* * *
Nun’s Island did not look like an island. The Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre, a stone building with a fire-engine-red door, was set behind iron gates, also painted red. Between the gates and the front door, a patch of grass lay, flanked by a low stone wall. Hooded figures were fencing on the grass. In the middle of them reigned a tall, heavyset man dressed in a black suit with a red bow tie. He shouted encouragement as the women sparred.
“Hello?”
His head snapped up. The women kept fencing. “Oh. Hello,” he said in a booming voice. He followed it with a big smile, then immediately came to the stone wall to greet her. He extended his hand well before he reached her. “Carrig Murray, director.”
“Tara Meehan . . . tourist.” His grip was strong yet welcoming.
“Meehan?” he said. She saw the light dawn in his eyes.
“Johnny Meehan is my uncle.”
“Well, well.” He glanced at the actors. “Carry on. Or have a break. Practice your iambic pentameter. Whatever you’d like.” He hopped over the stone wall, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. “Why don’t we go inside the theatre. They’re allowing us use of it for this very special production.”
“Wonderful.”
They rounded to the front of the theatre and passed through the red iron gates. Soon they were in the simple yet functional theatre. The seats were the typical folding type on an incline, but instead of red they were blue. As a designer, Tara would have liked the seats to match the door and the gates, but she wasn’t here for work. She sat in an aisle seat and Carrig took the one on the aisle across from her.
He clasped his hands. “I’ve heard it’s been quite a trying visit for you. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He shook his head. “I’ve known Johnny Meehan a long time. I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Everyone else thinks it’s possible.”
“What do you think?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve never met him.”
Carrig nodded. “He wasn’t a perfect man. Who is?” He threw his hands up in the air. “As a man of the theatre, I know the complexities we all hide inside. No man is a total saint, nor a total sinner. But a murderer? There’s not a chance.” He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on top of his knees. He looked the part of a giant stuffed in a child’s seat.
“I’m so relieved you think he’s innocent,” Tara said.
“Well, I suppose there’s a chance. It’s always the one you least suspect, isn’t it? I would have never suspected him. It’s quite confounding. In my line of work, I have become an excellent judge of character. A connoisseur of human nature, if you will. Johnny Meehan—a murderer? I just don’t see it. Although it’s always good to go against typecasting. Now that I think of it—he could very well be our killer.” A light shone in his eyes and for a second it was as if he’d forgotten Tara was even there. “How can I help?”
“I found a note my uncle scribbled on one of his to-do lists. Your name is mentioned. Danny thought maybe my uncle was trying to find a particular item for your theatre?”
He nodded. Then stood. “Follow me.” He led her out of the theatre and to the grounds in the back. Here she could see the remnants of an old church.
“The order of the Poor Clare nuns,” he said. “Two are buried there.”
“I’ve heard a bit about them.”
They walked past the remains of the church. In a small clearing near it was a stone slab. The face of a man was carved into it. “Isn’t it remarkable?” Carrig said.
Tara didn’t know what to say. “It’s quirky.”
“It’s from the fifteenth century.”
“Wow.”
Carrig grinned. “And there’s a female slab just like this.”
“Ah.” She knew where he was going. “And you asked Johnny to find it for you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A friend of mine would love the female mate to this granite slab. In exchange, he was going to do a swap with me. I did ask Johnny to keep his eyes and ears open.” He nodded to the stone slab. “About a week ago he called me and said he had a lead. I was so excited. And then . . . well . . . you know yourself. I don’t suppose you know anything about it?”
“No,” Tara said. “I’ll check the warehouse for you.” This makes three missing items. What was going on? Although this time Johnny didn’t say he had the item, he said he had a lead on the item. This was all so frustrating. Carrig glanced at the actors, huddled in the yard. “I know you’re busy,” Tara said. “Thank you for your time. I’ll keep an eye out for the slab.”
“I doubt I’ve been much help.” Carrig began to walk her back to the gate. On the wall next to it, a theatrical poster hung by the door. HAMLET screamed across the top in red. Below it was a hooded figure with just the eyes peering out. WITH A TWIST was written in red below. Carrig noticed her reading it.
“You should come. The twist will blow you away.”
“In addition to the all-female cast?”
Carrig’s face fell. “Well. I guess the twist will only blow some folks away.”
“Sorry. I noticed them rehearsing in the Ring of Kelly and now here. Your secret is safe with me.”
“A female Hamlet,” he said, as if she were still in the dark.
“Wonderful.” He stared at her as if he were still not pleased with her reaction. She mustered up some enthusiasm. “ ‘To be or not to be,’ ” she said.
“Exactly. Exactly.” He grinned. “To be or not to be a woman.”
“Ah,” Tara said. “Plenty of drama.”
“Correct! Estrogen will be the undercurrent that will run through the entire play, making it sing electric!”
Tara’s jaw was getting sore from smiling, not to mention her neck from nodding. “What was the item you wanted to swap for the stone slab?”
