When Irish Eyes Are Haunting: A Krewe of Hunters Novella (6 page)

There was one main road edged by buildings in soft shades of beige and taupe with thatched roofs. Most were entered directly from the road—called Karney Lane. There were winding streets that wove at odd angles off into lightly rolling land beyond and those, too, were filled with homes and businesses. They stretched out into the distance until the houses and buildings became further and further apart and rich, green farmland where sheep and cattle grazed was reached.

The church and the village hall were at the center of Karney Lane, and Dr. Kirkland’s office was just two buildings down from the church.

The receptionist who met them at the front was a thin-lipped, lean, and dour woman; she wanted to know their business and was disgruntled that they didn’t have an appointment.

Devin was about to get angry; Rocky brought out the charm.

She finally said that she’d check with Dr. Kirkland, but she wanted them to know, he was weary of hearing that a banshee had killed Collum Karney.

Devin had been expecting a man in his fifties, perhaps, white-haired and typical of a charming country village. After meeting his receptionist, she thought he might be an old soldier—as rigid and grumpy as his receptionist.

She was mistaken.

Dr. Kirkland was a good-looking man in his thirties or early forties—polite and mystified, but happy to give them a few minutes of his time.

“American reason here, I hope!” he said.

“We hope it’s reason,” Rocky said. “But, of course, we’re here with the question you’ve surely answered a dozen times. Are you certain that it was a heart attack? You performed an autopsy?”

“Ach!” Kirkland said, shaking his head with weary impatience. “Everyone wants to make something of nothing. Am I certain? Collum Karney died of a heart attack, plain and simple. I’d been telling him to watch the red meat and start more moving about for years. His poor arteries! They were as clogged as could be.”

“I heard he died with a look of horror on his face,” Devin told Kirkland.

Kirkland waved a hand in the air. “All the talk about ghosts and banshees a-wailing! Good lord, ’tis charming we have our legends and history.” He paused for a moment to grin at her. “And a history that pretty much so—as you Americans might say—sucks with invasions and battling, but, ’tis nonsense that he was frightened to death by a vengeful ghost! Why would a ghost seek vengeance on old Collum—a descendant?”

“Yes, why would one?” Rocky said. “But, did you perform an autopsy?”

Kirkland stiffened at that. “I did not cut into the man. I’d been treating him for years, warning him for years. I know a heart attack when I see one.”

“Heart attacks can be brought on,” Rocky said.

“You mean that sound? Wolves or the wind,” Kirkland said, disgusted. “And you think a man like Collum Karney would be frightened by the sound? You dinna know the man. He was a giant of a fellow—with clogged arteries!”

We’re going to get nothing from him
, Devin thought. And they didn’t have the authority to demand an autopsy.

Brendan Karney, however, did.

Rocky smiled pleasantly and thanked Kirkland for his time.

“A pleasure, and welcome to the village. Everyone comes to Dublin—it’s nice you’ve come further,” Kirkland said. “We do get a fair amount of visitors now, because of the castle. We’d have more—if the Karney family allowed for a themed nightclub or something of the like. I’m afraid they’re a wee bit too filled with Karney pride—nothing that might mar their great history. It is wonderful history in a land invaded one time too many. Ah, forgive me, one of you is a relative, right?”

Devin explained her family connection and Kirkland told them, “How fine! Well, as I was saying, we’re on the map now—what with the castle being a select destination these years. But, still, the castle, she has only ten rooms for let, and it’s the tourist eager to learn history who comes rather than the tourist longing for a few nights at the Temple Bar pub section in Dublin. Spicing it up to current times might help, don’t you think?”

He didn’t really want an answer—he seemed to assume that since they were Americans, they naturally agreed.

“We do get the tourist eager to see a ghostie or two. Naturally, all is booked now,” he added. “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, eh? Used to be, we were more solemn here—honoring a saint in a religious manner. But, we’ve taken note from our American cousins and we’re all festive these days—does a lot for tourist dollars.”

“Aw, well, Dr. Kirkland, the estimate is that thirty-five million Americans are mainly of Irish descent—and that worldwide, it’s eighty million. That’s a lot of people who really are Irish in a way,” Devin told him.

“Yes, you’re right. Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” Kirkland said.

