Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  She caught herself—gossiping mentally about a man she’d never even met—just like others were doing to her. Just because a few locals had hinted that he was a womanizer didn’t mean he was. She should be ashamed of herself.

  She came to a row of fire pokers lined up in wooden containers like a platoon of soldiers. There must have been a hundred of them. She picked one up, marveling at the weight and heft of it. It could double as a weapon. She set it back and moved to the next row. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to meeting Danny until he didn’t show up. He seemed to know her uncle better than anyone else in this town. Wouldn’t he want to meet her? Was he worried about her uncle? Or . . . was he the killer?

  Stop it. What was she thinking? This was the name of this murder game—wasn’t it? Trust no one? She hated it.

  Innocent or guilty—it was just bad manners for Danny O’Donnell not to show up. At least he’d sent a lad to give her the keys and let her in. She picked up a porcelain bowl. It was so smooth and substantial. An old sink? Just as she set it down she heard the floorboards creak behind her. Emmet Walsh’s dead face flashed before her—milky eyes staring at the ceiling, the gash on his temple, the blood pooling around him.

  The creak sounded again. It was coming from the doorway. She crouched down, moved to the next row, grabbed a fire poker, and whirled around.

  A man stood before her. He put his hands up. “Easy.” There was something familiar about him. Tall. Handsome. Around her age. Something about his green eyes? Oh, God. He wasn’t covered in ashes but it was him. He seemed to recognize her at the same time. “You,” he said. He glanced at the fire poker. “Don’t tell me. I’m about to meet your father?”

  The joke took her off guard. She put the fireplace poker down as she laughed. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”

  “Apologies are all on me. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “Who are you?”

  An easy grin spread over his handsome face. He stuck his hand out. “Danny O’Donnell.”

  She shook his hand, taken aback. Of course you are. He was attractive. And charming. Grace was right. A player. No wonder she felt something with him. She’d always been drawn to the bad boys. Until Gabriel. He was a decent man. One look at him and the word trustworthy rose and formed a bubble around his head. And look how that turned out. She realized with a start that they were still holding hands. She pulled hers back. “Thought you weren’t feeling well?”

  “I just needed a bit more of a lie-in. But I had a feeling you would be punctual, so I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

  Had he been out late the night before? Drinking at a pub? Dancing with a pretty girl? She wondered what his life was like here. His easygoing grin would be out of place amongst hectic New Yorkers. “Thank you.” She gestured around. “This place is amazing.”

  A look of pride crossed over his face. And then something else. Sadness? “It used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “When Johnny was himself.”

  Good. He was willing to talk. She just couldn’t look too eager. She glanced around. “It looks very organized.”

  “He had good help.” He winked.

  “Did you do this?” Tara gestured around the tidy space.

  Danny frowned. “Actually, no. But this is part of what I mean about Johnny’s head lately. When I walked out, this place was in a heap. He must have worked day and night since to organize it.”

  Tara nodded. That was for sure. “There’s so much I want to ask you.”

  Danny nodded. “Why don’t we start with a tour?”

  * * *

  Danny O’Donnell was no slouch. He had an impressive understanding of the items in the mill and the history associated with each. He rattled off the year something was made, its worth, the demand, and even where they found some of the items. Old churches, castles, mansions, even mortuaries. Every object was a vessel of history, a holder of stories. By the time they were finished, she was almost dizzy. The inventory was vast.

  “It’s wonderful,” Tara said.

  “We had our moments,” Danny said with a smile that seemed forced. They ended the tour in a cramped office. Unlike the main floor, the office was cluttered. Papers were stacked on the desk, which loomed large in the small space, and the shades were drawn, giving it a cave-like feel. “Does Johnny have a computer? Or a typewriter?”

  Danny laughed. “We tried. He refused. Did everything by hand, even the books.”

  “I see.” The note had been typed somewhere else.

  “Do you need a computer?”

