How to Trace a Cold Case, page 14
Was Skelly...Oscar Dunphy?
Or was it merely a coincidence that Skelly had a lone 1928 pence on him?
“The coin once slipped out a hole in the fella’s pants pocket when he was delivering us groceries. I found it on the ground where his car was parked and returned it to him. He gave me a ten pence for having returned a pence. Must have been an important penny. He assured me my honesty would bring me good luck. A week later, a large oak fell over, missing my bedroom roof by mere centimeters. Fella was spot-on about the lucky penny.”
“Sounds like he was a nice guy,” Biddy said.
“To us kids anyway. Had more than his share of rows with adults in the area.”
“Yeah, we came across an article about a dispute with a supplier, over Oscar not giving him a fair price on rashers and pork.”
Bernie shrugged. “Not certain ’bout that. He left the area when I was a young lad. His brother minded the shop after that. A nice fella but a bit stingy with the free sweets. Although he’d give me a five pence for making a delivery or doing odd jobs now and then.” He frowned at his stacks of books. “Sorry for not having found more information or being of much help. Will keep searching.”
“You’re grand,” Biddy said. “A lovely story about the lucky penny.”
That might have just helped crack the case.
I’d expected the man to have found a historical photo or article in one of his books, which would provide a clue to solving the mystery. Who knew it’d be a lucky penny story from his childhood?
“How can Skelly not be Oscar?” Biddy said as we headed out the front door toward my car.
“Perhaps the penny dropped out a hole in his pocket when he was burying the body. Oscar was the victim or the murderer and Suitcase Salesman was the other...unless Ernest was the killer. I wonder if the estate transferred to Ernest in 1948, the same year he took over the family business. I’ll have to check the land records. Oscar leaving the area would have been quite a windfall for him.”
Biddy nodded. “Ernest is looking more and more guilty.”
“If Oscar was the victim, Ernest had to have been involved somehow, or he’d have known if Oscar never returned from his hospital stay in Dublin. The family would have filed a missing person’s report if they weren’t involved or at least aware of Oscar’s murder. And who besides family would have fabricated the story of Oscar marrying a nurse and opening a shop in Dublin if it’s not true? And if Oscar was the killer, he’d have moved to Dublin not wanting to answer questions on the missing salesman or raise suspicions.”
“This is bad.” Biddy shook her head. “Fierce bad.”
“I just delivered good news to Kiernan. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news again. He’ll take Ernest having been a murderer way worse than my theory that his grandpa was buried under the shed. Well, maybe not worse, since that would have made his grandma a killer. His grandma not having offed his grandpa had lessened the blow of the fake medal and bogus war-hero story. How am I going to lessen the blow that Ernest, the man’s real-life hero, might have been a killer? The man inspired the appraiser’s love for books and was the reason he’d chosen his career. He’d influenced Kiernan’s future, his destiny.”
“He’d also been a hero, saving Kiernan’s grandmother and his father from a life of destitution. Thanks to Ernest, Kiernan’s father received a good education and raised the family in a prominent Dublin suburb.”
For Kiernan’s sake, I was remaining optimistic that Oscar was the killer, not the victim. I needed proof that Oscar had married a nurse in Dublin and opened a grocery shop.
I pulled up in front of the pub, dropping Biddy off to have dinner with Collin, who was outside chatting on his phone.
“Case is almost solved,” I said as she stepped from the car. “You and Collin can go off to Wicklow next weekend.”
Biddy nodded faintly. “Unless another case comes up.”
“You’re going.”
She slammed the door and walked toward the pub. The couple kissed hello, then Biddy headed inside and Collin headed toward my car. I rolled down the window.
He smiled. “Hey, Mags. What’s the craic?”
“One step closer to solving the mystery.”
“Ah, that’s grand.”
I nodded. “You guys can go away for the weekend.”
His smiled faded, and he shot a nervous glance toward the pub. “A bit odd Biddy hadn’t told you about our plans, isn’t it? I mean, she tells you everything.”
