by Catie Murphy
“Not killing her, it wasn’t!”
A sudden shuffle of movement drove people toward the doors. Anto jerked his head, guiding Megan in the right direction, and for a few mystifying moments she was battered by media, fans, entourages—people who generally seemed to know the flow of things, and were comfortable flattening those who didn’t, in other words. Without Anto’s broad wake to follow in, Megan would not only have been lost, but crushed. The sensation set her teeth on edge and she pushed down the impulse to throw an elbow or two in order to open up some space around herself. Anto glanced over his shoulder at her and raised a concerned eyebrow. Megan muttered, “I’m fine,” then repeated it loudly enough for him to hear, adding, “I don’t much like crowds.”
“Me either, which is probably why you drive cars and I walk around an open green all day long.”
Megan grinned. “Probably.” The crowd eased as they got through the bottleneck of the doors and the cool, misty air washed away her tension. Or maybe the wind blew it away: it came up in gusts that whipped around the northerly Howth peninsula and drove straight down the island, then changed dramatically and swept in from the south straight off the Irish Sea. “Holy moly. They can play golf in this?”
“Some of them better than others. And it’s soft land—you know the island’s really just a sandbar? Only a couple hundred years old?” At Megan’s nod, he went on. “Soft land, a nicely shaped course, but it’s the wind and the weather that makes it a challenge, even for golfers at this level. Some days it’s the nicest walk in the world, out and back again hitting a ball around, and other days—” He opened his arms, encompassing the changeable skies—there were blocks of blue now, with rainbows fading in and out of the high clouds—and smiled. “Other days it’s a wonder the ball doesn’t come flying back on the wind. Today’s one of those days. The golfing will be grand so.”
“If you say s—whoa.” Megan, stepping out from behind Anto’s bulk, finally got a good look at the course. She’d thought Walsh’s little entourage had made a nice blot on the green the day before, but hundreds of people lined the hills and hollows now, like Gandalf with the Riders at Helm’s Deep. “Wow. How do they play without hitting anybody?”
“Sometimes they don’t. It’s one of the sport’s dark secrets. There’s loads of fans been hit, some of them really badly.”
“No kidding?” Megan’s eyebrows rose as she sought the golfers heading out for the first hole. “So somebody could have killed Lou MacDonald with a golf ball?”
“You didn’t hear me say it.”
“No, I literally didn’t. Did you mention that to Detective Bourke yesterday?”
Anto shook his head. “Didn’t even occur to me. It was never Walsh anyway. He never lost a ball. I’d know, for all that he was being a man of the people and collecting them himself. It would have taken a slice that even you would have known didn’t send the ball in the right direction.”
“Right, so it wasn’t Walsh, but it might narrow down the suspects to the other golfers yesterday morning. Do you know who was playing?”
“Em, let’s see, it was Donál Cunningham, he’s a big lad who could hit a driver down half the course, but he and Lou got on, and besides he had his boys with him and I’d say he’s never a man to go killing someone in front of his own sons.”
Megan burbled with amusement. “How about not in front of them?”
Although he’d implied it with his phrasing, Anto still looked shocked. “I wouldn’t think so, no.”
“Right. So not Donál.” Megan tried not to smile. “Who else?”
“I saw the Connolly brothers in the clubhouse after. Now they’d have taken a shot at Mr. Walsh, no doubt about it, but never Lou. People liked Lou.”
“Well, someone didn’t. Anybody else?”
“Not that I recall so. Not who’d be out on the course, at least. There were a few like Lou who were laid up with injuries or too lazy to go out in the rain. John Ryan like, though he’ll stoop and move a worm from his path on the green, so I’d say he’s not the murdering type. We’ll wait here so, Mr. Walsh isn’t out for another hour almost.” Anto moved them into the lee of the clubhouse, where a covered set of clubs with Walsh’s shamrock emblazoned on them sat. Megan looked askance at it, and Anto shrugged. “I could carry them around in his wake all morning, or I can set them up early before he arrives and be ready to fall in when he walks out ready to play. Then I’m as fresh as he is.”
