Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  Was there a guest in room 301 now? Were the plumbers back—fixing another leak? If the silence was any indication, there wasn’t a soul in the inn at all. Tara returned to the other side of the counter. She stood there for a few more minutes, debating her options. None of them appealed to her, so she walked out of the inn and headed for her usual café. She would cut back on the scones. Someday. Today was not that day.

  * * *

  After a bite at the café, Tara headed for the salvage mill. The weather was holding out, but rain was predicted for the afternoon and evening. Tara was still ruminating over her meeting with Rose. Those leather gloves. Had she rolled them in soil after using them on her in the fun house? Had she left them out deliberately to confuse Tara, or had she forgotten they were there?

  There was a note from Danny on the door of the mill. He’d taken Hound for a walk. Tara eyed the red bicycle. She could use some exercise too, especially while the weather was nice. She slipped into Johnny’s office and opened his notebook.

  Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre—Carrig

  Murray

  Cookery—Talk to A’s instructor

  Tattoo Shop—Rose

  Inis Mór—Talk to D

  A trip to the Aran Islands was going to take some planning. And she didn’t want to pop into the cookery school while Alanna was there. So that left the tattoo shop. But there had to be several in Galway. Where should she start? She took out her smartphone and googled. There were indeed several to choose from: Galway Bay Tattoo, G’s Tattoo Studio, Galway Tattoos—Inkfingers . . .

  Should she call each one and ask if Johnny Meehan had ever come in for a rose tattoo? Given that he was wanted for murder, wouldn’t that raise a few eyebrows? She was being lazy. This wasn’t New York City, where it could take forever to get from one end of the city to the other; this was a compact city where she could easily visit every single tattoo parlor in the span of a few hours. She would get exercise, be out in the sun before the rain hit, and have a little ink adventure. She jotted down the addresses, put them into Google Maps, and planned her route.

  * * *

  The first two shops hadn’t yielded anything but glares and denials. But at the last one they’d pointed her to one that she hadn’t found through googling. Tattoo Dreams. When Tara checked the address and realized it was near Alanna’s cookery school, her excitement grew.

  The bike was hard to pedal, but at least she never worried about anyone stealing it. She leaned it against the outside of Tattoo Dreams and entered.

  The walls were covered with tattoo renderings. There were wolf heads, and geometric sleeves, and vines of flowers attended by a humming bird, and skulls, and the Galway hooker (which was a boat, not a tramp), and faces, and names, and sayings. It was clear this wasn’t just body stamping, this was someone’s profession, someone’s art, not a job. And his name was Stephen Kane.

  He was in his thirties, skinny with a long black beard, slicked-back hair, earrings, and sleeve tattoos. A thin ring also pierced his lip. He was edgy, perhaps, or trying to be, but there was a salt-of-the-earth air about him and Tara liked him immediately.

  “I care about attention to detail,” he told Tara in between clients. “That’s the most important thing.”

  Tara didn’t have any tattoos, but standing here, she suddenly knew what her way in would be. She didn’t want it to be large, but the more she thought of it, the more she knew. At first she imagined something beautiful yet Irish, like a Celtic knot, or a Celtic cross, or even something written in the Irish language. But this wasn’t for her—this was for him, and then she knew.

  “Winne-the-Pooh?” he said. “Do you have a photo?” She brought Winne-the-Pooh up on her phone. She pointed to the name Pooh on his red shirt. “I’d like this to say Thomas instead.”

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  She got it on her back, just behind her left shoulder. There was pain, and the buzzing of his needle, and her eyes watered, but she welcomed it. He would be there now, on her back, always with her.

  When he was finished, he asked if he could photograph it, then placed a protective plastic cover over the tattoo and told her to try and keep it there for the rest of the day.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “if wee Thomas is no longer with us.” Tears came to her eyes. She nodded. “I have three young ones m’self. I can’t even imagine.”

  “No,” Tara said. “Nor should you.” She dug out her purse.

  He held up his hands. “It’s on me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I insist.”

  “Only if I can return the favor.”

  “Before you go too far, I’m a married man.” He winked. “Notice I didn’t say happily.”

  She laughed. It was obvious from the numerous photos displayed throughout the shop, of a beautiful redheaded woman with three children, that he was joking.

  “Come to Irish Revivals sometime. Bring the kids. Maybe you can find something you like.”

  “I wondered if you were any relation,” he said.

  Tara nodded. “My uncle. You probably know him. He owns the salvage mill.”

  “Ah. ’Course I do. You’re not the first customer to come out of the salvage mill.” He winked.

  “I know,” Tara said. “That’s why I came to you.”

  He nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “I’ve been waiting to hear the verdict—was it a yes or a no?”

  “I’m not sure either,” Tara said. What on earth was he talking about?

  “Did you see the tattoo?”

  “The rose?” Tara guessed.

  Stephen nodded. “The special-order rose.” He winked.

  She smiled, wondering what in the heck he was talking about. “I didn’t see it.”

  “Oh. I assumed you had. But you know the story?”

  “Bits and pieces,” Tara said, still floundering in the dark. “Do you have a photo of the tattoo?”

