No Strangers Here: a Riveting Dark Irish Mystery, page 21
“I ran into Sheila Maguire,” Dimpna said. “I think she’s convinced Da did it.” Dimpna glanced at her father, still snoring away. She’d never heard him snore. She’d rarely seen him asleep.
“Thinks your father did what?” Maeve sounded as if she didn’t have a clue.
“Murdered Johnny O’Reilly,” Dimpna said.
“That’s ridiculous,” her mother said.
“We can’t ignore the bottle of Release and the syringe.” Sheila was the one who notified the guards. Why didn’t he report it missing? Who could have stolen it?”
Her mother glanced at her husband. “Your father thinks it was Sheila Maguire.” Sometimes it was as if her mother could read her mind. Perhaps she did have a gift.
“Why would she do that?” If Sheila lifted it and then reported it missing—just what kind of sick game was she playing?
Her mother reached for the newspaper still on her father’s lap. She folded it and put it away but not before Dimpna saw the headline: DEAD IN DINGLE. . . . “I never did trust that woman. After what she did to you?”
“That was a long time ago.” Dimpna still winced whenever she remembered the betrayal. Dimpna had been days away from telling Paul she was ready to make love. She told Sheila instead. Then Sheila beat her to it, giving Paul the one thing Dimpna hadn’t been ready to part with yet. And then it was taken from her anyway. Along with everything else.
“Sheila had access to the same medications your father did. What if she’s the killer?” Maeve looked at Dimpna as if interested to see if her theory would fly.
“Why would Sheila murder Johnny O’Reilly?” But even as Dimpna said it out loud, she remembered how Niamh said that Sheila had been acting like she was in love, coming in late, leaving early. Dressing up for someone. Was it possible she was involved somehow? Who was the mystery man? What if it had been Johnny himself? A bit old for her, but Dimpna wouldn’t put it past Sheila. Maybe Róisín O’Reilly had found out....
Outside, rain began to fall, tap-dancing on hospital windows at a steady rhythm. “Was Sheila at the dance that evening?” Dimpna asked.
Her mother shrugged. “She could have been. I didn’t see her, but the place was chockablock.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Dimpna rose, drawn to the windows by the sound.
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me either way, darling, and you’re too old to ask for permission.”
“Whoever killed Mr. O’Reilly wants you and Da to go down for it.”
“Who on earth would hate us that much?”
“Róisín O’Reilly?”
Her mother crossed her arms and stared at the floor as her foot began to swing. “That thought has crossed my mind.”
“If everyone else thought you and Johnny were sleeping together, surely Róisín had heard the rumors as well.”
“We were just dancing! How many times must I repeat myself?”
“I believe you. That’s not what I’m saying. Even if you didn’t sleep with Mr. O’Reilly—”
“I didn’t.”
“But isn’t is possible that Mrs. O’Reilly thinks you did?”
Her mother concentrated as if it were a puzzle she’d been given three seconds to solve. “I’m surprised she didn’t kill one of us then.”
“Maybe there’s a reason she wanted him dead. And you two are the perfect scapegoats.”
“Do you really think it could be Róisín?” Her mother nearly sounded excited.
“Has Róisín been into the clinic lately?” Dimpna asked. “Could she have stolen the bottle of Release?”
“She’s never stepped foot in the clinic. She has people for that.”
“Has Aisling O’Reilly ever been into the clinic?”
Her mother wagged a finger at Dimpna. “That’s the second time you’ve asked that question. Now why is that?”
Her mother behaved as if she was clueless ninety percent of the time, but it was that ten percent that nailed you. One never knew when she was going to strike. Dimpna ignored the question for now. “Did Mrs. O’Reilly ever say anything to you—confront you about dancing with her husband?”
“Would you stop calling them Mr. and Mrs. O’Reilly? You’re making me feel old.”
“Fine. Did Róisín ever confront you?”
Maeve sighed. “I believe she sent that ranch hand after me. One-armedTommy.”
“Tommy Healy?”
