Murder in Connemara

by Carlene O'Connor

“Eddie used to lift the cap off Bixby when he was tipping the bottle,” Bartley said.

  “Bixby?” Veronica said as if she was having trouble placing him.

  “Your previous driver, madam. Martin Bixby.”

  “Right. The old man.”

  “He was in his sixties, madam.”

  Veronica blinked. Bartley’s implication was clear. She was older than the man she was calling an old man. “Was he? He wasn’t aging well then.”

  Andy cringed as if he’d suddenly seen himself thirty years from now, still driving Ms. O’Farrell around. If Tara were him, she would’ve run for the door.

  “Eddie used to lift Bixby’s cap?” Veronica was still stuck on the conversation.

  “More than once,” Bartley said.

  “Always the life of the party, my Eddie.”

  Andy and Bartley exchanged a look that could only be interpreted as Poor Bixby.

  Andy touched his cap. “It’s part of me uniform.”

  “I am a firm believer in uniforms,” Veronica said. “They’re what hold society together. Delineate the roles.”

  If Andy was insulted to have his role clearly delineated, he didn’t show it.

  “Eddie once swiped the cap off his head while Bixby was driving,” Bartley said. “He nearly killed us all.”

  “Did he?” Veronica said. “That sounds like him.” She smiled as if they were discussing a wonderful memory.

  “Martin Bixby was not amused,” Bartley clipped.

  “Who?” Veronica scrunched her face.

  “Your previous driver, madam. He was on staff for nearly thirty years.” This time Tara detected a trace of irritation from the lawyer turned . . . whatever he was now.

  Veronica snorted and glanced at Andy’s cap. “And yet the uniform still looks good, don’t you tink?”

  Bartley opened and closed his mouth as if wrestling with the concept that he was allowed to think.

  “I quite like it,” Andy said, tipping the cap.

  “What does that matter?” Veronica snapped.

  Andy rocked back on his heels and stared at the chandelier. “Thank you for allowing me the use of the facilities,” he said to Tara. He turned to Veronica but did not make eye contact. “I’ll be in the vehicle.” He exited nearly as quickly as he’d entered.

  Veronica wasted no time in picking up where she left off. “This little group I’m gathering, there are seven of them, and I assure you they will spend money in this little shop.”

  Little group. Little shop. Tara was having big, bad feelings about this woman.

  “Are you sure you want to continue with this,” Bartley stammered, “given the circumstances?”

  “Circumstances?” Veronica’s eyebrow arched.

  “Ms. Halligan’s passing.”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. “Nancy was the one who wanted me to do this. Encouraged. Dare I say prodded. I have to keep going. It’s the best way to honor her memory.”

  Bartley gave a stilted bow. “Of course, madam.”

  Veronica turned back to Tara. “I’m hosting the seven guests of honor and I insist we meet at your shop.”

  Insist. Tara resisted making a joke about the Seven Dwarfs. “When were you thinking of having them over?”

  “Tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

  “Anything is possible.” Veronica gestured grandly to the newspaper article. “Or was it all lies?”

  “I have a grand-opening party planned in ten days.” If my permit arrives. Why was it taking so long?

  “I’m afraid that will be too late.” Veronica clutched her hands to her chest. “Just like dear Nancy.” Behind her, Bartley made a gurgling sound as if he was literally trying to hold his tongue back. Tara just wanted them gone.

  “My uncle owns a salvage mill near the bay. Irish Revivals. He’s always open to renting out space. Perhaps you should speak with him about hosting your event.”

  “Hosting,” Veronica said, “is only part of my request.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want you to source an item for each of my guests. Something that suits them. A physical representation of my apology.” She smiled, which was not at all beguiling. “And of course, name your fee.”

  Tara had to admit, that did interest her. “Give me the budget, and the timeline, and I’ll work up a proposal.”

  “Budget. Proposal.” Veronica waved her hand like they were made-up words. “You name it, I’ll pay it.”

  That was an offer Tara was in no position to refuse. “I’m in.”

