Death on the Green

by Catie Murphy

  “I couldn’t find a pulse,” Megan said. “But then I thought maybe cold-water shock might have dropped his metabolism, so I pulled him out with Mr. Walsh’s help. It wasn’t until after he was on the ground that I realized he’d been hit on the head, too. I don’t . . . I don’t think I could have done anything more to help him. I’m so sorry.”

  “The police said he didn’t drown. The crack on his head killed him, for all that it didn’t look like much. And they asked me a hundred different ways who might have killed him, and the only answer I have is Martin Walsh.”

  Megan watched sand collect around the sole seams of her shoes as they walked down the beach. “And he’s got an airtight alibi, because there were about fifteen of us with him at the time. Why do you think it might have been Mr. Walsh, though? I thought they were best friends.”

  Saoirse shifted her shoulders, tension visible in the awkward motion. “Da’s gotten loads better the past couple years. He was always good enough, like? But he’d gotten to where he threatened Martin’s standing, and Martin couldn’t handle that. He was forever trying to bollix Da’s game. He even got his caddie giving Da bad advice.”

  “Anto?” Megan asked, astonished. “He doesn’t even seem to like Mr. Walsh.”

  “No, never Anto. He’s a good sort, although he can’t dislike Martin that much. You don’t spend years caddying for a man you don’t like. Your caddie is closer to you than anybody except maybe your wife, and given how many of them Martin’s had, I’d say Anto was closer to him than that. They had a deal. You know the usual rates caddies get?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Around a couple grand a week, and ten percent of a big purse. Anthony gets twenty percent, though, if Martin wins.”

  “Twe—why?!”

  “Because Martin’s shite with money and Anto comes along to caddy anyway. Da said Anthony bankrolled Martin through most of his injured years. It wasn’t Anto, though. He only caddies for Martin when he’s in Ireland. It was his other man, in the States. And Da wouldn’t hear a word against him either, thought he was the salt of the earth, even when it was plain as day that he was sending Da’s shots up through the rough or telling him to go around when Da’s strength was in a drive.” Saoirse bent to pick up a small stone and pitch it viciously at the water. It hardly splashed in the surf, but a seagull dived after it, just in case. “Da got a new caddie about three years ago—”

  “The same time Martin and Heather got married?”

  “About that. And his game’s been getting better ever since. He had Martin over a barrel in this game, and Martin knew it. He’d have done anything to keep Da out.” Just like that, Saoirse fell to the sand, sobs wracking her body so harshly they sounded like screams. Megan, shocked but feeling like she shouldn’t be, put a tentative hand on the young woman’s shoulder, and wasn’t surprised when Saoirse shook her off. Red hair sheeted around her face and shoulders, blocking Megan’s view of her expression, but she could see Saoirse’s big hands clutching and releasing the sand in helpless spasms as she cried. Then, as unexpectedly as she’d fallen, she vomited, a horrible short sound that made Megan crouch and put her arms around her shoulders after all.

  Saoirse MacDonald, it turned out, weighed a ton. She leaned on Megan like a giant dog who thought it belonged in someone’s lap: all elbows and knees and, in this case, snot and sobs. Megan grunted quietly, leaning back into the bigger woman so she wouldn’t end up on her butt in the sand. Saoirse turned in to her, wrapped her arms around Megan’s torso, and cried helplessly. Megan got an arm arranged so she could stroke Saoirse’s hair, and stared over her head at the green hills and hollows of the nearby golf course.

  They didn’t look like they held secrets and rivalries worth killing over, but she supposed most places didn’t. And while she might not really think of golf as a sport where passions ran deep, she’d seen enough clips of temperamental golfers and emotional displays to know that it was her own imagination that lacked, not the devotion people had to the game. Someone—probably someone on the green right now—had wanted Lou MacDonald out of the way enough to kill him, and although it seemed impossible, the current favorite for the job was her client.

  Which didn’t matter right now, with a grieving child—an adult child, perhaps, but still a child—in her arms. Megan sighed and hugged Saoirse’s head against her shoulder, provoking a fresh bout of choking sobs from the young woman. Finally, Saoirse shivered hard, tears giving way to exhaustion and, with it, cold. Megan said, “Come on” gently. “Let’s walk, so you warm up. Do you want to go back to the clubhouse?”

