“No. I do not need a cup of tea. Keep talking.”
“Johnny told Rose that he was fed up with Ben Kelly trying to get his shop—and he thought they were all plotting against him. Everyone thinks my uncle was paranoid—but I think he was being targeted.”
“He’s fabricating items and you’re calling him the victim?”
“No. That’s the problem with our case—”
“My case.”
“Of course. Semantics. That’s the problem with your case. Most of the suspects are guilty of something. But there’s quite a span between lying, or fabricating items—or even spray-painting a threat—and murder. Fabricating items was wrong. Johnny will have to answer for it. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
Gable took a moment to think this over. “And who is framing him for murder?”
“Either Johnny is the killer, or he’s not. If he’s not, the killer counted on him being fingered for it. And you’ve played right into his or her hands.”
“It’s my fault now, is it?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying, this killer we’re dealing with—you’re dealing with—is very, very smart.”
“And what do you think of us?”
“Us?”
“The guards. Are we very, very stupid?”
“No. I’m not saying that at all.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Gable stood.
Tara shot up from her chair. She needed him to believe her. She needed him to take charge so she could go back to being a tourist. She could be on a tour bus to the Cliffs of Moher. Or headed to Dublin for a change of scenery. Or anywhere else for the craic. She hadn’t asked for this. “I don’t know why the theatre light was so important to Carrig—what if it was fake too? What if he was squeezing Johnny?”
“Even more reason to believe that I had our killer pegged from day one.” He pointed at her. “Johnny Meehan is our killer.”
“He didn’t run me off the road. Or disable the cameras. Or steal company money—”
“Please get out of my station. I’m going to be needing headache tablets.”
“I didn’t lie about the room at the inn. Maybe Alanna spun this story just to make me look crazy.”
“I think you’re doing a good job of making yourself look crazy. I want you to buy a plane ticket home within the next twenty-four hours. I want proof of your reservation.”
Could he do that? “You can’t make me go home.”
“It’s either that or I will arrest you.”
“You don’t have the grounds to arrest me.”
“You’re interfering with not one but two murder probes.”
“You’re the one who told me not to leave town.”
“This is for your own safety.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
There was a knock on the door. Gable called for them to come in. Breanna poked her head in. “Danny O’Donnell is here with a solicitor. He’s insisting you let them in.”
Gable turned back to Tara and studied her. “Interesting.”
“He’s an employee,” Tara said. “He’s looking out for me.”
“Not much of an investigator if that’s the conclusion you’re drawing,” he said. He pointed. “I want you on a plane, or a train, or a bus twenty-four hours from now. I don’t care where you go. As long it’s a long way from Galway.”
Chapter 27
“Thank you.” Danny had been surprisingly quiet on their way back to the mill. It was obvious he wasn’t happy with her. She almost had to run to keep up with him. Apparently, nothing much had come from his visit with George other than the old musician trying to get dirt on Carrig’s murder and complaining that his theatre light was on the blitz.
“He summoned you all the way out there for that? Do you think he knows anything about Carrig’s murder?”
Danny put his hand up. “You swore to me you’d stay out of this.”
“I tried. It keeps dragging me back in.”
He stopped. She almost barreled into him. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I hate that Johnny is messed up in this.” His concern for her uncle was genuine.
“You seem to be the only one in town who cares about him.”
“Are the guards still convinced he’s our killer?”
Tara sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve told them absolutely everything. If it doesn’t stir up some curiosity for someone other than my uncle, then they aren’t interested in finding out the truth.”
Tara didn’t take the normal path to the mill. She cut right and headed for the retail shop. “Where are you going?” Danny called out.
“To the retail shop,” Tara said. “Are you coming or not?”
* * *
They stood in the middle of the shop, Danny openmouthed, staring at the granite slab. “It wasn’t me,” he said again. “I’ve never been in here in my life.”
“But you’re the one who told me you had this idea.”
“Yes. I had this idea. And if I had gone scouting for shops—this is perfect. But I didn’t.”
Tara was going to have to speak with Heather Milton. “And you have no idea where that came from?” She pointed to the granite slab.
“That’s the one Carrig was after,” Danny said. “No. If Johnny got ahold of it, he didn’t mention it to me.”
“I don’t know what any of this has to do with our murders,” Tara said. “But there must be some connection.”
Tara’s cell rang. It was Victoria, in New York. Tara had missed the deadline for the vision board. “I have to take this.”
“I have a few errands myself. I will see you later.” Danny gave her a nod and a wink, and exited the shop. Tara had an urge to run after him, in case he was about to go investigating after warning her not to—but instead she went out to the garden and took the call.
“Hey.” Tara was relieved for the distraction. Anyone else would have chitchatted about Ireland, asked how she was doing. Victoria had one speed and it was always set to Go.
“I need your vision boards shipped by the end of today, and send digital photographs ASAP.”
That was a tight turnaround. She had been distracted by the investigation. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. Or you won’t work for me again.”