  Bartley’s earpiece chirped. “Andy is double-parked, madam, and the guards are circling.”

  Veronica exhaled dramatically, and swept her scarf over her shoulder. The Tara Brooch stayed pinned. “I’ll have Mimi send you the contract.”

  Tara had no idea who Mimi was. Another poor soul Veronica bossed around, most likely. “I need to know something about these guests—so I can pick out the right items.”

  “Before you die,” Veronica murmured.

  “What?” Did she really just say that?

  The heiress threw a glance to the mantel where Tara had propped up the travel book. “Oh,” Tara said. “It’s not mine.”

  “Morbid,” Veronica said, before gliding out the door. A thick folder materialized in Veronica’s hands, then dropped to the floor. And this time, not even Bartley stooped to pick it up.

  Chapter 5

  Tara stood outside the shop yet again, first staring up the street, then down at the folder Veronica O’Farrell had dropped to the floor instead of handing it to her. On the cover, CLIFDEN CASTLE was sprawled across the top in black marker. Below it, a typed list was taped:

  Sheila Murphy

  John Murphy Tenants/Unforeseen/ Common

  Lainey Burke Perspective/Makes one crazy

  Mimi Griffin Apologies/brooch

  Eddie O’Farrell His heart’s desire

  Cassidy Hughes She wishes

  Iona Kelly Mend or Foe?

  Were these the seven people Veronica had referred to? The cryptic little notes didn’t sound very nice. Was she really trying to make amends?

  Tara’s stomach grumbled. It was way past her lunch hour. She grabbed her purse, locked up the shop, and took the folder to a nearby café at the end of the street. The rain had driven away any possibility of sitting outside. Inside, she found a small table by the window and placed the folder on top. A few servers, young college types, were cleaning up from what appeared to be the lunch rush. After placing an order for spicy avocado toast and a cappuccino, Tara opened the folder. The top sheet was dedicated to the first two names on the list: SHEILA AND JOHN MURPHY.

  It included a photo of a smiling young couple, holding hands and grinning. Both with brown hair, Sheila’s was long and wavy, John’s cut short as if he was military. His smile looked pained, hers seemed natural. They were standing on lush manicured grounds with flowers sprouting in the background. CONFIDENTIAL was stamped at the top of the sheet, and typewritten notes from Veronica had been expanded:

  I will be surprising this couple with a new flat. They are trying to adopt a child, but some people just aren’t meant to be parents. Find a decorative item for their new home. John is controlling, so Sheila will be happy with anything that satisfies him. Do not get anything related to children as it is a trigger for her. I believe he likes boats so something nautical perhaps.

  That was the end of it. How strange. It seemed Veronica intended on micromanaging every item Tara picked out. Not her favorite assignment, but Tara had dealt with “Veronicas” before. Every job not only required the skills necessary to perform its functions, but people skills were needed as well. Most people were miserable in their jobs because of the latter. Other people. It was one of the reasons Tara was looking forward to running her own shop. Should she have turned down this job? Was she taking a step backward? Name your price. She sighed and looked again at the notes for Sheila and John Murphy: Tenants /Unforeseen/Common.

/>   What on earth did that mean? Tara would have to dig up one of her design notebooks she had stashed in her loft. She had an entire batch of colorful notebooks and she used them for every one of her interior design clients; she’d complete an entire book of sketches and notes before creating a larger vision board. Whereas many designers were using their iPads now, Tara preferred real paper and colored pencils, and swatches, and glue.

  This was the part of the job she loved, had loved since she was a child, when all she needed to escape were sixty-four colored crayons and white paper. It was also one of the activities she’d enjoyed most with her toddler son, Thomas. His wonderful drawings. Sitting on the floor with her boy, surrounded by paper and crayons, had been the happiest days of her life.

  Thomas died three years and four months ago when he was three years old. A terrible, terrible playground accident. Tara had been working that day. Her husband, Gabriel, had been five feet away. The jungle gym was too high, his little hand was too sweaty. The drop too sudden. Her ex-husband was a good man, had been a good father. Their five-year marriage simply couldn’t bear the collective weight of their grief. They divorced less than a year after Thomas passed. They spoke a few times a year, checking in with each other, sharing memories of their son, as much as they could bear. Tara now had a Winnie-the-Pooh tattoo on her back along with the name Thomas. He was part of her skin (and soul) for the rest of her life.

