Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

Breanna turned the cap over as if she hadn’t heard Tara. “Almost every Irishman around here owns a cap like this. And woman. I’d say I have one lying around somewhere m’self.” She reached behind the counter again, and this time came up with a plastic bag. She dropped the cap into it, then tried to reach for Hound. He backed away. “Shy one, is he?”

  Was she not going to call Detective Gable? “The cap was found in a patch of grass near Johnny’s cottage. I need to speak with Detective Gable.”

  The woman nodded. “Take the dog outside before he kills me. Humans are the only animals allowed in here. I’ll send the detective sergeant out to you.”

  Outside, Detective Gable showed more interest in Tara’s discovery than the young woman had. His gaze shifted in the direction of Johnny’s cottage. “You’ll show us where he found the cap?”

  Tara shivered. “Of course.”

  Detective Sergeant Gable gazed out at the dark and the rain. “I wish you would have waited until the morning.”

  There was no good reply. She nodded. He radioed in for help, and a few minutes later they were off. As they headed for the cottage, Gable used the opportunity to grill Tara. “What time did you discover Emmet that day?”

  “I headed out around four p.m. to find him. It must have been five or so in the evening.”

  “What time did you arrive in Galway?”

  “My bus from Shannon got in around eleven in the morning.”

  “And you can verify that?”

  “I should still have the bus ticket.”

  “Who else did you see when you arrived?”

  She wasn’t sure why he was going into all of this right now, but it was a welcome distraction from the rain. “I ran into Danny O’Donnell.” She didn’t mention that she’d also covered him in her mother’s ashes. “I saw Rose the fortune-teller.” Should she mention the woman’s ominous words? “And then Grace Quinn and Alanna Kelly at the Inn. That’s all before I went to O’Doole’s. I ran into Ben Kelly there.”

  Detective Sergeant Gable nodded. “I’d say you’re in the clear.”

  “How is that?” She didn’t want to sound like she was arguing about that, but it was obvious he had some information.

  “The medical examiner says he was killed at sunrise. If we can verify you were on a bus, then you’re in the clear.”

  An early morning killer. Johnny Meehan struck her as a morning person, but she wasn’t about to say that out loud. Did that cross Danny off her list? He definitely wasn’t a morning person.

  “Why don’t you take cover in the cottage?” Gable said once they arrived. It sounded like a polite suggestion, but Tara knew it was an order. She was more than happy to let the four guards go hunting around for themselves. She made her way to the cottage, grateful she had the key in her purse and that the cottage had just been professionally cleaned.

  Once inside, she was relieved to see the results of the cleaning crew. The place was immaculate, and smelled like lavender. The cleaning crew surpassed her expectations. She glanced at the wall where her name had been, and the floor where she’d found Emmet. They were pristine. Of course she could still feel it. Every time she glanced at the back wall, ghost-letters spelled out her name in blood.

  Some people believed that negative energy remained in a space long after a traumatic event. She wondered if it was true. She hoped not. The jungle gym her son had fallen from had been taken down, and a Winnie-the-Pooh statue had been erected in his honor. Thomas had loved Winnie-the-Pooh. He would have outgrown that by now.

  She immediately stripped off her wet clothes in the tiny bathroom and found a large shirt and a robe in the back bedroom. Unlike the front room, the bedroom had not been touched and it was a mess. The bed was unmade, clothes were strewn on the floor and piled on the single chair in the corner. The dresser was cluttered with objects: loose change, empty beer bottles, even potato-chip wrappers. Why was he Felix in the kitchen and Oscar in the bedroom? Maybe he always needed one space that was cluttered, like his office in the mill. He would probably hate that she was here, silently judging his mess when she was the trespasser. She left the room as quickly as possible.

