Tara took a deep breath. Tried not to laugh. Tried not to cry. She forced a smile. “Is it too early to meet my mother?”
Chapter 2
The man picked up the tin and tried to shake the ashes on his shirt back into the box, but the wind picked up and carried most of them away. Tara took a step forward. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re joking me, right? This isn’t your mother.”
“It’s my fault. I’m clumsy. She wanted me to bring her back to Ireland. She wanted her ashes spread near the Galway Bay.”
He glanced down the street in the direction of the wind. “I’d say she’s on her way.”
Nervous laughter bubbled out of Tara. She grasped her mother’s rosary that she’d tucked into the pocket of her jeans and silently said the prayer she’d prepared. She hadn’t planned on spreading the ashes until she’d met her uncle Johnny, but on a whim she’d wanted her mother with her on her first exploration of the city, so she’d taken the tin out and carried it around for a bit of comfort. Foolish lass. She was sure they would have a different phrase for her: Eeejit Yank.
“Maybe she had a hand in this,” Tara said. Her mother had had a wicked sense of humor. Some people hated it. Tara always loved it. It was just like Margaret Meehan to insist on doing her own thing.
“I’d best get this washed off me, I suppose,” the man said, moving away. “No offense.”
“Wait.” Panic seized her, as if he were walking away with her mother. He stood still as she approached. She held her hands out, tears welling into her eyes. She did not want to cry. She held out her hands. “May I?”
He gazed at her intently, and nodded. She ran her hands over him lightly, his body strong and unflinching, until her palms and fingertips were soft and gray, and then she stepped back, feeling doubly foolish but somehow relieved. “Thank you.”
He stood still as she picked up the tin from the ground and moved on, heading for the bay. She did not turn around, but she could feel him watching her. That was intense. She’d felt a flicker of something. That thing she hadn’t felt since Gabriel. And Thomas. If held at gunpoint she would be forced to admit what it was: a spark.
Stop it. She was losing it. Jet lag and grief could do that to a girl. Tara took a deep breath and continued to the bay, where she prayed the waters would heal her heart, just a little, just for now.
* * *
The Galway Bay was spread before her, expansive and full of promise. Parked a few feet from the bay was a white caravan with a painting of a gypsy: long rainbow-colored hair blowing in the wind; big, knowing eyes; full red lips. FORTUNES sprawled across the side of the caravan in red paint, and underneath it: READINGS HERE. Paint cans were lined up along the base of the caravan, as if the job had just been completed.
As Tara took it all in, the door to the caravan was flung open, revealing a tiny woman with wavy black and gray-streaked hair down to her hips. She wore a long flowing yellow dress, her face was heavily made up, and a bright red rose was tucked in her hair over her left ear. A prickly sensation tickled the back of Tara’s neck as the woman gazed at her openly. It was as if she had been expecting her. Tara laughed off the thought and lifted her hand in a wave. The woman lifted a crooked finger and beckoned Tara closer.
“Death is all around you,” she said. “Why is that?” Tara started. Was the woman so observant that she’d already guessed the tin held her mother’s ashes? But no. The tin was open and empty. “Go home,” the woman said. “Before it’s too late.”
Anger surged through Tara. “I am home.” In a way, it was true. Her mother had always referred to Ireland as home. Their home.
“Danger follows you.”
So she was one of those. A con artist who used fear to draw in customers. Tara squared her shoulders. “Danger follows everyone.”
The woman shook her head. Tara had to hand it to her, she’d certainly perfected an expression of alarm.
“This danger is coming straight for you.”
“Let it,” Tara said. “I’m a New Yorker.”
The woman cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been warned.” The door to the caravan slammed closed, swallowing the fortune-teller with it.
That was strange. What an eccentric city with a cast of characters to match. Rocks crunched beneath Tara’s feet as she moved past the caravan to the water’s edge. She gazed out at the bay, and said the Irish blessing that was the closest thing to a prayer she had memorized. May the wind always be at your back. She wasn’t going to cry, but when she reached the last verse: May God always hold you in the palm of his hand . . . tears flowed down her cheeks as she held out her palms where the remains of her mother rested. “You’re here, Mam,” she said out loud. “You’re home.”
She stared out at the sailboats bobbing on the water until the breeze dried her tears. Her mother’s last words echoed in her ear. Tell Johnny I’m sorry. So much time wasted. Take me home.
Sharp metal bit into Tara’s fingers. She cried out, only to see she was squeezing the tin so hard it was cutting into the fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and index finger. She’d forgotten she was even holding it. Toss me. Tara hurled the tin into the bay. It struck the water with a splash and began to playfully dance along the surface. The sound of a flute floated overhead, a soft lilting tune. Tara blew a kiss, and watched until it slowly took on water and submerged. “Until we meet again.” She wished her mother was at peace, in a joyful place, where she would receive céad míle fáilte, a hundred thousand welcomes, a place, well—a place just like this.
