The Dead of Achill Island Read online

  Praise for Murder in Lascaux,

  the first Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

  “This densely written and marvelously detailed excursion through the Dordogne will leave you dreaming of castles, chateaus, and caves.”

  Library Journal (Starred Review)

  “A whodunit that nicely balances a breezily light travelogue with urgency and suspense. Readers will hope this is the first of a series.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “With a colorful mélange of art, French history, food, and a surprising perp, this tale will keep readers entertained (and entice them to visit southwestern France).”

  Booklist

  “Crisply written. . . . If you like a murder mystery you can get your teeth into, give this one a try.”

  Mystery Scene Magazine

  “A strong first mystery that tells a traditional amateur detective story in a fascinating setting.”

  Chicago Tribune

  Praise for The Body in Bodega Bay,

  the second Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

  “Colorful characters . . . keep the proceedings fresh and unpredictable. . . . The unexpected but satisfying conclusion is worth the wait.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “If you’re a fan of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, you will thoroughly enjoy this murder mystery that takes place in Bodega Bay, the town where the scary avian movie was shot.”

  Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden must be having a wonderful time researching and writing their mystery series. It certainly is a lot of fun reading their books.”

  Capital Times

  “The prose is elegant and the plot beautifully researched.”

  San Francisco Book Review

  “Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler are back. This crime’s solution takes us into the world of Russian icons, the Russian past in Sonoma County, and even into the realm of communications from guardian angels. Murder in Lascaux was an auspicious debut; The Body in Bodega Bay continues the journey. This novel delivers. Grab it and enjoy.”

  Richard Schwartz, author of The Last Voice You Hear

  Praise for Death on a Starry Night,

  the third Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

  “Making their third sleuthing appearance (after The Body in Bodega Bay), Nora and Toby are utterly delightful. . . . Mystery devotees who want an atmospheric crime novel with an art history slant such as Iain Pears’s ‘Jonathan Argyll’ books will enjoy this series.”

  Library Journal

  “Into the mix of personalities, the authors weave in tantalizing snippets of letters written by Isabelle’s grandfather about his acquaintance with the extremely moody and vulnerable Van Gogh in 1890. The result is an entertaining whodunit.”

  Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  “Highly recommended and certain to be an enduringly popular addition to the personal reading lists of mystery buffs.”

  Midwest Book Review

  “A rich and colorful novel that sometimes seems almost as real as the history it’s based upon. . . . Readers who cherish France, fine dining, classic art or simply a smart mystery will find plenty to enthrall them in Death on a Starry Night.”

  Isthmus

  The Dead of Achill Island

  A Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery

  Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden

  The University of Wisconsin Press

  The University of Wisconsin Press

  1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor

  Madison, Wisconsin 53711-2059

  uwpress.wisc.edu

  Gray’s Inn House, 127 Clerkenwell Road

  London EC1R 5DB, United Kingdom

  eurospanbookstore.com

  Copyright © 2019

  The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System

  All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any format or by any means—digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—or conveyed via the internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. Rights inquiries should be directed to [email protected].

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book may be available in a digital edition.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Draine, Betsy, 1945- author. | Hinden, Michael, author.

  Title: The dead of Achill Island / Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden.

  Description: Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, [2019] | Series: A Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018045767 | ISBN 9780299323806 (cloth: alk. paper)

  Subjects: | LCGFT: Fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.R343 D425 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045767

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. Places mentioned are real, except for the Achill Arms, which is entirely fictional.

  ISBN-13:978-0-299-32388-2 (electronic)

  To the Irish side of the family

  1

  THE BODY WAS SPRAWLED FACEDOWN on the grass floor of a roofless cottage open to the sky. The head was a tangle of gray hair and drying blood, and more gore was smeared on a nearby rock. The ruin where he lay was one of a row of stone hovels that stretched across the foot of the mountain. Wind howled through the chinks of broken walls; there was no other sound. Bending down, I felt his neck but found no pulse.

  God help us, we’re rid of him at last.

  I stood and scanned the slope, cupping my eyes against the morning sun. Close and far, the rubble of a hundred houses weighed upon a line that extended the length of Slievemore Mountain. Above the row of houses, the slope rose quickly to pale, rocky heights.

  I turned toward the sea and saw no one on the hill below me, only a few sheep in the graveyard near the entrance to the Deserted Village. I was the first visitor of the day—except for him. I took a long look at him and then closed my eyes. Eventually, I opened them and then retched at the sight of the mangled head. A shiny object on the ground next to his chin caught the sun and startled me. I stared at it, hoping I was wrong. I picked it up, put it in my jacket pocket, and fumbled for my phone. There was no point in delaying further.

  A woman’s voice answered, “Garda Station, Westport. Do you have an emergency?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I’m at the Deserted Village on Achill Island, and I’ve found a body. A man’s been killed. He’s lying on the ground in one of the ruins.”

  “Mother of God. Hold on,” she said. “I’ll put you through to Achill Sound.”