“And less liable to be annoyed by hanging out with him too long?” Megan murmured. Anto’s eyebrows flickered up in agreement. She folded her arms under her breasts, gazing through the mist—it had come up again, turning the rainbows grey—and made a face. “He got under my skin yesterday by saying he liked the club’s rules about no women allowed, but aside from that, he’s been pretty charming, especially since his best friend just died. It’s a big aside, though.”
“Maya Angelou said when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Anto produced a sly smile at Megan’s look of total astonishment. “You never thought I was the poetry type, did you? You haven’t much faith in Ireland.”
“She’s not an Irish poet!”
“We’ve a fair few splendid ones, but most of them aren’t,” Anto pointed out. “Irish, I mean. Still, watch yourself with Mr. Walsh. I wouldn’t say he’d do you a harm, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to stop one, either.”
“What about his wife? Heather?”
As if taking the idea perfectly seriously, Anto, solemnly, said, “I’m sure she couldn’t hit a driver from St. Anne’s all the way to the Royal Dublin to kill Lou with.” Humor danced around his face as Megan blew a quiet raspberry, and he shook his head. “No, Heather’s not the type to hurt someone. I’ve not known her as long—they’ve been married three years now—but she’s quiet. Passionate, but all of it’s focused. Dedicated, even. I’m surprised she’s with a man like Wals—Mr. Walsh, to tell the truth.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s a good golfer. Maybe better than he is. An athlete like that doesn’t need to hitch her wagon to someone else’s star.” Anto nodded toward the course, where the first golfers had begun their round. They both fell silent a few minutes, watching the sport’s star athlete hit the ball with an elegance that even Megan could recognize, despite knowing nothing about golf. She let out a low whistle and Anto smiled, bright and open. “He’s something, isn’t he? He’s got the height on him, too, that makes him look all the more impressive. I’d say there are few enough professional games where men and women play together, but she’d hold her own with all but himself and the likes of him.”
“Really.” Megan tucked her chin, impressed. “So maybe Martin hitched himself to her star.”
Anto pulled his jaw. “Could be, at that, although I wouldn’t say he’d handle that well. He doesn’t like to be outshone.”
Megan puffed her cheeks. “He doesn’t like to be outshone, but he’s not a top-tier golfer, and he played with his best friend who was his equal? Except that’s wrong, because he is a top-tier golfer or he wouldn’t be vying for a spot on the Ryder Cup team. So he’s not . . . elite? Would that be the word? He’s not the sort of golfer Heather couldn’t keep up with?”
“Let me put it this way,” Anto said. “Heather Walsh golfed with Lou MacDonald for fun, not her own husband. Lou, he didn’t have that need to win, and he might have been a better golfer because of it. He loved the game and played it well enough to compete in the Tour, but winning it, being a household name, a world champion? That didn’t matter to him. I don’t know that there are many like him at this level, just playing for the love of the game.”
“What about Heather?” Megan asked, idly curious. “Does she have to win, or does she love the game?”
“Some of both. I said she’s passionate, and it’s true. She wants to win something fierce, but she’s happiest when she’s out there with a club in her hand, no matter what the weather or the competition. It doesn’t hurt her to
lose the way it does Mr. Walsh. I’d say his identity is tied up in the win, but hers is in the game.”
“What do people like that do when they can’t play anymore? Or compete?”
Anto smiled briefly. “Some of them become caddies.”
“Really?” Megan lifted her eyebrows at him. “Is that your story?”
“It is. I never loved anything as much as golf, but I wasn’t good enough to play with those lads. Still, I couldn’t give it up, and so here I am, walking the greens and advising my betters. I should have taken up with the ladies, though. I was never going to find anyone to love more than the game, working with the lads.”
Megan, eternally optimistic, said, “There’s time yet,” and Anto chuckled.
“No, I’d say my heart’s given over for good. All right, here’s Mr. Walsh and his group.” Anto collected Walsh’s golf bag and stepped forward as Martin exited the clubhouse with a small group of other golfers. The crowd still lingering nearby murmured and nodded with satisfaction at their appearance, and Walsh took a moment to shake hands and speak familiarly to a few of the gathered fans.
