Murder in Connemara

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I came to see the house for sale.”

  “House for sale?” He sounded as if he thought she was spinning a lie.

  “That one.” She pointed to the stone house in the distance. The crude FOR SALE sign flashed through her mind, along with the flyer and map left at her shop. This wasn’t the time to burden him with her uneasy feelings. “She’s lying on the left side toward the water.”

  “Is there anyone else with you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind waiting here for a minute while we have a look?”

  “Of course.” Tara gave them directions and four guards headed up the hill, followed by the paramedics. She turned the AC on in her Jeep and placed Savage inside.

  Tara was too keyed up to stay in the car, so she hovered outside it. The ambulance driver stood outside his vehicle, head tilted back, gazing at the sky. He righted his gaze and shook his head. “This blasted sun. We’ve had heat strokes, severe burns, heart attacks. No doubt our insides are probably boiling with cancer.”

  “Sunscreen is key,” Tara said.

  They stood for a while, all small talk evaporating in the heat. Tara hadn’t realized a guard had stayed back until the door to his car swung open and he stepped out. He clicked off his radio. “You’re free to leave, as long as you write down your contact information. Are you on holiday?”

  “No,” she said. “I live in Galway.”

  He nodded and handed her a notebook. She dug into her purse and retrieved the new business cards she’d made for Renewals, her new architectural-salvage shop in the heart of Galway city. They were a lovely mint green with a treasure chest embossed in black, and RENEWALS sprawled across the top. She’d paid extra to have the treasure chest pop out, almost in 3-D, and it had been worth every penny. On her website, an identical treasure chest was featured on the home page. To enter the site, you clicked on it and the chest sprang open. She was thrilled to discover her interior design skills could be applied elsewhere.

  “Here.” She handed him the notebook along with her card. He glanced at it and nodded before jotting something down. From the direction of his gaze, she presumed it was her license plate number. Number plates as they called them here. Tara was fascinated by the tiny differences in phrasing between the United States and Ireland.

  “Can I see your registration and motor license?”

  She retrieved them from the Jeep and waited while he continued to scribble. “What about her dog?” Tara felt a twinge of panic at the thought of them taking her.

  He glanced at the pug. “Do you want the name of a pound?”

  “No.” Not on your life. “I’d like to keep her until . . . can you have her next of kin contact me?” She held her breath, praying he wouldn’t say no. There was no way she could leave without this pug. The poor girl had suffered enough. The guard glanced at the dog, then waved her away with a nod. “Come on, Savage,” she said. “Let’s get you home and fed.” She smiled and nodded at the guard, although the truth was, if he had tried to take the pug out of her arms, Tara probably would have bit him.

  * * *

  Exactly one week later, Tara stood inside Renewals, sweat trickling down the back of her neck as she watched a pair of hungover lads try to mount her antique crystal chandelier to the ceiling. The rickety ladder didn’t look strong enough to hold the lad climbing it, nor did the one bracing it seem to care. He was too absorbed in his mobile phone. “Perhaps you should check your phone later.” The lad snorted out a laugh but shoved his phone into his pocket. “What are your names again?” Uncle Johnny had recommended them, and Tara was starting to doubt his judge of character.

  “I’m Curly,” the one with his phone in his pocket said. “And that’s Moe.”

  The ladder jostled, the chandelier swayed, and Tara’s heart lurched into her throat. “Please,” she said, letting out a little gasp. The one bracing it gave her the side-eye while the one attempting to bolt it to the ceiling laughed, causing the Irish wolfhound and the pug (posing as a rug and a tiny pillow in front of the fire) to lift their heads and bark a chorus of disapproval. The barking caused the two lads to jump, the ladder to jostle, and the chandelier to sway all over again. Please, please, don’t let it fall. Curly and Moe were going to be the death of her.

  The stunning light fixture was from a thirteenth-century Irish manor house, and had survived too many turbulent times in history to be taken down by an unreliable ladder, a pair of cranky dogs, and hungover Three Stooges fans. “We won’t work any faster with you gawping at us,” Curly said.

