Free The Death of an Irish Sinner by Bartholomew Gill Page B

in hospital—she absconded last night, replacing herself with the Guard who was securing her room. And a big fella, by all accounts.
    “It’s thought his back might be broken. The nurses assumed we’d removed the Guard, and seeing a form in the bed, they didn’t realize she was gone until a few hours ago.
    “We’ve issued an ‘all points,’ of course. But no trace of her yet.
    “As for the second revelation—preliminary findings indicate Mary-Jo Stanton was murdered around four in the afternoon. That coincides exactly with the event that was taped on the security monitor, the one that views the section of garden where her corpse was found by the priest, Father Fred”—McKeon turned to another page.
    “Duggan,” Ward put in.
    Mary-Jo Stanton’s “keeper,” if what Dery Parmalee said about Opus Dei and Barbastro was factual, McGarr thought.
    “However—and this is the big however—Mary-JoStanton was not killed by the device that was found around her neck. At least not directly, since the wounds and pattern of bleeding indicate that the punctures from the barbs occurred before her death.” McKeon glanced up over his half glasses. “The wounds from the—I’m going to call it—‘silly-sea-oh.’”
    “Thee-LEE-thee-oh,” corrected Ward, who spoke Castilian rather well.
    “Exactly. But that device was not the cause of death, it says here. What killed her was a myocardial infarction.”
    “A heart attack?” Bresnahan asked.
    “Then she died of natural causes?” Noreen asked, taking a seat at the table.
    “Natural enough, if you dismiss the—”
    “Cilicio,” Ward supplied.
    “Which could have brought on her death,” Bresnahan mused.
    “Well, certainly Mary-Jo didn’t wrap the blessed thing around her own neck and tighten it until it drew blood.” Noreen reached for the platter of eggs.
    “The postmortem is by no means complete, of course. But perhaps we should view it like that, until we receive the final report.” McKeon glanced over at McGarr, who nodded.
    “Moving on to the guests and residents of Barbastro…” McKeon glanced up from his notes.
    “What is it about the sound of that name that gives me the willies?”
    “That’s easy,” Bresnahan put in, now doodling on her notepad. “You find the bar part enticing, givenyour proclivities. But one letter further, it’s ouch. Then there’s the a, s part that’s pronounced ‘ass,’ which, of course, never applies to you, Bernie.”
    “Yet,” Ward muttered. “Give him time.”
    “ Bast, of course, is half of bastard . But again, that’s not you. And finally there’s the astro, which is five-eighths of castrato. Little wonder you’re concerned about your willy.”
    “Barbastro, I’ll have you know, is the small city in Aragon where José Maria Escrivá—the beatified priest who founded the Opus Dei order—was born,” said McKeon, shaking out his notes. “Father Fred Duggan told me that. He was and is a resident in the house, along with Geraldine Breen, who is a member of the sect—”
    “Order,” Bresnahan corrected. “In a Catholic context, sect implies heresy, and from what I know, Opus Dei is more than simply mainstream. They’re at the very center of the Church, since they control the money.”
    Spooning up some stirabout, McGarr took note of Bresnahan’s knowledge of the—
    “Order,” McKeon repeated. “Father Juan Carlos Sclavi, who has also been resident in Barbastro for the last month and was there yesterday afternoon, is a priest of same. Little English, we were told by Duggan, less it seemed when I spoke to him and, later, Hughie in his native lingo.”
    “Wouldn’t say anything without Duggan in the room,” Ward added. “Kept looking at him for a wink or a nod, whenever I asked the question.”
    “As well,” McKeon continued, “one Delia Manahan spent the day and the night at Barbastro. She too claims an affiliation with the Opus Dei order, although she told us she lives and owns her own