  Wow, this was weird, borrowing clothes from an uncle she’d never met, never mind one on the lam and suspected of being a killer, but it seemed a better alternative than walking around in her birthday suit and getting sick. Besides, if he did return he’d have bigger things to worry about than his wardrobe. She hung her wet clothes on the racks in the bathroom, and pulled the robe tight. Kindling and cut firewood were tossed into a large tin bucket near the wood-burning stove. Matchbooks were stacked in a jar on the mantel. She thumbed through them, for no other reason than in the movies, clues were always planted in matchbooks, but she learned nothing other than Ireland had a lot of pubs and Johnny Meehan seemed to pick up a matchbook or two from each one.

  Minutes later Tara had a roaring fire. She entered the kitchen and put the kettle on. She found a mug and a tea bag. For once, she didn’t care what the substance was, she was just looking for a bit of comfort. Rain and wind pounded the windows. The poor guards, out in these conditions. She found a pitcher of milk in the refrigerator and a bowl of sugar next to the sink. She fixed her tea, curled up on the sofa, and stared out the front window. She had the porch light on now, so she would see the guards pass by the front of the cottage when they were done, and if they needed to speak with her, they would know she was inside. For now, she was surprisingly cozy, one might even say at home.

  Chapter 10

  After drinking her mug of tea, gazing into the crackling fire and daydreaming about the ways she’d redecorate, Tara fell into a deep sleep on the sofa. It wasn’t until she felt the sun on her face, shining directly in through the windows, that she realized she’d spent the entire night. She bolted upright, thinking how foolish it was to spend the night where a man had just been murdered, given the murderer was on the loose.

  Too late for that. It was morning, and she was alive. Her sundress was dry, and she quickly slipped it back on and made herself another cup of tea. She took her mug outside and gazed down at the bay. Light bounced over the surface like dancing diamonds. Tara had once seen a photography exhibit in which a woman photographed the same deli in New York City nearly every day for twenty years. The deli stayed the same as the people and seasons changed around it. Tara imagined doing the same with the Galway Bay. Every time she gazed at it, there was something new and exciting about it. It had been here long before her time on earth and would remain long after. She was the visitor on the planet, and for her the thought was a pleasant one. The morning air smelled crisp with just a pinch of salt.

  She had an urge to get to the mill and start planning her day. As she was locking the door to the cottage, she looked down to see something odd resting on the ground. A rose stem lay on the ground, stripped of the rosebud. Just the thorns. Had this been here last night? It had been too dark to see.

  Tara bent down and picked it up. It was deliberately left here, she was sure of it. Was it from Rose? Some kind of bizarre calling card or warning? Or was this place getting to her, sowing seeds of paranoia? Was she in danger of becoming like her uncle? She let the thorny stem lie where she found it and headed off for the mill.

  There was a light breeze blowing across the bay. Tara stopped for coffee and scones, and besides folks offering their polite hellos, nobody bothered her. She wondered if Grace had noticed her absence last night. What did it matter? Tara was a grown woman. She’d slept much better at the cottage than she had at the Bay Inn. Could she move into the cottage? Should she? She had no idea how long she was going to be here and it would be nice to save the money.

  As she was putting the key to the mill into the lock, she thought of the key from the inn, room 301, and how there had been a splotch of dark red at the base. She’d made a mental joke of it looking like dried blood—but what if it was? Who had stayed in that room last? Should she tell the police, or was she being completely ridiculous?

  Grace Q
uinn would have a fit if Tara turned in one of her keys as evidence. That was a woman you did not want to cross. But Tara had to tell them—didn’t she? She certainly didn’t want to be accused of holding back evidence. Then again, who knows how long ago it happened?

  “Hello?”

  Tara whirled around to find an older woman in a tailored navy suit, clutching a white designer bag and blinking fake lashes. She had gray hair in a stylish bob—the kind some young girls now sported for fashion. It looked striking on this woman, who had light blue eyes like Tara, but that’s where the resemblance ended; everything else about her screamed money.

  “Hello,” Tara said with a cautious smile. “Have you come to have a look around?” She wasn’t sure how common drop-ins were, but she wasn’t against letting in a potential buyer, even if it was a tad early.

