It took the men a while, but they finally relaxed around her. One pint turned into three. She kept trying to pay for rounds, which was apparently how it worked here, but someone always beat her to it. She had pints lined up, more than she could drink. She begged the bartender to stop, and insisted she pay for a round for the others. He finally got the message and she felt some relief when he accepted her money.
Tara decided it was now or never. “I was hoping to find Ben Kelly here.”
“He’s probably at his ring,” the bartender said. “Will you be needing another napkin, will you?”
At first she had no idea why the bartender was asking that, but then she realized he was offering to draw her another map. “Yes, please.” She watched as he sketched. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Paul, luv.”
“Tara. Nice to meet you.”
He slid the napkin over to her. The Ring of Kelly. Cute. A play on the Ring of Kerry—situated on the southeast coast of Ireland, another place she hoped to visit one day. The address of Ben Kelly’s boxing ring wasn’t familiar to her, but the map was clear.
Paul gestured to the napkin. “Do you have a car, luv?”
“No,” she said.
“Do you want me to call you a joe maxi?”
“What?”
He winked. “Sorry. A taxi cab.”
“Yes, please.”
He nodded and dialed. “One will be here in about twenty minutes. Do you fancy another pint?”
“No, thank you. But buy the lads a round on me.” She handed over payment. She wondered how many pints until they stopped gossiping about her. Bottomless was probably the answer. She thanked him, hopped off her stool, and headed outside to wait for her joe maxi.
* * *
He drove like he just got his license the day before, and he might have, given his youthful glow. He seemed to know every dip in the road, but instead of avoiding them he was accelerating, and by the third time the taxi bounced and she almost hit her head, she was forced to yell at him to slow down. He did, but not without a sunglasses-stare through the rearview mirror. “I’m in no hurry,” Tara said as cheerfully as she could. “I’d rather live.” Instead of answering, he turned the music on, a loud, thumping beat.
They were outside the city and she’d been dizzied by at least three roundabouts, but finally he was pulling up at a storefront. On one side of the building there were cows grazing, and on the other side of the building there were cows grazing. Tara couldn’t see around the back, but she had a feeling she’d find cows grazing. The squat cement building was half the size of the mill. She was starting to see why Ben Kelly wanted a new location. THE RING OF KELLY sign flashed neon green.
The taxi driver screeched to a halt and the aspiring race-car driver immediately lit a cigarette. His head bobbed to the pounding noise torturing her from the stereo. She sighed, paid him, and nearly hurled herself out of the car. He screeched away, leaving behind a cloud of dust.
It was only then that she realized the parking lot was devoid of cars, and the windows were shuttered and dark. A rusty red bicycle leaned against the building like it just couldn’t keep going. She knew how it felt. Maybe she should have listened to Danny. Or the men in the pub. Or the guards. Maybe she should just start listening to everyone. Being stubborn was not always an admirable trait.
Maybe she’d walk back. No. She’d never be able to figure out how to get there on foot. For all she knew, the cheeky driver had gone around the same roundabout each time. The skies were gray and hanging low. Just as she was about to call for another taxi, she heard a soft whup-whup-whup from inside the ring. She tried the door. It swung open.
The stench of sweat and gym socks mixed with strong cleaning fluid hit her as she entered. A large ring took up most of the space, and a few punching bags hung from the ceiling, dropped low enough to hit. Alanna was at one of the punching bags, laying into it as if it were her mortal enemy. Tara wasn’t surprised to see she was good. Despite her father’s objections, she’d obviously been training right alongside all the men. Step, step, punch, punch, punch. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Tara immediately wanted to join in. Hitting something would feel extremely good. The door slammed shut behind her. Alanna stopped. “What are you doing here?” So much for pleasantries.
“I was hoping to find your father in,” Tara said. She kept her voice bright.
“You haven’t.” She resumed punching.
“Sorry. I haven’t . . . what?”
“Found him in,” Alanna said without missing a step or a punch.
Tara reached in her purse and grabbed her small notepad and pen. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve knocked on the door to your flat several times,” Tara said.
“Why?” Alanna asked.
“Someone spray-painted the side of the mill.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Did you hear me knocking on your door?”
Alanna finally stopped bouncing and punching. Sweat dripped down her face. She quickly dabbed at it with a small towel draped around her neck. “I’ve been staying with my da.”
“So you haven’t been to the mill in a few days?”
“Given that a murderer is running loose, he doesn’t want me there.”
“Then he’ll be happy to know I’m having a security system installed. I will need to get into your flat. Can you give me a key—or do you know where Johnny kept a key?”
Alanna stopped moving. “Why do you need to get in my flat?”
“In case the security team needs access.”
“You intend on spying on me in my own home, like?”
Tara shook her head. “No, no. But they might need access for wiring and such.” Tara felt a bit of heat rush to her cheeks. It was true that she would love to get a look at the flat. But she didn’t intend to use the key to break in. Do I?
“Tell me when they’re coming. I’ll let them in myself.”
Tara nodded, for she didn’t have much ground to argue with that. “Danny is handling it, you can speak with him.”
