Murder at the Monks' Table (12 page)

 

Garda Liam O'Dea would rather have been hanged than admit to anyone that his legs ached and his feet hurt. Actually, the soles of his feet felt as if they were on fire. It must be the socks he'd bought on sale at Penny's Department Store in Galway City.

“No sale is a good sale if you can't use what you buy,” his old
granny used to say. At this moment he knew she was right. He wiggled his toes for relief and looked toward the sky, which was beginning to cloud up. A sharp wind blew in off the Atlantic, snapping the blue and white tape cordoning off the door to the pub, the same one that he was guarding.

Liam had been guarding the front door of the Monks' Table for hours. At least, it seemed like hours, and he wasn't sure why he was needed. Not a single living soul had tried to get in, except, of course, Owen Lynch, whom the detectives had summoned.

But Lynch had left several minutes ago and hurried toward the old convent school, which made sense.

Liam rolled his shoulders back, then forward. He could use a bit of a break.

“Hello, Liam!”

Without looking, he recognized the voice. Carmel Cox. He felt the heat start at the collar of his uniform shirt and rise to the brim of his hat. Oh, how he wished he could control his blushing. He must look the fool. He cleared his throat. Maybe she wouldn't notice.

“Good afternoon, Carmel.” He put his hand to his hat brim and tried to sound very official. “Sorry, but no one is allowed in the pub. Police business, you know.” He pressed his lips into a straight, no-nonsense line.

Carmel giggled. “Of course I know. Everyone in the entire village knows that Willie Ward was murdered here last night, silly. It's all the talk at the art contest. I just came by to see you.”

Liam's cheeks burned. Next his acne would start to itch. “You did?” He paused, not knowing exactly what to say next—afraid that he might stutter. Sometimes when he was very nervous, he stuttered.

Although there was nothing really to be nervous about.
Carmel and he had known each other since they were wee tots. They had played together for hours in the vacant fields behind her father's surgery.

Sometimes they played tag; sometimes hide and seek; sometimes they made up games like cowboys and American Indians. Carmel had always wanted to be the Indian and have him chase her.

He had loved watching her long auburn curls bob up and down as she ran across the field. He never caught her, although they both knew he could. Liam reddened when he thought about it now.

Without warning, the door of the Monks' Table pushed open and Detective Inspector Reedy appeared.

Saved,
Liam thought.

“Come in, Liam,” Reedy called. “It is way past time for a bite. I could eat the back door buttered,” he said. “He'll see you later, Carmel.”

Liam felt his cheeks burning again as Carmel's giggle filled the air.

“Will I see you after a while?” Carmel asked. “Will you be at Rafferty's tonight?”

“What's going on at Rafferty's?” Liam asked, wondering if he should continue speaking to her while he was on duty. Why not? he reasoned. He was only guarding the pub door, not Buckingham Palace.

“A whist game for the older folks and a dance for us,” Carmel called.

“She's quite a beauty,” Reedy remarked, watching Carmel hurry down the street.

Liam pretended not to hear his superior officer as he followed him into the Monks' Table.

“Sit down, lad.” Detective Inspector Ernie White indicated a place on the bench next to him. Without a word, Liam took
off his hat and sat. Hugh Ryan, the publican, came with a tray piled high with cheese and tomato sandwiches, some bags of crisps, and three tall glasses of Guinness to wash it all down. Without a word, he returned to his position behind the bar.

Liam hadn't realized how hungry he was until he saw the spread. They had taken no more than a bite or two and a sip of Guinness when Ernie White cleared his throat.

“Sorry, lads,” he said, “but this will be a working lunch, although I know it's not good for the digestion.” He took another bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “This morning I heard from the deputy commissioner in Dublin. Seems that nationally, Willie Ward was a bigger name than we realized. The commissioner is desperate to find his murderer.”

Liam's face burned.
Is he talking to me, too?
he wondered.

Narrowing his eyes, White swung them from Reedy to Liam and back again, making it clear he was. “It's up to us to listen and hear what is being said about the murder. Nothing is too small or too insignificant. We never know what unlikely slip may give the murderer away.”

Brian Reedy frowned as he searched his partner's face and slowly chewed a crisp. “Do I take it you've heard something?” he asked.

White gave a sad smile. “Not a'tall. Not a damn word,” he said, running his fingers through his haystack of hair.

“How did they get in?” Liam's voice surprised even him. It was small and high-pitched.

“Are you saying something, Liam?” Reedy asked.

Liam cleared his throat. “How did they get in? Mr. Ward and his murderer?”

“What is it, lad?” White frowned.

Liam felt three pairs of eyes boring into him. Even Hugh Ryan was staring. “I'm just asking.” Liam wished he had kept his gob shut. “How did Willie Ward and his murderer get into
the Monks' Table?” He turned toward Hugh. “Did you see them come in?”

Scowling, the publican rewiped the already spotless bar top. “If you are asking me, I'd swear they didn't come in a'tall,” Hugh said. “As God is my witness, I didn't see them, and I would have. The place was nearly deserted. The hangers-on, the servers, the cook had all gone. Only the two American nuns were still here.” Hugh wadded up the bar rag and tossed it into the sink.

“And they claim they didn't see anyone either,” White mumbled to himself.

“The only way a living soul could have come in without anyone seeing him,” Hugh said, “is through the service entrance in the back. I wouldn't have seen anyone from here. No one would.” He slapped down the palm of his hand for emphasis.

