by Catie Murphy
“No.” Saoirse shook her head. “The heels make it hard for anybody to try to intimidate me. I’m tall enough without them, but . . .”
“No, I get it. It helps, doesn’t it? Being able to look down on them? Especially men. It makes so many of them uncomfortable.” Heather straightened up even on the couch, like she was proving what she meant. “Even Martin stands up straighter when I wear heels.”
“You’re as tall as he is anyway,” Saoirse said. “It must make him mental when you’re taller. Come on in, Megan.”
Megan shook her head. “Can I get all of you a drink, maybe? And if you don’t mind me asking, where’s the toilet?” She could still barely ask the question without embarrassment: the Irish did not, as a rule, ask for the “bathroom” or the “ladies,” or even “the loo.” Just where’s the toilet? which, to Megan’s American mind, was mortifyingly direct.
“Through the kitchen.” Saoirse started to rise. “I can show you.”
“I can find my own way,” Megan promised. “Drinks when I come back?”
“Not yet. I’ve got to—maybe not at all. I’ve got to be sober if there’s any chance of making the hearing and the funeral both tomorrow.”
The unknown girl said, “Wait, what?” and tears flooded Saoirse’s eyes, though they didn’t quite fall. Megan left her explaining the situation with the St. Anne’s Park development project and meandered through the kitchen—galley style, as extended Irish kitchens often were—but surprisingly wide, with a breakfast nook that looked as though it got a lot more use than the more formal dining room space. It had the semiprofessional chrome-and-black design that had been popular for years now, complete with a bar set under a long window that overlooked a row of short, leafless trees outside. There would be plenty of room for people to spill out into the kitchen and garden, if the wake became busy. Megan used the toilet, washed her hands, and returned to find several people had arrived in her absence. Most of them were adults, by which she meant people her own age or older, as opposed to Saoirse and her friends, all in their twenties. Heather looked at home among them, and Martin Walsh, by contrast, seemed much older when he came in, having escaped the young men.
He sucked the attention from Saoirse, drawing mutual friends to his side to express their sympathy. Megan watched cords stand out in Saoirse’s neck, although she cast her gaze downward and schooled her expression as quickly as possible. Heather squeezed her arm sympathetically, and despite Saoirse’s earlier enmity toward Martin’s wife, she now looked grateful. The other girl, whose name Megan still hadn’t gotten, leaned in to speak quietly and urgently with Saoirse, who shook her head. Megan took the perimeter of the room, brushing between the overstuffed couch and its coffee table and past a feature fireplace probably as old as the house until she’d circled behind the three women as unobtrusively as possible, and could listen in on their conversation.
“Soar, you’ve got to call Ellen Million. If you don’t, I swear to God I’m going to.”
“She doesn’t know the material as well as I do, Trina.”
“No one’s going to know it as well as you do, Saoirse,” Heather said gently. “But you can’t be in two places at once.”
Trina, quietly but explosively, said, “Thank you!” to Heather, and made a short, hard gesture that encapsulated both agreement and pleading to Saoirse. “Ellen’s a solid environmentalist, Soar. Call her tonight and she can at least get her feet under her by tomorrow, and make your case for you.”
“It’s too much to ask somebody overnight—”
“And under normal circumstances you totally wouldn’t, but this is not normal, love. Look, no, listen, I know. It’s too much for you to ask of somebody, yeah?”
“Yes!” Saoirse’s outburst drew attention away from Martin, and the intense little conversation broke up as people not only returned to her, but as more came in. Trina met Heather’s eyes with a meaningful gaze and, upon receiving a nod of approval, left Saoirse’s side and went, Megan assumed, to call Ellen and explain the situation. A knot of worry that she hadn’t even known she was carrying came unwound beneath Megan’s breastbone. She didn’t want the young redhead to lose the opportunity to continue her environmental work with the St. Anne’s group but couldn’t imagine Saoirse missing her own father’s funeral either. It was all rotten timing, as if death could ever be timed well.
