Murder in Connemara

by Carlene O'Connor

  “It’s his artist name,” Veronica said.

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  Veronica’s prolonged stare forced Tara to open the folder. It appeared to be an artist portfolio. She flipped through pages of abstract paintings and metal sculptures. His work had a quirky, wild abandon. Portraits with somewhat distorted faces and sculptures that looked like a cross between humans and dolls. She had to admit, she couldn’t look away. “It’s arresting work,” she said, meaning every word of it. “But I’m not an art gallery.” She held the portfolio out.

  “You could be.” Tara waited for Veronica to take it. Instead she waved her away like Tara was being a nuisance. “He’s taking the art world by storm.” Galway had a ton of art galleries. There was no way this woman didn’t know that. Why pick her shop? Why pick her? Was this the vibe that Rose didn’t like? Veronica swept the room as if looking for something in particular. “Ah. Here it is.” She came to a stop below the framed newspaper article. “Renewals.” She tapped it with a long, white fingernail. “This is why I’m here.” Tara blinked as if that would clear the confusion from her head. It didn’t. The woman continued to tap the article.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Veronica turned, and for the first time smiled. She’d had work done on her teeth, they were straight and blindingly white, something Tara didn’t see as often in Ireland as she did in America. “Renewals,” Veronica said again, this time her green eyes lighting up. “I read your story in the paper. I loved it.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer, and looked to the ceiling.

  “Thank you.”

  Veronica’s eyes landed on Tara and locked in. They looked like the eyes of a wild tiger—green with hints of yellow. Tara stared, wondering if they were colored contacts. “I’m renewing myself too.” Veronica stuck her chin in the air as if posing for an invisible photographer.

  “Okay.” Definitely, colored contacts. Perhaps part of her renewal. Tara could get behind that. Renewing was good at any age.

  “Don’t you see? You inspired me.” Veronica snapped her fingers again and once more Bartley dug into his satchel. If Tara were him she’d want to bite Veronica’s fingers off by now. He held up what appeared to be a coin and tossed it to Veronica, who caught it while looking elsewhere. She rolled the coin through her fingers. “My one-year sobriety chip.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She waved her off again. “It’s time I made amends. My sponsor thinks I’m ready.” At this she turned to Bartley. “Speaking of that rebellious devil, has she called me back yet?”

  “No, madam.”

  She sighed. “That woman. Call her again.” She waved Bartley out, who followed her command with a phone in his hand and a hustle out the front door. “Where was I? Oh, right. Amends. I’ve chosen your shop at which to do it.”

  “Amends? Here?” Tara looked at a nearby Buddha sculpture as if expecting it to weigh in on the matter. It did not.

  “I was an evil drunk. Wasn’t I, Bartley?” Veronica scanned the room, mouth open as she realized he was nowhere to be seen.

  “You sent him out to make a phone call,” Tara pointed out.

  “Right, so.” Veronica blinked as if trying to remember. “My sponsor is being a bad girl.”

  Tara liked this sponsor already, but she really had no idea what to say about that. “People,” Tara settled on. “Am I right?”

  Veronica frowned, then cleared her throat and nodded. “First, she refuses to stay at the impeccable accommodations I secured, all expenses paid, of course, and then she won’t answer my calls?”

  “What can you do?” Tara gave an exaggerated shrug. She was going to have to start listening to Rose’s predictions.

  Veronica tilted her head as if it had been a true question. “What can I do?”

  Tara shrugged. “Ask Bartley?” Was she really having this conversation?

  Veronica nodded and looked a little bit relieved. She probably relied on Bartley for everything. “I assure you when Bartley returns he’ll tell you I used to be quite evil.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “There you have it. Straight from the butler’s mouth.” She cupped her hand over her mouth as if sharing a secret just with Tara. “He’s not really a butler. He has a law degree.”

  Once again, Tara had no idea how to respond. “Good for him.” That poor sucker, Tara doubted the younger him ever imagined using his life experience to work for a woman like Veronica.