The four men silently chewed on that possibility.

“Wouldn't they be taking an awful risk being so conspicuous? Someone standing in the road might notice them coming in the wrong door.” Reedy finished off the last of his Guinness and looked happy when Hugh walked over with another.

“Not if they were conspicuous already.” The words were out of Liam's mouth before he thought.

“What's your meaning, lad?” White asked, frowning.

Liam's mouth felt dry and his cheeks were hot. For a moment the room was so quiet you could have heard a bee belch. Had he spoken out of turn?

No, White looked genuinely interested. “Suppose they were dressed in Tommy Burns's Grim Reaper costume?” he said, at last. “Everyone might notice, but who would think it odd? They would think it was just the I Believe Team having a bit of fun.”

“That would explain why someone cracked poor Tommy on the head and left him in the field,” Reedy said.

“Good point, lads,” Detective Inspector White downed his
Guinness. “Maybe the first order of business is to find the whereabouts of that costume.”

 

 

When the two nuns came out of the old convent school auditorium, Paul Glynn, arms crossed, was leaning against the hackney looking the picture of long-suffering.

Above him dark clouds rolled across the sky, looking as if they might bump and burst at any minute. Mary Helen shivered. It had started out to be such a nice, sunny day.

“Did ye enjoy yourselves?” Paul asked, opening the car door for them.

“It was interesting, Paul. Very interesting,” Eileen said as the two nuns settled in the backseat.

“And what exactly is your meaning?” Paul asked, starting the motor. “What was so interesting? Jake, the tinker, always wins. He's the only one in the village with any real talent. Even a blind man can see that.”

“That is just it,” Eileen said. “There were two winners, really three. Jake and the Lynch twins.”

Paul turned around in his seat. Behind his rimless glasses his hazel eyes were full of disbelief. “The Lynch twins?” he repeated. “Noreen and Doreen? Are ye sure?”

“Sure I'm sure,” Eileen said. “You should have heard the roar that went up.”

“I can imagine.” Paul shook his head. “The Lynch twins, was it?” he asked again, as though he were unable to take it in.

“That's who,” Eileen assured him.

“They're talented, are they?”

“Not a bit of it, as far as I could tell,” Eileen answered truthfully. “Although I'm no art critic,” she added quickly.

“I doubt if art has much to do with it,” Paul said. “Over the years, there have been them who wanted someone else besides
Jake to take first prize. Willie Ward, God rest him, among them,” he said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I would be surprised if our departed Willie hadn't stuffed the ballot box. It's been out since the display went up on Saturday.”

“Why?” Mary Helen asked.

“Why what?'

“If Jake was clearly the most talented, why would Willie want someone else to win?”

“It was just his way,” Paul said.

“I see,” Mary Helen said, although she didn't see at all. “But if he or someone else did stuff the box, why wouldn't Mr. Lynch just disregard a big block of votes that looked suspicious?” It seemed a sensible question to her.

“Lynch had nothing to do with the counting. Father Keane heads the committee that tallies the votes, and he's straight as an arrow. Where is it you two want to go?” Paul asked, backing out of his space in the car park.

Without so much as a backward glance,
Mary Helen thought, tensing for the crash. When none came, she relaxed.

“What is the next event on the Oyster Festival schedule?” she asked.

“Right now?” Paul started to rustle through some papers next to him on the front passenger's seat.

It was all Mary Helen could do to keep from shouting, “Mind the road!” She scooted forward on her seat so that, at least, he wouldn't have to turn around to talk.

“There doesn't seem to be anything right now,” he said, holding up a paper in front of him on the steering wheel. “Ah, tonight there is whist at Rafferty's Rest, starting at eight. And for those who haven't had enough punishment, there's a dance.” He glanced at the road, then back at the paper. “Right now, for those with any sense, it's probably time for a lie down. What's your pleasure?” he asked, studying them in the rearview mirror.

“Why don't you drop us at the mews,” Eileen suggested, “and take a bit of a rest yourself? Then"—she looked at Mary Helen for approval—”if you'll pick us up about eight.”

Mary Helen nodded, although she hadn't the slightest idea how to play whist (pinochle was her game). But perhaps Eileen did, and at any rate, Mary Helen would enjoy watching the dancing.

“My nerves couldn't stand another minute of his driving,” Eileen said, fumbling with the key to the gate that led to their mews. Mary Helen was glad to hear it. She had thought only her nerves were thin.

Once inside, they settled in comfortable chairs and put up their feet. Through the front window the late afternoon sky looked bruised with dark clouds, but so far there had been no rain. In fact, Mary Helen noticed one radiant shaft of sun piercing the cloud cover.

A flock of tiny wrens lit on the grass and flicked their tails as they busily searched for their supper. She checked her wrist-watch. It was dinnertime.

“Are you hungry?” she asked Eileen.

“I could eat.” Eileen sat up. “Which reminds me, we've nothing in the house.”

“A perfect excuse to go out to dinner,” Mary Helen said.

“Who needs an excuse, old dear? We are on holiday.” Eileen pushed up from her chair. “The Ballyclarin Hotel is within walking distance, and I'm told the salmon there is delicious.”

“If we go now, we can easily be back before Paul comes for us,” Mary Helen said, picking up her umbrella, just in case.