Death on the Green

by Catie Murphy

  Megan screwed up her face, looking for a way to ask an indelicate question. Heather saw the change of expression and sighed. “Yes, I’m certainly young enough to have children, but Martin was so destroyed after his first wife’s death that he had a vasectomy, and by the time he met me, it was too late to reverse it. We tried, but . . . he tries to be light-hearted about it sometimes. ‘I can shoot a hole in one on the green, but . . . ’ ”

  With an effort, Megan rearranged her expression into something understanding and neutral rather than the that was more information than I needed to know that she felt. “I’m sorry. That must be very hard.”

  “It is.” Heather’s voice quavered and she lifted her chin, turning her gaze away until she trusted her control again. “And it’s hard on Martin that his relationship with Saoirse has soured. And it’s hard for me, knowing that I probably had something to do with it, although Martin’s certainly never blamed me and I don’t even know if he thinks that.” At Megan’s quizzical look, she said, “I’m only a few years older than Saoirse, and I think she finds that kind of creepy.”

  “Ah. Yeah. Families are complicated.”

  Heather nodded, then breathed hard a few times, like she was facing a race. “I’d better go catch up. Martin doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he knows I’m there. I don’t like to leave him, especially in a game as big as this one.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “No, of course not. Martin invited you, didn’t he? You have the badge and all.” Heather nodded at the staff badge Anto had procured for Megan. “Did Collins get in a snit about you being there?”

  “Oh,” Megan said dryly, “you’ve met him, have you.”

  A laugh burst free before Heather clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling. “Martin says he runs this place like a well-oiled machine, but he’s the most condescending man I’ve ever met, which is saying something in a sport like this one.”

  Megan, outraged all over again, said, “Did you know this club doesn’t allow women to be members?”

  “Why do you think I play at St. Anne’s?” They complained quietly to each other about similar offenses as they made their way back to the crowd, arriving in time to watch Martin hit another extraordinary shot. The next holes were merely good, but the congregation were buzzing with excitement as the game wrapped up and the golfers waited for the scores to be tallied.

  Martin Walsh’s one concession to overwhelming excitement was a fist clenched in joy as Heather’s prediction proved right and he placed second, just three strokes behind the handsome leader. Cameras whirred and flashes went off as the two men, and the third-place winner, stood together, shaking hands and smiling broadly while coaches, caddies, and fans pressed in to get a picture with them—or at least to be in the background of those pictures. Megan noticed Oliver Collins slithering his way into an embrace with Martin, photographic evidence of which would no doubt end up somewhere on a clubhouse wall.

  Once the worst of the shouting and congratulations had passed, sports reporters broke up the winning trio, asking more focused questions. Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir led the pack of people hoping to speak to Martin Walsh, and Martin, as he’d promised earlier, turned his full attention to her. “Tell me about what this victory means to you in the wake of Lou MacDonald’s death, Martin,” Aibhilín pressed.

  Martin pulled a self-deprecating smile, shaking his head. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a victory, Aibhilín. The better man won today, no doubt about that. But it does my heart good to have done well today. I thought of Lou with every stroke, and if I didn’t know he’d rise from the grave to give me hell about it, I’d even say his spirit was there with me today, guiding me.” A chuckle went around the gathered reporters, and Martin’s eyes became earnest. “Today wasn’t about me. It was about the love Lou and I both had for this sport. It was about honoring my friend. It was about doing our best in the face of adversity, something that Lou and I both knew a lot about.”

  “You’re speaking of the deaths of your first wife, and of Lou’s wife, Kimberly MacDonald, of course,” Aibhilín said. “How has that affected your game over the years, Martin?”

  “Susan wouldn’t take it wrong, I think, to hear me say it made me more focused. And Kim brought Lou into the sport. I don’t know that I could have continued playing without his support, and hers, in the years following Susan’s death. They didn’t just affect my game, Aibhilín. They affected my life. I wouldn’t be the man I am without them.”

  “And what happened this morning with Lou’s daughter, Saoirse MacDonald? That was a deeply emotional moment.”

