Mimi Griffin said something about Sheila and John complaining about their room. Tara needed to know more about that. Was it actually the hotel room they were complaining about, or had Mimi just assumed? Was it information she heard directly, or had she eavesdropped on them and jumped to her own conclusions? Tara headed home, the questions tumbling in her mind as she walked.
* * *
Rose’s caravan was parked in its usual spot by the bay. For a second Tara was tempted to go in and say hello. But Rose would insist on reading her cards. And Tara couldn’t take any more dire warnings. What was the one from a few days ago? Don’t let your light shine? Despite being her uncle’s lover, Tara still felt as if Rose was a complete mystery to her. Tara passed the caravan and made her way back to the salvage mill. Danny was outside rinsing dust off iron gates, then polishing them with a rag. Danny turned off the spray, then pointed the nozzle at Tara with a devious look in his eyes.
“Try it,” she said. “You’ll be sorry.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But not for the first twenty seconds.” He grinned; she shook her head. It had been a while since he’d flirted so openly with her. Maddening.
“I’m thinking of checking out an art gallery in Clifden,” she said.
“Of course you are.” He dropped the hose. “I’ll get me keys.”
Chapter 17
Three art galleries could be found in downtown Clifden, interspersed between pubs, and restaurants, and shops. It would be easy to walk to all three, and they began with the one closest to their starting point. It looked small from the outside, but inside they discovered a series of small rooms, their walls filled top to bottom with colorful oil paintings. Many depicted the stunning scenery of Connemara, another featured household items: a row of colorful wellies, a dining room table decorated for a feast, umbrellas. Tara wished they had more leisure time; she loved getting lost in the paintings. The back room contained sculptures, but unlike the wild creations Tara had seen in Eddie’s portfolio, these were of jackrabbits, dogs, foxes. An older woman watched them walk through with a nod. Tara felt this was not the gallery Veronica had sought out, but if she was wrong, she’d have to return.
The second gallery was closed. Dark blinds covered the doors. The sign listed the opening hours, and they were well within them. “It looks like it’s been closed for a while,” Danny said.
“Let’s hope the third time’s the charm,” Tara replied. On the way, they passed shops with touristy items, bakeries, pubs, and gift shops. They also passed the antique shop that Tara wanted to hit later. It appeared to be two long rooms, and just spying an old-fashioned telephone, lamp, and typewriter in the window made her itch to go inside. Danny stopped as well. “I prefer going to the source,” Danny said. “Getting me hands dirty.” By the source he meant chapels, estate sales, old barns. Tara would love that too. But it would be much easier to buy gifts for their guests here, at least knock a few off the list. They reached the final art gallery. The façade was painted a vibrant red, and inside canvases took center stage on faded brick walls. Many were of local scenery, and Tara and Danny took a few minutes to breathe them in. Galway Bay, and Galway city, and the Connemara mountains, and Kylemore Abbey. One of her favorites was simply sheep crossing in front of a tractor waiting to make its way down the road. She didn’t see any sculptures, or work that was similar to the art in Eddie’s portfolio. She approached the desk, where a clerk was absorbed in his computer screen. Piles of papers surrounded him. It didn’t take long to spot the portfolio for Eddie Oh amidst the pile. It was just like the portfolio that Veronica had left with her.
“May I help you?” The clerk had stopped looking at his screen and was peering at Tara through glasses that had slid halfway down his nose.
“Yes.” She pointed at the portfolio. “Veronica O’Farrell also came to see me that Friday and drop off Eddie’s portfolio.”
He stared at her. “Okay.” He was on guard.
“She also hired me to do some work for her, and I was wondering if you could tell me about her visit.”
He swiped up the portfolio. “She stopped in. Gave me this, said I had to convince him to have a show here.” He laughed. “Convince. As if it’s my job not only to showcase an artist but convince them?” He shook his head as he leafed through the portfolio. “This work is all a decade old. It has a certain appeal, I’ll give you dat.” He gestured to the paintings. “I mostly show oils. But she was a very convincing woman and so I called him. He’s never called me back.”
“I’ve met him recently. He said he doesn’t create anymore.”
“That’s what I would have told her. But she never came back.” He shook his head. “A murder. Right here in Connemara. At the end of tourist season.”
Tara nodded, knowing the last bit wasn’t at all important; murder was murder regardless of tourists, although she supposed a murder in a small place like Clifden could impact business. “Did she come in alone?”
He rubbed his chin. “No. There was a fella with her. Big guy.”
“Bald? Dressed in black?”
“Dat’s the one.”
Bartley. Seems he rarely stayed in the car. “Thanks.” She pulled out the travel book. “Did anyone ever leave a copy of this in your gallery?”
He squinted at the book. “No.” He straightened up. “Are we in there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Terrible book then, tis.”
She slipped it back into her bag. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the visit?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Thanks.” She set her card on top of the counter and started to walk away.
“Except I did let her driver in to use the jax.” Jax. The Irish word for bathroom.
She stopped. Turned. “Oh?”
