Breanna opened and closed her mouth several times. “You’re joking me.”
“It’s wild. Right?” Tara was starting to worry it was more than wild. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. Was it a stretch to think the flyer, and finding Nancy’s body, were orchestrated? If Nancy’s death was ruled a heart attack, or a natural cause, then how could anything be orchestrated? It would mean that someone else came across Nancy’s body and instead of reporting it, decided to leave a flyer on Tara’s door, hoping she would make the trip and eventually find the body. Okay . . . that was totally ridiculous. She was so glad she didn’t say that out loud. Was it a wild coincidence? Yes. But that’s all it was.
But what about the book? Places to See in Ireland Before You Die. Getting it a week after she found Nancy. It wasn’t sitting well with Tara. “What are the chances?” Breanna shrugged. “No. I’m really asking. What are the chances?”
“County Galway isn’t exactly a tiny village, but we’re still pretty small comparatively. And it happened, so I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” Breanna studied her. “What are you getting at?”
“She must have seen the same flyer,” Tara said. “I just find it odd.”
“Flyer?”
“The stone house for sale.” Maybe Tara should stop into Heather Milton’s realty shop. Heather had rented Tara this space. Tara could ask about the stone house, find out who had the listing.
Hound whined, reminding Breanna that yes, he would like another crisp. Savage went back to her spot near the fireplace and curled up into a ball.
Tara gazed at her. “The vet said she’s healthy but all she does is sleep.”
“She?”
“The pug.”
“Right, so,” Breanna said. “When I was a kid I thought all dogs were boys and all cats were girls.” She threw her head back and spread her infectious laugh across the room once more.
“Don’t let Hound have any more crisps,” Tara said, just as one hovered above his big tongue. He snapped it up and gave her a Take that look before mooning at Breanna again.
“Mammy said no more,” she said to Hound with a shrug.
“I’m not his mammy,” Tara said. “I’m his human.”
“I’m supposed to be on a diet meself, but I was kicked out of the overeaters group.”
“What?” Tara said. “Why?”
“Because I’m honest, dat’s why. The so-called leader of the group asked everyone what was their trigger food, like, what did they really crave, and I couldn’t pick just one. I told her I loved it all. The breads, and crisps, and salty, and sweet, and chocolates, and apple tarts. She said—‘Apple! Next time you’re in SuperValu just imagine that you’re craving an apple.’ And I said—‘Are you joking me? Who in their right mind craves an apple, like?’ And the rest of the group agreed with me, I tink dat’s what put her off. When I said there was no fecking way I could imagine meself craving an apple, she booted me out the door, so she did.”
Apple tarts. Tara really should have ordered one. With ice cream. “I hear you.”
Breanna crossed her arms and squinted, giving Tara the impression that a lecture was coming. “How is it you eat just as much as I do and you’re just a stick of a thing, and I eat that and it goes straight to me arse?”
Tara laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine. I think I worry so much it burns off any extra calories.”
“Black hair, blue eyes, and that figure,” Breanna said, shaking her head. “It’s not fair at all, like.” She opened the chips and dug in, then tossed another to Hound.
“You can take him with you to the station,” Tara said. “Let him fumigate you instead of me.”
Breanna laughed. “Speaking of eating, should we go have a pint?” If Breanna was off at lunchtime, they often took sack lunches to the grassy area near the Spanish Arch, and stared at the river or made up the lives of the tourists passing by. If she was off at dinnertime, they’d find a pub and sit in the back and imagine the lives and secrets of the tourists and locals alike. In New York, most of Tara’s outings had been business related. They’d talk swatches, not secrets. Tara was grateful to have Breanna in her life.
“I’ll be honest. It’s been a full day. I’m looking forward to bed.” Tara’s head was also full of the job she’d just accepted from Veronica. Amends gifts. She was itching to pick up where she left off. Veronica’s folder of snarky notes. It was a little like reading a diary. Maybe she was just thrilled to be immersed in someone else’s drama for a change. Waiting for her business permit was driving her mental. This would be a good distraction.
Breanna sidled over and noticed the top sheet from the folder.
“What’s this?”
