by Catie Murphy
Saoirse, who seemed to have gotten a great deal more drunk in the minute Megan had spent talking to Carmen, shouted, “Thank you, Ms. de la Fuente!” after her, then clapped a guilty hand over her mouth and stage-whispered, “That was too loud, wasn’t it?”
“It’s okay. Come on, let’s get you home.” On the way off the boat, they passed the older woman in blue with the crown of braids, and Megan blurted, “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I just wanted to say your costume is amazing and perfect” to her. The patrician lines of the woman’s face turned upward in a blossoming smile, and she waved as Megan and Saoirse staggered down the gangplank.
“People like you,” Saoirse muttered. “They liked me da, too. They don’t like me as much. Martin didn’t like me as much as he liked Heather. Heather doesn’t like me at all. The lads in school fancy me until they find out I won’t shag them, and then they think I’m a cold fish and won’t help with my own projects even if I’ve lent a hand with theirs. Everybody in Donnybrook likes me because I kept that bastard Sean from turning their green into a housing development, but that’s not me they like, it’s what I did for them.”
“If it were me, I’d like the person who did all that work for us, too. Which bastard is that?”
“Sean Ahern. He was here tonight, but he fecked off after I told him I’d vomit on him if he spoke to me again.”
“Oh, the tallish guy? I saw him talking to you.” Megan walked Saoirse down the dock, taking a few seconds to catch glimpses of the rows of white boats and ships making ghostly, shifting, bright spots against the black water. Overhead lights cast pools of yellow and blue into the rippling bay and made well-maintained dock slats safe and easy to walk, even at night. The water’s constant, gentle slosh against ship hulls drowned out most of the sound from the town beyond—and the party behind them drowned out the rest—leaving the moving lights in town a silent dance and nothing more. Megan took a deep breath, inhaling the sea scent, and wished she had more time to appreciate it, rather than thinking about murders and unwelcome visitors. “Paul thought he was a banker.”
“Might as well be,” Saoirse spat. “They’re all after screwing the country, and instead of being in jail, he’s trying to turn the bay into a sewerage dump and murder my island and my birds.” She climbed into the limo’s front seat when Megan opened the door for her, and slid most of the way into the footwell. Megan, lips twisted with concentration, got her far enough up again to buckle her in, and went around to the driver’s side, asking, “Where are you staying?” once she got in.
“At me da’s house down in Dalkey.”
“Oh, gosh. That’s . . . on the other side of Dublin from here. Would you be okay with staying at my apartment in Rathmines tonight? I’ve got to go walk my puppies before their bladders explode.”
Saoirse’s eyes lit up. “Puppies? Can I sleep with them?”
“I think not sleeping with them would be the challenge.”
“Yay!” Saoirse clapped her hands together like a child, then slithered as far down in the seat as the seatbelt would let her. “I feel awful.”
Megan, gently, said, “I know. It’s been a hard couple of days for you, and I’m afraid it’s not going to get any easier for a while.” She pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the marina behind as they drove down the coast, back toward Dublin city centre. There were glimpses of the northern train line along the way, caught between centuries-old residences that lay beside modern buildings. “Can I ask you something that’s none of my business?”
“Pfffshh. Sure.”
“Was Martin Walsh the boyfriend who dumped you for his bit on the side?”
Saoirse bolted upright in the seat, a flood of tears pouring from incredulous eyes. “How’d you know that? No one knows that!”
“I was thinking about what you said this morning, and how angry you were when I asked you about Heather this evening, and I made a guess,” Megan said, more judiciously than truthfully. “Saoirse, do you—”
“Do I know how awful everyone would make that? Do I know they’d all say he groomed me? Do I know they’d think it was gross that he fell in love with his ‘niece’? Of course I do! It’s why we had to keep it a secret, and the secret is why he started dating somebody else. For show, he said. To help us stay hidden, he said. Only then he chose her over me. I could kill her,” Saoirse snarled. “I could kill him. He betrayed me. He said he loved me, but he dumped me for her like he didn’t even care—”
“Do you think your dad knew?” Megan interrupted, driving Saoirse into shocked silence.
