17. Saoirse
Saoirse
Red Roses
Igot Feargal to stop off at the florists. I grabbed the first bouquet I saw, and only noticed the color when the shop assistant was wrapping it.
Red roses. Pfft.
“Feargal. Be a gem and drop me off at the gates. I don’t want the mourners to get spooked if they see a Maguire soldier.”
He does as I ask, no questions. I really need Feargal to stay far away from Eamon O’Shea’s gravesite so I can do something I’ve been absolutely dying to do to someone from that cursed family.
Holding the bouquet loosely in my hand, when I get to the grave the sexton is still there. He’s busy hoeing up the scattered sod and neatening the site.
I lay the cellophane-wrapped bunch of red roses against the gravestone and then stand up.
The last of the O’Sheas, God willing.
Who’s the pawn now, you fuckers?
“Was anyone at the memorial service, do you know?” I ask the sexton.
“No.” Short and sweet. “But it was a closed casket, so I’m not surprised.”
Information about Eamon’s funeral could be useful. “Why was it closed?”
The man’s chatty, no filter. I get it. Bringing comfort and tidiness to the dear departed has to be a thankless task.
“If it were me and not the police, the circumstances of the man’s death were questionable.”
I knew it! It seems as though every O’Shea under the sun is doomed to die with a big question mark hanging over him.
I turn on the charm. “I would love to hear your theory. I’m here for a friend. They asked me to drop by. No relation.”
The man leans on his hoe, ready to chat the hind leg off a donkey.
“My cousin’s on the force—told me everything. First up, the place where the dear departed was last seen was the O’Shea pub. Does that name mean anything to you, ma’am?”
I give a nod. Not The Nod, but a quick up-down of my head to let him know I’m on his level.
He continues. “They found blood in the pub parking lot. The cops didn’t have a problem IDing the blood. Most O’Shea soldiers in the neighborhood have a criminal record… those that are left, I mean.”
That’s not what Rian said. He mentioned a heart attack?
I maintain silence. I find it gets more information than asking questions sometimes.
“It was something called arterial spray. And it belonged to Eamon O’Shea’s driver, Colm Driscoll.”
I interject. “Arterial? Like an artery?” I know what arterial is, but I want to hear more.
“Yes. It’s the same as sacrificing a lamb. Knife in and out and the animal’s dead. Quick. Silent.”
Someone knew what they were doing… Hmmm.
I know Patrick or Declan didn’t order it done. Could it be that there’s someone out there with more than vengeance on their mind, same as me?
“But the car wasn’t in the parking lot, only the driver’s blood. And when they checked Eamon’s gaff, they found him sitting in his La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the telly… dead as a door nail.”
“With his throat cut?” I would love to be able to get Rian into trouble for lying to us.
The sexton shakes his head. “No. He died from a heart attack. And the car and driver are gone. Like they vanished into thin air.”
I feel like kicking the roses out of spite, but I’m not ready to leave yet.
And nor is the gravedigger. “And get this. One side of Eamon’s mouth was slit open. Like he was being punished for something, but he died from shock and pain first.”
“How do they know the man’s mouth wasn’t slit after he died?”
A shrug. “Way too much blood. But the heart attack is what killed him, so that’s what went on the police report and death certificate.”
I get a flash of inspiration. “Did the cops check the CCTV footage for all the exit routes leaving Eamon’s address? They might get to see who was driving the car.”
I have a feeling this guy’s impressed by whoever murdered Eamon.
“That’s the first thing they did. But the perp must know the borough like the back of his hand. Every single traffic camera, doorstep cam, and ATM security video for three blocks round had been spray painted.”
The man puffs out his chest. “Whoever wanted Eamon O’Shea dead must have been one salty dog.”
I smile to keep him yacking.
“I have another theory.” The man gets busy scraping all the grass cuttings. He’s perspiring under his cap, doesn’t have a nice big floppy hat to shade him from the sun like me.
“I think the man knew something, and he was being tortured to spill the secret. Whatever information he was sitting on, his heart gave up on him before he could give it up.”
“Maybe he wanted to admit something, but died before the Lord could grant him the sweet consolation of the confessional.” I’m saying this in a cheerful tone, because I don’t give a flying fuck how or why Eamon O’Shea died.