Martin was saying, “Thank you, yes, av carse I miss him terribly,” with an accent laid on thicker than Megan had ever heard, which seemed especially absurd given that everyone around him was Irish, too. It was true that her own grandfather, who’d left Ireland at only twenty years of age, and returned to visit sixty years later, had gotten increasingly Irish-sounding upon landing on his native soil, but Martin was in and out of Ireland all the time. He didn’t need the affectation, and had even complained about actors doing the same thing just the day before.
It played well, though, with people clapping his shoulder and pulling him into rough embraces while they were gentler and more delicate with Saoirse. More people flooded in, some going directly to the dining room for drink while others worked their way through the growing crowd. The library filled, people flowing naturally from room to room. Megan stayed behind Saoirse and Heather, watching them well up and accept offers of sympathy, then pull themselves back together for the next wave.
Anthony Doyle came in, went straight to Saoirse, and exchanged a sad look with Heather Walsh before retreating to allow them their space. He nodded when Megan caught his eye and came over to her, dropping his voice. “How are they holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. You?”
“Looking forward to the pub later,” Anto admitted. “Will you come around? It’s Fagan’s in Drumcondra, I don’t know if you know it.”
“I know where it is. Maybe. I’ll have to see how long the Walshes stay before I make any decisions for after the wake.”
“Sure so.” Anto moved away, talking to someone else, as a familiar-looking, swarthy man entered. Megan couldn’t place him until Martin said, “Victor” in surprise, and the man replied, “Martin. I’m sorry for your loss,” in a light French accent. They shook hands before the head of the European Ryder Cup team made his way to Saoirse and took both of her hands in his. “Je suis désolé pour votre perte. I very much looked forward to having your father play with us in the Cup.”
Saoirse, faint with surprise, said, “What?” and Fabron smiled sadly.
“Yes, had he not told you? I had already selected M’sieur MacDonald as my wild card. Martin was never in the running.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Da was . . .” Saoirse’s voice broke, and her profile, as she looked toward Heather, was disbelieving. “Did you know?” Her gaze shot to Martin. “Did he?”
“He can’t have,” Heather whispered. “He’s no good at hiding that kind of thing. He’d be furious if he’d known. He would have—” She paled.
“I had not told M’sieur Walsh,” Fabron agreed before she could go on.
Saoirse’s voice dropped to a hiss. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t know. I knew it. I knew Martin had something to do with Da’s dea—” People were beginning to look, and she cut herself off, face flushed with fury.
“He would have been angry enough to,” Heather said helplessly, if very, very quietly. “If he’d known Lou had already been picked for the Cup, and that he never stood a chance, no matter how well he did in this tournament? Martin would have gone into a jealous rage. He would be angry enough to kill Lou over it.” Her gaze went to Victor Fabron. “If Lou wasn’t able to play, who would be your next choice?”
Fabron’s long face went ruddy along the lines of his sharp cheekbones. “The highest-placing European competitor of this tournament, of course. The best golfer, even if he was not such a pleasant person as Monsieur MacDonald. It would almost certainly be M’seiur Walsh,” he finished quietly.
Heather gave a tremulous nod. “I thought so. But I don’t see how Martin could have done it. He w
as golfing when Lou died and I don’t think . . . his anger runs hot,” she whispered. “He’s never been the calculating type when he’s angry. He wouldn’t . . . think ahead. . . .”
She sounded far less certain than she might have, and Megan couldn’t help remembering the caddie, Anthony Doyle, saying that Walsh played his best when the world around him was in upheaval. That he had ice for blood, in those cases. Megan wondered if Heather Walsh was thinking of that, and whether Heather had already considered the possibility that Martin was somehow responsible for Lou MacDonald’s death. The motivations seemed increasingly obvious. The only difficulty was the time frame. Megan took a deep breath to put voice to her uncomfortable thoughts. “This probably isn’t a good place to talk about it, Mrs. Walsh, but you and Anto both told me earlier there were some terrible injuries on the course. Could he have hit him with a golf ball?”
