Dead in Dublin

by Catie Murphy

  Poisonings were almost apocryphal, in Megan’s experience. Aside from the occasional rattlesnake or copperhead bite, everyone Megan knew of who’d ever been poisoned had been the victim of a political assassination or some kind of building code violation or governmental screw-up. They’d died of Russian nerve agents, or asbestos exposure, or Agent Orange. Regular people didn’t get poisoned, except by accident. She went to the hotel doors and stood in front of them, not leaving the building, only staring at the impossibly bright day outside, the brilliant morning sunshine highlighting gold on the windows of the shopping centre just down the road and turning the leaves in the park across the street rich with early light.

  It was only just after eight on a Sunday morning. The streets were nearly empty, only the occasional intrepid jogger or enthusiastic tourist already out, pursuing their lives like a murder hadn’t happened.

  The doorwoman looked at her in concern. Megan stepped back from them and fell—almost literally, like her legs couldn’t hold her anymore—into one of the deep, wing-armed green chairs in the hotel lobby. Her hands shook as she took out her phone, and it took several tries to get a message mostly typo-free to send to Fionnuala: Liz Darr was poisoned. Poison poisoned, not food poisoned. Cannon’s will be okay. She only saw the autocorrect on Canan after she’d sent it and didn’t know if she should laugh at it or let herself cry to release some of the shock. She waited a minute, looking expectantly at the phone, then slowly realized Fionn wasn’t likely to be up for hours yet.

  In the meantime, there had to be something she could do: find Cíara, talk to some of Martin’s coworkers, something, to help make the whole mess make sense. She should have tried to find the nightclub manager, Noel, the evening before, instead of—

  Instead of what? Megan snorted at herself, a small sound that helped recalibrate her emotions. Instead of taking the call that let Cillian go see his sister and her new baby? Instead of walking Mama Dog and feeding herself? Instead of getting a decent night’s sleep? Maybe if she was still twenty-five, running around all night trying to figure out who’d been where, doing what, would have been reasonable, but at forty, Megan appreciated her sleep. She snorted at herself again and got up, leaving the hotel behind and forming half a plan in her mind as she went.

  She’d barely made it to the corner fifty metres away when a kerfuffle behind her made her turn, just in time to see Simon Darr escorted from the hotel in handcuffs.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Simon looked beyond anguished. His long face was drawn and deeply lined, his expression numb as Detective Bourke guided him into a police car that hadn’t been there when Megan left the hotel. It had to have been around the corner, waiting. Minimizing the fuss, although hardly anyone was around to notice it anyway. Only a handful of gardaí, who, like the car, had appeared while her back was turned, and whose serious expressions would deter even the boldest of curious passers-by.

  Megan, evidently counting herself above and beyond bold, sprinted back toward Bourke and Simon, though Bourke closed Simon in the car before Megan reached them. Simon sagged in the back seat, his gaze fixed somewhere low within the vehicle’s interior, but Bourke looked up with a warning tweak of his head as Megan approached.

  She stopped rather abruptly, suddenly aware she’d been running full tilt at a police force, albeit one that didn’t habitually carry guns like American cops did. She said, “I’m sorry, he’s my friend—” aware, as she often wasn’t any more, of the accent that marked her as an outsider in Ireland. Then, more directly to Paul Bourke, she said, “Detective, what . . . ?”

  Rue pulled at the corner of Bourke’s lips. “Ms. Malone, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  “No, but—” Megan couldn’t think of a weight-bearing argument to follow that up with, and besides, the situation was pretty self-explanatory. “. . . does he have a lawyer?”

  Bourke shrugged, more with the tilt of his head and cant of his mouth than a broad shoulder action. “He’ll be appointed one, but if you know someone daft enough to take him on, you might give them a call.”

  Megan stuttered over the idea, trying to think of anyone off the top of her head. What she said aloud was, “Rabbie will know,” and then, to Bourke’s vaguely querying glance, “My uncle, Robert Lynch. He’s the Sligo harbour master and he kn—”

  Incredulity filled Bourke’s face. “Robert Lynch is your uncle?”