  “God, no! That woman will be there.”

  “Aibhilín? Yeah, probably. Okay. Come on. On your feet, hon.” She disentangled herself and pulled Saoirse to her feet, although the redhead was so much taller than Megan she had to back up several steps to do it. Once Saoirse was up and wiping her face on hands reddened with cold, Megan asked, “Can I call someone for you?” cautiously.

  Saoirse shook her head hard. “No. My mam died when I was a kid and my last boyfriend—” Her face crumpled. “It turned out I was the bit on the side and he got married to somebody else.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just not fair,” Saoirse wailed. “All of this shite just isn’t fair.”

  “I know.” Megan tucked her arm into Saoirse’s, drawing her along the beach. The mist had been blown away, or burned off, while they’d crouched in the dune’s lee, and the waters around the low island were beginning to reflect a deep, burnished blue. “My mom always told me that life isn’t fair, and she’s right. It’s not fair or unfair. It just is.”

  “But it feels so unfair!”

  Megan breathed a smile at the tiny balls of sand kicked up before their feet, rolling forward to make thin lines that were obliterated with the next step. “One of my favorite comics is a kid complaining that he understands that life isn’t fair, but objects to it never being unfair in his favor. It is, though, all the time. We just call it luck, and don’t think of it as life being unfair in our favor.”

  Saoirse gave her a look almost as filthy as the one she’d bestowed with their first exchange. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those New Agey types who think everything happens for a reason and that there’s some great cosmic plan.”

  “Not at all. And I know that this is all terrible, horrible, rotten luck, and it’s not fair, and it’s not right, and nothing’s going to make it right. I just like that comic strip.”

  “I’ll find the son of a bitch who did this and make it right,” Saoirse snarled.

  Megan inhaled, then stopped herself, knowing it was unlikely that Saoirse could carry out that threat, and that reason in the face of impotent rage was rarely welcome. Instead she said, “I’ll help you find them, if I can.”

  “Like you’ll be better at it than the guards?” Saoirse laughed bitterly.

  “No, but at least you won’t feel alone.”

  The poor girl’s expression caved again, and Megan studied the changing light on the horizon while she tried to get ahold of herself. The Howth peninsula curved halfway around the island, both ahead of and off to the right of them, the deep green of summer still coloring its low hills. It made the water between them rich with shadows, though the blue faded as the sea opened up and reached toward Britain. “I grew up in Austin,” Megan said aloud, hoping to help Saoirse recover by giving her something to listen to. “Galveston was probably the nearest proper beach, and it was a couple hundred miles away. I’ve been all over the world now—I was in the military—but I still think just seeing a huge body of water like this is kind of mind-blowing. And the wind is crazy.”

  Saoirse snuffled loudly, wiping her nose on her hand. Her voice broke dreadfully when she spoke, but she was obviously trying to sound normal. “Da says—said—” She choked again, then rushed through—“said that the wind wasn’t so bad when he was growing up, that it’s the changing climate that’s pushed all the hurricane winds farther north and lashing
the island. Ireland, I mean, not Bull Island.”

  “Right, I followed.”

  A quick nod conveyed Saoirse’s gratitude at Megan’s understanding. They’d stopped walking again, the wind lashing copper hairs into Saoirse’s face. She brushed them away, only to have them fly back as she gestured around her. “This island, though—I spent a lot of time here growing up. Mam loved golfing and got Da into it. I think Martin hated that. He couldn’t get his best mate into the sport, but a bird had. His words,” she added swiftly, at Megan’s elevated eyebrows. “Anyway, the birds, that’s what I was going to say. It’s a wildlife refuge, with a load of deadly birds—”

  Megan couldn’t stop the laugh that broke free. Saoirse broke off, offended, and Megan laughed again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s one of those ‘separated by a common language’ things. I know ‘deadly’ means ‘really excellent’ here, but to me, it sounds like the island is teeming with killer geese and terns.”

