Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  Margaret Meehan had also had a huge brain. She read. A lot. She loved the Bard. When other children were being read rhyming books, Tara was getting lulled to sleep by Shakespeare. In Hamlet, Polonius had been stabbed from behind a curtain—by Hamlet. Although Polonius believed it was Claudius, spying on him. Was this one of his cast members? Was it Hamlet? Had she come in early, stabbed him, and then put the sign on the door? What on earth would be her motive? She was the one who said Carrig had given her the role of a lifetime and she’d do anything for him. Someone was keen to throw suspicion on everyone and anyone . . .

  Why leave Johnny’s business card? Another attempt to throw off suspicion?

  She stared at the card. All it would take to make it disappear would be to lean over the body and gently pluck it up with her fingertips. This was an older theatre, it probably wasn’t decked out with surveillance cameras. To leave the card or take the card. That is the question. Whether tis nobler to be honest . . .

  Stop. Of course she wasn’t going to mess with a crime scene even if she suspected the crime scene had been deliberately doctored to make Johnny Meehan look guilty. Again.

  She backed away, slowly, clutching her cell phone, and raced up the aisle, waiting until she burst through the entrance doors and was outside to call the guards. She hesitated just a second, knowing what she had to do but dreading it. It wouldn’t look good, her discovering the second body. Couldn’t she just wait for someone else to find him? Couldn’t she just say she had come by but turned away when she saw the sign on the door? Why did she open the door at all? They were also going to find out that Alanna had just told her about Carrig Murray staying at the inn and leaving behind the body of the pig—the first murder weapon. Yet instead of minding her own business, Tara had gone straight to the theatre. That probably wasn’t going to sit well either. At this point it was looking like the best scenario was that Johnny Meehan was in fact the killer. Otherwise, the killer could be anyone, and she was going to be under an intense spotlight. For a second all she wanted to do was board a plane back to New York.

  Enough. Another man had been murdered. She braced herself to be a suspect again, not to mention a target of gossip, and called 999.

  * * *

  She called the inn while she waited for the guards. “The Bay Inn, how may I help you?” Tara was relieved when Alanna answered right away.

  “This is Tara. Something awful has happened.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody knows yet. The guards are on their way. You have to promise . . .”

  “I promise.”

  “I came to the theatre to find Carrig.”

  “Oh, Jaysus, why did you do that?”

  “Just wait—”

  “You didn’t tell him what I’d found, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t tell him I called the guards?” Her voice was laced with panic.

  “Listen to me.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Finally, there was a moment of silence. “You’re jokin’ me.”

  “No. He’s lying facedown on the stage—there’s a lot of blood.” Tara wasn’t going to mention the knife.

  “Oh my God.”

  “I called the guards. It’s going to look bad that I’m the one who found him. But it will be even worse if—”

  “They knew you were just here and learned that Carrig had been hiding the murder weapon and you went to confront him.”

  Tara sighed. This was bad. “Yes.”

  “Does that mean Carrig is not the murderer? Or did Carrig kill Emmet and we have two murderers running around the city?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I won’t mention you were here,” Alanna said. “As long as you keep my confidences as well.”

  “I’m not going to lie,” Tara said. “And neither are you. However . . .”

  “We should only answer the questions they think to ask, not the ones they don’t?”

  Tara hesitated. That was exactly what she meant. Was it a mistake? “Yes.” She sighed. “Do we agree?”

  “We do.”

  Tara hung up. She glanced past the red gates, where a guard car was pulling up. Sergeant Gable got out, slamming the door, already glaring at her. Tara had to remind herself that she’d done nothing wrong. It didn’t help to quell her nerves.

  Detective Gable walked up to her, flanked by two other guards. He stopped, hands on hips. He glanced at the theatre door. “You’re saying that Carrig Murray is inside . . .” He pointed. “And he’s dead?”

  Tara swallowed and nodded. “Stabbed,” she said. “In the back.”

  His eyes turned to angry slits. “What are you doing here?”

  “Carrig asked me to be on the lookout for an item he wanted. It’s a stone sculpture. A granite slab.” She was rambling. “I was coming to tell him I’d found it.”

