by Catie Murphy
“It’s not my business,” Megan said firmly.
Saoirse gave another blurty laugh. “Do you have kids? I bet you’re really good at getting them to tell you things, if you do.”
“No, I don’t. I was really gung ho career-oriented when I got out of high school, and I never really stopped to consider them.”
“Do you regret that?” Saoirse sounded suddenly wistful. “I’ve never been keen on the idea of kids, but people tell me I’m young, and I’ll change my mind.”
A spark of irritation flew through Megan. “How old were you when you decided you wanted to work with the birds on this island?”
“Eight, although Da said I’d lie on the dunes for hours when I was littler, watching them, and that I’d tell him all about their habits when he got done with his games. But I don’t think I knew you could birdwatch for a living when I was that little.”
“So you’ve wanted to do that your whole life and never changed your mind?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d say if you can be sure of that since you were a child, you can probably trust yourself about not wanting kids, too.” Megan shrugged. “I mean, sure, you might change your mind, and that’s fine. People do, all the time. But I think that’s often about circumstances, not just an inevitable thing that happens to women as they age. Because you notice how people who say things like that don’t usually seem to say it to men?”
“I had,” Saoirse replied sourly. “And here’s Ireland thinking it’s gotten so progressive.”
“It’s not just Ireland,” Megan assured her.
“Martin had it coming,” Saoirse said, quietly and unexpectedly. “I still think he had a hand in it somehow, but even if he didn’t, he had it coming.”
“How come?”
Saoirse shook her head. “For being a son of a bitch all his life. For not liking my mam. For coming back when she was dead, and going back to how things were. For telling Da to keep competing in Mam’s memory, when he probably would have stopped after she died otherwise. If he hadn’t done that, Da would be alive right now.” Grief stormed through her again, driving her to her knees in the sand. Megan, protectively, looked down the beach to see if Aibhilín was down there filming Saoirse’s private heartbreak, but the sportscaster and her cameraman had disappeared from view. Sighing with sympathy, Megan crouched beside the mourning redhead and put a comforting hand on her back.
Dealing with death, injury, and bereavement had been expected as an Army medic. It had been a part of Megan’s life she’d been glad to put behind her. If someone had told her she’d end up supporting the recently bereaved in her job as a limo driver, she probably wouldn’t have believed them. Even when she drove people to funerals, it was her job to be as circumspect as possible in those circumstances, hardly there, not trying to help ease the client’s pain. This was twice, though, that she’d found herself in the center of someone else’s emotional maelstrom.
And this time she was almost certain to end up on the news. Without meaning to, Megan let slip a sort of ugly little snort of laughter that made Saoirse lift a tear-stained face in confused curiosity. “I’m sorry,” Megan said, meaning it. “I was just thinking how completely mental my boss is going to be when she hears I dragged the company name into this.”
Saoirse snuffled. “You what? How?”
“Well, Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir might not be an investigative reporter, but I bet she’ll be able to find out what car company an American Megan Malone drives for.”
Dismay rounded Saoirse’s eyes. “Oh no. That will be on me, then.”
Megan wrinkled her face. “I’d say you made it a tiny bit easier for her, but no, I’m pretty sure she’d have figured it out anyway even without my name. Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s get you back up to the clubhouse and into the warmth, at least. That blouse is very pretty, but it’s not at all good for walking around a beach with northerly winds coming in. You’re turning blue.”
As if made aware of the cold by Megan’s comment, Saoirse shivered from the bones out and nodded. They rose, the wind wrapping Saoirse’s hair around her face again until Megan took off her own chauffeur’s cap, tucked all the loose red curls together, and clamped them down with the cap. Saoirse raised her eyes dubiously at the cap’s brim, riding high over her forehead. “You’ve a small head.”
“I’m a small person compared to you. Imagine if it didn’t have to fit over my hair.” Megan touched the French twist she usually wore her hair in while at work. Saoirse smiled wanly.
“I wouldn’t be able to wear it at all. Thanks, though.”
