Death on the Green

by Catie Murphy

  The RTÉ cameraman swung around to catch Martin approaching Heather for an embrace. She smiled as they kissed before Martin turned them both to face Aibhilín. “I get so nervous watching her,” he confessed directly to the sportscaster. “I can’t even watch on television. I have to immerse myself in something else until the news reaches me, and I’m always delighted to hear it. Isn’t she magnificent?”

  “You are, Mrs. Walsh,” Aibhilín said to Heather. “If I’ve kept track correctly, this is your eleventh win in a row. Does that steady your nerves, on a day like today?”

  Heather took a breath to speak, and her husband laughed. “Heather doesn’t have nerves. She lets it all flow through her and uses it to channel her game. The truth is, I wouldn’t want to be up against her in a tournament.”

  “Fortunately,” Aibhilín said, so acidly Megan was surprised her voice didn’t etch scars in the microphone, “you don’t have to be, Martin. Heather, please tell me about the game today. How did you feel out there, in the wake of Lou MacDonald’s death?”

  Martin opened his mouth again, and Aibhilín, still sharply, said, “Mrs. Walsh, please, Martin.”

  “It was a difficult game today,” Heather said into the startled silence left by Aibhilín’s interruption. “Lou has been at my side for so many games, and I felt his absence tremendously.”

  “Is that what led to changing your caddie on the back nine? You’d been with Martin Walsh’s caddie for the first nine holes, had you not? But a young woman finished the course with you this afternoon.” Aibhilín gave a short nod toward the girl, who stood behind Heather with a smile so bright Megan thought Jerry probably didn’t need the extra light he shone down on Heather.

  “Anthony and I have a long-standing relationship,” Heather with a quiet smile. “I knew he’d understand if I gave a young woman a chance out there on the green. I’m proud of the game we played today. I think Lou would have been, too. Right now, I think that’s all we can ask for.”

  “What will tomorrow bring? It’s the third day of Ireland’s first all-inclusive golfing tournament, and we’ll be leaving Bull Island for the Howth Head golf courses. How are you and Mr. Walsh feeling, headed into the fierce competition lying ahead of you?”

  “Confident,” Heather said before Martin could speak. “We both have a lot to prove this weekend, not to ourselves, not to the golfing world, not to the fans, but to Lou’s memory, and to the future of a sport that I hope will grow increasingly inclusive over the next years and decades.”

  Aibhilín smiled like she’d gotten the sound bite she wanted. “Thank you for your time, Heather, and good luck on the green tomorrow.” She turned to Jerry, signaling to the Walshes, and the crowd behind them, that they were no longer on air. “That was rising star Heather Walsh, playing through the adversity of a close friend’s death just forty-eight hours ago. Golfer Lou MacDonald, an advocate of this week’s global debut tournament featuring alternating days of men and women’s golf, died under suspicious circumstances on Wednesday, just south of here on Bull Island. We’ll be back later with more exclusive details on that tragic event, and will be following this week’s tournament closely from on the course at Howth Head. This is Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir for RTÉ Sports.” She kept smiling at the camera until Jerry made a cut sign, then lowered her microphone to give Megan, just within her line of sight, a flat look.

  “Sorry,” Megan muttered, knowing the sportscaster couldn’t hear her. “I’ll work on being more charismatic for your interview the next time I’m on the periphery of a sports murder.”

  As if she had heard, Aibhilín squinted suspiciously at Megan, who waved and went to situate herself at the car so she’d be available to find out what the Walshes wanted to do next. She waited over an hour, long enough to call her friend Brian and ask him to walk the puppies—he already had—and to send Niamh a text asking how filming was going. Fionnuala called back with a promise of snack platters, and when Megan asked how much it would cost, huffed indignantly. “Anything for a friend, love.”

  Megan thought that was preposterous, but said, “You’re a star,” and made a note to check with the restaurant’s manager about how much she should pay for the food. Despite all the busy work, she still had time to nearly fall asleep in the driver’s seat before the Walshes emerged from the clubhouse. They were all smiles and waves at what remained of the crowds, even stopping to sign autographs, but the moment Megan closed them into the car, bickering erupted.