  “It was so, and I don’t want too much read into it, now. We’ve all suffered a tremendous loss, and that poor girl is an orphan now. I’d say she needs someone to take out her anger on, and Saoirse is my family in all but blood. Sometimes we lash out at those closest to us, because in their way, they’re the safest to do so with. Family keeps on loving you, no matter what.” Tears stood in Martin’s eyes by the time he was done speaking, and Aibhilín kept the camera on him as he discreetly wiped them away before saying, “Thank you for your time, Martin.”

  “You know my time is yours, Aibhilín.” He smiled at her and said, “If you’ll excuse me” to the others. Anto stepped in, making a space for Martin to pass through, and Megan saw astonishment on the faces of the reporters he’d dismissed. Martin wore a pinched smile of satisfaction as he approached Megan and Heather. He embraced his wife, smiled at Megan, and slipped out behind Anto.

  Megan, in their wake, heard the reporters he’d left behind begin speaking in awe about Walsh taking time to focus on his family and friends after a tragedy, rather than revel in the staging of a dramatic comeback. “I’ll be darned,” she said under her breath. “Always leave them wanting more.”

  Martin, evidently overhearing, turned his head and winked over his shoulder at her, then stepped outside into the dazzling, breezy afternoon.

  * * *

  Megan held the door for the Walshes, letting them get settled as she took her place in the driver’s seat. “Celebratory meal, Mr. Walsh?”

  “That sounds nice,” Heather began, but Martin shook his head.

  “No, it’s back to the hotel for us. Anything else and they’ll be crawling up me arse trying to get quotes or pictures, and I want to leave them wanting more. The game on Friday is soon enough for them to see me again.”

  Disappointment flickered across Heather’s face, and Megan bit down on the impulse to point out she didn’t have to do what Martin did. Instead, she briefly met Mr. Walsh’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You won’t be at Mrs. Walsh’s game tomorrow, sir?”

  “Ah, Heather plays better without me there, don’t you, pet?” He patted her leg, and an irritated chill zinged up Megan’s neck, lifting the fine hairs there. Anybody who gave her that kind of condescending pat would lose their hand, but Heather only smiled, and Martin went on. “Lou would have been the man to show up for the games, no matter which of us was playing, me or Heather or Kim, back in the day. He was a rock so, and he held with this men and women’s shared tournament nonsense anyway. I’d say Heather will miss seeing him more than she ever noticed me not being there.”

  “The joint tournament is good publicity for us,” Heather said very softly. “The Golfing Walshes. And of course I’ll miss him,” she went on. “But you could stand in his place, if you wanted.”

  “And back-seat coach? I’d send you mental.”

  Heather lowered her head, as if—to Megan’s eyes—hiding emotion. Megan gritted her teeth behind a polite smile. Martin Walsh didn’t seem to be interested at all in what Heather wanted, just in his own ritual. Trying to keep her voice pleasant, or at least neutral, she said, “No problem. Mrs. Walsh, will you want to go anywhere yourself?”

  An equally polite smile shaped Heather’s mouth. “Not the day before a game, no, but thank you, Megan.”

  “Leprechaun Limos will be on call if you change your mind.” Megan drove them back to the hote
l—a quick jaunt in midafternoon traffic—and did all the polite things—holding the door, fetching the umbrella that had ended up back in the vehicle thanks to Anto—and stood more or less at attention until the Walshes made their way through the modern entrance to the centuries-old building. Then she allowed herself an explosive sound, pulled out her phone, and texted Niamh: I don’t think I like this guy at all.

  A text with how about this one? came back almost immediately, even if it was six a.m. in California. A picture of Niamh and her costar mugging for a selfie followed, and then an obviously professional still shot of the two of them locked in an embrace followed that one. Told you I’d wear the face off him, Niamh texted. That second pic is 100% Not For Sharing, though. The studio’d have my head.

  Holy cats, when I said pics or it didn’t happen, I didn’t think you’d send me one! Is he a good kisser? A series of heart-eyed and kissy-face emojis came back, and Megan laughed. Good. I’m glad at least one of us is having fun with our job this week. Why are you up?

  In makeup. Niamh sent another picture, this time with sleepy eyes and her makeup only half done. This is really me right now. What’s up with Walsh? Have you figured out who murdered poor Lou yet?

