An Irish Goodbye
By Cedar Jeffers
The chilly air of late November hit Shirley McOleden as she walked out on the balcony from her hotel room in a remote part of Dursey, Ireland. She and her husband, Walter McOleden, were on vacation from their stressful life in New York. Walter was a lawyer with a crooked reputation, and Shirley was a housewife who loved to go on expensive and over-the-top shopping trips. Their friends all assumed that the McOledens were well off and rich; while Walter won his cases—because he was paid off—Shirley’s habit of overspending made money tighter than the two of them wanted to let on. The McOledens stayed at the West Point Bel Air Hotel with one other family, the Gresnals. The hotel was prestigious, only able to accommodate ten people at a time.
Shirley watched the Irish Sea; the cold, icy water slammed against the rocks on the shore, and then she noticed a small brown motorboat approaching the shore. Shirley turned and walked through the glass doors. She walked down to the lobby to meet the guest.
“Harry, who is checking in today?” hollered Shirley from the staircase. Harry was an older man with his silver hair in a buzz cut and a wispy mustache; he wore a nice-tailed charcoal gray suit. He was born and raised in Scotland and had a thick Irish accent.
“No one I know of, miss.” Harry politely told her.
The Gresnals were eating breakfast in the dining room. The family was well off financially but tended to fight over everything. The Gresnal’s kids, aged 10 and 6, were oblivious to the constant arguing. Richard was forced to marry Nancy because Nancy had old family money. Their marriage was more out of necessity than love, and it was clear. They lived in a large house in London. The 10-year-old boy, David, enjoyed everything to do with cars and other mechanics. Sally was a fussy 6-year-old girl with blond pigtails who loved to play dress up. Annoying her brother was another favorite pastime—until he fought back and she cried.
The front wood doors slammed open as a short, dark-haired man walked in, carrying a small, well-traveled suitcase in his right hand and an umbrella in the other.
“One room, please,” the man requested.
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Sitting around the dining room, the two families were engaged in a light conversation. David and Sally were fighting over who got the red toy car and who had to play with the blue car. All the hotel’s occupants were cooped up all day due to the rain and foggy weather. The man entered the dining room, everyone falling silent and looking at him as he did.
“Hello,” the man spoke naturally and then walked over to the end of the long, dark table across from the rest of the guests. He pulled out the dark oak chair and sat. It was late afternoon; the gray outside clashed with the warm lighting from the simple but elegant chandelier that hung over the table. The other guests stayed silent and watched the man. Shirley broke the silence.
“Hello, I am Shirley McOlden, and this is my husband, Walter.” Shirley pointed one red, sharply manicured finger to Walter. Walter was wearing a navy crew neck sweater and brown khakis. Shirley had on an equally cozy sweater as her husband but in a light peach color, with wide-legged dark brown pants.
“Hello,” the man had a foreign accent that none of the guests could quite place, “I am private detective Nicolas Adnoln, and the hotel has hired me to investigate a potential murder.”
The guests all looked at Nicolas with shocked, horror-filled faces. The children stopped playing with their toy cars to look at Nicolas.
“Why… why would anyone do that here?” stammered Walton.
“One of the housekeepers found a gun and was worried. I am here to ease their mind, Mr. McOleden.” Nicolas explained to the guests with a nonchalant expression. The guests look at Nicolas curiously.
“Well, if you are a so-called detective, what can you tell me about myself?” Nancy asked.
“Don't bother with Nancy. She is such a homebody with no life other than her children.” Shirley sighed as she walked over to the window and gazed out at the rain.
“Take that back,” sneered Richard. “She is my lovely and interesting wife,” he proclaimed. He was not glaring at Nancy but at Walton.
“Mr. Richard, I can’t help but notice that you were glaring at Mr. McOleden instead of Mrs. McOleden. Was she not the one who said that about your wife?” Nicolas pointed out.
“He knows why!” Richard slapped the table and stood up. Richard was heading for the entrance of the dining room. Walton grabbed Richard's arm.
