Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

She hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. We have reason to believe someone posed her. . . . Her hands were folded across her chest.”

      Jane cried out. “Who would do such a thing?”

      “It’s difficult to say if someone else dressed her. Perhaps your mother was going somewhere.”

      “Behind my back.” It was an odd comment. Siobhán would have to keep in mind that Jane was also a suspect; she doubted Macdara would be able to do the same. “Someone in town did this. To prove their nasty point.”

      “Does Aunt Ellen collect coins?” Macdara asked.

      Jane laughed. “Mam? A collector? No.” She stopped. “Why?”

      “We couldn’t touch it, but there was something gold underneath the bed,” Siobhán said. “It looked like a gold coin.”

      “That’s odd. . . . You didn’t pick it up?”

      “We can’t touch anything,” Siobhán said. “It doesn’t ring any bells?”

      Jane let out a half laugh. “Do you think we’d be living here if we had even one gold coin?” She sounded bitter. “I have no idea what it is.”

      “It will be thoroughly investigated,” Macdara said.

      “Is there any way you could go in and retrieve it now? I can let you know if I hear the guards approaching.”

      “No,” Siobhán said, gently but firmly. “We’ve already intruded on the crime scene once. We won’t do it again.”

      “Why is it you ask?” Macdara said.

      “If there’s a gold coin in the cottage I don’t want them to steal it.”

      “We’re the Guardians of the Peace,” Siobhán said. “We take our oaths seriously. They won’t steal it.” She wasn’t sure of it all. Not all guards were honest, they were human, but hopefully it sounded reassuring.

      “We’ll make sure of it,” Macdara added.

      Jane took a few steps away from the cottage. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left her all alone.”

      A soft breeze came through, bringing with it the scent of heather and damp earth. What a mercurial weather display. Mother Nature was the boss here, and she wanted you to know it. Jane’s head suddenly snapped up. “What about Mam’s truck?”

      Truck? There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Macdara and Siobhán simultaneously swiveled their heads. “Where would it be?” Macdara prodded.

      “Parked anywhere near the cottage.”

      “There’s nothing.”

      “It’s a red pickup.”

      “There’s no truck, luv,” Siobhán said. She studied the terrain. “There’s no driveway or road either.”

      “Mam usually drove straight through the meadow.”

      Macdara walked a few paces and stared at the ground. Siobhán followed. There was a definite path in the grass where tires had churned up grass and dirt. “The grass is flat here, and fresh dirt has been kicked up. I’d say someone drove through here recently.”

      “The killer took off in her truck then,” Jane said.

      Siobhán vowed to never forget her trusty notebook again as she pondered the missing truck. Macdara grabbed his mobile.

      Of course, what an eejit. Siobhán could take notes on her mobile phone. She pulled it out, pulled up the Notes app, and began to tap her observations out as fast as she could. Welcome to the present day, O’Sullivan. Part of her hated it.

      “What’s the number plate?” Macdara asked.

      “I have no idea,” Jane said. “I’m sorry. But everyone here knows Mam’s beat-up red lorry.”

      Macdara nodded. “I’m calling the guards back. I’ll let them know to be on the lookout for it.” He headed away to place the call.

      “This is my fault,” Jane said. “I left her with these cretins.”

      “Don’t think like that. If you had stayed with her, you may have come to the same fate.”

      “Foam at her mouth,” Jane said. “An overturned teacup, and a gold coin.”

      “Did she take her tea in the bedroom?” Siobhán asked.

      “Before bed. Yes. Once in a while.” Jane began to pace. “If the tea was poisoned, the killer had to be someone she knew and trusted.”

      “I was thinking the same,” Siobhán said.

      “But if she had company—wouldn’t there be two teacups?”

      “It’s all conjecture,” Siobhán said softly. “The state pathologist will have to make a conclusive determination about poison, and the cause of death.”

      “That sounds like a lot of waiting.”

      “Where were you this weekend?” Siobhán asked, purposefully keeping her voice free of accusation.

      “Why, Siobhán O’Sullivan,” Jane Delaney said. “Are you asking for my alibi?”

      Chapter 6

      “I am asking for your alibi,” Siobhán answered honestly. “Where were you last night?”

      “I was at an herbalist conference in Dublin. I’m studying to be an apothecary.”

      She would know all about poisonous herbs. That explained the lush garden out back. Ellen Delaney could have poisoned herself, as improbable as that sounded, but she couldn’t have smothered herself, posed herself, or driven off in her truck.

      “Do you have a program from the conference?” Siobhán asked.

      “A program? Do you think I killed my own mother?” Her tone was one of defiance.

      Careful. She’s family. “Of course not,” Macdara said, cutting Siobhán off with his return. He shot her a disapproving look.

      “It’s a good idea to get your alibi on record.” She would not be deterred, not even by Dara. “The name and location of your conference, the hotel where you stayed. Your train ticket. The car you took from the station back to the cottage. The sooner we have it all collected the better.”

      “We?” Macdara asked.

      “The guards,” Siobhán corrected.

      Jane lifted her chin. “Of course.” She made no move toward her suitcase, which was still sitting by the door. Siobhán thought of the suitcase in the wardrobe. She mentioned it to Jane. “It’s normally tucked away on the top shelf,” Jane said. “Mam always said: a place for everything and everything in its place.”

      “Could she have been planning a trip of her own?” That would explain the outfit and the suitcase.

      “If she was, she was keeping it from me.” There it was again, a jealous tone.

      “It’s not our case,” Macdara said. “I’m sure the local guards are capable of handling this.”

      “You are?” Siobhán said. That didn’t sound like Macdara and minutes earlier he had stated the exact opposite.

      “I wish I had your confidence,” Jane said. “You watch. They’re going to blame it on the fairies.”

      “The guards won’t pay attention to such nonsense.” Macdara sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

      “You’re a fool if you think that. The councilman will cave to the villagers. We’re outsiders.” The last word was spoken with venom.

      “A friend of mine from Templemore is a new