  Tara sighed, and headed over to her coffeemaker. She poured herself a cup, pretending she couldn’t hear them laughing behind her back. She needed to think about something else. Anything other than the woman she’d found at the old stone house. It was hard to believe an entire week had gone by. Already ignoring her own advice, she went over to the counter where her laptop was perched, and typed the woman’s name into the search engine, but there was nothing beyond what Tara already knew. Her name was Nancy Halligan, she was visiting from Dublin, and staying on Inishbofin Island—a forty-minute ferry ride away from where Tara had found her. She’d been taken to University Hospital in Galway where the state pathologist had yet to rule on the cause of death. Tara assumed they were awaiting the tox screens. She’d been gone at least twenty-four hours before Tara discovered her body. Tara had yet to receive a call about Savage, nor did she have any updates on the woman’s family or friends. They had her information and all Tara could do was wait.

  Waiting was something she was painfully familiar with.

  It was now a mere ten days from what she hoped would be the grandest of openings. Located just off the pedestrianized Shop Street, Renewals, (an offshoot of the larger salvage mill Irish Revivals) was starting to take shape. Five hundred square feet of hand-selected treasures, and a back patio to boot. Gratitude had become her favorite word. She stood near the French doors to the patio as she watched them work. Her eyes landed on the opposite wall, painted a lively shade of mint green, where she had proudly hung the framed newspaper article:

  NEW BEGINNINGS GIVE BIRTH TO RENEWALS

  The local newspaper reporter had been kind to write the article. Tara’s second chance in Galway, she liked to think of it, given how rocky her first few months had been. The ladder jiggled, and Tara cried out. One lad laughed, the other cursed.

  “Relax,” Moe, or maybe it was Curly, said to Tara. “Have a smoke in your garden.”

  “I don’t smoke.” Also, it wasn’t a garden, it was a patio with a small fountain and a few potted flowers, but she wasn’t paying them to quibble with her so she kept that mum.

  “You might want to start,” he added with a wink as he barely braced the ladder for his partner.

  Tara eyed the chandelier. Then the ladder. “It doesn’t look steady.”

  “Neither do you,” quipped the one screwing her precious crystal commodity into the ceiling.

  He was right about that. She needed air. But instead of disappearing onto the patio, Tara escaped out the front door and onto the soon-to-be-teeming Quay Street. It was early morning and the City of the Tribes was still sleeping. A pair of familiar figures emerged on the footpath, Uncle Johnny and Rose. Holding hands, they made their way toward Tara. Rose’s black hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head. Today she was wearing a flowered dress. She lived in a caravan by the Galway Bay and read fortunes to tourists. That included Tara. She had been skeptical at first, and there were times when Rose was slightly off, but several of her predictions were eerily on the mark. Tara was now a loyal customer; hardly a week went by that she didn’t pay Rose to read her cards. Mostly, she had come to enjoy sitting in the eccentric woman’s caravan, taking in the African violets on the windowsills, watching the Galway Bay ripple out the window as Rose concentrated on her cards. She could use some of Rose’s wisdom today, as long as it was good news. Would her permit be in the mail today?

  Uncle Johnny, in his usual denims and flannel shirt, looke
d more like Rose’s stalker than her lover. His wild beard blew upward in the wind. Tara often imagined taking cutting shears to it while he slept. “How ya,” he called as they drew near. In his hands he held an old Viking helmet. “For your opening,” he said, hoisting it in the air.

  “I love it,” she said, taking the helmet. And she did. Uncle Johnny was a little rough around the edges, a bit of a wild man, but he had a keen eye for treasures and she’d already learned a lot from him.

  “It’s antique, but it’s a costume. Real Viking helmets are difficult to source.”

  “Oh.” Tara had so much to learn, but she was looking forward to the journey. “Why is that?”

  Johnny shrugged, although Tara had learned that wasn’t a stand-in for I don’t know. The shrug was simply a warm-up to his take on things, his version of take what I’m about to tell you with a grain of salt. “Iron would have been heavy to wear, so perhaps a limited number of helmets were forged, but there’s also a theory that only the upper strata of society wore them. Those trained to guard the king.”

  Rose came to an abrupt stop and put her hands on her hips, then swiveled her head to the sky as if reading a message written in the gathering clouds. “Guard the queen,” she said.