  Veronica wagged her finger at Tara as if she was in need of scolding. “Aren’t you even a little bit intrigued? Wild heiress says sorry? Think of the publicity for your wee shop.”

  Wild heiress? She looked so refined it was hard to picture. But after a few seconds of feeling her intense gaze, Tara could see it. Somewhere behind those colored contacts was a history filled with mischief and pain. This woman had stories. “I’m flattered, but my wee shop still doesn’t open for another ten days.”

  Veronica walked toward Tara, still fondling her sobriety chip. She threw it over her shoulder. It clinked to the floor. Bartley, who had just hurried back in and wasn’t prepared for it to come sailing in his direction, immediately began scouring the floor until he found it, snatched it up, and placed it back in the satchel. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I was only able to reach Ms. Halligan’s voicemail.”

  “Dreadful Nancy!” Veronica said, balling her fists. “When I find her, I’m going to kill her.”

  Chapter 4

  Tara felt her blood run cold, which up until now she thought was just a cliché. “Did you say Nancy? Nancy Halligan?” Tara’s voice was tinged with panic, even she could hear it. Tara hadn’t meant to blurt that out. Now what was she going to do?

  “Yes,” Veronica said, taking a step forward. “Do you know Nancy?” She squinted at her. “Are you a friend of Bill?”

  “Bill?”

  “Yes. Are you in the program?”

  “The program?”

  “For heaven’s sake, are you a recovering alcoholic?”

  “No, no.” In fact, Tara would die for a nip of whiskey right now, but she kept that to herself.

  Veronica nodded. “I understand.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “It’s called Alcoholics Anonymous for a reason, is it not?”

  “That’s not it.”

  But Veronica didn’t care. She moved on. Her heels clicked to the patio doors and she stood looking out. “She’s probably dealing with someone’s relapse. It couldn’t be worse timing, she knows how important this step is to me.” She turned and took a step toward Tara. Tell her. Just tell her. How crazy is this? How could this be happening? “I’m bringing a very special group together for my amends.”

  “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this.” Tara cleared her throat. “A week ago, I was looking at an old house for sale in Connemara.”

  Veronica shook her head. “You’re very rude.”

  “Pardon?” Everything was going wrong. Why, why, why didn’t she listen to Rose and close the shop? She could be at the mill right now, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a scone as big as her head.

  “We’ve just met,” Veronica said, wagging her finger. “It’s too soon to ask me to buy you a house.”

  Buy me a house? Was that even a thing? “Nancy Halligan passed away last week.” Tara said it as fast as she could, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Or the strip of pink tape her mam used to plaster over her bangs in order to cut them. She always ended up looking like she had a bowl over her head instead of hair. Veronica just stared and blinked. I’m the one who found her, by the way. Tara couldn’t bring herself to say that part. It sounded too fantastical. Veronica O’Farrell seemed frozen in time, not moving a muscle.

  “Oh dear,” Bartley said. “Oh dear.” His voice was soft for such a big man. His bald head glowed from the light of the chandelier.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Veronica said, coming back to life. “Take that back.” She made it sound as if Tara had power over life and death. />
  “She was found near an old stone farmhouse in Connemara. It looks as if she collapsed from the heat, but I don’t know what they’ve ascertained yet.” Tara had the feeling they were going to assume it was natural causes. Heatstroke. A heart attack. That wasn’t sitting well with Tara. She liked all the pieces to fall in place. And there were definitely some missing. Why was she found with no wallet, or jewelry, or mobile phone? What did the guards make of that? Did someone else come across her body after she passed, and instead of calling the guards, he or she simply robbed her of her valuables? Did they run off knowing poor little Savage was out there as well? It was too horrible to imagine, but not out of the realm of possibility. Anything was possible when it came to humans.

