How to Trace a Cold Case, page 11
“A few days later, me friend’s mum called in on the Dunphys, inquiring on how she might reach the fella about his suitcase. Had no phone number or address for the man. Old Mrs. Dunphy said she hadn’t a clue and had enough to worry about with her son being in a Dublin hospital.”
“Who’d have buried the dead salesman if the brother was in the hospital?” Biddy asked.
He shrugged. “Supposing the other brother or father.”
“Do you know when this happened?” I asked.
“Before the 1950s. Me friend was merely a wee lad. If you’d like, I could be asking him.”
“Actually, I’d love to buy you both a pint if he’d care to stop by and tell me anything else he knows.”
I might end up forgiving Johnny for the Tombstone Terminator nickname. It was a term of endearment compared to Body Snatcher and Skeleton Scavenger.
He smiled wide. “Will be bringing him ’round tomorrow.”
I added the dodgy suitcase salesman to my list of possible victims. Even though the story had likely been embellished over the years, or over a few pints between Johnny and his friend, I liked it better than mine.
Unfortunately, I feared Gilbert Moffat was Skelly.
Johnny went over to play darts with a buddy.
“How’s the investigation going?” Ita asked.
I told her and Biddy about my theory that Gilbert Moffat hadn’t gone off to war but somewhere else. I saved the part about Kiernan’s threat to cancel the castle episode for the drive, or Biddy would lose it and the entire bar would become privy to our secret investigation.
“If Isobel made up the story because her husband abandoned the family for another woman, why not have him die a painful death?” Biddy said. “Why in the world make him a war hero?”
I nodded. “Right? Have him eaten by sharks or a rabid pack of wolves.”
“A slower, more painful death would have been better. Same for that nasty Gaelic Gobshite fella. Like getting attacked by a swarm of bees when being allergic to them, then living in agony until his head swelled up so big it exploded. Or having stepped on a red ant hill and having them crawl up his legs into his knickers and—”
“Jaysus,” Collin said, walking up behind us. “When I agreed to be helping you bury a body one day, I didn’t know you were already making plans.” He grimaced.
Biddy smiled at her boyfriend—a cute brown-haired guy dressed in jeans and a lightweight blue sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes. “I like to be prepared.”
“Maybe I should be having second thoughts about us going away together on holiday.” He draped an arm around her shoulders. “Even if just for the weekend.”
Biddy and Collin were going away together for a weekend?
She ignored my curious stare. “Can only be going if Mags and I identify Skelly.”
Their getaway was apparently soon, yet Biddy hadn’t mentioned it.
“Wicklow should be lovely with the autumn leaves on the trees,” Ita said.
Biddy’s mom knew their plans when I hadn’t a clue?
Hmm... Was this payback for me not telling Biddy what was wrong with Gretta? Or because I hadn’t been open to discussing Ian, only because I didn’t know what to discuss.
“What do you guys plan to do?” I asked.
Collin shot a surprised glance from Biddy to me. “Biddy didn’t be telling ya? Talked her into a ghost tour at Wicklow Gaol. At night.”
I eyed Biddy. “You’re doing a haunted prison tour?”
She shifted on her stool. “After our ghost tour in Edinburgh, I’m a bit mad for haunted places.”
Collin smiled. “And going hiking at Ballinastoe.”
“It’s not hiking, more of a walk,” Biddy assured me since she’d never hiked in her life. “The Devil’s Glen walk. Supposed to be gorgeous.”
“Ah, it’s lovely,” Ita said. “A lass at work had snaps of it this past summer. Her boyfriend proposed on the walk.”
Biddy paled. Her smile faded.
Collin glanced at his watch, missing her reaction. “Lunch is over. I best be getting back to work.” He gave Biddy a fleeting kiss and was off.
Before I could interrogate Biddy, she sprang from her chair. “Must craic on ourselves. Lots to do.” She whisked out the door to my car.
Our drive to Kilcarrigy was going to be a tense one.
