Murder in Connemara

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Veronica O’Farrell,” Danny said, thumbing through his mobile phone.

  “Have you heard of her?” Tara directed the question to both of them.

  Johnny shook his head. “An heiress,” he said, as if their luck had finally changed. “My kind of customer.”

  “Here she is,” Danny said. He turned his phone to show a glamour shot of Veronica. She was standing in front of a mansion in a red ball gown. She may have died too soon, but she certainly seemed to live it up while she was here, and Tara was somewhat comforted by that. Then again, it seemed a portion of Veronica’s life had been spent in an alcoholic blur. Yin and yang, light and dark to every life.

  “That’s her.”

  “What was the family fortune in?” Johnny asked.

  “Sheep farming,” Danny said. “Then wool products. Jumpers, scarves, blankets. Looks like her late husband was wealthy as well.”

  Terrance Hughes. The first husband. Tara hadn’t looked into him yet. “She said she’d arranged an all-expense-paid holiday for her guests, then one of them did this.”

  “In Clifden?” Johnny asked.

  “She just said Connemara, but I think they’re staying at the Ballynahinch Castle.”

  Danny got to his feet. “Who’s up for a drive through Connemara?”

  “Us? Now?” Part of Tara had been hoping she and Danny could catch up. But he was right, she’d never be able to concentrate on anything but this case.

  “Not now,” Johnny said. “First thing in the morning. That’s when the fly-fishing will start, and it’s a perfect excuse for us to be nosing around.”

  “Don’t you have to be a guest to do that?” Tara asked.

  Johnny shrugged. “You have to pretend to be a guest to do it.”

  Danny grinned. “Who would begrudge a couple of Irishmen fly-fishing on a Sunday?”

  Tara frowned. “I’m surprised you two want to nose around. I thought you’d try and talk me out of it.”

  Johnny waved her off. “Gable was sniffing around asking for camera footage. That means you’re a suspect. If you have a bead on suspects, and you’re going to nose around anyway—”

  “Which we both know you will,” Danny interjected.

  “—then we’re going with you,” Uncle Johnny finished.

  “Perfect,” Tara said. “Uncle Johnny, I need another favor.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “I need you to speak with the lads you hired to hang my chandelier. Curly and Moe.”

  Uncle Johnny chuckled. “Did they mess up?”

  “I think they let someone into my shop. Either that or one of them left a book.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “A book?”

  “Places to See in Ireland Before You Die.”

  “I’ll track them down.”

  “Thank you.”

  Uncle Johnny and Danny exchanged a look. They were now fully engaged in protector mode. She felt a lump in her throat. These men. Uncle Johnny was family. Danny was—well—whatever he was. More than a friend. Less than a partner. They’d figure it out eventually. But right now, they had her back. It meant something. She bit her cheek so she wouldn’t cry. “First thing in the morning.”

  “Off to see me Rose,” Uncle Johnny said with a salute.

  Danny stood, and Tara waited to see if he would propose dinner, or a drink, or a walk. “How was your trip?”

  He nodded. “I made out alright. There was an old chapel that had some beautiful sconces, iron gates, the like. I’ll be loading them in this week.”

  “Should we unload now?”

  He shook his head. “A few lads are going to do it in the morning.”

  She thought of her empty refrigerator. She’d been too busy to think about shopping, or cooking. “Should we grab a bite to eat?”

  He hesitated. “I’d like that.” He reached for her hand and held it for a moment. A spark zipped through her. He dropped her hand. “But if we’re heading off in the morning, I’d better get a few things sorted.”

  Like what? She knew so little about his life. She’d never even been to his place. What kind of relationship was this? “No worries.”

  His gaze traveled up and down her. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks.” Her heart thudded in her chest. “You too.”

  He winked, and was gone.

  * * *

  The drive to Ballynahinch Castle was just as stunning as the first time Tara had driven through Connemara, especially with the gorgeous sunrise they’d witnessed, but their minds were elsewhere.

  “Imagine, she puts you up at a fancy castle and you murder her,” Danny said with a shake of his head.

  Tara stared at him. “So if she put them up at a run-down motel?”

  He thought it through then laughed. “Right, so. Dat’s a fair point, now. I guess neither is a justification for murder. But to go all out, like, and have that happen to you.” He shook his head. Tara shivered, thinking of how Veronica had been laid out. Decorated. He had no idea. She’d kept her promise to Sergeant Gable; she wouldn’t breathe a word of the marble stones.

  The entrance to Ballynahinch Castle was just ahead. Tara’s nerves danced as they pulled up the long drive. Lush trees and hedges abounded, promising something spectacular at the end. Tara had googled the four-star castle and couldn’t wait to see it for herself. Seven hundred luxurious acres. Woods, a river, and walking paths, topped off by the Twelve Bens mountains. It had its own salmon fishery and walled garden where vegetables were grown and used by the renowned chefs. They drove so long Tara was wondering if there really was a castle, but at last it loomed ahead. The three-story country house was stunning. A stately and magnificent structure that was, at the same time, cozy and welcoming. Set in the middle of all the gorgeous scenery of Connemara in one unforgettable setting. Paradise. They weren’t even out of the vehicle and Tara never wanted to leave. At the edge of the castle, the Ballynahinch River shimmered. Danny whistled.