“Grand. Anything else?” She put a boxing glove to her hip.
“I heard your father was keen to buy the mill. Move this establishment.” Tara looked around. It was kind of small for a boxing ring.
“The mill would be a perfect location. Johnny was getting too old anyway. He didn’t even like the job anymore. Anyone could see it.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to Johnny?”
Alanna ripped off the gloves and began stretching. “What’s it to you?”
Tara sighed and stared at her handwritten note to Ben Kelly. Where was she supposed to put it? To her left was a closed door. The word OFFICE was written on a piece of paper that had been tacked to the door. She didn’t bring tape. Should she just slip it under the door? Give it to Alanna? Had Alanna driven here? Tara stood with her note, not sure what to do. “Any chance you’re headed back to the mill?” she said finally.
“No,” Alanna said through a stretch. “But if you need some wheels, the red bike out front is looking for a home.”
“Oh,” Tara said. The bike looked as if it had spontaneously retired, but as long as it still worked it would be safer than another speedy taxi driver mad to kill her. “Thanks.”
“Not a bother.”
“Where can I leave this note for your father?”
“On his door.”
“I don’t have tape.”
“Slip it under.”
Tara went to the door. Thick carpet prevented the note from going under. She tried resting it on top of the knob. It slid off. She dug in her purse. Found a stick of gum left over from the flight. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She chewed the gum, stuck it on the back of the letter, and pressed it to the door.
“You don’t know anything about the graffiti on the side of the mill?” Tara called out.
“Hearing or your head?” Alanna said.
“What?”
>
“I already gave you me answer, so I’m wondering what your problem is. Is it your hearing or your head?”
As Tara fumed and tried to think of a good retort, a smirk emerged on Alanna’s face and she pummeled the bag even harder. The door opened and a group of women filed in wearing long black robes and carrying swords. Alanna barely glanced at them. They soon spread out all over the small space, paired up, and began fencing drills. “What’s this?” Tara smiled so they’d know it was a friendly question.
“They’re with the experimental theatre,” Alanna said. “Da is letting them train here. It would be so much nicer if we had the room.” She stopped beating the bag to look into Tara’s eyes, making sure she got her point across. She was obviously supporting her father in his quest to take over the property. Tara suddenly wished she could throw her out on her ear.
“Come to my office tomorrow morning,” Tara said.
Alanna’s nostrils flared as she breathed heavily. “What?”
“I would like to see you in my office at the mill in the morning.”
“Your office?” The scorn in her voice was unmistakable.
“For now. Until we find my uncle. I’m running the business.”
“I have cookery school.”
“What time?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it starts at half six.”
Now that was early. “What time can you meet me then?”
“What’s this about?”
“Your safety, for one.”
Alanna held up her gloves. “I can take care of myself.”
“When can you meet?”
“I finish class at half three tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you in my office at—six p.m.?”
“I suppose.” Alanna threw her boxing gloves into a bin. Tara watched the women fence for several minutes before she realized what was puzzling her about the actors. These were all women—there were no men. Was that Carrig’s experimental angle on Hamlet? She was looking forward to meeting this man. She went outside and was about to call another cab when she remembered the bike. She stood it up and squeezed the tires, then rolled it forward and back and tested the brakes. Only when she was convinced it wasn’t a death trap did she hop on and ride off. At least by now she had her bearings and as long as she could see the bay, she knew she was headed in the right direction. This visit had been a waste. Alanna hadn’t told her anything new. Tara would’ve had better luck getting the cows to talk.
* * *
When Tara arrived at the mill to find another note tacked to the door, she hesitated, her mind flashing back to that first threatening note. She opened it, relieved to see handwriting as opposed to typing.
The cottage has been cleaned. I’ll start on the floors as soon as you let me know the material. Invoice is on Johnny’s desk. Security firm coming in a few days to install cameras. Any idea why your name was written on his wall? Danny
Why on earth were so many details of the crime scene leaking out? The cleaning crew must have told Danny about her name splotched on the wall. At least the cottage had been cleaned, and soon they would have security at the mill. She would go online and look at flooring. The old floors had been wood—but nothing fancy. She would stick with wood—maybe something dark like chestnut. With a small space you could afford to splurge a little. And when Johnny returned, she’d share her design plans, and if he approved, it would be one less thing he’d have to deal with. Unless of course he was guilty, and he wouldn’t be seeing the inside of his cottage for a long time.
Tara left a voicemail for Danny, informing him that she liked dark wood, like chestnut, for the floor, and mentioned she’d need to talk to him about accessing Johnny’s finances. Danny had said Johnny wasn’t a check-writer, so he must get cash from his bank. Or maybe he was the type to hide it under his mattress—
Was anything missing from Johnny’s cottage? Maybe Emmet had disturbed a burglary in progress. Hard to say when the one person who could answer that question for sure was missing . . .
