Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  The bartender hushed him with a look. He edged closer to Tara as if trying to find the family resemblance in her face. “Are you sure you have the right Johnny Meehan, like?”

  “My mother was Margaret Meehan,” Tara said.

  An immediate change came over the bartender’s face. Delight, and then, just as quickly, he shut down, returning to a stern gaze. “My, my, my,” he said. “How is Maggie?” Maggie. So he’d known her mother when she was young. The bartender leaned in. “My hearing isn’t so good anymore. Did you say—was?”

  “Yes. My mother passed away last week.” Fresh grief stung her. Just last week. It still didn’t feel real. She still expected to see her mam’s smiling face before her.

  Empathy filled the bartender’s face. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I knew your mother when she was just a colleen.”

  Tara nodded, recognizing the Irish term for girl, and gave a soft smile. “I’ve come to find my uncle and let him know.”

  “She ended up in New York City?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes.”

  The bartender whistled. “Was she happy?”

  Tara tilted her head. “We had our moments.”

  The bartender took out a napkin and began to draw. “Here’s the mill—the shop.” He was a good mapmaker. “It’s in the Claddagh.”

  “Claddagh? Like the ring?”

  “The very same. Where it all started. But if it’s thatched huts you’re after, there aren’t many left.” The bartender winked. “Once you see the Spanish Arch, the village is just across the way. Johnny lives in a cottage up a wee hill, a short walk from the salvage mill.”

  “Irish Revivals,” the trivia-man said. “Dats de one.”

  She smiled, hoping he wasn’t going to ask her how many windows it had. “Thank you.”

  A middle-aged man burst into the bar, dressed in a red-and-white-striped tracksuit, his muscles bulging. He bounced rather than walked.

  “Ben Kelly,” the old man down the bar slurred. “Guess who this lass is?” He pointed at Tara. “That’s Johnny Meehan’s niece. Margaret Meehan’s daughter. Can you believe dat?”

  Ben Kelly turned to her, his brown eyes pinning her down. He reminded her of a dog tied in a yard, straining at the end of his leash. “Niece?” She stared at the vein bulging in his neck and nodded. “He never mentioned you, like.”

  Tara met his intense gaze. “He’s never met me.”

  Ben Kelly squinted, then edged forward. “Now. Let me give you the best advice you’re ever going to get in your life.” She waited. He moved even closer until she could smell his whiskey breath. This wasn’t his first pub stop. “Don’t.”

  Tara stared. “Don’t . . . what?”

  “Don’t meet him. Go home. You’ll be sorry if you invite that kind of trouble into your life.” He turned and headed away from her before Tara could formulate a response. “But if you’re too stubborn or too stupid to heed my advice, then you tell that bollocks he should sell the mill to me before I dig up too much dirt. Tick tock, tick tock.”

  “Dig up too much dirt?”

  He winked, but it did little to take the venom out of his words.

  “D’mind him,” the bartender said.

  “Let me guess—he’s old stock too?”

  The men in the pub laughed. Ben Kelly, face buried in the jukebox, didn’t even turn around. “He is indeed,” the bartender said.

  Tara nodded and let it drop. She had no desire to get dragged into the local drama. She’d meet Johnny first and maybe he’d eventually tell her what this was all about. And maybe Johnny Meehan wasn’t a nice man. There had to be a reason her mother left, never saw him again.

  Tell Johnny I’m sorry. So much time wasted.

  Tara would not let the locals color her opinion of her mother’s brother. Her mother still had love for him or she wouldn’t have asked Tara to apologize for her. Tara had the feeling the estrangement had been born out of pain, not anger. She digested Ben Kelly’s anger with more curiosity than alarm. It dawned on her that in a country that claimed to have hospitality down to an irresistible charm, this was at least the second time in the few hours she’d been here that she’d been advised to go home. So much for a hundred thousand welcomes; she had yet to receive even one.