* * *
The Bay Inn was situated in the middle of a quiet street just off the Quay Street. It looked more like a detached Victorian home, although it shared its right wall with a lively pub. Inside, it was like stepping back in time, with dark wood, muted flowered carpet, and a winding staircase up to the rooms. The floors creaked as Tara made her way to the check-in desk. Behind it stood an older woman with white hair pulled up in a neat bun. Beside her, a young blonde in her early twenties was polishing the counter with gusto, working the manufactured scent of lemon into the air. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead and her tongue hung out of the corner of her mouth. The older woman hovered behind her like a ghost refusing to leave its earthly home. “I won’t tolerate your tardiness anymore.”
“I told you when you hired me that class comes first,” the girl answered. “You try making a soufflé.” She continued to polish the counter as if it was of monumental importance.
“If you’re late again I’m giving you the boot,” the older woman barked. “And what self-respecting Irishwoman would make a soufflé? Meat, potato, and veg—now that’s the way to a man’s heart.”
“I agree. If by that you mean heart attack.”
“I won’t stand for any more of your sass.”
The rag stopped moving. The girl’s chin shot up. “Go ahead. Give me the boot. Nobody else will work with you—you old crow.”
“Hey,” Tara said. Where she came from you didn’t speak to your elders like that, and she had half a mind to grab the girl by her pixie haircut and toss her out the front door.
The two heads swiveled her way, conversation screeching to a halt as they stared at Tara.
“Welcome to the Bay Inn,” the older woman said with a practiced smile.
“Thank you,” Tara said, keeping her eyes pinned on the young girl, hoping that her stern look was getting through.
“American?” the young girl said. She made a face.
“Afraid so,” Tara said.
“Do you have a reservation?” So many reservations. The older woman pulled a giant tome out from underneath the counter and began to leaf through it. Tara stared at it, expecting a cloud of dust to rise with the turn of each page. “I don’t, actually. I was being spontaneous,” Tara said. “Do you have a vacancy?”
The young girl snorted. “We always have a vacancy. Because somebody refuses to catch up to the times.”
“Why don’t y
ou catch up to the times by showing up when you’re supposed to?” the older woman said.
The young girl rolled her eyes. The old woman turned and removed a key from an actual cubbyhole behind her. Maybe it took age and experience to appreciate how quaint this throwback of an inn was. Tara wanted to tell her not to change a thing. Her excitement grew when soft papery hands slipped the key into hers. It was an old-fashioned iron key. It was exquisite and felt substantial in her hands.
“I love it,” Tara said.
“You love what?” the young girl said.
“This key. This inn.” Tara beamed. “It’s perfect.” Just as she said it she noted a splotch of red on the stem of the key. It looked like dried blood. She leaned in closer. It could have been paint. Or nail polish. Either way—too many germs. Still, it added a bit of character. If you liked your inns on the spooky side.
The young girl tilted her head and frowned. She had an athletic body and carved cheekbones. Tomboy was the word that came to mind, although Tara knew that was an outdated and misogynistic term.
“Room 301,” the older woman said, nodding at the key. “Sixty euro a night.”
“That’s the room with the leak, remember?” the young girl said. She snatched the key out of Tara’s hand and tossed it back in the cubby for room 301. “Here.” She handed Tara the key to 305.
“I don’t remember that.” The older woman laid her hand over her head as if the answers were stuck inside.
“The plumber didn’t have the part he needed. Remember? He’s coming back next week.”
Tara placed a credit card on the counter. The older woman wrung her hands as her eyes flicked away from the credit card. “We’re euro only.”
“I told you,” the girl said, with a roll of her eyes. “Dinosaur age.”
“I don’t have euro yet,” Tara said. “I’ll need to go to an ATM.”
“There’s one next door in the pub,” the girl said.
“I don’t know how many nights I’m staying,” Tara said. “Can I pay as I go?”
“You can,” the older woman said. “We’ll need at least one night up front plus a hundred-euro security deposit.”
“The security deposit is more than the room?”
“Correct,” the young girl said with a look that conveyed how utterly unreasonable the old woman was.
“It’s fine,” Tara said. Maybe they were playing her—the Irish version of good cop, bad cop. She wondered if she should find someplace else. But she liked this place, right down to the oddly matched women standing in front of her. “I’ll be right back.”
“You can leave your luggage,” the older woman said. “We’ll mind it.”
It was an easy process slipping into the pub next door to use the cash machine. She hurried back to the inn and paid for two nights plus the deposit. The younger woman was no longer behind the desk. The older woman pointed to the staircase behind her. “There’s no lift.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ll have to take the stairs.”
Oh. Lift. Elevator. She loved the tiny differences in language. “Thank you.” Tara was grateful she’d packed only one small suitcase, for by the time she reached the third floor, she was slightly out of breath. Room 305 was directly to the right. She turned the key in the lock and the door creaked open.
The room was tiny but neat. A four-poster bed was the dominating feature, flanked by mahogany side-tables. A black rotary phone rested on one table, a Bible on the other. Nestled on the wall across from the bed was a small desk with a tea kettle and cups. A simple cross made of wood hung above the bed. The room had two windows overlooking the street. Tara was thrilled. She could sit up here and people-watch all day if she wanted to. She went to the window and parted the heavy curtain. Sunshine streamed in, lighting up layers of dust on the side tables. Tara sneezed. So much for quaint. The young girl was right—it seemed as if no one had stayed in this room for a long time. She threw open both curtains and tried to open the windows. They wouldn’t budge. She longed for just a little fresh air. She collapsed on the bed, too tired to lift the old phone to complain. Later she’d make sure they got the windows open, and maybe she’d ask for a vacuum and some of that lemon-scented polish.
