Sinner or Saint Read online

  Sinner or Saint

  A University Mystery

  Brenda Donelan

  Sinner or Saint

  ©Copyright 2019 Brenda Donelan

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Whenever I think of Ireland, I remember my aunt. She was born Agnes Marcene Donelan, but after joining the convent, she became Sister Agnes Marie Donelan. She was enchanted by the Emerald Isle and looked forward to St. Patrick’s Day every year. After returning from her first trip to Ireland, I asked how she liked it. She put her hands on her little round face, her blue eyes dancing with excitement, and exclaimed, “Kid, you wouldn’t believe it!”

  In 2012, she passed away at the age of 84. This book is dedicated to the memory of Sister Agnes Marie and her love of Ireland.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  About the Author

  Also by Brenda Donelan

  The lights behind me came closer and closer. I blinked several times and rubbed my eyes, hoping the lights were just a reflection. I slowed down to let the car pass, but it slowed down too. So, I sped up. It sped up too. This wasn’t any random vehicle. They were looking for me!

  My destination was only a few minutes away. I’d be safe, and I could get some sleep. The car raced up beside me and rammed into my driver’s side. I held onto the wheel, struggling to keep control. The impact and the newly fallen snow made it nearly impossible to stay on the road. As I stepped on the accelerator, the tires didn’t get enough traction before the car sideswiped me again. This time I couldn’t stay on the road.

  Chapter 1

  It had been dark for hours by the time Kelsey’s limp body was found in a creek on the outskirts of Elmwood. The water, which had turned to ice months ago and was now in the process of melting, glistened in the light of the moon. A Honda CR-V was upturned after rolling several times down the embankment with glass from the windshield and side windows all around the demolished vehicle. The freshly fallen snow cast a peaceful view on the scene… until you saw blood seeping from Kelsey’s mouth and onto the ground.

  Marlee McCabe jolted awake as the cell phone on her nightstand launched into a jaunty Irish jingle. “Hello?” she mumbled into the phone, as she grabbed for her glasses, knocking over a half-full glass of water.

  “It’s Bettina,” said Marlee’s friend from the police department. “I’m outside your door. Can you let me in?”

  Marlee’s mind raced. The only reason a police officer would come to your door was to notify you of a death of a family member. She sprang out of bed, dropping the phone on the floor and raced to the front door. “Bettina, what happened?”

  “It’s Kelsey. We found her out by Eagle Creek.” Bettina was stoic as she relayed the news but placed a hand on Marlee’s shoulder to steady her. “She’s dead.”

  “In the creek? What do you mean? What happened?”

  “She was in a motor vehicle rollover, and she was driving your car.” Bettina said.

  “Oh my god! How did it happen?” Marlee’s first thoughts were of the young woman and her limited driving skills in the United States, especially given the three inches of snow in the past few hours.

  “We have an accident reconstructionist on the way from Sioux Falls,” Bettina said, flipping on the overhead light and guiding Marlee to the couch. “Based on what we saw, it doesn’t look like an accident. It looks like another vehicle forced Kelsey off the road and into the creek. Your SUV rolled, and Kelsey was thrown a few feet away.”

  Her eyes darted from Bettina’s face to the navy woolen cardigan Kelsey had forgotten at Marlee’s house. It was carelessly flung over the back of a chair, the arms dangling in the air. “But, but —” Marlee gulped. “Who ran her off the road?”

  “That’s what we want to find out. I’m here not just as a friend but as lead detective on this case. I need to know everything about Kelsey. You know more about her than anyone else in Elmwood, or even the United States. Tell me everything,” Bettina said, taking out a notebook and pen.

  “The last time I saw her was yesterday, right before she stole my SUV,” Marlee began.

  “No, I mean everything. Start from the very beginning,” interrupted Bettina.

  “It was about a month ago when I met Kelsey at the bed and breakfast in Dublin,” Marlee said, with a quivering voice, bracing for the long story with a horrific ending.

  It’s not easy, but it pays the bills.

  Chapter 2

  It was last February in Ireland, and Marlee felt like she’d landed in the middle of a fairy tale. Green grass loomed as far as the eye could see, only marred by an occasional stone country house and barn. Smiling as she took in the visual beauty, Marlee realized she was the luckiest person in the world at that moment. Not only was she on sabbatical from her teaching and service duties at Midwestern State University in Elmwood, South Dakota, but she was living out her life-long fantasy of traveling to Ireland, the home of her ancestors. She had one month to do interviews and tour prisons in Dublin before returning to MSU and Elmwood in March to complete her research. With her extra time, she was free to explore Ireland and maybe even look up some distant relatives in the McCabe line.