Hound was pacing in front of the office door. She got the feeling he missed Johnny. Or was worried about him. It was heartbreaking. He’d been fed, so she let him outside. But instead of taking off, he took a few steps, and then looked back. Apparently, she was now part of his routine. “You’re right. A walk is just what I need.” The morning mist had turned into a gentle rain, so she donned a baseball cap and rain jacket she found in a nearby closet, along with rubber boots, and then she locked up before following Hound. The dog immediately trotted in the direction of Johnny’s cottage, down the cobblestone path along the bay, and Tara followed. Fishermen were still out, their little boats rocking in the rain. Hound kept a good clip, but constantly swiveled his head back to make sure she was following. By the time she reached the base of Johnny’s hill, she was having second thoughts.
The rain lashed out like sharp spikes, chilling her to the bone. Hound was waiting at the top of the hill, ears back and tail tucked. Tara pushed on, her feet slipping in her oversized boots, making the slog all the more cumbersome. By the time she reached the top, the dog was out of sight.
“Hound?” she called out once, then twice. After a third time, she saw Hound move toward her, a blur of wet fur. She wished she’d brought a flashlight; it was difficult to see. Hound stopped a few feet from her and whined. “Now what?”
He turned and headed to the back of the cottage. She followed. On the other side of the hill, a patch of grass was visible, surrounded by a collection of large stones. Hound bounded for it as if the stones were alive and had just whistled for him.
Before she could follow him, Hound came racing back, a piece of dark fabric clenched in his mouth. Tara bent down and coaxed him closer. When she tried to reach for it, Hound growled and skittered away. The object appeared to be a man’s cap. Did it belong to Johnny? That would explain why the dog didn’t want to let it go. He missed his master. Tara felt a pang of sorrow for the poor horse-dog.
She hurried over to the spot marked by the stones. She had to see if there was anything else to find. It was so dark. She took out her phone, grateful for the flashlight app. Near the largest stone, she found evidence of a disturbance, dirt flung, leaves parted. The cap had probably been lying right there. She continued a little farther on, just to make sure there wasn’t another dead body. Grass, and dirt, and stones. There was nothing more to see. She hurried away with Hound at her heels, cap clenched in his mouth.
* * *
She and Hound stood in front of the Mill Street Garda Station, a stone building with a blue door and ornate iron sign hanging above. They were dripping wet, probably looking like they’d been washed up from the bay and spit out onto the rocky beach. Hound had refused to give up the cap, and it took considerable coaxing to get him to come inside the station. She approached a long counter, dripping water as she went, and asked for Detective Sergeant Gable. The woman behind the counter was carrying extra weight but she had a beautiful, friendly face, and a cute brunette bob. A bag of potato chips and a can of Coke sat next to her.
“No dogs,” the woman said, sticking a chip in her mouth and flicking a look to Hound. She leaned over the counter and smiled. “Even cuties like you,” she crooned. Hound wagged his tail.
“This is my uncle’s dog,” Tara said.
“No,” the woman said, plucking a chip from the bag and pointing it at Hound before plopping it into her mouth. “That’s Johnny Meehan’s dog.”
“Correct.” The woman tilted her head. “And he found this.” Tara pointed to the cap. I haven’t touched it. It was found near the crime scene.”
The young clerk put on gloves, came around the counter, and knelt by the dog. She tried to remove the cap from Hound’s mouth. He pulled back, ready to engage in a game of tug-of-war. It was clear he intended on being the winner. The girl sighed and stood up.
“I have cats,” she said. “They’re easier.”
“Maybe he’d give it up for one of your chips,” Tara said.<
br />
“I don’t have chips.”
Tara pointed at the bag of potato chips.
“Oh. My crisps. Are you mental? This is my supper. You’d have to pry them out of me dead hands.”
Tara laughed and the woman winked. “Will you ring Detective Gable, let him know I’m here?” Tara asked.
The clerk smiled as if letting Tara in on a secret. “You’re American.”
Tara waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t. “Yes.”
“And you say you’re Johnny Meehan’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“You live in New York?” Her eyes radiated excitement. Tara understood the feeling. Cities like Galway and New York got under your skin, worked their magic on you.
“I do.”
She gave a wistful sigh. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York.”
“You should. It’s a great city. Although it’s not too shabby around here either.”
“Galway is the best city in all of Ireland. At least we t’ink so.” She laughed. “I loved Irish Revivals. I bought me mam a stained-glass window for her birthday.”
“That’s nice.” Tara suddenly realized that this woman was being friendly. “I’m Tara Meehan.”
“Breanna Cunningham,” she said, beaming. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well. I’m glad you like the salvage mill. I intend to keep it going.”
“Aye. It’s lovely. Took me ages to find what I wanted though, like rooting through a jungle.” She looked down at Hound, still gripping the cap in his teeth. She reached around the counter and grabbed a potato chip. She held it out in front of her. “Okay, luv. I suppose one wouldn’t kill either of us. Crisp for your cap.”
Hound dropped it immediately and snapped up the chip. The guard was quick. She had the cap in her gloved hand before he had even swallowed. She brought the cap closer, then shrugged as she looked at it. “It’s not a crime to find a cap.”
“I’m not asking you to arrest the dog.”
Murder in Galway Page 9