“In the future I’ll carry ponytail holders,” Megan promised. They scurried down the beach, propelled by the wind, until Saoirse cut right and started climbing a dune. Megan followed uncertainly, but the young woman knew exactly where she was. The clubhouse lay directly in their path and looked warm and sheltering against a cloud-lashed blue sky. Most of the crowd had moved on with the game, leaving the green littered with only a handful of hangers-on, people whose conversations meant more to them than watching whatever dramatics were taking place on the links. All of them, Megan noticed, were men in flat-soled shoes and windbreaking coats; the women had either moved on or moved inside.
“They’re going to descend upon you like locusts if you go in there.”
“I don’t need to go in.” Saoirse, though flushed from windburn, had bad color. “I’ll just go around to the parking lot. I need to—to go . . . funeral . . . I have to . . .”
Megan nodded. “Is there anyone to help you? Someone drove you over to Dublin yesterday, didn’t they?”
“A friend of mine, but she had to turn around and go back to work. I have some university friends here, it’s just—everyone’s working. Other people’s lives don’t stop.” Her jaw trembled, but she managed, just barely, to hold her voice steady. “And there’s no family. It’s only me.”
“Would Heather help you?”
“After I slapped her husband? Probably not. Besides, she’ll be out there, cheering him on, even if he never goes to her games.”
“Really?”
“Hardly ever,” Saoirse amended. “Just often enough to look supportive where the cameras can see him, for a big game.”
“You really don’t like him very much, do you?”
“Uncle Martin? I used to. Then I found out how nasty and shallow he really is.” Saoirse took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and gave Megan her cap back. “You won’t have to deal with him long enough to find that out. Be glad.”
“Look, Saoirse, if you need anything, call me, okay? Here.” Megan got one of her cards and handed it to the young woman. “My hours are erratic, so I might be able to come help you out when other people can’t.”
Saoirse looked at the card a long moment, then at Megan, with her hair wrapping into her eyes again. “Why are you so nice? You don’t even know me.”
“It’s to make up for the rude American stereotype.”
“Most of the Americans I know are pretty nice.”
“I think most people are pretty nice,” Megan confessed. “Maybe it’s naive, but I’ll cling to that belief as long as I can. Go ahead and call me later. I’ll at least text back, even if I can’t answer.”
“Thank you.” Saoirse put the card in her hip pocket and left Megan standing alone on the edge of the windswept green. She watched as Saoirse entirely avoided the clubhouse, then, hands in her pockets, turned toward the links.
Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir was almost certainly out there, covering the main event, since the juicy human interest story on the side had temporarily run dry. Megan had no doubt the reporter would go after Saoirse for some unfiltered commentary, nor any doubt that she would approach Megan, too. Mouth pursed, Megan took her phone out, texted Paul Bourke with no emergency, but call when you can, and hardly had it back in her pocket when it rang, a round B for Bourke dominating the screen. Megan answered with, “Hey. I should get your picture so my phone doesn’t think you’r
e just another letter of the alphabet to me.”
Bourke’s purely astonished silence filled the line for a few seconds. “Sure that can’t be what you were texting for so.”
“No, I just thought of it when you called. You’ve missed a whole kerfuffle at the Royal Dublin this morning.”
Astonishment slipped from Bourke’s voice, replaced by professionalism. “What happened?”
Megan outlined Saoirse MacDonald’s dramatic entrance and the ensuing conversation with Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir, ending with, “I’m sure she’s going to try to talk to me again. What should I say?”
“Em . . .” Megan could visualize Bourke casting a searching, thoughtful gaze upward. “I wouldn’t say you know anything that isn’t already common knowledge, so I don’t see any harm in you talking to her, as long as you keep it to the events of the day. What’s the story with Saoirse and Martin Walsh, do you think?”
“She thinks it’s his fault her dad is dead. She’s convinced if there’s a way, he’s the one that killed him.”
“Unless there’s a way Walsh could hit him with a stray ball across half the green without ever losing a ball himself, I can’t see how he did it. Still . . .” Megan heard a page turn; Bourke was clearly taking notes. “Anything else?”