Twelve
“No filming at Dalwade?” Biddy fumed in the seat next to me. “He won’t be getting away with this. He signed a contract. We’ll hire a solicitor. We’ll sue!”
Biddy’s reaction was precisely why I hadn’t had her join me on my visit with the appraiser. I’d been irrational enough.
“We’re not suing Kiernan. The guy wasn’t thinking clearly. I’d just told him his grandma might have murdered his grandpa and buried him under her garden shed.”
“Not like the cheating jerk hadn’t deserved it.”
“Regardless, it’s a horrible thing to learn about your grandparents. And having bragged about his war-hero grandfather to millions just adds salt to the wound.”
Biddy dropped back against the car seat. “Suppose. But he shouldn’t be taking it out on the castle or us. Especially when he’s best off knowing the truth before others find out. Speaking of which, I still haven’t been tagged in that Gaelic Gobshite’s post. We remain the unidentified skeleton scavengers.” She checked her Twitter account. “Over thirty thousand likes and six hundred shares.”
“I think you need a social media time-out.”
I certainly did.
She tossed her phone into her purse. “When are the guards going to decide if there’ll be an investigation?”
I shrugged. “No clue.”
We pulled into the nursing home lot. I grabbed the bag of books from the back along with a pink gift bag. We’d stopped at a shop and bought Julia some fancy coconut-scented lotion and bath gel. Now she could be immersed in the tropical scent of Hawaii.
“Remember, fifteen minutes max for each visit,” I said. “Stay focused on our purpose for being here.”
“A bit rigid when we’re likely the highlight of these people’s day.”
“I get it, but I spent an hour and a half chatting with the local historian about area cemeteries and my restoration project and not about the Dunphys. It was quite interesting, just not the background we need.” I peered at the home. “And everyone here surely has a theory on Skelly. Think of the wealth of historical information within those walls. It’ll all be gone when the residents pass away, unless someone like Bernie McBride has recorded it.”
“You need to be finishing your granny’s school journal.”
Grandma had a hardcover journal with handwritten stories from former students who’d returned years later to visit her home, the old Ballycaffey National School. At bedtime Grandma would read me journal entries rather than fairy tales. Sadly, she’d never thought to add her own stories to the journal. I’d been carrying the tales around in my head for years and began documenting them after her death.
I nodded. “I should make a copy for the library’s history room.”
“Better yet, publish it and give copies to attendees at the school reunion next summer. A memento they could pass down to their children.” Biddy’s eyes widened. “A family heirloom. A hundred years from now, some genealogist might discover it while searching through the books in the library’s history room. Publishing your own book is easy. My auntie Violet published one about Irish moss. Did you know there are over a thousand types of moss here?”
My only interest in moss was preventing it from destroying fragile gravestones beyond repair.
I added the book idea to my mile-long to-do list.
The same woman who’d buzzed me in the other day was there, so Bernie didn’t have to meet me at the front door and parade me through the halls. Lunch had recently ended, a group of women were making floral arrangements, and several residents were in the common room off the foyer, where Father Ted was blaring on the TV. Biddy went into the room to visit while I walked down the hall toward the historian’s room. I found the man snoring away in the recliner by the window, sunshine and a red knitted throw blanket keeping him warm. Disappointed I wouldn’t be able to see if he’d found any further details on the Dunphys in his history collection, I set the bag of books on his bed. The only area free of books and papers besides the floor. I wrote a note that I’d pop in again soon to chat.
I rapped on Julia’s open door and peeked in at the woman watching Elvis and Ann-Margret in Viva Las Vegas.
She smiled wide and waved me in. “Ah, so glad you called in for another visit, luv.” She muted the TV’s volume. “Felt awful having fallen asleep during our talk the other day.”
“No worries, I had to be leaving anyway. But I’d love to hear more about your friend Annie.”
“Ah, yes, Annie Fallon.”
I handed her the small pink gift bag.
“Ya shouldn’t have, luv. But thanks a million.” She gave me a wink. We rubbed the silky, coconut-scented lotion on our hands. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Just like being on a tropical beach.”
