How to Trace a Cold Case, page 15
However, I’d done the right thing.
Hadn’t I?
Kiernan would have to live with the nagging curiosity as to whether his hero had been a killer.
Could I live with it?
I couldn’t live without money. I signed into my work email to sort through the new ones for potential clients. Over three hundred new emails brought a smile to my face until I opened the first one. A British archaeologist wondered how we’d come across the skeletal remains and our excavation process. Another was from the nasty reporter who’d ambushed Kiernan in the interview, wanting to question me about having uncovered the skeleton. Reporters, archaeologists, museums, haunted tour guides, and hundreds of nosey people wanted the scoop on our involvement with Skelly! Near the top of the inbox was a second email from a potential client that I had moved to the Pending folder. In one sentence she informed me she no longer needed my services.
Had she seen our viral post, or was her timing merely a coincidence? Regardless, being known as a skeleton scavenger and body snatcher was not good for my genealogy business or my leadership role in the cemetery restoration project. What if Archie had no choice but to fire me because volunteers were worried that I’d be digging up Lord Kerr’s skeleton!
Fingers flying across the keyboard, I was able to access Twitter without an account. I found Gaelic Gobshite’s page. His post with our photo now tagged Biddy and the Rags to Riches Roadshow page.
Who’d leaked our names to the jerk?
We’d feared someone might eventually identify us in the viral post, yet I was seething. Heart racing, I snatched my phone off the table and called Biddy.
“Serious, are ya?” Biddy shrieked. “Had someone recognized us from our snap on the Rags to Riches Roadshow page? We were in full costume, makeup, and our hair looked absolutely gorgeous. Not a thing like our horrible snap on Twitter.”
“Right? It has to be someone who knows our involvement with the investigation and Kiernan. Outside of Edmond, Rosie, Gretta, and my dad, I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. I mean, we’ve chatted with others about it but never flat out discussed our role. Can’t imagine that the nursing home residents we’ve talked to about it would even be on social media.”
“I’m messaging Gaelic Gobshite. Ring ya back.”
Click.
While Biddy was in hot pursuit of the jerk who’d outed us to the world, I stared at the sheep in the distance, trying to lower my heart rate. What would I do if this damaged my genealogy career? Ancestry research was my passion. No way was I going back to working seasonal or temporary jobs. However, I would be going to Galway to hunt down the gobshite!
My phone rang. Biddy.
“The show’s producer! I told that manky scumbag Gaelic Gobshite we’re suing him for an invasion of privacy for publishing our names. He says the producer messaged him our names and authorized him posting them. I informed him she’s not our bloody boss and to take our names off. Ya know he won’t. Not one word speaking out in Kiernan’s defense has been posted on the show’s website or social media, so she outs us?”
Anger ripped through me like gale-force winds. I leaped to my feet. “Be ready in fifteen minutes. We’re heading to Dublin, where the show’s filming!”
A half hour later we zipped down the motorway toward Dublin, brainstorming horrible things to do to the producer. Way worse than the killer bees or ants in a guy’s knickers scenarios. I filled Biddy in on my visit to Kiernan and promise not to pursue Skelly’s identity.
“Mad, are ya? We can’t drop this case even if the castle’s no longer involved. What about poor Skelly?”
My phone rang on the console next to me.
Unknown caller. Winnie Dwyer.
I told Biddy about the woman’s earlier voicemail message.
“What if she has more details than the farmhand fella’s name?” Biddy said. “We need to go see her.”
“I promised Kiernan I’d stop investigating.”
“As if the man doesn’t go back on his promises. Signed a contract and still went back on his promise to film at Dalwade.”
True...
Right now I had to focus my energy on making sure the producer’s plan to get Kiernan canned backfired. When we were done with her, the show would be looking for a new producer, not a new appraiser!