  Her smile faded as she recalled her troubles from the previous month when she was in Delhi, India on a special teaching assignment. The teaching assignment had fallen through when the murder of a new friend turned the sociology department at Delhi University upside down. Even though Marlee was a criminologist, she’d been housed in the sociology department and made some enemies right away. After the death of her friend was resolved, Marlee was unceremoniously released from her teaching duties and sent home. This only helped cement her long-held belief that all sociologists were crazy, even in other countries. She now had international confirmation of her bias.

  She sighed as she checked her watch. Only two more hours on this countryside tour before returning to Dublin and her research project. The van lurched as the driver turned onto a dirt road which led them to a large farmhouse and barn.

  “Ye all are very welcome here,” called out an older man dressed in brown corduroy trousers and an olive-green jacket. A brown tweed scally cap sat atop his head, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment. “I’m James Brennan, and this land has been tended by my family for six generations.” James made a big production of shaking everyone
’s hand before leading the group of ten out to his barn. The driver of the van, no doubt familiar with Mr. Brennan’s spiel, elected to remain in the van and talk on his phone.

  James nearly burst with pride as he showed the group his barn and the sheep in the pasture. “This here is Finnegan, and he’s one of the best sheepdogs in all of Ireland. And if ye don’t believe me, I’ll show you.” James motioned Finnegan into the pasture, and the black-and-white dog ran its heart out getting to the far end of the pasture and herding the sheep toward the open gate near the barn. Once the sheep were all in the corral adjoining the barn, James turned to the tour group with a satisfied look.

  “It’s a wee bit cold yet, or else I’d show you how I shear a sheep. February is much too chilly for these lambs, and I don’t want them running around naked without their coats.” Everyone laughed and nodded, agreeing that it was indeed too cold not to have a coat, regardless of whether you were human or sheep.

  “Speaking of chilly, let’s get you all inside the house and warmed up.” James herded the group inside the old farmhouse much as Finnegan had rounded up the sheep, moving back and forth toward the back of the pack to keep the group moving. They were shown into an ancient, cave-like room lit with a blazing fireplace and kerosene lanterns. Two long, wooden tables and well-used chairs occupied the center of the room. They were directed to all sit at one table, since their group of ten was smaller than many who came to the Brennan farm for a tour.

  “This here is Kitty, my wife of nearly fifty years,” James Brennan said, presenting a rotund woman in a plaid dress and a tan cardigan. “She and my daughter-in-law will be serving you, so sit back and relax.”

  Within moments, mugs were placed before each person, and urns of coffee and tea were poured. A lady in her mid-thirties appeared with a tray of hot scones, and Mrs. Brennan followed her with dishes of preserves and clotted cream. Just when it seemed the scene couldn’t get any more jovial, a man who was a younger version of James Brennan entered the room playing an Irish ditty on a fiddle. “This here’s my son, Paul!” James shouted over the din of the music. “And his lovely wife, Nellie, will sing for you.” Nellie burst into song, and it wasn’t long before James and his wife began dancing a jig. If Marlee had seen this on a movie, she would’ve rolled her eyes at the stereotypical Irish caricatures, but because she was in Ireland and experiencing the culture, the musical display seemed fun and charming, even if it was a canned act performed for tourists.

  After two freshly baked scones, Marlee’s stomach was full, and she was warmed up from the hot tea and laughter. As they departed the Brennan farmhouse, Mrs. Brennan handed each of them a warm piece of Guinness cake wrapped in waxed paper. “For a snack later,” she said with a smile, blushing at the many thanks she and the rest of her family received for their hospitality.

  Try as she might, Marlee could not keep her eyes open on the drive back to Dublin. The carb-heavy scones and the hot tea lulled her into a nap. She awoke with her head resting against the van’s window as they rolled into the outskirts of town. Her cake, made with dark Irish beer, was no longer warm but was still clutched in her hands. At least I didn’t drop my cake, she thought with a start. She’d been dreaming of that cake, and letting it slide to the floor would’ve been a catastrophe.

  Marlee walked four blocks to the bed-and-breakfast she had booked for the next month. It was her first time staying in a B&B and was pleased with the homey appeal of her room and the communal dining area. The family-run establishment, much like many small businesses in Ireland, had been in the Rafferty family for three generations. The current owners took over the establishment from his parents six years earlier when they retired. The B&B was now fully operated by Patrick and Mary Catherine Rafferty and their three children, all of whom lived on the premises. The two-story, red brick, Victorian house held six bedrooms, a large dining room, and a cozy living room, complete with a fireplace. Within the last ten years, each guest bedroom was outfitted with its own adjoining bathroom.

  Marlee occupied the only single room in the B&B. Three other rooms were for two or more guests, and the couple and their three daughters who ran the establishment occupied two larger bedrooms downstairs.

  Her twin bed was pushed against one wall, and an old desk and even older chair were placed against the opposing wall. When she spread out her arms, she could almost touch both the chair and the bed. At first, she thought the room would feel claustrophobic, but Marlee soon adjusted to the cramped surroundings and began to cherish her time in her little room. It made her feel like she was in an old-fashioned college dorm room, a type of room that would never pass muster with today’s college kids who were accustomed to suites with dishwashers, microwaves, and large-screen televisions.

