The Haunting Ballad (32 page)

“Unorthodox!” Smack snickered. “That's just another word for no-holds-barred batty, ain't it?”

Mr. O'Nelligan took over again. “In order to draw Miss Thorpe out into the open, I had Mrs. Pattinshell phone her earlier to say that she'd figured out Kimla's identity and demand she come here to sort things out. No doubt feeling cornered, Kimla, as we see, did indeed comply.”

For the last several minutes, Tim Doonan had been sitting in silence, appearing deeply shell-shocked. He now looked over at his girlfriend and managed to rasp out a question. “Is it all true, Kimla?”

Still avoiding his eyes, she gave a barely audible “Yes.”

Something between agitation and anger drove Tim's words. “But why? Why did you kill Lorraine?”

Instead of answering, Kimla looked over at Mr. O'Nelligan. “
You
tell him.” There was bitterness in her voice. “You seem to know everything.”

“I certainly don't know everything that occurred,” my partner said, “but I can speculate. While I had identified you as Lorraine's killer, it was hard to imagine someone of your gentility in that role. I wondered what could possibly have compelled you to such an extreme act. What did you hold so close to your heart that you would fight to protect it? The answer was Tim.”

“Yes,” Kimla said under her breath.

Mr. O'Nelligan kept on. “My guess is that events began to unfold that evening at the Café Mercutio when Patch played his jest on Lorraine and Loomis Lent, sending a bottle of wine and a provoking note to their table. Lorraine was enraged at this presumed mockery, but perhaps even more so at Patch's subsequent comments ridiculing her song gathering.”

“That she was,” Patch agreed.

“The accusation—made in public—that she had pilfered tunes from poor hobos and farmers must have struck Lorraine to her very core. Remember, her role as songcatcher was her greatest source of passion and pride. Here was a woman whose anger could be searing when she felt herself wronged or insulted, and that anger was now turned toward Patch. We know that Lorraine would often depend on Loomis for dark gossip about others, and we know that Loomis may have been privy to a rumor concerning Patch and a barracks attack in Ireland.”

“Because we'd been in
Deirdre of the Sorrows
together?” Patch guessed.

“Most likely,” my partner agreed. “Now here I take a leap, but I propose that Lorraine, upon learning of Patch's possible involvement in the attack, decided that she'd use the information to malicious effect. Additionally—and here again I speculate—she perhaps planned to extend that fate not just to the eldest Doonan but to his brothers also. Well, Miss Thorpe, might this be the case?”

“Lorraine swore she'd get them deported!” It came rushing out of her now. “Arrested and deported! She said that if Patch was involved, then probably all the brothers were, or at least that's how the authorities would see it. That meant that Tim—” Kimla stopped to catch her breath.

My partner nodded. “Yes, as I've said, I felt that it must all come down to Tim. To your affection for him.”

Tim bowed his head and let out a low, pathetic groan. Standing beside him now, Patch reached down and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Kimla couldn't seem to stop. “She'd come by the Mercutio that morning. I think she was hoping to find Patch, to rub it in—what she'd learned and what she was planning to do. But Patch wasn't there, and neither was Tim or Neil. I was the only person in the room, just having coffee and reading a book. I guess Lorraine figured telling me would have to do. That's when she made her threats about getting the boys jailed and deported.”

“It could have been a bluff,” I said.

“I don't think so,” Kimla insisted. “Lorraine was clever enough and vindictive enough to carry through on her threats. I had to believe she could do what she promised to do. I tried to talk to her, but she was out the door before I could get a word in. Tim was away for the weekend, so I couldn't go to him about it. I had commitments for the rest of the day, way into the evening. It wasn't till very late that I made my way to Lorraine's.”

“This was close to ten
P.M.
?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

“Something like that.” Kimla's voice was becoming distant and trancelike; she unfolded her arms and let them fall to her sides. “I'd decided that I was going to reason with her. I was going to get her to promise to leave Tim alone, to leave all of them alone. There was no answer when I knocked on her door, but then I heard someone singing on the roof, and I knew it must be her. I climbed up. There was a half-moon that night, just bright enough to see her by. She was singing ‘The Wild, Weeping Heather.'”