All I care about is that he’s dead.
The sexton gives me a doubtful look. “Okay, yeah. Well… I best be getting on.”
He scuttles off toward the chapel. I watch him disappear, quite relieved that he’s gone, because I can finally get busy doing what it is I came here to do.
I pick up the roses to sniff. They smell green and watery. I hate unscented roses.
What’s the point of them?
Putting them on the next door grave feels a lot better.
Before I go any further, I must look around carefully. I’m no lawyer, but I think what I’m about to do might be illegal.
I have to shade my eyes from the sun as I do it by pulling the front of my hat way down low. The landscape rolls and dips, the neat lawns frame gray stone, the tall cedars sway in the gentle breeze.
No one’s here, and yet it doesn’t feel like I’m alone. I fucking hope Eamon’s anam is watching so he can take this and report directly to the rest of his damn family.
After double checking that no one’s in sight, I wiggle out of my panties and slip out of my coat. I kind of wish that Declan was watching—he needs a good jolt to know my spirit is far from broken.
There’s a six ounce hip flask in my purse and I take it out. I screw off the lid and down the contents.
Has to be over three shots of whiskey in there. It lights my belly like a fire.
I breathe and wait for the whiskey to kick in. Mmm, yes. There it is.
Heat spreads through my body, but it has a devil-may-care edge to it. Whiskey puts the “I don’t give a fuck” in my actions and my mind.
Under the thin white lace dress, I’m naked. Time to dance naked on my enemy’s uncle’s grave.
“You thought I would shrivel up and die after you left me, Finn, but it’s the evil that spawned you who died first.”
This is my devil dance. I’m laughing and stomping on the freshly turned sod, shaking my fists at the blue sky and screaming defiance.
My hair whips my face and gets stuck in my mouth. I spit it out and carry on dancing.
“I don’t care… I don’t care… don’t care…”
A hiccup catches in my throat and nearly makes me gag.
I stop to catch my breath, swallowing hard to keep the drink down.
Don’t care. About what? I mean, if he’s all I can think about, then I must care on some level.
I left my sister and home for him. I dared defy the condemnation of my society and church for him.
And he left me a note full of insults and left without a word.
I hope you were murdered too, you bastard. You deserve to be dead for breaking my heart.
The sun goes behind a cloud. Instantly, I feel cold. Like the cold was always there and only the whiskey stopped me from noticing it.
My attention is dragged to something else. Something that feels sinister and ominous over by the copse of pines. I must be hallucinating, because a man is standing there.
I could swear he wasn’t there before, not unless my mind’s playing tricks on me.
He looks… at home. All at ease. Like he belongs in those dark shadows watching me.
The blue brim of his cap seems incongruous compared to our surroundings. A bright orange NY logo on a white background covers his head.
He leans back against the tree, one foot propped up by the trunk. The man isn’t fazed at being caught watching me dancing half-naked on a grave.
He’s the image of massive. Even from a distance he reads as well-built and large. Like his thumbs are tucked into the belt of his black jeans to help hold the weight of his arms.
His silhouette doesn’t jolt my memory. I don’t know anyone built like a cross between a leopard and a tank. But there’s something in the way his head is angled toward me that makes my belly contract.
If this was the wild west, he would be a gunslinger.
If this was Scotland, he would be one of those caber-tossing Highlanders.
A car hoots and I look away. Feargal’s gotten bored waiting for me. He’s driven into the cemetery to look for me.
I can’t let him catch me dancing on this particular grave dressed like this!
But my gaze is pulled back to the man by the trees.
He’s gone.
I’m in a hurry. There’s no time to put my panties back on, so I button the thin black shirt coat to hide my dress and shove the panties into my purse.
Before Feargal can clock my position, I start walking quickly toward the pine trees. Whoever stood there, I want to find him.
The old-country superstitions rise as the whiskey takes hold of my practical senses and gives them a good shake.
Maybe it wasn’t a man standing under the pines. It could’ve been the Dullahan. The ghostly rider with his head, but without his horse.
I wave to Feargal to catch his eye. “I’m over here!”
How crazy is it that I keep checking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed?
Through the haze of whiskey and whispering pines, I can’t shake the feeling.
He’s after me. And I’m next.