Carrig stared into the distance as if the object had just materialized over the River Corrib. “A rare theatre light. An enormous globe held up by ornate wrought iron. I acquired it ages ago but was forced to sell it when times were lean. I sold it to a friend of mine on the condition that I would buy it back some day—with interest, of course. He knew it was temporary. It seems he’s grown fond of it. Refuses to give it back. Or . . . he’s not really much of a friend.”
Tara took notes. “What’s his name?”
“I’m afraid I don’t give out private information about my friends. That would be a sure way to lose them.”
“I’m just wondering if Johnny paid him a visit.”
“Perhaps the guards will figure it out.”
Her uncle had written Inis Mór in his notebook. Is that where this friend lived? Did his name start with a D? “Did you ask your friend if Johnny came to see him?”
“No.” He gestured to the actors, who upon seeing him had resumed their fencing practice. Every once in a while a grunt rang out as they parried, and sparred, and thrusted, or whatever the fencing lingo was. “I’ve been very busy.”
“When did Johnny come to see you?”
“I’d have to check my calendar. But it was over a month ago.”
“Do you know what this D might stand for?” Tara held out her notes. Carrig squinted, then patted his pockets.
“I don’t have my glasses. I’m afraid without them I have blindness of bat.” He smiled at his turn of phrase.
“It says Inis Mór, but then he wrote the letter D.”
“Perhaps it’s a G.”
Does his friend’s name start with a G? “You think it’s a G?”
His eyes darted around. “I have no idea.”
Now that he knew his play was no longer the focus of her visit, he was starting to tire of her. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“How did my uncle seem?”
“Gra
nd.” Carrig’s eyes darted away from her.
Was he avoiding her gaze? Maybe Johnny wasn’t grand, but for some reason Carrig didn’t want to admit it. “Was he acting—I don’t know—paranoid, or angry?”
Carrig tugged at his bow tie as if it was cutting off his oxygen. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow. “No.” A pained smile broke over his face. For a connoisseur of human behavior, he wasn’t a very good liar.
She waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t. “I’m just trying to find out what really happened.”
Carrig Murray smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d be happy to comp you a seat for our production. Unless you’re going home soon?”
The last bit sounded hopeful. She was never going to be wanted around here. Especially if she continued to go around interrogating everyone. But how else was she supposed to find her uncle? “I’ll have to see.”
“Well, if you’re here for opening night, do let me know what you think.” He gave her a little bow, and headed back through the iron gates. She was halfway down the path when she realized she’d left her purse inside the theatre, on the floor near her seat. She hurried back in. As she entered and headed for the seat, she could hear Carrig’s voice, somewhere backstage, raised in anger.
“What do you think I told her? Nothing, George. Absolutely nothing. Exactly what you’re going to tell her if she comes to see you.” Tara froze. He had to be talking about her.
Was George the mysterious friend? Perhaps it’s a G. Well, that was one mystery solved. And he was calling him literally the second she left. Why?
She was debating what to do when suddenly he bolted onstage, and then stopped when he spotted her. His face was scarlet. He looked at her, then his phone. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“No. No. I left my purse.” Tara pointed at it, like an idiot.
He held up his phone. “That wasn’t about you. It was a personal matter.”
Tara snatched her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I didn’t hear a thing.” She turned to go.
“You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people.”
“I told you. I was getting my purse.”
“This is a welcoming place,” he said. “Until it’s not.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m beginning to realize that.” She let door slam behind her.
Chapter 11
The fishing trawler bobbed out in the water, and whenever Danny cast his line, the boat tipped and Tara thought for sure she was going to be thrown overboard. Each time, she screamed and he laughed. She’d already read that Aran jumpers—or sweaters, as she called them—used to be stitched with the colors and patterns of specific families, and that was so they could identify fishermen’s bodies when they died at sea. Maybe coming out here hadn’t been such a great idea.
She had found Danny at the dock, preparing to go out, when she started badgering him with questions about Carrig. He’d insisted she tag along. Every time she tried to talk, he shushed her. “This is fishing. Fishing is like meditation. There’s no jibber-jabber.” Finally, he forced her to take a fishing rod and told her he’d only answer her questions if she caught a fish. Ridiculous.
Now here she was, in this rickety little boat, willing herself to catch a fish. She had to admit, the rocking, and the silence, and the waiting, were somewhat calming. Danny had caught three fish already, silver floppy things that thrashed in the bottom of the boat until he tossed them in the cooler resting in the middle and shut the lid.
“Salmon,” Danny said with delight. “This will be grand for supper.”
Tara winced.
Danny gave her a side glance. “You’re a sensitive one.”
“It’s hard to watch anything die,” she said. If only everyone in this city felt the same.
“It’s easier when they’re on your plate with a pint of Guinness.” He winked.
“I’m sure it is.”
“You’ll see, tonight.” She raised her eyebrow. He nodded to the cooler. “As I said. This is supper.”
“Are you really not going to answer my questions until I catch a fish?” He’d already told her he had no idea who this George might be. After that he laid down the no-talking-until-she-caught-a-fish rule. She was having a hard time playing by it.