  She still wondered what he might have become. What kind of man he would have been. He would have been six-and-a-half years old. She found herself creating an image of him for every age he would have been. She didn’t know if that was normal, or healthy, or unhealthy, but it hardly mattered. Nothing could stop her from imagining it. One day, when she could look at his drawings without crying, she intended on making a collage and hanging it as an art piece. That day had not yet come. She would not rush it.

  She returned to Sheila and John’s sheet and circled Tenants/Unforeseen/Common. She added a few question marks, then jotted down key words in the margins: Young. Couple. New home. Romantic. On the other side she added: Controlling? Nautical? No child themes. Perhaps she could find them an antique diving helmet. She wouldn’t mind having one herself.

  Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.

  What a thing to say. Did Veronica know something she wasn’t telling? Was she afraid this controlling husband would be abusive? Was it based on pure conjecture, or fact? Did Veronica have children? If not, maybe she regretted it and her jealousy was seeping through. The more she thought about Veronica telling others not to have children, the angrier she grew. Tara turned to the next sheet in the folder:

  ELAINE BURKE

  The photo that followed was of two beautiful young women, dressed in shiny gowns. Arms looped around each other, sloppy grins on their faces. The beauty on the left had hair as black as Tara’s, the other was a platinum blonde. The dark-haired one looked familiar. Tara leaned in, and that’s when the dots connected. It was a much younger Veronica O’Farrell. “Wow.” With those looks and money it was hardly a surprise that she exuded star power. Elaine Burke must be the other woman in the photo. She turned to Veronica’s notes.

  Lainey was my best friend until I stole the love of her life. She has no idea what a lucky break that was for her. I want something very personal as her gift. Something you would give a sister. Feminine but strong.

  Stole the love of her life? This was like a soap opera. Tara turned to Elaine Burke’s page. In the margins she wrote: Stole love of her life? and underlined it. Then added: Recent photo? Tara wanted to get her hands on one. Had it been forty-some years since Veronica had seen this so-called best friend? Was Elaine Burke still carrying a grudge?

  “Here ya go.” The waitress hovered over her with her plate.

  “Sorry.” Tara placed the pages back in the folder and set it out of the way. The girl set down the plate and Tara’s cappuccino, eyeing the folder. “Thank you.”

  “No problem at all.”

  Tara dug into her avocado toast, marveling at how different each establishment served it. This one was top of the charts. The avocado was chopped along with hardboiled eggs and seasoned with sea salt and a bit of cayenne pepper, then laid on top of thick toasted bread, slathered with butter. Tiny bits of radish and cilantro topped it off. Simple yet so delicious, it was genius. Once again, Tara vowed to herself that she was going to start using her fantastic kitchen. She could see where cooking was an art just like interior designing. Taste, texture, and presentation. Just as the avocado toast used only a few ingredients, but the highest quality, Tara had the same approach to designing. A strong, simple palette of impeccable quality. Furniture by craftsmen. Materials that were not only luxurious but were durable, and livable. Interiors shouldn’t feel like museums. They were supposed to be the place that welcomed you, and lifted your spirits. Just like this avocado toast.

  But as much as she tried to make avocado toast at home, it was always lacking something. At least Galway had a plethora of restaurants that could pull it off in diverse ways. Diversity. Tara loved that word. And she loved the growing diversity of the City of the Tribes. As much as Tara loved the Irish, and she did, she was grateful that Galway drew people from all cultures, and the crowds weren’t just a sea of shiny white faces (although, yes, there were plenty), but there were many other races and cultures to complete the gorgeous tapestry. There was color here. Tara saw it. And she loved it. Tara had been so lost in thought she was shocked when she looked down and saw an empty plate.

  “You must have been starved, you poor ting,” the young waitress said as she swiped up Tara’s plate.

