“Why is Alanna living above the mill?” she asked.
He turned, and from his scowl he wasn’t happy about it. “I told her to stay away from that man.”
“Was she keeping an eye on him for you?”
“You heard me, did you not? I wouldn’t be wanting her anywhere near him, now.”
“Because she told you he was leering at her?”
“If you know so much, why are you talking to me?”
“I’m just trying to get my facts straight.”
“I guess you didn’t bring us here to get to know us.”
That one hit its mark. “I did,” she said. “I’m sorry. Enjoy the fair.” She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away. She took a bite of the cheeseburger. It was perfect. Maybe she should just relax and enjoy the fair too.
While her uncle was out there somewhere. Alone, and probably afraid. Without a family member left in the world but her. After that, the burger lost most of its taste.
* * *
Carrig Murray was tossing coins into the mouths of tiny bottles. His aim was spot-on. Didn’t he claim to have problems with his sight? He wasn’t wearing glasses. Had that been a lie?
“Great aim.” He whirled around and stared at Tara. It took him a moment to place her. “Ms. Meehan.” He grinned. “This was a wonderful idea. T’ank you.”
“You’re welcome. I thought you were nearsighted.”
“Pardon?” He began to blink rapidly.
“You couldn’t read the print in the notebook I tried to show you—the D, or G, next to my uncle’s note about going to Inis Mór? But here you are successfully tossing coins into the tiny mouths of bottles from several feet away.”
He squinted but this time out of confusion. “I’ve been to the eye doctor since,” he said. “They sorted me out.”
“What’s the name of the eye doctor?”
“Why?”
“I could use a checkup.”
“I’m terrible with names. I’ll be wanting to get back to you on dat.”
“You’re not wearing glasses.”
“Contact lenses. Little miracles they are.”
“It’s odd that for a director, who I assume needs to read scripts all day, you only recently sorted out your eyesight.”
“What does my eyesight have to do with the price of tea in China?”
“Can you please answer my question about why Johnny wrote the letter D, or as you suggested, G, in his notebook after Inis Mór?”
“I suggested, did I? Probably just trying to be polite. Why on earth would I have any idea what your uncle was trying to write?” His blinking continued. Drops of sweat beaded on his broad forehead.
Tara closed the step between them. “Who were you talking to that day on the phone?”
He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I don’t remember. Why?”
She shrugged. “I was just curious. It sounded like a heated argument. I believe you said his name was George.” She was taking a risk, pushing him, but he was hiding something, and she was curious.
He glared at her. “Previously you stated you hadn’t heard a word of it.”
Shoot. He had her there. “I didn’t want you to think I was purposefully eavesdropping. It’s not my fault if you have a booming voice.” She shrugged. “Can’t help that I’m curious.”
He suddenly straightened up, his face hardening. The fear was gone, and now he was going to act tough. Which man was the real Carrig Murray? The nervous one with bad eyesight, or the seething director? Why did she get the feeling there was more than one production he was directing?
“Don’t get too curious,” he said with a wink. “Just remember what it did to the cat.” With that he strode away from her without so much as a backward glance. One thing was clear. The mysterious friend he had been speaking to on the phone could most likely be found on Inis Mór.
* * *
Tara was cutting through the crowd, trying to spot Rose when she felt a hand on her waist and a male voice in her ear. “There you are.” Danny.
God, that Irish accent. She could see why it was named Sexiest Accent in the World, like every year in a row. It was hard not to melt. Even as a young girl she was furious she didn’t have her mother’s beautiful lilting accent. I don’t sound like you! Many a night she literally threw a fit over it. Ah, pet, you don’t want to sound like me. You sound like you. Feisty, wonderful, you. Now put the kettle on and leave me to a bit of peace, will you, pet? The memory made her smile.
She turned to see Danny, dimple flashing in the sun. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not really here to have a good time?”
“I am,” she said. “I ate a cheeseburger.”
