When Irish Eyes Are Haunting: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Read online

  He didn’t really want an answer—he seemed to assume that since they were Americans, they naturally agreed.

  “We do get the tourist eager to see a ghostie or two. Naturally, all is booked now,” he added. “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, eh? Used to be, we were more solemn here—honoring a saint in a religious manner. But, we’ve taken note from our American cousins and we’re all festive these days—does a lot for tourist dollars.”

  “Aw, well, Dr. Kirkland, the estimate is that thirty-five million Americans are mainly of Irish descent—and that worldwide, it’s eighty million. That’s a lot of people who really are Irish in a way,” Devin told him.

  “Yes, you’re right. Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” Kirkland said.

  “Do you know of anyone who would have wished ill for Collum Karney?” Devin asked.

  “Wished ill?” Kirkland said.

  “Wanted him dead,” Rocky said flatly.

  “Why would anyone? He was a fine fellow—beloved by employees and visitors. Many came back year after year—not just for the castle, but because Collum and Brendan made sure that each stay was like coming home,” Kirkland said.

  “I imagine the castle is worth a small fortune,” Rocky said.

  “The property, the castle…yes. But after Collum there would be Brendan to inherit—and after Brendan, Seamus, then Kelly. Then there are still two cousins!” Kirkland said.

  “That would be a lot of heart attacks,” Devin murmured.

  “And if they all died, the property would go to the Irish Republic,” Kirkland told them. “There’s no reason for any living soul to have killed the man,” he finished and then added quickly, “If you don’t mind, we’re a small village, but I am the only doctor ’til one reaches the outskirts of Dublin.”

  “Of course, of course, and thank you,” Rocky told him.

  “What do you think?” Devin asked Rocky after they bid Dr. Kirkland—and his sour receptionist—good-bye.

  “I think there should have been an autopsy,” Rocky said.

  “But, do you think that Collum was frightened to death?”

  “Not by any howling of the wind or banshee wail,” Rocky said. “But—we both heard that noise last night. It did rip right through the castle. And I do believe that Brendan might have died last night—except that we disrupted the killer’s plan by heading to his room.”

  “But how—or by who?” Devin asked. “And since there are more people to inherit and the property would just go to the state, why would anyone kill him?”

  “Maybe someone is more eager to sell than Brendan?”

  “Not Seamus—not Kelly!” Devin said with certainty.

  “If we want certainty, we need an autopsy,” Rocky said.

  “We’ll have to ask Brendan and Seamus and Kelly,” Devin murmured. “And—wow. Digging up a loved one. Of course, we’ll have to have county authority.”

  “It can be done. I wouldn’t want the autopsy here. Not unless we get Kat in,” Rocky said thoughtfully.

  He was referring to Special Agent Kat Sokolov, Krewe member and medical examiner. Devin wasn’t sure where Kat was assigned now, if she was in the Virginia Krewe offices or out on a case. But the idea appealed to her. Kat’s significant other was Will Chan—one time magician, photographer, and computer genius—now a Krewe member, too.

  “Tricky,” Devin noted. “We’re going to have to convince someone to dig up a dead man a reputable doctor signed off on as far as the death certificate—and convince him that we should have an American FBI doctor in to make sure it was all done right.”

  “Life, my love, is tricky!” he reminded her. He paused in the street, staring down at her, and she suddenly wished that they had come for nothing more than their honeymoon. The Village of Karney was charming and beautiful. She could easily see forgetting what they did—and doing nothing but taking hikes up the cliffs, shopping in the quaint stores, enjoying a romantic meal or two in one of the small and intimate restaurants—and, of course, spending hours in the canopied master bed or giant claw-foot tub.

  “Do you want to visit the sheriff?” Devin asked.

  He smiled.

  Devin’s mind was on business.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get any more from him than we got from the good doctor, Kirkland,” he told her. “I want to explore the castle. That wasn’t a banshee. Someone there is playing games—games that intend to leave one victor and a field of dead. And,” he added, “we will need to speak with Brendan and see about an autopsy for Collum.”

