“They’re leaving flowers and crosses,” Danny said. “Paying their respects.”
“They’re ogling a crime scene.”
“That too.”
“Why are they allowed up there?”
“I’m sure the guards have it organized.”
Tara wasn’t so sure they did. She stopped along the stone wall. Hound settled a few feet away. He refused to get too close, but Tara could tell that he was also tracking her. It was kind of sweet. “Do you have any idea where my uncle would have gone?”
“It’s been wrecking my head,” Danny said. “Except for business runs, he never went anywhere. He was literally born in that cottage and—again, except for business trips—has never wandered outside this city.”
That was sad on its own, but in this case added to her growing worry that he was out there—hurt. Or worse. Another victim. “Friends? Other family?”
“Not outside Galway. That I am aware.” He looked Tara over. “We didn’t even know about you.”
A slight sense of shame washed over her, although she was hardly to blame for her mother and uncle’s feud. Whatever it was.
“There’s a rumor he might have been dating the gypsy who lives in the caravan by the bay.”
Danny folded his arms. “I’m not in the rumor business.”
Tara felt a flush of shame. She was just trying to figure out where he might have gone. “Did he keep a record of all of the places where he bought items?”
“If he did—it should be in the office. But if you’re thinking of checking every one of them out—it would take you years.”
“Maybe I could check out his most recent clients.”
“You?”
“Why not me?” Tara took a deep breath and took in the people passing by, and the occasional restaurant by the sea. She wondered what she would have for lunch.
“Besides the fact that you’ve never met him?”
Tara bit her lip. “Yes. Besides that.”
“The guards are looking for him. Don’t you think you should leave it to them?”
“Detective Sergeant Gable seems most interested in nailing my uncle as a murderer. And he didn’t raise the alarm until he discovered the victim was Emmet Walsh.”
Danny nodded. “He’s a very wealthy man.” He flinched. “Was a very wealthy man.”
“That’s my point. Does that mean his life was worth more than a poor man’s?”
“Of course not,” Danny said. “But there will be more media coverage because of it, which puts more pressure on the guards to solve it quickly. I didn’t make the world the way it is.”
Her uncle was in deep trouble. No wonder he was in hiding. Maybe he didn’t trust the guards to find the real killer. Or maybe he was guilty . . . “It seems odd that a very wealthy man was this upset over a cast-iron pig.”
“Before working at Irish Revivals I would have agreed with you.”
“And after?”
“These collectors get insane. I told you. Emmet was obsessed with this Japanese princess that supposedly once owned the pig. Bit of a tall tale, if you ask me.”
The scent of curry wafted in the air, and Tara clocked the restaurant, storing it away as a possibility for later. “What else can you tell me about Emmet?”
“He’s a local character. Made his money off insurance, and then some tech investments. He lived in a limestone mansion just outside the city. He was known to call it a castle, although it’s a relatively new build, so he was exaggerating there.”
“Is he married?”
“His family lives in England, I believe. The castle in Ireland seems to be his bachelor pad. That’s how he played it. I can only assume he was having marital difficulties.”
“You said his house is about forty minutes from here?” Most likely Emmet had driven here for his meeting with Johnny. Had the guards located his car?
Danny’s eyes slid over to her and, in step, they started walking again. “I’m sure the police are going to have it covered,” he said. “I wouldn’t get too involved.” His tone was gentle but also carried a warning.
“I know it’s crazy. I’ve never met him. I may not even like him. My mother must have had her reasons for not speaking to him. But he’s still the only family I have left. And I don’t think he’s going to be treated fairly by the guards.”
“So your plan is to make it worse by trespassing on the murder victim’s property?”
It sounded bad when he put it that way. “I’m just thinking through my options.”
“Maybe stick to the weather, music, and the craic.” Craic. Tara smiled at the Irish word for fun. “Got it.” They reached a natural end to the cobblestone, where land took over and in the distance a row of houses framed the view. They turned and headed back in the direction of the warehouse. Hound followed without a fuss. “What do you know about Rose?”
“Rose?”
“The fortune-teller.” Danny stopped abruptly, and Tara had to swerve so that she wouldn’t plow into him. “I’m not asking you to engage in idle gossip. Just the facts.”
“I might have underestimated you.”
“How so?”
“You’ve learned a great deal in a short amount of time. Johnny was obsessed with that woman.”
“Obsessed?”
“I got the feeling he was sweet on her. I don’t know if they were romantically involved or not. I worry she was taking advantage of him.”
“Taking advantage how?”
“He was spending a ton of money on her predictions. And they were all terrible. Doomsday stuff.” He stopped and put his hand on Tara’s arm. “She’s a charlatan. I’m not joking. Stay away from her especially.”
“Although—” Tara said. She left it hanging.
“Yes?”
“Isn’t what happened at the cottage . . . kind of in the doomsday territory?”
“Are you saying she predicted it?”
“Either that—or she caused it.”
