Page 21 of Three Widows

Madelene let it continue for a bit before moving from the window and answering. No matter how low she felt, she had to work. She needed to work. For her sanity.

‘Good morning, Madelene Bowen speaking, how can I help you?’

‘It’s Orla Keating. I’m wondering how to go about having my husband declared dead.’

Madelene settled into her chair, puffed on her vape and listened intently.

* * *

The scent of spices and herbs welcomed Helena into her shop. She wrapped her red curls in a bobbin and stood inhaling deeply, soaking her senses. But the usual relief she experienced was absent. Nausea tumbled around her stomach. She was an hour late opening up, but there’d been no one waiting on the path outside as she’d rolled up the shutters and unlocked the door.

Every step she took across the floor synced with the thumping in her head. She flicked on lights as she moved, blinking at the brightness. Her shop was small; she loved the intimate atmosphere it created. It had always been her dream to own her own shop, and Herbal Heaven became her haven. An escape from the darkness that had clouded her life. She checked the float in the till, but all she saw was an image of her son, Noah, and her husband Gerald.

She was grateful for her mother’s help, despite the long-term tension between the two of them. Kathleen suffocated her at times, and at others was so distant as to be invisible. Helena didn’t know which type of mother she needed. She only knew that without Kathleen’s money she wouldn’t have her shop.

That kept her awake at night. She wasn’t generating enough income to sustain the business. She needed it to ground her in reality; to keep the nagging demons away. So what would she do today?

The dates on the perishable stock had to be checked. The wheaten bread and goat’s milk. But somehow everything seemed a bit too much for her. If no customers arrived by midday, she vowed to lock up and go home to sleep until teatime.

After making her decision, she felt even more exhausted. Folding her arms on the counter, she rested her head on them. One minute, she told herself. Just one minute and then she would start work.

* * *

Kathleen Foley’s thoughts were consumed by her daughter. Helena was being a handful again, and the way she was acting, anything could happen.

Buttering a slice of toast, she searched beneath the stack of newspapers on the table for a spoon to stir her tea. The kitchen was cluttered and warm. After the earlier rain, she thought it was likely the day would turn into a scorcher. Maybe she could begin clearing her living space. That seemed like too much work to her overloaded brain.

Giving up on her watery unstirred tea, she was munching the toast when she heard the letter box slam. On the inside mat she found a familiar-looking plain envelope. No name. No address. No stamp or postmark. She unlocked the door and peered outside. No one around. Whoever had made the delivery had left quickly.

In the kitchen, she opened it and extracted a photograph.

She had been horrified on receiving the first one, but time had faded the memory and the horror had waned. No question had been posed with the photo. It was a statement that someone knew what had transpired.

Should she have burned it? No. It was a reminder of her actions. She looked at the photo she’d just received. Same scene. She placed it in the old biscuit tin and slammed the lid shut.

She was surprised that she was no longer shocked that someone had gone to the trouble of taking the photographs and delivering them to her. She had yet to figure out if they were a threat.

14

Detective Maria Lynch had pinned the headshot photograph of Jennifer O’Loughlin to the incident board. It had been emailed over from Smile Brighter Dental Clinic, where Jennifer had worked.

Lottie studied her petite, childlike features before turning her attention to the death-mask photograph. No doubt in her mind that it was the same woman, despite the intervening years and the change of hair colour. Jennifer had been fair-haired originally, but had at some stage dyed it a reddish auburn. And she had brown eyes. Lottie shivered as she stared at the eyeless face.

‘I’m going to talk to this Frankie Bardon in person. Find out what you can about Jennifer’s life, if she had any enemies. You know the drill.’

‘Sure, boss.’

‘Boyd, fill in the team about her house and neighbours. Get uniforms knocking on doors for statements.’

She was doing a quick check of her emails before she left when the phone rang. Jane Dore.

Without preamble the state pathologist said, ‘I got to work straight away on the body. I left word with the station, but it seems you didn’t get the message.’

‘I’m sorry, I was out trying to identify the victim. I have a name. Thirty-one-year-old Jennifer O’Loughlin. A dental nurse here in Ragmullin.’

‘Ah, that’s why her teeth are in excellent condition. About the only thing that is, really.’ Jane paused, and Lottie wondered what was coming next. ‘She was severely malnourished and dehydrated. Not a morsel of food in her stomach. I’d say she hadn’t eaten in at least five days, and very little in the weeks before that.’

Possibly four weeks, Lottie thought, horrified. ‘It could mean she was abducted and starved. What else can you tell me?’