He laughed. “You had a cheeseburger with Ben Kelly, and then had a heated chat with Carrig Murray.”
“Heated?”
“I could see the steam comin’ off him from over here.”
“Just being neighborly.”
“What did you learn about our suspects?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Am I a suspect?”
She made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him. There was a twinkle there, and a bit of a challenge. And then there was that other thing—that current. She found herself looking at his mouth, still sporting an easygoing smile. God, that zing, that tug of desire reflected in his eyes. It could get a girl in trouble. She took a physical step back and looked away.
“Why don’t we go on a ride?” he said.
Was that meant to have a double meaning? Or was she losing her mind over his handsome face and cute Irish accent? A player. Oh my God. I’m losing it. Thank God Grace Quinn wasn’t here to witness it. Tara turned red as she remembered Grace Quinn actually was here. Her head whipped around to see if she could spot her. Was she hiding behind a puff of cotton candy, spying on her?
Oh, no. Was I smiling? Every time she was around Danny her mouth spontaneously stretched open. It was embarrassing. But it wasn’t her fault. It was his. That charm of his was a deadly weapon. “That’s okay. I just ate.”
He grabbed her hand and started pulling her along. “The dodge-ems.”
“The dodge-ems?” She looked ahead where colorful cars were slamming into each other. “Oh. Bumper cars.”
“Bumper cars,” he said, making fun of her and lightly bumping her hip. “Your stomach can take that at least.”
From the glint in his eye, Danny wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I’m a terrible driver,” she joked as he led the way.
“I’m counting on it.”
* * *
She had to admit, the bumper cars, or dodge-ems, were fun. There was nothing like slamming into complete strangers to get out a little aggression. Danny, she noticed, liked to sneak up and slam into her at the last minute. She turned the wheel, preparing to get him back, when suddenly Alanna was in a car coming straight for her. The look in her eye was unmistakable: unadulterated rage.
Tara’s car took the blow, her head snapped back, and her ears started to ring—or was that just the sound of Alanna’s laughter echoing through her head? Alanna zoomed her little car after Danny. Tara stepped on the gas, even as her brain told her not to be so childish, and she made a beeline for the back of Alanna’s shiny red bumper car. She slammed into it at the top speed allowed. “Good one,” Danny said, flashing a smile, and forcing Alanna to laugh it off. “She needs to get you back for that sliver of glass in the salmon.”
So he had mentioned it. Alanna’s eyes widened as she stared at Tara. “Sliver?” Tara said. “It was a shard.” Alanna continued to stare without a word. Adrenaline pumped through Tara. She was not going to get into it with the girl here and now. Did she try to kill me? She maneuvered her car to the exit and stepped out on wobbly legs. She glanced back at Alanna, who was zooming in on Danny again. The girl was absolutely obsessed. Did Danny realize the extent of it? Had they seen Fatal Attraction out here? That girl was one pot away from boiling a bunny. Maybe it was
time Alanna found a new place to live. Tara didn’t want to deal with her jealousy. Would it do any good to tell her that he just wasn’t into her?
Probably not. Was it as simple as her being young and in love? Or had she been mucking about the mill at night? If so—why?
Her alibi would be easy enough to check—she claimed to be at cookery school. She remembered Johnny’s notation in his book. Tara was going to have to visit her instructor, find out if Johnny had done the same thing, and why.
Danny caught up with Tara again, and tried to get her to go on the Ferris wheel. Tara looked up at the seat resting at the very top, swaying gently, and she thought about heights, and she thought about falling, and she thought about her son. She jerked her hand back, startling Danny. “No,” she said. “Never.” I wasn’t there to catch him.
He took it all in, the flash of pain across her face. “Okay,” he said. He put his hands up. “Sorry.”
“Are you scared of heights?” Alanna belted out. Suddenly they were all standing behind her—Carrig, and Ben Kelly, and Alanna, and Grace, and Rose, and Danny. It was her turn to feel under the spotlight, to have sweat gathering on her brow.
