Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

of the villagers stormed over here to demand we leave, which, as you can see, we refused.” Her face took on a pained look, as if she had just now realized the price they’d paid for their mistake.

      “I can’t imagine Aunt Ellen taking that well,” Macdara said.

      Jane laughed. “You’re correct. She said she’d have it sorted this weekend. She was confident she’d reached some kind of a deal.”

      Siobhán’s ears perked up. “What kind of a deal?”

      “I dunno. She wouldn’t tell me.” Jane chewed on her bottom lip. “Doesn’t matter now. They got their wish.”

      “Who showed up that day and demanded you leave?” Siobhán knelt next to Jane.

      Jane held her hands up near Siobhán’s face. “May I?”

      “Of course.” Jane’s hand quickly traveled over Siobhán’s face, and then stroked her hair.

      “I hear it’s the color of fire.”

      “Maybe when the sun hits it,” Siobhán said. “Otherwise it’s auburn.” The exact color of Siobhán’s hair was often debated, and it did change with the sun. She referred to it as auburn, but most folks settled on red.

      “I’ve heard so much about you,” Jane said, dropping her hand. “I’m sorry we have to meet at such a terrible, terrible time.”

      “So am I, pet. You were telling me about the people who showed up and demanded you leave?”

      Jane nodded. “Geraldine Madigan was leading that bandwagon, but plenty of others hitched their horses to it.” She tapped her lip with her index finger. “I’m trying to remember all the voices. There was Geraldine, and Aiden Cunningham, and Professor Kelly. I heard children too; could have been Geraldine’s grandchildren.”

      “What about this Aiden Cunningham?” Macdara asked.

      “That blubbering councilman? I told Mam he was going to side with whoever made his life the most miserable.”

      Or perhaps whoever sweetened the pot.

      Macdara began to pace, perfecting the look of a man who wanted to punch another man in the face. “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

      “Are you joking me? Mam was having the time of her life. She loved a good fight.”

      “There is a laptop in her room,” Siobhán said. “But we didn’t see a handbag or mobile phone.”

      “You didn’t?”

      “Not out in the open.”

      “Do you think it was a robbery?” Jane’s fists clenched.

      “It’s quite possible,” Siobhán answered honestly. It seemed ludicrous, to rob this cottage, but desperate people didn’t always think straight.

      “Does that mean—did someone hurt her?”

      “We don’t know, luv,” Siobhán said. “But it’s an open question.”

      “Don’t sugarcoat it. I’m blind, not stupid.” Jane stood abruptly, nearly knocking a startled Siobhán over. Siobhán hauled herself to her feet as Jane’s hand flew up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. My nerves.”

      “I understand.” And she did. Trauma could turn a person inside out.

      “Tell me everything you saw in there,” Jane demanded.

      It was a fair request. As a sighted person she would have seen everything. Jane deserved equal access. “I will describe every detail, I promise. First, may I ask a few questions while they’re fresh in my mind?”

      “Go on then.”

      “Her laptop. Did she use it often?” Why would a robber take the handbag and phone and not the laptop?

      Jane nodded. “She was one for research.”

      “Didn’t you say they cut off your internet access?”

      “She’d take her laptop to Molly’s in town.”

      “Molly’s?”

      “It’s a wee internet café. The village is mad over it, as if it rivals us with Cork City, or Limerick, or Dublin. We aren’t even Killarney.” She wrapped her arms in a self-hug, nearly breaking every vessel in Siobhán’s heart. “We never should have stayed.”

      Siobhán was dying to have a thorough look at that laptop. She only used computers for work e-mails, work-related searches, and typing up mindless reports. She loathed being on it for too long. Her eyes always glossed over, and if she ever got into online shopping or social madness, she was afraid of the money and brain cells she would expend. It wasn’t advisable to give criminals too much information about your private life, and as for shopping, best cut yourself off from temptation. “What was she researching?”

      “Fairies, I assume,” Jane said. “Fairy forts, and fairy rings, and fairy paths. She was the type to equate knowledge with power.”

      Had she found something to help in that fight? Had it led to her demise? Siobhán gazed out in the distance. “The fairy ring straight ahead.” Siobhán had to stop herself from pointing. “Whose property is it on?”

      “Joe and Mary Madigan live in the farmhouse in front of us. I believe his mother Geraldine owns the property behind us.”

      “When we came in, the villagers were on about strange lights, and music last night and . . . the wail of a banshee.”

      “I wasn’t here,” Jane said. “But it doesn’t surprise me. They’ve been wanting to get rid of this cottage for so long. They did this.”

      “Threats, cutting off your access to the village power. That’s clearly against the law.” Macdara had returned to their orbit, and he was taking names.

      “This village plays by their own rules.” Jane gripped her cane as if guarding herself from them. “I’ve waited long enough. Tell me everything you saw.” She took a deep breath and grabbed Siobhán’s hand as if bracing herself.

      Macdara cleared his throat. “From a glance, we’re worried she may have met with foul play.”

      “Because of the window?” Siobhán forgot that Jane was holding her hand until she squeezed it. Hard. It was a good thing she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. She counted to ten before pulling her hand away. “What else?”

      When Macdara didn’t speak up, Siobhán did. “We saw foam coming out of her mouth, an overturned teacup and pillow on the floor—”

      “Foam?” Jane said.

      “It’s possibly an indicator of poisoning.”

      “No. No.”

      “There was bruising near her mouth and a white feather—possibly from a pillow—sticking to her cheek.”

      Macdara winced but Jane remained stoic. Jane looked up. The sun was back out and glinting off her glasses. “Are you suggesting her tea was poisoned?”

      “I’m only reciting the facts.”

      “She made her own herbal tea. From our back garden.”

      “Is there any way your mother may have ingested the toxin on purpose?”

      “No! Of course not.”

      Siobhán didn’t think so but she had to rule out the possibilities. “The white feather suggests—”

      “Siobhán.” Macdara’s tone was harsh. “Let’s leave the conclusions to the state pathologist, shall we?”

      “It suggests she was smothered with a pillow,” Jane said. “Suffocated.”

      “Yes.” Siobhán turned to Macdara. “I know this is hard. I’m sorry.”