Rags to Riches Roadshow was on location at the Irish Museum of Modern Art, west of Dublin’s city center and just off a main highway. The modern artwork was housed in a restored seventeenth-century stone building that was once the Royal Hospital. The elegant facade and fancy gardens were a contrast to the interior’s artwork depicting contemporary values and making bold statements. Our security guard buddy was at the door. A few flirty smiles gained us access to the film set.
We walked down a stark white hallway and encountered a thirtyish-year-old-guy dressed in an orange suit, yellow vest, and lime-green button-up shirt, his short hair gelled into a frenzy.
“Can you please tell me where the loo is?” Biddy asked.
He strode right past us and shot a rude response over his shoulder. “As if I work here.”
Biddy sneered at the guy disappearing into a room. “What an eejit. He doesn’t have to work here to know where the loo is. And that’s precisely how I’d expect an employee or volunteer at a modern art museum to dress.”
We located the loo, then found the producer in a white room with Picassoesque artwork on the walls. The lighting guy and cameraman were busy setting up across the room. We marched over to the woman.
“You should be ashamed,” I told her. “If you can’t maintain a professional working relationship after a personal one ends, then you shouldn’t become involved with a coworker.”
“That’s none of your business.” She squared her shoulders in her green pantsuit blazer.
I gave her the evil eye. “Yeah, it is. Kiernan is our friend. He’s being brutally attacked by the mass media and even worse by social media. You and your coworkers have done nothing to stick up for him. Is your hurt pride worth losing the best appraiser this show has ever had?”
Her shoulders dropped. “What do you mean lose him?”
He hadn’t called and quit last night?
“How long do you think he can put up with the bullying and lack of respect?” I said.
“We saw you lurking in the background during his train-wreck interview, yet ya did nothing,” Biddy said. “Proud of yourself, are ya? The act of a scorned woman, not a top reality show’s producer, unless it’s retitled Nags and Witches Roadshow. How would your boss feel about that?”
“And how would he feel about the show being sued because its producer violated our privacy on Twitter?”
That made number three on our list of people to sue. As if we had money to sue one person.
Rather than ripping us to shreds, a look of regret and embarrassment washed over the woman’s face.
The funky guy in the orange suit walked up. “What’s going on here?”
“Still looking for the loo,” Biddy quipped. “If you don’t know where it is, then off with ya.”
“Yeah, this is none of your business,” I said.
“Most certainly is.” He jutted out his chin in defiance. “I’m the rare and vintage book appraiser.”
Kiernan’s archenemy.
Biddy’s gaze narrowed on the appraiser-wannabe’s hideous outfit. “Who dresses you, the Joker? You should be working at a comic book shop. This is the set of an antique show, not Batman. And everyone knows Boris Pasternak wrote Dr. Zhivago, not Leo Tolstoy.”
Bravo, Biddy! I couldn’t have remembered the author’s name.
She turned to the producer. “Are you responsible for this idiot filling in for Kiernan Moffat? What is he, your boyfriend?”
“I’m her cousin,” the guy snapped.
The woman’s worried gaze darted around to make sure her coworkers hadn’t overheard she’d hired a rellie instead of an expert appraiser. They’d surely figured out the unqualified part.
“Everyone needs to stop being bitter and petty and start being supportive,” I demanded.
“Whoever manages the show’s social media should be sacked for not working this craziness to the show’s advantage. There are more positive social media posts than negative ones. The nasty ones just attract more trolls. Not only are there thousands of adoring fans who’d stop watching the show, but also peers who respect the man’s expertise.” Biddy squared her shoulders and caught her breath. “The man’s passion for his work reflects in his fan following and the show’s ratings, which are going to tank. And by the way, the posts about our episode are getting way more action than any previous episode.”
“But we have no desire to be associated with this show ever again.” I spun around to leave, then glared over my shoulder. “Unless, of course, it’s at Dalwade Castle.”
We stuck our noses triumphantly in the air and marched out.
