Murder in Connemara

by Carlene O'Connor

  “The book?”

  “It’s back at my shop. I showed Breanna. I think it’s better you see it for yourself.”

  “And how did Veronica come to be in your shop?”

  “She said she saw an article written about me in the paper. She identified with the name of my shop. Renewals.”

  At least that’s what she said. Could Veronica have known that Tara found Nancy’s body? Was that the real reason Veronica came into her shop? Was she only pretending to be shocked by the news of Nancy’s death? After all, she was having Iona Kelly watched. What if she was doing the same to Tara? Did Veronica think Nancy’s death was suspicious and Tara had something to do with it? It seemed outrageous, but Tara really didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “The list of guests I turned over have notes from Veronica. One woman—Iona Kelly—Veronica was suspicious of.” Guilt thudded through her again. Was she actually tossing out names from Veronica’s list in order to defend herself?

  “Suspicious how?”

  Tara filled him in on what she knew. Gable took notes. “I’ll check it out. Anything else?”

  “Her butler was with her. Bartley. I don’t know if he’s really a butler, but he was definitely in her employ somehow. She said he had a law degree. And her driver. Andy.”

  “We’ve spoken with him briefly. He said he was supposed to drive Veronica to the castle for a meeting here at half nine. He claims he has no idea why she was here early or how she arrived.”

  Tara made note of the word claims. She assumed it would be relatively easy to check whether or not the vehicle Andy was driving Veronica in left the hotel early that morning or not. But it wasn’t her job to do his job, and she certainly didn’t want to antagonize a guard, so she kept that to herself. “Her ex-husband is one of the guests as well. Eddie O’Farrell. He’s an artist. At first I thought he was the reason why she came to my shop—to try and get me to carry his sculptures—” She was talking a mile a minute, hoping to convince him that she was being roped into this somehow. “You need to talk to Bartley, and Andy, and the seven people on that list. They’re all involved.” Stop talking, Tara. What are you doing?

  “Involved in what exactly?”

  There was that word again. Involved. It was starting to sound like a horrible word. “I don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you. But what if Veronica knew Nancy Halligan was dead? Maybe she was investigating. Everything else—hiring me—the artist portfolio—it could have been a ruse to question me.”

  “You think she suspected you of killing Nancy Halligan?”

  “I think—like you—she wondered how I found the body. I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure this out.”

  Gable ran his hand through his stubble. “Did Ms. O’Farrell mention anything else?”

  “She talked mostly about the amends she was here to make. She said a lot of things.”

  “Did she mention any other locations?”

  “Locations?” He seemed to know something and be driving toward it; she had no idea what. “You need to speak with Bartley. He is a big man who was dressed in black, carrying a satchel.” Her hands were sweating. She felt like a criminal. She could suddenly understand how innocent people confessed. This was a panicky, squeezing feeling, and she wasn’t even being railroaded or mistreated, but just the thought was churning up dreadful feelings. “I just can’t believe it.” Gable had taken her phone as well because of the voicemail. The call had come in just past midnight. “She was calling them all liars. Said she was going to expose them all. Something terrible must have happened after she left my shop yesterday.” Had someone been listening when she made that rambling call? Did they take the threat personally?

  “We’ll certainly be looking into everything,” Sergeant Gable said.

  Tara pointed toward the crime scene. “It can’t be a coincidence. Two older women lying dead in their tracksuits?”

  Gable gestured to the exit. “Let’s get you home.”

  Home. She barely knew where that was now. This had thrown her off-kilter. They were silent on the walk back to the car, which was a long way to be silent. She wished she had come here first as a tourist so she could simply marvel at the castle out in the middle of a pasture. With giant oval boulders marking the entry. The past so tantalizingly close, yet so far away. When they reached the car park, Breanna was standing off to the side with what appeared to be a forensic team. Breanna mainly handled clerical aspects at the Garda Station, and she was now organizing for this probe. That was good for her, a promotion of sorts. But it would mean there would be a distance between them until this case was solved. At least the body wouldn’t be left there too long. Tara tried to make eye contact, but Breanna did not lift her head in her direction. It wasn’t personal. She had a job to do. Tara hated how much she wanted her phone back in this moment. She had so many calls to make for her opening, but how could she be thinking about that now? Two women were dead. At least one murdered, maybe both, and she was freaking out about a phone?

  Tara knew it was how the mind worked, how it was always trying to protect itself from this kind of horror, and it didn’t make her a bad person. It was self-preservation. She had nothing to do with either death, and there was no need to feel guilty on top of frightened, and incredibly sad. Yes, the woman had been like a tornado, swirling into her shop. But Tara also liked her. Formidable, but a definite character. Trying to make amends. Unless she was lying . . .

  She followed Gable to the car, her mind and stomach churning. He chatted away on the drive home about everyday things, and even though she knew he was doing it to calm her nerves, it barely penetrated the surface. The green fields, and cows, and sheep, and mountains, and water, all framed the background. How could evil things be happening with such savage beauty all around them? “Savage.” She said it out loud.

  “What?” Gable was on alert.

  “Nancy’s pug.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t know. If someone took her handbag, and phone—why not the pug?”