“Am I your assistant now, Detective? Is there a cool name for a detective’s assistant over here? Do I get to be Assistant Detective Inspector Adjunct, or something?”
“You called me, Ms. Malone.” Bourke sounded amused, though. “Are you with Mr. Walsh now?”
“No, but I could probably catch up, why?”
“It’d be interesting to see how he’s performing under pressure, and whether his relationships are showing any cracks.” Bourke trailed off leadingly, and Megan, grinning, started hoofing it across the green toward the distant game.
“And I just happen to be employed by your person of interest, and just happen to have been invited along on his game, and if I just happened to notice anything unusual, I might just happen to mention it to you?”
“Something like that,” Bourke allowed.
“Is that legal?”
“You’re a private citizen doing private citizen things,” Bourke said loftily. “Sure it’s no business of anyone’s if you relate your day to a friend over a pint, later on.”
“Okay, but I want that Assistant Detective Inspector Adjunct badge,” Megan warned.
“Amateur Inspector Detective Adjunct,” Bourke suggested. “Do you like opera, Ms. Malone?”
“I thought we were going for a pint. Look, I’ve got to book it if I’m going to catch up to them, so I’ll call you later.” Megan hung up and jogged across the green, smiling with anticipation.
CHAPTER TEN
Her enthusiasm, she decided half an hour later, had been sadly misplaced. Walsh was playing a magnificent game, with Anto at his side murmuring and pointing like an orchestra conductor. Neither of them looked rattled by the emotional display earlier. In the time she’d been watching, Walsh had sunk two shots that clearly impressed people who knew what they were watching, judging from the soft oooos of approval that rose and fell. Once Anto noticed Meg and dropped his head in the most subtle of nods, acknowledging her, but he was clearly every bit as involved in the game as Walsh.
Megan worked her way around to Heather Walsh, who kept just out of Martin’s line of sight as the game moved forward. She looked cold: colder than Saoirse had looked, in fact, although unlike Saoirse, Heather was at least nominally dressed for the relentless, changeable wind. She wore warm, flat shoes and wide-legged slacks beneath a hip-length raincoat that had both a hood and a soft, fluffy collar that could be, and was, turned up to brush the bottoms of Heather’s ears. She’d pulled on a dark-blue knit cap as well, her honey-colored hair spilling from under it to tangle in the coat collar. Despite all that, her arms were folded tightly around herself, and her smile looked frozen on her face. Megan hadn’t been any too warm on the beach, but now, tucked into the body warmth of the crowd, she felt pretty comfortable, and sorry for Heather. She didn’t speak as she settled in at Heather’s side, but as the game, and thus the crowd, moved forward, Heather noticed her. Megan flicked a smile at her, keeping her voice down to say, “If I’d realized it would be this cold and windy, I’d have brought a giant thermos of coffee with me.”
“I’d kill for a cup of good American coffee,” Heather said, then blanched. “I mean, not kill . . .”
“No, I know what you mean. I know it won’t do any good today, but I’ll bring you some tomorrow,” Megan offered. “My best friend sends me beans every few months from our local coffee shop.”
Heather’s face lit up, then dimmed again. “I can’t tomorrow. I’m playing, and Martin keeps me away from caffeine on game days.”
“I could say it’s decaf. I’m a very good liar.”
A light laugh escaped from the other woman. “Maybe after the game. In celebration, win or lose.”
“I assume win, though,” Megan said. “Mr. Walsh’s caddie says you’re very good.”
Dimples appeared on Heather’s cheeks and disappeared almost as quickly. “Does he? I like Anthony, but Martin won’t share him. It’s nice to know he thinks I’m good.” Her gaze went to Martin, who stood with the other professionals as the crowd slowed and stopped, waiting for the next round to be played. “I’m not as good as Marty is in these winds, though. Hardly anyone is.”
