Read The Irish Cairn Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Cairn Murder (15 page)
A
t 2:45, the school bus from Marlow's Girls School stopped at the corner above Coyle's vegetable market across from Nolan's Bed and Breakfast. Three of the teenaged girls who got off started up Butler Street together, chatting and laughing, hunching their shoulders against a brisk wind.
t 2:45, the school bus from Marlow's Girls School stopped at the corner above Coyle's vegetable market across from Nolan's Bed and Breakfast. Three of the teenaged girls who got off started up Butler Street together, chatting and laughing, hunching their shoulders against a brisk wind.
“Marcy? Marcy McGann?” Torrey, waiting in the lane beside Corey's, stepped out into their path. Marcy was easy to recognize, her bushy red hair was almost orange and it came down to the shoulders of her navy parka, the same parka she'd been wearing when she and Willie Hern had been near-witnesses to the clubbing of Tom Brannigan. She had a broad, pretty, freckled face. She said, uncertainly, “Ms. Tunet?”
“Yes. I was waiting. Can we talk for a minute? Is that all right?”
In Miss Amelia's Tea Shoppe, Marcy McGann put her books on the floor, shrugged out of the parka, sat down, and in the next half hour consumed three cups of tea, one scone, one cherry muffin, and two medium-sized cinnamon-topped buns, talking all the while. It had been scary, what with the woman in the green coat screaming, and then running, and the man's bloody head. She and Willie talked a lot about it. Willie said it was gypsies, they'd wanted to rob the Canadian,
but the woman's screaming had frightened them away. “Of course it doesn't half compare to that murder at the cairn. Still ⦔
but the woman's screaming had frightened them away. “Of course it doesn't half compare to that murder at the cairn. Still ⦔
“But Marcy, you didn't
see
any gypsies?” and when Marcy shook her head, “What exactly
did
you see?”
see
any gypsies?” and when Marcy shook her head, “What exactly
did
you see?”
“Well, I saw
you,
Ms. Tunet. I saw you coming on your bike. And I saw Ms. Plant, like I said. She was across the road from the Sylvesters' gate, so of course she could see what was happening at the gate. Enough to make
anyone
scream! Willie said she sounded like a fire engine. Inspector O'Hare has it all down on paper. Just the way Willie and I told him.” Marcy licked a finger and pushed it around on the plate among the crumbs and cinnamon and sugar, then sucked her finger. She gave Torrey a sidelong look, and giggled. “Except for the bird. Inspector O'Hare would've thought I was a rattle brain.”
you,
Ms. Tunet. I saw you coming on your bike. And I saw Ms. Plant, like I said. She was across the road from the Sylvesters' gate, so of course she could see what was happening at the gate. Enough to make
anyone
scream! Willie said she sounded like a fire engine. Inspector O'Hare has it all down on paper. Just the way Willie and I told him.” Marcy licked a finger and pushed it around on the plate among the crumbs and cinnamon and sugar, then sucked her finger. She gave Torrey a sidelong look, and giggled. “Except for the bird. Inspector O'Hare would've thought I was a rattle brain.”
“The bird?”
“A blue jay, I'd thought at first. Flying low. Disoriented, maybe. Anyway, likely must've bashed itself on a tree or something. Like they sometimes do, I guess. Its body is probably lying there decayed already. Willie agreed that that wasn't what Inspector O'Hare was after hearing, anyway.”
Torrey sat gazing at Marcy. “So that was all? You could see the road and the iron gate, of course, andâ”
“Oh, no,” Marcy said. “We couldn't see the gate or anything the other side of it, if that's what you mean. The roadside trees were in the way. So that was all.” She poked at a crumb on her plate. “It was exciting, though. Like being in a film.”
Torrey sat gazing at Marcy. Then she smiled at her. “Another muffin?”
Â
For some minutes after Marcy McGann had picked up her schoolbooks and left Miss Amelia's, Torrey sat. She was, for
one thing, actually wishing that Myra Schwartz at Interpreters International would call her to say that the Hungarian assignment had been rescheduled for a later date. But why? The fragments of information from Marcy McGann by themselves meant little, had given her nothing to pursue. True, one of them had, for a moment, stopped her. It was related to something Torrey had seen or heard. When? Where? She knew it was recently. Yesterday? Today? Tantalizing not to recall. But if she inched her way back, event by event, she'd find it. It was the same as when, having misplaced her keys, she'dâ
one thing, actually wishing that Myra Schwartz at Interpreters International would call her to say that the Hungarian assignment had been rescheduled for a later date. But why? The fragments of information from Marcy McGann by themselves meant little, had given her nothing to pursue. True, one of them had, for a moment, stopped her. It was related to something Torrey had seen or heard. When? Where? She knew it was recently. Yesterday? Today? Tantalizing not to recall. But if she inched her way back, event by event, she'd find it. It was the same as when, having misplaced her keys, she'dâ
Ah! Ah, yes! Yes! “
That
was it!” she said aloud. She'd been curious, had meant to follow up. But things had intervenedâJasper with Tom Brannigan's tale. Then something nagging at her about Sean O'Boyle.