* * *
Nobody was at the desk when Tara emerged just over an hour later. A shower and a change into a simple sundress had helped to revive her, and now she was off on her real mission of the day—to find out if her uncle was still alive and living in Galway. Johnny Meehan was her mother’s only living relative in Ireland. Tara had never met the man. There had been some kind feud between brother and sister, but whatever it was, her mother took the details with her to the grave. Tara figured the best way to get information was to talk to some old-timey bartenders. Surely, they would be more reliable than a phone book.
It was nearing four in the afternoon, and the pubs were starting to swell with folks ready to take on the weekend. In the one next door to the inn, the bartenders were young and so were the patrons. Tara slipped in and out unnoticed and headed down the street. The next pub she entered had a middle-aged female bartender. Tara exited and kept walking, the energy of the city slipping into her, making her grin and pick up her pace. Finally, she saw it, a stone building with a sign that looked generations old: O’Doole’s. She entered and immediately knew this was the place. It was like a cavern inside and smelled of beer and bleach. Fiddles and guitars squawked out from a jukebox. It was no-frills except for the older men in denim and boots, filling the stools. There didn’t appear to be a single woman in the place. The bartender was a grandfatherly type with a head of thick gray hair and a protruding belly.
“How ya,” he called brightly as she walked in. There were half a dozen old men seated in various states of repose, but all of them froze upon seeing Tara.
“Hello,” she called. She knew she was a beautiful woman, but she could hardly take credit for her good looks. She smiled and pulled up a stool. “Guinness, please.” Instantly her mind flashed to being in a New York City pub with her mother. The Guinness here is okay. Wait until you try it at home. It’s heavenly. She imagined her mother perched on the stool next to her. The bartender took his time pouring her Guinness, waiting for it to settle before adding the head. All the while he watched her out of one eye; if she hadn’t been tuned into it, she would have given him credit for being subtle. The rest of the men were watching her openly, some with mouths hanging open.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” one of the old men crowed.
“Just visiting?” the bartender said as he slid the pint of Guinness toward her.
“Yes,” Tara said.
“Where would you be from?”
“America.”
“Where in America?”
“New York City.”
“New York City,” an old man at the end of the counter exclaimed. “How many windows does the Empire State Building have?” He stared at her expectantly.
“I have no idea.” He continued to stare. “A lot,” Tara added, feeling like a fool. She had never even wondered how many.
The man lifted his pint. “It has 6,514 windows. Double-paned, which makes it 13,028 panels.” He took a sip, then set his glass down with a satisfied smack of his lips.
“Wow,” Tara said. “Sounds like a lot alright.” The men laughed as the older man returned to staring into his pint.
“D’mind him,” the bartender said with a wink. “He’s old stock.”
“Then what am I? Young stock?”
“You’re a mongrel.”
Tara smiled. “I’m hoping to find another old stock.”
“Ah, right. Who would that be now?”
“Johnny Meehan. He’s probably in his late sixties.”
“Doing a bit of shopping?” the bartender asked.
She frowned. Had he not heard her? “No,” she said. “Not yet.”
“He hasn’t been open the past week,” the bartender said.
“Pardon?”
�
��Johnny. There’s been a closed sign on the shop for the past week.”
“Danny quit, that’s why,” a beefy man rolling a cigarette on the bar said.
The bartender threw a look to the man and the inference was clear: No gossip in front of the American.
Shop? Danny? Tara felt as if she was losing control of the conversation. Tara leaned forward. “Johnny has a shop?”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Irish Revivals,” he said. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Irish Revivals,” Tara repeated.
“They sell architectural wares. Is that not what you’re looking for?”
Excitement trilled through her. She and her mother loved antiques. Was he talking about antiques? “Where is the shop?” Tara asked. Two could play the mystery game. She didn’t have to reveal more information than necessary either. Besides, her head was spinning with the revelation. A huge bulk of her childhood had been spent digging through antique stores and flea markets with her mother. She blamed it for her career as an interior designer. Although all her rich clients in New York wanted everything new and modern, Tara much preferred the history of a lovingly used item. It had been so long since a client allowed her to decorate exactly how she wanted—with a mix of new and old. How long had he owned this shop? She couldn’t wait to see it.
“As I said, it’s been shuttered lately,” the bartender said carefully.
“Do you know where he lives? Do you have his number? Do you know where he hangs out?” It was a mistake, she realized too late, to sound too eager and fire too many questions without waiting for a response. The bartender was on high alert now.
“If I see him, who should I say is calling?”
“Tara Meehan,” she said. “I’m his niece. And it’s urgent I find him. It’s a family matter.”
“Niece?” said the old man from a few stools down. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know the old wanker had any family left.”
Murder in Galway Page 2