  Veronica let out a little cry, then lurched forward, as if to grab Tara. A piece of jewelry slipped from Veronica’s silk scarf and clinked to the floor. When Veronica didn’t make a move to fetch it, Tara found herself bending down and picking it up like she was Bartley 2.0. Minutes in her shop and the woman had Tara trained. But she forgot all about it when she held the object in her hand. It was an antique coat brooch. About three inches long, with a familiar colorful Celtic design. The Tara Brooch. This one looked antique and quite valuable. When she tried to hand it back to Veronica, the woman turned away.

  “I cannot believe this.” Veronica began to pace. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “How did you learn of Nancy Halligan’s passing?” Bartley asked. Veronica stopped pacing and waited for Tara to answer.

  “I . . . I found her,” Tara said.

  “You found her?” Veronica asked. “How is that possible?”

  “I was there to see the same stone house.” Because someone left me a flyer, and I thought it was a friend of mine.

  “And you say you’ve never met Nancy?”

  “No. Never. I’m not in AA. I swear. Someone left me the flyer and a map, and so I decided to go.”

  “Someone left you a flyer and a map to find Nancy?” Veronica was in shock, and it wasn’t helping her brain cells fire.

  “No. The flyer was for an old stone house for sale.” Tara threw out her arms. “Maybe Nancy saw a flyer for the house as well.”

  Veronica glanced at Bartley. “Madam?” he said.

  “Did you know Nancy Halligan planned on seeing some old house in Connemara?”

  “Of course not.” His wide face flushed red. Tara wondered if it was anger or embarrassment.

  “Tell me everything again,” Veronica said, turning back to Tara. “From the beginning.”

  Tara cleared her throat and repeated the story, starting with the flyer. Veronica didn’t lift an eyebrow at the mention of the pug, but she did shake her head a little. Tara figured she wasn’t an animal lover. “I don’t know how to get ahold of the state pathologist, but I believe she’d been deceased for a while before I found her.”

  “What is ‘a while’?”

  “At least a day.”

  Veronica sunk into a Queen Anne chair propped in the corner of the store. It was antique with navy upholstery trimmed in gold, and Tara hadn’t planned on customers sitting on it, but now was not the time to ask someone to remain standing. “I cannot believe this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tara said. “Here. I still have your Tara Brooch.” Tara tried to hand it back. Veronica waved Tara away as if she wanted nothing more to do with it, which was odd, given its value. The most famous Tara Brooch was in the National Museum of Ireland and worth a fortune. Replicas were often made and sold, but this one looked genuine. Not that Tara was an expert. But the ornate metalwork was astounding. Tiny representations of dragons, and serpents, and heads. To Tara it looked like a crown in the middle of a circle, complete with a half-shield and a serpent’s tail. Tiny bits of amber and green glass were woven into the seven-inch circumference. The three-inch pin was strong and sharp.

  “Go ahead,” Veronica said, pointing to Tara’s camera on the counter. “Take a photograph. You’ll never see one like it again.”

  “Thank you.” It seemed like an odd thing at this moment, and Tara felt ashamed for wanting to take the photo, but salvaging antique items was her business, and she would love a photograph of this gorgeous pin. Tara moved to the counter, removed a piece of velvet from the case, and gently set down the brooch. She snapped several photos with her camera, then with her phone, before turning back to Veronica. “I have the name of the inn on Inishbofin Island where Nancy was staying. I believe her family has arrived. I’m not sure if they’re still here. Would you like the phone number?” Tara had already called the inn and left a message that if any of the family was wondering, she had the pug. So far no one had called.

  “I’ll take that water now,” Veronica said, snapping her fingers and holding out her hand. Tara reached into the tiny fridge she’d bought for the shop and handed her a bottle, then glanced at Bartley, who really looked like he could use some himself. She held out another bottle and he finally took it.

  “Peace be with her,” he said, crossing himself.

  Veronica pointed to the counter. “Nancy loved that brooch. She made me promise she’d get it if I died first.” Veronica placed her hands over her eyes for a moment as if saying a silent prayer, then placed them in her lap. “It’s very rare.” She held her hand out. “Unfortunately, it also rarely stays fastened.”