I sniffed my hands while peering out at the drizzle.
“We were great friends, Annie and me.” Julia’s smile faded. “At least I’d thought we were. Had planned to rent a flat together in Dublin after receiving our school certificates. Were going to work at Clery’s department store on O’Connell Street. To think, the store is still there today. At least I believe it is.”
I nodded. “Bought a sweater there this past spring.”
“Instead, I married a publican and bought a home just up the way from me family’s farm. Mickey and I had three fine lads and a lovely life. Just always wonder what it would have been like to be a city lass even just for a wee bit.”
“I was born and raised in Chicago. Personally, I’m much happier here in my rural cottage, even though Dublin is a lovely city. Why didn’t you and Annie move there?”
“In the summer of 1943, a year before finishing our schooling, she went to stay with relations in the States. Quite a sudden decision. One night she called in to say goodbye and was gone the next. An ill aunt in New York had needed minding. She’d promised to send me her address...but never did.” She frowned. “Was supposed to have been merely a temporary stay.”
If Biddy ever ran off with Collin and never contacted me, I’d hunt her down. Besides the fact that she knew I had the skills to find her, she’d never abandon me. Except for a holiday weekend with Collin in Wicklow. Biddy had spent the entire drive here wiggin’ out over Kiernan threatening to cancel the filming. I hadn’t had a chance to ask about her weekend getaway.
Why had Annie abandoned her best friend and their exciting plans? Had she merely wanted a fresh start in New York? A new and exciting life with Gilbert, where nobody had known them?
A quick search of the Ellis Island records would confirm whether Annie had arrived in New York the summer of 1943. Eight months before Gilbert Moffat had supposedly died in the war.
I placed a gentle hand on Julia’s. “I’m sorry. That’s so sad you fell out of touch. Did you stay in touch with any of her family in the area?”
She shook her head.
Too bad. If there were family members around who’d known the truth, they might be more willing to divulge secrets decades later. There was a slight chance anyone was still alive. If Annie had lied to her friend, had she also lied to her family? Had they figured it out when she’d never showed up at her aunt’s in New York? Or had they known the truth about her and the married man and insisted she at least save the family the humiliation and fabricate a tale?
“After Annie left for the States, her parents went to live with their married daughter in Australia.” Julia gazed out the window. “Don’t recall her name. Not sure what ever happened to her two brothers...” She shook her head in frustration.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“Not at all, luv.” She smiled. “’Tis nice talking about Annie. Haven’t for some time now. Just wish I could remember more.”
“You remember the important things. Your wonderful friendship and how much she meant to you.”
The woman nodded, smiling. “Indeed. Oh, we were involved in some shenanigans, the two of us.”
Like Biddy and me.
Julia shared stories of her and Annie’s adventures. Train trips to Dublin, sneaking a nip of whiskey from their fathers’ stashes, and taking Annie’s father’s tractor for a joyride. Before I realized it, I’d been there forty minutes, twenty-five minutes longer than my limit. I promised to visit again when I popped by to see Bernie McBride about the books I’d dropped off.
I hated to think Annie would have chosen a snake like Gilbert over Julia. If she’d regretted it, she’d had no family to go home to and would have been an outcast if locals had learned the truth. However, Julia would surely have forgiven her friend.
I found Biddy having her short nails painted bright pink by the mysterious woman from yesterday. The petite woman had on a blue pleated dress and cream-colored ballet slippers with pink satin bows. Her white hair was once again up in a loose bun. She and Biddy wore matching bright-pink lipstick and pink circles of blush on their cheeks. Biddy introduced me to her makeup artist, Winnie Dwyer, whose granddaughter worked for a cosmetic company and received free samples.
A colorful painting of St. Brigid hung on the wall over the bed. Ireland’s only female patron saint was regarded as the Celtic goddess of healing. Based on the Irish calendar, St. Brigid’s Day, February 1, signaled the end of winter and a time of renewal. The other walls displayed vintage theater posters, including Rudolph Nureyev in Swan Lake and the musical A Chorus Line.