“She’s either a psychic or a murderer. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I must sound like another gossip. That’s not my intention. She had a few doomsday predictions for me too.”
They were within a few feet of the salvage mill. Hound took off. Tara watched him go, then turned to Danny. “I’ll mind him for now,” he said. “He wanders from the cottage to the mill. I’ll make sure he has his food and water.”
“Thank you.”
“What would you like to do now? Go back to the inn or go through Johnny’s office?”
“Have the guards been through it?”
“Not yet.”
Tara sighed. Danny had a point about her not getting in the way of an official investigation. Besides, what were addresses of past employees going to do anyway? She didn’t have a car here, and even if she did she wasn’t an avid driver. She grew up in New York City where she didn’t get much practice driving. There was no way she was going to learn to drive on the other side of the road. And didn’t they all drive a stick here? She only knew how to drive an automatic and even then she feared for everyone else on the road. “I think I need to go back to the inn and lie down.”
Danny winked. “Those scones will do that to you. Come on, I’ll walk with you.” They fell into a comfortable silence as they headed for the heart of the city. Morning workers were out, going to and from their jobs, mothers pushed baby strollers, shoppers handled bulging bags, a few young people were still out from the night before, leaning against buildings smoking cigarettes, staggering down the path, or sleeping it off on the sidewalk. Music filtered through the air, along with the smell of baked goods and ale, all mixed with the sea air. Galway was a drug, and Tara was addicted. When they reached the inn, Danny put his hand on her arm, stopping her before she went inside.
“I think we should keep Irish Revivals open,” Danny said. “I’m happy to run it until Johnny is back.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Tara said.
“It’s not just nice. I wanted to b
e more involved with the business. I have ideas for expanding. I even told Johnny he should open a smaller shop in town—sell to tourists.”
“That sounds like a great idea.” She meant it too. The mill was so large it was overwhelming. But in a smaller space, she could imagine picking and choosing the items, and staging them for optimal viewing. Her hands suddenly itched to work. It had been weeks since she created a vision board. In her head she was already creating one for this retail shop.
“If only Johnny had seen it that way,” Danny said, his voice filled with regret.
“He didn’t like the idea of a shop?”
“You’ll find the older generation in Ireland is averse to change.”
“Yet you’re stepping up to help him now.”
“We might have had our disagreements, but if we don’t keep it open, he’s going to have nothing when he returns.”
“Meaning Ben Kelly might swoop in and try to take it over?”
“Jaysus,” Danny said. “You know everything.”
“Only a few things. What do you think of Ben Kelly?”
“He’s not someone I’d mess with. Was a boxer in his day. Still fierce.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It gets a little more dramatic.”
“Go on.”
“Alanna accused Johnny of leering at her.”
“Leering?” Now her uncle was a pervert. “Was he?”
“I never saw it. And I told her da that. But Johnny was erratic lately. I’m not calling her a liar either.”
“Why is she living above the mill?”
Danny shrugged. “She’s an adult now, wanted her independence I suppose. She’s going to cookery school in Galway. That pleases her father.”
“You think that’s the real reason?” Tara asked. She had a feeling she was looking at the real reason. Alanna definitely had a crush on Danny.
Danny frowned. “What are you on about?”
“Sorry. Nothing. Just curious.” She had to watch herself. For all she knew Danny had a crush on Alanna as well.
Danny laughed softly. “Johnny thought that Ben Kelly wanted her to live up there so that she could torture Johnny. Make him think he was going crazy. Drive him out.”
“That’s why he accused her of mucking about in the mill.”
“Supposedly Ben Kelly has been cozying up with the city planners. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that Alanna was doing a bit of spying.”
“Then why let her stay?”
Danny shrugged. “Keep your enemies close, I suppose. And Johnny didn’t want to live in the flat, so there’s no use leaving it empty.”
“Where do you live?”
“In town.”
She waited for more, but he didn’t provide any additional details. For a second she found herself wondering what his place looked like. “Do you think Johnny could have been telling the truth? Could Alanna be a thief?”
“What would a young girl want with rusty old items?”
He sounded defensive. Once again she wondered if the crush was mutual. Tara decided to drop it for now. “How can I help?”
“When are you going home?”
Tara sighed, her agitation bubbling to the surface. “Maybe I’m not.”
“Pardon?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that. I’m starting to feel I’m not welcome.”
“I didn’t mean that a’t’all. I didn’t know what you have at home. A family? A job?”
What could she say? Her mother was dead, she never met her father, and she divorced shortly after her only son died falling from a jungle gym? She wasn’t going to be an open book. Not around here. “I work freelance. I can afford to take a long break.”
His eyes were pinned on her as if he knew she was holding back, but then he relaxed and flashed her a smile. “Grand.”
“I want to help at the mill.”
His smile evaporated. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s not a request.”
“And what experience do you have in sourcing, selling, or organizing architectural items?” A clip of disdain was obvious in his voice.
“I’m an interior designer.”
“Okay.”
