Tara took another step forward. “You’re talking about my uncle?”
Rose was shaking now, practically vibrating. “Go home!” She entered and slammed the door shut. Tara could have sworn she saw the caravan shake. Well, that was odd. What in the world was she being blamed for, and why?
Had the man in the coffee shop been on to something? Had Rose and her uncle been lovers? But if so—why in the world wouldn’t she talk to Tara?
“I can’t go home,” Tara said to the caravan. “The detective sergeant ordered me to stay.” Because he thinks I could be a killer. Her cell phone rang. It was one of the guards. Detective Sergeant Gable wanted to see her right away at her uncle’s cottage. Tara replied she was on her way and set off for Claddagh.
* * *
When Tara arrived at the base of the hill, Sergeant Gable led her to a stone wall near the bay, handed her something in a takeaway cup, and gazed out at the few boats that were making their way to shore. There were enough streetlights to give everything a glow, except for the bay, which had morphed into a mysterious blackness. She wondered what was going on beneath the surface, with all of them unaware. Tara peeled the lid off her cup, and the sweet, sweet aroma of coffee filled the air. “It’s not tea!” Tara exclaimed.
Gable nodded. “I took a chance, even though the sun is down. You’re from the city that never sleeps, are you not?”
“I could drink three shots right before bed and still fall into a deep slumber,” Tara said. It was also true that she’d barely slept since finding her uncle murdered.
She heard the detective laugh, a sound that surprised and then warmed her, but when she grinned back, his smile disappeared.
“Grace Quinn said you didn’t finish the mug of tea she served you.” Didn’t I? Panic struck Tara for a moment, until she heard the detective laugh again. “I’m partial to sludge as well,” he said, lifting his coffee cup. “Who needs sleep?”
“Hear, hear.” The detective had already talked to Grace Quinn about her? Why? She was going to have to watch herself in this city. Tara breathed in the sea air and held the cup of hot coffee in her hand, while a warm breeze caressed her cheeks.
“You say you’d never met your uncle?” His tone was friendly, but Tara sensed a bite lurking beneath the words.
“My mother never said why,” Tara said. “They were estranged. You probably know more than me.” She studied him carefully to see if he would confirm this. His face remained still and he continued to gaze out to sea.
“I’m only going to ask you this once.” He turned to her and stared into her eyes. “Do you know where I can find your uncle?”
“What?” Was he trying to trick her? Her head jerked to the hill in the distance. “Is his body missing?” When she took a step forward, he stopped her with his hand.
“The victim’s name is Emmet Walsh,” he said. “Ever heard of him?”
She shook her head, trying to absorb what he was saying. The image of the man’s body lying in the doorway accosted her. “That wasn’t Johnny Meehan?”
“No. It was not.”
“My God. No. I’ve never heard of him.” Emmet Walsh. Her uncle had not been murdered. She thought of how she’d raced down the hill and told everyone Johnny Meehan was dead. Announced it in the café even. What would they think of her now? Stop it, Tara. This isn’t about you. A man was still dead. She shuddered. “Why would I have heard of him?”
“He’s one of the wealthiest men in Galway. He was a client of Irish Revivals. A very unhappy client.”
Even more unhappy now. Tara’s world tilted. “My uncle’s still alive?” She whispered it. Gable shook his head. “When I find him, and charge him with murder, he’s going to wish he wasn’t.”
“Murder? You think my uncle murdered Emmet Walsh?” It was impossible to take this in.
“It’s the simplest case I’ve ever seen. An angry client storms up the hill, confronts him. He bashes him over the head. Then panics and runs away.”
Tara’s mind was spinning, trying to catch all the revelations. She wondered if this was how the unicyclist felt when tossing his sharp knives into the sky. “You found the murder weapon?”
Gable’s eyes flicked back to the bay. “He must have took it with him.”
“You don’t know that my uncle did this.”
“You don’t know that he didn’t. You don’t even know him.”
“You’re right. But . . .” But my uncle couldn’t be a murderer. He just couldn’t. She knew this was not a logical statement to make, so she clamped her mouth shut.
“Do you know what this murder is going to do to this city? Emmet Walsh was a connected man. This is going to cause an uproar. Not a single guard is going to be allowed to rest until his killer is found.”
He sounded as if he was blaming Tara now. Just like Gypsy Rose. For all she knew, Grace Quinn was spreading horrible lies about her as well. Just like her mother... She’d made a terrible mistake coming here. But she wasn’t going to let them bully her. “You weren’t as upset when you thought it was my uncle who was murdered,” Tara said. “I find that reprehensible.”
His eyes slid over to her. “Do you now?”
“I do.”
“Johnny brought this on himself.”
“Why was Emmet angry with my uncle?”
“Emmet paid him dearly for a cast-iron pig. Apparently, it had royal provenance.”
“What?” Tara had no idea what he was talking about.
“The pig. It belonged to an Asian princess.”
“Okay.” She was getting a very bad headache. She suddenly wished her coffee were of the Irish variety.