  Tara deposited the brooch onto Veronica’s waiting palm. “Perhaps it’s best kept somewhere safe.”

  Veronica went to refasten it, then stopped and held it back out to Tara. “Perhaps you’d like to try it on?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “For Nancy,” Veronica said. “She loved that brooch.” Veronica approached and before Tara could protest again, she’d pinned it on her, just above her heart. “Now. You should take another photo.”

  Tara swiped her phone from the counter and took a selfie. She’d vowed to improve her presence on social media to promote her shop, and this would be a perfect opportunity. She’d have to emphasize that she didn’t have it for sale. Hopefully that wouldn’t backfire. She handed the brooch back, then quickly posted the pic with a hashtag: #KillerBrooch. “Are you interested in selling it?”

  Veronica laughed, a sound that did not warm, then shook her head as she took the brooch back and re-pinned it to her scarf. “You could sell everything in this tiny little store, then sell everything in that monster of a warehouse you’re affiliated with, then rob all of Galway city, and still not have nearly what that brooch is worth.” She grinned as she stroked her scarf. Bartley cleared his throat. “What is it?” Veronica asked without turning around.

  Monster of a warehouse she was affiliated with? Veronica was speaking of Irish Revivals, her uncle’s salvage mill near the bay. Veronica O’Farrell had certainly done her homework. It was a strange feeling knowing she’d been researched so thoroughly.

  “The driver, madam. He is in need of the facilities.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “What is the point of having a young driver if he doesn’t have a robust bladder?” She seemed content to let him sweat it out.

  “Please,” Tara said. “He can use the restroom.” She pointed to the bathroom door blending into the corner behind the counter. “My tiny little store, and I insist.”

  Bartley talked into an earpiece and minutes later the lad rushed into the shop. He was indeed young, and handsome. His patchwork tweed cap caught her attention.

  “Tank you, tank you, tank you,” he said, tipping his cap and jiggling. Before she could even say hello he dashed to the bathroom.

  Why did he look so familiar? Tara glanced at the portfolio on her counter. That was it. She stared at the patchwork tweed cap on the cover. Was it the same man? The build was the same, and so was the brown hair. Was she going to be forced to put one of his sculptures in her shop? “Eddie Oh is also your driver?”

  Veronica’s perfectly tweezed brows furled. “Pardon?” She lifted herself out of the Queen Anne chair. Queen. Another hit from psychic-Rose. Tara swiped the p
ortfolio from the counter, pointed to the picture, and then the restroom. “Isn’t that him?”

  “You think my driver looks like Eddie?” Veronica threw her head back and cackled. It wasn’t a laugh, it was truly a cackle. Bartley coughed. “What was that?” Veronica called back to the man.

  “I’m laughing, madam.”

  “Anyone can hear that,” Veronica said. “What on earth are you laughing at?”

  “Andy,” Bartley said. “He’s not the creative type.”

  “Unless he’s on a roundabout,” Veronica quipped.

  Tara was getting dizzy trying to follow them, and half wanting to pinch them to see if they were for real.

  Andy emerged from the restroom and Tara held the brochure up to him. She immediately felt foolish. It was definitely not the same man. Andy appeared to be in his early thirties, at least a decade younger than the photo of the chiseled artist, and his eyes were blue whereas Eddie Oh had eyes so dark they were almost black. Tara shrugged and pointed. “From a distance they look alike. Especially with the cap.”

  Veronica eyed the cap on Andy’s head as if it now offended her.

  “She’s right,” Bartley said with a nod to the portfolio. “It’s a younger picture of Eddie.”

  “I don’t see any resemblance,” Veronica said, her gaze ping-ponging between Eddie’s photo and the man standing in front of her. Tara had a sinking feeling she’d just gotten the poor driver in trouble. “He looks more like old Bixby than he does Eddie, don’t you think Bartley?”

  Bartley squinted at Andy. “Quite right, madam.”

  Veronica turned to Tara with a smile. “He always says that.”