  “Aye.”

  He turned the album toward her. There was a rendering of a gorgeous red rose. But that’s not what had her mouth open, staring. Wrapped around the rose was a glittering diamond ring and next to it a question mark.

  This wasn’t just a tattoo, it was marriage proposal.

  * * *

  Tara went straight to her favorite café for the second-best breakfast in Galway. It came with eggs, and toast, and potatoes, and rashers, and Irish sausages, and black-and-white pudding. She knew she’d never be able to eat it all—she didn’t like the pudding, neither black nor white—but she hadn’t decided whether it was more offensive to order it and not eat it, or ask them to leave it off the plate. So she simply ordered the Irish breakfast and decided to let the pudding fall where it may. She’d never be totally accepted here anyway; maybe they expected the Yank not to eat her pudding. Why did they call it pudding anyway? It was definitely not pudding. Did they not realize how odd it was to name delicious cookies digestives but pork meat and fat pudding? The Irish had a wicked sense of humor alright.

  The rest of it though would be devoured. Suddenly, her appetite was back in full force. She had to admit that an adrenaline rush came with trying to figure out a crime. Only when she was seated by a little table near the window, with her mug of coffee and her Irish breakfast, did she start mulling over what she knew so far.

  Had Johnny proposed to Rose before he disappeared? Maybe she had turned down his proposal and he fled from the rejection?

  That hardly made sense. Why didn’t Rose mention this? Because she’s lying to you. Because she killed him. Because she was bilking him out of money with her doomsday predictions . . .

  Was Rose the one who left the thorny stem by Johnny’s door? Was it an answer to his proposal? Or had it been Johnny himself—furious because she rejected him? Tara set the what-ifs aside. She could only focus on the facts.

  Someone had set out to whip Johnny Meehan into a paranoid frenzy. And they had succeeded. He’d burned most, if not all his bridges a few days before the murde
r by upsetting customers with accusations about missing items. He’d accused his employee and tenant of stealing. And he thought Carrig Murray was plotting against him somehow. And as Rose pointed out—someone had certainly been plotting against him. Maybe Johnny witnessed the killer deal the deadly blow to poor Emmet. And then he ran for his life. Was Johnny hiding somewhere in fear? Could he be nearby? Watching it all unfold?

  Those actions hardly sounded like a man who had just gotten engaged. Either he hadn’t proposed or Rose had turned him down.

  She hadn’t gone into the cottage the morning she’d found Emmet lying in the doorway. What if her name hadn’t been written on the wall then? What if someone—her uncle—snuck in later? Because he’d seen her. He knew who she was. Or what if Johnny was in the cottage when she found Emmet? Crouching with the murder weapon . . .

  No. The time of death was sunrise. Tara came in the late afternoon. Emmet had been dead for hours. If Johnny was still there waiting—what was he waiting for? Nobody would wait around in a tiny cottage with a dead body.

  Maybe he had been hiding nearby. Had he planned on turning himself in—and then he saw her?

  She had the Meehan look: dark hair and blue eyes. Her grandmother had it, according to her mother. It’s possible that Johnny Meehan could have recognized her on sight.

  Was the theory worth floating to the guards? Did it even matter? No matter what—Johnny wasn’t there now.

  If he had just installed a security camera, both at home and at the mill, maybe none of this would have happened. Or at the least he could have proven his innocence. Older people were so resistant to technology. To change. She could see that to a certain extent. Parts of Galway looked like what Ireland probably looked like a hundred years ago, and yet they were also a modern city with Internet, and iPads, and televisions in pubs. The blend of both was what made Galway, and probably all of Ireland, unique and magical.

  She’d heard through the grapevine that the guards had searched the entire area where she had found the cap, and came up empty. Was the person who stole items from the mill selectively dropping them about town like secret breadcrumbs? Turning the folks against each other? Paranoia was a powerful tool. The killer was wicked smart. It almost seemed . . . scripted. But what in the world was the end game?

  Bells jangled and heads turned to watch a beautiful young woman enter the café. She was tall and dressed all in black. Her hair was cut short and spikey, but you could have shaved her bald and heads would turn. Her cheekbones, her lips, her huge eyes. She was a stunner.

  “There’s Hamlet now,” the café matron said with a big smile.

  “Heya,” the girl answered.

  “To eat or not to eat?” the matron replied.

  “Just tea and biscuits,” Hamlet answered. “It’s only a short break.”

  Tara had to force herself to look away before she was busted for staring. This was the star of Carrig’s play. Alanna’s friend. Or girlfriend. It wouldn’t hurt to chat her up. See if there was any light she could shed on the mysterious Carrig Murray. And, if possible, see if she could get her hands on his mobile phone.

  * * *

  Tara threw money down for her breakfast and hurried out of the café after the actress. “Hamlet?” she was forced to yell when she realized the woman was going too fast to keep up with.

  The woman turned and waited, with a patient smile, for her deranged fan to catch up. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know your real name” The actress beamed.

  “Good?”

  She leaned in and whispered. “My name is Magda. I hate it. I prefer to stay in character as much as possible. Please just call me Hamlet.” She winked.