  Genuine amusement shone in Saoirse’s eyes for a moment. “Don’t knock them. Those terns may be little, but they be fierce.” She looked along the shore, searching for one of the pretty, black-capped white birds, but there were none along the water. “Well, they’re not so common here anyway. It’s the curlews you have to watch out for.” She made a long, curving, hooked beak with her fingers, and Megan smiled.

  “Is that what those ones are? I thought maybe they were a kind of sandpiper. I know nothing about birds,” she said hastily, but Saoirse looked pleased.

  “No, you’re right, curlews are the same family. And they won’t come diving for your eyes or anything. They’re bug-eaters, or shrimp, or whatever they can dig up in the mud. I know too much about them. I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”

  “Please don’t. I love hearing people talk about things they know a lot about. It’s one of the reasons I chauffeur. I get to hear the most interesting things.”

  A shy, hopeful smile crept over Saoirse’s face. “Okay. If you’re sure. This is my job, and I get excited about it, so I’m never sure when I’m talking too much.”

  “Oh! So you’re not following in the family footsteps?”

  “I golf for fun, and it’s really useful to be good at it when I need to talk businessmen into something. As long as I’m not too good at it, you know?”

  Megan rolled her eyes as broadly as she could, and Saoirse smiled again. “You do know. So what I do is environmental planning. You know—do you know the Donnybrook expansion project?” At Megan’s headshake, she said, “Okay, so, see, there’s a field over next to St. Anne’s Park that developers wanted to build a load of new houses on.” She pointed to the west, across the width of Bull Island. “It’s just right over there, on the mainland. You could see it if we were on a rise. And God knows Dublin needs more housing, but it’s basically in the middle of GAA fields and disruptive to the community use of the park, but also their wastewater plans were to put a big pipe through the field and drain it into the sea on the northwest side of Bull Island.”

  “I’m not an environmental planner, but that sounds like a terrible idea anyway.”

  “It is, and it’s worse than you think, because so many of the birds here are threatened species, and it would detrimentally affect the whole island. They tried to rush the proposal through, and the community fought back, and I . . .” Saoirse faltered suddenly, embarrassed. “Helped. I was their expert. I sound like I’m putting on airs.”

  “Not at all, and that’s terrific work you’re doing. Wildlife reserves need passionate advocates.”

  Saoirse’s smile went wet again. “Da was really proud of me, but I’d never have done it if I hadn’t been half-raised on this island, with all its wildlife. It’s kind of a plain little bar of sand, but I love it. I’m getting—I was getting—a degree in environmental law, too. What I’ve got, what I do, it’s grown out of a wildlife management program, but I want to take it farther.”

  “You were getting?”

  “I don’t know now, with Da. . . .” Tears flooded Saoirse’s brown eyes and she wiped them away. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “For just talking to me like a person, instead trying to be solicitous or wanting something from me. I know it’s barely been a day, but it’s still nice to have that instead of people walking on glass around me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Megan said guiltily, too aware that she had grilled the young woman about her father and his relationships. “I really do like hearing about what people love. And I think you should keep pursuing that law degree. I think your father would like that.”

  “Now what is it that Lou MacDonald would like?” asked a cheerful voice behind them. Saoirse’s expression shuttered, and they both turned to find Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir a few steps behind them, her microphone thrust at Saoirse’s face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Saoirse recoiled, driving an arm out to create a physical barrier between herself and the sportscaster. The heel of her hand hit Aibhilín’s microphone, and Megan saw a glint of triumph in the reporter’s eye. She stepped between them, aware she made a laughable obstacle: Aibhilín had at least four inches on her and Saoirse stood an easy half foot taller than Megan did. Still, smaller or not, the fact that Megan intervened certainly got Aibhilín’s attention, and her triumph shifted to wariness. “And you are?”