“Johnny sourced it, then claimed it vanished—after taking Emmet’s money. Emmet was on the warpath. Ever since he bought that fancy mansion outside of town Emmet has single-handedly been keeping Johnny in business.”
I bet Ben Kelly doesn’t like that.
A missing cast-iron pig. Just like the cast-iron harp Grace said she never received. Was that relevant? “If my uncle disappeared with the pig and the money,” Tara said, trying to piece it together, “then he may not have even been around when Emmet was murdered.”
“Or. He ran away with the pig and the money because he accidentally killed Emmet.” Gable looked smug.
“So you think this was an accident? Not a murder?”
Gable frowned. Then glared out to sea. “It’s early days yet.”
“I wonder if it was Emmet who left that threatening note on the door of the mill.”
Gable’s head snapped toward her. “What threatening note?”
“I told your guard about it. There was a note on the door to the mill. Someone threatening to file a police report.”
“Let’s go.” The detective took off at a jog down the cobblestone path and Tara was forced to abandon her coffee and follow. She wasn’t really a runner, had never felt the urge to run unless she was being chased, and if she were going to take up the sport, it wouldn’t be in sandals. The slap slap slap of them annoyed her, but she pressed on. She was out of breath before they reached the front door of the mill. Gable stood in front of it, steam practically rising off him. There was no longer a note pinned to the door.
He turned as she approached, doing her best not to be too obvious as she sucked in air. That’s it. She was going to have to start working out again. He just looked at her. She pointed at the door. “It was right there.”
“You should have called us immediately.”
“It was before I discovered the body. Sorry, but that jolted everything else out of my head, and when I did remember I told one of the guards.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. He was dressed like you, but a lot younger.” Tara didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was too late to take the words back.
Gable absentmindedly patted his graying hair and then glared at her again. “What exactly did the note say?”
“It said—‘You bollocks! I’m going to report you to the g
uards.’ ”
“Was it signed?”
“Who signs a threatening note?”
“What was the threat?”
“Reporting him to the guards.”
“Not much of a threat.”
“I’m just telling you what the note said.” She stared at the spot where the note had been, as if willing it to reappear. “It was typed.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“What? That we still have typewriters in Ireland?” He nodded at the mill. “I’m sure you could find a number of them in there, alright.”
“Even so. The person who left the note couldn’t get inside. That’s why they left a note on the outside door.”
“Would you be getting to the point anytime soon?”
Tara sighed. “Whoever left the note had to leave, return home, or to work—type it up—come back.”
“Perhaps he or she brought the note with him or her.”
Who brings a typewritten note with them? “I suppose. But only if they expected to find the mill still closed.” She threw her arms up. “And why not just leave a handwritten note?”
“Some people have terrible handwriting.”
“Or they didn’t want the handwriting to be recognized.”
If Gable agreed, it was odd he wasn’t going to let on. She made a mental note never to play poker with him. “Do you have a key to the mill?” Gable rattled the door. It was locked.
“No. Grace Quinn told me to contact a Danny O’Donnell.”
A shadow fell over Gable’s face, but he just nodded.
A thought occurred to Tara. “What if someone intended to kill my uncle, and this Emmet Walsh was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“It’s more likely that the note was left by Emmet, then after writing it, he went to confront Johnny at the cottage.”
“In that case, Johnny may have killed him in self-defense.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because Emmet was inside Johnny’s house. How do we know he was invited? Maybe he broke in. Maybe he was planning on killing my uncle. You said he was enraged.”
Gable pointed at her. “I will arrest you if any of these wild theories start floating around.”
“I didn’t know it was illegal to explore possibilities.”
“Keep your nose clean and your gob shut. Do you understand?”
“I’ll keep my nose clean and my gob shut as long as you keep your mind open.”
He jabbed a finger at her. “You’re the one who didn’t know what Johnny Meehan looked like. And I suppose you thought with Johnny Meehan out of the picture—you’d inherit the cottage and the mill.”
Tara bit her lip. Was this what Grace Quinn was gossiping about? The nerve. She should check out of the Bay Inn immediately. “I understand you have to look at all the possibilities,” Tara said. “Even if I were the dumbest criminal ever, to go around town asking everyone where I could find Johnny Meehan, then murder him—the man I thought was him—then run to town to figure out how to call the guards. Without a trace of blood, not to mention a murder weapon on me. But I’m glad you’re thinking. I really am.” She shouldn’t be yelling at a detective like this, but she couldn’t help it. This was ludicrous.
“Now I see the Irish in you,” Gable said, with a tone somewhere between agitation and admiration. He took a step toward her. “Did you step foot inside the cottage?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“There was a dead body lying in the doorway. I’m sure.”
“Did you have any kind of contact with Johnny Meehan about your visit? A letter? A phone call?”
There was a sense of urgency in his voice that she did not understand. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t have his address or phone number. I didn’t even know if he was alive.” She winced.
“Did anyone else contact him on your behalf?” His eyes were like balls of steel. He was asking for a reason. What was it?
“How could they?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
He glanced around. “There’s something you need to see.”