“No. No? No! He—he wouldn’t have understood. Nobody understood.” Saoirse put her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, although Megan heard no sobs. “He hated that Uncle Martin and I had fallen out, but I couldn’t tell him why, because he wouldn’t understand.”
She kept on in that vein, the words occasionally broken with audible tears, while Megan turned over in her mind what she could, or should, say. Being judgy obviously wouldn’t help, and moreover, Saoirse clearly understood, whether she could admit it consciously or not, the deeply problematic aspect of her relationship with Walsh. Carefully, not wanting to engage the young woman’s defenses, she asked, “What do you think he would have done if he had known?”
“Oh, God, he’d have killed Martin like!”
“You don’t think he would have—no,” Megan said to herself, and to the road in front of her, more than to Saoirse. “No, he wouldn’t have told the press. He wouldn’t have tried ruining Martin’s career, would he? Because he wouldn’t have wanted to drag you through that whole mess.”
Saoirse dropped her hands, staring at Megan in wet-faced horror. Her makeup hadn’t survived the second bout of tears quite as well; thin streaks of black straggled down her cheeks, and her lips were their natural shade again, not the shimmering pink of before. “He’d never have done that,” she whispered hoarsely. “Never!”
“No, I don’t think he would have.” Megan took a deep breath. “Would he have threatened Martin with it, though? To get him to stop playing, maybe?”
“No!” Saoirse wrenched her gaze to the street ahead of them. “Maybe . . . maybe.”
“And what would Martin have done to keep that secret from coming out, or to counter that threat?”
Saoirse shook her head, her eyes glazed. “Anything. He’d do anything, but everyone says—you said—you were with him when Da died. He couldn’t have done it.”
Megan bared her teeth and thumped the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. “Yeah. Yeah. Dammit, that was looking so tidy, too.” She turned onto Rathmines Road, the drive having gone very quickly in the lack of midnight traffic, and flushed guiltily as Saoirse asked, “Is that what you want my da’s death to be? Tidy?”
“I’d like the solution to be tidy. I’d like there to be answers that make sense. On paper, at least. They’re not likely to ever make sense in your heart.” Megan pulled into the garage, waving at Tymon, who was mostly sacked out on a couch tucked against one wall. He got to his feet, yawning enormously, and ambled after the vehicle as Megan drove it into the back parking lot. He also shot Megan a look of disconcerted worry as Saoirse clambered out of the car, all tearstains and mermaid skirts. Megan shook her head minutely, and Tymon developed a set of magical blinders that sent him around the car the long way, collecting what he needed to clean it, as Megan escorted the tall redhead out of the garage. As the door closed behind them, her phone buzzed with a text from Tymon: you’re going to have to explain that!
Later, Megan promised. It was only a few minutes’ walk from the garage to her apartment, and Saoirse’s eyelids were drooping by the time they got up the stairs and into the flat. Even the puppies couldn’t keep her awake, and by the time Megan returned from a quick potty trip with them, Saoirse had curled up on the couch and fallen asleep. True to her promise, Megan tucked Dip and Thong into the blankets with her and tiptoed off to bed herself.
* * *
Noise in the kitchen woke her a few
hours later, making Megan sit up in alarm before remembering she had a house guest for the night. She blearily made her way out to find Saoirse nursing a huge cup of coffee at the little kitchen table, two puppies sitting on her feet and Mama Dog lying beside the chair with an air of brown-eyed expectation.
Saoirse said—pleaded—”Don’t even talk to me,” and Megan raised her hands in agreeable silence as she went to fill a mug of her own. The puppies scampered over, winding around her ankles like they were determined to fell her and break her neck. Megan snorted and sat on the floor with them, smiling as they wiggled their way into her lap.
“Good babies. You make even early mornings less awful, don’t you? Yeah. Yeah.” She wrinkled her face as Dip stood on his hind legs, front feet on her shoulder so he could lick her face. His tongue went up her nose as she inhaled, and a series of shouts, spilled coffee, and coughing fits later, peace was restored to the sound of Saoirse’s pained, hung-over giggles. Not at all to Megan’s surprise, the young woman’s laughter slid toward tears, and Megan, briskly, said, “Why don’t you get into the shower real quick, and get ready for the day? I’ll find you some slightly less inappropriate daywear.”