  Despite Simon’s predicament, a burble of laughter escaped Megan’s throat. “As I was saying, ‘and he knows everybody.’ Yeah, he’s actually like my second cousin once removed or something, but generationally, he’s more uncle-aged, so I call him Uncle Ro . . . how do you know him?”

  Bourke’s exhalation went on for a while, as if pushing away a dozen improbable questions. “I worked for him a summer when I was a lad. I’d been sending her spare and she—” He broke off, paused, and finished with, “You’re right. Robert Lynch will know someone. Give him a call, for Dr. Darr’s sake.”

  Megan nodded and backed away a few steps. “Okay. I will. Don’t let him say anything stupid before I find him a lawyer.” Bourke raised his pale eyebrows a little and Megan sighed. “Yeah, okay, it’s your job to . . . I’ll call Uncle Rabbie.” She pulled out her phone while Bourke got in the car and drove away with Simon.

  Her uncle was as likely—more likely—than most people she knew to be up at eight in the morning, as tides and shipping containers waited for no man, but his number went straight to voice mail. Megan made an explosion in her throat while waiting for his message to finish, choked on saliva, and was still coughing when the beep sounded and she had to talk. “Hi, Rabbie. This is Megan Malone, and I know it’s weird for me to call, but I need a lawyer. I mean, I don’t need one, but a friend of mine does. He’s been arrested for murder, I think, and . . . could you recommend someone? Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up, stared at the phone a moment, then went back down the street to borrow the cafe’s Wi-Fi so she could make another call.

  This time she used the phone’s video call software—Niamh would be so proud—and gnawed her lower lip, waiting for the overseas number to pick up, if pick up was the right phrase for a video call. After a few minutes of musical tones, the screen flickered to a close-up of a man’s curious, concerned face. “Megan? Is everything okay?”

  “Raf.” A surge of relief swept Megan and she slid down the cafe’s outer wall, thumping her head lightly against it. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey, girl. What’s wrong? Why are you calling me at midnight?” Rafael Williams got himself situated a little farther away from his computer screen, so she could see more than his brown eyes and broad nose. An entire wall of bookcases made up his background, filled with an eclectic collection of medical texts, cookbooks, and historical fiction. Megan smiled, both at her friend’s familiar face and the books piled everywhere.

  “Because it is eleven at night. It’s eight in the morning here and no one is up, but I knew you’d be awake.”

  Relief and humor swept Raf’s face. “You’re never going to adapt to people getting up late, are you? Okay, but there’s still something going on or you’d have used the chat group, so hang on, let me grab Sarah and you can tell us all. Sarah? Hey, babe? It’s Megan and she’s lost her mind! Come say hi!”

  “I don’t know,” Megan said beneath his shouting. “I might. Except no, I really don’t think I ever will. Look, thanks for taking the call even though it’s stupid late.”

  “Well, you’re right, I am up, although I shouldn’t be, because I’ve got an early shift at the hospital tomorrow. Sar—oh, there you are, hey, babe.” Megan’s oldest friend tipped up his chin to receive a kiss from his wife, who then sat beside him at the computer and waved merrily at Megan.

  Even three years after the fact, Megan still kicked herself over the fact that she’d missed their wedding. It hadn’t been her fault; she’d been overseas on assignment and just hadn’t been able to make it home, but she’d known Rafael
Williams since second grade, and missing his wedding had been the end of her military career in every way that mattered. She’d finished her twenty years, because it would have been stupid to walk away from her retirement after almost nineteen years of service, but the thoughts she’d had of reupping, really becoming career military, really pursuing advancement, all of it—had vanished in the moment her request to go home for a couple of weeks had been denied. She still remembered being so angry tears spilled down her face as she’d told Raf, on the phone, that she might miss his wedding, but the hell would she miss the birth of his first child. She remembered, too, his big laugh, and his admonishment not to rush them: Sarah had a career to think about, and dancers only had a limited number of peak years.

