Inch by inch, she slid across the branch. She suddenly saw Thomas in her mind’s eye. He had died from a fall. Should she just let go? It would be so nice to be with him again. Hold on. She felt as if she could hear his voice clear as day. He would be with her mam now, and they would want her to survive. It took all her focus, and what felt like a very long time, but soon she reached the trunk of the tree. She wrapped herself around it, and slowly slid down. She was so happy to reach the bottom, she let go too fast. She was still trembling with fear, and soon she was rolling down the rest of the rocky incline, large stones cutting into her as her body picked up speed. She felt a deep scrape on her side, and then wetness spread through her. She was bleeding. She hit the bottom, near the road, just managing to land short of a passing car. She crawled to the safest edge, and waited to flag down any vehicle that would stop.
* * *
“A dark hood? Sunglasses. And a bandana.” Detective Sergeant Gable stared at Tara, still in the hospital bed despite insisting she was fine. A sharp boulder had sliced her side and she had seven stitches, and more scrapes and bruises than she could count, but she would heal.
“Yes.”
“But no make or model of the car?”
“That’s correct. I was too close to it, and right after I saw that—hood—I fell.”
“Where were you coming from again?”
He was asking her everything twice. Trying to catch her in a lie? “I saw Rose—”
“Rose Byrne?”
“The fortune-teller.”
“Rose Byrne. Johnny Meehan’s other half, isn’t she?”
“They’re not married and I’m no authority on his romantic life.” She wished he would stop interrupting so she could finish her story.
“Go on.”
“I saw Rose Byrne heading off on her bicycle and I followed her.”
“I need to know exactly where she went.”
“And I already told you. I might be able to find it if you drove me there, but I wasn’t looking at street signs. It was an abandoned stone building about twenty minutes from town. Johnny said it used to be a pub.”
Gable shook his head. “You could have caused a serious accident.” If he knew the building, he wasn’t going to let her know.
“Excuse me?”
“Your bike landed in the middle of a busy road. You’re lucky no one was killed.”
“I’m lucky I wasn’t killed!” Tara was yelling now, and she didn’t care.
“Why do you think this—hood—tried to run you off the road?”
“How would I know?”
“You wouldn’t be going around accusing the people of my city of murder, would you now?”
“Is that your working theory?” Tara swung her legs over the bed and spotted her clothing on the chair behind Sergeant Gable. She pointed. “You can either hand those to me and leave or I’ll jump off this bed with my backside hanging out and get dressed in front of you. Your choice.”
He glared at her, and she glared back.
“When are they releasing you?”
“This afternoon.”
“You don’t suppose Johnny is just going to wait for us to show up in his little hidey-hole?”
“No. I don’t suppose he will.”
“And you’re certain that Rose stole your mobile phone?”
“I know I had it in my purse when I went in, and it was gone when I reached for it a few minutes later.”
“I’ll pay you a visit at the mill tomorrow morning,” he said. “Maybe something will shake loose by then. In the meantime, if I hear about you going around and chatting up any more folks in this town about your uncle, or anything related to my case, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with an ongoing investigation.”
“I’ve taken over my uncle’s business until he gets back. I’m only talking to people about items they are looking for or items they might have for sale.”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me from conducting business.”
“Watch me.” He tipped his hat and was gone.
Chapter 22
Tara just wanted a scone as big as her head, a mug of coffee, and to her surprise—Hound. She wanted his comforting presence by her side, his gentle whine. She wanted to sit and drink her coffee, and eat her scone, and touch a dog while she gazed out at the bay. She had almost died. It wasn’t the big dreams she wanted now—success as a designer, or lavish homes, or trips—it was the little things. The miraculous everyday. The things she often took for granted. And Danny. If she was honest with herself, she wanted to see Danny’s smiling face, hear him say something sarcastic. And find out once and for all whether she could trust him. She so wanted to trust him.
She took a taxi from the hospital and had the driver drop her off a little ways from the mill so that she could walk along the water and breathe. Listen to the birds cry overhead, hear the lap of the water. When she reached the door of the mill she felt a tug of happiness. That is until she saw something tacked to the door. Make that two somethings. There were two official-looking sheets of paper nailed to the door. What now? More threats? She drew closer, and saw that the two notices were from the city:
FINAL NOTICE OF VIOLATION NOTICE TO EVACUATE THE PREMISES
Final notice of violation? How many had Johnny received? What had he done with them?
Didn’t they own this building? Was there a loan out on it?
Tara reached for her purse to call Danny when she remembered. Her phone was gone. She was going to have to buy a new one. Danny hadn’t visited her in the hospital. Had he tried to call her? He had to know what had happened to her by now. She couldn’t worry about her relationships, she needed a lawyer. She stood in Johnny’s tiny office, worried about what to do. If he had received other notices he hadn’t kept them.
