Read The Irish Cairn Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Cairn Murder (14 page)
“
W
inifred,” Sheila said, “I'm having nightmares. That man is the first dead person I've ever seen. He looked
horrible!
We're actually involved in a
mur
der! I can't get it through my head. We're
wit
nesses. All because of mushrooms! Not that we ever found even one single mushroom. I've always admired Natalie Cameron. I'll hate having to testify that Natalie killedâ”
W
inifred,” Sheila said, “I'm having nightmares. That man is the first dead person I've ever seen. He looked
horrible!
We're actually involved in a
mur
der! I can't get it through my head. We're
wit
nesses. All because of mushrooms! Not that we ever found even one single mushroom. I've always admired Natalie Cameron. I'll hate having to testify that Natalie killedâ”
“Sheila, please! We didn't actually
see
Natalie Cameron kill that man. And there's no explanation as to why she would've done it. It's only circumstantial.”
see
Natalie Cameron kill that man. And there's no explanation as to why she would've done it. It's only circumstantial.”
They were in the sitting room at Castle Moore, close to the fire after a high tea, the kind Winifred loved, “hearty meat stuff,” Winifred called it.
Sheila, crouched on the hassock, was nervously unraveling the fringe, as usual. Winifred had almost given up trying to stop her. The hassock had taken on a moth-eaten quality. Two more visits of Sheila from London, and it would be bare of fringe.
“Ma'am?” It was Hannah, tray in hand, come to clear the table. “There's a call from Inspector O'Hare.”
Winifred glanced at the red light blinking on the phone next to her elbow. Then she looked keenly at Hannah. The girl's face was pale, as pale as her silky long fair hair. It was
her night off, so why wasn't she getting dressed up to go to the movie in Dunlavin with Sergeant Jimmy Bryson? Winifred frowned and picked up the phone.
her night off, so why wasn't she getting dressed up to go to the movie in Dunlavin with Sergeant Jimmy Bryson? Winifred frowned and picked up the phone.
“Inspector?” She was gazing after Hannah, who was clearing away the tea things on the table in the window embrasure. “Good afternoon, Inspector. Yes? Yes. Our statements? Of course. We'll be in tomorrow morning.”
“What?” Sheila asked, when Winifred put down the phone.
“Inspector O'Hare would like us to come in and sign the statements we gave him on tape. What we saw, the blood and guts. He's got to extract the juice from the bones of this killing at the cairn.”
Sheila made a face. “What an unappetizing way to put it, Winifred!” Sheila shuddered and pulled at the fringe on the hassock.
Winifred said, “O'Hare wants a total package to deliver to Dublin Castle. And to RTE, the
Dublin Times,
the
Independent,
the
Daily Mirror,
the
Irish Sun.
And maybe even the
Sporting News
underâ”
Dublin Times,
the
Independent,
the
Daily Mirror,
the
Irish Sun.
And maybe even the
Sporting News
underâ”
“Winifred,
how
can you be so
macabre?”
how
can you be so
macabre?”
“A family trait. It came with the castle. For God's sake, Sheila, leave that fringe alone!”
D
usk showed purple through the cottage windows. Jasper, poking up the fire, said, “I'll clear the table, you go ahead. It's on the same tape.” Passing behind Torrey, who was taking a last sip of tea at the kitchen table, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You'll find more than one surprise.”
usk showed purple through the cottage windows. Jasper, poking up the fire, said, “I'll clear the table, you go ahead. It's on the same tape.” Passing behind Torrey, who was taking a last sip of tea at the kitchen table, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You'll find more than one surprise.”
Torrey got up, stretched widely, and went to her desk in the corner. She sat down and clicked on the tape. She folded her arms, leaned back, and listened again to Tom Brannigan's voice.
“Rafe Ricard. A financial advisor. Obviously rich and successful, from the clothes he wore: British-made suits, the Patek watch, Italian leather shoes. He'd drop in often at The Citadel. He'd talk a lot about the importance of making knowledgeable investments.
“The success of
Citadel
had been written up in
Business News
, so I wondered if he was angling to get me as a customer. Several times he invited me out for a drink. I never went, I'm allergic to alcohol and I'd rather handle my own investments. Besides, there was something about this Raphael Ricard ⦠something I didn't quite trust.”
Citadel
had been written up in
Business News
, so I wondered if he was angling to get me as a customer. Several times he invited me out for a drink. I never went, I'm allergic to alcohol and I'd rather handle my own investments. Besides, there was something about this Raphael Ricard ⦠something I didn't quite trust.”
Then one evening, Tom Brannigan's doorbell had rung. “It was that terrible evening. I had just read the announcement of Natalie's engagement to Marshall West.”
Numb, wretched, he'd gotten out his scrapbook of Dakin's growing up, his school sports prizes, his trips with his father. “His
supposed
father.” Beside it lay a copy of
The Dakin Poems.
He was crouched over the coffee table, heartsick, turning over the pages of the scrapbook.
supposed
father.” Beside it lay a copy of
The Dakin Poems.
He was crouched over the coffee table, heartsick, turning over the pages of the scrapbook.