  The woman placed her hand over her heart as if the very thought was appalling. “I’ve come to have a look, alright. A look at where my husband wasted all his money. A look at the type of business a murderer owns.”

  This was Emmet’s widow standing before her. Had the guards told her Johnny was the murderer, or was she making assumptions like everyone else? “Mrs. Walsh,” Tara said, keeping her voice measured, “I don’t think my uncle murdered your husband. But I hope to prove that, and regardless, I am very, very sorry for your loss.”

  “Your uncle?” she said, her eyes blinking faster. “You sound American.”

  “My mother moved to New York before I was born,” Tara recited. She felt as if her nationality was a handicap she constantly had to explain.

  “I was hoping they had caught him by now.” Emmet’s wife looked around, as if Johnny might be hiding, waiting to ambush her.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  She shook her head. “No. I would not.”

  Tara nodded. The woman turned and started to head off. “If you wish to sell back any of the items Emmet purchased, we’d be happy to take a look.” The minute it came out of her mouth Tara prayed the woman wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

  Her eyes flicked over Tara as if trying to ascertain her worth. “Will you pay the purchase price?”

  “If I can find the records, then yes, of course.” Was that bad business? She was glad Danny wasn’t around to chide her. She wouldn’t mind having a look around this castle that belonged now to the widow.

  “I have no use for junk,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Anytime,” Tara said. Her instinct was to defend the salvage mill, insist that the items were valuable, not junk. But the woman was grieving and it wasn’t Tara’s place to start an argument. A thought occurred to her. “May I ask . . . did you find a typewriter in your husband’s home?”

  Mrs. Walsh squinted. “Are you joking me? He loved technology. Owned every gadget there ever was. He didn’t have a typewriter. He used laptops, and iPads, and smartphones.”

  “Maybe he kept one around for decoration.”

  “I’ve been through every square inch. He collected a lot of odd things. Typewriters weren’t one of them. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone left a typewritten note on the door a while back. I wondered if it might be him.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Thank you. That’s helpful.”

  Mrs. Walsh frowned as if helpful were the last thing she wanted to be. “When they find your uncle, he’d better be dead. Or I’ll make him wish he were.” She strode away, heels tottering on the rough terrain, backside swaying, handbag thumping against her hip.

  * * *

  After her encounter with Emmet’s wife, Tara didn’t feel like conducting any more business. If she believed Mrs. Walsh, as she was inclined to, then Emmet didn’t write that note. Who did? And where did it go? With everything else going on, she forgot to ask Sergeant Gable if the younger guard found it and bagged it as possible evidence. She bought her second scone of the day and found herself strolling into town, and when she realized she was near the Bay Inn she decided it couldn’t hurt to pop in and maybe, somehow, get another look at the key to room 301 and check on the red smudge. The check-in desk was unstaffed. Tara hurried up to her room and threw her belongings into her bag. She was grateful she’d packed light. She locked the door, then hurried down to the check-in desk. She was startled to see Grace at the bottom of the steps as if she was waiting for her.

  “You didn’t come home last night.” It sounded like an accusation, as if Tara were a child, and Grace the stern headmaster.

  Tara wanted to tell her she was a grown woman and she didn’t have to answer to her, but Grace was an elderly Irish woman and it just wasn’t in Tara’s nature to do that. “I had to help the guards.”

  “Oh?” Grace’s face blossomed. “What’s the story?”

  “I can’t say.” She didn’t know whether she could or not, but she wasn’t going to take the chance.

  Grace’s gaze fell to Tara’s suitcase. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes. I’m going to stay at the cottage.”

  “What cottage?”

  “Johnny’s.”

  Grace gasped. “It’s a crime scene.”

  “The guards are finished with it and a professional cleanup crew has already come through. Danny will eventually replace the floors and I’m thinking of redecorating it. It will be as good as new.” Except—you know—there’s possibly traumatic energy hovering around and maybe Emmet Walsh’s ghost . . .

  Grace shook her head and took out her rosary. Her lips started to move in a silent prayer.