  She nodded, looking unhappy. Although Devin had only met Brendan once before, she certainly cared about him—because she loved Uncle Seamus and Kelly. And she wasn’t happy about making circumstances worse for them.

  Then again, they were there because Brendan was no fool, and while legend and so-called prophecies might play at the back of his mind, he suspected something very real rather than imaginary.

  “Let’s go on to the castle then,” she said.

  They started along the road, coming to the church and the rolling graveyard.

  St. Patrick’s of the Village wasn’t grand in the way that great cathedrals were—it was still beautiful and an attraction in itself. Rocky had listened to Gary the Ghost’s history lesson on the church and read a number of the plaques on the old stone walls as well. There had been a church on this location since the fifth century; the church had been built atop an old Druid field—as natural to the inhabitants of the time as combining a few of their holidays and turning a few of their gods and goddesses into “saints.” The original wooden structure had burned. So had a second. The third structure—built of stone—had survived since the ninth century with medieval restoration and additions.

  The whole of it sat over catacombs that stretched far and wide beneath the village and held remains from those who had died since the first structure had been built. The graveyard itself was so old that many of the remaining graves from the first centuries after St. Patrick were noted by curious stones—their messages and memories to the living worn down by time and the elements.

  But the graveyard was also filled with medieval art and architecture. Celtic crosses rose above tombs and stood almost starkly on patches of overgrown grass as well—the individual names and memorials to those they guarded also lost to the trial and error of time. It was both a beautiful and forlorn place, for no matter how the church and graveyard might be loved and tended by those entrusted with their care, time and the elements wore on.

  “Do you know Father Flannery?” Rocky asked Devin.

  “I met him, of course,” Devin said. “Years ago. I doubt that he’d remember me.”

  “Let’s see if he’s about,” Rocky suggested.

  “If you wish.”

  A low stone wall—easily walked over—surrounded the church and some of the graveyard. Some of the wall was long broken or worn down, and still, it seemed that the little wooden gate created some kind of crossing—from the everyday world into that of something higher.

  Just to reach the double wooden doors of the church they passed a number of tombs, gravestones, and great obelisks and Celtic crosses. Parishioners of the village were still buried here—the modern concept of a distant cemetery had never come to Karney.

  Devin, a few feet ahead of Rocky, tried one of the large doors. It gave easily in her hands and they stepped into the old church. Devin backed to a side, allowing him to enter, and they both took a moment to let their eyes adjust.

  He’d researched the church already. While the first might have been a creation of the Dark Ages, the present structure seemed to have Norman overtones, and while small, it had the appearance of a greater Gothic structure.

  Simple wooden pews filled the church. Most of those in Karney, Devin had told him, were still Catholic and came to church regularly. It wasn’t just church—it was where the villagers gathered and enjoyed one another’s company.

  There were lovely old side altars—many with tombs of
a revered knight, perhaps, or even more modern warrior—one who might have died in the pursuit of independence for the Republic of Ireland.

  The main altar was very simple, marble in structure, and while he knew there were secular colors for each season, St. Patrick’s was now decked out in green. Beautiful tapestries with scenes of the days of Ireland’s patron saint covered the massive windows and the altar itself—even the runner that led from the front door to the altar.

  His eyes had barely adjusted when he saw a figure walking toward them. At first, in the shade of the church, he appeared to be some kind of a wraith, a fantastic creature of myth and legend bearing down upon them. Rocky quickly realized that he was a man in the long dark robes of a priest.

  “Hello, welcome to St. Patrick’s!” Father Flannery said in greeting, a soft, pleasant brogue causing a roll to his words.

  “Father Flannery,” Devin said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Kelly Karney’s cousin from America.”