  Gable shook his head. “Dead bodies seem to follow you around.”

  “Please don’t even joke about it,” Tara replied. “I’m traumatized.”

  He bowed his head, then nodded. He put on gloves and Tara watched as the other two did the same. They headed for the door. “Don’t leave town,” Gable called out without turning around.

  Tara scrambled away before he found Johnny Meehan’s business card at the scene.

  Chapter 21

  Rose was the only person Tara could think of who would understand the horror of what she just witnessed. She had to tell someone besides Alanna. Keeping it bottled in was not healthy. She’d love to have friend time with Breanna, but that wasn’t smart given where she was employed. Danny came to mind, of course, but when she saw him she’d have to confront him about renting the retail space behind her back, not to mention stealing and storing items there, and she still hadn’t worked out all the possible implications of those actions. What if he was trying to steal the business out from under Johnny, and now her? He had seemed like the only man in town who cared about Johnny, but what if that was just an act? What if all his Irish charm was actually deadly?

  She had two missed calls from him. She would call him back when she figured out what she was going to say. She jumped on her bicycle and rode to the caravan. Just as she reached it, she saw Rose hopping on a black bicycle and wheeling down the street along the bay. Tara wondered where she was going. It was a natural instinct to follow Rose. She told herself it was out of a sense of duty; once she caught up to Rose she would tell her that Carrig had been murdered. She would warn her, that if she was in touch with Johnny—he could be a killer. Or did she already know that? Was she an accomplice?

  * * *

  The terrain grew bumpier, the houses and businesses were farther apart, the bay spread out before her. Rose was still ahead, peddling away, without a single glance behind her. When she turned off onto a narrow street, Tara hung back until she could barely see Rose’s black hair flying straight behind her. Tara took the street, keeping up just enough so she could see which way Rose would go.

  Rose finally stopped at a stone building in a field set back off the road. There were no other homes or businesses flanking it, and no sign above the door to indicate what kind of business it was. Or used to be. The doors and windows were dark. There was a chain across the front door. Rose hopped off her bicycle and walked it down the stone passageway that hugged the side of the building. She parked the bicycle behind a rubbish bin and disappeared down a set of stairs. Tara parked her bicycle across the street, then hurried over just in time to hear a door slamming and then the sound of a lock being turned. Darn it. Now what? They wouldn’t answer a knock on the door, would they? Was she going to have to wait until Rose came back out? Tara hugged the side of the building and inched her way toward the stairwell.

  There were only six steps. She bounded down them, then tried the door. Just as she suspected, it was locked.

  Tara sat down on the steps and waited.

  * * *

  The door opened with a scree
ch and Rose exited. It took her two steps before she looked up to find Tara. Rose screamed.

  “What’s the matter?” The male voice came from inside the building.

  And then there he was, a man with black hair and blue eyes like her, tall and broad, in his sixties, and there was no mistaking it—he was her mother’s brother. He came to a dead stop when he saw Tara, and she saw the same instant recognition in his eyes. She was shocked to see tears come into his eyes. “Margaret’s daughter,” he said. Unexpected grief clogged Tara’s throat. She could barely manage a nod. Johnny Meehan hung his head for a moment, then looked up again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She was too,” Tara said. “She wanted you to know she forgave you. She wishes . . . things hadn’t turned out this way.”

  He nodded.

  “We can’t talk out here in the open,” Rose said.

  “Come on.” Johnny turned and headed back into the building. Tara didn’t hesitate to follow. She had looked into his eyes and had seen a family member. She was not afraid of him. If he’d murdered others she would turn him in, but she was going to speak with him first.

  * * *

  Tara found herself in the middle of a storage room, damp, with a moldy smell. In the corner were several overturned wooden crates that Johnny seemed to be using as a chair and table. He was huddled there now. His beard was scraggly, and his eyes bloodshot.

  “What is this place?” Tara said.

  “Used to be a pub in front. This was the storage room.”