“Not everything. Honestly, it’s been so crazy with the filming and the skeleton case, we haven’t talked about much else.”
He frowned, not looking reassured. “I’m thinking maybe she doesn’t fancy a weekend away with me.”
“She totally does,” I lied. “Just has a lot on her mind right now.”
Was Collin rethinking their getaway? Maybe Ita’s engagement comment had freaked him out as well.
Biddy poked her head out of the pub and peered curiously at us. “Pizza’s nearly done.”
“I best be going,” Collin said. “See ya, Mags.”
Biddy would be calling the second he left, drilling me about our conversation.
I went home and removed Gilbert Moffat’s information from the bulletin board. A tremendous sense of relief washed over me, no longer having Kiernan’s grandfather on the possible victims list. Yet I hadn’t a clue how to identify Farmhand Kerry and Suitcase Salesman. So I searched for evidence that Oscar had lived in Dublin in 1948 and later years. First I confirmed that the land records showed the estate’s home had transferred from Oscar to Ernest in 1948. Interesting.
No death record or grave was online for Oscar. No Dunphy’s grocer listed in the 1948-1950 Dublin city directories. No marriage record for Oscar and a nurse in Dublin or Ireland. However, if Oscar was the killer, maybe he’d fled the country and hidden out on a South Pacific island. Mortified that Oscar had killed a man, the family had fabricated a story about his marriage to a lovely nurse in Dublin. Similar to Isobel’s war-hero tale.
I stared at the stack of documents and a ledger from Kiernan. Why had only one business ledger been in the safe? Why hadn’t the others been with it? I slipped the green cloth-covered book from the pile and opened it. Although I despised accounting and had little business knowledge, it only took me fifteen minutes to realize the ledger wasn’t for the grocery store. Well, in a roundabout way it was.
It appeared Oscar had been a loan shark. He’d been loaning locals money at an insanely high interest rate. When a supplier couldn’t make payments, he subtracted the amount from what the store owed him for goods. Like the Sheehan man, who’d filed charges against Oscar for not paying him the agreed-upon amount for his rashers and pork. I checked the ledger’s 1933 entries and found Sheehan’s name crossed off and a new supplier written in. Had the guy known Oscar was going with another supplier and had nothing to lose, so he’d filed charges, desperate for money? Previously, no man had likely dared to turn Oscar in for fear he’d tell the man’s wife that he’d borrowed money for paying off gambling debts or a tab at the pub. Maybe Farmhand Kerry had been a collector. Oscar had needed some way to get money from those who weren’t doing business with the grocer. He couldn’t take it out of their pay.
Had Ernest found out about his brother’s illicit dealings and that he was swindling their neighbors, so he’d whacked him? Had inheriting the estate and store been a bonus for Ernest rather than his motive?
The doorbell rang.
I was surprised to see Edmond, Rosie, and Gretta standing as a united team. They whisked inside, talking excitedly.
I held up a hand. “What did you find?”
Rosie graciously nodded at Gretta to share the news.
“We found an article on the break-in at the grocery store in 1948.” Gretta must have found it since she was searching that year. Nice of her to give them credit as a team. “Following the break-in, Ernest returned to town to run the family business. It appears he’d been gone a few years.”
“His dad died in 1946, and Oscar had inherited the house and several acres,” I said. “He might have kicked Ernest out or Ernest was upset and left.” Maybe Ernest had known about the loan shark operation, so Oscar’s inheritance had added salt to the wound. “I wonder if Ernest had also quit the family business because of his father’s will.”
“Ernest’s return was like a hero’s homecoming celebration,” Rosie said.
Edmond nodded. “Like one of those New York City ticker-tape parades I’ve seen on the tellie. Where Ernest would have been sitting on the back of a convertible and driven through the streets while the entire city tossed confetti from the upper windows of their flats or offices.”
Gretta smiled earnestly. “The article had several quotes by locals who were over the moon to have Ernest return to run the family business. Not one word of sympathy for Oscar, who was supposedly on his deathbed in Dublin.”