  “King,” Uncle Johnny repeated.

  “I’m getting queen.” Rose continued to stare at the sky, so Tara followed suit. Heavy clouds hung in the distance, slowly marching their way. The heat wave was over and Ireland was back to its normal weather. For Tara’s morning walks that meant a comedy of errors. Hat on, hat off, jumper on, jumper off, raincoat on, raincoat off, hat back on, hat off, sunglasses on, sunglasses off. The skies seemed to change their minds every freaking second, driving Tara a little mad. It was also part of its charm—as if even the Irish weather carried a good dose of sarcasm and mischief close to its heart. Lately, everyone had been hoping for a longer dose of rain, as if to permanently wash away all memories of the heat, and it looked as if today might be the day. The River Corrib had been rough this morning, a sure sign of turbulent weather on the way.

  “A visitor,” Rose said, pinning her dark eyes on Tara. “A very strange visitor indeed.” Rose and Johnny already knew about the poor woman in Connemara, so she must have been picking up on someone else. Or making up someone else.

  Tara gestured to the shop. “If you mean the lads hanging my chandelier, it’s too late, they’re already in there.”

  Rose shook her head. “No.” She drew closer to Tara, her eyes cutting into hers like a precision laser. If it was all an act, Rose certainly had it down. “You shouldn’t be left alone.”

  “What? Like a toddler?” Tara tried to keep her voice light, but a shiver went up the back of her neck. When Rose went into psychic mode, she had that effect on her.

  Rose doubled down. “Today is not a good day for you to be alone.”

  A picture of Nancy Halligan in her purple tracksuit, lying all alone on the hill, flashed in her mind, and she shoved it down. “I’m not alone. I have you, Uncle Johnny, two fools calling themselves Curly and Moe on a ladder in my shop, Hound, and a sweet little pug named Savage.” She placed the Viking cap on her head and grinned. “And this,” she said, pointing to her head. “An antique Viking helmet, be it part of a costume or otherwise.”

  “You look ridiculous,” Johnny said, flashing a grin. “It suits you.”

  “Tank you.”

  He frowned at her imitation of an Irish accent.

  “This is not a good day,” Rose said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her colorful dress. “Close the shop and take the day off.”

  “Gives me hives just thinking about it,” Tara said, looping her arm around Johnny. “But you’re here now. The more the merrier.” The lads emerged in the doorway, hauling their ladder with them.

  “She’s a beauty,” one said, as they passed.

  “And the chandelier isn’t bad either,” the other quipped.

  Was that it? Was it hung? “It won’t fall?” Tara yelled after them.

  “Not unless you swing from it,” came the reply.

  “Call me if you do,” the other called out. Johnny’s laugh rang in the air, along with the cheeky lads’, but Rose continued to frown.

  Tara held her breath as she stepped into the shop and fixed her eyes on the chandelier. It was perfect. An iron base, and just enough crystals not to be obnoxious. It gave off a beautiful glow, casting curved shadows up the far wall. “It’s stunning.” She turned to get Uncle Johnny and Rose’s reaction, but they were nowhere to be seen. She ran back outside, only to see them retreating in the distance.

  “Where are you going?” she yelled after them.

  “Just came to give you the helmet,” Johnny yelled back. “Rose doesn’t like the vibe.”

  “Seriously? She didn’t even step in.”

  “Take the day off,” Rose repeated. And then they were gone.

  Tara headed back into the shop and looked around. The vibe felt good to her. Bamboo floors, special cabinets to display her hand-picked items, old Guinness signs hanging at varying heights on the walls. White orchids topped surfaces, sculptures stood in every corner, and fireplace accoutrements were set up near the small working fireplace. On the mantel, she displayed antique brass and iron candleholders. She’d personally chosen every single item in the shop. Pottery from the 1800s was gathered in one section; vases, tiles, and antique fixtures in another. Stone lions, which she priced high enough that she wouldn’t sob if anyone bought them, flanked the fireplace. The cabinet by the register was filled with antique jewelry. A small section of crystal glassware occupied shelves in the middle. Old doorknobs and decorative knockers were laid out on an old wooden barrel with JAMESON carved on the side.

