“And you feel—what? Some kind of family obligation?”
“Yes. I do.”
“You won’t be good to anyone if you get yourself killed.”
“But it means I’m on to something—don’t you think?”
“You’re saying whoever attacked you has something to do with Emmet’s murder?”
“Maybe someone is worried about what I’ll find out if I keep looking.”
“Even more reason to stop. You’re not trained for this.” Danny’s voice was tinged with worry.
Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe she should start thinking about booking a flight back home.
* * *
That evening, Tara settled onto the sofa in the cottage with her cup of tea and scone, watching the fire crackle, holding the envelope from her mother in her hands. She’d probably never get an opportunity like this again, a chance to connect with her mom by reading her own words. She noted the date on the envelope. It was mailed three years ago in June. It took Tara a moment to realize why the date was significant, and when she did she dropped the envelope onto the coffee table and stared at it as if it could strike out at her. She knew what the letter was. What it said. Why her mother had sent it. Had she sent one to Johnny as well?
Yes. She would have. Why was Grace showing this to her? Did her mother send a follow-up? Yes. She would have done that too. Tara couldn’t face it, she didn’t have to read it. Why were people so awkward?
She was tempted to storm over to the inn with the letter and confront Grace’s cruelty. Was this Grace’s last-ditch attempt to convince Tara to go home? She had another think coming. Maybe there would be a day, a year, a decade when Tara could bring herself to read it. Today was not that day. It took everything she had not to burn the letter in the fireplace. Instead she tucked it onto one of Johnny’s shelves behind an old tin. She had her card-reading with Rose in the morning, then she planned on visiting the tattoo parlor and Alanna’s cookery school.
Rain began to beat on the windows, making her sleepy. She heard a crack outside the window. Was there someone at the door? She looked around. There was no poker by the fireplace that could double as a weapon. Forty-six of them back at the warehouse and he couldn’t bring one home? There were no cast-iron items either. Tara was forced to get a knife from the kitchen. She held it in front of her, heart pounding, as she headed for the window near the door. She turned off the inside lights, waited for her eyes to adjust, and peeked out the curtain. She saw the horselike body pacing in front of the door. She nearly crumpled with relief. “Hound.” She unlocked the door and to her surprise he trotted right in, and immediately curled up on a rug near the fireplace. She double-checked the locks on the door, curled up on the sofa, and stared at the dancing flames until they, the beating rain, and the gentle snore of the wolfhound, swiftly lulled her to sleep.
* * *
Tara arrived at the caravan early. Most of the paint cans were still lined up where she’d first seen them. There were six in total. But there was a gap between the third and fifth ones. She walked over and peered down. All that was left was a ring where the can once sat, and a faint circle of black. Whoever had painted the side of her mill had taken the paint can from here. Anyone could have walked up and snatched one. Did that exclude Rose? Should Tara assume that was too obvious? Or was Rose flaunting the fact that she had done it? After all, the rest of the cans were still here, hiding in plain sight.
The door to the caravan swung open at exactly half eight. Rose led Tara directly to her built-in table, where a stack of tarot cards waited. The interior was filled with candles, and beaded curtains, and little pots of African violets. Tara slid into the booth and waited.
Rose had Tara cut the deck three times, then laid the cards facedown in the shape of a cross.
“Your mother is here,” she said. The lines on her face looked like the road map of an interesting life.
The words startled Tara. “What?”
“I feel her around you.”
Tara concentrated on her breathing. If Rose was a con artist, she was going right for Tara’s wounds. She had to be careful not to let her anger show. Everyone knew by now about Tara and the fact that she had come here to spread her mother’s ashes and meet her uncle. If she mentioned her son, Tara was afraid of what she might do. “What about my uncle?” she said, her tone coming out harsh. “Do you feel him around?”
Rose’s eyes grazed over the cards. “Things are not as they seem.”
“What does that mean?”
Irritation flicked across Rose’s face. “A message,” she said. “He’s left you a message.”