The entire town might have known Ernest had killed Oscar and that was the reason for celebration. Nobody would have turned the hero in to the garda. Strange how the children from that time had fond memories of Oscar and his lucky penny and free sweets. Perhaps the man giving kids free candy was a way of earning their trust at a young age so he could later swindle them out of their money as adults.
“This calls for a celebratory drink at my house,” Edmond said.
I smiled. “Thanks, but I have some research to do.”
Rosie turned to Gretta. “Would you like to join us?”
A twinkle of surprise glistened in Gretta’s gray eyes. She gave Rosie a grateful smile. “Thanks a million for the invite. But Tommy has been on his own for dinner the past few nights. I plan to make him a roast. Will definitely be celebrating with a glass of wine though.”
“Ah, that’s grand.” Rosie smiled. “Another time, then.”
“Indeed, another time,” Edmond said.
My three excited assistants left, off for their celebratory drinks. I didn’t feel like celebrating. The thought of Ernest, Kiernan’s hero, having been the killer made my stomach toss. I hadn’t shared my theory with Edmond, Rosie, and Gretta. I hadn’t even wanted to share it with Kiernan, who called minutes after they’d left and asked me to come over. I hadn’t planned to see him until I had more info. I didn’t want him to cancel the Dalwade filming again unless I was confident Ernest was the killer.
At the moment, I was leaning toward confident.
Oscar’s signature penny was a great clue, but it might take DNA evidence to solve the mystery, if a living Dunphy relation could be located.
Ernest hadn’t had children with Isobel or any other woman that I’d found. If Oscar had kids, they might still live on a South Pacific island. Ernest’s younger unmarried sister had been buried with his parents. I hadn’t come across the older sister, whose married name was included in the will. If any of the siblings had children and grandchildren, why hadn’t one of them contacted Kiernan or the guards? The story had made the news in Scotland. Maybe uncovering buried skeletons in a yard wasn’t uncommon in many places, so it wasn’t newsworthy worldwide.
I had to handle this next visit with Kiernan more professionally and compassionately than I had the last one. Telling him the man he’d admired was possibly a killer would be way worse than a cheating grandpa he’d never known. I’d keep that to myself for now, not having confirmed the killer part. The only thing I knew was Oscar was likely the killer or victim. Now knowing Kiernan wasn’t a heartless dodgy scam artist, at least not as heartless as I’d once thought, would make it difficult.
The appraiser having a compassionate and sentimental side was almost a stranger thing to uncover than a buried skeleton under the man’s tree.
After the train-wreck interview, I assumed Kiernan was once again hiding out at the estate, avoiding social media and the internet. He wasn’t answering his phone, so I headed over to Kilcarrigy.
Kiernan greeted me at the door in his dried muddy velvet slippers and green robe over blue satin pajamas. He appeared beaten down from his interview. Gone was his usual arrogant and self-confident attitude. He shuffled up the stairs to the library, where dramatic orchestra music played like from a movie in which an entire country had just been taken out by a meteor.
Kiernan dropped onto the couch. “Have some good news.” Not even the faintest smile curled his lips. “The garda won’t be pursuing an investigation. The bones have likely been in the ground less than seventy years but more than fifty. There are no known relatives demanding justice or needing closure, and the killer is likely dead.”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
He nodded faintly. “Suppose you saw my interview?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“Not one of my finer moments.”
His absolute worst moment I’d ever witnessed.
“To think I once granted that wretched reporter an exclusive interview. And that’s the thanks I get.” He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water off the cocktail table, too depressed for whiskey, or perhaps he was out.
“Once it’s announced there won’t be an investigation, she’ll be sinking her teeth into someone else’s business, guaranteed. And people will be tweeting about some celebrity’s affair or botched Botox.”
“People turn on a dime. Not a faithful fan in the lot of ’em,” Kiernan said.
“That’s not true. Biddy mentioned all the support you’ve had from fans and peers.”