  “I’ll need the key back,” Grace said, going behind the check-in desk.

  “Right.” Tara set her room key on the desk. “Speaking of keys . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I see the room key for 301?”

  Grace raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

  “There’s blood on the key.”

  “There most certainly is not.”

  “I noticed it when I first checked in. Remember you almost gave me room 301?”

  Grace frowned, then turned to the cubbyholes. She removed the key to 301 and just stared at it. Tara could tell from her expression that the red stain was still there.

  Tara leaned in. “I think we should look up who stayed in room 301 recently. What if they had something to do with the murder?”

  Grace’s head snapped up. “You’re my first guest in ages. This is nonsense.”

  Tara sighed. “Then why not tell the guards, let them figure out if it’s blood and whose blood, and then we’ll know for sure.”

  “Know what for sure?”

  “If the blood on that key has anything to do with the murder.”

  “For all I know—you could be the killer.”

  Was that what she really thought? Why was she this defensive over the key? “Then you’ll be relieved to know the guards have cleared me of the murder.”

  Grace didn’t look convinced. “Why do you think that?”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near the cottage when Emmet was murdered. I hadn’t even arrived yet.”

  Grace pursed her lips. “What time would that be?”

  “You’ll have to ask Detective Sergeant Gable.” She wasn’t going to leak information about the murder like the rest of the folks here. “Was anyone working the desk that morning?”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Myself and Alanna.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You said before me you hadn’t had a guest in ages. So why would the two of you be behind the desk bright and early?” Is Grace lying? Giving both herself and Alanna an alibi? After all, Alanna had told her she’d been at cookery school. Tara stepped forward. “Are you sure Alanna was here?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “That’s very strange.”

  Grace paled. “What?”

  “Alanna said she was in cookery school that morning.”

  Grace morphed into a child who had been caught red-handed. She began to stroke her left hand wit
h her right. “Morning. Yes. You’re right. I must have forgotten. She came to me after school. In the afternoon.”

  “Yes. I know. I was here. But you just said—very specifically—that you and Alanna were here bright and early, standing at this desk.”

  “And I corrected my mistake. I’m old. It’s not easy.” Like an award-winning actress she managed to paint a pitiful picture. Her shoulders drooped, as if each word she uttered was causing her to shrink.

  “I just thought—maybe you were telling the truth, and Alanna was lying.” Or maybe you’re both lying. But why?

  “Why are you asking questions?” Grace said. “Why don’t you go do touristy things? Take a ferry to the Aran Islands. Ride the Ferris wheel at Salthill.”

  “I can’t,” Tara said. “I’m afraid of heights.” Thomas must have felt as if he were up so high.

  “Off with you then,” Grace said. She used her hand to shoo her away.

  Tara felt as if she’d been slapped. “You’ll call the guards about the key?”

  “I most certainly will not.”

  “I just want to find my uncle.”

  “I can’t help you.” Grace turned away and avoided eye contact.

  “Who’s the plumber you called to fix the leak?”

  “Come again?” She focused on a spot on the counter as if hypnotized by it.

  “Was there even a leak?”

  “I believe you’re leaking right now.”

  Grace didn’t know a thing about the leak. Either her memory was giving her problems or she was covering for Alanna.

  “I’m just trying to find my uncle,” Tara said again, speaking softly, hoping to appeal to her sympathies.

  “Be careful what you wish for.” Grace’s eyes remained hard. Tara nodded, and turned away.

  * * *

  After depositing her belongings in the cottage and having a spot of lunch, Tara made her way back to Rose’s caravan. The door was closed. Tara wanted to knock, but then thought better of it. If Rose was telling some poor soul his or her fortune, it wouldn’t help their mojo if she interrupted. Once she was back to the mill she decided to hop on the rusty red bicycle and go to Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre. Maybe Carrig Murray would be friendly and helpful. He could tell Tara what item he had asked Irish Revivals to find for the theatre, and whether or not he received it.