  “We’re here for fly-fishing,” Danny said as they parked. “You do . . . whatever it is you do . . .”

  “I’m here to scope out the castle for a future event,” Tara said, hoping the declaration sounded believable.

  “Have at it.” Johnny gave her a look. “Just don’t book any future events.”

  * * *

  Luxury described every nook and cranny of the grounds. Manicured pastures, a river, woods, water fountains, and lush flowers abounded. She could only imagine the money and man-hours it took to keep it looking this fantastic. Veronica had obviously gone to great expense for this get-together. And one of the guests had betrayed her.

  Breanna had informed her that the guests were all told to stay in town for the next few days, and further instructed to remain on the grounds today until they could all be interviewed. It was a pleasantly cool day, and so far there was no sign of rain or punishing heat. Tara scoped out an outdoor patio that was both shaded if the sun deemed it worthy to peek out, (or one needed shelter from the rain), but open to the elements. And the bar and restaurant were close at hand, so it was the perfect spot to stake out ground and run into some of their suspects.

  It didn’t take long for a waiter to arrive, and she was suddenly hungry. Tara ordered a cappuccino, eggs and toast, and made herself comfy at a bistro table in the middle of the patio.

  It took an hour before she saw a young couple dart out and huddle at the edge of the patio. It was easy to recognize them from the photo Veronica supplied. Sheila and John Murphy. Tara was sitting too far away from them to hear their conversation, but from their bowed heads and the cigarette smoke pluming above them, she got the feeling it was anything but relaxed. As a New Yorker, Tara wasn’t the type to intrude on other people. New Yorkers went out of their way to avoid contact, losing themselves in the daily throng of strangers. This time she had no choice but to intrude. Someone had dragged her into this drama, someone had already murdered two women, and she would feel less safe if she sat around doing nothing. She removed the postcard for
her grand opening from her purse, plastered a smile on her face, and approached the couple.

  “Where do you tink she stashed it?” she heard Sheila wail. John caught a glimpse of Tara and whispered something into his wife’s ear. Sheila’s head whipped around and soon the pair of them were peering at Tara.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Tara chirped when she drew closer. “If you’re in the area for a while, you might want to come into Galway city and enjoy my shop.” Tara held out a business card as they gaped at her. She didn’t blame them. Galway city wasn’t exactly next door.

  “We’re leaving as soon as possible,” John Murphy said.

  “No, thank you,” Sheila said, turning her back. Her brunette hair was longer than in the pictures, down past her shoulder blades, and wavy.

  “Worth a shot,” Tara said, slipping the calling card back into her purse. “I need to do something to keep my spirits up after that poor woman’s death.”

  “Wait,” Sheila said, her brown eyes back on Tara. “Did you know her?” She had such a wholesome look, the pretty girl next door. But anxiety seeped out of her. That was natural, of course; murder had a way of spooking everyone.

  But something else occurred to Tara. Sergeant Gable said that a young couple found the body. Was is Sheila and John? If so, they also knew about the marble stones. That would explain the stress etched into Sheila’s face. Had they kept it to themselves, or did everyone know by now?

  Tara turned. “As a matter of fact, she came into my shop the day before.”

  Sheila gasped, and threw a look to her husband, whose jaw clenched.

  “May I see?” John held his hand out for a business card. Tara handed it to him and gave him a moment to look it over, while she looked him over. He had the good looks that often accompanied youth, and from his muscular arms she suspected he was at the gym at least six days a week. His hair was cropped closely to his head, a buzz cut. He was handsome, but she’d yet to see him smile, so there was a rough edge to him that Tara found off-putting. In her notes Veronica had said something about him being controlling. Some people just aren’t meant to be parents. Was Veronica talking about him, imagining he would be too strict? Because Sheila, despite her anxiety, seemed like a sweet woman. Then again, maybe her anxiety was like a constant dark cloud over her head. Regardless, it really wasn’t Veronica’s place to decide who should have children.

  “That makes you one of the last people to see her alive,” Sheila said, interrupting Tara’s thoughts.

  “Really?” Tara said. “I gathered all of you saw her here Friday night?”

  The pair looked away immediately, gazing in opposite directions. “We went to bed early,” Sheila finally said. “So we could get up for our morning walk.”

  Morning walk. “Oh? Where did you walk?”

  John lifted his dark eyes and stared past Tara. “We found her.” His voice choked up.

  “It was awful,” Sheila added.

  “That’s terrible.” Tara pulled out an empty chair and sat. She gestured for them to join her. Sheila sat first, and then John with a sigh.

  Sheila folded her arms across her chest. “I just want the image to go away.”

  Did she mean the stones covering Veronica’s face or something else? “Was it just a coincidence?”

  John cocked his eyebrow. “Coincidence?”

  “That you found the body?”

  “What else would it be?” He was extremely defensive.

  “Sorry. But something made Veronica go to Clifden Castle that early in the morning. Then something made the two of you go as well. Just wondering. What was that something?”