“Do you know of anyone who would have wished ill for Collum Karney?” Devin asked.

“Wished ill?” Kirkland said.

“Wanted him dead,” Rocky said flatly.

“Why would anyone? He was a fine fellow—beloved by employees and visitors. Many came back year after year—not just for the castle, but because Collum and Brendan made sure that each stay was like coming home,” Kirkland said.

“I imagine the castle is worth a small fortune,” Rocky said.

“The property, the castle…yes. But after Collum there would be Brendan to inherit—and after Brendan, Seamus, then Kelly. Then there are still two cousins!” Kirkland said.

“That would be a lot of heart attacks,” Devin murmured.

“And if they all died, the property would go to the Irish Republic,” Kirkland told them. “There’s no reason for any living soul to have killed the man,” he finished and then added quickly, “If you don’t mind, we’re a small village, but I am the only doctor ’til one reaches the outskirts of Dublin.”

“Of course, of course, and thank you,” Rocky told him.

“What do you think?” Devin asked Rocky after they bid Dr. Kirkland—and his sour receptionist—good-bye.

“I think there should have been an autopsy,” Rocky said.

“But, do you think that Collum was frightened to death?”

“Not by any howling of the wind or banshee wail,” Rocky said. “But—we both heard that noise last night. It did rip right through the castle. And I do believe that Brendan might have died last night—except that we disrupted the killer’s plan by heading to his room.”

“But how—or by who?” Devin asked. “And since there are more people to inherit and the property would just go to the state, why would anyone kill him?”

“Maybe someone is more eager to sell than Brendan?”

“Not Seamus—not Kelly!” Devin said with certainty.

“If we want certainty, we need an autopsy,” Rocky said.

“We’ll have to ask Brendan and Seamus and Kelly,” Devin murmured. “And—wow. Digging up a loved one. Of course, we’ll have to have county authority.”

“It can be done. I wouldn’t want the autopsy here. Not unless we get Kat in,” Rocky said thoughtfully.

He was referring to Special Agent Kat Sokolov, Krewe member and medical examiner. Devin wasn’t sure where Kat was assigned now, if she was in the Virginia Krewe offices or out on a case. But the idea appealed to her. Kat’s significant other was Will Chan—one time magician, photographer, and computer genius—now a Krewe member, too.

“Tricky,” Devin noted. “We’re going to have to convince someone to dig up a dead man a reputable doctor signed off on as far as the death certificate—and convince him that we should have an American FBI doctor in to make sure it was all done right.”

“Life, my love, is tricky!” he reminded her. He paused in the street, staring down at her, and she suddenly wished that they had come for nothing more than their honeymoon. The Village of Karney was charming and beautiful. She could easily see forgetting what they did—and doing nothing but taking hikes up the cliffs, shopping in the quaint stores, enjoying a romantic meal or two in one of the small and intimate restaurants—and, of course, spending hours in the canopied master bed or giant claw-foot tub.

“Do you want to visit the sheriff?” Devin asked.

He smiled.

Devin’s mind was on business.

“I don’t think we’re going to get any more from him than we got from the good doctor, Kirkland,” he told her. “I want to explore the castle. That wasn’t a banshee. Someone there is playing games—games that intend to leave one victor and a field of dead. And,” he added, “we will need to speak with Brendan and see about an autopsy for Collum.”

She nodded, looking unhappy. Although Devin had only met Brendan once before, she certainly cared about him—because she loved Uncle Seamus and Kelly. And she wasn’t happy about making circumstances worse for them.

Then again, they were there because Brendan was no fool, and while legend and so-called prophecies might play at the back of his mind, he suspected something very real rather than imaginary.

“Let’s go on to the castle then,” she said.

They started along the road, coming to the church and the rolling graveyard.

St. Patrick’s of the Village wasn’t grand in the way that great cathedrals were—it was still beautiful and an attraction in itself. Rocky had listened to Gary the Ghost’s history lesson on the church and read a number of the plaques on the old stone walls as well. There had been a church on this location since the fifth century; the church had been built atop an old Druid field—as natural to the inhabitants of the time as combining a few of their holidays and turning a few of their gods and goddesses into “saints.” The original wooden structure had burned. So had a second. The third structure—built of stone—had survived since the ninth century with medieval restoration and additions.

