No Strangers Here: a Riveting Dark Irish Mystery, page 26
“Ben even bought a necklace for Aisling,” Sheila said. “I think he was excited that he had a sister.”
The gold necklace in the dirt. Sheila so casually talking about it. Everyone knew. Her secrets had blown wide open and she’d been clueless. The lingering looks Sean had given her that day when he and his mam pulled up to the clinic. Ben chatting with her on the phone, asking her questions—he’d been testing her. And she’d failed. “Do Ben and Sean . . .” She could barely form the words. “Do they like each other?”
“I think they do,” Donnecha said. “But there was one person who wasn’t having it.”
Johnny O’Reilly.
“Ben had been to the clinic on several occasions,” Sheila said. “Talking to your father.” That’s why her father kept bringing up Ben. “I haven’t told the guards, I swear,” Sheila continued. “But I saw Ben at the clinic. The morning the vial of Release went missing, Ben was there.”
Dimpna was making a concerted effort not to lash out. She wanted to grab Sheila by the hair and drag her to the floor. She wanted her to finally admit the part she played in that awful evening. And here Sheila was calling her son a murderer? “Did you ever tell Paul?” she said. “About that other evening?”
Paul stepped forward, his face half in shadows, the other half bathed in the red of the fire. Sheila wilted before her eyes, guilty tears pouring down her cheeks. “For God’s sakes, Dimpna, I was just a girl.”
“Even after all these years,” Dimpna said, “you can’t admit what you did.”
“What’s done is done.”
“Tell me,” Paul said. “Everything.”
CHAPTER 29
Then
DIMPNA WILDE WAS READY. PAUL HAD BEEN RESPECTFUL AND TAKING things slow, but lately she’d been flooded with all these feelings, her body was singing with desire, and she’d found herself fantasizing about making love. Paul would be such a great lover, and they’d come so close, but every time, she’d held back. “There’s no hurry,” he’d say. She knew of lads who pressured girls into sex. Cajoled, flattered, and downright lied all in the pursuit of a ride. A few resorted to convincing their loves that their balls would fall off if they didn’t get any release. They couldn’t pull that one off on Dimpna who knew from experience it took a lot more than that for balls to fall off.
But Paul Byrne wasn’t one of those guys. She wanted him to be her first. And if she was honest, her last. It had always been Paul. She’d be off to university soon, and Paul was a homebody. But they could make it work. Dublin wasn’t a world away, and she would come home on weekends, and he could visit her. They could make it work. She knew the exact night too. The night before the big race. With Tommy Healy as his jockey, Last Dance was sure to win. Dimpna had been avoiding Tommy ever since that awful strangling prank a week earlier, and he seemed equally keen to stay clear of her, not to mention the press. Rumors were flying that Healy was no longer training. All flirtations between them had evaporated. Not that anything had ever really happened, but there had been shy smiles, a few moments of prolonged eye contact, and once an accidental touch of their hands that sent a spark through her. After his hateful prank with Sean, she was beyond grateful it had never gone farther. Sean O’Reilly had completely pulled him into his dark orbit.
But none of that was on her mind at the beginning of that evening. She was all about her secret rendezvous. She wanted to surprise Paul, wanted to seduce him. And as odd as it may have seemed to anyone else, she also knew the perfect place. The leaning shed where they had first met, where Sean O’Reilly had trapped them like prisoners. She was going to decorate it with white lights, and candles, and place soft bedding on top of hay. Their own little sanctuary. Taking back her power, although she didn’t think of it in those terms back then. She was excited beyond belief as she headed to Inch Beach to meet Sheila. She couldn’t wait to tell her best friend all about her plans.
Sheila was on board. She helped Dimpna decorate the little hideaway. Everything was perfect. Time to surprise Paul. She’d made up an excuse, asking Paul to meet her at the shed at half-six. Dimpna’s father was headed out to a call at six. But just as she was leaving, Dimpna was waylaid by a dog with an infected leg. She couldn’t get ahold of Paul to tell him she’d be late, so she’d begged Sheila to go and give him the message. An hour later, Dimpnna raced to the shed. She could hear noises as she approached, moans in the night. She threw open the door. Sheila and Paul were naked and wrapped around each other, the candles casting their sweaty bodies in a flattering glow. It was an image Dimpna would see for the rest of her life.
Now
“What did you think was going to happen?” Sheila said. “You were an hour late. We were in this shed with candles, and bedding, and lights—and one thing just led to the other.”
“You told me Dimpna was in love with Tommy,” Paul said. “That she was going to break it off with me.”
“Wow,” Dimpna said. “And you believed her?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You had been flirty with him. And he was running that big race.”
Sheila stepped forward. “Is this even the part that matters? Isn’t it what happened after the part we need to work through? Do you blame us for what happened next?”