Her name written in blood on his wall. “What is it?” Tara wasn’t going to give her anything, especially encouragement. This woman knew something, she was sure of it.
“You’re not safe here.” Her eyes flicked around the caravan as if someone might be looking. Except for the few candles and beaded curtains and violets, it looked like the inside of any RV a typical family planned on driving around the country. “I see a romance brewing,” Rose said when she turned over the next card. “Is that what’s keeping you here?”
Tara felt heat come to her cheeks. “Speaking of romance, I heard you were sleeping with my uncle.”
Rose stopped moving, stopped blinking; she seemed for a time to stop breathing. When she looked up again there were tears in her eyes. “They did this.”
“Who is they?”
“This town.”
“The entire town did this?”
“All his enemies. Wanting him gone. Ben Kelly. Harassing him about the mill. Grace Quinn, always obsessed with the past. Carrig Murray and his blasted . . .” She stopped, as if startled she’d been speaking at all.
Tara leaned in. “Carrig Murray and his blasted what?”
Rose’s lips moved but words did not come out. She shook her head.
“I’m trying to find my uncle,” Tara said. “My blood. Do you understand?”
Rose nodded again. “Productions. His blasted productions.”
Tara got the feeling she was not talking about the all-female version of Hamlet. The reading of the cards had been abandoned. Rose knew something. She wanted to tell. Tara just had to find the right way in.
“The guards,” Tara said. “They think Johnny murdered Emmet Walsh. What do you think?” Rose shook her head, fear stamped on her face. “Then help me. What do you know?” What are you hiding?
Rose swallowed. “Two days before Emmet was murdered, Johnny came to see me. He said he ran into Carrig and was shocked at the treatment he received.”
“What treatment?”
Rose shook her head. “He was raving. Hard to understand. He thought everyone hated him and was plotting against him.” She glanced around again. “I thought he was overreacting. Now it seems as if he was right.”
“Are you saying Carrig killed Emmet?”
“I’m saying he has something to do with this whole thing. Somebody was out to get Johnny, or several somebodys. There are too many suspects.”
“Who are the other suspects?”
“Ben Kelly is another. Plotting against him. Demanding Johnny sell him the mill.”
Tara knew she would only get so far questioning Ben Kelly. But it was starting to look like another visit to Carrig Murray was in order. Or maybe she should speak with some of the actors in his play. Hamlet, for one. She stood to leave, then turned to Rose. “Did you know you’re missing a can of black paint?”
Rose’s face remained calm. “It’s not my paint.”
“Whose is it?”
“Danny O’Donnell’s.” Her head jerked to the side. “The gypsy painted on the outside of the carvan?”
“It’s gorgeous.”
Rose smiled as if she knew a secret. “That’s Danny’s work.”
“Danny painted that?” She couldn’t believe it. He never mentioned he was an artist. And quite a talented one. Was he doing anything with it? She knew so little about him. Rose’s m
outh was still turned up in a smirk. Tara wanted to slap it off. “Do you know if he came back for the black paint?”
“I wish he’d take the rest of it. The cans are barely covered when it rains. I don’t like chemicals soaking into the ground.”
Tara thought it should be the least of her worries, not to mention Rose wasn’t answering Tara’s question directly. Was that an answer in itself? Why would Danny paint GO HOME YANKEE on the side of the mill, only to be the one to power-wash it off? Was he playing some kind of game? Maybe Carrig wasn’t the only devilish one in town.
The devil you know . . .
“I think you should go now,” Rose said, gesturing to the door.
Tara sat back down. “Do you think my uncle is still alive?”
Rose pursed her lips, then nodded.
“Where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s hiding. I think he feels he’s in danger here.”
“His boat is missing. What if he died at sea?” The fear poured out of Tara before she could stop it.
Tears came into Rose’s eyes. “I tried to warn him. Just like I’m warning you. Is it my fault if no one is listening?”