He put his finger to his lips. She laughed, then gazed back out at the water. “Thatta girl,” she heard him say. A warmth flooded through her. Ladies’ man. She would have to watch herself.
She was nearly falling asleep when she felt a tug on her line. She jolted, and pulled on the rod. “Something’s there.”
“Easy now.” Suddenly he was behind her, his arms around her, holding on to the rod with her. “Give it a tug.” She tugged. “Reel him in.” She started to rotate the crank. Danny fell back. “That’s it. Keep going.”
This was kind of exciting. The closer it got, the harder it was to reel in. Her tongue was hanging out the corner of her mouth as she turned the handle, her breath labored. “Come on, little fish,” she said.
“I think it’s a big ’un,” Danny said.
The line jerked, nearly knocking Tara over. She thrashed, refusing to let go, and put all her strength into reeling it in. Finally, she could see its head cresting out of the water, the sun bouncing off its shiny gills making it look like it was showered in glitter.
“That’s one good-looking salmon,” Danny said. Tara had an urge to throw it back, save its life. But then she imagined it on her plate, a pint of Guinness next to it, along with a heap of potatoes. When would she ever get the chance to catch another one like it?
“It is big, isn’t it?” Tara said. Danny whooped and high-fived her.
A nearby fisherman heard their excitement. He rowed close enough to reveal a gap between his teeth.
“Looks like you had better luck than me.” He stared longingly at their cooler.
“No catches?” Danny asked.
“I didn’t say dat.” The man reached into the boat and hauled something up. “Tell me. What am I going to do with this?” His catch sat in the palm of his hand. It was a cast-iron animal head. The body was missing. Green patina was visible around the ears. Its snout was open in laughter. The fisherman laughed. “Not every day you catch a little piggy, now is it?”
* * *
Danny called the guards, and by the time he’d finished mooring and securing the boat, Detective Sergeant Gable was waiting onshore with an evidence bag.
“Do you think it’s the murder weapon?” Danny asked.
“I think there must be a reason someone rowed out to sea and tossed it in,” Detective Gable said. “We’ll send a team in to search for the rest of it.” He gazed out at the bay. Had Johnny escaped by boat?
“Did Johnny own a boat?” Tara wondered out loud.
Danny and Detective Gable both snapped to attention. She was happy for a moment that she’d thought of something they hadn’t.
Detective Gable looked at Danny. “Do you know where he kept it?”
Danny nodded and started down the dock. “This way.” They followed him past ten slips with boats snugged into them, where he stood looking at the only empty space on the dock.
“It’s gone.” Detective Sergeant Gable was the first to state the obvious.
“It is indeed,” Danny said. The two of them lifted their faces to the bay. Tara could see what they were imagining. Johnny Meehan hitting Emmet over the head with the cast-iron pig. Fleeing down to his boat. Rowing the murder weapon out to sea, and tossing it in. And then what? Did he keep going? Or were he and his little boat out there somewhere, lost, or worse—buried at sea?
* * *
Danny was right about one thing. There was nothing like fresh-caught salmon and a good pint of Guinness. He had prepared the entire meal at his place, which also included potatoes and veg, but instead of inviting her over, he brought it all over to the cottage. Tara set up the tiny kitchen table, already thinking if she had her way she would replace it with something new—maybe a built-
in breakfast bar. But this wasn’t her cottage, so she would only go as far as imagining and pricing the possible renovations until her uncle returned and could be consulted. Tara had just taken her last bite of salmon when something sharp poked the side of her mouth. It felt like a knife. She cried out and spit the offending object into her hand. In her palm sat a jagged shard of broken glass. If she had accidentally swallowed it, she could have choked to death on it.
“Oh my God,” Danny said. He jumped up from the table and stared at the shard in her hand. He shook his head. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“It came from the piece of fish you cooked,” she said slowly.
A red flush crept up his face. “I didn’t cook it.”
Tara shot out of her chair. “Who did?” But she knew. From the shade of scarlet his face turned. “Alanna.”
“She’s studying cookery. She offered.” I bet she did. “I wanted it to be special. Your first catch and all.”
Tara could only imagine how Alanna felt about that. Or maybe she didn’t have to. She held up the piece of glass. “What do you think happened here?”
Danny shook his head. “I’m sure it was an accident.”
Tara glanced at the pan Danny had brought the fish in. He’d only brought two large pieces. “Did she ask you which piece you intended on giving to me?”
His face remained still as he mulled over the implication of her question. He shook his head. “You can’t think she did it on purpose. I probably put her under the gun.” He snapped his fingers. “She was drinking a glass of wine while she cooked. Maybe it broke. I’ll ask her. But please. Don’t go around accusing her of trying to murder you with a piece of salmon.”
“Did she cook it at your place, or her dad’s—”
“No. No. Her flat at the mill.”
“Were you there?”
Danny sighed. “I was downstairs.”
“Then how did you know she was drinking a glass of wine?”
“I brought the salmon up to her flat, and when she opened the door she was holding a glass of wine.”
Murder in Galway Page 11