  She threw her purse on the small bed topped with a blue quilt decorated with rose designs. She’d hung up her jacket downstairs, as she’d been directed upon first arriving at the B&B. “But what if someone takes my coat?” Marlee asked, puzzled that personal possessions wouldn’t become the property of a guest checking out.

  “Oh, dear. We’ve never had that happen in all the while we’ve been open. One time a guest took another’s reading glasses but brought them back ‘round when he discovered he’d picked up the wrong pair by mistake,” said Mary Catherine Rafferty. “You needn’t worry about anyone bothering your things here. We’re a family inn and wouldn’t tolerate that sort of thing. Now if you go into the pubs over on the North Side of the River Liffey, I’d advise you to keep your eye on your handbag. Some ruffian might decide to make off with it if you’re not looking. But in the shops and pubs on this side, everyone is honest and won’t be taking off with your things. We all know each other on this side of the river, and if somebody were to steal, we’d just ring up his mother or his wife and he’d catch bloody hell when he got home.” The cultural divide between the North Side and the South Side of the River Liffey continued, with each side believing stereotypes about the other. The innkeeper put her hands on her hips, giving a stern nod, suggesting she was not one to mess around.

  Dublin was a large city, and Marlee wasn’t convinced that leaving your belongings unattended was a great idea, no matter where you were. But she deferred to her host’s instructions and left her coat and umbrella in the hallway of the B&B. Worst case scenario: she’d have to buy a new coat and umbrella sometime during her stay. It seemed a small price to pay to keep on Mrs. Rafferty’s good side.

  In her room, Marlee glanced at the desk holding her small, purple laptop and a yellow legal pad. A fistful of pens littered the desktop, always at the ready. She didn’t feel like working on her research project just yet, so she flopped on the bed, smiling as she reflected on her near-perfect day in the Irish countryside. Minutes later, she was snoring lightly and didn’t awaken until she heard someone pounding on her door.

  It took a minute to gain her bearings and remember where she was and why she was there. Running her hands through her tangled auburn curls, she opened the door and stood face-to-face with a young woman with shoulder length, wavy auburn hair, a pale complexion, and carrying an extra thirty pounds. If it weren’t for the twenty-year age difference, Marlee would have sworn she was looking in a mirror.

  Never underestimate an American with Irish roots. They’re the easiest to fool and the most grateful while you’re doing it.

  Chapter 3

  Marlee and the younger woman stared at each other, mouths agape. “Ma said we looked alike, but I’d never a-thought there’d be this much resemblance,” the young woman said.

  “I can’t believe it. You look exactly like I did twenty years ago when I was an undergrad,” Marlee said, still transfixed by her doppelganger. Finally remembering her manners, she stepped back to let the young woman inside the room.

  “Oh, I don’t need to come into your room. Ma just sent me up to say we’re having tea shortly and thought you might like to join us. I should introduce myself; I’m Kelsey, the oldest of the three daughters. Come on down to the parlor when y
ou’re ready.”

  She just had tea at the Brennan Farm a couple hours ago, but Marlee guessed there was nothing wrong with indulging in multiple teas throughout the day. Especially when one of the people in attendance was a near lookalike. She brushed her teeth and fought with her curls for a minute before giving up. The humid air in Dublin during the rainy February caused her hair to morph from its usual tangled mess to a human replica of the unshorn sheep at the Brennan Farm.

  Mary Catherine and Patrick Rafferty sat in the parlor before a roaring fire. A teapot covered with an emerald green hand-knitted cozy was placed in the center of a table. “Can I pour you a cup of tea?” Mary Catherine asked as she raised her own cup in Marlee’s direction.

  “Sure,” Marlee said, looking around the room for her twin. “Where’s Kelly?”

  “You mean Kelsey,” said Mary Catherine with a look that suggested Marlee best not mess up the name of her eldest daughter again. “And she just ran out to the store to grab us each an apple duff. She’ll be right back. Our other two daughters, Ellen and Maureen, are at the library. At least that’s what they told us.”

  “I noticed that Kelsey and I look a lot alike,” Marlee said, accepting the Belleek teacup filled to nearly the rim with steaming tea. The creamy, white porcelain was embedded with the Claddagh symbol; two hands holding a heart.

  The Raffertys looked at each other and smiled. “We thought so too. We thought it would be fun for Kelsey to come to your room and surprise you.”

  “It certainly was a shock. I told her that she looks just like I did twenty years ago when I was in college,” Marlee said.

  “She could be your daughter,” Patrick said.

  Marlee gasped. Although she was in her mid-forties, she never thought of herself at mom-age. “I— I, um, I guess I could be,” she stammered. “Except I never had any kids.”