The whole of it sat over catacombs that stretched far and wide beneath the village and held remains from those who had died since the first structure had been built. The graveyard itself was so old that many of the remaining graves from the first centuries after St. Patrick were noted by curious stones—their messages and memories to the living worn down by time and the elements.

But the graveyard was also filled with medieval art and architecture. Celtic crosses rose above tombs and stood almost starkly on patches of overgrown grass as well—the individual names and memorials to those they guarded also lost to the trial and error of time. It was both a beautiful and forlorn place, for no matter how the church and graveyard might be loved and tended by those entrusted with their care, time and the elements wore on.

“Do you know Father Flannery?” Rocky asked Devin.

“I met him, of course,” Devin said. “Years ago. I doubt that he’d remember me.”

“Let’s see if he’s about,” Rocky suggested.

“If you wish.”

A low stone wall—easily walked over—surrounded the church and some of the graveyard. Some of the wall was long broken or worn down, and still, it seemed that the little wooden gate created some kind of crossing—from the everyday world into that of something higher.

Just to reach the double wooden doors of the church they passed a number of tombs, gravestones, and great obelisks and Celtic crosses. Parishioners of the village were still buried here—the modern concept of a distant cemetery had never come to Karney.

Devin, a few feet ahead of Rocky, tried one of the large doors. It gave easily in her hands and they stepped into the old church. Devin backed to a side, allowing him to enter, and they both took a moment to let their eyes adjust.

He’d researched the church already. While the first might have been a creation of the Dark Ages, the present structure seemed to have Norman overtones, and while small, it had the appearance of a greater Gothic structure.

Simple wooden pews filled the church. Most of those in Karney, Devin had told him, were still Catholic and came to church regularly. It wasn’t just church—it was where the villagers gathered and enjoyed one another’s company.

There were lovely old side altars—many with tombs of a revered knight, perhaps, or even more modern warrior—one who might have died in the pursuit of independence for the Republic of Ireland.

The main altar was very simple, marble in structure, and while he knew there were secular colors for each season, St. Patrick’s was now decked out in green. Beautiful tapestries with scenes of the days of Ireland’s patron saint covered the massive windows and the altar itself—even the runner that led from the front door to the altar.

His eyes had barely adjusted when he saw a figure walking toward them. At first, in the shade of the church, he appeared to be some kind of a wraith, a fantastic creature of myth and legend bearing down upon them. Rocky quickly realized that he was a man in the long dark robes of a priest.

“Hello, welcome to St. Patrick’s!” Father Flannery said in greeting, a soft, pleasant brogue causing a roll to his words.

“Father Flannery,” Devin said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Kelly Karney’s cousin from America.”

“Indeed, lass, aye, of course!” the priest said. He was a man in his mid-forties, Rocky thought, lean and tall, with sparkling blue eyes and sandy hair. His smile seemed sincere—as did his expression as his smile faded and he said, “I’m so sorry you’ve come at troubled times for the family, but, glad indeed that you’re here for them at such a time.” He turned to Rocky. “And, you, sir, are Mr. Craig Rockwell, husband to our Devin.”

“I am,” Rocky said.

“Truly, we’re so pleased that you’re both here,” Father Flannery said.

“It’s a loving family,” Devin said. “I’m glad to be here.”

“What do you think, Father Flannery?” Rocky asked. “There’s talk of banshees coming for all the Karney family.”

“I’m a priest, young man. What do you think I think?” Flannery asked him, shaking his head. “I’m from County Cork and believe me, we have our tales there as well. We’ve created some of the world’s finest writers and storytellers—all because it’s nearly impossible here to grow up without learning about the Little People and our races of giants and, of course—our banshees.”

“So—”

“I think poor Collum was taken at the time our great Father above decreed, and that’s the way of life,” Father Flannery said.

“A heart attack—plain and simple?” Rocky said dryly.

Father Flannery sighed. “Brendan is just not convinced his brother died of natural causes. They were friends as well as brothers. Imagine a family where those not first in line for an inheritance don’t seem to give a whit—and just help out? Brendan can’t deal with the loss, and I’ve done my best to counsel him. That’s a reason many of us are so glad that you’re here—some American reason into the mix!”