Seventeen
We hopped into my car and headed straight to Kilcarrigy. I was fired up after our confrontation or rather presentation to the show’s producer, who’d barely gotten a word in during our rant. We needed to stop at the estate and give Kiernan a heads-up about our visit to the set. Not having heard from him, I assumed he wasn’t aware of it.
“I untagged myself from the post, but even if she convinces the eejit to remove our names, it’s out there, already viewed by thousands if not millions,” Biddy said. “Here we are telling that producer to work this chaos to the show’s advantage, when that’s what we need to be doing.”
I nodded, now in a more rational frame of mind. “We need to tell what really happened. How we uncovered Skelly. There are reporters, ghost-tour guides, tons of people wanting to hear our story.”
“Ghost-tour guides? How brill is that?” Biddy’s eyes lit with inspiration. “Maybe we could be on that ghost hunter’s reality show. Maybe Kiernan would allow us to talk about the estate’s ghost. That Skelly was messing with the filming because he was no longer buried and trying to get our attention.”
“We’ll figure all that out later. We definitely need to take advantage of our popularity. Make that jerk, and not us, look like the idiot for spreading lies. Ideally, I’d like Kiernan’s approval. Yet it’s not like I’d disclose any of my discoveries about his family or put him in a negative light. This would be a good thing for him as well.”
On the way to town, I drove past the nursing home and then made a U-turn. Winnie had left two more voicemail messages.
“We’ve been bugging the woman to call us with information, and when she does, I put her on ignore status. That’s not right. I owe her the courtesy to at least hear what she has to say.”
Five minutes later inside Winnie’s room, the woman fidgeted with the silver St. Brigid’s cross resting against her chest. “After having mentioned our man’s wool socks the other day, it reminded me of his toes.”
Eeewwww. My nose crinkled. Biddy’s top lip curled back.
“Can’t believe I’d be forgetting about his socks. I always darned the farmhands’ wool socks. The fella would joke that only one sock in a pair needed much darning. He was missing a big toe. That sock rarely wore out except for the heel. Not sure if this will be of help. If the toes even remained...” She grimaced, clutching the cross.
I’d been too shocked upon discovering a skeleton on my foot to have counted its toes.
I placed a hand gently on the woman’s knee. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is difficult.”
She nodded. “Might you be able to pass this information on to the garda for me? Don’t feel up to it.”
Biddy smiled. “No worries. Of course we can be doing that.”
I nodded. “If Garda Higgins doesn’t know the details, he can check with the pathologist.”
The timing of Farmhand Kerry’s disappearance was likely a coincidence, unless my theory about him possibly having been a collector for Oscar’s loan shark business was correct. It felt like I was working too hard at trying to connect something that wasn’t connected. However, I wasn’t breaking two promises in twenty-four hours. Besides, passing along the information on the woman’s behalf wasn’t actively reopening my investigation, as I’d promised Kiernan I wouldn’t.
We entered the police station, and Garda Higgins greeted us with a faint smile. He rubbed his white beard while I recounted Winnie’s story and inquired about the skeleton possibly missing a toe.
“Detective Inspector Cohan from Dublin won’t be investigating the case. This will be announced later today. Case closed.”
“Can you at least call the pathologist to verify if the skeleton is missing a toe?” I asked.
He shook his head, gesturing to a tall stack of papers on his desk. “I’ll be adding it to the many crazy theories I’ve received.”
“A missing toe isn’t crazy,” I said. “If it’s missing, then the case is solved. Once locals learn the garda don’t plan to identify the victim, they’re going to be flooding your office demanding to know why and think you let them down. Wouldn’t you rather be a hero than a quitter?”
“Hometown hero, Garda’s glory...” Biddy framed the air with her hands. “I can see the social media hashtags now.”
The man raised an intrigued brow.
“One toe, one call,” I said. “Easier than us having to drive to Dublin to ask the state pathologist ourselves.”
