Free Murder at the Monks' Table by Carol Anne O'Marie Page B

Guardian of the Peace, for a little over six months now, he could not remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be one.
    Maybe for a week or two after his First Holy Communion he had thought he might like to be a priest, saying Mass and passing out the hosts at Communion time and hearing everyone’s sins, even his da’s.
    But then one of the lads in his class told him that priests weren’t allowed to kiss girls, and he had abandoned the idea immediately. Especially when he thought of never being able to kiss Carmel Cox, the doctor’s blue-eyed daughter. When they were youngsters, Carmel with the long auburn curls had lived down the road with her parents and her three brothers.
    Liam felt his face grow warm. Now it was not the priesthood that kept him from trying to kiss the beautiful Carmel. It was her brothers. Somehow after their father had passed on, they felt it was their duty to keep everyone away from their sister. The way they were going at it, poor Carmel might as well be a nun.
    â€œWhat is going on in there?” a sharp voice cut into his thought. Liam froze. That voice could only belong to one person, his Auntie Zoë. He had been so preoccupied he hadn’t heard her coming in time to make his escape.
    â€œThe woman has a tongue so sharp,” his da had said many times, “it could clip a hedge.”
    Liam pressed his lips together to keep from grinning at the thought of two sharp clipper blades protruding from Zoë’s thin lips and snipping away.
    â€œI can’t say, Auntie,” he replied, avoiding her piercing eyes.
    â€œCan’t say! Humph! Won’t say is more like it. Ever since you went to that garda school, you’ve been acting like a perfect
eejit.
If you had any brains at all, you’d have gone into the funeral business, like the rest of the O’Dea clan. And you wouldn’t be standing on your feet all day guarding a door!” She stared up at him.
    Liam clenched his teeth, trying to keep his face from showing any emotion. The old cow! Dumb as dirt, she was. He had no intention of guarding doors all his life. No, indeed! He was set on being a detective inspector. As a lad he had watched hundreds of hours of detectives on the telly—Inspector Morse and that nice chap, Inspector Barnaby from Midsummer. Although they did seem to have an excessive amount of murders in Oxford and that little village, but that was England for you.
    Then there was the American telly with the detectives shooting and jumping and chasing.
The Streets of San Francisco
had been one of his favorites. He remembered as a lad bragging at school that he had a second cousin who had actually visited that dangerous, hilly city.
    He could feel his aunt’s eyes still on him. “Well, Liam?” she said. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
    â€œNot,” he said, feeling his cheeks burn. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared straight ahead, wishing that she would go away.
    â€œThat’s beautiful,” she said sarcastically, “a young man who wouldn’t even give his auntie the time of day. After all I’ve done for you!” She took a breath, ready, he knew frompast experience, to start a long harangue on the ingratitude of modern youth with a number of pointed references to himself.
    Feeling like one of the martyrs Father Keane often talked about at Mass, Liam was determined not to hear a word.
The woman is mad,
he kept repeating to himself,
plain mad.
    He was concentrating so hard that he almost missed the slamming of the car door that saved his day.
    â€œMorning, Liam,” Detective Inspector Brian Reedy called in a cheerful voice, despite the fact that he’d only a few hours of sleep. The man was remarkable!
    Checking the sky, Reedy slipped into his raincoat. Although a watery sun still shone, dark clouds were tumbling into view. You didn’t have to be much of a detective to realize that rain was on its