Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

      Siobhán was distracted for a moment by the thought of Jane fondling her ex-classmate’s cheekbones. She was right though. Danny MacGregor was a looker.

      “Handsome, is he?” Macdara said with a pointed look to Siobhán.

      “The green-eyed monster courts me cousin,” Jane said with an exaggerated lilt. She turned to Siobhán, a smirk on her face. “Jealousy can be good for knocking boots.”

      “One of the protesters said that multiple residents of this cottage had died?” Siobhán was desperate to change the subject; her intimate life with Macdara was no business of his cousin.

      If Jane heard the question she didn’t address it. “I need to walk. I have all this useless energy.” She turned her head toward them. “You mentioned you saw the fairy tree on the hill?”

      “We did,” Siobhán said. “It’s quite striking.”

      “Shall I show you the other fairy tree and fairy ring?”

      Macdara’s eyes flicked toward the road. “I told the guards I’d meet them here.”

      “I’d love to see it,” Siobhán said. Perhaps they could walk in the direction where the Peeping-Tom-of-a-Farmer had crouched with his binoculars. Siobhán wrestled with whether or not to bring it up. Perhaps there had been enough upsets for the day. She would make sure and tell the guards, and Macdara could break it to Jane another time. The peeper could be the killer and there was no point frightening Jane any more than she already was.

      Jane started them off at a fast clip, her cane moving expertly side to side. “Follow me.” Jane knew the path well, every dip of the terrain. She seamlessly maneuvered around the trickiest spots, where rocks took over the path and small holes waited to trip an unsuspecting foot. It was apparent she’d walked it many times. “My mother is the sixth,” Jane said out of nowhere.

      “The sixth?”

      “Resident of the cottage to die while living here.”

      Just like the protestors they met in the road had mentioned. “When was the last death?”

      “From my understanding, the cottage has stood empty for two years. The villagers have been arguing about whether or not to tear it down. The councilman rented it to Mam.”

      Him again. “Aiden Cunningham?”

      “That would be him.” Siobhán would make it a priority to speak with him. She could only imagine how unpopular the decision had been. “Who owns the cottage?”

      “Heavens, I’m not sure. I think Mam said something about the real owners abandoning the cottage and fleeing to Spain. I think the village took over ownership after the taxes went unpaid. This will be their final excuse tear it down.”

      “Why do you think Aiden Cunningham rented it to you if the village wanted it torn down?”

      “Why indeed. Money?”

      The usual motive. But Siobhán couldn’t imagine the rent was that dear. Was there another reason?

      “We’re here,” Jane said suddenly, stopping and pointing.

      Siobhán felt a tingle as she gazed at the hawthorn trees in the distance. There were six of them in close proximity, huddled in a circle, branches stretched out like children holding hands. Fairy rings could be made of wild mushrooms, or stones, or in this case a circle of trees. It was enchanting. She lost herself in it for a moment before turning back to Jane. “Did your mother have any specific quarrels with any of the villagers—other than the cottage?”

      Jane stared into the distance. She seemed to be pondering her answer. “We should get back,” she said. “I’m not sure we’re wanted here.”

      Siobhán wasn’t sure if she meant here as in Ballysiogdun, or here as in close to the fairy trees. She stopped to see if she could feel anything mystical happening, or hear flutes in the wind, or see Little People dancing. But no. She only smelled the heather and the damp earth, and the fresh grass of the meadow.

      When Siobhán looked out at the meadow, and hills, and trees, and craggy rocks, she felt a profound connection to this land. The myths added a certain allure, a depth and appreciation to the beauty. Tales handed down by the people who had lived on this land for hundreds of years and would continue to do so. Respect. She understood that. It was to be admired. But a fairy did not kill Ellen Delaney. A human being did. If the fairies wanted revenge on anyone, it should be on the murderer who was trying to throw the blame on them.

      * * *

      By the time they made it back to the cottage, the guards still hadn’t arrived and Macdara looked as if he wanted someone’s head over it. This did not bode well for a thorough investigation. Macdara seemed eager to leave. He took Jane’s elbow. “You’ll be returning to Kilbane with us.”

      For the briefest moment, Jane looked panicked. Her mouth tightened and she gripped her cane tighter. Then she nodded. “Thank you.” Jane moved closer to Macdara, and as they began to chat, Siobhán sensed this was her opportunity to slip away. She stretched and ambled in the direction of where she’d seen the farmer with the binoculars. She reached the bushes where he had hidden and found them tucked just under the bush. His hiding place. Which meant he came often to this exact spot to spy on them. She assumed the same position and lifted the binoculars. The front of the cottage was in full view. From here she could even see the side and a portion of the backyard. She maneuvered the binoculars around to the side of the cottage. There wasn’t much to see: the side wall of the cottage, grass, and dirt. She was about to swivel to the backyard when she did notice a little thing. One patch of dirt at the base of the wall rose up, forming a little hill, whereas the rest of it was level. Was that important? Had someone tried to bury something there?

      She rotated the binoculars to the garden where lush green leaves and colorful flowers filled the lens, then several small signs popped into view: Painted in vibrant blues and greens against old driftwood, they marked the sections of the garden. MINT, BASIL, THYME . . . She continued along hoping something a little more sinister would come into view. A skull and a crossbones painted in black, perhaps. Or red letters slashing out the word “poison.” Instead, she saw a blooming garden with careening butterflies landing on fat green leaves and spreading their colorful wings. It was a little spot of Eden, and it couldn’t have been more enchanting if the fairies themselves had blessed it with magic dust.

      * * *

      When Siobhán returned, she did not mention the binoculars. Jane needed to be considered a suspect until her alibi checked out. The less information Siobhán fed her, the better. Why hadn’t she shown them a train or bus ticket to Dublin? Her suitcase was right there, and she had a handbag on her. It would have been easy enough to do. Siobhán would settle for a receipt from a shop in Dublin. Why wasn’t Macdara insisting as well? She would mention the binoculars and the mound of dirt alongside the house when she and Macdara were alone.

      “I need a cup of tea,” Jane said.

      Macdara stepped forward. “Of course you do.” He turned to Siobhán. “Why don’t the two of you go into the village?”

      Siobhán would rather be the one waiting for the guards, but this was Macdara’s family and she was going to have to let him take the reins. “A mug of tea sounds lovely.”

      He threw her a grateful look, took her hand, and squeezed it. “I’ll fill you in on everything they say and do,” Macdara said. “I promise.”

      Siobhán turned to Jane. “What do you think? Shall we get our legs under us?”

      “What day is today?” Jane asked.

      “It’s Saturday, luv.”

      Jane nodded. “The farmers’ market is today. You can buy one of Geraldine’s walking sticks. You’ll need one if you’re going to be doing any more exploring around here. And I have a feeling you will.”

      She had a point there. Siobhán