  Walsh is really controlling. No wonder his second wife left him. And no, no news on Lou. Do you know his daughter Saoirse? She showed up and decked Walsh before the game today.

  REALLY!?!?! Daaamn! I wonder if the rumors are true, then!

  Megan nearly hopped up and down with impatience as the series of texts suddenly stopped, Niamh no doubt having to do something actually job-related instead of gossiping with a friend on the other side of the planet. When her silence stretched into several minutes, Megan, desperate, texted, What rumors? You’re killin’ me, Nee!

  You know, the answer finally came back, as if distracted. The rumors that Martin Walsh had an affair with Saoirse MacDonald when she was only eighteen years old.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Megan opened the Lincoln’s door and sat hard in the driver’s seat, staring at Niamh’s text. A few seconds later another one came in: GTG, they’re calling for me, let me know what happens, and Megan nodded dumbly at the phone like Niamh could see it. After a while, still feeling mentally numb, she texted Bourke with are we on for that pint tonight? and waited a moment to see if he responded. He didn’t, but he would: Detective Paul Bourke was the most reliable correspondent Megan had ever had. She got into the car properly, put her phone in the glove compartment so it wouldn’t tempt her to stare at Niamh’s text while driving, and got the Lincoln back to the garage on autopilot.

  Orla waved her into the office, a glint in her eyes. “I’ve a pick-up job tonight. Would you be up for it?”

  “What time?” Vaguely mindful that she’d be better off getting in Orla’s good books now, before she discovered that Megan had gotten the company mentioned in relation to a murder, after all, she added, “I can probably do it, as long as it doesn’t run too late. I’m supposed to get Mrs. Walsh at half eight tomorrow.” That hadn’t actually been arranged, but since it was when she’d gotten Martin that morning, Megan reckoned it was about right.

  “It’s only a collection at the airport. There and back again. Won’t be but a minute.” Orla all but sparkled her eyes at Megan, who finally felt a thread of suspicion.

  “Who is it?”

  Orla’s blue eyes went shifty. “Carmen de la Fuente.”

  “Oh, God, Orla.” Megan threw herself into the couch with the vigor of a teenager asked to do something totally unreasonable, like empty the dishwasher. “Do I have to? I mean, all right, fine, I will, but why does that woman keep hiring us? How much are you charging her now?”

  “Seventeen hundred per hour,” Orla said serenely. “She wants a gold chauffeur’s uniform this time.”

  “I don’t have a gold chauffeur’s uniform!”

  “I know. I told her I needed a week’s notice and three grand an hour to give her that, and she put an order in for the uniform herself, on the condition that you yourself are her driver.”

  “Oooorlaaaaa! Why me? Why does she like me so much?” Orla looked her up and down with a frankly assessing gaze that made Megan’s ears heat. “All right, I know why she likes me so much, but . . . argh!”

  “You’ll do it, though?”

  “Yes, of course, but I want some of that seventeen hundred quid as my bonus for dealing with her. She’s . . . she’s . . .” Megan made strangling motions with her hands, and Orla, looking almost apologetic, laughed.

  “I know, love, but Jaysus she’s rich, and willing to spend it. If you ever wanted a rich girlfriend . . .”

  “No one wants a rich girlfriend that much,” Megan said dismally, although that was manifestly untrue. Carmen de la Fuente usually had two or three women hanging on her arms, dripping with lavish jewelry and, often, not much more. She had a truly piercing laugh that she employed like a weapon and a seventy-foot yacht anchored in the Malahide Marina, where parties too legendary for ordinary people to even hear of them took place twice a year. Megan had never in her life met anyone as unable to understand that they were not the center of the universe, and that included the handful of toddlers she’d known over the years. “Why does she keep hiring us?”

  “Because I bilk her unrepentantly. She thinks if I charge her that much, there’s something special about us, that we’re worth it, and it makes her all the more eager to hire us. I raise the prices every time she calls and I’m still not charging enough.” Orla pointed a sharp-nailed finger at Megan. “When I reach the right price, she’ll start telling her friends we’re the only ones in Dublin worth hiring, and then we’ll retire rich, my chicken.”