Saoirse fled to the bathroom, where she could cry—and shower—in peace, and Megan took the dogs out, promising them an excess of quality time once the golfing weekend and its attendant murder was past. “Because normal people promise their dogs quality time,” she said, mostly to herself, as they trotted back up to her flat. She did find a hip-length-on-her T-shirt that would reach Saoirse’s waist, and a pair of ankle-length, flared yoga trousers that would probably be a flattering calf-length on Saoirse’s long legs. She couldn’t do anything about replacing the aquamarine high heels the young woman had worn the night before, as Saoirse’s feet were at least four sizes larger than her own, but at least she wouldn’t have to go home dressed as a mermaid.
“I can give you a lift as far as Clontarf Castle Hotel,” she called to Saoirse after handing the clothes through a cracked-open bathroom door, but the other woman came out a minute later, toweling her hair and shaking her head.
“I don’t want to see the Walshes. I’ll take a taxi.”
“All right.” Megan had already pulled her chauffeur’s uniform on, reckoning she could make it a day without a shower, especially with her hair still in remarkably good shape after the previous day’s makeover. “I’ve got to get to the garage. Let yourself out when you’re ready, but be careful of Dip. He likes to make a break for it.”
“Okay. Thanks. Megan?” Saoirse’s voice stopped her as she headed out the door. “Thanks very much.”
Megan smiled. “No worries. Call if you need anything, and I’ll see you later.” She took the stairs down two at a time and got to the garage just after seven, comfortably in time to make it to the Clontarf without rushing it.
Tymon, still awake, pointed at the office as she strode into the garage. “You owe me last night’s story, but Orla wants a piece of you right now.”
“Oh no, a piece of me?” Megan made a face of mock alarm and hurried into the office, calling, “What can I do for you, Miz Keegan?” ahead of herself.
Orla’s voice, as cold as ice water, splashed over her. “You can tell me why this woman came to visit us at half six on a Thursday morning.”
Megan, the garage door banging closed behind her, looked up to meet the smug and sparkling gaze of sports journalist Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Megan Malone.” Aibhilín looked genuinely delighted to see her. “Ms. Malone, it’s a pleasure to meet you again. I had the most interesting afternoon yesterday, looking into you. It’s not my usual beat, but surely somebody had to remark on the fact that you’ve been caught up in two murder investigations in as many months?”
Megan, faintly, and fully aware that Orla’s murderous gaze lay on her, said, “It’s two in four months, to be fair,” and flinched with the conviction that a stapler or possibly a computer screen was about to come flying at her head.
“And both of them tied to Leprechaun Limousine clients,” Aibhilín proclaimed, as if she had never heard anything as interesting in her life. Maybe she hadn’t. Megan had to admit it was interesting, in the may-you-live-in-interesting-times sense of the word. “How did all of this come about, Ms. Malone?”
“Through outrageous coincidence,” Megan replied as steadily as she could. “If that’s all, I have a job to do, Ms. Ní Gallachóir—”
“Oh, but it’s not. I’m altogether desperate to hear how you found Lou MacDonald’s body.” Ní Gallachóir’s eyes danced with challenge. “Give me that interview and I’ll forget what I’ve learned about the two recent murders connected with this company.”
Aware of Orla’s enraged attention, and thinking of Detective Bourke’s request that she not talk to the media, Megan smiled until her teeth ached. “Can it wait until after I’ve done my pick-up this morning?”
“As it happens, I’ll be covering the tournament at St. Anne’s today,” Aibhilín said. “I’d be delighted to meet you there. Say half nine?”
“Let’s make it ten,” Megan said through her teeth. “Just to make sure Mrs. Walsh doesn’t require my services.”
“Perfect.” Aibhilín drawled the word into the very Irish “pair-fect” pronunciation, which normally Megan loved but which, right then, raised hairs on her nape. “I’ll see you then, Ms. Malone.” She left with the air of a victor, and Megan braced herself on the counter, both wrists turned out, before daring to look Orla’s way.