  “Not going to let you intrude on a young woman’s grief,” Megan replied icily. The other women might have nearly half a foot of height on her, but she had half a decade—or considerably more—on them, and a whole career’s worth of facing down belligerent people who wanted to get through her. “I understand you’ve got a story, Ms.—I’m sorry, do I say the Ní when I’m addressing you directly like this? Is it Ms. Ní Gallachóir or just Ms. Gallachóir? I probably say it, don’t I? It’s like the O in O’Sullivan, right? Only—I’m not clear on this. Does the Ní indicate it’s a maiden name? Because it means something like daughter of Gallachóir, right? So—I’m sorry, I don’t know if you’re married, it’s none of my business to know—but if you were to take your partner’s surname, would it be done to keep Ní Gallachóir as your professional name? And then—I’ve kind of got the idea from somewhere that whatever the family name might be, if the mom is more famous than the dad, there’s some kind of linguistic trick that will end up calling the kids children of herself like, is that right? I admit, if I were in your shoes, given the groundbreaking sports work you’ve done over the past several years, it would kind of get up my nose if my kids ended up with my partner’s surname. You’d have to move into international celebrity status to outshine the Ní Gallachóir name in Ireland, wouldn’t you?”

  She delivered the entire query in her thickest Texan accent, gleefully watching Ní Gallachóir’s eyes bulge slightly and the quick breaths she drew in hopes of interrupting the onslaught of questions and commentary, until the woman’s broad shoulders dropped in resignation and she just waited it out. By that time Megan could hear that Saoirse’s breathing had steadied, having overcome the shock of Aibhilín’s intrusion on her life.

  Aibhilín waited a heartbeat or two when Megan wrapped up, eyeing her guileless gaze of interest suspiciously before saying, “It is Ms. Ní Gallachóir so, yes, and I am married, and use Ní Gallachóir professionally and privately. Who are you?” She sounded as if the question was a last-ditch, desperate attempt to retrieve a piece of information she would never get.

  “This is Megan Malone,” Saoirse said in a shaking voice. “She’s the one who found my da’s body yesterday.”

  * * *

  Sheer avarice lit Ní Gallachóir’s eyes. Megan, all too aware she was kitted out in her chauffeur’s uniform, thought, Orla is going to kill me, and braced herself as Aibhilín put the microphone in her face and said, “Tell us about the moment of discovery, Ms. Malone,” as if she’d been aware of Megan’s role in the whole story all along.

  “There’s an ongoing police investigation, Ms. Ní Gallachóir,” Megan said politely. “I think I probably shouldn’t comment to the press.”
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  “Of course, but how did you happen to be there?” Ní Gallachóir’s gaze raked Megan’s crisp black-and-white outfit before giving Megan a razor smile. “After all, that’s not anyone’s usual golfing outfit!”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ms. Ní Gallachóir, you see people in all kinds of crazy get-ups these days.” Knowing Aibhilín would find out anyway, and seeing an opportunity, Megan added, “I’m a privately hired driver, and I need to get Ms. MacDonald back now, so if you’ll excuse us, Ms. Ní Gallachóir, and thank you for your time.” She gestured for Saoirse to precede her and moved between the RTÉ team and the bereaved young woman. Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir developed the slow smirk of someone who realized she’d been put on the back foot, but she didn’t chase after them as they headed north along the beach again.

  Once they were out of earshot, Saoirse whispered, “I don’t know how you did that, but I don’t think she liked it.”

  “You wouldn’t believe how far brash American goes in this country,” Megan muttered back. “One time I completely shocked all my friends because a waiter asked if everything was okay, and I said no, we’d asked for dessert menus twenty minutes earlier and hadn’t gotten them yet.”

  Saoirse went so white that freckles Megan hadn’t noticed before stood out on her cheeks. “You didn’t!”

  “That’s what they said! He ran off to get the menus and I looked at my friends and they were all doing what you’re doing now!”

  “We’re Irish,” Saoirse said in not-entirely-joking horror. “We don’t do that!”

  “See? Brash American. Look, are you all right? I meant to keep you away from her and she ended up hunting you down anyway.”

  “You kept me from having to say anything. Or from risking saying anything. She would have pressed and pressed about why I slapped Martin until I snapped.”

  It took a concerted effort, but Megan didn’t ask why she had slapped Martin. After a few seconds, Saoirse glanced sideways at her and blurted a tearful laugh. “You look like you’re going to burst.”