He was just breaking away from them, looking pleased with his interactions, when a tall, red-headed young woman broke through the crowd. She stalked past the other golfers and stopped dead in front of Martin Walsh. “You son of a bitch.”
The sound of her slap silenced everyone on the green, and into the quiet, Anto whispered, “That’s Saoirse MacDonald.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saoirse MacDonald towered over Martin Walsh, an easy six feet in height, and in the moment of their confrontation Megan had no doubt she could take the golfer in a fight. Evidently, loads of other people thought so, too, as they pulled her away from Martin, who stood, stunned, with one hand over the blossoming crimson mark on his cheek. Saoirse made no effort to rebuff the people pulling her away until they’d moved her several feet back. Then she threw them off with the confidence of a prize-fighter shrugging off a satin robe. She had her father’s broad shoulders and wore a coral shell top that looked too cold for the weather, but certainly allowed her the freedom to deliver a good slap. It was French-tucked into jeans and looked smart; when Megan tried the half-tuck, she always felt like it looked like she’d made a mistake getting dressed. Color burned high in Saoirse’s cheeks, her breath coming in heaves, like she’d run a race, and although an excited babble had replaced the silence, no one tried to get between her and Martin Walsh.
Heather Walsh, her color as high as Saoirse’s, pushed through the crowd from the other direction with an outraged, “What the hell, Saoirse?!”
Saoirse spat, “Ask him,” and spun away to stride back toward the clubhouse. The onlookers parted as if they were afraid she’d go after them next, and closed behind her again to turn their attention, as one, to the Walshes.
Heather had run to Martin’s side and embraced him while the RTÉ sportscaster moved in like a shark scenting blood. Beyond them, Megan could see the other golfers Martin was supposed to tee off with, looking increasingly. . . teed off, as it were. But like everyone else, her attention was drawn back to the little drama unfolding, now on camera. Heather was in tears. Martin had developed the stoic expression of a man who couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but understood he had to get through it. Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir got into the Walshes’ personal space, demanding, “What was that about, Martin? Has bad blood developed between you and Saoirse MacDonald?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Aibhilín,” Martin replied quietly. “The poor girl has just lost her father. Her emotions are out of control, and who can blame her? Please, I know this is—” A pained smile wrecked his features. “It’s what you would call compelling drama, isn’t it, Aibhilín? A human-interest story, playing out on the green. Dead parents, grieving children, shell-shocked friends. I know the news cycle could hardly ask for anything more, but my wife and I could use some privacy, and my group are waiting for me so they can begin the game. It’s unfair that all of this turmoil should affect them. I wouldn’t want to be the man who puts their game off, and God knows Lou wouldn’t have wanted that either. Please, excuse me.” His arm around Heather’s shoulders, he began making his way toward the rest of his quartet, whose sour expressions became tempered with sullen appreciation as the gist of Martin’s speech filtered back to them. Anto shot Megan an apologetic look and hurried after his employer, with Aibhilín shouting, “Mr. Walsh! Mr. Walsh!” after them.
When they didn’t turn back, the reporter—not facing the camera—bared her teeth. As quickly as the expression came, it was gone again, her face pleasantly enthusiastic about the fracas that had just taken place as she turned back to the camera. “In the wake of golfer Lou MacDonald’s death, today’s game has taken a deeply personal turn here at the Royal Dublin. MacDonald’s daughter, Saoirse, is in attendance and clearly bearing strong feelings toward her father’s best friend and long-time competitor, Martin Walsh. We’ll be speaking with all of the tournament participants later today, and hope to bring you an exclusive with some of those most affected by this terrible tragedy.” She held her smiling pose until the cameraman indicated he was done filming. Then the smile fell away and she barked, “Somebody keep an eye on the Walshes. Don’t let them get away after the game without me talking to them. I’m going to find Saoirse.”
Megan, torn between the opportunity to watch Martin—and, more interestingly, the others—in action, and the chance to get to Saoirse before Aibhilín did, slipped through the crowd, heading back to the clubhouse ahead of the sportscaster. She’d nearly ducked inside when she caught a glimpse of red hair off to the north, and abruptly cut in that direction, following in Saoirse’s wake.