  “We weren’t invited, Martin—”

  “And what does that matter? He was my oldest friend—”

  “—and you’re the man who’s always been set on a quiet night before a big game. Tomorrow is going to be a more challenging field and you know it. The weaker players have been weeded out, and if you want to make the final cut, and the Ryder Cup team—”

  “I’ll never miss Lou’s wake,” Martin snapped. “I’d think you didn’t want to be there at all, the way you’re carrying on.”

  “Of course I want to go! He was my friend, too! But I know Saoirse doesn’t like me, and your relationship with her has soured, and it’s her father, Marty.”

  “I don’t give a damn what she wants!”

  They had reached the causeway connecting the island to the mainland by then, and Megan, in as unobtrusive a voice as she could manage, murmured, “Will we be returning to the hotel, sir? Madam?”

  In a limo with a privacy divider, they would have lifted it at that moment. In the Continental, without that option, Megan always found it interesting to see what clients would do when reminded of a third party privy to their conversations and arguments. Some people still didn’t seem to realize an actual person was there, listening. Others fell into a furious, wary silence, angry not only at each other but also at Megan, for having heard them breaking social norms by fighting in front of someone else. Martin snarled, “Yes,” while Heather, calmer, replied, “No, thank you. I’ll need to go to town after you’ve dropped Martin off.”

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Martin barked.

  “I’ll need something appropriate to wear to the wake, if we’re going,” Heather said very steadily. “I didn’t bring mourning clothes with me.”

  “Mourning clothes? Jesus, what is this, Victorian England? Will I paint the railings black and—”

  “That’s a myth,” Heather said coolly. “Victoria had her staff wear black armbands for years, and wore it the rest of her life, but they didn’t start painting the railings black until decades after her death, when fast-drying paint started coming on the market.”

  “Ah, you have to be so fecking smart, don’t you, ferreting out all the little truths and lies about people. You think it’s a way to keep your own secrets safe,” Martin snarled. “Don’t count on that, my dear. You’re not half as clever as you think you are. It’s a good thing you’re pretty or you’d never have amounted to anything at all.”

  “Except being a brilliant golf player and a good friend.”

  “Watch and see how good a golfer you are with a broken ankle.”

  Megan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, but Heather gave a light, sharp laugh. “You wouldn’t dare. Don’t think I don’t know how much money you owe Anthony, or how many of my winnings you’ve used to pay him back with. You might be free of him if we both win this weekend and you get the Cup wild card position, but you won’t be without my money, so don’t think you scare me, Martin Walsh.”

  “ ‘Martin Walsh,’” he mimicked in a high, nasty voice. “You were happy enough to take on that name when we got married.”

  “Live and learn,” Heather said. “Live and learn.” Martin could not, evidently, find a satisfactory comeback to that, and they fell into an enraged silence that lasted the rest of the drive to the hotel. Martin got out of the car, slamming the door behind him, before Megan had a chance to kill the engine, much less get out and hold the door for him. She waited a few seconds to see if he would turn back for any reason, then, as neutral
ly as she could, said, “Where to, Mrs. Walsh?”

  “Brown Thomas, I think, thank you, or the Powerscourt Centre.”

  “I’ll take you to the Brown Thomas car park? It’s the most reliable parking for that end of Grafton Street, and it’s only a minute or two to walk to Powerscourt.”

  Heather nodded quietly and fixed her attention out the window as they passed through the broad, wealthy streets of Clontarf, heading south past Connolly Train Station and finally across the River Liffey into the warren of small streets of Dublin’s city centre. They were waiting to pull into the parking garage at Brown Thomas, one of Grafton Street’s upscale retailers, when Heather said, “I’m sorry for subjecting you to that,” out of the blue.

  Megan met her eyes in the rearview mirror, saying, “To what?” lightly enough that she hoped the blond woman would understand she was pretending nothing had happened.