“Worked at a theater in Dublin for years.” Winnie glanced up while her shaky hand continued brushing pink polish on Biddy’s nails. “’Twas a lovely time. Pay wasn’t much, but I was able to keep several posters and had a bit role in many performances.”
“Bet you met loads of celebrities,” Biddy said.
A reminiscent smile curled the woman’s thin pink lips. “Some, of course, thought a bit much of themselves, while others were absolutely lovely.”
“I bet you have some interesting stories,” I said.
Winnie nodded. “We’ll have tea sometime.” Finishing Biddy’s manicure, she admired her work. Biddy’s polished hangnails and cuticles matched her nails.
Biddy blew on her nails. “Tell my friend Mags here your theory about the skeleton.”
The woman’s smile faded, and a mysterious glint sparkled in her pale-blue eyes. “When I was nearly twenty, we had a farmhand who also did maintenance and grounds work for the Dunphys. I once saw the older Dunphy lad and him arguing behind the grocer. The fight ended with the Dunphy fella handing him a load of quid. The next day our man didn’t show for work. I thought my parents should notify the garda. My father said farmhands came and went as they pleased. That the fella had merely fancied a change of scenery. Hard keeping good workers at the time, it was.”
“Do you recall his name?” I asked.
“Went by Kerry, but ’twasn’t his name. He was a blow-in from County Kerry. He hadn’t any ties to the area. Still, I thought it odd at the time. Thought maybe the Dunphy fella had been paying our man off to leave the area for some reason. Now with them finding that skeleton, it makes sense. Maybe the Dunphy lad wanted his money back and killed the man. It’s surely him.” She placed a hand on her silver necklace, a St. Brigid’s cross—a square in the middle with an arm radiating out from each corner.
“Any idea what year that would have been?” I asked.
“I was recently wed.” She smiled. “Henri was a lovely man. We married in the spring of 1948, so would have been not long after that. I doubt there’s anyone still around who knew the man, but I’ll check.”
“Do you know if the Dunphys had other workers or boarders who’d lived on the estate?” Like in the 1911 census, there might have been non-family members residing there.
Winnie shook her head. “Sorry, luv. Don’t recall.”
However, she remembered several interesting stories from her theater days. Before we knew it, a half hour had passed. I gave the woman my number and asked her to call if she learned the guy’s name. I promised to pop back by soon for a visit.
Biddy chewed on her lower lip, studying her nails as we headed down the hall. “A good thing I didn’t go with red. It might have been too flashy, drawing attention to my manicure.”
The hot pink wasn’t exactly subtle.
“I can’t be removing it. Don’t want to be offending sweet little Winnie if I return with unpolished nails.”
We peeked in the quiet TV room, where a group was doing tai chi. So much for chatting with people to learn more theories. On the way to the car, Biddy shared several farfetched ones she’d heard from residents watching Father Ted. Winnie’s story sounded the most plausible, but a drifter farmhand nicknamed Kerry from County Kerry wasn’t much to go on. Did it somehow connect to Johnny’s theory about the dodgy salesman who’d disappeared, leaving behind his suitcase? Even if it didn’t, it appeared the Dunphys had some shady business going on with shifty characters.
Thirteen
Fifteen minutes out of Kilcarrigy, Garda Higgins phoned Biddy that her car was available for pickup at the station. We turned around and headed back to town. A garda vehicle and small sporty red car sat in the lot. No small gray car.
Biddy glanced up and down the street at parked cars. “Don’t see it, do ya?”
I shook my head.
Before I could recommend that she remove the circles of blush from her cheeks, Biddy bolted inside the station. Garda Higgins sat at a wood desk surrounded by light-blue and gray walls. The white-bearded man’s curious gaze narrowed on Biddy’s makeup, then recognition flickered in his eyes. She was the woman who’d uncovered the skeleton. Not some crazed clown on the loose that I’d captured.
Biddy managed a pleasant smile. “Here to collect my car.”