  “Will do.” Tara held out her hand. “I’m Tara from New York.”

  Hamlet shook her hand, confusion stamped on her pretty face. “I love New York.”

  “I think New York would love you.”

  Hamlet laughed. “What makes you say that?” “Are you kidding? You’re playing Hamlet as a woman. You know. As opposed to a woman pretending to be a man. It’s incredibly exciting.” Tara realized as the words rolled out of her mouth, that she meant it. She loved the idea of a female Hamlet.

  “Thank you. Are you coming to the show?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. In fact. I’m planning a little surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  Tara clasped her hands together. “We’re planning a big surprise party for Carrig after opening night.”

  Hamlet’s brow wrinkled in confusion. Tara imagined she was a great actress, her face was so expressive. “Who is we?”

  “Some theatre friends of Carrig’s from New York. We came to see the show and surprise him.” The lie just rolled off her tongue. What was wrong with her? For a second even she believed it to be true.

  “Are you an actress?”

  Tara tried to imagine it. Standing on stage, under the lights, looking out at all those people. Nope. Nope. Could not do it. Even thinking about it gave her stage fright. “Me? Heavens no. I’m a designer.” When lying it is best to stick somewhat to the truth.

  Hamlet grinned. “That’s so lovely. We adore our stage designers. Carrig will be thrilled.”

  Tara gently placed her hand on Hamlet’s arm. “But there’s one special guest we need to invite—only I don’t have his number.”

  Hamlet looked more than ready to be in on the surprise. “Who is it?”

  “George.” Tara said the name confidently, as if assuming she knew who it was.

  “George?” Hamlet’s eyebrows raised. “What’s his surname?”

  “I’ll be honest—I don’t even know his name. I just know Carrig Murray was on the phone with him when I went to the theatre to meet with him.”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know this person on the phone is a friend of his?”

  Hamlet was no slouch. Tara leaned in, hating herself for the next part. “If the show goes well—it might travel to New York.”

  The actress’s eyes popped open. She could see it all. Lights. Broadway. Her short pixie-cut the new rage. “Oh my God.”

  “You can’t tell a soul.”

  She mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key. “What does that have to do with the person on the phone?”

  Tara glanced around as if she didn’t want this information to leak out. “I think he was talking to a famous theatre critic. I think they got into a squabble on the phone.”

  “Really?”

  “I know. It’s none of my business. But you know how it is. Suddenly a personal argument bleeds into professional life—”

  “And they’ll drop the show.”

  “That’s my fear.”

  “Is it because of the rumors?”

  Rumors? “I can’t say for sure. But yes, I’m sure they are a factor.” Tara was getting too good at pretending she knew what the heck she was talking about. “Maybe if we could get this critic here for the party, and they mend fences—well then it’s all back on.” I’m sorry, she wanted to say. I’m normally not a liar. I’m a good person. I’m just trying to find my uncle and catch a killer.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Do you ever notice where he leaves his phone when you’re rehearsing?”

  “He puts it in the pocket of his suit jacket.”

  “Does he ever take the jacket off?” Eyes still wide, the woman nodded. Tara put on a dejected face. “Never mind. How silly of me. I don’t know his password.”

  The girl beamed. “I bet it’s Shakespeare’s birthday.”

  “Really?”

  Hamlet nodded. “It’s 4-23-1564. He’s Shakespeare-obsessed.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you to do this.” Sticking her nose into this was one thing, she shouldn’t drag innocent people into this.

  “Are you kidding? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played a spy” Hamlet winked. “I like the excitement if you must know. And I’m extremely good at it.”

  “Are you
sure?”

  “I insist. I’d do anything for Carrig. He’s given me the role of a lifetime!”

  Tara wrote down the date and time of the phone call. “Here’s the number I need. If you can get into the phone, it should be in his call history.”

  The girl bounced on her toes. “This is so exciting!”

  “Just. Be careful.”

  Her smile faded. “Careful?”

  Tara felt sick. Was this a huge mistake? “You don’t want to ruin the surprise. And—I don’t want him angry with you if he catches you.”

  Hamlet grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I can do it. He won’t know a thing.”

  Chapter 16

  “You did what?” Danny’s stunned look conveyed her worst fear, and shame flooded her. She’d made a terrible mistake asking Hamlet to sneak a look at Carrig’s phone.

  They stood in the back garden behind the mill. This time the mini-oasis did little to soothe her. “I know. I’m not proud of it.” Tara was sick over the lies she told Hamlet. Even reminding herself she was trying to find her uncle, and unmask a murderer, wasn’t alleviating her guilt. “I’ll just go see her again. Tell her it’s off.”

  “No.” Danny headed for the side of the building. “Come on.” His long strides lengthened the distance between them and she had to hurry to catch up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to help her.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll distract Carrig long enough for her to get the number and return Carrig’s phone without any hassle.”

  “Okay. Okay. Good.”

  He stopped abruptly and once more she almost plowed into him. “On one condition.” He held up his index finger.

  “What?”

  “This is it.”

  She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. This wasn’t Danny’s fault, this was all her. “This is what?”