The notices were full of legalese. She had thirty days to pay a ten-thousand-euro fine for the violations. Ten thousand euro. That was impossible. And ridiculous. For the evacuation, she also had thirty days to “restore the account to good-standing.” What did that mean? Who did Johnny owe, and how much? She didn’t suppose there was any chance Johnny hadn’t run again, that he was now in the custody of the gardai, where she could visit him and help him, and get to the bottom of this . . .
No, he would have run. He said he’d rather die.
Ben Kelly was behind this. He had to be. She had half a mind to storm over to his place. First, she was going to get her darn scone and coffee, and make sure Hound was okay. The elation she’d felt at being alive, and the miracle of the everyday, was already being replaced with annoyance. This was life. A fragile balance of yin and yang, dark and light. If only the light would last longer.
The café was busy and welcoming. Tara loved all the sounds—plates clinking, bells tinkling, customers chatting. The smells of breakfast were as comforting as sliding into a warm pair of slippers on a cold morning. Maybe they would let her move in. She could sit at the table near the window, use the restroom when needed, and take naps under the table in between meals. She would sit here until the murderer was caught, and the people of Galway accepted her as one of them. She would eat her weight in scones, and have coffee running through her veins.
“Hello, luv,” the woman sang. “Coffee?”
Tara wondered if ambushing the woman in a hug and breaking into tears would seem out of the norm. She smiled instead. “And a scone, please.”
“Headed off to Carrig Murray’s funeral, are you?”
“Oh.” Was that where everyone was? No one had told her about it. “Yes,” she said. She glanced left and right and then leaned in. “But I’m so embarrassed.”
“What’s wrong, luv?”
“I forgot which funeral home.”
“Mass is at noon, then they’re bucking tradition and having his funeral at the theatre. He had it all scripted, if you can believe dat.”
Tara could believe it. For a second Carrig’s larger-than-life figure loomed in front of her,
immediately followed by an image of the knife in his back. “It’s still such a shock.”
“I would have thought it was one of the actors who done it,” the woman said. “But others are saying we’ve got a serial killer on the loose.”
A serial killer. Or a killer forced to kill again to cover his or her tracks? “What time is the service again?” Tara asked.
The woman glanced at the clock. “I’d say it’s already started.”
* * *
The actors all wore long, black robes. There was a small choir that sang and echoed sentiments. The weather was mild, so it was held in the back garden as Carrig had requested. Tara soon learned there was no need for a burial, for the guards still had his body. A murder investigation and autopsy took time. But before all the actors flew home they were going to have the send-off that Carrig had morbidly planned some time ago, just in case. Standing here in the black dress she’d planned on wearing for her mother’s send-off, she realized her mother had been right. Funerals are for the living. Although in this case, it was clear Carrig’s ghost was hovering around, trying to direct the action. She’d missed the mass, and more prayers by the priest in the garden, and by the time the choir finished, the service was done. The crowd was headed to O’Doole’s for an informal wake. She found Danny in the crowd standing next to a woman in a black dress so short it looked as if she were going to a cocktail party. Tara had no idea until the woman turned around that it was Alanna. Her hair was down and straightened, her makeup just so. She was holding on to Hamlet’s arm. The young actress looked equally stunning in her little black dress.
Danny caught Tara’s eye, extricated himself from the pair, and headed her way. Concern was stamped on his handsome face.
Danny took Tara’s arm and steered her to a private corner. “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” Tara said. “You heard.”
“I came to the hospital.”
“Funny. I didn’t see you there.” That came out way too bitter.
“The guards were questioning you,” Danny said. “They wouldn’t let me in.”
She bit her lip and nodded. It wasn’t his fault. And Carrig’s funeral wasn’t the right place to get into any of her probing questions. Questions like—did you open a retail shop behind my uncle’s back? Have you been plotting to take over the company?
“Did you get a look at the driver?” he asked.
“I told the police everything I could,” Tara said. Until she knew who she could trust, she needed to leave everything as vague as possible.
“Rumor is he was wearing some kind of a mask?”
“Not exactly a mask,” Tara said. “I don’t want to talk about it here.”
“I’m sorry.” He placed his hand on her lower back. She wanted to lean into him. Instead, she pulled away.
“I won’t grill you,” Danny said. “But you don’t look like everything is alright. I want to help.”
Tara removed the violation and eviction notices from her handbag and handed them to him.
He looked them over then gave a low whistle.
“He must have received other violations,” Tara said. “Did you ever see any?”
“No,” Danny said. “He kept this to himself. What about his office?”
“I didn’t find a single one.”
“Leave these to me.” Danny tucked the notices into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “There’s a solicitor we’ve used a couple of times. I’ll have a word with him.”
“Can you set up an official meeting for the two of us?” Tara asked. “I’d like to be there.”
“Of course.”