That
was it!” she said aloud. She'd been curious, had meant to follow up. But things had intervenedâJasper with Tom Brannigan's tale. Then something nagging at her about Sean O'Boyle.
But Marcy's mention of the blue jay reminded her that when she'd gone to search around the Sylvester gates, she'd been interrupted by Sean O'Boyle and never had poked about. She looked at her watch. Just four o'clock. Why not now?
“Ma'am? Another pot? That one's gone cold.”
“No, thanks, you can give me the bill.”
I
t was dim in the coach house, the afternoon was cloudy and light shone weakly through the high, dusty windows. There was a smell of mold near the grindstone.
t was dim in the coach house, the afternoon was cloudy and light shone weakly through the high, dusty windows. There was a smell of mold near the grindstone.
Sean, holding the blade of the shears against the whirring stone, realized that the smell came from a drip in the roof that had rotted one of the old bits of harness that hung on the wall.
That harness! He laughed suddenly, remembering his first years here. Once, Natalie, nine years old, had stood on a box and taken down that same harness. She'd ineptly harnessed Ms. Sybil's skittish mare to it and gone careening over the south meadow until she'd ended afoul a rock and knocked out a tooth. It had torn her school uniform, too. Ms. Sybil had had Natalie pay for a new uniform out of her weekly allowance until it was all paid up. It made Sean hate Ms. Sybil. No. Despise her. Sean had then secretly hired Natalie to help him plant seedlings in the greenhouse. He'd paid her out of his earnings to make up for her lost allowance. Natalie had loved their secret. They still had a special smile between them, though he was sure she must have long ago forgotten why.
Sean left the coach house and brought the sharpened shears around to the greenhouse against next week's pruning. Then he started down the avenue to have a look at the
new shrubs along the gates. Partway there, he took out his pocket comb and combed his hair, sleeking it up the sides with his palm. It was for himself, not for anybody else. How he looked to himself. It was why he always walked so straight. As though he were seeing himself, his reflection. As in a mirror. Or a pool.
new shrubs along the gates. Partway there, he took out his pocket comb and combed his hair, sleeking it up the sides with his palm. It was for himself, not for anybody else. How he looked to himself. It was why he always walked so straight. As though he were seeing himself, his reflection. As in a mirror. Or a pool.
He was more than halfway to the gates when he glimpsed something moving along the road down past the shrubs. Not a rabbit or a dog, a somebody.
Weeks ago, he would have just kept on. But now there was violence and death. There'd already been too much that threatened those at Sylvester Hall.
So he stepped from the crunchy gravel to the grass and approached the road more quietly. Now, partly screened by the new shrubbery and the iron gates, he could see.
It was someone, their back to him, bent over, and picking up something from among the brambles. Someone in old jeans and a tan parka. She was whistling under her breath, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Ms. Torrey Tunet.
Just then, Ms. Tunet suddenly broke off her whistling. “Well, now! Do tell!” She was holding something, but because she was half turned away, he couldn't see what. She pulled a man-sized handkerchief from the pocket of her parka, said, “Sorry, Jasper,” and wrapped whatever it was in the handkerchief and dropped it into the pocket of her parka.
Sean watched as she got on her bicycle. She was whistling again as she bicycled back along the road to Ballynagh.
T
uesday morning, Torrey's alarm clock went off at six o'clock. It was a brisk, sunny, blue-sky day. Torrey turned off the alarm and immediately got up.
uesday morning, Torrey's alarm clock went off at six o'clock. It was a brisk, sunny, blue-sky day. Torrey turned off the alarm and immediately got up.
For the next three hours, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, she did various things: She rearranged all of Jasper's herbs on the kitchen shelf. She jumped rope for half an hour. She read the second Simenon book in Hungarian, not taking in who had shot the lawyer's wife or why the wife had had an affair with the druggist in the first place. She swallowed a cup of coffee and a heavily buttered piece of brown soda bread. She glanced at the clock on the dresser at least twenty times.