“The heiress dropped it.” Tara ran her finger down the list. “Perhaps on purpose. I think these are the people she’s hired me to find amends gifts for.”
“You didn’t tell me she hired you.”
“I did. Just now.”
Breanna tilted her head. “What’s she the heiress of?”
Tara felt like such an idiot. “I didn’t think to ask. I’ll have to google her later.”
Breanna whipped out her phone and tapped on the keyboard. “Sheep farming. Wool products.”
“Really?” Tara had imagined something a little more glamorous. She’d bet money that Veronica had never shorn a sheep in her life. The image of Veronica, holding a shearer whilst standing in a ball gown over fluffy sheep, materialized in front of Tara.
Breanna was still staring at the folder. “Clifden Castle.”
“Have you heard of it?”
“ Course I have. It’s a ruined manor house in Connemara. We used to go to Clifden when I was little. It’s gorgeous.” She gestured to Tara’s laptop. “May I?”
“Have at it.”
Breanna typed, then turned the screen in Tara’s direction. On it were the remains of a gorgeous stone castle, set in the middle of a rolling green field, bursting with towers and turrets, so common in Gothic Revival, complete with a grand entryway marked by a family crest. Tara had yet to get over the jaw-dropping beauty of this land her mother had been lucky enough to call home. “What year was this built?”
Breanna squinted at the screen. “In 1818. John D’Arcy.”
“Tell me more.”
Breanna laughed and scanned the page. “He built up the town, lived in the castle with his family, died, left it to his son, and the son mismanaged it.”
“Typical.”
“Then the famine hit.”
“Oh.” Not so typical. “Awful.”
Breanna nodded. “Then owner after owner, scandal after scandal, blah blah blah.” Breanna was not one for history. “Until it became the property of the Clifden Cooperative, aka the farmers who owned the land around it. They sued a man who tried to buy it, claiming it was their land. They won. Since then the castle has been stripped of everything, including the roof, and it fell to ruins.” Breanna looked up and grinned. “And the tourists keep coming.”
“I don’t blame them.” Tara sighed. She would have loved to be in on a salvage like that. “It’s still gorgeous.”
“’Tis.” Tara snapped a photo of the castle on the screen and added it to her social media postings with #StormTheCastle. Breanna’s phone dinged, and she immediately brought up the posting. “I’ll be the first to like ya.”
“Thank you.” Tara gestured to the travel book on her mantel. “Someone left this in my shop.”
Breanna barely gave it a glance. “Brilliant.”
“Kind of weird, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“I don’t know who left it or how they got in. And . . .” She gestured to the title. “Places to See in Ireland Before You Die. Don’t you find that a bit morbid?”
Breanna shrugged as her eyes swept the shop. “Did they take anything or just leave ya something?”
“I think they just left the book.”
“You’d be laughed out of the station if you come in t
o report dat.”
“I realize. It’s just . . .” I don’t like all of these coincidences.
“There are loads of places I want to see before I die, but not just in Ireland.” Breanna put a finger to her lips. “Maybe I should write a book. Things to Eat Before You Die and you can bet there won’t be a single page dedicated to fecking apples!”
She did it again, brightened the room with her rowdy humor. Tara packed up her laptop and belongings, and set to closing the shop. She eyed the book. She had to call Danny and find out if he left the flyer or the book. Then all of her worry would be for nothing. “I wonder if this is from a local bookshop?” Galway had at least five bookshops. It would be easy enough to visit them all. Tara began to thumb through it. She came to Connemara and, sure enough, Clifden Castle was listed. She showed it to Breanna.
“It’s fate. You should go.”
“Do you want to come?”
Breanna shook her head. “You see one ruined castle in a field full of cows and sheep, you’ve seen them all.” She winked. “I would, but I’m on duty all week.”
Tara laughed. “Got it.” They headed out the door with the dogs in tow, and Tara made sure to check all the locks. The French doors had been finicky in the past and she meant to find sturdier locks. Had someone picked them and that’s how they left the book on her counter? Paranoia. Not your friend. Still. It wouldn’t hurt to improve the locks.
Before they parted, Tara had one more question for Breanna. She didn’t like to use her connection with Breanna for information, but she was dying of curiosity. “Speaking of Nancy Halligan?” She let the rest dangle.