Fabron went white. “But this is terrible. Non, surely it cannot be. I would hate to think I am in some way responsible—”
“No.” Saoirse spoke quietly but firmly. “No, whoever killed Da, M’sieur Fabron, it’s on them, not you. And—” Her cheeks stained red with emotion as her eyes went tear-blurred. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad to—I would have loved to see him play on the team.”
“You once golfed, no? If only I could invite you in his place.” Fabron offered another sympathetic smile, then left to, Megan suspected, avail himself of some of the cognac in the next room. She would need it herself, if she thought she’d somehow contributed to someone’s death.
Saoirse’s glassy stare fixed itself across the room. Megan followed it and found a photograph of the MacDonald family on the wall: Saoirse, no more than eight or ten, standing between Lou and a pretty woman who must have been Kimberly MacDonald. All of them had golf clubs and tremendous smiles as they stood on a course that, judging from the sea-swept background, had to be one of the two on Bull Island. “If I hadn’t given up golfing. . .”
Megan began to say it wouldn’t have mattered, that it wouldn’t have changed anything, but Heather spoke first. “You could always take it up again. In his name, if you wanted.”
Rage contorted Saoirse’s face, a smash cut from grief to wrath. “And you’ll be my coach, I suppose? Wouldn’t Martin fecking love that, his two bits snuggled up together on the course so’s he could imagine them shagging like that in bed? I don’t fecking think so, you man-stealing cow—”
“What?” Heather’s voice cracked two octaves out of her usual range, color slamming out of her face, then back again in a curdling blush. “What?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know, you stupid cow! Don’t pretend you didn’t waltz in and steal him from me, don’t pretend you don’t know about his stupid nasty fantasies, don’t pretend—” Saoirse’s shrill tones rolled through a room—a house—gone utterly silent with shock and avidly interested horror. “We were happy until you came along—”
“Martin?” Heather spoke, hardly a whisper beneath Saoirse’s shouting. Even Saoirse fell silent at that tiny word, as Heather looked for her husband in the room, moving as though she’d been flash-frozen and could barely command her muscles to respond.
He stood surprisingly alone for a man in a crowded room. Everyone he’d been speaking with had backed off, leaving him at the center of a small, empty space. His color, too, had drained, leaving him pallid and even trembling as he searched for something to say. He looked utterly caught out, a king with a castle of cards falling down around him, and when Heather whispered, “Martin?” again, he flinched.
“I–I—Heather—I can—explain—”
Heather fell back one clumsy step and lifted shaking hands as if making a barrier between herself and Martin Walsh. “Oh my God.” Then she fled, pushing through a crowd reluctant to make way for her. Martin reached for her arm as she passed, and she threw off his hand with violence. “Don’t touch me!”
A moment later she was gone, leaving everyone—leaving Saoirse—staring after her, aghast. Saoirse whispered, “She didn’t . . . she didn’t know, did she.”
Martin blurted, “Heather!” and ran after her. The gathering parted for him, as they hadn’t for her, and Megan lurched a few steps after them before pulling up and turning back to Saoirse, unsure who she should support.
“Go on,” Saoirse said hoarsely. “If he did kill Da, God knows what he might do to her.”
An uproar met her words, mourners closing in with questions as Megan pressed through them to chase after the Walshes. Heather, twenty years younger, taller, and highly motivated, had cast off her heels and bolted down the street, leaving her husband standing hopelessly at the end of the MacDonald driveway. Megan skidded to a halt several steps behind him and, after a judicious pause, said, “Shall I drive you back to the hotel, Mr. Walsh?”
Martin spun around, staring at her, then shouted, “No! Get in that car and follow her!” He ran to the Lincoln, yanking on the locked door handle, and gave a bellow of inarticulate rage. “Let me in!”
“With pleasure, Mr. Walsh, but I won’t chase Mrs. Walsh.” Megan unlocked the doors while Martin bared his teeth, snarling with anger.
“You’ll do what I tell you! I’m paying you!”
“So you are,” Megan said, opening the door for him, “but not to stalk someone who clearly doesn’t want to be with you right now. You can take it up with Ms. Keegan, if you like.”