  “Indeed, lass, aye, of course!” the priest said. He was a man in his mid-forties, Rocky thought, lean and tall, with sparkling blue eyes and sandy hair. His smile seemed sincere—as did his expression as his smile faded and he said, “I’m so sorry you’ve come at troubled times for the family, but, glad indeed that you’re here for them at such a time.” He turned to Rocky. “And, you, sir, are Mr. Craig Rockwell, husband to our Devin.”

  “I am,” Rocky said.

  “Truly, we’re so pleased that you’re both here,” Father Flannery said.

  “It’s a loving family,” Devin said. “I’m glad to be here.”

  “What do you think, Father Flannery?” Rocky asked. “There’s talk of banshees coming for all the Karney family.”

  “I’m a priest, young man. What do you think I think?” Flannery asked him, shaking his head. “I’m from County Cork and believe me, we have our tales there as well. We’ve created some of the world’s finest writers and storytellers—all because it’s nearly impossible here to grow up without learning about the Little People and our races of giants and, of course—our banshees.”

  “So—”

  “I think poor Collum was taken at the time our great Father above decreed, and that’s the way of life,” Father Flannery said.

  “A heart attack—plain and simple?” Rocky said dryly.

  Father Flannery sighed. “Brendan is just not convinced his brother died of natural causes. They were friends as well as brothers. Imagine a family where those not first in line for an inheritance don’t seem to give a whit—and just help out? Brendan can’t deal with the loss, and I’ve done my best to counsel him. That’s a reason many of us are so glad that you’re here—some American reason into the mix!”

  “Well, thank you,” Rocky told him.

  “Have you visited your uncle’s grave?” Flannery asked Devin.

  She glanced at Rocky before answering. Collum hadn’t really been her uncle.

  “No, I haven’t,” Devin said.

  “Come, I’ll take you out,” Flannery told them.

  They left the church by a rear door, heading along a stone path into the vast field of tombs and gravestones.

  There were modern markers in bronze and granite, ancient stone cairns, mausoleums and vaults. Rocky realized that Devin did know where they were going and that they were headed through the maze of memorials of the dead toward the far, westward edge and a vault built into a rise of rolling land.

  A chain of keys dangled from a belt at his robe and he opened the massive iron gate to allow them entry into the vault.

  Rocky wasn’t sure what he was expecting—perhaps shrouded corpses decaying upon dust-laden shelves.

  But that wasn’t the case. Fine marble covered all the graves. There were two large sarcophagi in the center of the tomb. Rocky quickly saw that they belonged to the Karney couple of myth and legend, Brianna and her beloved husband Declan, he who had throne himself at the enemy Sir Barry Martin in order to see that he died as his wife had.

  “Collum is here,” Father Flannery said quietly, pointing to the side of the vault.

  Cement covered the grave; a tombstone bearing his name had not yet been installed. But flowers strew the floor on the ground there and filled many vases set there as well. As he watched, Devin made the sign of the cross and lowered her head as if saying a little prayer for her uncle.

  Devin had grown up Catholic—but she’d also spent a great deal of time with her beloved Wiccan aunt in Salem. She was a spiritual person, a believer—they all were, more or less, in the Krewe. But he knew that she believed in one true tenet, and that was the fact that in her mind, all good men and women believed in decency and kindness and that religion didn’t matter. Yet, here, of course, she honored her uncle as he should have traditionally been honored.

  He lowered his own head. Father Flannery softly murmured a prayer.

  Something caused Rocky to look up—to look over at his wife.

  Her head was no longer bowed in prayer. She was staring wide-eyed and frowning at the back of the vault. She stood frozen and straight, and he was certain that she saw something there.

  Something that did not belong.

  He strained to see through the shadows.

  “Ah, and as the sayin’ goes, Collum,” Father Flannery murmured, “‘may ye have been in Heaven a half hour afore the Devil ever knew ye were dead!’ I know that to be true, for you were a fine man, my friend!”

  “Sorry, I am a man of God. But I am from County Cork,” Flannery added, perhaps believing that Rocky’s curious expression was for him.