  Right. That explained the scent of yeast lingering amongst the mold. Johnny headed for one of the crates. His back had a curve to it, as if it hurt to stand up straight, and he was walking with a limp. He sat down and motioned for her to sit on the other crate. Rose leaned against a wall, giving them some space.

  “Look at you,” he said. “You’re a lovely vision.” His voice was thick. He swallowed. “I wish I could offer you a cup of tea.”

  Tara offered a soft smile. “It’s the thought that counts.” She took a deep breath. “Did you hear about my mother?”

  He maintained eye contact and nodded. His vulnerability was etched in his face, in the shaking of his hands. She had an urge to care for him, protect him. She had to remind herself he could be a killer. “I’m in a bit of a mess.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “I told him you moved into the cottage,” Rose said.

  “Oh.” Tara slapped her forehead. “I did. I’m sorry. I should have—”

  “No, no, pet. What’s mine is yours.”

  “It’s been professionally cleaned and . . .” She stopped. Now was not the time to talk about her decorating ideas.

  “I’m so sorry about the mess,” Johnny said. “I’m ashamed.”

  Rose approached and set a canvas bag by Johnny’s feet. “There’s your supper. I’m away.” She turned and headed for the door without another glance at either of them. Once it was closed they were in the dark.

  “Is there a light?” Tara said.

  “It’s by the door,” Johnny said.

  “Will it attract attention?” She felt silly asking, because there were no windows. But there must be some reason they were here in the dark.

  “I’m sorry, it hurts me eyes,” Johnny said. He bent over and a minute later a small lantern illuminated the space just enough to see his face. It struck her that she could be in here, in the dark, with a murderer. But she didn’t feel afraid. Was she naïve or was that the power of family? Of course he could be both family and a murderer, but that’s not how she felt in her gut. If she was wrong she would certainly pay the price.

  Johnny clasped his hands and leaned forward. “It’s not safe for you here.”

  “I wasn’t followed,” Tara said. “I checked. And I hid my bicycle.”

  “I don’t mean here. I mean in Galway. It’s not safe yet.”

  “You saw who killed Emmet, didn’t you?”

  Johnny bowed his head. “I saw Emmet alright. Lying dead in me doorway.” He crossed himself. “It was a message to me.” Is that why the body had been dragged to the doorway?

  “What kind of a message?”

  “If I come back, I’ll be arrested for murder. Whoever did this wants me gone.”

  Tara didn’t know whether or not he was withholding information. If he had seen the murderer, would he tell her? Or was he trying to protect her? The burdens and bonds of family love were so very complicated. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  “He was killed in me doorway with a cast-iron pig that has my fingerprints all over it.”

  “Wait. You saw the murder weapon?”

  “’Course I did. It was lying right next to his poor head.” Johnny put his head in his hands and moaned.

  It wasn’t next to the body when the guards went in. If Johnny was telling the truth it meant someone came back for it. The killer?

  “Why did you write my name on the wall?”

  Johnny’s head snapped up. “What are you on about?”

  “My name was written on the back wall in blood.”

  Johnny stood. He took a step and stumbled. “My God.” He shook his head. “I never saw that.”

  “You didn’t write it?”

  “Me? Course not. What a thing to do.”

  “I noticed you were walking with a limp. What happened?”

  “Running away from the cottage. I slipped on the grass, lost me hat.”

  “Hound found it. The guards have it now.”

  Johnny perked up. “How is Hound?”

  “He’s fine. Danny and I are taking care of him.”

  Johnny nodded his thanks. “The killer came back,” he said, almost a whisper, mostly to himself.

  “Come with me to the guards,” Tara said.

  “They won’t believe me. I’ll go to prison for the rest of me life.” He turned. “I’d rather die.”

  “Who do you think did this?”

  “The question is . . . will this end with Carrig Murray?” Johnny stood and began pacing along the back wall. He must have been doing a lot of that lately. Tara could not imagine hiding out in this place for so long. She was already itching to get out. Ironically, it would be even worse in prison, and that’s why Johnny was here. Only a fool thought that innocent people didn’t go to prison. But hiding from the truth—especially when there was a murderer out there—how could that be justified?