  Chapter 3

  Tara was given her first claddagh ring for her tenth birthday. She loved the clasped hands for friendship, the crown for loyalty, and the heart for love. Now here she was standing on the threshold of the community of Claddagh, the oldest part of Galway, whose history she knew well from her studies. Claddagh translated meant stony shore, and it was no surprise the community of Claddagh resided where the River Corrib met the Galway Bay. It was easy to find the community by first locating the Spanish Arch. Despite the name, the six-hundred-year-old stone arch, part of the old city walls, wasn’t built by Spaniards. It was built by the Eyre family, but nicknamed for the Spanish sailors who used to dock at the edge of the city and trade at the Arch. Tara was thrilled to see the sights that previously she’d only known about from poring over guidebooks and videos on YouTube.

  Claddagh didn’t disappoint. The little fishing village dated back to the fifth century. Until the 1930s it was also dotted with thatched huts. Unfortunately, they were taken down as the community evolved. There was even a King of Claddagh, although it was in name only, and Tara couldn’t for the life of her remember who it was or what exactly the king did. Semidetached houses awash in pastel colors dotted the landscape like a string of lights, and across the way sailboats and swans bobbed on the water. Here you could take the path—technically the Salthill Promenade or “the prom”—from Claddagh to the community of Salthill. Its Irish name was Bóthar na Trá, which means “sea road.” It was a two-mile walk that Tara had every intention of taking when she got the chance. Across the bay, mountains completed the postcard-perfect view. Tara knew them to be the Burren, technically in County Clare, a gorgeous national park with a rocky landscape. Tara stood on the prom and followed the directions on the napkin until she spotted the old stone mill the bartender had marked with an X. From the front it looked like a normal stone building, but as she drew closer she could see that it extended for a long way behind it. A red sign above the massive doors read: IRISH REVIVALS. Next to the mill was a small creek and in the middle of the creek was a large wheel turning slowly. Did it pump the water? As the bartender warned, there was indeed a CLOSED sign on the door. Tara crept closer. Underneath the CLOSED sign someone had pinned a note:

  You bollocks! Thief! I’m reporting you to the guards!

  Someone wasn’t happy. Was it Ben Kelly who left this note? He’d used the term bollocks to refer to Johnny just minutes ago. Her uncle was certainly in a bit of conflict. She wondered why the shop was closed. Was he sick? Why was someone calling him a thief?

  The mill was large, but the windows were situated too high to peer in, so she was left to wonder what was inside. She glanced at the map again to see the location of Johnny’s cottage. She followed the map along the river until she reached the hill leading up to her uncle’s stone cottage.

  The air was fresh and smelled of limestone and the sea, the grass beneath her feet was soft and shining, and at the top of the hill the Irish blue skies domed what should have been a cheerful stone cottage. The sight before her was anything but. The cottage door yawned open, and an old man lay half in and half out of the doorway, the muddy bottoms of his shoes facing her. Was he hurt? Passed out from drink? “Hello?” She ran up to him, already reaching for her cell phone. What was the equivalent of 911 in Ireland? As she drew closer, she saw glassy brown eyes, open and staring straight up, covered by a milky-white film. His mouth was open too, as if frozen in horror. Only his beard moved, the wind whipping it against a face drained of all color. There was a nasty gash at his temple, and blood pooled down and around him and behind him like a macabre red carpet. There was no mistaking it; he was dead—viciously attacked.

  She cried out and slapped her hand over her mout
h. She whirled around and ran until she was a safe distance from the cottage, leaned over, and forced herself to breathe. When it came to meeting her uncle, she had imagined all possibilities, including that he might be dead—but she never once imagined this horrific scenario. She turned and ran, fear and adrenaline propelling her forward.

  She ran down the hill to the first old man she saw, a skinny soul who was pushing a cart filled with fishing nets and gear down the cobblestone path with great concentration. “Help,” she said. She had to say it again before he lifted his head and looked at her. She took out her phone and waved it. “I need to call the police. How do I call the police?”