  “My compliments to the chef,” Tara said.

  “Don’t be saying that now, he can barely fit his big head in the door as it is.”

  “I heard that,” a deep voice said from the kitchen. The waitress laughed, and made off with her plate. Tara finished her cappuccino and stared at the list of guests taped to the folder.

  Supposedly all of these people had accepted Veronica’s invitation. Whatever had gone down between them, it was nice they were willing to accept her apology in the first place. Everyone operating out of good faith. This was a job Tara could get behind. They had really good apple tarts here as well. She shoved her urge for dessert away and turned to the next guest in the folder:

  MIMI GRIFFIN

  This photo was of a heavyset middle-aged woman with curly hair the color of honey, big glasses, and a wide grin. She stood in front of a gorgeous fountain, in a lavender suit. Something about her screamed she was trying too hard, although Tara had no basis for the impression. She turned to the notes.

  Mimi is my personal assistant. Years ago my Tara Brooch went missing. Mimi had been the last person in my room, and I accused her of stealing it. Later, I found the brooch in my garden, near the fountain. Accusing Mimi of being a thief took an emotional toll on her, and I am ready to make amends. No, I am not giving her the Tara Brooch. She’ll be receiving a special surprise from me, but I would like you to get her something that makes her feel worthy.

  What a tall order. Tara would love to make everyone feel worthy, but she highly doubted that came from gifts. Maybe in Veronica’s world it did. Another tick mark for growing up with modest means.

  Tara jotted a few notes on the inside of the folder, then closed it. Time to move. She took her time strolling back to the shop so she could soak in the city. Music from buskers filled the air. A German shepherd lay near an older man who was working a puppet. Tourists huddled in groups in front of their guides. Shops, restaurants, and pubs swelled with customers. Cigarette smoke and laughter mingled in the air. A common refrain around here was “Mind your liver.” Galway was a city of temptations. Speaking of temptations, she wished she had ordered the apple tart. Maybe on the way home. She had just returned to her shop, took the pups out for a quick break, and was just about to google Clifden Castle when a knock sounded at her garden doors. Tara whirled around to see Breanna Cunningham’s round face smil
ing in at her, hoisting two bags of crisps. Tara returned the smile. Hound’s big drooling face popped up behind her. Like Breanna, he was a little addict for potato chips. Tara was just about to look for Savage when she spotted him tucked into Breanna’s arm.

  “Come in,” Tara called.

  Breanna swung open the door and danced in like the Pied Piper. Savage was gazing at her like the dog was in love. “Why didn’t ya tell me what a gorgeous little ting she is?” She was a clerk at the Garda Station in Galway and was becoming someone Tara could really call a friend. Her optimism was infectious and she was rarely in a bad mood. “Love your posting on Insta,” she added.

  “What?”

  “Killer brooch? I want to see it.” She set Savage down and held up the bags of crisps and jiggled them like they were bribes.

  “Oh, that,” Tara said. “It wasn’t mine. It left with an heiress, and apparently I couldn’t afford it even if I robbed all of Galway city.”

  Breanna snorted, a sound which always made Tara laugh. “My, my, my, you do have the life,” Breanna said with a sigh.

  “You’re never going to believe this.”

  “Try me,” Breanna said, leaning on the counter. “I’ll believe most anything.”

  “The heiress—her name is Veronica O’Farrell—is sober and in AA—”

  Breanna held up her hand and turned her face away as if she didn’t even want to look at Tara. “I don’t tink you’re supposed to be telling me that, now.”

  Tara laughed, hoping Breanna was just teasing. “Only mentioning it because she did. It’s the reason she’s here. To make amends, and her sponsor—this is the part where you need to listen.” Breanna was holding Savage up to her face; they were nose-to-nose. “Breanna?”

  “Sorry, luv, she’s just like a spoonful of medicine.” Breanna kissed the pug on the head, then put her down. “Go on, so.”

  “Nancy Halligan was Veronica O’Farrell’s sponsor. Veronica is the reason Nancy was visiting Connemara in the first place.”