willie Ward alive?”

 

 

“Should I come back for you in an hour's time?” Paul Glynn asked when he dropped the two nuns at the old convent school.

“Aren't you going to view the artwork?” Eileen asked, a hint of
divilment
in her voice.

Paul's groan was answer enough.

The convent school auditorium was crowded, although the art on the walls seemed to be the last thing on anyone's mind. Small tight groups had formed all around the room. They seemed more interested in what their neighbors had to say than they were in viewing the displays.

Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen squeezed past, trying to enjoy the art. Was it her imagination, Mary Helen wondered, or did several conversations stop as they neared? She was sure she'd heard Willie Ward's name mentioned and the Monks' Table. “How do?” she said cheerfully to a woman who seemed to be staring, but the woman quickly turned away.

“All I did was find the body,” Mary Helen whispered to Eileen. “Why do I feel so guilty?”

“It's the Irish way,” Eileen quipped, narrowing her eyes to study a watercolor.

“These must be local artists,” she whispered, staring up at a garden that clearly lacked both perspective and technique. Next to it was a pencil sketch of a horse behind a fence. The fence appeared to have been flattened by a strong wind.

“Pretty awful, aren't they?” a woman's soft voice remarked. “The art, I mean.”

Mary Helen turned quickly and was surprised to see Oonagh Cox holding a glass of white wine.

“May I get you some?” she offered, her blue eyes sparkling. “You look as if you could use a glass. Besides, these works of art tend to improve after a glass or two.”

Eileen and she followed the small woman to the refreshment table. “I suppose you are wondering why we have an art show at all,” she said, handing them each a glass and a napkin.

Knowing there was no tactful answer, Mary Helen took a sip of her wine. She noticed Eileen did the same.

“It's a tradition,” Oonagh said, “started by my dear, late husband, Kevin. And everyone seems to think that they will offend his memory if they stop it.” Oonagh rolled her eyes. “Frankly, Kevin is most likely turning over in his grave if he can see what is being hung on these walls and called art.” She sighed. “Truly, the only one in the village who has any talent at all is Jake.”

“Jake?” Mary Helen asked.

“Jake, the tinker,” Oonagh explained. “Although some would not acknowledge it. It is as if admitting that a tinker has any talent is more than they can bear.”

“Was he the same fellow who had words with Willie Ward at the wine tasting?” Eileen asked.

“Everyone's had words, as you put it, with Willie,” Oonagh said, refilling her glass. “To know Willie is to despise him. Come,” she said, “let me show you Jake's work.”

They followed Oonagh's curly head through the crowd—which did seem friendlier after a little wine—to a small display of photographs fastened to a wooden divider. Mary Helen caught her breath. Oonagh was right. Jake was extremely talented. His photographs had captured in black and white the wild beauty of the Irish landscape. There was a clarity and simplicity to his work, almost a spiritual quality about it.

As the three women stood in silence, taking in the richness of his photography, Mary Helen wondered if he might sell one,
and if so, how much he would charge. It would be a lovely gift to bring home to the convent in San Francisco.

“He'll win the prize again this year, no doubt,” someone behind them said in a low whiney voice.

Turning, Mary Helen recognized Zoë O'Dea, Tara's mother.

“Look who's here,” Eileen said under her breath, “the Queen Mum.”

“And why shouldn't he? He's the best,” Oonagh answered without even turning around. “The O'Deas can't win everything, Zoë. Your daughter is queen,” she snapped. “What more do you want?”

“And these must be the nuns from America who found poor Willie in the loo,” Zoë said smiling.

Mary Helen wondered if the woman had heard Oonagh.

“You know very well they are.” Oonagh clearly had little patience with Zoë O'Dea.

“A little testy this afternoon, are we?” Zoë's voice dripped with concern. “Maybe next year your Carmel will be the queen. Lovely girl she is, too, so like her dear father, may he rest in peace.”

Oonagh's face darkened and her eyes blazed. Mary Helen wondered uneasily where this was going.

“Oh, Patsy,” Zoë O'Dea called across the room. “May I have a word?”

Sister Mary Helen watched Zoë O'Dea turn on her flat heel, cross the auditorium, and corner Patsy Lynch, the chairman's wife.

“That thick cow!” Oonagh said hotly. “If there's another murder in this village, it is sure to be hers! It's a bloody miracle somebody hasn't murdered her already.”

Despite the heat in the crowded room, Mary Helen shivered. Where had she heard those words before? It took her a moment to remember—at the Monks' Table the day she arrived. Zoë
was saying them to Willie Ward:
I'm surprised someone hasn't
killed you already.

“What is it, Mam?” The voice startled Mary Helen. She hadn't heard anyone coming up behind them. She turned to find a smiling Carmel Cox.

The girl put an arm around her mother's shoulders. “You're not letting Mrs. O'Dea rile you up, are you?” she asked.

“Of course not, love.” Oonagh smiled up at her daughter and pushed a stray curl from Carmel's forehead.

“These are the nuns from America.” Oonagh seemed anxious to be done with Zoë O'Dea.