“I went to Parsons School of Design. I’ve been buying items and staging apartments and businesses in New York City for the past ten years.”
“Look, you don’t need to impress me.”
“Ditto.” It came out harsh. Danny flinched. “You asked if I had any experience.” She tried to sound calmer, but the damage was done.
“That I did.” He held his hand out for a shake. “It’s your business. I’m just the employee.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Tara played along with the handshake. He held her hand for a moment, then let it go. She offered a genuine smile. “I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Danny started to walk away. “Not too bright,” he said over his shoulder. “And definitely not too early.” She watched him until he was out of sight. She felt eyes on her, and looked up to find Grace Quinn leaning out of the top window, watching her. She suddenly had a very good idea why her mother left and had never come back. Forget smiling, around here Irish eyes were prying.
Chapter 8
In the morning, Tara discovered Danny had dropped keys off to her at the inn, solidifying her theory that he didn’t like to roll out of bed until the sun had been up a good while. Years of working for the corporate world in New York had made a morning person out of her. She opened the mill, then closed and locked the door behind her. She’d let Danny deal with potential customers; she wasn’t in a position to help any of them just yet. She headed straight for the tiny office. There was a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and stacked cardboard boxes. In the center drawer, she found a black notebook with notations about customers and sales. Perfect. Maybe there was a clue in here somewhere as to where her uncle was hiding.
But if he was innocent—why was he hiding? That was the one thought she couldn’t get out of her head. Maybe he’d witnessed the murder. Why not go to the guards? Maybe he was getting senile. Or maybe he too had been a victim. And the last option was the worst: He may not be hiding. He may be dead.
She didn’t want to work in the cramped office, so she took his appointment book and a notepad out to the patio. It was cool in the mornings and she wrapped her cardigan around her. A boat horn sounded in the distance, and the fresh air made it easier to think. What would her life have been like had she grown up here? Who would she have become? They could have at least spent their holidays in Ireland. Christmas and summer. She could have brought Thomas here. She did that too often, carved new memories of her son out of the blank spaces. What might have been. She had already imagined him here with her, and had even advanced his age. He would have been six. What did six-year-olds act like? He probably would have loved Hound, and the boats rocking on the bay, and the lively street performers. Pancakes with faces for breakfast. The park after, his hands sticky with syrup . . .
She couldn’t have changed it, could she? Her fate. It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault for taking their son to the park. The jungle gym was too high, his little hand was too sweaty—the drop too sudden—
If she’d been there, would she have thought to dry his hands off? Would she have been standing just below him, just in case, instead of five feet away chatting with Judy Bell? Stop it. Gabriel had tortured himself enough, she had tortured herself enough, and the vicious replays did nothing but threaten to swallow her whole.
She was grateful when Hound wandered over and got her mind off the past. He stood far enough away that she couldn’t touch him, but close enough for her to know he wanted her attention. “Hey,” she said. “Good morning.” He whined, then turned and trotted around the side of the mill. A few seconds later he poked his head out from the side of the building. Was he expecting her to follow?
She approached him, hoping to sneak in a pet. Instead, she smelled paint. She soon saw why. Across the building, in large sloppy black letter
s, was a painted message:
GO HOME YANKEE
She glanced at the hound. He was sitting up straight, tongue hanging out, happy to show her the writing on the wall. She was beginning to wonder if she should add him to the suspect list.
Tara called the guards from Johnny’s office. No one was available to speak with her, so she left a message. She found Hound wandering near an empty food bowl on the patio. A quick search turned up dog food in a closet near the patio. She fed him, and he even let her sneak a pet. She wondered if he missed Johnny. Or had he been a witness? If only Hound could speak.
She should take a picture of the side of the building. She retrieved her phone from her purse and took several shots. The smell of paint hung in the air. At least it isn’t blood.
She didn’t know what to do with herself and she was keyed up now, so she went inside Johnny’s office. For a second she just sat in his chair in front of his desk and wondered what the man was like. She finally opened his appointment book and flipped to the latest entry. It was dated a week before she arrived—which meant approximately a week before Johnny disappeared.
Wait. Everyone was just assuming Johnny disappeared at the exact same time that Emmet was murdered. But what if he’d been long gone? What if his disappearance was unrelated to Emmet’s murder? No, that couldn’t be. Danny said he came by recently to pick up his earnings. Unless he was lying . . . She focused on the entries:
Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre—
Carrig Murray
Cookery—Talk to A’s instructor
Tattoo Shop—Rose
Inis Mór—Talk to D
Several folks had already mentioned Carrig and his experimental theatre. He must be popular around here. She glanced at the second item. Didn’t Grace and Danny say that Alanna was going to cookery school? It stuck in Tara’s mind because of the phrasing. Americans would have said she was studying to be a chef or going to cooking classes. Cookery was the Irish way of phrasing it. Did the A stand for Alanna? Why on earth would Johnny Meehan want to speak with her instructor? Had he spoken with the instructor? Did Alanna know about it?
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