  Those limited years had kept Megan from meeting her even yet, except via online chats. Both times Megan had gotten to San Francisco since retiring, Sarah had been gone, lead ballerina in the always-touring Dancing Shoes Ballet Company. Rafael good-naturedly accused “the two most important women in his life” of avoiding each other, but truthfully, Megan regretted not having met Sarah in person yet. They were gorgeous together, Rafael a complex blend of American melting pot that gave him medium-brown skin and black hair that could be coaxed into waves or tight curls, depending on the humidity, and Sarah the image of her Nigerian mother, down to a crown of braids that Megan admired every time she chatted with the other woman.

  Tonight they were down, a faintly visible cloud at the back of her head as she leaned on Raf’s shoulder and said, “So how have you lost your mind?”

  “She’s calling at midnight, what more do you need?” Rafael asked. Sarah nudged him, smiling, and lifted round eyebrows expectantly at Megan.

  “I haven’t lost my mind, but I lost a client. Like, she was—” Megan hesitated, suddenly aware she was using public Wi-Fi outside of a cafe—because the cafe, of course, wouldn’t be open for another two or three hours—and that the topic wasn’t exactly the most reassuring. On the other hand, almost no one was around, so being circumspect seemed silly. Especially when she’d called friends in California for . . . consolation, or something. “She was murdered,” Megan said more quietly.

  A barrage of holy shit! and oh my God, are you all right? and what happened? swam over her, strangely reassuring. She promised, “I’m okay, I’m okay” a few times, finally calming them enough to relate the story of the past few days and ending with, “And I just watched Simon get arrested and I feel awful.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Raf asked. “What poison was used?” Sarah, beside him, reached for something off screen and bent her head as a phone’s light threw her features into blue shadow.

  “I don’t know,” Megan said to both questions. “Detective Bourke said it took special access and knowledge to administer it, and . . . I know Simon was interviewing at local hospitals. Maybe he had a chance to grab something?”

  Raf grimaced. “On one hand, lethal stuff is obviously watched pretty carefully. On the other, they don’t usually do a nightly check either. Does he seem like the murdering type?”

  “I don’t know, Raf. He seems devastated. He looked shell-shocked when Bourke took him out of the hotel this morning. I don’t know if I should go talk to Liz’s parents or what.”

  “Oh, how awful.” Sarah looked up, holding her phone up to show Megan that she’d pulled up Liz Darr’s website. “Those videos are so—they’re so alive, so they’re very sad. Even the music is sad.”

  “I didn’t even hear the music on the second one. I barely watched it, though. Yeah, I just—why would somebody post them? I know the second one wasn’t queued.”

  “ ‘Queued.’ ” Rafael tried to hide a smile. “How Irish of you.”

  “Oh, pbthtlfft. I don’t—” Megan stopped short, sort of horrified. “Oh my God. I don’t even know how we’d say it in America anymore. Lined up? Ready to post? Oh my God. I’m Irish.”

  “ ‘Queued’ is fine.” Sarah elbowed Rafael lightly and he laughed. “I think you should go talk to her parents, one way or another. Their daughter is dead and their son-in-law has been arrested for it. They could probably use some kind of support.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think you’re right. I guess I just needed somebody to tell me it was okay.”

  “It’s okay to go offer help,” Sarah said with a smile. Megan gave her a fond look in return and Rafael pointed at the screen.

  “Keep us posted, Megalodon. You can’t go getting involved in a murder and then ju—”

  “I’m not involved in a murder!”

  “Okay, all right, in a murder case,” Raf said in a tone that suggested Megan was spoiling all his fun. “Anyway, you can’t leave us hanging. You’ve got to tell us what happens.”

  “I will, although I’ll try not to call in the middle of the night again.”

  “Dude, under the circumstances it seems justified. But you have the power of texting. Use the group chat. And you take care, okay? Hasta la vista.”

  “Hasta la vista, amigo. Adios, Sarah, buenas noches.”

  “Ó di àaró, good night.” Sarah waved and Megan chimed, “Ódàáró,” best as she could, then hung up with a lightness in her heart. Their kids, if they had any, would not only be gorgeous but would speak at least three languages, and Megan made a note—as she always did when she talked to Sarah—to see if there were any Yoruban speakers in Dublin who might give her lessons. She’d be darned if Raf’s kids would be able to plot behind her back by speaking a language she didn’t know. Of course, she was pretty sure Sarah was fluent in French, too, but one bridge at a time.