  “No,” Tara said. “I was just curious.” She had her laptop, couldn’t imagine getting work done without it. Although she still did her initial planning using blank canvases to create vision boards. She’d first started doing them in college. Creating a collage of her design. Most designers had switched to computer renderings, or used their iPads. She supposed she was old-fashioned in that sense. She loved creating the boards, fixing materials and colors, and photos, and textures to them. Some of her clients preferred it too. That way they could touch the materials, see what it would be like to live with them day in and day out. There were probably a few people who whispered about her behind her back for still doing it this way. Perhaps being old-fashioned and stubborn were inherited traits.

  Danny was watching her intensely. She felt heat rise to her cheeks.

  “We have a back garden,” Danny said. “A bit more cheerful. I can make some tea. If you fancy a chat?”

  “That’s so lovely. And yes. I do.” She took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t going to hate her. “But I am not a tea person. I’m a coffee person. Like a really big coffee person.”

  Danny laughed. “I’ll give the café a bell. We can get coffee and if you like—scones with butter and jam. Does that suit?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Cream and sugar.”

  “The door to the garden is down that way and to the left.” He pointed down the length of the warehouse.

  “Great.” She assumed he meant he’d meet her there, so she followed his directions, reminding herself on the way back through that she needed to ask him about Grace Quinn’s harp, and the cast-iron pig that had belonged to a princess.

  The garden was a gray stone patio with shrubs of heather lining the back, their gorgeous purple flowers spilling over a low stone wall, and several planters interspersed between a wrought-iron table-and-chair set with large, soft cushions. It felt good to sit for a moment. She took a few deep breaths and closed her eyes.

  The sound of a door opening jolted her awake. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off. Danny, his hands full with coffee and scones, smiled. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She sprung out of her seat.

  “What for?” He cocked his head.

  “I fell asleep.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.” He gestured to her chair and she sank into it again.

  “These are way too comfortable.”

  “Thank you. I had to beg Johnny to let me put them out here.” He set the coffee and the scones in front of her. The scent of the freshly brewed java and the sweet blueberries from the scones perked her right up. This was the business. Scones and butter and blueberries and jam. With a nice cup of coffee. She didn’t want to think another thought all day. After spending several minutes focusing on nothing but the coffee and scone, she looked up to find Danny watching her. They held eye contact too long; it caused a pulse in her neck to start throbbing, and she glanced away.

  “You must have been shocked to hear the news,” she said, while looking at the heather.

  “Which time?” he asked. Her eyes darted to his. “First I heard that Johnny Meehan was dead. Then I heard that Johnny was alive. Then I heard that Emmet Walsh had been murdered. I was shocked all three times.”

  “Oh, no.” She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “That’s because of me.”

  He scrambled forward, almost falling out of his chair. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean it was you
r fault. How could you know?”

  “I should have just said—a man is dead. But you’re right. He was lying in the doorway of my uncle’s cottage. I’ve never met him. I think anyone would have made the same assumption.”

  “’Course they would.”

  “The town seems to hate me now.”

  “Oh, that’s just their way. A bit guarded about outsiders. Especially Americans. No offense.”

  “Right.” She sighed. How could I take offense at that? “Do you think my uncle killed Emmet Walsh?” Tara was hoping for an immediate no, maybe even expected it, but as the seconds dragged on, she knew it wasn’t coming.

  “A few months past I would have said no way.”

  “But now?”

  Danny shook his head. “He wasn’t himself. Seemed startled when anyone came into a room. As if he was surprised to even see other people around him. Prone to absolute fits of anger. And paranoid. I’ll tell you. In the past few months, Johnny Meehan was one paranoid Irishman.”

  “And you have no idea why?”

  “It started with Emmet Walsh.”

  “The cast-iron pig.”

  “So you’ve heard.”

  “News does travel fast here.”

  “That it does. Yes. I believe it did start with the pig. Emmet Walsh was determined to possess it. Saw it in some magazine. Rumored it belonged once to a Japanese princess. Ended up with some banker out of Manchester. Johnny was on it. He went to a good deal of trouble to source it.”