Her plea seemed genuine. And for the first time—vulnerable. “Tell me about the last time you saw my uncle. Leave nothing out.” Shame crept into Rose’s eyes. “Please,” Tara begged. “I might be the only one trying to help him.”
Rose sighed. “I’ll put on the kettle,” she said. When they were situated with tea and digestive biscuits, Rose began to talk.
Chapter 14
It was three days before the murder. Rose found Johnny Meehan pacing in front of her caravan. “He was wild-eyed with fury. Someone was stealing from his mill. He was sure of it. It started with a few minor things here or there. A poker for the fire. There were forty-seven in the collection. And then one day there were forty-six. A stained-glass window from Italy. One of his favorite pieces, one that would fetch a tidy sum. Missing one week after he’d hung it in a prominent spot in the mill. And then a lion’s-head door knocker. He began to stay awake at the mill, never going home, never going to sleep, roaming the grounds like a deranged security guard.”
“Why didn’t he just get a security system?”
Rose shook her head. “It wasn’t his way.”
“Did he find anyone?”
“He caught Alanna tripping home with a lad one night,” Rose said with a shrug. “I suppose it’s not against the law.”
Interesting. Would Rose have told her if it was Danny? Or was it okay for lads to trip home to bed with a partner, just not the lasses? Sexism aside—did Alanna have a secret boyfriend? Or had this “lad” been the actress playing Hamlet?
“For a while everything quieted down. Until the banker from Manchester finally agreed to sell the pig. Johnny was over the moon. Traveled there himself. Why, I think that’s the only time I ever heard of that Johnny Meehan set foot out of County Galway.”
“Because Emmet paid him a lot of money for it?”
“That, and Emmet was obsessed. He was one of Johnny’s best customers. Threatened to never buy from him again if he didn’t get that pig. Johnny couldn’t have that.”
“Go on.”
Rose explained how Johnny had put Emmet Walsh’s cast-iron pig in his office. Right on the desk. He’d locked it up tight. When he returned, only hours later, it was gone. “By the time Johnny came to me, he was spitting mad. Even accused me of stealing it.”
“Why did he accuse you?”
“He said I was one of the few people who knew about it. He was acting like a nutter. I told him so.”
“Who else did he accuse?”
“Danny, of course. He was so angry he quit. Then he accused Alanna. And of course, her father.”
“Do you know if he searched Alanna’s room at the mill?”
“He did, of course. Didn’t find a thing.”
“Did he say what he planned on doing next?”
Rose pursed her lips, clasped her hands together tightly. “He was going to dig.”
Tara wasn’t sure she heard her correctly. “Pardon?”
Rose’s eyes radiated fear. “He said he was going to dig and dig and dig until he caught the thievin’ bastard.” She exhaled. “I tried to read his cards. I’ve never seen such a sinister reading. Death all around him. But when I told him this—he flew into an even bigger rage. Accused me of purposely giving him a bad reading, bilking him out of his money. I charged him for the reading, ’course I did. But I’m no thief.” She slumped in the booth. “I hate knowing our last words were so cross. I should have known something bad was brewing. I should have stopped him.”
“Do you know where Emmet Walsh lived?”
“’Course I do.”
“Can you write down the address?”
“What do you think you’re going to do? Sneak into his house? You don’t think the guards will be all over it?”
Tara sighed. Somehow this murder was connected to all the missing objects. She was relieved that Rose didn’t appear to know that the head of the cast-iron pig had been reeled up in the Galway Bay. At least the guards were keeping some things quiet. “Do you know anything about the missing items from the mill? The pig, a cast-iron harp—”
“Harp?” Rose stood, hovering over Tara for a second, then turned and hurried to the back of the caravan. When she came back, slightly out of breath, she was holding a cast-iron harp.
“Where did you get that?” Tara said.
“It was a gift,” Rose said.
“Johnny gave it to you?”
“No,” Rose said. “That vile woman did.”
“What vile woman?”