“Actually,” Biddy said, “it might not be a bad idea to head to Dublin. While we’re there, I could talk to one of the forensic fellas about where my car is or if they’ve lost it. Since the investigation is over, you certainly don’t be needing it.”
Panic filled the officer’s eyes. “I can be ringing the pathologist.”
Biddy gave the man a curious stare. “Why do you look worried about me asking a forensic fella about my car?”
The man broke out in a sweat. His ruddy complexion flushed a crimson color, and his breathing quickened.
“Janey!” Biddy’s eyes widened. “Having a heart attack, are ya?” Nurse Biddy darted around the counter, prepared to administer CPR or other needed medical attention.
The man held up his hand, taking a step back from Biddy, appearing off balance. “I’m grand.”
“You don’t be looking grand.”
I joined Biddy, and we assisted the officer to his chair. I snatched a book from his desk and fanned him while Biddy insisted on taking his pulse.
The man shook his head. “I’m fine, except...” He collapsed against his chair. “I know where your car is.”
Biddy’s head snapped back in surprise. “What does my car have to be doing with you nearly fainting?”
The officer heaved a deep sigh. “Because I have the yoke.”
Biddy blinked in confusion. “It’s not outside.”
“It’s in my drive, at home.”
Biddy remained surprisingly calm, her professional bedside manner kicking in. “Why is my car at your place?”
The man grabbed tissues from a box on his desk and patted the sweat from his forehead. “Several months ago my wife lost her job. When we couldn’t be making payments, we also lost her car. A few days ago her mum suddenly took ill. I couldn’t be leaving the station, so I had her take your car to rush her mum to the A and E. I’d planned to have ya collect it that afternoon you came in, but her mum took a turn for the worse and my wife didn’t want to be leaving the hospital. Thought I could be blaming the mess up on the forensic fellas.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Was quite bold of me. Wasn’t thinking straight.”
Biddy stared at him in disbelief, at a loss for words.
He frowned, peering down at his desk. “Don’t know what we’ll be doing when I lose my job as well.”
“Why will you be losing your job?” Biddy demanded.
He glanced up at her. “Once the sergeant learns what I did, he’ll—”
“Would be a bit mad of you to be telling him what happened if he’d sack ya for it. As if you can be affording to be out of work.”
The man’s face lit with gratitude. “I’ll have my wife be bringing the car by straightaway. She’s at the hospital in Mullingar, so will be taking her just a bit.”
“I’ll pick it up tonight.” Biddy gestured to the phone on his desk. “Right now we have more important matters. We need you to be checking on the missing toe.”
He smiled and snatched up the phone. While he was on hold, Biddy drummed her fingers impatiently against his desk and I tapped my foot against the tile floor. The pathologist finally came on the line and provided an immediate answer.
He hung up the phone. “Fella’s missing a toe.”
Biddy and I gasped. Shocked, confused, and relieved that Skelly was Farmhand Kerry, not Oscar. That meant Oscar was likely the killer and Ernest wasn’t guilty.
“I’ll call in on the woman and take her statement.”
We sprang from our chairs.
“Ah, you can’t be sitting in on our discussion.”
“We’ll be on standby to comfort her afterward,” I said. “I’m sure this will be quite upsetting.”
The officer gave Biddy an appreciative smile. “If you ever be needing anything, you can be calling on me.”
With our luck, we’d be calling in the favor sooner than he’d imagined.
He locked up the station and left for the nursing home.
“That was awfully nice of you,” I told Biddy as we headed to my car.
She shrugged. “Couldn’t have the fella getting sacked before this case is solved.” She smiled, looking pleased with herself, as she should. “What about the penny? Had it slipped through a hole in Oscar’s pocket when he was burying the guy?”
“Maybe he’d tossed it in with the body hoping it would bring him good luck and keep him from getting caught. Based on the donations Dunphy’s grocer made to the church, he was likely a religious man. Perhaps he thought it might bring him forgiveness. Besides the penny, Oscar clearly had dodgy dealings with the farmhand, among many others.”