  “Does that mean he got it?”

  Danny nodded. “Traveled to Manchester after some old-fashioned bargaining with yer man.”

  “Yer man?”

  Danny nodded. “The owner of the pig. A banker.”

  “You’re sure Johnny got it?”

  “I saw it myself. He brought it into the shop.” He shook his head. “I didn’t see why Emmet would want the thing, let alone a princess, but who am I to get in the way of a sale?”

  “And then?”

  Danny shifted in his chair and for a moment looked as if he were debating whether or not to tell her. “Then one day he came in and said it wasn’t where he put it. He got really worked up. I helped him look. We touched every object in the warehouse. He went home and searched his cottage. By the time he came back down, he was accusing everyone he knew of being a thief. Including me.”

  Everyone. That was a lot of suspects. “So that was the start of the anger and paranoia?”

  “That was the start.”

  “He never found the pig?” Danny shook his head. “And then one day Emmet came looking?”

  “Oh, Emmet came looking many days. Johnny at first offered his money back. But it wasn’t about money—for either of them. And to make matters worse—when Emmet finally did come around to wanting the money back, Johnny had already spent it.”

  “How much?”

  “It was just shy of ten thousand euro.”

  Tara was grateful she’d already swallowed her coffee for she would have spit it out like a cartoon character. “For a pig?”

  “A pig owned by a princess.” Danny winked, and then grinned. Tara felt an unexpected flush of pleasure.

  “Are you saying the business doesn’t even have ten thousand euro on the books?”

  “We do, but it took a bite. Johnny didn’t like to reach into his pocket. The theft had him bonkers. The morning they were to meet, I believe Johnny intended on giving Emmet his money back.”

  “You believe?”

  Danny nodded. “I did my best to convince him. I told him we’d figure out a way to make up for the loss. I assumed he was going to take my advice but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Emmet Walsh was one of our best customers. He was threatening to ruin our reputation if he didn’t get his pig. He didn’t want the money back, he wanted his precious item.”

  Her uncle would have been stressed. Desperate even. What happened that morning? “There was a note on the door to the mill that morning. Someone very upset with my uncle. I told the guards, but by the time they came to check it out it was gone.” She quoted the note and waited to see how he would react.

  Danny looked thoughtful. “Sounds like it could have been Emmet, alright.”

  “Did Emmet live close to the mill?”

  “Not too far of a drive.”

  “How long?”

  Danny raised an eyebrow. “Forty minutes, I’d say.”

  That was way too long for Emmet to have gone home to type the note. Was Sergeant Gable right? Had Emmet anticipated trouble and typed the note ahead of time? She filled Danny in on her thoughts.

  “Ah. That’s why you were asking after a typewriter.”

  Tara nodded. “It doesn’t seem believable that Emmet would drive home to type that note.” Either way, note or no note, Johnny had been expecting Emmet. So much for Emmet taking Johnny by surprise, and Johnny killing him in self-defense. A thought suddenly occurred to Tara. She turned to Danny. “If you had quit already—how do you know Johnny and Emmet planned to meet that morning?”

  Chapter 7

  Danny’s head snapped up. He looked as if she’d caught him doing something untoward. “I came to see him the day before. I was supposed to pick up my last check.”

  “I thought he didn’t write checks.”

  “It’s a turn of phrase. I stopped to pick up my earnings.” The friendly tone was guarded now.

  Tara wondered if Johnny had paid Emmet. Would the guards find ten thousand euro in the dead man’s pockets? “Did you tell any of this to the police?”

  “Tell any of what?”

  “That Johnny had been expecting Emmet that morning? And he was going to give him his money back instead of the pig?”

  Danny shook his head. “Do you think it’s important?”

  “I’m sure it will be. Until the murder is solved, everything will be important.”

  Danny exhaled. “They haven’t come knocking yet.”

  That’s because they were too busy blaming Johnny for the murder. Or her. And Danny’s story didn’t help her uncle’s case. He’d known Emmet was coming. If he’d wanted to attack him he had time to plan it out. There were plenty of items in the warehouse that could have been used to bash someone in the head. She shuddered just thinking about it.