  A relieved smile flashed over Heather’s face, and Megan nodded, then took a quick, preparatory breath. “I do have to ask, though, Mrs. Walsh. Do you believe you’re in any danger? That did sound like a . . . a credible threat, and I’m required to report things like that, even if I, uh, didn’t hear anything.”

  For a moment Heather Walsh looked very tired. “No, I don’t think I’m in any danger. I meant it when I said he wouldn’t dare. He certainly never has dared in the past, anyway, and he can’t afford to alienate me right now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Megan had every intention of letting Paul Bourke know about the volatile relationship between the Walshes, but trusted Heather’s assessment of her personal safety for the near future, at least. She glanced in the mirror again as they pulled into the dark parking garage and began winding through its cavernous aisles. “Will you want me to come along and carry bags?”

  To her surprise, Heather laughed, a bright, genuine sound of pleasure. “Is that part of your job? You’re a better husband than the one I’ve got.” She sighed, her smile fading. “Lou used to come shopping with me. Martin complained that we always spent too much, but he hated coming with me himself. It’s more fun to go with someone, though.”

  Megan smiled at her in the mirror. “Well, I’m at your disposal.”

  “No, that’s all right. Martin said you were picking up food for the wake tonight, and I’ll probably get maudlin. Dealing with that is definitely not part of your job.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Megan nodded, though, parked the car, and held the door for Heather, who glanced at the time and said, “Meet you back here at four? And I have your number in case I run late.”

  “See you then,” Megan promised, and scurried away to call Detective Bourke with all her latest gossip.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “That is not a happy marriage,” Megan told Bourke a few minutes later as she headed up Grafton Street toward a nearby Luas stop, in hopes that the tram would be the fastest way back to Rathmines and the puppies. “Emotionally abusive at best, and Heather’s obviously used to being self-effacing in his presence. You should have seen her postgame interview, with Martin trying to horn in. Oh, well, I guess you can, on the news tonight. What’s the story with Collins?”

  “Somebody strangled him,” Bourke said in the tone of a man who knew better than to share that information. Megan rolled her eyes at the phone, then squinted at the Luas sign, which was still too far away to read. There were no trams in sight, though, so at least she hadn’t just missed one.

  “No kidding. I mean, it looked like it, right? But was there any skin under his fingernails or anything incriminating like that?”

  “You’ve been watching too many television shows. No. They used some nylon boundary rope and dumped him.”

  “Why not dump him in the water?” Megan wondered. “Weight him down and drop him into the surf? Or at least bury him?”

  A long pause came over the line before Bourke hung up and called back on a video application, his blue eyes gone grey with dismay. “Do me a favor,” he said bleakly. “Never become a criminal. I’m afraid you’d be good at it.” He sighed, gaze losing some of its storminess. “I’d say the killer probably panicked. Most of them do. And you’ve no idea how hard it is to bury a body, Megan. Do you know the best way to keep from being caught, if you’ve killed someone?”

  “No,” Megan said, fascinated. “What?”

  “Bury the body six feet deep. We’ll never find it.”

  Megan blinked at him. “That sounds easy.”

  Bourke shook his head. “No. It’s simple. It’s not easy at all, which is why hardly anybody does it.”

  “Ah. Yeah, okay, fair enough. But weighting a body and dumping it off the Bull Wall can’t be that hard, can it?”

  There was a tram in two minutes. Megan touched her Leap Card against the terminal to pay for the ticket and leaned against a wire-and-steel railing to watch passers-by as Bourke conceded, “It’s a lot less hard than digging a six-foot deep hole, but it’s still not easy. You’ve moved unconscious bodies.”

  Megan, with a shudder, remembered hauling Lou out of the pond just two days earlier. “Yeah. Okay, it’s not easy. They weigh a lot.”

  “So combine inconvenience with panic and you end up with the odds being good that Oliver Collins died within a few metres of where you found his body.”

  “On a beach where the water washes away all signs of struggle.” Megan made a face. A tram pulled up, doors dinging pleasantly as they opened, and she fell into line with other people waiting to board. “Was he in the habit of early morning beach walks?”