  * * *

  She waited at the base of the hill for the guards. An ambulance arrived first, followed by two guard cars. They spilled out of their vehicles and huddled around her. She pointed to the top of the hill. “He’s dead,” she said. “Johnny Meehan.”

  A tall guard watched her carefully from his patrol car, cigarette smoke curling out the window. He stepped out, flicked his smoke to the ground, and motioned up the hill as he ground it out with his boot. The paramedics started to climb, the empty stretcher looming between them like a harbinger of doom. The officer approached Tara with weary eyes.

  “How ya?” he said with a nod. “I’m Detective Sergeant Gable.”

  “Tara Meehan.”

  His eyebrows raised as he tucked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers. “You’re related to Johnny?”

  “He was my uncle.”

  “Are you sure he’s passed?”

  Tara swallowed as a shudder ran through her. “I’m sure.”

  “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “It’s my first time.”

  He shifted, glanced at her, then dug a notebook from his pocket. The breeze off the bay blew his salt-and-pepper hair from underneath his cap. “Your first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Ireland?”

  “Yes. And . . .” She glanced up the hill. “It would have been my first time meeting my uncle.”

  He let out a low whistle. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” Tara glanced at the hill. The group was only halfway up. There was no reason to hurry, but Tara found herself wishing they would. “I think he was murdered,” she blurted out. “He has a gash on his head and there’s a lot of blood.”

  “Murdered?” His face remained still, but she heard the incredulity in his voice. “We wouldn’t be dealing with many murders out here, now.”

  “There’s a terrible gash on his head. And . . .”

  “And?” He took a step forward.

  “I think his body was dragged to the doorway.” She swallowed, remembering the carpet of blood behind him. “Or maybe he crawled to the door. Trying to get out and get help. But he didn’t make it.” A shudder ran through her.

  He frowned. “Fancy yourself a detective, do you?”

  “No. You asked. I’m answering.”

  “Let us do our job.”

  “I would expect nothing less. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was still writing in a notebook. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Bay Inn.”

  “Go there now. I’ll call for you when we’re done here.”

  “I’d like to stay.”

  “I can’t stop you, but you’re not to take a single step up that hill. If you’re correct about the situation, this entire area may be a crime scene.”

  “I won’t interfere. I just. I just want to stay here.” The detective sergeant tipped his cap to her, then turned his back and proceeded with the rest of the guards up the hill. “Don’t leave town,” he called out, just before he disappeared over the crest.

  * * *

  It was ridiculous standing here at the base of a hill, where she could see nothing, do nothing. The police and ambulance were drawing spectators. Men, women, and children dotted the path, assembled as if they had just been summoned to an emergency meeting. Gawpers, her mam would have called them. She missed her mother’s colorful sayings more than she could have ever imagined. Everyone kept their distance from her, but she could hear their voices gather speed as they threw furtive glances her way, then up the hill. At least from down here you couldn’t see the horrific site in the cabin. She needed some comfort—a cup of coffee would have to do. She walked down the cobblestone path until she could cross the street. She entered the first café she saw, with a sign boasting: THE SECOND BEST IRISH BREAKFAST IN GALWAY. “I don’t know,” a female voice said as a tiny bell announced her entry. “But there’s two guard cars and an ambulance.”

  “I saw them going up the hill. Johnny Meehan’s place,” a male voice said.

  “Maybe that’s why the shop’s been closed. Johnny could be sick. Has anyone checked on him lately?”

  “He keeps his own company. You know yourself.”

  Tara pretended not to be listening for she wanted to glom on to every word. Tears stung her eyes, and she was surprised to know she felt grief for a man she’d never met, bar a few photographs in a dusty album. My mother’s brother. She couldn’t help but see the gash, the blood, his staring eyes.

  “He’s not sick,” Tara heard herself say. “He’s gone.” Hit over the head. Attacked. She shouldn’t have blurted out that he was dead, but there was no taking it back now.

  Heads snapped her way, jaws dropped. People edged closer. The woman took out a rosary and started to pray.

  “Gone?” a man said, rising. “Johnny Meehan has passed?”