  One thing was obvious. Rose knew about Carrig’s murder, and she had ridden off to tell Johnny straightaway. “Why do you think Carrig was killed?”

  “He and Ben Kelly were in cahoots. This was all about driving me out of the salvage mill for good.” He took a step toward Tara. She stood. He grabbed her hands. “Please. I can’t have you in danger. I can’t. You have to leave. Today. Right now.”

  “No. I want to help you.”

  “My time is coming. I can feel it. It’s too late for me.” He withdrew his hands.

  “Whoever killed Carrig is a fan of Shakespeare.”

  “Rose said you were investigating. Please. Don’t. Go back to America.”

  “Enough. I’ve heard ‘go back to America’ in one form or another from almost every Irishman and -woman I’ve met. I’m going to figure out who is doing this, we’re going to have a long talk about family matters, and then I’ll decide whether or not I’m going back to America. But you’re a fugitive, and just being here makes me an accomplice. I have to call the guards.” “I won’t stop you,” Johnny said. “I wouldn’t be wanting you messed up in this, now.”

  She reached into her bag. Her cell phone was gone. Rose! “Rose took my phone.” Tara didn’t normally swear, but the fact that the fortune-teller had played her really stoked her temper. She let out a string of colorful words. There was silence, Johnny’s deep laugh rumbled out. “What?”

  “I wasn’t sure you were your mother’s daughter,” Johnny said. “Until just now.”

  * * *

  The killer came back. The thought kept circling through her head as she p
edaled for the Garda station. By the time they arrived at Johnny’s hiding place he would be long gone. She knew it, Rose knew it, and Johnny knew it. Would they believe that her phone had been stolen? Since she couldn’t control what the guards said or did, she went back to mulling over the case. The killer came back to get rid of the murder weapon. He or she had either panicked and had forgotten to take it as he or she fled, or someone had interrupted him or her, forcing a return to the scene. She knew killers often returned to the scene of the crime, but not when the body hadn’t even been discovered. Wasn’t that too great of a risk? When the killer returned he or she also wrote Tara’s name on the wall in Emmet’s blood. That meant the killer must have come back after Tara arrived in Ireland, but before Tara discovered Emmet’s body. There was no other explanation for her name to be on the wall. This could be an exciting development.

  Where would Johnny run next? Tara couldn’t blame him. Emmet Walsh had been a wealthy and influential man, and his death would not go unpunished. Even if they punished the wrong man.

  Up ahead the road twisted into a narrow curve. Tara couldn’t imagine how cars had enough room to pass each other, and just as she had the thought there was a car behind her, so close she could feel the heat from the engine, and a whisper of hot air on her ankles. She was on the edge of a steep, rocky slope. It was too low to call it a cliff, yet there was a steep drop to the bay. If she took a tumble, it could kill her. There was nowhere for her to go. She kept her bicycle steady, waiting for the car to pass. She turned to look, and got a glimpse of a dark hood, oversized sunglasses, and a black bandana. Tara screamed. The driver gunned the engine and the car cut to the right, just enough to bump her leg. I just got hit by a car. The bike tipped over, and although her brain was screaming, it was too late for her body to react. Immediately she and her bicycle were airborne, falling over the rocky side, her screams lost in the wind. The driver accelerated and screeched away. She let go of the handlebars of the bike, and soon it was falling away from her, bouncing against the rocks, her body sailing past it. She was falling too fast to think, but then there was a tree, with a branch sticking out, like a gnarled arm. Tara reached with both hands until she was grasping bark, hanging on to the branch with all her strength. For a second she didn’t do anything but squeeze tight and breathe. Calm down, this is life or death, just hold on. She took one more gulp of air, and looked down. Jagged rocks weren’t her biggest fear; it was the road below, cars bouncing over her red bicycle, mangling it to bits until they could come to a stop. Cars swerved and horns honked. Please don’t let it cause an accident. She would rather suffer injuries or death herself than have an innocent motorist die because of this. If she let go, that would be it for her. If the fall didn’t kill her, a car would. Her fingers started to grow slick with fear. She held on, mouthing prayers, her sweaty fingers the only thing between her and plummeting to her death.