“A fine job you’ve done of keeping us out of the media,” Orla said shortly, and with that stalked away. Megan watched her go, then turned her gaze to the ceiling, as if there might be answers there. There weren’t, of course, so with a sigh she went back to the garage, collected her keys, and said, “I’m sorry, I can’t even right now” to Tymon’s hopeful gaze.
“There’s a pint in this for me when this is all over!” he called after her, and Megan, feeling that was probably reasonable, lifted a hand in agreement as she got into her car and drove away.
* * *
As if the city itself felt Megan needed an apology for siccing Ní Gallachóir on her, the drive through Dublin was spectacularly beautiful, with soft morning light turning condensation-wet streets blue and pink with the sky’s reflections. Traffic wasn’t even that bad—Megan wanted, someday, to see an analysis that explained why Thursday mornings generally seemed to be lighter in traffic in the capital city—and she had time to enjoy the Clontarf seafront on her indirect route to the castle hotel.
She arrived early enough that Heather Walsh hadn’t yet put in her appearance. Tempted to wander the grounds, Megan instead exited the car, leaned on the hood—bonnet, she reminded herself—and texted Paul Bourke with 1. How late were you out with the princesses? & 2. Aibhilin Ni Gallachoir (how do you even do accents on phones) accosted me at work this morning and is going to drag my company into the media’s eye if I don’t give her a play-by-play of finding Lou’s body. How should I proceed?
Sunlight, split by bare branches, stretched in golden slats across the parking lot, coloring even the asphalt warmly and picking tiny prisms out of the dew clinging to blades of grass. Megan watched the light change, lazily, with half an eye on the castle doors so she wouldn’t miss Heather’s arrival. Her phone buzzed before the golf star came out, and she glanced at it to see Paul’s return text.
1. none of your business so. 2. hold down the letter, it’ll come up with accent options. 2a. bore her, and then, a moment later, 3. u know regular ppl use abbreviations in texts, not complete sentences?
I know it, Megan texted back. I just don’t hold with it. Roger wilco. She pressed a few letters on the phone’s keyboard, delighted to see he was right about the accents, and sent a nonsensical text of tildes, umlauts, and cedillas to him as a follow-up. She was still smiling at herself when Heather Walsh appeared, somehow looking visibly thinner and frailer than she had the afternoon before. Megan stepped forward,
worried, but Heather offered a smile that suggested nothing was wrong. Skeptical, but aware the woman had an important game ahead of her, Megan only said, “Good morning, Mrs. Walsh,” and held the car door for her. Once they were both inside again, Megan, testing the conversational waters, said, “Lovely morning. Not much wind.”
“Not here,” Heather agreed. “Maybe on the island, though.”
“Are you like Mr. Walsh? Do you like playing in the wind?”
“No one likes playing in the wind as much as Martin does.”
“Did Lou?”
To Megan’s surprise, Heather stiffened, jaw tightening as she looked out the window. “I’d rather not talk about Lou, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry.” Megan hesitated, then released a breath that made Heather look back at her. “Nothing,” Megan said apologetically. “I was about to ask you for advice, but you’d just asked me not to talk about—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You haven’t said anything.” Heather sounded irritated. “What did you want advice about?”
Megan sighed. “It’s just that Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir learned I was there to find Mr. MacDonald’s body, and she wants to interview me. I barely knew him, and I just—I wondered what someone who knew him well might want someone to say about him, if they had the chance.”
Heather Walsh softened again, though her gaze remained on the approaching shoreline. “Lou MacDonald loved more deeply than anyone I’d ever met. He kept playing golf out of love for his first wife, and he’d want that to be his legacy. That and Saoirse. He was so proud of her.”
“His first wife?” Megan asked, surprised again. “I thought he’d only been married once.”
Heather shook herself a little. “Yes, of course.”
Curious, smiling, Megan glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping to catch Heather’s eye. “Was he seeing someone? Oh,” she said, as dismayed as she’d been hopeful a moment earlier. “Oh no. Seeing someone Saoirse didn’t know about, maybe? Someone who can’t even come forward to mourn?”