“Got it.”
Victoria clicked off, her favorite form of goodbye.
* * *
Tara stood in the middle of the retail shop, filled with a sense of renewal. Danny had given her the names and numbers of two lads who had agreed to bring a simple wooden table, two red leather chairs, and a Buddha statue over to the retail shop from the mill. She placed Buddha in the garden, hoping his calming presence and big stone belly would bring her good luck. For a moment she empathized with how Emmet Walsh must have felt about his prized pig.
His phony prized pig. She’d been so wrapped up in other business, she’d forgotten to mention that bit to Danny.
Or had she deliberately left it out of their conversation, still unsure whether she could trust him? She glanced at the granite slab standing in the corner. She took out her cell phone and scrolled through the call history until she found George O’Malley’s number. On a whim she dialed. His voicemail picked up.
“George. It’s Tara Meehan. I have your granite slab. I don’t know who will get possession of the one Carrig had, but I thought you’d like to know. Call me if you’re still interested.” Maybe it was a long shot, but she wanted to examine the light fixture Carrig had been so desperate to get back. George O’Malley was in a wheelchair and all the way out on the Aran Islands. Unless he was faking his condition, he was not a viable suspect. He was still a piece of this puzzle—or the ornate theatre light he was coveting might be. She would like to gauge his reaction to Carrig’s murder. If he was mixed up in this, the murder should frighten him. Maybe he would be willing to open up this time.
Ben Kelly was another one she had to confront. The eviction and violation notices were also looming. She would have to tackle
the easiest things first. She left a message with Heather Milton to call her back. She was going to find out just who had rented this retail space if it wasn’t Danny. It was going to be difficult to concentrate on work, but she had to give it a try. Someday this would all be over, and she couldn’t afford to burn her bridges in New York.
She centered the table in the room and set up the two easels and canvases she’d purchased at a local art shop. She opened her computer and brought up the wish list from Victoria’s eccentric client.
Rustic
Industrial
Flair
Unleashed
In parentheses Victoria had added (He’s one of those). She meant he had provided very little detail, leaving the designer freedom, but that also included the freedom to fail. Tara asked her to send photographs of the vision boards he’d already rejected.
The first one was all modern and neon colors. The only rustic bit she could make out was a pair of antlers hanging above a fireplace. The second was way too rustic without any modern—all log furniture and flannel. What was the designer thinking? The third and last looked like Jackson Pollock had decorated stark white furniture with slops of paint.
Tara would start with the furniture—the foundation upon which to build. She opened the layout of his penthouse in Manhattan.
It had bamboo floors and a wall of windows overlooking Manhattan from some thirty floors in the sky. She saw why the designers were having a hard time with the rustic element. The furniture would look funny if it was darker than the wood floors. She set up four canvases:
Foundation
Accessories/Accents
Timeline
Color Schemes
She would check out the mill for furniture, but also look through online catalogues. She would find a fabric shop in town and hopefully collect samples. Excitement thrummed through her as she fell back into what she loved doing. This was fun. Creative. Fulfilling. If only there was a way to create a vision board to catch a killer . . .
The thought caught in her throat. She stared at the categories. Couldn’t she at least try? What sorts of things would she put under Foundation?
Everything she knew to be true. She changed Foundation to Facts.
She glanced at the next category: Accessories/ Accents. This category could be changed to Suspects.
Timeline. This category could stay as is. She needed to establish a timeline before, during, and after the murder—for both Johnny and Carrig Murray.
Color Scheme would change to Motives. She would go back and buy more canvasses for her work project. She wouldn’t force any connections—just like designing a home, you had to let all of your ideas exist until one by one they dropped off, leaving the true intent.
What is the killer’s true intent? Was it over? Or did the murderer have more victims in his or her sight?
She started with Facts:
Emmet Walsh was supposed to meet Johnny the morning he was killed. He showed up to the mill just before sunrise.
Johnny wasn’t there.
Someone left a threatening note—typed—on the door to the mill.
Emmet decided to go to Johnny’s cottage.
Someone lobs the cast-iron pig at Emmet’s head. Emmet dies in the doorway of Johnny’s cottage.
On the back wall of the cottage, in Emmet’s blood, someone scrawls the name TARA.
Ben Kelly wants the salvage mill.
Rose has been hiding Johnny.
Someone dumped the murder weapon in the Galway Bay.
The murder weapon—i.e., cast-iron pig—was not an original.
Johnny’s boat is missing.
Tara stopped. And looked over the list. Shoot. She should have asked Johnny about his boat when she met him. She was going to have to make a list of questions in case she saw him again. Her eyes scanned over the list of facts.
Why hadn’t Johnny showed up for the meeting with Emmet? If only she had thought to ask him this as well.
She added to the list of facts: Johnny arrives, sees Emmet’s dead body—writes Tara on the back wall.
Tara stopped. Had Johnny confirmed this? No. He had emphatically denied it. Was he a liar or a truth-teller? Until she knew for sure, she could not put this down as a fact. She drew a line through it.