Rose dropped the harp on the table with a thunk, held her index finger up, then disappeared into the back of the caravan once more. Tara picked up the harp. It was awfully heavy. If someone swung this at a human head, the person would be dead. She hadn’t touched it, but she imagined the cast-iron pig had been equally heavy. Was that the murder weapon? She wondered if the guards knew by now. She wished she knew someone there—
What about the young clerk at the Garda station? Breanna Cunningham. She seemed the friendly sort. Maybe Tara could pay her a visit, suggest a social activity. It would be nice to have a female friend of her own age around here.
As she thought through her options, Tara’s eyes landed on the pot of African violets on the sill. There was something wedged behind it. She had to stand up to get a good look. There, tucked behind the pot was a pair of gloves. Leather gloves.
Do they belong to Rose? Had she been the one to attack me in the fun house?
Before she could pick them up, the beaded curtains swished and knocked, and Rose returned with a piece of paper in her hand.
Tara must have had a funny look on her face, for Rose stopped in her tracks.
“What the devil is wrong with you now?”
Don’t look at the gloves. “Nothing.”
“Out with it.”
Fine. Tara snatched up the gloves. She smelled them. Unlike the ones in the fun house, these smelled like soil.
“My gardening gloves,” Rose said. “What about them?”
“Whoever attacked me in the fun house was wearing leather gloves.”
“And you think it’s me, do you now?”
“I don’t know. You were in there.”
“You were following me.”
“I saw you go in and I wanted to speak with you.”
“You’re starting to sound paranoid. Just like your uncle.”
“I just think it’s odd. Using leather gloves, in the summer, to garden.” Tara paused. “When you don’t even have a garden.”
Rose laughed, a trilling sound that took Tara by surprise. She’d never even seen the woman smile. “I potted that violet m’self.”
“I’m just going to come out and ask you. Did you come up behind me in the fun house with those gloves, and slap your hand over my mouth?”
Rose studied her. “I went into the f
un house ahead of you. How would I suddenly be behind you, like?”
“It was dark and confusing in there. You could have turned around.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Perhaps since I didn’t heed your earlier warning, you were trying to drive your point home.”
“If that’s the case, I don’t think it worked.”
“You haven’t denied it.”
“Nor will I.”
Tara sighed. This was getting them nowhere. She glanced at the paper in Rose’s hand. “What do you have for me?”
Rose thrust the sheet of paper at her. It was cream-colored stationery. Emerald letters were splashed across the top: Welcome to the Bay Inn. Next to it was a quaint sketch of the inn. “Danny sketched that as well,” Rose said.
“He’s talented.” Tara wondered why he wasn’t trying harder to make a living at it, or why he’d never mentioned it. Her eyes went back to the stationery.
“This came with the harp,” Rose said.
Tara read the message:
An old harp for the old harpy.
Chapter 15
Grace Quinn was the vile woman. And not only was her harp not missing, she was the one who had given it away, then asked Tara to find it. One explanation, of course, the saddest one, was that Grace Quinn was going senile. The only other plausible explanation was that Grace Quinn was playing some kind of game. But why? And to what end?
Tara didn’t want to wait to find out the answers. After leaving the caravan, she made a beeline for the inn. There was no one at the check-in desk. Rose had refused to give her the harp, but Tara had the note in her purse. She was dying to see what Grace would say about it and why she had lied. The parlor doors were shut. It was so silent Tara could hear the ticking of a clock coming from some dusty corner.
“Hello?” She stared at the cubbyholes. All she had to do to get her hands on the key to room 301 was slip behind the counter. “Hello?” she called again. There was no reply. She would be quick. All she would do is look at the key. She hurried over to it before she could talk herself out of it. Now that she was no longer a guest, there was absolutely no good excuse for why she’d be behind the counter looking for keys. She reached her hand into the cubbyhole for room 301. It was empty. She glanced at all the other boxes. Had the key mistakenly been placed in the wrong slot? Someone could enter at any second; there was no time to search all the boxes.
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