“I sure as hell will!” Fumbling with anger, Martin took out his phone, searching for the Leprechaun Limos phone number, while Megan took a judicious step back from the car and rang Orla herself.
“Ms. Keegan? This is Megan Malone. We’ve had an altercation and I believe Mr. Walsh would like to speak with you.” She handed her phone over to Martin, who spat with fury as he said, “Tell this dumb bitch driver of yours to follow my wife when I tell her to!”
From his changing expression, Megan thought it safe to say that Orla was telling him no such thing. She did her best to keep her face professionally unreadable as his grew even angrier. Then, with a roar, he threw her phone to the ground.
Glass and plastic shattered everywhere, despite its protective covering. Megan jerked back a step, less afraid than genuinely appalled. Then anger rolled in. Very carefully, with deliberate control, Megan moved forward again, closing and locking the car door. Sheer hatred flew across Martin’s face, and Megan, exquisitely aware that she was within his reach, crouched to pick up the broken pieces of her phone before rising and walking to the driver’s side door, saying, “Your contract is canceled, Mr. Walsh. Good evening.”
“You can’t do that! You can’t do this, you bitch!” Martin’s howls followed her down the street.
Megan worked at not looking at him in the rearview mirror, focusing instead on driving, and watching the sidewalks until she saw Heather Walsh, carrying her high heels, walking in the distance. After a moment she pulled up beside the golfer and rolled down the window. “He’s not with me. Would you like me to take you somewhere?”
Heather looked down the street behind her, at Megan, at the street in front of her, and back at Megan, then got into the front seat beside her. She didn’t say anything as Megan drove her back to the hotel, said, “I’ll wait,” and did, as Heather went inside, packed, and came back out within a mere five or six minutes. She threw the suitcase in the back seat and got in the front again, and finally spoke.
“I have nowhere to go.”
Megan took a breath, but before she spoke, Heather went on in exceptionally calm tones. “The credit cards are all in his name. I can withdraw money—I’d better, before he thinks to freeze the accounts—but his name is on them, too. What did it matter, when we were going to be together forever? I thought it was funny. A throwback to the seventies, before women could have credit cards in their own names. That’s what changing my name was, too. A lark. And we thought it would look good on the marquees, being the Walshes. And the whole time he was really playing the Mad Men game, wasn’t he? Screwing around with his—” Her v
oice cracked in horror. “With his niece. Lou didn’t know. I didn’t know.” She regained control over her voice again and looked out the window. “I have nowhere to go.”
“We’ll stop at the first bank so you can withdraw as much as possible on whatever cards you have on you,” Megan said. “And you can stay with me tonight.”
Heather Walsh turned an astonished face toward Megan. “What?”
“I have a couch. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it won’t spend the money you have, and there are puppies to keep you company.”
A smile, almost a laugh, cracked Heather’s calm façade, and nearly shattered it entirely. Megan watched her slide toward hysterics and drag herself back with a massive effort. “Puppies sound wonderful. Why would you do this?”
“Because you look like you need a friend.” Megan paused judiciously. “That, and I don’t think it would occur to Martin that you might end up staying with me, and frankly, I think he might be dangerous.”
“No, he’s not, he’s—”
“He shattered my phone when I wouldn’t drive him after you.”
Heather blanched and turned her attention out the window again, jaw tense. “Maybe,” she finally said, quietly. “Maybe you’re right.”
Megan, reminding herself she was the help, bit back everything she wanted to say about what she’d seen of their relationship. Instead, she pulled over at the first bank, as promised. Heather put her heels back on, exited the car, and spent several long minutes withdrawing money from more credit cards than Megan had owned in her life, never mind at once. She returned tucking what Megan believed was technically referred to as a wad of cash into her purse, and once more turned a glazed look out the window.
Traffic hadn’t thinned out much by the time they hit city centre, and what was really only a short drive took a long time, especially in Heather’s silence. As they finally approached Rathmines, Megan cast a cautious glance at her passenger. “I need to bring the car back to the garage. Would you like me to drop you off at my apartment first?”