  It took a while to make the connection. I repeated my message. There was consternation in the voice that replied. I heard the squeaking of a chair and pictured a rural policeman pushing back sharply from his desk. A moment’s pause; then came a barrage of questions.

  “Your name, please.”

  “Nora Barnes.”

  “B-a-r-n-e-s?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not from here?”

  “No, I’m American.”

  “Are you staying on Achill?”

  “Yes.” I gave him the location of our holiday cottage.

  “You’re saying there’s a dead body at the Deserted Village. When did you find this body?” He sounded skeptical.

&nb
sp; “Just now. A moment ago.”

  “And where exactly are you?”

  “I’m at one of the first houses up the hill from the entrance gate.” I thought I heard the scratching of a pen.

  “One of the ruins. Are you sure, now, this man is dead?”

  “I am. He isn’t breathing.”

  “Right. You said he was ‘killed’ when you called the emergency operator. What made you say that? The poor man maybe had a heart attack, I’m thinking.”

  “Sir, his head’s bashed in and there’s blood all over.”

  “Jaysus,” said the officer. “You haven’t touched him or moved him, I hope?”

  “Just to feel for a pulse. He doesn’t have one.”

  “Well, you’re not to touch a thing from now on, you hear? I’ll call the detectives and be there myself very shortly. Wait for me, will you?”

  “I will.”

  “One more thing. Do you know who the dead man is, by any chance?”

  Oh, yes. I knew who he was, all right. “His name is Bertram Barnes,” I said. “My uncle.” Uncle Bert, the bastard.

  That’s what my mother called him. She rarely mentioned his name without the epithet. We kids liked the sound of it, so that’s what we called him too.

  “Your uncle? Why didn’t you say?” I didn’t reply. He continued, hesitantly. “Well, could be you’re in shock. I . . . I’m sorry for your trouble. Just stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

  Ten minutes later I saw a car, a white sedan with GARDA painted in blue across the hood. It slid to a stop in the dirt parking area for visitors. I was sitting outside the ruin that contained Bert’s body. I stood and waved to the officer as he hustled up the hill carrying a clipboard. While he climbed, I scrutinized the ground, looking for footprints. The grass, moist with morning dew, was thick and tightly rooted. I wondered if it would take a footprint. I couldn’t make out my own, never mind the killer’s. Maybe the officer would see something I couldn’t.

  He was young, with soft features and a pink complexion. Pudgy rather than fat, he was clearly winded from the climb. He wore a light-blue shirt with black epaulettes and navy pants. The tightness of his uniform stiffened his movement as he knelt beside the body, studying the bloodied head and making notes. Then turning to me, he said he was Garda Matt Mullen of the Achill Sound station. The inspector, he said, was on his way from Westport to take charge of questioning me, since there was evidence of a violent crime. A technical team would be dispatched from Dublin to gather forensic evidence. His job was to secure the scene and to keep an eye on any witnesses or suspects until his colleagues arrived.

  “Are you all right?” he asked solicitously. But I could read his mind: Which was I, a witness or a suspect? Whatever his doubts, the young garda was polite. “Would you like some water?” He extended a plastic bottle. “At the station, I could have offered you a cup of tea, at least.”

  “No need,” I replied.

  “There’s just the one of me, you see. I’m meant to have another guard with me, but she’s on maternity leave. I’m on my own.” He glanced at the sky. “At least the day is fine, so it won’t be too hard on you waiting outdoors. But the Crime Scene Technical Bureau will want a tent over the building for when it rains, so I’ve got work to do.” He motioned for me to sit on a pile of stone rubble close by, and he returned to where the body lay. While I watched, he wound yellow tape around the ruined house and its lifeless guest.

  Waiting for the inspector, I ran over the events of the past few days. Our trip had started out full of promise. I was with my parents, my younger sister, Angie, and Toby, my husband. We had come to Ireland to honor Dad’s cousin Bridget. It was her Silver Jubilee, her twenty-fifth year of being a nun. Celebrations in Galway began with a Mass said by Bridget’s brother, a monsignor who had come over from the states. Two of Bridget’s ten siblings read from the Gospels and the Epistles, and a fellow nun gave tribute to Bridget’s worthy service of twenty-five years.

  The party afterward felt like a silver wedding anniversary, and in a sense it was, except that the husband was missing (or in heaven if you believed in it). No anniversary party ever had livelier dancing, both before and after the meal. I was stunned to see a group of nuns stepping in unison to a country-and-western line dance. As for us, we danced passably and took hasty breaks for drinks. It was a wonderful evening of family fun; that is, until a set-to between my mother and Uncle Bert marred its end.

  We tried to put that bitter scene behind us as we set off after the party for our holiday on Achill Island. Achill (it rhymes with “cackle”) is Ireland’s largest island. It lies off the northwest coast above Galway and is now connected to the mainland by a causeway. “Why don’t you go up to Achill afterward?” Bridget had written to me before the trip. “It’s still unspoiled. The Brits, you know, did their best to stamp out our culture. But the West was too poor and too far from England for them to bother much about, so it’s where the old ways are best preserved. And Achill is about as far west as an Irishman can get.”