At nine o'clock she pulled her heavy V-necked raspberry sweater on over her shirt. Outside, she got on the Peugeot.
Â
At Nolan's Bed and Breakfast, by nine-thirty, breakfast was over. The tourists in rooms 3 and 4 had already departed with their luggage. So only three rooms were now occupied; their occupants had gone off fishing, antiquing, driving about, or browsing the one souvenir shop in the village.
Brian Hobbs, Sara's husband, was making up the rooms. Norah, the help, was down with a cold, and Sara was off at O'Curry's Meats for the sale on pork shoulders. Brian had
the vacuum out and the room doors open, he had just finished room 5 when he saw Ms. Tunet coming down the hall. Behind the scenes, so to speak. Ms. Tunet had a bit of dash to her, the way she held her head; and those gray eyes, this morning, had a touch of violet beneath them, as though she hadn't slept well.
the vacuum out and the room doors open, he had just finished room 5 when he saw Ms. Tunet coming down the hall. Behind the scenes, so to speak. Ms. Tunet had a bit of dash to her, the way she held her head; and those gray eyes, this morning, had a touch of violet beneath them, as though she hadn't slept well.
Clearly Ms. Tunet was wanting to speak to him. Noisy vacuum. He switched it off so they could talk. Turned out she'd come to ask him about some kind of cigarettes she wanted to buy. Sinbads. She knew he smoked, she wondered if he knew where she could get some Sinbads.
“Sinbads?” He shook his head. “Never heard of them.”
Miss Tunet said, “Well, thanks, anyway.” She looked curiously about. “That Canadian who was murdered. Was that his room?” She was looking toward room 5. Brian shook his head. “No, the Canadian fellow was in room Two. We had to keep it locked for a weekâtourists curious, and all.”
“And Ms. Plant's? Curious about hers too? Room three, isn't it?”
Brian shook his head. “No, she's room five.”
“Well ⦠I guess no luck about the Sinbads,” Ms. Tunet said. “Ah, well.” She wiggled her fingers at him and he turned on the vacuum again and went into room 2. He thought she'd left, so it startled him when ten minutes later he came out of room 2 and there she was, just outside in the hall. It made him jump. She smiled at him and said something about having lost a button off her flannel shirt and thought maybe in the hall. But the way her gaze slid away, he remembered suddenly what the village had found out last year about Ms. Torrey Tunet having been a thief. But of course she'd been a kid, in her teens. He'd done a few things himself he didn't like to remember and which would've shocked Sara if she'd known. The past was past. Anyway, about doing the cleaning, he ought to lock each door after he finished the room, not just go
from room to room to save time to have a cigarette out in the garden. Sinbad cigarettes? He shook his head.
from room to room to save time to have a cigarette out in the garden. Sinbad cigarettes? He shook his head.
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It was ten o'clock. Lucinda knocked on the cottage door. No answer. Sun filtered through the trees and shone down. Birds chirped in the hedge. Otherwise, silence. Lucinda hesitated, then knocked again. Still nothing, nobody. What to do? Maybe Ms. Tunet would come back soon. She'd wait. She
needed
to see Ms. Tunet. She sighed and resettled her brimmed cap.
needed
to see Ms. Tunet. She sighed and resettled her brimmed cap.
Waiting, she squatted beside the rather mucky pond. She was poking at a little frog in the sun on a flat rock at the edge of the pond when minutes later she heard someone whistling, and Ms. Tunet came through the hedge, pushing her bicycle. Ms. Tunet looked â¦
brilliant,
somehow. Tired, but
brilliant,
her cheeks stained with extra color, her gray eyes like they'd just seen a bunch of fireworks explode right in front of her face. She blinked when she saw Lucinda. “Lucinda! Hello! I've been wanting visitors. Come in.”
brilliant,
somehow. Tired, but
brilliant,
her cheeks stained with extra color, her gray eyes like they'd just seen a bunch of fireworks explode right in front of her face. She blinked when she saw Lucinda. “Lucinda! Hello! I've been wanting visitors. Come in.”
Lucinda hesitated. For a moment she felt uncertain, maybe it was a mistake to come, maybe she'd make some excuse, back away and leave. But then, of course, she couldn't. Because she had to try. She pulled at the bill of her cap and waited while Ms. Tunet unlocked the door.
Inside, there was barely a gleam from a peat fire in the kitchen fireplace, but it was warm enough. Ms. Tunet said, “Take off your things, Lucinda. My heavens! It's so cold outside, I got chilled. I could use a cup of hot cocoa. How about you?” She yawned but she still had that brilliant look.