  On the patio, larger architectural items, such as old wrought-iron gates, were stacked up against the back of the building along with garden sculptures and fountains. She loved her shop. Bad vibes. Rose was out of her tarot card-reading mind. It had a fantastic vibe. Maybe today was the day she would get her permit. She’d been watching her mail like a hawk. The city was taking forever. Everything was hurry up and wait.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me,” Tara said to Hound and Savage. Hound rose to his feet and padded to the French doors leading out to the patio. Savage remained rolled into a ball. He looked like a Cinnabon. For a much younger dog, he slept a lot. “What’s the matter?” she said to Hound. “You don’t like the vibe either?” He whined at the door. She sighed and let him out. “Just me and the bun then.”

  She turned to set the Viking helmet down on the counter, and in doing so knocked a paperback book to the floor. It landed near Savage, who yelped and shot up. The pug’s eyes seared into Tara’s, and she swore the dog had so perfected the scolding look, Tara wondered if she’d met Tara’s mammy in a past life. Nothing could silence Tara from across a room like one of her mam’s looks. She let Savage out on the patio with Hound, then turned to pick up the book, wondering if one of the handymen had left it—Curly or Moe? It certainly wasn’t hers. She propped it on the counter and stood back to take it in. The white cover showing a torn map with a winding road running through it was intriguing, but it was the title, in large black letters, that caught her attention:

  PLACES TO SEE IN IRELAND BEFORE YOU DIE

  Chapter 3

  Were Curly and Moe messing with her? Was it a gift, or a joke, or something forgotten? It was shiny and new, with no markings or name scribbled in the front pages. Joke or not, she’d leaf through it later. After all, there were plenty of spots she was dying to see in Ireland. She laughed at her pun, then set the book on the counter and went to dig for her to-do list. She couldn’t officially hold an opening party until she’d been granted her permit, but she could at least start planning it. Just then, the front door swung open, and a striking older woman strode in on a gust of perfumed wind. Behind her loomed a large bald man dressed head-to-toe in black. Tara had forgotten to lock the front door.

  The woman wasn’t tall per se, esp
ecially next to the giant in black, yet her presence loomed large. Star power. She held court in a peach silk dress and matching stilettos. Her thick white hair was cut in a stylish bob. Tara pegged her to be in her seventies, but she looked like a movie star. From her white-gloved hands to her perfectly made-up face, the woman made an impression.

  Strange visitor . . . Tara felt a little tingle in the back of her neck and she wished Johnny and Rose had stayed. “I’m sorry,” Tara said. “I’m not open for another ten days.”

  “Dat’s good,” the woman said, removing her gloves and placing them in a matching purse. “Because I want this place all to meself.” She moved into the room as if she owned it while the man in black remained by the door.

  “Sorry?” Tara was at a loss for words. Who was this woman?

  “Veronica O’Farrell,” she said, holding out her hand as if Tara had spoken the question out loud.

  “Tara Meehan.” Veronica O’Farrell’s hand was ice-cold. She should have left the gloves on. She began inspecting the shop as if she’d been invited.

  “I’m not open,” Tara repeated.

  “Obviously,” Veronica said disapprovingly. She snapped her fingers at the man by the door, and for the first time Tara noticed he was carrying a small black satchel. He removed a folder and handed it to her without a word. “That’s it, Bartley.” She handed the folder to Tara, who felt she had no choice but to glance at it.

  On the cover was the photo of a handsome man: chiseled jaw, a knowing smile, and brown eyes sulking beneath a tweed patchwork cap. He was a little too posed for Tara’s liking. She preferred scruffy men. Speaking of scruffy men, Danny O’Donnell should be home from Scotland soon. He’d been on a sourcing expedition for eight days. Pirating around as he liked to say. Not that she was counting. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about finding Nancy Halligan, or grill him about whether or not he’d left the flyer under her lion’s-head door knocker. He was more than a friend, and less than a boyfriend, and he equally confused and thrilled her. Focus. She glanced back at the photograph. A name was scrawled above the handsome, brooding face: Eddie Oh!