  Taking Bridget’s advice, we arranged a holiday on Achill, hoping to get a feel for the land our grandparents left. Bridget found two small cottages for us to rent, one for Mom, Dad, and Angie, and one next door for Toby and me. For months ahead, I daydreamed about the party in Galway and the ten days the family would have on Achill Island, soaking up the atmosphere of old Ireland.

  It wasn’t until the Jubilee dinner that we learned Uncle Bert would be on Achill at the same time, in connection with one of his real estate projects. The cottage he was renting was in walking distance of our own. Had we known that earlier, we would have made other plans. It didn’t take a conspiracy theory to conclude that Cousin Bridget sent us to Achill knowing that Bert would be there and hoping there would be a reconciliation. Her intentions were the best, but you know what they say about the road to hell.

  I looked toward the ruined hovel, where the guard was working around my uncle’s body. With the face hidden and the form inert, already somehow shrunken, the corpse didn’t much resemble the man I had known. That man held himself high with his chest puffed out. He strutted like a major general, issuing commands in a booming voice. Even at funerals, he would shatter the quiet of the room. He was larger than life. But no one is larger than death.

  When we were young, Dad would put my brother, Eddie, to bed and Mom would settle me in. For Mom and me, it was a time for confidences. One night she talked about Uncle Bert. It was the first time I heard her use the word “bastard.”

  “The bastard is as rich as Scrooge McDuck. And just as selfish.”

  “Does he sit on piles of gold?” I asked, thinking of my comic books.

  “He sits on piles of shit.”

  That’s the first time I heard her use that word too. I must have shown little-girl shock, because I remember that she shot back: “Don’t look at me like that! The man’s a shit and he makes his money in shit.” I knew it was a bad thing to say, but I didn’t understand how anyone could make money that way.

  As I got older, our talks got longer and went deeper. I came to understand what she meant. Uncle Bert made his money in real estate. He bought and managed slum housing in Boston. He kept hundreds of people in poverty, overcharging for rent, evicting some tenants who missed a payment, lending money to others in ways that indentured them, letting buildings run down until they were so derelict that even the poorest of the working poor wouldn’t live in them. They moved out, and drug dealers and squatters moved in. The decay spread, and soon a whole street looked ready for the bulldozer. But that’s not what Uncle Bert sent in. He sent builders. He sent renovation teams. He received accolades for “saving the neighborhood.” He reaped a fortune by gentrifying. Nobody gave a damn about the people displaced after years of exploitation, nobody but Mom.

  I wondered what Dad thought about his brother’s business, but the topic didn’t come up, because Dad didn’t talk about Bert. It was as if he didn’t exist until, once or twice a year, he would stop by una
nnounced (or so I thought). I came to realize that Dad did know he was coming and quietly alerted Mom. She was always in the bedroom reading when he arrived, and she let somebody else answer the door. Bert and Dad would go off by themselves to Dad’s basement workshop or for a walk outdoors. A few hours later, Dad would reappear, and nothing would be said about Bert’s visit, but Mom would avoid Dad’s eyes.

  Every year or so, there was a funeral or christening in the extended family. Bert would make his rounds of the room, clapping the men’s backs and kissing the ladies’ cheeks. When he got to Dad, the brothers would have a chat. It was the only time Bert used his “indoor voice” and I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Sometimes Mom would glance at them, looking sour. My brother called it her witch face.

  We rarely saw the witch face. Ordinarily Mom looked more like Cinderella. She worked hard at home and at her job, and her labors kept her lean. Lipstick was the only cosmetic she wore, and her dark, wavy hair, styled by nothing but air-drying and a hairbrush, fell loosely below her shoulders. She wore the same boatneck tees and white jeans all year long. There wasn’t a day in her life when her clothes and jewelry together cost more than thirty dollars. But to me she looked beautiful, and when she laughed it made me happy.

  If fury possessed her, it was always about Bert. It’s strange how, in a family, you fail to ask questions about the things that most disturb you. I sensed that Uncle Bert had done something worse in Mom’s eyes than make a dirty million, something more personal that hurt her, or us, directly. But I didn’t dare ask.

  It came out after a Christmas dinner at Grammy’s, our annual attempt to be a united family. My new cousin, Emily, had been in the family three years, since her mother’s marriage to Bert. She was a year older than I was, and much prettier. I tried to be her friend, but she kept me at a distance by talking incessantly, so that there was no time for friendship. That year she talked on and on about her vacations to places like Bermuda, where her new family had a bungalow, and to Paris. Her descriptions left me envious. When we came home, I asked Mom why I couldn’t go to Paris and Bermuda like Emily. She said nothing, but her jaw set and it seemed to me she was tamping down a fire inside. I thought it was my fault; I was being jealous and greedy. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really want to go to Paris.”