  Gable nodded. “Maybe it ran away.” Yes. She hid. Somewhere in the old stone house. If Nancy Halligan was lured out there, and left in a vulnerable state to die, the pug knew who did it. “Even if something untoward happened to Ms. Halligan, it’s not like the pug is going to be tattling,” Gable added.

  “Is it too late to find fingerprints on her collar?”

  “With you and everyone else passing around the wee ting? Yes, I’d say it’s definitely too late.”

  Tara nodded. Poor thing. If only she could talk. What happened that morning? Why was someone after two older women in sobriety? “Maybe Savage bit or scratched someone.”

  “If we ever have a suspect with bites or scratches, I’ll keep dat in mind.”

  She should keep her mouth shut. He didn’t want help on the case. He wanted to eliminate her as a suspect. She needed to rein it in. It wasn’t until the detective pulled up to the mill that she reminded him about the book.

  “I’ll wait here while you fetch it.”

  “Sorry. It’s at my shop.”

  It took only minutes for him to drive there and double park in front of Renewals. Soon they were standing in her shop by the fireplace with Gable leafing through Places to See in Ireland Before You Die. “You think this has something to do with Ms. O’Farrell?”

  “The timing is strange. I didn’t leave the book here. Minutes later she arrives on—you asked about places—maybe there is a connection.”

  “You have no idea who left this?”

  “None. When Veronica saw it—she commented on it—so I don’t think it was her.”

  “What kind of comment?”

  “Morbid.” Tara shivered. “She said it was morbid.”

  “Who could have left it?”

  Tara shook her head. “I’ve only had delivery people and . . .” The lads who hung her chandelier.

  “And?”

  She didn’t want to drag them into this. “There were tw
o young men who hung my chandelier.”

  “I’d like their names.”

  “Curly and Moe.” Gable put his hands on his hips and gave her a withering look. Shoot. She held her hands up. “It’s not me. That’s what they told me. Uncle Johnny recommended them.”

  “I’ll give Johnny a bell,” Gable said. “Ask who the sarcastic lads were that he recommended to hang your chandelier.” The description fit every Irishman Tara had ever met. “Was anyone else in the shop?”

  “I’ve had deliveries. I can’t attest to every single one.” Tara’s reputation, having risen a little since the article was published, would probably slide again once word got out that the victim had visited her shop shortly before she was killed. Not to mention Tara’s posting a picture of the murder weapon. Oh God. And the crime scene. How could any of this be happening? She was supposed to be opening her shop, basking in the joy. Posed with marbles. She shivered as she remembered Rose’s warning. A bad vibe. A strange visitor. Indeed. Why didn’t she listen to Rose? She should have closed the shop for the day.

  It could have been Andy. Or Bartley. Were they trying to frame her? Was she marked as an easy scapegoat? Stop it. She didn’t want anyone accusing her based on circumstantial evidence and she vowed not to do the same to anyone else. Veronica mentioned that the pin slipped off easily. She’d witnessed it herself. Maybe they could trace Veronica’s steps after she left the shop. The murderer must have found it. It seemed highly unlikely Veronica would have pinned it to a tracksuit. Not something that precious. And what of the book? Could it be a coincidence? A book was a book. That’s all. A book of lovely places to see in Ireland. Before you die.

  “If this book is part of this—then doesn’t that suggest this had been planned far in advance?”

  Gable cocked an eyebrow, raked his eyes over the book, and went on to survey her shop without commenting. “Do you have a camera? Security systems?”

  “They’re being installed this week.”

  “A little late.”

  “I had no way of foreseeing any of this.”

  “Of course.” He continued to stare at her. “Did you leave your flat at all last night?”

  “No.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “You’re saying I’m a suspect.”

  “I’m afraid that’s how an investigation works. I know the mill has a security camera, so if you don’t mind we’ll check those, and the coordinates of your mobile phone, and I’m sure we’ll clear you in due time.”

  In due time. Which meant at her grand opening she would be a murder suspect. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “When you talk about this . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  He shook his head with a sad smile. “When you talk about this, do not mention the marble pieces.”

  “Of course.” It was information that only the killer and the guards knew. Unless . . .

  “May I ask who discovered the body?”

  “A young couple. Out for a morning stroll.” From the tone of his voice she felt there was more to the story, but that was all he was offering. At least the body had been discovered quickly. Every second was of the essence. “Don’t leave town,” he said with a half smile and a tug on his garda cap.

  Chapter 8

  Tara had been forbidden to mention the marble stones to anyone, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little research. There was no way she’d be able to focus on the shop now. She had been at a mobile shop first thing this morning and replaced her phone. It was charging. At least that was a bit of work squared away. She dug out a new design book, and was suddenly grateful for the cloud; her pictures would be stored on her laptop. It also meant if the guards went through her photos they would know she took pictures of Veronica’s folder before turning it over—but she could explain how she thought it might be nice to continue Veronica’s mission of finding gifts for her guests.