“The song she said Spires stole?” I asked.

“Yes, that's the one.” Her trance seemed to be deepening. “Lorraine was standing by the edge of the roof. I went over and began pleading with her, begging with her not to bring any harm to Tim. I told her that he was such a good person, that she had no idea what a good person he was. Maybe Patch had done what she claimed or maybe he hadn't, but not my Tim. She told me that getting Tim and Neil into trouble, too, would make Patch's suffering all the worse.”

“Jesus,” Patch muttered under his breath.

“I told her that Tim had a pure, true heart. That's when she laughed. She said that I was talking about him like he was someone out of a ballad, but that people were never as moral or worthy as the characters in songs. She said that people were shameful and foolish, and that I was a fool for thinking Tim was something special. Then she laughed again and said she hoped they'd lock him away till he was withered and broken. That's when I pushed her.”

Those last words hung over the room like a storm cloud, and no one spoke for a long interval.

Finally, Kimla continued, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn't believe what I'd done. It just didn't seem possible. It felt like I was in some dream, and if I hurried home quickly enough, none of it would really have happened…” She faded out, lowering her eyes and again wrapping her arms protectively around her slender form.

Somewhat to my own surprise, I was able to take up the narrative. “Then you descended to the fifth floor and paused near the stairwell. That's when Cornelius stepped into the hallway and called out to you. You must have been hugely relieved when you saw that he'd mistaken you for Hector. From your earlier visits to Cornelius, maybe you were aware of Hector and his grocery runs. When the old man started speaking in Spanish, you knew enough of the language to answer, probably altering your voice to sound more male. That's why Mazzo didn't recognize you. You convinced Cornelius it really was Hector there, and he went away. Does that all ring true?”

“That's how it happened,” Kimla answered quietly. “In the days after, I drove it all from my mind. Lorraine's death was declared suicide, and I think, in a way, I made myself believe that's what it truly was. Maybe I hadn't even been there at all.”

I was reminded of Mazzo saying that the more he told the lie about lambasting McCarthy's minions, the more it seemed like the truth. It's peculiar what the human mind can do.

“Then you two came to town.” Kimla looked at my partner and me. “And I couldn't pretend to myself anymore.”

“No, you could not,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “With our arrival, homicide was now being considered, and you were put on guard. Two nights ago, when you observed us accosting the Doonans about the barracks attack, you realized that we were getting closer to the source of Lorraine's killing. Having seen Cardinal Meriam's foreboding letter to Lorraine and knowing of Mrs. Pattinshell's ghost songs, you fashioned your plan of misdirection and set it in motion. You hoped to have us believe that Cardinal had killed Lorraine and that he was beyond our reach.”

“That's why I went to the Mercutio last evening.” Kimla wasn't holding anything back now. “To see if you two might show up and say something about the song. I needed to find out if you believed it was really from Lorraine. You came in, Mr. Plunkett, but you didn't say anything about it.”

“I did think it was a little strange that you asked me directly about our investigation. Before that, you'd kept a low profile and didn't seem to want to talk about it. Anyway, you decided to give us Cardinal…”

“No one really knew what had become of him,” Kimla said softly. “Or if he'd ever return here. So it seemed like there was no harm in aiming you toward him.”

I reworded that. “No harm in sacrificing him, you mean.”

“I'm sorry,” Kimla said, though it wasn't me she was staring at but Tim.

The youngest Doonan looked like hell. He now got to his feet, and he and Kimla met each other's eyes for the first time since she'd entered the room. She had given way to heavy trembling, and he looked on the verge of collapse. They moved toward each other. Finding myself unable to watch, I turned away, and I saw that Audrey had done the same.

When I looked back, Smack Wilton, now standing, had parted the couple and was pulling a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket. “Okay, miss,” he said without his usual gruffness. “It's time we got going.”

