Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

      Chapter 7

      Downtown Ballysiogdun consisted of a church, a pub, one gift shop, one fruit-and-veg shop, a butcher’s, Molly’s Café, and a French restaurant. Everything else was meadow and stone and trees. The farmers’ market was set up at the end of the main street. It was six rows deep and in full swing when they arrived. Table after table were piled with crates of fruits and vegetables, cheese, milk, eggs, meat, and crafts. The sound of fiddles filtered through the air along with the smells of fresh baked pies. There was nothing lovelier to Siobhán than a good summer farmers’ market. If she were going back to Kilbane she’d be buying fresh flowers and food for the week. She felt a squeeze of guilt. She wished her siblings were here to enjoy the market and help her pick out goodies. Siobhán imagined selling her brown bread here; some healthy competition was always good for a marketplace. A large man with stringy brown hair and draped in a tattered cloak weaved his way through the crowds. Truth be told he looked and smelled like he needed a good wash. “C’m’ere to me,” he called as they passed. “Do you want to hear a tale of yore?”

      “We do not,” Jane said as she clicked past with her cane.

      “A seanchaí?” Siobhán had to run to keep up with Jane.

      “He wishes,” Jane shot back.

      Behind them, the storyteller began to mumble to himself, then switched to humming a children’s lullaby.

      It made Siobhán smile. “He seems like a character.”

      “Eddie?” Jane said. “He’s a nuisance. Blew into town recently. Always looking for a handout.”

      That explained the odor. He was probably homeless, trying to make a bob telling stories. Jane seemed to have a hard disposition, with little room for empathy. As they made their way through the stands to Geraldine’s walking sticks, Siobhán noticed Professor Kelly loitering in front of a table hoisting up a carton of eggs, lifting each one out of the carton and offering them to the light. Siobhán put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. When they encountered him on the road he had been urging the crowd to go home. Was he a peacekeeper? Or had he been putting on an act?

      Jane leaned in. “Something has stolen your attention. What is it?”

      “It’s a who,” Siobhán said. “Professor Kelly.”

      “Dylan Kelly,” Jane repeated with a nod. “What’s the story?”

      “He’s fondling eggs,” Siobhán said. “Holding every one up to the sun.”

      Jane laughed. “Joe Madigan is right. No one here trusts anyone.”

      “Pardon?”

      “My neighbor Joe Madigan has a reputation of sneaking in cracked eggs.” As they passed, Dylan Kelly spotted Jane and turned. His glasses slipped down his nose and he nearly dropped his egg as he pushed them back up with his index finger.

      “Careful. You drop it you buy it,” a gruff voice said. Siobhán’s head snapped up. There was no doubt, it was the farmer she’d witnessed spying on them through binoculars. He had changed his red shirt and was wearing a muted green one, but the dark hat pulled low was the same. He was younger than she first assumed, in his thirties, and handsome except for the scowl. His expression softened when he noticed Jane. Maybe Siobhán should have come clean to her about him being a Peeping Tom. He did not make eye contact with her. Dare she say, he was refusing to make eye contact with her? Dylan Kelly set the carton of eggs back on the table.

      “You fondle me eggs, you pay,” Joe said.

      Dylan Kelly shook his head, but removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer and completed his transaction. Joe thrust the carton of eggs at him and Dylan tucked them underneath his arm before heading for Jane. Once he was standing in front of them, he too barely glanced at Siobhán. Maybe they were all under a fairy spell, one that rendered them incapable of noticing anyone who didn’t live in their village.

      “Miss Delaney, it’s Professor Kelly,” he said loudly.

      “Hello, Dylan,” Jane said. “This is Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan.”

      Dylan Kelly removed his hat with his left hand and placed it on his chest. His head was mostly bald with a few side pieces blowing in the wind. “I am horribly shocked and sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” he shouted.

      “She’s not deaf,” Siobhán said. She couldn’t help it. He was acting like a fool and nearly pierced her eardrum. “How did you hear?”

      Dylan Kelly glanced at Siobhán but did not answer. The phone call Macdara had made to the guards—that was the only way he could have heard. Unless, of course, he was the killer. In that case, it was foolish of him to admit to knowing something that was still under wraps. Somehow the information from Macdara’s phone call had already spread to the village. Typical.

      “Murder,” Jane said, raising the volume of her voice to match his. Several heads turned. “My mother was murdered.” She leaned into Siobhán. “Are they looking?”

      “Nearly every one of them,” Siobhán whispered back.

      “Let me know if any make a run for it.”

      Siobhán’s head popped up as if expecting to see someone bolt from the scene. Dylan Kelly’s eyes flicked once more to Siobhán. “Garda,” he said with a nod.

      “Mr. Kelly,” Siobhán replied, trying to sound equally formal. “Or should I say Professor?”

      He arched his eyebrow. “Retired,” he said. “I’m an author now, with my first book soon to be published.” He looked as if he wanted to pat himself on the back. He grinned and turned back to Jane. “Murder?” his voice softened. “Are you sure?”

      “The state pathologist will conduct a thorough investigation.” Siobhán should have warned Jane not to jabber about the case. It never occurred to her that Jane would do so. “What kind of book are you writing?”

      “Poisoned and smothered,” Jane said, stepping forward.

      No, no, no. What was she doing? “It’s best not to give away too much information,” Siobhán said. “We need to protect the investigation.”

      “They need to hear this.” Jane pushed Siobhán aside. “The Little People did not kill my mother. Someone amongst us did. They poisoned her, and then smothered her!”

      This was a disaster, a setback for the investigators. If social decorum didn’t dictate otherwise, Siobhán would have thrown herself to the ground to pummel it.

      Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Geraldine Madigan, wielding her colorful staff, barreled toward them with surprising speed, jostling townsfolk out of her way with her elbows. She planted herself in front of Jane, her bosom still heaving long after she stopped. She held a finger up to Jane’s face. “Shame on you for not listening to our warnings.”

      “Geraldine,” Jane said. “I should have known there wouldn’t be an ounce of sympathy in your old bones.”

      Siobhán’s mouth dropped open. Jane Delaney was combative. There was definitely boiling water under this bridge.

      “That cottage is cursed,” Geraldine said, spit flying from her mouth. “If it had been bulldozed as we told you, repeatedly, your mam would still be alive.”

      “And here we were going to buy one of your walking sticks.”

      “You can have as many as you want on your way out of this village,” Geraldine said.

      Siobhán gasped. It was all she could take. “Have you no decency? She just lost her mam.”

      Geraldine’s