  “Is that why you quit?” Tara asked. “Because he accused you of stealing?”

  Danny stared at her for a long time. Was he angry? Should she not have asked? He stood abruptly. The chair scraped the patio. “I have to walk Johnny’s dog.”

  “His dog?”

  “I guess he’s your dog now.” Tara stood as Danny let out a loud whistle.

  “I can’t take a dog. I’m only visiting. I’m staying at an inn. I can’t take a dog.” Just then a small horselike animal trotted onto the patio. He had creamy white fur that was sticking out in every direction, wide-eyes, and perked-up ears. “This?” Tara said, pointing at the beast before her. “That’s not a dog. That’s a hairy pony.”

  “A sexy, hairy pony,” Danny said to the dog as he scratched him behind the ears. “He’s an Irish wolfhound.”

  “Hey, Wolf,” Tara said. The dog cocked his head and kept his distance. Yep. Even the Irish animals hated her. “Definitely no room at the inn for you.” Danny laughed. She felt herself relax a smidge. She tried to get close enough to pet it, but it skittered away, stopping after a few feet to give her a dirty look. In New York City she was a sought-out interior designer. Here, she was a Yankee Doodle minus the Dandy. “What’s his name?”

  Danny looked startled. “I don’t know,” he said. “Johnny just always called him Hound.”

  “Oh,” Tara said.

  “He wasn’t exactly the type to name things.” He looked at Tara. “Do you want to join us for that walk?”

  She glanced at the plate where a scone as big as her head used to sit. Now crumbs were the only hard evidence. “Yes, please.”

  They rounded the building with Hound trotting behind, just in time to see Alann
a approaching, her blonde hair gleaming in the sun, a backpack slung over her shoulder. Now that she knew the girl was a boxer, or wanted to be a boxer, Tara could see it in Alanna’s compact, bouncy gait, just like her father’s. Tara smiled, but it was as if the world had distilled to a single focus and Alanna could only see Danny.

  Danny made the introductions. “This is Alanna. She lives above the warehouse.”

  “We’ve met,” Tara said. “She also works at the inn.” Tara smiled. Alanna blinked back.

  “Where are you going?” she asked Danny, apparently saving her lip-muscles for him.

  “We’re taking Hound for a walk,” Danny said.

  “Grand. I’ll just drop my bag upstairs and be with you in two shakes.”

  Tara tried to squelch the negative feelings bubbling in her for the girl. She could feel the jealousy radiating off her. “Sorry,” Danny said quickly. “We have to discuss business.”

  “Business?” Alanna’s voice rose. “What business would you have with her?” This time her eyes flicked over Tara. “Buying a gnome for your garden back home?”

  “I live in NYC,” Tara said. “I have a fire escape, but plants tend to shrivel and die on it.”

  Alanna blinked again. “This is Johnny’s niece,” Danny said.

  Tara almost flinched. Instinct told her that the less this girl knew about her, the better.

  “Is she now?” Alanna said. “Then how is it she couldn’t even identify his body?” A look that could only be described as hatred came into her eyes. Even Hound whined. The wind seemed to pick up. Tara wanted to move.

  “It was a horrible mistake,” Tara said. “I’m sorry if it personally caused you any trouble.”

  Alanna stared. She was probably picturing herself pummeling Tara in a boxing ring. Tara clenched her fists, wondering if she would be able to get in any counterpunches of her own. Probably not. Danny placed his hand on Tara’s waist and gently pushed her forward.

  * * *

  They followed the promenade even though it wasn’t always a straight line. Hound trotted way ahead, in his happy place, aware it seemed of every spot to stop and sniff, the places on the stone wall where sea gulls would gather, and the location of rubbish bins where maybe a scrap or two may have missed the mark. In the distance, she could see the hill leading up to Johnny’s cottage. A line of people snaked up it. She halted. “Oh, my God,” she said, pointing.