Dimpna got hammered. She showed up at the O’Reilly barn. She headed for Last Dance; she wanted to touch him, feel his face. She didn’t hear Sean come up behind her until the weight of him crushed her, until his breath and sweat were on her neck, until his grunt rang in her ears. He pinned her against the stall. The rigid boards cut into her sternum as his fingers found the snaps on her denims. “No.” No, no, no, no, no. Her scream was lost in the wind. It was blowing fierce that night, rattling the siding on the barn, setting all the horses on edge. Her pants slid down along with her knickers. How strong the smells. Rain. Pungent earth and animal droppings, and hay. He was inside her so quickly, a sharp pain, a tearing sensation, her head still spinning from drink. His breath on her neck. Wetness all down her thighs.
Dimpna slapped her hands over her ears. “Stop it. I don’t want to talk about it. I have to find my son.” She turned to Donnecha. “When is the last time you heard from him?”
“The day of the murder. He hasn’t answered a single text or voice mail from any of us since.”
“Shit.” What happened that evening, and where was Ben now? The three of them tried to stop Dimpna from leaving, but she wasn’t having it. She hurried back into her clothes, still damp from the storm and clinging to her. If she didn’t get ahold of Ben and figure out what was going on, she was going to have a mental breakdown. She flung herself out the door. Paul barrelled after her. “Dimpna, please. I’m sorry. About everything. I wasn’t there for you back then, but I’m here now. I’m here now. For you. For all of you. For us.”
“There is no us.”
“Give me a chance. Please.”
There was a time his plea would have rung like bells in her head. Now there was only a dull thud. “I’ve nothing to give you.”
“I’ll help. Whatever Ben has done, I’ll help.”
Dimpna whirled around. “He hasn’t done anything. Don’t you see that? It’s us. We’re the ones who keep on doing things.”
“Sean will pay for what he’s done. As I live and breathe, he’s going to pay for this.”
Dimpna barged up to Paul, standing so close she could feel his thumping heart. “This is my fight. Not yours. Do. Not. Interfere.” She moved away just as swiftly and jumped into the van, letting the door slam between them. She peeled out and pushed the pedal as far as she dared. This time there was no psychopath on her tail, but she wished there was. The rain had eased, but despite slick roads and the dark, dark sky, she made good time. She picked up her pack from the clinic, stopping to kiss and squeeze every single one of them, and then piled them into the van and drove straight to her parents’ home. They were both asleep in the living room, her father snoring in a reclining chair, her mother cocooned on the sofa.
Dimpna slid open the doors separating the sitting room from the kitchen and camped out at the center table. She poured a generous swig of whiskey and dialed Ben over and over. She didn’t care if he was asleep, or if she made him hate her. She had to speak with him. Was there really a girlfriend? He wasn’t in Spain and she’d never met or spoken with this Angelina. She had never seen her on video, never heard her voice. Ben had made her up. Lied. Like mother, like son.
She swiped through family photos on her phone, grasping for happier memories, searching for her missteps. Was Ben the one who painted “Liar” across her bus? He certainly wasn’t the one who had tried to run her off the road, and he wouldn’t have set her parents up for murder. And the tie . . . The killer had mocked Johnny O’Reilly by placing that tie on him. That’s not a detail Ben would have zoned in on, was it? It was Tommy Healy who sat across from her, grinning. The tie was my idea. She called Ben again. He must have turned his phone off, this time it didn’t even ring. She sent a text.
I have Niall’s notes. I’m so, so sorry. We need to talk. Let me help you.
She laid Niall’s final betraying words out on the table and took another swig of whiskey. It burned all the way down. She did it again. She knew she had to watch it; she was still a working vet, and she could not perform surgeries if she was too hungover. The last time she had been blind-drunk was that awful night. Ben had been the one good thing to come out of it. Ben had been everything. Dimpna Wilde believed in a woman’s right to choose, and she never could have imagined wanting to keep a baby that was the product of a rape, but the minute she found out she had a baby growing inside her, he was wanted. She wanted him. Sean was the one at fault. Not the baby. And not her. She knew she would love the baby, but she also knew she had to keep her child away from the poison that permeated the O’Reilly family tree.
Telling her parents had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them everything, so she just called it a terrible mistake. The blowback from letting Last Dance hurtle to his eternal finish line had nearly destroyed her. She told herself she deserved it; she deserved every horrible thing and then some. Her baby did not. Her baby deserved a chance. She would not start a war with the O’Reillys by accusing their only son of being a rapist. She just wanted to get far, far away. All these years she’d wondered if she’d gone too far. But now she’d realized the truth. She hadn’t gone far enough.
But right now, she needed her wits about her. She needed to help her son. She needed a plan.
She opened the letter to her first. A single paragraph stared back at her in Niall’s orderly black ink.
Dear Dimpna,
I’m sorry. I know that sounds trite after all I’ve done, but I am. I am deeply sorry. You probably hate me, and I don’t blame you. I have an awful feeling that despite the letter I am sending to the media, no one will believe that you and Ben had no inkling of my unlawful activities. You do not deserve this, and I did not deserve you. If I may be so bold as to offer a bit of advice—the truth shall set you free. I hope one day you’ll see that and forgive me.
Niall
Her hands shook, anger rumbling deep within her as she opened the letter to Ben.