  She bought coffee and a blueberry scone as big as her head, then settled back into the shop with her laptop and design book. She’d have to find a place to print out the photos of the guests, but for now she made pages for all of them and transferred Veronica’s notes. Not as satisfying as her original book, but at least it was something. She turned back to her laptop and googled Connemara marble. Before she knew it she was lost in the history of Connemara and its two marble quarries. The oldest, Streamstown Marble Quarry, opened in 1822 and was located in Let-ternoosh, Clifden. The site went on to say that Stone Age men had worked the quarry some four thousand years ago, extracting marble for axes. How she’d love to see an item like that, but to do so she’d have to go to the National Museum of Ireland. She tucked it away for a future adventure.

  The second quarry was the Cregg Marble Quarry in Letterfrack. This was the quarry that sourced white marble with a vein of light green. The same as her kitchen island. A surprising connection leapt out at her as she read through the history. It said the founder, Richard Martin, who also founded the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had placed marble from his quarry in his home—Ballynahinch Castle—with every second stone white and green.

  Ballynahinch Castle. It was in Veronica’s notes. She read further. Baile na hinse. “Household of the island.” What strange connections. Marble. Ballynahinch. The four-star hotel Tara found mentioned in Veronica’s notes. She assumed it’s where Veronica and her guests were staying. Veronica didn’t seem like the type to lose herself in history and pick a hotel based on those strange connections, but then again, Tara could hardly claim to know the woman. What she did know was that someone deliberately placed marble stones over Veronica’s eyes, and mouth, and heart. The quarries were not open to the public, so where did the marble stones come from?

  She quickly found the website for the Connemara marble factory. At the Connemara Marble Visitor Centre gift shop, they sold black marble, Irish jade—which was very rare—and red marble. The visitor center and shop sold mostly jewelry and smaller stones. The green marble was the rarest form in the world. Red was the color you would associate with a heart. The killer gave her a black one and red eyes. Hungover? Green for the mouth. A jealous mouth? Or were the stones meant to throw them off?

  The killer had decorated her. Tara knew a thing or two about decorating. Designing. Staging. In some odd way, this killer was speaking Tara’s language. But what was the message?

  Tara turned once again to posts about Ballynahinch Castle, the four-star luxury hotel. She recognized the grounds from the photo of Sheila and John Murphy as well as Mimi Griffin. They’d been taken recently, at their lodgings.

  * * *

  Realizing she wasn’t going to solve the riddle of the stones this morning, Tara busied herself in the shop the rest of the afternoon. She took care of a wall that needed to be patched and painted, dusted and shined the counters, and made a call to confirm the caterers for the grand opening. If her permit did not come through, she would lose out on her deposit. Keep the faith. For lunch, she grabbed her now-charged mobile phone and dashed to the pub next door. She treated herself to their glorious seafood chowder, with a healthy slice of brown bread slathered with butter, and after the morning she’d had, a Guinness. Heavenly. She had just stepped onto the streets and was heading back to the shop when her new phone rang. “Hello?”

  “How ya?”

  A buoyancy filled her as Danny O’Donnell’s low voice came across the line. He wasn’t dependable. His moods changed like the weather. One minute she was convinced he was in love with her, and the next he would disappear for days on end. But right now, his voice was like a life raft in the ocean, and she was happy to cling to it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “You discovered another dead body.” As Tara’s mouth gaped open, Danny began to laugh. It came to an abrupt stop. “I was joking ya.”

  “The joke is on you.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “A woman died from heatstroke near the old stone house for sa
le in Clifden.”

  “What old stone house for sale?”

  Darn. Tara had hoped Danny would confess he’d put the flyer on her door. It would have made things so much easier. And less sinister. “It’s a long story.”

  “Give me the short version for now.”

  “That’s where I found the first body.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s a second, or I’m hanging up on ya.”

  “Her name is Veronica O’Farrell. She’s an heiress. Who hired me. And was murdered the next day. I didn’t discover the body. Sergeant Gable drove me out to it. Because she came to my shop the day before.” Tara let it all come out in a rush.

  Silence filled the phone. Then. “Jaysus. I’m coming home. I’ll be at the mill by six.”

  * * *

  It took longer than she wanted to get ready for Danny because she wanted to look effortlessly good, which Tara decided took much longer than looking blatantly good. She wore a navy shirt that made her black hair shine and sky-blue eyes pop. She applied a bit more mascara than usual and a touch of gloss. Jeans were all she usually wore, but she picked her most flattering pair, and topped it off with her black leather shoes that had a bit of a heel. But instead of the romantic hello she’d been expecting, her view of the scruffy, handsome Irishman who sent her heart pattering and pulse beating was countered by Uncle Johnny lumbering in behind him.

  “What’s this about another body?” Johnny scratched his mountainous beard.

  “We might as well get comfortable,” Tara said. She felt the heat of someone’s gaze and looked up to see Danny watching her. She blushed, and mentally high-fived herself for choosing the navy top. If only they had a bit of time alone, but that would have to wait. She grabbed a cup of coffee for herself as Johnny held up a bottle of Powers whiskey and they convened in the middle of the expansive warehouse where Tara had used some of the antique furniture to set up a makeshift living room. At first Johnny had grumbled about it, but not only was it popular with customers, he was a frequent visitor as well. As he poured himself a round, Tara filled them in on the happenings.