  John folded his arms across his chest. “We were all supposed to meet at the castle grounds at half nine.”

  “Why is that?”

  John’s eyes narrowed as he considered Tara.

  “She wanted a group photo,” Sheila piped in. “And supposedly since she’s been sober she’s a ‘morning person.’ ” Sheila used air quotes and rolled her eyes.

  “But you were there early?” Tara wanted to keep asking questions while she had them talking.

  “We decided it would be a great place to watch the sunrise,” Sheila said.

  “And by we she means her,” John added, giving his wife a nudge. Tara was happy to see the moment of affection pass between them.

  “We had no idea she’d be there,” Sheila said. “Let alone . . .” She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the image of Veronica. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re all wondering,” Tara said. “Do either of you have any theories?”

  “Why would we?” John snapped.

  Sheila rubbed his back. “Don’t be such a porcupine, luv.” She gave Tara a half smile. “It’s been quite the morning.” She looked over her shoulder, and then back. “As a matter of fact, I think it has to be someone in our group who killed her.”

  “Sheila,” John said. From his tone, he didn’t want his wife talking.

  “When did you last see her alive?” Tara held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t come across like she was a detective. John was coiled and ready to spring, but Sheila was itching to talk.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” he said, hoisting up an empty glass.

  “This early?” Sheila could dish it out as well as her husband.

  “The minute there’s a murder, it’s time to drink.” He walked away without asking either of them if they’d like one. Sheila watched him leave, then turned back to Tara.

  “We last saw her alive Friday just before dinner.”

  “Minutes ago you claimed you didn’t see her.”

  Sheila frowned. “We don’t know you.”

  “True,” Tara said.

  “Do you want to hear the truth or not?” Her hackles were up.

  “I do.”

  “She stormed past us in the lobby, red-faced and steaming.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “That bodyguard of hers was lurking behind her, but otherwise she was alone.”

  “Bodyguard? Do you mean Bartley?”

  Sheila scrunched her face. “The big bald yoke.” That would be Bartley. “I tried to talk to her and I swear to God she hissed at me.”

  That made sense in light of the voicemail Tara had received. “Any idea why she was so angry?”

  Sheila shook her head. “I’m just glad it wasn’t us.”

  How can you be so sure? Tara simply nodded. “Do you think she’d been drinking?”

  Sheila chewed on her bottom lip. “I suspected. But she’s been sober for a year!”

  “Relapse is part of recovery.”

  “Someone must have upset her terribly.”

  “You mentioned your group. Is there anyone in particular you suspect?”

  “John’s right,” Sheila said, pushing back from the table. “Me mouth never stops running. I have no idea who killed her. From here on out, I vow not to gossip.” She stood up.

  Tara reluctantly stood too, as it became obvious that Sheila wanted her to go. “She told me she was making amends.”

  “Supposedly.” Sheila folded her arms and looked away as if she was locking some kind of secret pain inside.

  “Did she treat you badly in the past?”

  Sheila snorted. “She evicted us at the lowest point in our lives.” She looked at Tara. “Is it gossiping if I’m talking about myself?”

  “No. It’s sharing.”

  “Sharing with a complete stranger. I do need to get a grip.” She gave a pained smile. They hadn’t mentioned the marble stones to Tara. Did that mean they’d kept the secret?

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.” Darn. Tara reminded herself it was none of her business. She wished there was an easy way to bring up the comment she’d overheard—I wonder where she stashed it. Were they talking about Veronica? Stashed what? Sheila, without saying goodbye, headed off. Evicted at the lowest point in their lives. There was a story there. Question was—was it bad enough that they’d take matters in
to their own hands? Was it something that led to murder?

  “Wait,” Tara said, catching up with Sheila. She turned, and waited, impatience stamped across her face.

  “How did you get to the castle?” It wasn’t close enough to walk from Ballynahinch Castle. The drive up to the castle alone would be considered a hike. And Tara remembered Gable mentioning Andy. How he was waiting that morning to take Veronica to the castle, but she set out earlier and he had no idea how she got there.

  “We drove.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard there was a driver to take everyone places.”

  Sheila laughed. “Veronica has a driver. But John prefers to have autonomy. We drove here from Dublin.” Did they drive Veronica to the castle that morning? Then kill her, and pretend to discover the body?

  “Do most of the guests have their own car?”

  Sheila frowned. “I know a few of them came by bus. But I couldn’t really tell you. Why?”

  “Just curious. I’ve only just learned to drive myself, so I guess it’s always on my mind.” Even though it was partly true, Tara realized how ridiculous it sounded, and now Sheila was peering at her as if she was trying to imprint her image for a later recall.

  “I wouldn’t go around asking too many questions,” Sheila said. “The grounds are probably crawling with undercover guards.” And with that she walked away.

  Crawling with undercover guards. Sheila was definitely paranoid. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t spill much. Tara should have found a place to eavesdrop instead of approaching them. They’d been in a heated discussion when she approached. Where do you think she stashed it? Had they been talking about Veronica? What were they looking for? Did it have anything to do with her murder? Undercover or not, Tara had a feeling that the guards were not going to have an easy time with this group.