Murder on an Irish Farm

The big day was here, June 16 at half nine in the morning, in the village of Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland, where it seemed the entire town had flocked to Saint Mary’s, the gorgeous collegiate church with the five-light windows, to witness and celebrate the marriage of Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery and Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan.
And what a grand day it was: the sun was shining down on them, and the forecast was more of the same. Given their reception was going to be held outdoors at the remains of the Dominican priory, or “the abbey,” as most folks in Kilbane called it, Siobhán couldn’t have asked for a better day.
A day that took ages planning, and loads of money would pass in the blink of an eye, but would be remembered and celebrated for the rest of their lives. I do. He would say it; she would say it. Siobhán O’Sullivan and Macdara Flannery would be wed in less than an hour.
The Mister and Missus, Herself and Himself, the wedded bliss, the old ball and chain. Then why did it not feel real? “Hold still,” Gráinne said, jerking Siobhán’s head back and tightening her grip on Siobhán’s auburn locks. Siobhán would have regretted allowing Gráinne to fix her up, but even the regret was futile; saying “no” would have meant years of resentment from her younger, stylish sister.
The dressing room in Saint Mary’s was suffocating, and Gráinne had every inch crammed with sprays, brushes, gels, tweezers, perfumes, patches, and pins.It was a full-on beauty assault.