The skittish Siamese, up to this point unaccounted for, leapt into its mistress' lap and let out a long plaintive
meow.
It was a sound both chilling and mournful.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

We exited Mrs. Pattinshell's in waves. Smack led Kimla away, followed a minute later by Mr. O'Nelligan, Audrey, and me. We left the Doonans behind us, as Patch and Neil gathered up their devastated brother.

When my party reached the street, we were met by cries and chaos. Down the road to our left, Smack lay sprawled on the sidewalk, his fedora beside him. He was gripping his shin and yelling out, “Stop! Stop!” He tried to get to his feet but was obviously hobbled.

Kimla, her hands still cuffed before her, had broken free and was racing our way, not directly toward us but into the traffic-filled street. Horns blaring, several cars barely missed her. It quickly became apparent that her intention was to be struck down. From our right, a wide delivery truck came hurtling toward her. Clearly, it couldn't stop in time. Without thinking, I shot forward and caught Kimla by the arm. I realized at once that I hadn't run out alone: Audrey was beside me, gripping the girl's other arm. The truck's horn screamed fiercely as we flung ourselves backward. Then the vehicle flew by, its loud wail fading into the distance, and the three of us were lying together on the sidewalk. As Kimla dissolved into tears, Audrey and I, on either side of her, locked eyes. Something unspoken passed between us.

Mr. O'Nelligan crouched down beside us. After assuring himself of our well-being, he whispered, “Thank God,” and helped us lift Kimla to her feet. Smack Wilton and the Doonans converged on us at the same moment.

Smack took his prisoner firmly in hand. “Whadda ya say, sister? Are we done with the shin kicking and traffic dodging?”

Kimla Thorpe, her face smeared with tears, nodded and then turned to Tim to offer a parting glance. Smack led her away, this time without incident.

Mr. O'Nelligan placed his hands on Tim's shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. “I know this is an unimaginable burden, lad, but you are young and will prevail. There's a certain quotation you might keep in your heart—‘By virtue and energy, by wisdom and right action, you shall overcome the sorrows of life.'”

Tim nodded and got out a fragile “Thank you.”

Neil stepped forward and put an arm around his brother's waist. “Come along then, Timothy.” They moved off together down the street, in the direction opposite to the one Kimla had been taken.

As Patch turned to follow, Mr. O'Nelligan reached out and caught his arm. “As I said before, you are the oldest and your strength will be needed.”

Patch nodded. “I understand, sir.” Then he, too, headed off.

As we watched them move away, Audrey asked, “Where was that quote from?”

“It's from the
Dhammapada,
” Mr. O'Nelligan answered. “The teachings of the Buddha. If Kimla cannot benefit from it, then perhaps Tim can.”

*   *   *

SINCE WE'D COME
to the Village in two cars, Audrey took Mr. O'Nelligan with her back to Thelmont, and I drove myself. I was glad, actually, to be traveling alone, grateful for the silence after so much talk and commotion. We reunited at Mr. O'Nelligan's house, and from there I called Sally Joan Cobble in Pennsylvania. While providing a basic account of what had happened, I didn't share every single twist and turn. It seemed enough to confirm that someone had indeed killed her cousin, to identify that person, and to give a basic explanation as to why. In describing the final moments on the rooftop, I tried to be as subtle as possible, but I think Sally Joan grasped the image of Lorraine standing there, scheming and taunting to the end.

“Lorraine was more than that, you know,” she said softly. “More than that angry, bitter woman. There was something else in her, something good and passionate that maybe only I saw. I wish you could have known that part of her.”

“So do I,” I said, and I think I meant it.

She thanked me for our work, expressed her dismay that I'd been wounded in the course of it, and promised to send my fee immediately. I told her there was no rush.

I hung up and said to no one specifically, “I wish we could have provided her with a kinder version of her cousin.”

“That was not our lot.” Mr. O'Nelligan was seated in his easy chair. “We were summoned to deliver truth, and so we have. Besides, Sally Joan has her own memories of Lorraine to succor her. That will be her own private truth. In the end, Lorraine Cobble was, like all of us, a complicated being. She encouraged people in pursuing the music in their lives, and yet she also enraged and alienated them.”