Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor
“I’m starting to see why Geraldine was carrying a big stick,” Siobhán said.
“Too bad she wasn’t speaking softly,” Macdara quipped.
Straight ahead, behind a bush, she caught a flash of red. She squinted. It was a man, crouched down and peering out from behind the leaves. It was his shirt that caught her eye, a bright red flannel. Probably a farmer. Did he live in the house in the distance? If he was going for stealth he should have reconsidered his wardrobe. Seconds later his head popped out, giving her a glimpse of a black hat pulled low, covering his entire brow. He lifted something up to his eyes. Binoculars. Trained on them. A nosy farmer to boot. She waved at him. He dropped the binoculars, then crouched over and ran toward the farmhouse in the distance.
“How odd,” Siobhán said.
“What?” Macdara stopped to kick a rock out of his way.
“There was a farmer hiding behind a tree. Peeping at us through binoculars.”
Macdara’s head popped up, and he followed Siobhán’s fingers, but the farmer had disappeared. Beyond the tree, just ahead of them and to the left, a slip of a woman was tapping a cane left and right, making her way toward them. She wore a flowered summer dress, and large sunglasses covered most of her face. Macdara hadn’t mentioned that his cousin was blind. She stopped and lifted her head. She had Macdara’s messy brown hair, only hers was longer and falling over her shoulders. “Dara?” Her voice wobbled. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, luv. How did you know?”
She attempted a smile, but her lips shook as if it was an impossible task. “You wear the same cologne.”
“If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” Siobhán blurted out. She loved Macdara’s cologne. Intoxicating.
“You must be Siobhán.”
“Yes, hello, so lovely to meet you.”
“There’s no time for introductions,” Jane said, her voice wobbling. “Something horrible has happened.” She swung her cane until the tip pointed at the cottage.
Their heads swiveled to the stone building with flaking white paint. Moss crawled up the sides, and the red front door yawned open. A large window to the left of the door was shattered. A suitcase lay discarded next to the door. Colorful flowers spilled onto the front yard and manicured paths could be seen on either side leading to a back garden.
“Were you robbed?” Macdara’s voice was in protector mode, a tone Siobhán knew well.
Jane was already shaking her head. “Mam,” she said, pointing at the cottage. “I can’t.” She hung her head. “Mam is in there. She’s . . . dead.”
Siobhán nearly dropped her sack with the platter of brown bread. She didn’t quite know what emergency she was expecting. Illness. Money trouble. Family arguments. Then when entering the town, she assumed the uproar was about the cottage. Why hadn’t Jane told Macdara straightaway that her mother had passed? She glanced again at the broken windows. Had someone broken in? Had the guards been called? This wasn’t her cousin, so she squeezed the platter of brown bread as tightly as she could as if that might keep her piehole from moving.
Macdara moved in and gently laid his hands on Jane’s elbows. “Tell us everything.”
“I was in Dublin all weekend for an herbal conference. I returned to find the door open, the window smashed, and Mam . . .” She broke down again. “She’s lying on the bed. I couldn’t feel a pulse or a breath. So cold. So still.” Jane shook her head as if trying to rid herself of her thoughts. “I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand.”
“Did you call the guards?”
“Yes. I called nine-nine-nine. Then I called you. I’ve been waiting.” In the smaller villages emergency services could be spotty, but this was taking it a bit too far. Siobhán wondered if the felled tree had rerouted them. “I told them she had passed, but I didn’t mention the open door or busted window. Perhaps my mother’s death isn’t an emergency to them.”
“Stay here,” Macdara added. Jane nodded.
Macdara gave a nod to Siobhán. “Stay behind me. Understand?”
This was no time to quibble. She nodded back. “There’s a platter of brown bread here,” Siobhán said, setting it down next to the rock where Jane stood. “You probably need to force a little something into you, but believe me, you don’t want to faint.”
“Hurry,” Jane said.
Macdara approached the open door sideways, and Siobhán took up formation behind him. “Garda Flannery,” Macdara shouted into the cottage in a booming voice. “If someone is in there, get on the ground and put your hands on top of your head.” It was highly unlikely someone was hiding inside, but given the obvious disturbance it was smart protocol.
They waited. Not a sound from the old stone cottage. “We should have booties and gloves,” Siobhán said.
“I know,” Macdara said. “They’ll have to take our footwear impressions if it turns out to be a crime scene. Don’t touch a thing.” She nodded. Macdara took a step inside. The old floorboards creaked. Once, then twice. To their right was a plain but tidy kitchen, wiped clean of everything but a kettle on the cooker and a stack of papers on the counter. To the left a sagging green sofa and watermarked coffee table were arranged near a wood-burning stove. An oval wool rug lay over the cement floor. Nothing was out of place except for the open door and shards of glass beneath the busted window. There was a slight layer of dust and dirt on the floors, but given the location of the cottage, and the age of the home, it was probably rare that the floors were pristine.
Macdara pointed to the narrow hall leading to the bedrooms and put his finger up to his mouth. A few steps in, a door to a bedroom on the left was flung open. A cross dominated the space on the wall above the bed. Lying beneath it was an older woman. She could have been sleeping except she was situated on top of the covers. The most startling bit was her outfit. She was wearing a fancy red dress, red heels, a white hat, and gloves. Her hands rested on top of her stomach, the right resting atop the left. The image of a woman dying peacefully in her sleep ended there. Her eyes were open and scarred by broken blood vessels. A white feather clung to her cheek, and an inordinate amount of foam pooled at the corner of her bruised mouth. The poor woman was indeed dead, but her passing had been anything but peaceful.
Chapter 4
“Is it your auntie?” Siobhán asked quietly as they stared at the body. She instinctively crossed herself.
“’Tis.” Dara hung his head for a moment. He placed his fingers on the lifeless woman’s wrist, then neck. It was obvious she was dead, but Siobhán knew he had to check.
Siobhán maneuvered to the other side of the bed. There on the floor was a pillow and an overturned teacup. She motioned for Macdara to join her. They stared down at the items. Neither the foam at her mouth, nor the bruising, was normal for natural death. “Poisoned?” Siobhán’s voice was barely a whisper.
“And then smothered,” Macdara replied, glancing at the feather clinging to his aunt’s cheek. “The poison must not have worked; it simply subdued her.”
The killer had finished the job with the pillow. “Why didn’t the killer take the teacup? Or return the pillow to the bed?”
Macdara took a moment to mull over her question. “Perhaps the killer thought no one would bother to investigate thoroughly.”
“Or they were interrupted and had to flee.” Siobhán supposed that in this village anything was possible, even the improbable. She noted the one window in the room looked directly onto the bed. Pale curtains stretched open. She pointed. “Wouldn’t she have closed them?”
Macdara turned his back on the body and studied the window. “I dunno. Isn’t that the point of living out in the middle of nowhere? There’s not