“It was then that the doorbell rang. I answered the door, I thought it was the superintendent come about the chimney down draft.
“It was Rafe Ricard. He came in, laughing, hearty, in a sheepskin coat, carrying a gift-wrapped bottle of cognac. He said he was celebrating, that he'd just made a fortune in international investments. âWe're having a drink, then I'm taking you to dinner,' he said, as though we were intimate friends.
“Can you guess? I thirsted for that drink! I poured it myself, filling the glass. Rafe Ricard looked surprised. But I could tell that it pleased him to see me drink. He walked about, talking investments, saying that I was wasting my money by not getting professional financial advice. Then, crushing out a cigarette, he noticed the scrapbook on the cof fee table. âWho's the kid? Your son?' He was half joking. But I couldn't help it. âYes! My son!' And I poured another drink. I was shaking.”
The voice on the tape stopped. Torrey leaned forward, but the tape was still turning. Then, a cough. A sigh. Brannigan's voice came again, thin and bleak.
“When I awoke, it was morning. I was sprawled in a chair next to the coffee table. Within minutes I was violently sick. Did I tell you I was allergic to alcohol? I managed to shower and dress, I would have to get to the hospital. But on the way out, passing the coffee table, I saw that my scrapbook of Dakin was gone.
“Then I realized that the copy of
The Dakin Poems
was also missing. So was the
Irish Independent,
which I'd folded back to the engagements announcements.
The Dakin Poems
was also missing. So was the
Irish Independent,
which I'd folded back to the engagements announcements.
“Slowly I turned to the mantel where I kept the penknife and the little unicorn bracelet. They were gone as well.
“I began to recall going to pieces and drunkenly sobbing and babbling out to Rafe Ricard the miserable tale and my mistake in leaving Ireland. I heard myself saying, âThe old woman lied to me! I knew that, when I learned that Natalie had named her baby Dakin.'
“Sick as I was, and knowing the alcohol would soon make me deathly ill, I found Ricard's number in the phone book and called him. I was out of my head. A recording machine answered, saying he was out of town, please leave a message. The message I left was that I was going to kill him. I rushed out and took a cab to his apartment, I was too sick to drive.
“His apartment was on Redfirm Avenue, very elegant. When I asked for Mr. Ricard, the doorman told me that Mr. Ricard was out of town.
“âHe can't be!' I shouted at the doorman. âI was with Mr. Ricard last night! Call him !'
“âI'm sorry, sir,' the doorman told me. âCalm yourself. Mr. Ricard took a cab to the airport an hour ago. I called the cab for him myself. I heard him tell the driver, âAer Lingus.'”
Â
Torrey clicked off the tape. “The bastard! The absolutely living-end
bastard!”
She looked across to Jasper, who was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on his laptop, writing his culinary column.
bastard!”
She looked across to Jasper, who was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on his laptop, writing his culinary column.
He looked up. “We could use a bit of jolly Irish conviviality to rinse out the taste of Raphael Ricard. Best accomplished at O'Malley's over a pint. Then we'll be dining right here at eight. Candlelight, wine, and a mystery dish. You're my guinea pig. Finish with that cassetteâif you can stomach itâand we'll be off.” He rubbed his hands and went back to the laptop.
Torrey clicked on the tape. “The allergy put me in the hospital.
I was there for five days. My assistant took over at The Citadel. When I got home from the hospital, I packed a bag. My plan was simple, Mr.âMr.â?”
I was there for five days. My assistant took over at The Citadel. When I got home from the hospital, I packed a bag. My plan was simple, Mr.âMr.â?”
“Shaw. Jasper Shaw.”
“Mr. Shaw. You already know what I came to Ireland to do.”
A
seven o'clock, when Torrey and Jasper left the cottage, it was cold and clear. A silver dime of a moon shone down. They skirted the little pond, went through the break in the hedge, and onto the access road. It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the village, but the cold went clear to the bone. Torrey had pulled on her knitted navy cap, it covered her ears. She wore jeans and a heavy jacket over her flannel shirt. Jasper, in pants and his oatmeal sweater, was bare-headed on the theory that the cold weather would help him shiver off some of his fat.
seven o'clock, when Torrey and Jasper left the cottage, it was cold and clear. A silver dime of a moon shone down. They skirted the little pond, went through the break in the hedge, and onto the access road. It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the village, but the cold went clear to the bone. Torrey had pulled on her knitted navy cap, it covered her ears. She wore jeans and a heavy jacket over her flannel shirt. Jasper, in pants and his oatmeal sweater, was bare-headed on the theory that the cold weather would help him shiver off some of his fat.
Butler Street was empty, their footsteps sounded loud on the pavement. Beyond Nolan's Bed and Breakfast were the lighted windows of O'Malley's Pub.
“Jasper?” Torrey slowed and put a hand on Jasper's arm. “I didn't ask you, but how did Tom Brannigan know it was Ricard who struck him down?”
“I asked Brannigan that. It's not on the cassette because the tape ran out. Poor planning for a hot-shot investigative reporter, right? Chagrin. I hadn't expected Brannigan to break and tell me so much.”
“Well, how'd he know that it was Ricard?”