Breanna shook her head. “I shouldn’t be talking out of school.”
“I normally wouldn’t ask but . . .”
“I know. You were there.”
“Exactly.”
“The state pathologist has declared the official cause of death a heat stroke. She had also taken sleeping pills, which were prescribed to her, but nothing close to an overdose.”
“Sleeping pills? During the day? And what about her things?”
Breanna held her hand up. “The body is being released to the family. Right now the theory is that someone found her before you did and robbed her things off her.”
“Evil.”
“Isn’t it? I wish the donkeys could talk.”
“I don’t like it. Why would she take sleeping pills during the day?”
“I don’t know. To be honest with ya, I don’t think they can tell exactly when she took the sleeping pills. I’m not a toxicology expert. Maybe she didn’t sleep the night before; maybe she wanted to nap during the day.”
“She was on a hike,” Tara said. Or an excursion. Or something. She wasn’t in bed.
Breanna shrugged. “Maybe she forgot she’d taken them or thought she was taking headache tablets, or maybe she started to feel ill that moment and took the wrong tablets. I’d only be guessing.”
“How can they close the case with so many unanswered questions?”
“I think her family was adamant that they wanted to move on. They’re already on their way back to Dublin with her remains. Cremated.” Breanna shuddered and crossed herself.
“Cremated? Already?” Most Irish probably preferred traditional burials. Tara wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread somewhere beautiful. But that kind of talk upset Breanna, so she kept it to herself.
Breanna nodded. “Probably the best choice. Considering she wasn’t found right away.” Breanna crossed herself again. Tara nodded. See? She was being paranoid. She and Nancy did not show up at the old stone house at the same time. Although if they had, maybe a quick call to 999 could have saved her. Sometimes a flyer was just a flyer, and Curly or Moe could have left that book in the shop. The lads were finished doing work for her, but she needed to find them and ask them if someone came in with the book while they were there. Hopefully Uncle Johnny would know how to get ahold of them. This too shall pass. She waved goodbye as Breanna ambled off in the opposite direction, and talked to her mam in her head as she and the pups ventured back to the mill, feasting her eyes on all the people streaming by in either direction—a pop of color, and noise, and life being lived. She stopped along the way to lose herself in the river, and then the bay; she stopped to watch fishermen haul in their boats; she stopped to watch a trio of Irish dancers make tourists clap; she stopped to delight in the angry red streaks cutting across the Irish sky; and if she stopped and asked a college kid to watch her pups for a quick second so she could pop in for apple tarts, it was a secret she planned on taking to the grave.
Chapter 6
The rectangular stone building with massive wooden doors was shrouded in the dark. Tara hadn’t realized how late it was. The red sign reading IRISH REVIVALS was barely visible. Next to the mill, the small creek with a turning wheel gurgled. Tara found the sound comforting. She entered and locked the doors behind her, then headed directly up the staircase to her loft on the second floor. Uncle Johnny had a cottage nearby, and he and Rose switched between living in it and her caravan, depending on the weather. Tara had lived in that same cottage when she first arrived, but had now moved to the loft in the mill. She loved her dwellings. It was an open-concept floor-plan with concrete floors, brick walls, and a timber ceiling. Fifteen hundred square feet of freedom. The kitchen was done to the nines, gourmet style. The kitchen island was sourced with marble from the quarry in Connemara, white with streaks of their signature green. She vowed she was going to start cooking, and a stack of cookbooks backed her up on that, but the takeaway containers in the rubbish bin doubted her.
She wouldn’t be able to touch an apartment like this in Manhattan, or any of the boroughs for that matter. She’d furnished it with many of the items from the mill, including a green woven rug from Donegal. Sometimes at night she stood just outside her loft, where a hallway overlooked the warehouse. She’d gaze at the objects below, and imagine where they came from, who had touched and loved them, what their lives might have been like. Tonight, she had other things to occupy her, so she kicked off her shoes, poured a finger of whiskey, and plopped onto her sleek yet soft sectional.