She wrote: Johnny didn’t know Tara Meehan was in town.
Now that was a fact. So he couldn’t have written her name on the wall. She placed a square of red fabric next to that one, signaling it was something to pay attention to.
She decided to put George O’Malley’s name under Motives. She couldn’t see him as a suspect. Then added a few more:
THEATRE LIGHT
CAST-IRON PIG—FAKE
GRANITE SLAB—HIDDEN IN SHOP
SHOP—NOT RENTED BY DANNY
SECURITY CAMERAS
CLOAKED HOOD
SHAKESPEARE
HARP
STEM OF A ROSE
PROPOSAL . . .
Johnny hadn’t mentioned the proposal and neither had Rose. Had the murders thrown him off course? She supposed love was all in the timing. Something Johnny said came hurtling back to her. So sorry about the mess. I’m ashamed.
She thought he’d been referring to Emmet’s murder. But what if he’d meant something else? What if he was being literal?
The warehouse had been organized. Spotless. Danny showed some surprise. Johnny’s office was a complete mess. Ben Kelly referred to the mill as a jungle. Either Johnny had suddenly cleaned up his act after all these years—
Or someone else had.
Was someone else cleaning up after Johnny? Was it Rose?
Tara drew a red rose under her Suspects board. Rose was taking care of Johnny, literally making herself an accessory to murder. What if she was more than that? What if she was the mastermind?
She had seen Tara in town within hours of Tara arriving. What if she wrote TARA on the wall in blood?
But why?
Was she trying to frame her for murder to take the heat off Johnny? Was that why Tara registered shock in Johnny’s eyes when she mentioned her name on the wall? A flash of the inside of Rose’s caravan came to mind. Spotless. And then there was the thorny stem left by her door—
Death is all around you. Tara shivered. That would make sense too. Rose, intent on killing, would have known, because she was all around Tara. Had she killed Emmet to protect Johnny? Was that enough of a motive? Had Carrig somehow figured out it was her?
Rose was not hanging around the caravan, she was in hiding with Johnny. Was she pretending to love him? Was he in trouble? Perhaps she knew death was coming because she was the one delivering it.
Just a quick visit. Tara could just have a look. She thought of the keys hanging in Johnny’s office. Did one belong to his girlfriend’s caravan?
Chapter 28
As Tara stood in Johnny’s office, clutching the clump of keys, the question wasn’t going to be whether or not he had a key to Rose’s caravan, but instead, which one was it? She could hardly stand outside Rose’s caravan trying key after key without being spotted.
Danny was coming in just as she’d given up. “What’s going on?”
Tara jiggled the keys. “Rose wanted me to look in on her caravan. She said Johnny had the key. I have no idea which one it is.” Danny went to the desk, opened the drawer and pulled out a single key. Relief and guilt swept over Tara. “Thank you.”
“Now tell me why you really want to get in there.”
“There were too many things I forgot to ask my uncle when I met him. She knows where he is.”
“And you’re hoping—what? She’s left a map open on her dining room table?”
“I have to eliminate her. What if she’s the murderer? What if she’s the one who ran me off the road? She was the only one who knew for sure where I was that morning.”
“You followed her on a bicycle,” Danny said. “Rose doesn’t even drive a car.”
“Rose doesn’t own a car. Do you know for sure she doesn’t
drive a car?”
Danny blinked. “No.”
“What are you doing back here?”
“I met with the attorney. He’s given me a list of documents to find that might help. Thought I’d get started.” His eyes traveled around the messy office.
“Have you spoken to Ben Kelly?”
“My lawyer warned me not to contact him. Makes it less personal.”
Making it less personal was getting impossible for Tara to do. Everything about this case was getting personal.
“On a better note,” Danny said, “the cameras are back on. All of them except for the one in Alanna’s flat.”
Alanna’s flat. Tara glanced at the keys in her hand once more. She couldn’t have stood in front of the caravan trying key after key. But she could do it in the mill. Was this really her plan? Break into all the suspects’ homes and do a search? If she could just force people into telling the truth and nothing but the truth . . . “Were you able to tell how they were disabled in the first place?”
“I’m afraid it’s a simple setting. If you know what you’re doing.”
“I didn’t do it. You didn’t do it. Who did?”
“I’m ahead of you on that one. There’s one camera that never shut off.”
“What? Where?”
Danny pointed to the corner of Johnny’s office where bits of straw were poking out. She moved closer until she could make out the curved shape. “A bird’s nest,” Tara said. “It’s a bird’s nest.”
“It’s a decoy,” Danny said. “That’s where the camera is hiding.”
“Have you accessed it?”
“I was waiting for you.” He pointed to the laptop that was set up on Johnny’s desk.
Tara glanced at the bird’s nest. “Why did you disguise the camera in the first place?” Danny’s face reddened and he glanced away.
“Me,” Tara said. “You were spying on me.”
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