“Let’s not let old fights spoil our vacations,” Walton said with a slight warning.
“Well, maybe if you didn't steal my fiancé, we wouldn't have to fight.”
“Richard, love, not in front of the children!” Nancy wailed.
“Oh please, Walton did not steal me from you; I simply became bored and wanted to see if the two of you boys would fight for me. Walton was the richer of you two, so he won. I am sorry that you are tired of your wife, Richard, but that is not Walton’s fault.” Nancy calmly told them, as if she was explaining why she had eaten supper last night.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go read in the peace and quiet without you all fussing.” Shirley strolled out of the dining room with her brown heels clicking against the hardwood hazelnut floors.
“Come on, David and Sally, let's go.” Nancy scurried out with her kids holding both of her hands.
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“Dinner is served,” Henry said as he set down the rosemary-roasted chicken in the middle of the table. The guests sat in tense silence. Everyone was still tense from the afternoon. The Gresnals sat across from each other with little eye contact between them. Walton sat by himself.
“Where is your wife, Mr. McOleden? I have not seen her since this afternoon; is she ill?” Nicolas asked.
“I don't know. She is her own person, and she can come to dinner if she chooses,” Walton replied snidely.
“Like how she chose you instead of my dad?” asked Sally in a sweet, innocent British voice. She was looking at Walton with wide, blue, questioning eyes.
“Sally, Love, we do not say those things ever.” Scolded Nancy.
For the rest of the dinner, the guests did not look at each other. Nicolas was not brought down by the others. He hummed an annoying tune as he ate dinner, and after every course was done, he would send praises to the chef and staff. Walton suddenly stood up and left the room.
“Well, that was rather rude,” Nancy commented.
“Yes, you're right. If you don't mind, I think I will follow him and see if Mrs. McOleden is alright.” Nicolas explained as he stood up and followed suit. He walked up the stairs to find Walton pounding on a door.
“Shirley, open your door! You have missed dinner and made me look a fool,” screamed Walton.
“Mr. McOleden, why do you not have a key to your own room? And why are you yelling at your wife?” Nicolas asked with skepticism in his voice.
“Because… well, because we are not sharing a room, she wanted some alone time. We haven't shared a room for a few years now, but that is none of your business.” Walton told Nicolas sharply. Walton’s face was red with anger and embarrassment. Nicolas walked over and tried the doorknob; the door was unlocked. Nicolas looked at Walton and opened the door. The room was a disaster, and Shirley was nowhere in sight.
“Does Mrs. McOleden normally keep her room in a disaster? This looks as if there was a struggle with someone else.” Nicolas deduced.
“No, she is one of the most organized people I know,” Walton replied. All of the blood had drained from his face. Nicolas noted the room as he walked around: a broken chair, a tipped-over lamp with a shattered light bulb, shattered perfume bottles, and other containers, face cream and lipstick, which were knocked down from the dresser. Drawers were flung open and clothes were scattered across the large, earth-toned room. A torn piece of the flowery curtains caught Nicolas's eye; he bent down and picked it up. The room was illuminated in a dreary gray by light pouring in through the glass door. Nicolas stepped over the knocked-down curtain rod as he looked at the locked balcony door. The door had the words “Good-Bye Love” written in red lipstick; the writing looked rushed. Nicolas unlocked the door. The noise filled the room with the click of the lock. As he stepped out on the balcony, he saw her. She had fallen from the third floor onto the sharp, rain-soaked dark boulders. Shirley's blonde hair covered half of her face, and her limbs were twisted at odd angles. Her pale skin clashed with the bright red that covered the surrounding rocks.
“Did… she kill herself?” stammered Walton. With shaking hands, he grabbed the edge of the railing overlooking Shirley’s body. Walton had a pale, horrified look on his face.
“No, Mr. McOleden. This was no suicide; this was a murder,” Nicolas said with a matter-of-fact tone.
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