“The ones everyone is talking about?” Carmel grinned. “Your ears must surely be ringing. Guess who is guarding the door at the murder scene, Mam?” Carmel's blue eyes twinkled. “Liam O'Dea! Can you believe it? Liam is a garda!” The girl shook her head and her auburn curls bounced. “Should I go chat him up?”

“If he's on duty, love, he won't be able to chat,” Oonagh said, but Carmel was already on her way out of the auditorium.

Oonagh watched her go. “She's a mind of her own, that child,” she said fondly. “Her brothers say I spoil her and that she is going to be a handful. But she's my only daughter.”

Both Mary Helen and Eileen knew better than to comment.

“At last! Here comes our chairman.” Oonagh pointed toward the entrance to the auditorium. “This dreadful event should be over soon.”

Sure enough! Owen Lynch stood by the door, his face flushed. Looking distracted, he shook hands and greeted people on his way across the room toward the refreshment table where the three women stood. “I need something a bit stronger than this,” he said, taking the glass that Oonagh held out to him.

“Where have you been?” she asked quietly.

“With the garda, answering a hundred thousand questions.” Noticing the nuns were listening, he stopped abruptly.

“They can't think you had anything to do with it, can they?” Oonagh sounded concerned.

Owen shook his head, then dug in his trousers' pocket for a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Let me get your glasses,” Oonagh said. “They are full of fingerprints.”

Sister Mary Helen was surprised that he let her take off his horn-rimmed glasses and disappear with them.

“I'm blind as a bloody bat without them,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “She'll be right back.”

And she was.

“Ah,” he said, putting the glasses back on, “that is much better. Ta.

“Sweet Jesus!” he said suddenly. “Look! Patsy's been cornered by Zoë O'Dea. Sorry, I need to rescue my wife.”

“The gardai must have been rough on him,” Oonagh said to no one in particular.

“Or maybe they are just being thorough.” Eileen sighed. “We were in with them ourselves. Detective Inspector White seems quite competent.”

“Oh, indeed,” Oonagh said, a smile playing on her lips. “Ernie White always gets his man. Or in this case, maybe it will be his woman,” she said, turning away.

Studying the woman's profile, Mary Helen couldn't help wondering if Oonagh Cox knew something she wasn't telling. It was difficult—no, impossible—to know.

A flurry of activity at the entrance caught their attention.

“Look who it is.” Eileen pulled on Mary Helen's sleeve.

It was Tara O'Dea, and she was on the arm of Tommy Burns, Mr. Death. Tommy looked quite dapper in his suit, Mary Helen noticed. The gardai must have let him go home
last night. Except for the bruise under his left eye, he looked none the worse for wear.

Owen Lynch clapped for attention, and the room quieted. All eyes focused expectantly on Tara and Tommy.

Tara fidgeted self-consciously with her green taffeta dress that by now, Mary Helen thought, must smell a little ripe.

With one hand Tara held up her long skirt and with the other held on to her tiara as she stepped onto a raised platform. Microphone in hand, Owen stood below her.

“Let's give our Oyster Queen a round of applause,” he urged, and the crowd obliged. “In a few minutes, our committee will count the votes, then Queen Tara will announce the winner of this year's Ballyclarin Oyster Festival Art Contest. So, please, those of you who still have to vote, please do so. The ballot box is over by the door.” He pointed to a wooden box, which looked quite official. “Our pastor and committee chairman, Father Keane, will start to count in ten minutes.”

The noise in the room began to swell as people stepped up to the table to refill their wine glasses and view the displays.

Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen quickly circled the room to see if they'd missed anything. They hadn't. Jake's black and white photographs were clearly superior to any other work in the auditorium.

“Good afternoon, Sisters,” Father Keane greeted them. Mary Helen hadn't noticed him come in. In fact, she was rather surprised that he was the committee chairman. He didn't look the type that would know that much about art. Although, if pushed, she'd have been hard-pressed to say what “the type” looked like.

“I'm the committee chairman,” he whispered as if he could read her mind, “because they insist. Somehow, they think a priest will keep the vote honest.”

“I should hope so,” Eileen said, watching Father Keane hurry
toward the ballot box where the other members of the committee were assembling.

After what seemed like a long time, Owen Lynch, his face unusually pale, once again took up the microphone and called for attention. The wine had lifted everyone's spirits, and it took him three tries to finally get the crowd quieted down.

Once he had, he handed the mike to Tara, who had a bit of difficulty getting it to stop screeching. When at last she did, Tara gave a short, hiccupy cough, then announced, “We have two winners this year.”

Tara paused, and the crowd became very still. The mike squealed. Again, she cleared her throat. “Jake's black and white photo of sheep on a hillside,” she said clearly.

Good choice,
Mary Helen thought, remembering the photo. Sun filtered in and out of high clouds, creating light and shadow on a steep hillside to which black-faced sheep seemed to be attached, as some wag had put it, by Velcro.

“And.” Tara paused. “The Lynch twins' pencil sketch of the horse in the pasture.”

“The one with the collapsed fence?” Eileen whispered.

“You have to be joking,” a loud voice cried, and the crowd burst like a sudden storm into an angry roar.

Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. Thank God, she thought, Paul should be here at the old convent school any minute to collect them.