Double-timing it in Saoirse’s wake, really. The red-headed woman had about six inches more leg than Megan did, and anger drove her stride. When she was within shouting distance, Megan called, “Ms. MacDonald?” and saw a flash of outrage on the other woman’s face as she glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Megan called. “It’s just that Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir is after you and I thought you might want to . . . duck.”
Saoirse’s gaze flickered beyond Megan, back to her again, then forward as she found a rise in the dunes to position herself behind. A little to Megan’s surprise, she paused, waiting for Megan to catch up, though her tone was ungracious as she said, “Who are you? What do you care if the news is pestering me?”
Up close, without her height and hair as her most obvious characteristics, Saoirse MacDonald looked younger than Megan had expected. She wasn’t more than in her early twenties, though her strength of action earlier had made Megan imagine she was probably around thirty. “I’m—nobody,” Megan said with a crooked smile. “I mean, my name is Megan Malone, and I’m driving the Walshes around, but I’m not anybody who wants a soundbite or an interview or anything. I just thought you probably didn’t want to talk to Aibhilín and wanted to warn you she was looking for you.”
“Why? Does Martin want you to convince me he’s not a total shite? Well, you can tell him he is, and I’ll never change my mind on that.”
Megan raised her hands as if catching the onslaught of words. “Mr. Walsh doesn’t want me to do anything. He didn’t send me. I just wanted to help.”
Saoirse gave her a perfectly filthy scowl. “You’re American.”
“Yeah, from Texas. I’ve lived here about two and a half years now. I drive a limo and I—” Megan hesitated. “I know I don’t have any real connection to you, but I was the one who went into the water to try to get your dad out, yesterday. I just wanted to check on you, I guess. I’m sorry I was too late to help.”
“Oh.” All of Saoirse’s fire ran out of her and she sank to the ground, arms wrapped around her knees and head lowered against them. Her butt brushed the damp, grassy sand, but didn’t land in it. Megan didn’t think she could squat like that for more than a few seconds without her legs going numb, but Saoirse remained there for a whole minute or two before raising her gaze past the dunes to the grey, f
oamy sea. “They told me that Martin and an American woman had gone in after him,” she said dully. “I didn’t know it was you. Sorry.”
“There’s no reason you should. I just . . . I wanted to say how sorry I was. I met your dad for about two minutes yesterday morning and thought he was funny.”
“He was.” Saoirse pressed her lips together, staring at the sea. “Tell me what happened.”
“Um. Okay. Do you want to—if Aibhilín doesn’t find you in the clubhouse, she’s going to start looking around the island. Do you want to walk so she doesn’t catch up?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Saoirse rose and began a ground-eating pace that cut through the lower paths of the dunes, parallel with the beach and, perhaps, keeping her red hair from being a visible flag that Aibhilín could follow easily. Megan scurried to catch up, and Saoirse slowed when she realized Megan just wasn’t as fast as she was. “The police told me what happened, but . . .”
“Mr. Walsh was golfing on his own yesterday morning and—”
Saoirse snorted. “I doubt that.”
“Well, without any other golfers. He had a lot of admirers. And your dad said he might meet us to walk back to the clubhouse.” As she spoke, Megan realized someone could easily have overheard Lou’s plans and taken advantage of them, although from what she could tell, the man had been very well-liked. “The next time we saw him, though—we came over a hill and found him in the pond.” She sighed. “We all froze for a few seconds. I don’t . . . I don’t think it was long enough to make a difference, or . . . or soon enough. But when I unfroze I ran into the water, and Mr. Walsh came in after me.”
“Hah! Here and the story that’s gotten around is that Martin went in first. I should have known better.” Saoirse scrambled up a small hill and jumped down its other side, catching her balance on tall, yellow and green seagrass. Her feet made deep divots in a patch of sand, and her arrival offended a scattering of sea birds that flung themselves into the air and resettled again several metres down the beach. “What happened?”