“That’s the one.”
“What do you mean she sent him after you?”
“I mean,” her mother said, speaking slowly and overenunciating, “that one-armed Tommy has been stalking me.”
CHAPTER 24
“STALKING YOU?” SHE THOUGHT OF THE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE ABOUT Tommy in her father’s folder. What part did the former jockey play in this unfolding drama? “I’m going to need some meat on the bones here, Mam.”
“It was a few weeks before the murder. Every time I was in town doing my messages, I’d turn around and there he’d be.”
Dimpna waited for more. Nothing was forthcoming. “Have you had any disgruntled clients lately?”
Her mother cocked her head. “How do you mean?”
“Have you given anyone terrible news, or anything like that?”
“Are you saying someone killed Johnny because I gave them a bad reading?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.”
“It is ridiculous. Pure nonsense. I tell you one-armed Tommy is following me, and you want to blame me. Typical.”
“First, I don’t think you should call him that. Second, I cannot believe he’s still working for them.”
“We’re not as full of ourselves as you, Dubs. Everyone calls him one-armed Tommy. He probably calls himself that.” Her mam was right. Everyone here did call him one-armed Tommy. Just like they used to call her Dimp the Imp. You just couldn’t take the awful out of people.
Her mother trained her gaze on Dimpna. “When did you see him?”
“He was with Róisín and Sean,” Dimpna explained. “They pulled up to the clinic and stood there while Róisín yelled profanities at me.”
Her mother leaned in, first glancing at her husband to make sure he was still asleep. “Did she call me a whore?”
“You heard them, did you?”
“One of my clients did. Something about you being a whore just like your mother.”
Dimpna felt someone staring and turned to see the old man in the bed next to her father wide-awake and listening to them openmouthed. Her mother waved. He waved back. Dimpna stood up and smiled as she pulled his curtain closed. “You’ll be wanting your privacy from us. Now,” she said. She went back to her seat. “If you heard Mrs. O’Reilly call me a whore, why didn’t you come out of your caravan?”
“I knew you would have it handled, darling. You’re used to people insulting you.”
Dimpna couldn’t argue there. “Why on earth would Tommy stalk you?”
“Which Tommy is that, dear? There are so many Tommys in Dingle, don’t you know? If only there was a way to quickly differentiate one from the other.”
Dimpna gritted her teeth. “One-armed Tommy.”
“It didn’t just happen the one time. Three days in a row I look behind me in town and there he is. The post office, the bakery, SuperValu.”
Dimpna tried to picture it. Was her mother being overly dramatic? “All common places to stop in town.”
“Always right behind me. I tell you he was following me.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I stopped and talked to him the third time. Tried to anyway. He nearly jumped out of his skin.”
“Did you ask him directly if he was following you?”
“I told him he looked a little lost and asked if I could help him with anything.”
“And?”
“His face went as red as a lobster. Stammered something about doing your one’s messages.”
“Mrs. O’Reilly.” She caught the sour look on her mother’s face. “Róisín.”
“I assumed so.”
“And that was it?”
Maeve shrugged. “That was the time I saw him hovering behind me.”
“Hmmm.” If anyone had reason to kill one of the O’Reillys, it was probably Tommy. He’d worked for them long enough to know all their secrets, suffer all their abuse. Then again, the O’Reillys had been the ones to give Tommy and his twin a home, and jobs. They’d stopped short of adopting them. Brendan had probably seen the O’Reillys for the ruthless family they were, but Tommy had remained. No doubt his feelings for them were complex and a mixed bag. She could make an argument for Tommy murdering Johnny, but why would he pin it on her family? Were they simply convenient scapegoats to let him get away with murder? Was it Tommy who’d been watching her from the abandoned auto body shop? “Did you tell the detective about Tommy following you?”
“No,” her mother said. “Do you think it’s relevant?”
“Absolutely.” There were times her mother was so ditzy, Dimpna wanted to shake her.