“Leave her be,” Danny scolded her. Alanna was stung, you could see it, but she didn’t say another word. Tara was so grateful. Grief still had a way of grabbing her and squeezing hard, and even she was surprised at how it manifested. She felt always on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Now with her mother’s death and the murder—
“I’m sorry,” Alanna said, stepping forward. She took Tara’s hand. “I’ve been so mean. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
It sounded honest. Had Tara been too hard on the girl? “That’s okay.”
Alanna put her hand on her heart. “And I’m so mortified about the piece of glass in your salmon.”
“Oh,” Tara said. “It was quite a shock.”
“I was drinking a glass of wine. It shattered while I was cooking. I guess one of the pieces fell into the fish without me knowing.”
“That’s what Danny thought.” Exactly. Had they rehearsed the details? She had to sit down on a nearby bench. She felt dizzy. It must be the heat. And that twirling Ferris wheel. Make it stop.
“I’ll sit with you,” Grace Quinn said. “Off with ye.” Grace waited until everyone was gone to slip her something. Tara looked down. It was a letter. Tara started to open it. She felt Grace’s fingers dig into her hand.
“Don’t read it here,” she said. “Put it in your handbag for later.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the last time I heard from your mother,” Grace said. Tara’s heart began to tap dance. Just the thought of a new letter written by her mother was like a little gift. Unless it wasn’t a happy letter. When was it written? What did it say? Tara slipped it into her purse and scanned the fairgrounds.
“Thank you.”
“What are you going to do if he doesn’t come back? How long are you going to stay?”
Tara turned to Grace. “I hope you don’t think me rude. But every time an Irish person asks me that—it feels like rejection. Like you can’t wait for me to go home.”
Grace sighed. “Your mother wasn’t happy here,” she said, patting Tara on the knee. “And you are your mother’s daughter.”
Tara was figuring out how to respond, and what Grace’s true agenda was, when she saw a flash of long salt-and-pepper hair disappear into the fun house. This was her chance to talk to Rose.
“Nice speaking with you, Grace,” she said. She gave a friendly wave and took off for the fun house.
Chapter 13
As soon as she entered the fun house, Tara was bombarded with her reflection in a wall of distorted mirrors. In the first panel, she was so thin it looked as if her skeletal body could slip through a keyhole. In the next, she was so fat, it looked as if she’d burst through the walls. She stared at her stretched-out cheeks, her enormous thighs. This is me, but not me. Definitely no more scones. Or scones every other day—that was reasonable. It was dark in the hallways between frights, and there was no sign of Rose. All she could hear were a few faint screams from within and the relentless drip of water. Striped colors swirled on the walls and the floor, making you feel as if the room had suddenly tilted. Tara stumbled. Piped laughter filtered through as she fumbled in the dark. A screech sounded as the shadow of a monkey suddenly swung along the wall. She put her hand on the rail and felt something squishy. Despite herself, she gave a little scream. The sound of thunder boomed, and for a split second the place lit up with what was supposed to mimic a flash of lightning. Hovering directly in front of Tara was a disembodied face, with flashing red eyes. She screamed again. These places had grown sophisticated since she was a kid. She tried to pick up speed, just wanting it to be over. She could see an exit sign up ahead. She bolted for it. Forget Rose, she’d find her at the caravan later. She was almost at the door with the exit sign above it when she sensed someone behind her. Before she could turn around, she felt a gloved hand slap over her mouth. She could smell the thick leather. Was it part of the act? They weren’t allowed to touch people, were they? She immediately started to squirm, but the hand over her mouth tightened.
Why are they wearing gloves? She felt herself being pulled backwards, into the middle of the fun house. Tara wanted to scream, or bite, but the hand was clamped too tight over her mouth. She tried to kick but she couldn’t without losing her balance. It was too dark to see a single thing. She stopped struggling until the hand over her mouth relaxed slightly. And then she bit the hand as hard as she could.
