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 supposed to be anyone peeking in windows. Let alone . . .” He dropped the thought.
Was he browned off with her? She’d gone straight into investigative mode, had forgotten that this was his auntie. “I’m so sorry.” It was a strange feeling having to comfort him at a crime scene. “Do you think one of the townspeople did this because of . . . the Little People?”
“I have no idea what to think.”
Of course he didn’t, but posing the question was a standard back-and-forth for guards. He was too close to the victim to participate. She reached him and laid her hand on his arm. He moved away. “Why don’t you wait outside?” she said.
“We both need to wait outside.” He turned to her. “How am I going to tell my mam?”
His mam. Someone else she’d forgotten. It was necessary when investigating not to allow your emotions to interfere. But this wouldn’t be their case. He needed his fiancée right now, not a guard. “I’m so sorry, Dara.”
He removed his mobile phone, held it up, and snapped pictures of the scene. This would probably be their only chance. Siobhán grabbed her mobile and did the same. Just like the front room, the bedroom was neat. There was a standing wardrobe in the corner and the door was thrown open. A suitcase was visible on the bottom shelf. They would have to exit and call the guards, but they’d already intruded, so they might as well take as many photos as they could. As Siobhán headed near the door, she glanced back and spotted something glittering from under the bed. “Dara,” she said. “Look.”
Macdara came to her side and stared at the gold object resting underneath the bed. “What is that?”
“It looks like . . . a gold coin. . . .”
He tilted his head. “If you say anything about a leprechaun missing his pot the wedding is off.”
“Wasn’t even thinking it.” Although she was now. First the rainbow, now this . . . all this talk of fairies was clouding her head.
He sighed. “I wish we could touch it.”
“Me too.” She was dying to see what it was.
“Every second we’re in here we’re contaminating the scene.”
“Let’s