Dear Ben,
I’ve always loved you like a son. And your mother had her reasons for keeping your father a secret. He was not a jockey who passed away unexpectedly before you were born. His name is Sean O’Reilly and he lives in Dingle. Your grandpa Eamon Wilde and your paternal grandfather, Johnny O’Reilly, made a pact that your biological father would remain a secret. From what I am aware—even Sean doesn’t know that you’re his son. He comes from wealth and greed—ironically my downfall in the end as well. In those days it was too shameful to say words like rape, but that is the circumstance under which you were conceived, and the reason your mother did not ever want you to know. I sense the anger in you, and it’s my firm belief that knowing where you come from might set you free. Your mother will not be happy with my decision, but it’s also for her sake that I’m telling you. Take it from me, secrets are too heavy a burden to carry. I’m sorry I failed you. I’m proud of you.
Niall
“Dew?” Her father materialized in the doorway.
“Da,” she said, turning the letters over, her heart thudding in her chest. Her father glanced at the upturned notes, but then was distracted by the whiskey bottle. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “How are you feeling?” she asked gently. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her the same thing. She was gutted. A non-person. She no longer knew who she was or what she was going to do.
“Fair to middling,” he said with a soft smile. A sob escaped her. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, but it was too much. His hand came across the table and he placed it on top of hers. “Is he okay?”
Her head jerked up. She stared him in the eyes. “Have you been faking it?”
He frowned. “Faking what?”
“You asked me if ‘he’ was okay. Who did you mean?”
“Ben.”
“You have to tell me everything you know about Ben.”
“He came to visit.” He rubbed his face. “Or do I have that wrong?”
“You’re right, Da. I need to know what happened when he came to visit.”
“He was angry.” Her father scrunched his face. “He was so angry.”
Dimpna found herself repeating a phrase, even the fact that she was having the thought had shocked her. My son is not a killer, my son is not a killer, my son is not a killer. “What did he say? What did he do?”
“What time is it?” Her mother stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.
“Look who’s home,” her father said, pointing to Dimpna with a grin. “We need to feed her.”
Her mother eyed Dimpna, then the whiskey, and finally the notes. Her eyes widened with understanding; her mouth dropped open. “How could you keep this from me?” Dimpna pleaded.
Maeve sighed, then fetched another glass from the press and poured herself a whiskey. “Everything happened at once,” she said. “Ben came to visit and at first we were thrilled. Then your father started having his memory problems, and then Ben showed us those awful notes. He made it clear that he planned on confronting the O’Reillys.”
“You should have called me. You should have called me that minute.”
“He was on a warpath, and that wouldn’t have calmed him down.”
“Then what? Why hasn’t Sean confronted me? What did Ben do?”
“What he planned on doing and what he did are two different things,” Maeve said. “One minute he said he was going to see to it that Sean O’Reilly rotted in jail for the rest of his miserable life, the next thing I knew, the pair of them seemed as thick as thieves.”
“Seemed?”
“I think it was an act,” Maeve said. “Ben is definitely a Wilde.”
“What?” Dimpna rose from the table. “What?”
“He was very convincing,” her mother said. “They got on like a house on fire.”
“Johnny wasn’t happy,” her father said. “He threatened me.”
Dimpna knelt by her father. “Is that what the secret meeting at the clinic was all about? Did Johnny O’Reilly drop his ruby ring?”
“Sean bought that ring for Ben,” her father said. “Johnny said, ‘Over my dead body.’ He didn’t drop it—Sean gave it to me. To give to Ben. I can’t find it.”
“You gave it to me,” Dimpna said.
“Did I?” He was tired.
“Yes, you did.” She paused. “Then what were you looking for in the clinic?” But she already knew. With a growing sense of dread, she knew. He’d been looking for a monster. A Monster in a Bottle. Her father had been looking for Immobolin. That was after O’Reilly was found dead on that beach. Which meant her father wanted to make sure someone—Ben—hadn’t taken it. And from the way he’d torn apart the clinic, the answer was clear. The deadly vial was missing. But if someone had killed Johnny O’Reilly with Immobolin, why was there a vial of Release and a syringe at the scene when one drop of the Monster would have done the trick, not to mention it wouldn’t have left a mark. There would have been no reason for a detective, let alone a pathologist, to suspect murder . . . Unless it was a set-up. Unless the killer wanted the guards to nab her parents for this murder.
Her mother swiped an envelope from the table then stood over the rubbish bin, furiously ripping it to shreds and letting the pieces fall like snowflakes.
“What’s that?” Dimpna asked. “What else are you hiding from me?”
“For God’s sake, Dimpna, everything is not about you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Morton’s Funeral Home!” her mother said.
“Again?” her father asked. “Is it addressed to me or you?”
Her mother waved her hand like it didn’t matter. “Every single day they send us notices. Do we want to pick out coffins? Headstones? Plan our funerals. I have half a mind to kill them, but first give them a minute to plan theirs.” She sighed, then returned to the table. “If Ben and Sean are thick as thieves, why didn’t Sean give the ruby ring to Ben himself?”
“They had a falling-out,” her father said. “Ben wanted to meet his sister. Things got too real for Sean O’Reilly. He said he wasn’t ready for that.”