Fear rippled down Tara’s spine. “What?”
Detective Gable held up a finger, then radioed one of his guards. “Has the body been removed?”
The radio crackled and a voice sang out. “The state pathologist just finished. They’re taking him down now. A crowd is starting to form. Everyone still thinks it’s Johnny.”
“Let them keep thinking it. The longer we delay the riot, the better.” He clicked off and turned to her. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Outside the cottage, the detective handed her booties and gloves, and a paper apron like they give you in hospitals. They put them on, then the two of them stepped over the crime-scene tape that marked the entrance. It was eerie, entering a cottage where a murder had taken place. She made sure to avoid the blood on the floor, the trail that ran down the middle of the cottage from the front door to the back wall. Once she stepped clear of it, she looked around, desperate to focus on anything else, get the horror of what had occurred here out of her mind. Whoever Emmet Walsh had been, old or young, nice or mean, rich or poor—he didn’t deserve to die like this. She barely had time to take in the wood-burning stove, the sitting area, the small yet functional kitchen, the windows looking out onto the hill and the Galway Bay—for the detective was making a beeline to a back wall, where he directed his flashlight.
“Here,” he said. “Can you tell me why he spent his last breath to write this?”
Tara followed his beam to the back wall, which was covered in crude splotches of red—God in heaven, was that blood? Yes. There was blood splatter on the wall. Only it had been used to paint a sprawling word. The T was nearly a foot high, three times as high as the rest of the letters, for the second A was capitalized but smaller than the T, the R looked to be on a lower line altogether, as if trying to run away from the word, and the last A was not capitalized, the small A seeming to shrink from the rest of the letters, but none of them had escaped, for when you put them all together there was no mistaking the writing on the wall:
TARA.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Sergeant Gable said. “Ever hear the expression ‘the writing is on the wall’?”
She couldn’t answer. She felt icy cold. This wasn’t possible. She didn’t know Emmet Walsh, and he didn’t know her. Her uncle was a total stranger. Why on earth was her name on the wall, written in blood? She followed the trail of blood across the floor to the doorway. “Did Emmet Walsh write that?” It wasn’t possible.
“I don’t know. We’ll wait for the state pathologist to come to a conclusion.”
“I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me.”
“So you say,” Sergeant Gable said. “Yet there’s your name. The only question is . . . is someone warning you . . . or was he naming his killer?”
“”I didn’t kill him. I could never kill anyone.”
He stared at her for a long time, then gestured for the door. She was only too happy to leave. When they were ready to part, Sergeant Gable stopped her. “Would you be willing to hand over your passport?’
He didn’t trust her. Why should he. She was a stranger. “Is that a command? Do you have the authority?”
“It’s a request. A very strong one. This is a murder probe and you’re a suspect.”
“It’s in my room at the inn. Do you want to follow me back now?”
He sighed. “Do I have your word you have no intention of leaving town?”
“You have my word.”
“I’ll arrange to get it another time.”
“Understood.” She didn’t like it, and she suspected he had no legal right to ask for it. But given that her name was written on a wall in blood she wanted to be as cooperative as possible. She had been called many things in life,
she just never imagined “murder suspect” would be one of them.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Tara was at Irish Revivals before the sun came up. Danny O’Donnell had agreed to meet her at seven thirty, or half seven as they said here. Ever since she’d seen her name written in blood on the cottage wall, her mind had been racing. She couldn’t even get through her morning meditation. Being near the sea helped. The gentle lap of the water, the cry of the gulls, the green, green grass, the lilting voices of the people, her mother’s people—Galway was indeed a bustling destination that seamlessly integrated a unique country feel to the bohemian city. She absolutely loved it. Even though they hated her. Suspected her of murder even. She wasn’t welcome here, yet she’d been told several times not to leave. She’d never felt so conflicted.
A young lad was approaching, holding a set of keys in his outstretched hand. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Was this the player?
“Danny?” she said.
The lad shook his head. “He’s not feeling well. Asked me to meet you here.” He tossed her the keys and started to walk away.
“And who are you?” she called after him.
“See ya,” he said in reply.
She sighed. One of these days she was going to get someone here to like her. She unlocked the door and stepped into the cavernous space. Her hands fumbled along the wall until she found a light switch. At least three thousand square feet of treasures sprawled before her. This was no small business. This was massive.
Stone statues, old fireplaces, stained-glass windows, iron gates, claw-foot bathtubs, boxes of fancy knobs, cast-iron figures for the gardens. Row after row of architecture and decor. A sense of awe thrummed in Tara as she took it all in. The space was organized. This did not look like a business that misplaced or lost items. Why, she could spend all day in here. Half of this business had belonged to her mother? Why had she run away from it?
Maybe if she found the cast-iron harp Grace Quinn had been promised, she could get some answers. Grace knew something about the past, Tara was sure of it. Now that she saw what good order the place was in, she could start a thorough search. Johnny also had to have an office in here. If only Danny had bothered to show up. Not feeling well. What did that mean? Hungover? Bedding a new addition to his harem?
Murder in Galway Page 5