“It’s not merely brutal fans letting me down, but coworkers and family. A coworker nicking my grandfather’s medal is one thing, but not one of them has come to my rescue during this entire circus. I apparently have no friends. You and Biddy are the only ones who’ve had my back. Seeing as the authorities aren’t pursuing an investigation and you have no conclusive evidence as to the victim’s identity, you can stop researching. I’ll stand by my agreement to shoot an episode at that castle.”
My excitement about Rags to Riches Roadshow exposure for the castle hotel was dampened by the fact that I did have clues about Skelly’s identity.
Noticing my hesitation, Kiernan quirked a curious brow. “You don’t have hard evidence for any of your theories, do you?”
I twisted my mouth in contemplation.
He collapsed back against the couch. “Bloody lovely.”
I dropped my shoulders in defeat and shared Bernie McBride’s story about Oscar’s lucky penny. The man’s loan shark business. That the entire town had likely wanted the guy dead.
“I believe the coin slipped from Oscar’s pocket when he was burying the salesman, who’d likely discovered the ledger,” I assured him. “Then Oscar fled the country after murdering the man. His family was mortified and came up with that Dublin story to protect their reputation and rebuild the family business’s reputation.”
“What if Oscar was the victim? How couldn’t Ernest have known his brother went missing? Or had he known because he was the bloody killer? It’s one thing if a killer managed to bury a body on the grounds without the family’s knowledge, but how could Oscar not have been the victim with the penny?” Kiernan rubbed his forehead. “That’s it. I quit. I’m done spending my life in the spotlight, having my every move critiqued, even when they aren’t true. The press would have a field day with this one.”
I shook my head vigorously. “I’m not saying Ernest was the killer.”
“You aren’t saying he wasn’t either. And the media has proven they care little about the truth as long as it makes headlines or goes viral.”
Tell me about it.
Skelly deserved a name and identity. However, I couldn’t allow a dead man to ruin Kiernan’s life.
“I’m not pursuing the victim’s identity,” I said.
Surprise flickered in the man’s blue eyes, then dimmed. “I’m still quitting. Sorry if your castle goes to ruins, but my life is in ruins.”
“I’m not quitting so you’ll agree to remain on the show and film at Dalwade Castle. I’m seriously worried about this destroying your life. You’re one of the most knowledgeable antique book experts ever. You should continue doing what you love.” Except for his involvement in any dodgy dealings. I wanted to believe there were less of those than I’d once imagined.
“I’m going to sell the estate and travel,” he mused. “Get away from the dreary weather. Find a villa in southern Italy...”
This house had likely meant as much if not more to the appraiser than the career it had influenced. It would be like me selling my house and Grandma’s legacy. Like I’d nearly done a year ago. A week ago I’d never have dreamed anything was more important to the man than fame, fortune, and his watch collection.
He wasn’t the only one feeling defeated, disheartened, and doomed. A good thing I hadn’t given my family false hope. The show would no longer provide potential hotel guests worldwide with a peek inside the medieval castle. With the cost of repairs and refurbishments, we couldn’t afford to buy exposure like that.
Yet we couldn’t afford not to.
Sixteen
My phone rang on the nightstand, jarring me awake at 7:00 a.m. Unknown caller. I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow.
Depressed about my conversation with Kiernan, I’d gone to bed just three hours ago. What a loss for everyone. Kiernan was quitting his dream job, likely to be replaced by a coworker who wasn’t qualified to work a newsstand. The castle’s filming was off. If we didn’t come up with a creative and economical marketing plan, the place might not survive. Skelly would remain unidentified and buried in an unmarked plot at some random cemetery rather than with his family.
My phone dinged the arrival of a voicemail.
I rolled out of bed and slipped the phone into the pocket of my flannel jammies. I trudged down the spiral staircase in Berber slippers to the kitchen. I made a double-bagged cup of tea and sat at the table, peering out the window at the sheep grazing on a ridge in the distance. I listened to the voicemail.
Winnie Dwyer had remembered something that might prove important and asked that I call her ASAP. Farmhand Kerry’s actual name was not of high importance when I was no longer pursuing the investigation and justice for Skelly...was it? I’d let down Skelly and violated my professional ethics.