  “Really, you’re going to share the bilking with the whole team? That’s great. In that case I’m happy to drive her any time you need.” Megan drove de la Fuente any time Orla needed anyway, because Carmen always asked for her, and usually gave Megan a truly eye-popping cash tip. Fortunately for Megan’s sanity, Carmen only spent a few days in Dublin a couple of times a year, but the sharp pitch of her laugh gave Megan chills even in memory.

  “If you wear that gold uniform for her, I’ll give everybody a bonus every time you drive her,” Orla promised.

  Megan sat bolt upright, pulled out her phone, and hit voice record. “Say that again.” The glint in Orla’s eyes turned to a glare, but she repeated herself, and Megan saved the note. “You’re on. What time am I picking her up?”

  “Half seven, from the Weston Airport. Drive the limo.”

  “As if Carmen would accept anything else.” Megan glanced at the time on her phone. “It’s already almost four. If I’m getting Carmen, I need to go get my makeup and hair done.”

  “Charge it to the company.”

  “As if I would do anything else.” Megan would have anyway, but knew perfectly well Orla would pass the cost on to the client. She was out the door and making calls for an emergency makeover before she realized she hadn’t mentioned the minor Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir fiasco. A giant sigh overtook her, but she shrugged it off as she ran up the stairs to her apartment. Orla would probably get over it with a Carmen de la Fuente paycheck coming in this evening.

  A note on the door told her that her friend Brian, another American who lived nearby, had been over at lunchtime to walk the dogs. She texted him a series of hearts as she went inside, and took three minutes to lie on the floor and be climbed on by licking, wiggling babies and nuzzled by a vaguely interested mama. They all went for a quick walk before Megan deposited them back in the house, saying, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, babies. I’ve got to go get beautiful.”

  Detective Bourke texted while one person worked on her hair and another on her nails. Megan, who hated the heaviness of nail polish and the weight of false nails even more, was eager to pull her fingers away and respond to the text, and got smacked on the back of the hand for her efforts. She wailed, “But this is important!” and received a pointed, skeptical look that made her give the woman her hand back,
if reluctantly. Eventually, her nails were proclaimed modestly suitable, and she was allowed to retrieve her hand and check the text, which said Grand so, what time?

  She tried texting back, but her new nails got in the way. Exasperated, she tapped the dictation button and, after several tries, got an ungarbled I have to work at half seven, so how about nine? to send to him. He responded with another grand so, and Megan closed her eyes to let the stylists work on her.

  Forty minutes later someone else entirely looked out at her from the mirror. Contours, highlighting, downlight-ing, backlighting: she hardly knew what they’d done, but she had to admit she looked amazing. Her hair, which she almost always wore up, framed around her face in waves. Her lips looked fuller and her eyes larger, and she wished she was going out with Jelena, not just picking up a very rich, very self-centered woman at the airport. The lead stylist, smiling, said, “You’ll do,” once Megan had finished admiring herself, and took Megan’s picture for the salon’s digital before-and-after wall. Even the picture looked professional, and Megan, pleased, said, “Could you send me that?”

  “Sure, love.” A minute later Megan’s phone buzzed, and she forwarded the photograph on to Niamh, saying, see, you’re not the only one who cleans up well.

  You’re driving Carmen tonight, aren’t you? Niamh wrote back.

  What, it shows?

  Niamh sent back laughing emojis and you look gawges. Megan scurried home, feeling slightly ridiculous being so made-up in the late afternoon, and fed the dogs before pulling her uniform back on and returning to the garage. Orla met her at the office door with a peculiar expression, and gestured Megan in.

  The reception counter was half-filled by a cream-colored box with a genuinely enormous, glittering gold ribbon and bow wrapped around it. An equally gigantic name tag dangled from the bow. Orla lifted her eyebrows in challenge and Megan, cautiously, edged forward to check the tag. Intellectually, she knew it would have her name on it or Orla wouldn’t be making such extraordinary faces, but she was still astounded to see Megan written on it in elegant calligraphy. “Open it,” Orla commanded, and Megan, befuddled, did so.