“Poor lad, it was the big guy in black who had to ask for him. She seemed inclined to let him wait it out.”
What in the world? Either Veronica kept him driving all the time without restroom breaks, or there was something else going on. Some kind of choreographed act? What on earth for?
“Tara?” Danny stood in front of her. “What is it?”
The art gallery owner was watching her. She tilted her head down and lowered her voice. “Let’s walk and talk.”
* * *
They stopped at a bakery. Tara desperately needed sugar and caffeine. She got an apple tart and coffee. Danny copied her. They sat in the back so they could talk. It was the best apple tart Tara had ever tasted. Amazingly soft and flaky crust, sweet, thick apples, just the right amount of sweet. She indulged in it for a few minutes before filling Danny in on the strange coincidence of Andy needing to use the restroom, and Bartley asking for him. Scratch coincidence. It was exactly the same. It was choreographed. But why?
“Two choices,” Danny said. “The man consumes a lot of liquids while driving and has a tiny bladder, or as you theorized, it’s some kind of deliberate act. A distraction?”
“To what end?”
“That’s the mystery.”
Did Veronica use the distraction to plant the book? Whatever for? “What?” Danny said. “You’ve got a really strange look on your face.”
She filled Danny in on the crazy thoughts in her head. “What if... Veronica planned this? All of this?”
Danny lifted an eyebrow. “Planned her own murder?”
“Isn’t it possible?”
“Why?”
“Maybe she was already dying. Some kind of terminal disease. And she wanted to get revenge? And what better revenge than making them all murder suspects?”
Danny eyed the plate where her apple tart once sat. “I’m starting to worry that was laced with something.”
“I know. I know. It’s crazy.” Talk about morbid. “You’re right. Veronica’s too selfish to sacrifice herself, even for revenge.”
Danny arched an eyebrow. “If not staging your own murder is selfish, I’d say we all are.”
“True.” Tara was talking
crazy. But it was part of her process. When designing, it was good to let your mind spool, to go too far. Most people were so protected by their boundaries that the only way to break open was to barrel right through them. Then you could pull back. “Let’s say the distraction was all about leaving me the book, no matter the reason.”
“Okay,” Danny said.
“The art gallery owner didn’t get a book.”
“He said he didn’t get a book?”
She sighed. It was nearly impossible to figure out a case when you had to factor in the sad truth that absolutely everyone could be lying. And why wouldn’t they lie to her? She wasn’t a guard. “Let’s say he’s telling the truth and he didn’t get a book. Why all the bathroom antics?”
“You could ask the driver or Bartley.”
She intended to. They cleaned up their table and stood outside. She removed Andy’s card from her pocket. “I was at a pub with Andy yesterday.”
“Doing some day drinking, Miss America?”
He sounded jealous. Good. She shoved him gently. “No, I wasn’t doing some day drinking, I had a Coke.”
“Why are you hanging around these people?”
“I thought I saw him in a bookstore in Galway. I was wondering if he would fess up.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. And no.”
Danny sighed. “I’m going to need more than dat.”
“He admitted to being in the bookstore, but he claimed he just bought a Western.”
“A Western?”
“In honor of his dad.” She hesitated. “But I think he bought a second book he forgot to mention.”
“Places to See in Ireland Before You Die,” Danny said.
“Yep.”
“What do you make of dat?”
“Truthfully? I think he wanted to know what the fuss was about.”
“Then why didn’t he ‘fess up,’ as you put it?”
“Either he didn’t think it was any of my business, or he doesn’t want me knowing that he’s also looking into the case.”
“You’re saying the driver is playing amateur detective?”
“He is around all the suspects. And he’s basically invisible as the driver. I bet he’s heard all sorts of things.”
“Good thing you learned to drive here. Maybe you’ll get better at it and take his place.”
“Ha, ha.” She gave him another shove; he pretended to stumble, then grabbed Tara and pulled her into him.
“Do me a favor,” Danny said, his voice low. “Meet with these yokes all you want. Just don’t do it alone. It’s not safe.”
“You might be right,” Tara said.
Danny rocked back on his heels. The wind was picking up, their hair began whipping around them. “Me, right? Be still me heart,” he said with a laugh.
“Look at this.” Tara removed her smartphone and brought up the article on Terrance Hughes. She handed it to Danny. He read through it, his lips moving silently as he read, which wasn’t adorable at all. He finished reading and whistled.
“So Cassidy did accuse Veronica of being a murderer. What do you make of it?”
“It’s confusing. Veronica does not seem like the type of woman to forgive that.”
“Maybe she didn’t.” Danny paused to watch a pretty girl stroll by. Tara resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.
“Meaning?”
“She’s making amends. Maybe she went off the deep end with Cassidy after this accusation—did something to her—and that’s what she’s trying to make up for.” Danny stopped. “I wonder if Veronica is responsible for Cassidy’s pill addiction.”
Tara stopped. “Cassidy is responsible for her pill addiction. If she is addicted to pills. So far it’s all just gossip.”
“But if Veronica did get her addicted—that would be evil.”