  It was less than a minute’s walk back to the hotel and she went up to tap uncertainly first on Simon’s, then on the Dempseys’ door. A bleak-faced Peter opened the door and scowled at her for a long moment before recognizing her and stepping aside to let her in. His wife had collected herself a little in the time Megan had been gone, but Megan stopped not far inside the room, twisting her hands together in sudden, acute awareness of her intrusion. “I’m sorry. I thought—if you needed anything, if I could help in some way—I just wanted to say you could call on me. This must be—it must be impossible for you, and I’m so sorry—”

  “You can do something for me.” Mrs. Dempsey’s voice, raw and deep with grief, scraped at Megan’s ears. “I know exactly what you can do. You can prove that my son-in-law is innocent.”

  Megan took the deepest breath she could and promised, “I’m already trying, Mrs. Dempsey,” then made her escape before mentioning that she might have gotten Simon arrested on some kind of drug charges. She almost went back, though, to ask if they knew anything about Simon’s drug or gambling problems, but adding that burden of suspicion onto them when they’d been through so much already seemed horrible. If it came to it, if she had to, she’d ask about it, but if they could be left in ignorance, that seemed like it would be better.

  She stopped outside the cafe again, using their Wi-Fi to call Niamh and going so far as to use the video phone app this time. It rang several times, and just as Meg was about to give up, Niamh’s image came on, eyes enormously brown and sleepy, her black curls springing away from her forehead and the rest of her face hidden by a pillow. “You’re making a vone call,” she said through a yawn. “That means it must be important, and it’s the only reason I’m answering. It’s a quarter to nine, Megan.” She sounded as though Megan had deliberately reached through time and space to call at the most appalling hour humanly possible.

  Megan took a nostril-flaring moment to think of Detective Bourke’s commentary about event-based culture vs. time-based culture, then put on a perky smile. “I have a totally inappropriate question to ask you, based on stereotypes surrounding your chosen profession.”

  “And me still in my nightgown.” Niamh sat up, though, obviously intrigued as she rearranged the pillow and the phone so she could lean on one and look into the other. She even dressed cutely to sleep, wearing a silky, notched-collar top in lemon and mint that Megan figured had matching trousers. N
iamh pushed back her hair, which did no good at all—the twisty curls sprang right back into place—and said, “Talk to me. What illicit cinematic information do you need?”

  “Who do actors buy drugs from?”

  Niamh’s large eyes widened and she laughed. “Mostly their doctors. Why, was Simon Darr supplying Ireland’s finest with their fixes?”

  “I don’t think so. Where do their doctors get them? If it’s illicit, I mean. Assuming you don’t want to be seen hitting the pharmacies every three days.”

  “That’s why we have assistants, darling. But I really don’t know. I’m terribly Puritan,” she said lightly, and then, more seriously, “This business is hard enough. It’s obvious how easy it would be to soften some of its edges with substance abuse. I’ve stayed away from it, and from knowing anything about it, because like dear Oscar Wilde, I can resist anything but temptation. That said . . .” Her gaze went elsewhere in the room, clearly finding a clock. “I could ask a few people in the cast later today. I can’t call at this hour—if I did, the tabloids would be screaming about Niamh O’Sullivan’s desperation for a drug fix by this time tomorrow. But honestly, for the legal stuff, I don’t imagine anybody knows where their doctors get it from, and for the illegal stuff . . . they’re not asking their doctors.”

  “Ask about, I don’t know, sleeping pills, then, maybe? Or pain pills. Or maybe you could introduce me to somebody who’d introduce me to his dealer. I just want to know where the theoretically legal stuff comes from, when it’s sold on the streets.”

  “Yes,” Niamh said dryly, “because no one will think that’s at all suspicious.”

  “Oh, come on. I drive limos for a living. Tell them I’m looking to make a little extra on the side as a courier or something.”