“The notice says thirty days to respond.”
“I’ll call him after the wake.”
Would he be drunk then? Tara stopped herself from asking.
Danny touched her wrist. She turned. “You could have been killed.”
“Were you really at the hospital?” It slipped out before she could catch herself.
Danny squeezed her hand. “’Course I was. Gable wouldn’t let me in. I waited in the lobby. By the time I checked with them again, they said you had been discharged. I called you several times. You never called back.”
“I lost my cell phone before the accident.” It was stolen. By Rose Byrne. Who was also hiding my uncle. I met him. I don’t think he’s guilty. There were so many things she wanted to tell him.
“What happened?”
“I’m going to need a drink.”
“Lucky for you, that’s what wakes are all about.”
Carrig had a lot of theatrical friends, and that included musicians. A trad band was playing jaunty tunes when Tara and Danny walked in. She spotted Ben Kelly at the bar and to Tara’s surprise he was speaking with Grace Quinn.
“I think he has something to do with the eviction notice,” Tara said.
“That’s probably true, but don’t confront him here. Despite the drinking and the craic, this is still a wake. You’ll cause a much bigger stir if you try to turn it into an interrogation.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
He handed her a pint. “Drink this.”
* * *
She was drunk. And having a good time. Dancing with Danny O’Donnell. Lifting her pint every time someone made a toast to say something nice about Carrig Murray. Singing when they sang. It was a celebration of his life. Before she knew it, she was weeping and Danny had his arm around her.
“I was going to do this for my mom. When I found my uncle.”
“There, there.” He kissed her cheek.
“It was going to be so lovely. I imagined everyone standing by the water with roses. I had a speech.” Her own speech, the sober part of her brain noted, was slurred. “It would have been beautiful.”
“You can arrange one later.”
“Yes. I will. I will do that. If only Johnny had come out of that miserable hidey-hole.” She heard herself say it and she froze. Too much alcohol! Maybe he didn’t hear her.
“What did you just say?” His pint was down, his eyes were alert and pinned to hers.
“I’m drunk,” she said.
“What hidey-hole?”
“It’s an expression. You don’t have that expression here?”
“I think I should get you home,” Danny said. He looked around. The pub was mobbed.
“I’m having a good time.” She heard the words come out of her mouth and gasped. What kind of person had a good time at a funeral? It wasn’t her fault, it was this darn Irish culture. The music, the drinks, the toasts. “I don’t mean I’m having a good time,” she faltered. “I just mean I don’t want to go home.”
“You’re in no state to be here. You have to be very careful about what you say, who you say it to.”
“It was just an expression. In his hidey-hole. It means, missing—and presumed to be hiding out somewhere. I don’t know where. It might not be miserable at all. He could be anywhere.”
“Where did you go on that bike of yours?”
“Just for a ride.” He was asking her the same questions the guards asked her.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I want Hound.”
“Maybe he’s back at the cottage.”
Danny stood. Tara grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “I didn’t get a chance to question Ben Kelly.”
“This is not the time or the place.”
“Some of the actors—they had been working out at Kelly’s gym.”
“Practicing for the fencing scenes.”
“Exactly.” Tara hit Danny. He rubbed his arm. She laughed. “Do you get what I’m saying?” The hood. It looked just like the hoods the actors were wearing.
“You’re langered,” Danny said. “I don’t even think you get what you’re saying. That’s why I’m taking you home.”
“Ben Kelly could have learned a bit about Shakespeare from them.” Tara knew it was no mistake that Carrig had been stabbed from behind a curtain just like Polonius was stabbed from behind a tapestry by Hamlet. C
ould it be the actress who played Hamlet? What on earth would be her motive? Tara remembered her saying that playing Hamlet was the role of a lifetime and she would do anything for Carrig . . .
“You’re assuming Ben Kelly knew nothing about Shakespeare before that?”
“He’s a jock.”
“He’s Irish. We all know our Shakespeare, Miss America.”
“Maybe they were practicing the sword thingy—”
“Fencing?” Amusement danced in Danny’s eyes.
“Yes. Perhaps it was when they were fencing with those sword things that he got the idea.” Tara thrust an invisible sword. Danny swatted it down.
He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her up. She really was drunk. It was all this stress. She always drank fast when she was nervous. Normally she knew when to stop. But here, it was like the pints just kept flowing. And the music. She loved the music. And the people . . . well . . . she loved some of the people. “I think I should get some things straightened out before we go,” Tara said as she tried to keep up with Danny. He was pulling her through the crowd toward the door.
“Not today.”
Tara couldn’t believe she had to leave and they were all staying. They were drinking just as much as she was—more, even—and they were all still standing. “Why aren’t all of you drunk?”
“Because we can hold it,” Danny said. “You, on the other hand, are a mess.”
Murder in Galway Page 20