The hand jerked away, and the attacker shoved her, hard, into a new group of people swarming their way into the fun house. At first they thought she was part of the experience, squealing as her body stumbled in front of them, jumping out of the way. Tara landed on the sticky floor, slamming her lip into the concrete.
“Are you okay?” Someone grabbed under her arms and hauled her up. She stared into Carrig Murray’s face.
“Someone attacked me,” she said. Carrig was not wearing gloves, but how had he gotten there so fast? Could he be her attacker?
“Hold on to me,” he said. “I’ll get you out.”
She hesitated, then took his arm. She thought about running ahead, but it was too dark, her lip stung, and she’d twisted her ankle on the way down. By the time she got out of the fun house and caught her breath, whoever attacked her was either long gone or standing right beside her, pretending to be concerned. He nodded to her lip. “You’re going to need some ice on that.”
“Where were you,” she asked, “the morning Emmet Walsh was killed?”
He laughed as if she was joking, then stopped. He took a step toward her. “You have a funny way about you,” he said.
If she searched his pockets would she find a pair of gloves? Who had he been talking to when she came back into the theatre that day? I didn’t tell her a t’ing and neither will you . . . What wasn’t he telling her? What were several people not telling her?
“Enjoy the fun house?” She whirled around to find Rose standing in front of her, black hair blowing in the wind.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Carrig said, then hurried off before she could figure out a legitimate reason to pat him down.
“Someone attacked me in there,” Tara said. Her hands were still shaking.
“I warned you,” Rose said, adjusting a canvas bag slung over her body. “If you stay here, this is only the beginning.”
Suddenly Tara thought of the cans of paint she’d seen near the caravan the first day she’d arrived. Was Rose the one who painted GO HOME YANKEE on the barn? “I heard you were dating my uncle. I want to talk to you about him.”
Rose’s eyes darted around the fair. “Not now. Not here.”
“When?” Tara asked. “Where?”
“My caravan,” Rose said. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll read your cards.”
Was this a bait and switch? A scam? Rose looked genuinely frightened. And even if it was a scam, Tara would
pay for a reading just to get a chance to talk to her. She did know things—real things—about her uncle. “I’ll be there,” she said. “What time?”
“Half eight,” Rose said. “And not a minute later.”
* * *
When Danny caught up with Tara, she was still shaking. Reluctantly, she told him what happened. “We have to call the guards,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“It’s not just about you. If there’s someone hiding out in the fun house, waiting to attack women, we need to sound the alarm.”
Oh, God, he was right. She nodded. Danny took out his mobile and called 999. He bought her a lemonade, and sat her on a nearby bench. “Wait here.” He started to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you t’ink?” He headed for the fun house. Tara sighed, leaned back and tried to ignore the flush of pleasure rippling through her from Danny morphing into the protector. She was no damsel in distress, but still, she’d been alone so long it was a nice feeling. Danny came back, shaking his head. “They’re gone.” They sat in silence until the guards arrived.
There were two of them and they started right in. “What kind of gloves?”
“Thick. Leather,” Tara said. The memory gave her goose bumps.
“Just like everyone wears in the peak of summer,” Danny deadpanned. He seemed to be taking this more seriously than the guards, although they did shut down the fun house, and nearby rubbish bins were being checked.
“There are no cameras inside,” the guard said, “but we’ll be posting guards there when it reopens and will tack a warning sign at the door so that no one goes in alone.”
When they were done questioning her, Danny took her hand and led her to the waiting charter bus.
“You’re asking a lot of questions around here,” he said quietly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“What if they never find my uncle? What if they never catch the murderer?”
“You can’t control that.”
“But everyone has made their mind up about him. The guards are only looking for him because they think he killed Emmet Walsh.”
Murder in Galway Page 13