“Dr. Wilde?” Dimpna looked up to see the nurse had returned and was speaking to her. She hadn’t introduced herself as Dr. Wilde. It was that grapevine, winding its way everywhere. Strangling. “The doctor would like to see you in his office.”
“Me?”
“I’m going too,” Maeve said, rising from her chair. “I’m the wife.”
“Where’s me slippers?” Her father asked, suddenly sitting up and eyeing the nurse. Just as Dimpna was about to tell him that no one had his slippers, Maeve pulled a pair of slippers out of her handbag.
“Here you are,” she said, tossing them to him.
“Good woman.” He immediately threw them across the room, aiming for the nurse, who ducked. They sailed into the hall.
“Da! You cannot throw things at people.” She turned to the nurse. “I’m so sorry.”
The nurse placed a hand over her forehead, as if she had an ache. “At least he’ll stop for now.”
Dimpna didn’t know what the nurse was on about until she turned around to find her father had once more nodded off.
* * *
“He appears to be in the mid stages of dementia,” the doctor said when Maeve and Dimpna were seated across from him. His office was stately, all mahogany and important. Dimpna preferred her father’s messy office.
“Appears?” Maeve asked.
“There’s no one-size-fits-all test we can use to diagnose a patient. It’s a multipronged approach. Usually family members help us pinpoint when the memory lapses began.” He stared at them as if waiting for them to fill in those blanks. Maeve picked at her sleeves.
Dimpna felt a hot glow of shame. “I’ve been living in Dublin, but I’m sure we can check with his staff.”
The doctor nodded. “It won’t change our treatment, but it can help to establish a time line.”
“To what end?” her mother asked.
“It can help determine the speed at which his illness is progressing.”
“What is the treatment?” Dimpna asked when her mother did not.
“There are medications that show some signs of slowing it down, albeit not reversing any damage already incurred, but the family needs to be involved in encouraging the patient to take the meds regularly. And like all medications, there are side effects. We’ll prepare some material and options for you to go over. We can also give you resources for the near future.”
“What do you mean?” Maeve asked.
“There are long-term care facilities,” the doctor said. “If and when it comes to that.”
“It won’t,” Maeve said. “I’ll mind him.”
The doctor nodded. “For now. But if his episodes of violence begin to escalate, you’re going to need outside resources to help.”
“Are episodes of violence common in patients?” Dimpna was afraid of the answer, but she had to ask.
“Dementia doesn’t turn people violent per se,” the doctor said. “But I’m sure he’s noticed the lapses in memory. This awareness can cause a great deal of anxiety. It’s even more acute if the person was always in control, someone who played a prominent role in society. To suddenly lose that sense of power and respect—often those are the patients who keep their first symptoms to themselves. He may have been suffering for quite some time. Untreated stress, keeping that kind of secret, can literally eat away at a person, and it can certainly cause outbursts. It’s a frustrating feeling—for example, holding a mug or a set of keys and forgetting what they’re called. But when the person realizes that suddenly they do not know the function the object serves—what is it for?—well, then one’s feelings morph from frustration into terror. Unfortunately, this is the stage which forces most of my patients to finally come see me.”
“If he had come earlier could you have prevented this?” Dimpna asked, noticing her mother cringe beside her.
“Not the progression of the disease itself, no. But I could have helped him deal with the stress, and the inevitability of what’s to come. And perhaps we could have eased his stress, and thus the outbursts.”
Murder? Dimpna wanted to ask. Could dementia cause someone to murder? What if her father truly hadn’t remembered that he and her mother had been living separate lives? What if he was stoked into a jealous rage over his wife and Johnny O’Reilly? Had her father killed O’Reilly? If so, why didn’t he use Immobilon? It was hardly a good defense—If my da were a killer he definitely would have used Immobilon—but it was also the truth. Unless he didn’t have any on hand. Or couldn’t remember how to mix it up. . . . Dimpna vividly remembered that purple vial. Her father had warned her to never, ever go near it. Not that he told her where he kept it. But if she was ever to see a purple vial, she was to stay far away. She’d assumed he’d gotten rid of it somewhere along the line. Would he have grabbed Release and a syringe instead? Dimpna needed to check every nook and cranny of the vet clinic to see if her father had that Monster in a Bottle. What would it mean if it wasn’t there? Would it mean he safely got rid of it, or would it mean he used it?
