Free Irish Chain by Earlene Fowler

up as surely as if I’d eaten a mouthful of sand. It seemed an eternity since I’d sent Ramon for Gabe. Unbidden, Mr. O’Hara’s purple face loomed up in my mind, and I felt myself start to quiver and give in to the urge to slide down. Firm hands caught my shoulders and stopped my descent.
    “Are you all right?” Mac asked. His grim face gradually came into focus.
    “How did you . . . I didn’t even hear you come up.”
    “I passed Ramon in the garden. He said someone had died.”
    “In there. I told him to get Gabe. He’ll know what to do.” When he started through the door, I suddenly remembered whose room it was. “Oh, Mac, don’t worry. It’s not Oralee.”
    “What are you talking about? She’s in the kitchen. I was coming to get her a sweater.” He stepped past me into the room. After a few seconds, I heard a sharp intake of breath and a soft prayer, “Oh, Lord, no.”
    I leaned back against the wall, my heart still pounding, feeling relieved that Mac, with his substantial physical presence and experienced spiritual calm, was handling the situation. I took deep breaths in an attempt to keep my lunch down while questions chased around my mind like a blue heeler after sheep.
    Who would kill Mr. O’Hara? And Miss Violet? They were two of San Celina’s blandest residents. I’d known both of them all my life. Law-abiding, proper, boring. Who could want them dead?
    Then something occurred to me. Was Miss Violet actually murdered? It was obvious, even to an amateur like me, that Mr. O’Hara was strangled. But Miss Violet, as far as I could see, didn’t have a mark on her. Did she see something, the murderer perhaps, and die of fright? Of course, I hadn’t pulled back the bedspread. I shuddered at the images conjured up in my mind and stuck my head through the door to ask Mac what he thought about it.
    He was kneeling next to Miss Violet’s bed, seemingly praying. I started to turn my head, embarrassed for intruding on such a private moment, when I saw him open her nightstand drawer, quickly search it and stick something in his pocket, his large body blocking my view of what it was. With only the slightest movement, he closed the drawer with his elbow.
    “Mac, what are you . . .”
    Steps echoing down the hallway distracted me. I turned to see Gabe approaching with a determined stride, Ramon double-stepping to keep up. Gabe already wore his Sergeant Friday look. Dead calm. No emotion. Just the facts, ma’am. Every last one of them. Right now .
    When he reached me, his mask slipped for a moment. He gently lifted my chin and searched my face with worried eyes.
    “I’m okay,” I said, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from flowing. “Really. Go ahead.”
    Satisfied, his cop look came back. “Where?”
    I pointed to the open door. “Mac’s in there.”
    “Who?” he snapped.
    “I know it’s a crime scene, but he’s a minister and . . .”
    A muscle jumped like a small fish in his clenched jaw. Crime scenes bordered on the sacred to Gabe. I knew that. But I would have no more kept Mac from going in there than I would have stopped a charging bull. There was a remote chance that Miss Violet might have still been alive and there are still some things more important than evidence. I tried not to think about seeing Mac remove something from the scene. Maybe it was my imagination. That was certainly what I wanted to believe.
    Gabe started through the doorway, wearing a look that said whoever was in the room, religious affiliation or not, was in big trouble. I followed him in, watching his face apprehensively.
    In an instant, his expression changed. Surprise, then incredulity covered his face. I moved closer to him, confused at his reaction. He had been a cop almost twenty years. I couldn’t imagine anything shocking him. Besides, he wasn’t even looking down at the body. I looked over at Mac. A similar look of amazement froze his broad features.
    “Pancho?” Mac asked.
    “Lefty?” Gabe