“I just don’t think a person can blame anyone else for his or her addictions.”
“Touché.” Were they arguing? It seemed as if they always ended up in an argument. Partly because Danny just liked to argue. She’d had a mellow relationship with Gabriel. Practical. Loving, but she had to admit, it was not passionate. Danny made her toes curl at times. Her heart beat faster at the sight of him. She equally wanted to pummel him. It was maddening. And she was slightly addicted.
“The more I learn about these people, the less I want to be around them,” Danny said.
“You don’t have to be.”
“I do if I want to keep you safe.”
“I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself safe.” There were other things he could do for her, but at the moment they wouldn’t be doing any of them.
They were almost to Danny’s car, ready to call it a day, when the door to a nearby restaurant swung open and Sheila Murphy flew out, tears streaming down her face. John Murphy emerged next, jaw set, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Sheila raced down the footpath, but John didn’t follow. Instead, he stood near the door to the restaurant and pulled out his cell phone as if he prepared to wait out whatever this tantrum was. Lovers’ quarrel. Sheila stopped in front of a pub a few doors down, leaned against the stone façade, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Tara nudged Danny. “That’s Sheila and John Murphy. They’re two of the seven guests. Veronica was their landlady years ago and evicted them.”
Danny glanced between husband and wife. “Because they argue a lot?”
“I don’t know the reason. But they’ve never seen you. Don’t you feel like saying hello to a stranger?”
Danny followed her gaze to Sheila, still smoking outside the pub. He sighed. “First Cassidy, now this one. Are you pimping me out, Miss America?”
“A pimp for information.” He gave her the side-eye. “What can I say? You have a talent.”
Before Tara could ask again, Danny was striding over to Sheila, a grin on his face. For a second Tara wondered if this was a bad idea. John seemed like the jealous type. Tara put her sunglasses on and wandered to the shop next to the pub, hoping to eavesdrop. Danny had no problem warming Sheila up; she was mid-complaint when Tara reached the shop.
“—horrible woman! But that was five years ago. We’ve moved on. Literally and figuratively. We told the guards, we had no reason to kill her. Now that woman that she maimed for life—she has a reason to kill her.”
“Maimed for life?”
Iona, Tara thought from her hidey-spot.
“She’s a hiker. Veronica tripped her once, caused her to snap a ligament or something. All I know is she’s still paying her medical bills. I heard her arguing with Veronica the day before she died.”
This was news. Maybe Veronica did argue with every single one of them Friday night. They’re all liars! I’m going to expose them all!
“—hollering at each other until Iona broke down in sobs. You should see this woman. More of a lad, if you ask me. I can only imagine what it took to bring her to tears. I tried to ask her if she was alright and she told me to mind me own bleeping business. How’s that for rude?”
“Sounds terribly rude to me,” Danny agreed. He turned up the charm, a thousand-watt smile. Sheila’s cheeks grew rosy. Tara glanced at John. He was still buried in his phone and had yet to notice Danny chatting up his wife.
“Veronica stole from us yet again.”
Stole from them? Where do you think she stashed it? Tara listened for more, wishing she could hurry Sheila along. Stole what?
“Sheila!” John Murphy had caught on. He now stood in front of her, fists clenched at his side. “Let’s go. Now.” She stubbed her cigarette out and hurried after her husband, who was already walking away. “Keep your big mouth shut,” Tara heard him say. Lovely.
“Thanks anyway,” Tara said when Danny returned.
“He’s a bully.” Danny watched as John and Sheila disappeared in the distance.
“I think they’re looking for something that Veronica had.” She described the other conversation she’d overheard.
“Stashed it,” Danny mused.
; “Wonder what it is.”
Danny shrugged. “Iona is the bird you followed to her room, is she not?”
“Yes. She’s the bird I followed to her room. The hiker. THC with a Mountain.”
Danny’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What?”
“Never mind.”
“So where shall I take you, m’lady?”
“Back to the castle, m’lord.” Danny laughed. “Wanna join me?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said with a lingering look that made Tara’s heart pick up the pace.
“Speaking of THC,” she said. “Tomorrow I’d like to get stones.”
“Stoned?” Danny sounded on board but surprised.
“Stones,” Tara said. “As in marble.” The marble stones placed on Veronica’s face were the killer’s calling card. A visit to the Connemara marble factory was long overdue.
“Good idea,” Danny said. “Because you’ve definitely lost your marbles.”
Chapter 18
After what Tara had to admit was a tick-mark night for keeping Danny as a romantic partner (okay maybe two tick marks), and a full Irish breakfast, and another trip back to the room (three times is the charm), they arrived at the Connemara marble factory just as a jovial employee was finishing his presentation. They slipped in as he spoke.
“Connemara marble can be found in the floors of the Galway Cathedral, Westminster Cathedral, London’s General Post Office, and the Oxford University Natural History Museum. America has used it in many churches, cathedrals, and even the Senate Chamber and Senate Post Office of the State Capitol Building in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour, and please do visit our gift shop where you can take home a piece of our precious Connemara marble.”
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