She reached into the bag at her feet and retrieved Veronica’s folder, then dug out her design book, tape, and markers. She turned to the next page in the folder:
EDDIE O’FARRELL
She had seen this photo before—Eddie O’Farrell was Eddie Oh. The one with the tweed cap that he’d swiped off the head of Veronica’s previous driver. Who was Eddie Oh to Veronica? Ex-husband? Had Veronica mentioned that? Tara couldn’t remember. Her visit was a whirlwind. A second photo of a bride and groom kissing confirmed it. Eddie Oh was Veronica’s ex-husband. No wonder she was trying to push his work on Tara. Her eyes fell to the notes.
Eddie is my second ex-husband.
Interesting. Second . . . still talking up the ex . . .
A brilliant artist. He hasn’t created lately and I am determined to change that. I want to find a venue to throw him an exclusive art opening complete with publicity, and celebrities. See me on this one.
In the shop Veronica had said that Eddie Oh was taking the art world by storm. But that had been a lie. He hasn’t created lately . . .
Veronica was certainly slippery with the truth.
Tara wondered how recent Eddie’s photo was. He looked a good twenty years younger than Veronica. Not that there was anything wrong with that. How long had it been since he created a piece of art? Was Veronica still in love with him? She taped Eddie’s sheet to her design book, jotted down a few notes, and moved on.
CASSIDY HUGHES
The photo accompanying this name was of a young blonde posing in front of a mansion, dressed to the nines. She was stunning.
My niece by marriage. Piece of work. Doesn’t matter what you buy for her. I’m only trying to keep peace in the family. If you ask me, she’s the one who should be apologizing. Anything designer will do. Personally, I’m sending her to rehab. Wish me luck.
Interesting. Sending her to rehab? Was that for real or sarcasm? Was Veronica jealous of the young beauty? What should this Cassidy be apologizing for? She did look a bit like a diva, and once again Tara reminded herself to keep an open mind. Her job was to find unique items for these guests. She reached the last name:
IONA KELLY
The photo was of a woman on a hike. She was tan, early forties, with short red hair. Athletic, no makeup.
I accidentally bumped into this woman years ago on a photo shoot. Literally. I knocked her over. She claimed to suffer an injury from the fall. I’ve been paying her medical bills. I’ve had it. I think she’s faking it, and while at Ballynahinch Castle I will be keeping a very close eye on her. Buy her something hiking-related to throw her off. I can’t have her suspecting she’s being watched.
Tara realized her mouth was hanging open. What kind of amends were these? She quickly googled Ballynahinch Castle. It was a four-star hotel in Connemara. Very fancy. That must be where Veronica and her guests were staying. Had she invited the last guest as a ploy to spy on Iona Kelly? Maybe Tara didn’t want to be a part of this after all. She closed the folder and her design book, finished her whiskey, then laid her head back, vowing she would get up soon to brush her teeth and get on her pajamas.
A jarring melody jabbed through her head. She opened her eyes as the tune rang through the air, made hollow by the concrete floors. She’d fallen asleep. She flailed to grab her cell phone dancing across the coffee table. PRIVATE CALLER. Probably a wrong number. A drunk. In New York it could have been a booty call. Here, she’d been too busy to court that kind of trouble. Unless you counted Danny O’Donnell, and not only was he away, but when he called his name came up as DANNY BOY, along with the theme song. Hardly anyone had her Irish cell phone number, and those that did wouldn’t call from a blocked number. She sunk back into the sofa and let it ring.
With the morning came a stiff neck and a self-admonition for not making it into her pajamas or bed. Burning the candles at both ends, her mam would have said. She hit the shower and thought about making a green juice in her new blender, but put coffee on instead. She wished she had one of those ginormous blueberry scones to go with it. Once her coffee was ready, she poured it in a travel mug and headed out for her early morning walk with Hound and Savage. She loved the quiet of the city before it woke, the gentle lapping of the Galway Bay, boats bobbing at the shore. She picked up the pace until she was out of breath and broke a sweat. The dogs easily kept up. It wasn’t until she returned, showered and dressed, fed the pups, and was looking for her phone that she remembered the strange call in the middle of the night. No wonder she was so tired. She lifted her cell off the coffee table and was surprised to find the caller had left a message. She put it on speaker and pushed play. A woman’s distraught voice rang out.
Murder in Connemara Page 5