“Maybe they’ll have died down tomorrow.” Megan watched the first player in the round line up his shot, hesitating as the wind buffeted him, and then struck the ball with what looked, to her, like an entirely respectable hit. Heather, though, winced, and Megan, astonished, murmured, “That wasn’t good?”
“It wasn’t bad. None of these players will hit a bad shot. But wait.” Two more men played their round before Martin stepped up. He looked a picture compared to the others, whose costumes were more muted and ordinary, but Megan had to admit he drew the eye, and that his style made her want to root for him. He spoke with Anto for a moment, both of them nodding as Anto twirled a hand. Then the caddie stepped back, and Martin turned himself at an angle none of the others had taken as they prepared for their turns. Megan saw him make a minute adjustment to his grip, one that made no visible difference to her, but which must have meant something to him. Then he waited what seemed an excruciatingly long time, as if someone had hit pause on his play, before swinging a powerful stroke just as the wind suddenly died.
The ball soared with such speed and grace that even Megan gasped, though the sound was lost beneath the general response from the crowd and, more critically, the wind gusting up again. In the distance, it caught the ball, curving it, and an incredulous shout carried across the green as the ball hit the earth, out of Megan’s sight. Eager to see what he’d done, Megan was swept along with the observers until they’d reached the next hole, where it was clear Martin Walsh had come within two metres of a hole in one. His opponents’ balls were scattered far and wide, comparatively, and he tipped the ball into the hole in one easy shot while they each took two more to score.
Megan, astonished, said, “How did he do that?”
“I told you. No one knows the wind like he does. Especially on Bull Island, but he’s got a gift for it no matter where he plays. A day like today favors him in a way no other conditions do.”
“How’s, um, how’s he doing?” Megan looked ahead, like she could see the sport’s number one star somewhere in the distance, and Heather smiled briefly.
“He’s only two strokes ahead of Martin, but he’s not likely to lose the advantage. Martin will probably take second place. Later, he’ll say he did it for Lou.” Heather smiled again, but it wavered and disappeared quickly.
“Would he have done as well if Lou was playing today?” Megan asked softly.
Heather’s shrug barely moved stiff shoulders. “Lou had a longer drive and knew the wind nearly as well as Marty does. Lou might have edged him out in the last few holes. We’ll never know now.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry for your loss. How are you doing?”
“Me? Why me?” Heather gave her a sharp look.
Taken aback, Megan blinked. “Well, he must have been your friend, too, right? If he and Martin were so close. And on top of that, you’re there to help Martin through it, too. I know it’s not easy.”
Mrs. Walsh turned her face away, as if embarrassed. “Right. Sorry. I just—it’s been a hard twenty-four hours. The story had gotten mixed up on its way to St. Anne’s yesterday, and I thought Martin had died, not that he’d found a dead man. I dropped my club and ran all the way here. Golfers walk.” She laughed, a small, rough sound. “I like to swim for cardio, so I don’t know the last time I ran that far. I almost threw up. And Martin—he tamps it all down. It’s hard to know how he’s feeling, unless he wants to make sure everyone knows.”
“He seemed shaken this morning, when I drove him to the course.”
“But look how well he took that awful scene with Saoirse MacDonald.” Heather had stopped walking along with the crowd, and now she and Megan stood more or less alone on the green, their conversation as private as possible. “He just smiled and went to play the game.”
“Yeah. I don’t think I could have done that. What was that about anyway?”
“I don’t know, but I know it’s breaking Martin’s heart. He was Saoirse’s ‘Uncle Martin’ up until a few years ago. He thinks college changed her, and maybe it did.”
“Well, that’s kind of what college is supposed to do. Was it the game that broke them up? Did he think she was going to go into it, like her family?”
Heather smiled unexpectedly. “Maybe. Oh, she was so good, Megan. She was out on the courses with her parents all the time as a child, and as she grew into her height, she just got better and better. Martin coached her for a while, but she decided on wildlife management instead of sports and things were never really the same after that. He never had children, so I think his hopes were set on her being not just his legacy, but all of theirs. His, Susan’s, Lou’s, Kimberly’s.”