  Devin spun around. “Of course. He was a very fine man,” she said.

  She turned and walked out of the vault.

  Rocky stared into the darkness at the far reaches of the large family tomb. But all he saw was darkness. He followed his wife into the light of the day.

  Chapter 6

  They were heading out of the cemetery and up the great slope that led to the castle walls, with Father Flannery far behind them, when Rocky asked Devin, “What happened back there.”

  “Rocky, I don’t know!” Devin told him, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his with concern. “There was something there—some kind of a presence.”

  “A ghost?” he asked. “Perhaps Collum?”

  She shook her head. “No, it wasn’t like any ghost I’ve met before,” she said. “It was different; it was dark…like a shadow.” She hesitated a bit awkwardly. It was strange. They weren’t just both Krewe. They were husband and wife. They usually said whatever they were thinking—no matter how absurd it might sound to someone else.

  “I felt it—or saw it—before. Last night. It seemed to settle over the castle. Just a—a darkness. Like massive raven’s wings, or…a huge shadow,” she finished, shrugging and looking at him a bit lamely.

  “Darkness—like some kind of evil?” he asked. He hoped there was no skepticism in his voice. He knew what it was like when people doubted your judgment—or your sanity.

  She smiled. “No, not evil. Just—something different. And I almost felt as if the darkness…”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Wanted to touch me,” she said softly.

  A strange ripple of fear went through him. “You’re not a Karney,” he said gruffly. “But if you even begin to think that you might be in danger—”

  “Hey!” she protested. “I’m trained, experienced, and tough,” she reminded him. “I became part of the Krewe. But, it’s not like that. I mean, you said it yourself last night—we’ve never known a ghost to kill anyone. Ghosts linger to help the living or find justice or…in some instances, because they feel like they are an integral part of history. I didn’t feel that. Just…something different.”

  “Well, stay close, kiddo, okay?” he asked, his tone still a bit too husky. Sometimes, he wasn’t easy. A man’s natural instinct was to protect the ones he loved—to protect his wife.

  He knew that he sometimes had to remember that yes, she had gone through
all the courses. She was a government agent. She was trained, and she—just as he had—had chosen her own course in life. He didn’t have the right to try to lock her in a closet until danger was gone.

  The instinct still remained.

  “I’m going to have to get back in there,” she said flatly.

  “We’re going to have to get back in there,” he said firmly. “Is Father Flannery the only one with keys? Wouldn’t the family have keys to their own vault as well?”

  “Yes, of course,” Devin said. “We can get them from Brendan.”

  They heard music as they approached the castle walls. The loud wail of Irish bagpipes seemed to cover the whole of the cliffside.

  “They’ve started with the celebrations,” Devin said. “Five days of them here with St. Patrick’s being right in the middle. The vendors we saw getting started when we left are set up now and there’s Irish step dancing competitions and in the afternoon, there will be contests for sheepherding dogs out by the pit.” She glanced at him with a dry shrug. “I hope you like the sound of pipes.”

  “Not sure I could take it all day every day, but here…they certainly sound fitting,” he assured her.

  By the time they reached the gates, they were amidst dozens of people coming and going.

  Once they were inside, it was as if they’d stepped through a mystical door and entered another world.

  The great walls were lined with portable kiosks. Vendors sold leather goods, plaids, flutes, and even bagpipes, clothing, jewelry, costuming, food, soft drinks, and of course, whiskey and beer. A bandstand was set against the westward most section of the wall. One band took the place of another; their lead singer announced that they were the Rowdy Pipers, and as Rocky and Devin paused to listen, they burst into a rock song—with bagpipes.

  “Fantastic!” Rocky said, smiling.

  “They are darned good,” Devin agreed. She pointed to an area near the bandstand where there were about twenty young girls in plaid skirts, white shirts, knee high socks, and black shoes. “I believe those are the St. Patrick of the Village dancers. They’re probably pretty amazing.”