“I suppose,” Lucinda said. “Thank you.” She unzipped her parka and edged onto one of the kitchen chairs. One thing, she wasn't going to cry.
Making the cocoa, Ms. Tunet kept looking at the directions on the can and spilling things, and talking at her over her
shoulder. Lucinda could tell that Ms. Tunet was trying to chat about subjects interesting to children: the new litter of kittens at Castle Moore, this Saturday's jumble sale at Dunfy's farm with toys advertised;
Little Women
coming up again on Sunday on television. Lucinda took a deep, quivering breath, she didn't care about any of that right now, not even Jo in
Little Women.
She sat pushing the salt and pepper shakers back and forth.
shoulder. Lucinda could tell that Ms. Tunet was trying to chat about subjects interesting to children: the new litter of kittens at Castle Moore, this Saturday's jumble sale at Dunfy's farm with toys advertised;
Little Women
coming up again on Sunday on television. Lucinda took a deep, quivering breath, she didn't care about any of that right now, not even Jo in
Little Women.
She sat pushing the salt and pepper shakers back and forth.
Ms. Tunet poured the cocoa into the mugs, set the mugs on the table, and said with relief, “There!” as though she'd just climbed a mountain. She sat down and looked across the table at Lucinda. Her voice was gentle. “What, Lucinda? What is it?”
“I'm so
worr
ied, Ms. Tunet.”
worr
ied, Ms. Tunet.”
“Worried, Lucinda?” Ms. Tunet stirred her cocoa.
“About my mother.” Lucinda forced herself not to cry. “I'm not
against
anybody, and I don't want to just be spreading ugly stuff. You know?”
against
anybody, and I don't want to just be spreading ugly stuff. You know?”
“Well, actually, I'm not sure what you mean, Lucinda.” Ms. Tunet blew on her cocoa. “Ugly stuff?”
Lucinda put her hands around her mug to warm them. “You were so brave when you grabbed that telephone from Dakin! So I thought maybe you'd know what I should do. That's what I came for. Though the cocoa is
very
good.”
very
good.”
“Thank you, Lucinda.”
“So maybe if I told
you,
it would be different. Because
official
people think children make up things to be important, and it gets innocent people into trouble. I mean official people like Inspector O'Hare might think so, if I told him. Though of course it's sometimes the case. The actual case.”
you,
it would be different. Because
official
people think children make up things to be important, and it gets innocent people into trouble. I mean official people like Inspector O'Hare might think so, if I told him. Though of course it's sometimes the case. The actual case.”
“Ummmm. I guess that's so, Lucinda.”
“Inspector O'Hare is a very nice man, actually. But you know how the Gardai are. Sometimes. In their zeal. I'm
for
the Gardai, naturally. Where would a civilized society
be
without the Gardai. But I'm worried sick. And telling
you
about ⦠about it is different from spreading it.”
for
the Gardai, naturally. Where would a civilized society
be
without the Gardai. But I'm worried sick. And telling
you
about ⦠about it is different from spreading it.”
“Spreading what, Lucinda?” Ms. Tunet said. “What you're here about?”
“Well ⦔ Lucinda took a deep, quavering breath.
Â
Five minutes later, her tale ended, Lucinda sat with her hands clasped to her chest. “Will it help my mother?”
Ms. Tunet was staring at her. “It might. It just might.” Her voice was a little breathless. “I'm glad you came to me. And for now, best not to go to Inspector O'Hare.”
“All right.”
Lucinda drew an enormous breath of relief. She had a feeling she could trust Ms. Tunet to do
something.
What, she didn't know. She got up and put on her parka and gave her billed cap a yank. Ms. Tunet accompanied her outside. But before they went out, Ms. Tunet took a Polaroid camera from the dresser drawer, saying she wanted to take some outdoor pictures of the cottage. She was just in time, too, because when they came out the sky was already getting cloudy. Dark clouds were massing over the mountains west of Ballynagh; the sun still shone but it was going to storm, one of those rainstorms that turned the village streets into rivers.
something.
What, she didn't know. She got up and put on her parka and gave her billed cap a yank. Ms. Tunet accompanied her outside. But before they went out, Ms. Tunet took a Polaroid camera from the dresser drawer, saying she wanted to take some outdoor pictures of the cottage. She was just in time, too, because when they came out the sky was already getting cloudy. Dark clouds were massing over the mountains west of Ballynagh; the sun still shone but it was going to storm, one of those rainstorms that turned the village streets into rivers.
Lucinda skirted the little pond and went through the break in the hedge.
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