  Bourke’s pale eyebrows shot up. “How did you know he died early this morning?”

  “Nothing had eaten him yet.”

  She was treated to another silent stare as she got on the Luas, except this time he didn’t have to hang up and make a video call to deliver it. “Have you ever considered law enforcement as a career, Ms. Malone? I’d say you have the stomach for it.”

  “I’ve done enough enforcing, thanks. I’d rather drive people around and listen to their gossip.”

  Bourke inhaled and exhaled it so deeply Megan’s chest started to hurt in sympathy before he finally said, “As it happens, Oliver Collins was in the habit of taking an early morning walk around the island before going to work. Apparently, he was out there rain or shine, unless the conditions were so adverse as to constitute weather warnings.”

  “And I suppose anybody who worked at the Royal Dublin, or who regularly went to Bull Island early, or who knew Collins, knew that. And I also suppose a lot of people made this kind of face”—Megan flared her nostrils and twitched her upper lip—“when asked if Collins had any enemies.”

  Obviously despite his better judgement, Bourke laughed. “As a matter of fact, yes. He was not, as it turns out, well-liked. Widely lauded at being very good at his job, but not well-liked by anyone but the wealthy or influential.”

  “Yeah, I saw him in action. He was really good at kissing up to people he thought could do something for him. Martin Walsh liked him, but his caddie, Anto, didn’t.” Megan’s stomach roared suddenly, and she clapped her hand over it. “I need to eat something. I haven’t had anything but coffee today, I don’t think. Do you want to meet for lunch?”

  “I have several dozen more people to interview,” Bourke said dryly. “Maybe another day.”

  “Right. Anything I can do to help out in the meantime?”

  “Megan,” Bourke said in despair. “You are not a garda. This is not your job.”

  “Right, yeah, no, I know.” Megan waited a beat. “So is there anything I can do?”

  Bourke groaned and hung up. Megan, still snickering at herself, got off the Luas a few minutes later and stopped for Indian at Tadka House before knocking on Brian Showers’s door.

  * * *

  He opened the door with an air of amusement and a sparkle in his brown eyes. Puppies rolled out the open door, wriggling excitedly around Megan’s ankles. She laughed, handed over the bag of food, collected both the little dogs, and stood up. “Cutting to the
chase, are we? I didn’t think you’d bring them here. I’m sorry I stuck you with them today. I didn’t expect to be working all night.”

  “It’s fine, except my cat thinks they, and therefore you, are the devil incarnate. But it was easier to bring them here than run back and forth to your place all day. Come on in.” Brian—taller than Megan, black-haired, bespectacled, and wearing professorial tweed—stepped out of the door, opened the takeaway bag, and sniffed appreciatively. “You’re bribing me, aren’t you?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Magnificently.”

  “Then yes, I definitely am.” Megan kicked the door closed behind her and put Dip and Thong back on the floor, where they began climbing over each other in an attempt to get back into her arms. “Thank you for taking them.”

  “I’m consoling myself with the knowledge that in another few weeks their bladders will be more reliable and you’ll start sneaking them around with you in the limos.”

  “Orla would straight-up murder me.” Megan followed Brian down a wood-floored hallway into a small, bright kitchen overlooking a tiny, concrete garden dominated by a shed where the oil tank resided. He laid lunch out on a small, blue-topped table while she got silverware out, and they sat down to eat with two exceedingly hopeful puppies and one equally hopeful but more dignified mama dog watching them. “How’s the book business?”

  “Oh, you know what they say.” At Megan’s querying eyebrows, Brian smiled. “If you want to make a small fortune in publishing, start with a large one.”

  Megan laughed. “Oh dear. You, er . . . you didn’t start with a large fortune, did you?”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’m nearly twenty years in the business now anyway.” Brian tilted his head toward the spare bedroom where he ran his small press, focused mostly on Irish Gothic and horror literature, from. “It’s not a bad oeuvre.”

  “Well, you’ve reprinted all kinds of things I’d never read before anyway.”

  Brian sniffed. “Uncultured American, not knowing who Le Fanu is.”