Should she also destroy the folder in his desk? What was happening to her? If her father was a killer, did she intend on covering it up? Family first, Dimpna. You need to fix this.
The doctor cleared his throat. What a pair the Wilde women must have appeared, sitting mute and wide-eyed in front of him. “What are the next steps?” Dimpna asked when her mother didn’t speak.
“We’d like to run a series of cognitive tests.”
“I believe he’s going to need all the tests he can get,” Dimpna said.
“That was the plan. So far, he has not been cooperative.” From the look on the doctor’s face he was underplaying her da’s reaction.
“Just tell him what the average scores on the tests are, make it sound like a competition, and he’ll be begging you to let him take them,” Dimpna said.
The doctor jotted down her suggestion. When he looked up, he twirled his biro before speaking. “I am aware that Dr. Wilde—Dr. Eamon Wilde—is a person of inquiry in a murder probe. They may ask for medical records. Does he have a solicitor?” His tone was very measured, as if his words were agitators and the next one that tumbled out of his mouth could detonate. He flicked a nervous glance at her mam. Was he afraid of her?
Dimpna turned to her mother. “See?”
“Only guilty people need solicitors,” Maeve said. “We have nothing to hide.”
The doctor nodded, then jotted something down on a calling card, and slid it across the desk. “If you change your mind, please have his solicitor contact me.”
When Maeve did not make a move to pick the card up, Dimpna did. “Absolutely. Thank you.”
“We’ll try your suggestion with the tests,” the doctor said. “If we can get him to take them, we’ll have a better understanding of the scope of his illness. Otherwise we’ll be sending him home with some medications that can keep him calm. But I would like to stress that he cannot return to his work. He no longer has the capacity to do his job.”
“Is there any way of telling when he’s lucid and when he’s not?” Dimpna had to ask.
“Pardon?”
“How do we know when he’s confused and when he’s seeing things clearly?” How do we know he’s not faking? How do I know when I can trust him and when I can’t?
“There’s no clinical way to answer that question. I suppose it all depends on the context,” the doctor said.
“How are we supposed keep him from his practice?” Maeve said. “He won’t stand for it.”
“I’ll handle that,” Dimpna said. Maeve shook her head, conveying she very much did not think Dimpna could handle that. “He can’t put animals at risk, Mam. You know that. If he was healthy, he would be the first to agree.”
Maeve took this in and then nodded slowly. “I just don’t know how you’re going to stop him.”
The doctor waited until mother and daughter stopped speaking. “I would also suggest that once you speak with your staff and they can pinpoint dates when he appeared not to be fully himself, I suggest you go through the client records to make sure the proper treatment was given.”
“Thank you. I’m already doing that,” Dimpna said.
The doctor folded his hands and smiled. “Like father, like daughter, is it?”
Like father, like daughter. What would that mean if her father was a killer? Was she a killer too? Dimpna tried to smile but she knew it appeared as a grimace.
“Have the guards been around then?” Maeve asked.
“They accompanied your husband when they dropped him off,” the doctor said. “I believe they intend on speaking to me again.”
Dimpna groaned. It was only a matter of time before they asked this doctor if his condition could cause violent outbursts. Doctor, could he have believed he and his wife were still living together and in love?
Yes, that’s possible.
Therefore, when he saw another man picking her up . . .
Wait a minute. Her mam said Johnny O’Reilly hadn’t picked her up that evening. That might help squash the impulsive-jealousy theory. And weren’t there plenty of folks who would have seen her mother at the dance? She hadn’t heard an official time of death, but it had to be somewhat of a narrow window. Dimpna rose to leave, prompting the doctor to rise, but her mother remained seated.