  “Yes. He’s passed.”

  The female crossed herself.

  “How is it you know?” a man asked, leaning so far forward she was afraid he’d keel over.

  “I found him.” Tara’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Sit down, sit down, loveen,” the man said, pulling out a seat. She was thankful and sunk into it.

  “He’s my uncle,” Tara said as tears rolled down her cheek. “I went up there to meet him for the very first time.”

  “Oh, you poor pet,” the woman behind the counter said. She was large and bosomy. “Now.” She shoved something at the old man, who then placed it in front of Tara. It was a giant slice of lemon meringue pie. The kindness overwhelmed Tara. Her pent-up grief came pouring out. “Oh, petal,” the woman said, her hand fixed to her heart. “I didn’t know he had any family.”

  A lump rose in Tara’s throat. “May I have a cup of coffee? To go?”

  “Of course, of course,” the woman said. “Coffee for takeaway coming right up.” She set about pouring it.

  “There, there.” The old man patted her hand. These two were like the Irish grandparents she never knew. Other people were starting to shift to the windows, and she heard the word dead repeated several times.

  “What do you t’ink?” the man said. “Would it be his heart, alright?”

  “Ben Kelly will finally get his boxing ring,” someone said.

  “It’s too soon for that talk, so,” the woman scolded.

  “Why didn’t that gypsy know?” another called out. “Couldn’t predict her own lover’s death?”

  Gypsy? Lover? Was he talking about the woman from the caravan? Her uncle was—dating her?

  “Don’t start rumors,” the old woman cautioned. “His niece is sitting right here.”

  The man stole a guilty look at Tara. She gave a meek smile to show she wasn’t offended. Somehow anything in an Irish accent sounded lovely.

  “I told ye something wasn’t right with Johnny Meehan a’t’all,” the old man said. “He wasn’t right in the head, like.”

  “Hush,” the older woman said again. The message was clear. Tara was a stranger. An American. No more insider talk. Tara paused at the door. She glanced at the sign.

  “Who has the best breakfast in Galway?”

  “Ah, there’s a woman who owns a cookery school. Claims her students can all make the best Irish breakfast you’ve ever had in your life. It’s a bit of a poke at her. And a nod to
Shakespeare.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “To my wife, Anne, I leave my second best bed,” the woman said in a theatrical voice. “Carrig Murray gave us that one.” Tara simply stared. “He’s part of some experimental theatre troop. They’ve rented the Nun’s Island Theatre, so they have. They’re about to do Hamlet. Some kind of twist on it; we’ve all been dying to see what he’s concocted. If you’re still here, you should definitely sort yourself out with a ticket, so.”

  “I see.” At the moment her entire life seemed like a scene out of an experimental play. To be or not to be. Sadly, for Johnny Meehan, that question had already been answered.

  * * *

  Tara stood outside, clutching her cup of coffee, grateful for the unusual wind that had whipped up, dipping the temperatures considerably, and the gray clouds that had swallowed the sun. Somehow it felt appropriate, much more so than a warm, sunny day. She had thought about going back to the inn, but she was too keyed up. The crowd of curious onlookers had nearly doubled. If the craned necks were any indication, chiropractors were about to get an onslaught of new business. Tara thought about the note on the door of the mill. She needed to tell a guard to go check it out right away. What if the note had been written by the killer?

  She found one guard still at the base of the hill and hurried up to him. He listened to her, frowning the entire time. But when she was finished he radioed the message to someone—most likely the detective sergeant. At least now they could check it out. The note had been typed, but maybe there was some way to trace it. Or had she seen too many movies? And would a killer be so stupid as to leave a threatening note on the door of the man he planned to kill?

  Perhaps it was an impulsive kill, and the shock of it made him forget all about the note. Her thoughts were interrupted by the paramedics who were walking down the hill, carrying the same stretcher, only it was empty.

  “Excuse me,” she said, running up to them. “Where is he?”

  “Where is who?” one said, cocking his head.