“There's only one bed and breakfast in Ballynagh. Nolan's. Tom Brannigan guessed that the gabby Sara Hobbs naturally
would've mentioned to Ricard that another guest from Montreal had arrived. So Ricard would've checked the register andâ”
would've mentioned to Ricard that another guest from Montreal had arrived. So Ricard would've checked the register andâ”
“And he would've seen Tom Brannigan's name.”
“Right. So then Ricard knew it was a no-choice-but-murder game.”
Â
In O'Malley's, there was firelight and loud Irish traditional music from a group of three boys led by Fred, Sean O'Malley's second son. At the crowded bar, Jasper wedged himself far enough in to order the beers. Torrey unzipped her jacket and breathed in the smell of beer, old wood, and cigarette smoke. Someone jostled her, but she managed not to spill even a drop from the foam-topped glass that Jasper handed back to her over somebody's head. It was all a kind of conviviality that soothed her. It tamped her down. She felt she needed the relief of it after hearing Tom Brannigan's unnerving revelations. She was glad to be here.
Glass in hand, she wandered to stand beside the fire; the tables were all filled, some with diners, most with folks chatting or drowsing over drinks. The television was on above the bar, but hardly heard except by those clustered there to hear it. A soccer game was in progress, bare-kneed lads in striped shirts running here and there, bruising each other inadvertantly or otherwise. An occasional cheer went up from the bar.
In a few minutes Jasper joined her, pint in hand, a third of the glass already gone. He said, voice low, “Much after the fact, but thought I'd check. Sean O'Malley likely thinks I'm onto illegal shipments of cigarettes. He says he never heard of Sinbad cigarettes or even saw such a cigarette butt. He gave me a funny look.”
“Yes?” Torrey hardly heard. She was gazing in bemusement at the soccer game, one of the bare-kneed boys had
made a goal. A cheer went up, and someone at the bar raised a glass high and waved it wildly about. Someone she knew.
made a goal. A cheer went up, and someone at the bar raised a glass high and waved it wildly about. Someone she knew.
Twenty minutes later, on their way out past the bar, Torrey paused to greet him. “Mr. O'Boyle! Hello! I saw the shrubs from McGarrey's all set in at Sylvester Hall along the road. Wonderful! Just what was needed, I thought. But a few, each side of the gates, are taller. Why's that?”
“For the look,” Sean O'Boyle said. “That's for the look, for when I cut it. A kind of swoop up, it'll be like a curve.” He blushed, the color coming up from his throat. He was unshaven and the neck of his sweater was greasy.
Â
Outside of O'Malley's, Torrey drew deep breaths of the cold, clear air. “I'm an air junkie, hooked on the ozone of Ballynagh.”
“Move over, there's a car coming,” Jasper said.
An old silver Rolls drew up beside them and slowed. “Ms. Tunet? Hello!” Natalie Cameron was at the wheel. Lights from O'Malley's windows shone onto the street, and onto Natalie Cameron's sweatered arm that rested on the car door. “Do you want a lift? I'm going past the cottage.”
“Thanks, but no,” Torrey said. “You're talking to a pair of exercise addicts.”
“Well, then ⦔ Natalie Cameron raised her arm and flicked her fingers good-bye. In the yellow light from O'Malley's, something glittered on her wrist, something dangled.
They walked on. Torrey, stunned, said, “Did you see it?” She could hardly take it in. There had been no sound, but what she saw was a thunderclap.
“The bracelet? Yes. I saw. Unicorns.”
“But I don'tâWhere could she have gotten it from?”
“I can guess,” Jasper said. He was taking such long strides, it was hard to keep up. “That blackmailing bastard, Ricard, must have sent it to her. He stole it from Tom Brannigan's
apartment, didn't he? So sending it to Natalie along with her father's penknife would be his way of telling her that he knew about Tom Brannigan. So hand over the money.”
apartment, didn't he? So sending it to Natalie along with her father's penknife would be his way of telling her that he knew about Tom Brannigan. So hand over the money.”
Torrey said, “But if Natalie's now wearing that bracelet, that means
she must have finally remembered.
”
she must have finally remembered.
”
Jasper said, “I'd say so.”
Walking, they had reached the access road. It was only a few minutes now to the cottage. The night was clear and it was no colder than when they'd left O'Malley's. Yet Torrey felt that even her bones had turned to ice. She said, “The vitalâthe important thing is, Jasper, exactly
when
did Natalie Cameron remember about Tom Brannigan? And that Dakin was his child.”
when
did Natalie Cameron remember about Tom Brannigan? And that Dakin was his child.”
“Ah,” Jasper said, approvingly. “I see what you mean.” He put an arm around Torrey's shoulders. “Maybe Natalie remembered soon enough for her to go to meet Ricard at the cairn, bringing not the blackmail money but a rage to kill him and keep her secret.”
Torrey felt a tremor, the dark woods along the road tipped and righted. She wouldn't give up.
Connaître le dessous des cartes.
She'd discover the undersides of the cards. She'd push on. But in what direction? Think.
Think!
Connaître le dessous des cartes.
She'd discover the undersides of the cards. She'd push on. But in what direction? Think.
Think!
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