Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  “This is the last thing you’re going to do.”

  “That’s a pretty broad statement.”

  “You know what I mean. We get the number—we find out who he was talking to. If it’s important, we tell the guards and you wipe your hands of this. If it’s not important, you tell no one and you wipe your hands of this. Do you agree?”

  Tara nodded. She meant it too. She was in over her head. If she kept going she was likely to make too many mistakes. She was even torn about asking Danny about the paint cans at Rose’s. Her uncle had made the mistake of accusing people without proof, and look where that got him. Mistakes could be fatal. At the very least she needed Danny’s help. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she didn’t want Danny to be guilty of anything. She liked him. An image of Grace sprang to mind, hanging out her window, watching Tara and Danny on the sidewalk below.

  Tara sighed. “I could also drop all of this right now. We could tell the actress the truth.”

  Danny shook his head as they crossed through the mill and to the front door. “It’s too late,” he said. “Sometimes the truth is way more dangerous than a lie.”

  * * *

  The Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre rehearsal was in full swing when Danny and Tara entered. Hamlet was onstage in the middle of a monologue filled with turmoil. Danny and Tara waited in the back of the theatre until Carrig called a break, and only then did they step out of the shadows. “Danny,” Carrig boomed when he saw him. Tara waited for him to yell at them to get out. “The set looks magnificent!” He pointed. Onstage were painted panels depicting a castle and rolling hills with fog coming in.

  Tara turned to Danny and stared. He didn’t meet her eyes. “You did that?”

  Danny, she could have sworn, was blushing. Carrig strode up the aisle, beaming, and clapped Danny on the back. “Are you here for your check?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Danny said, still refusing to look at Tara.

  He doesn’t want me to know about his artistic talents. Why?

  Carrig turned to the actors. “Twenty-minute break.” Tara glanced at the front-row seat where a suit blazer was draped, and then made eye contact with Hamlet. The actress glanced at the blazer, then she made eye contact with Tara. They were set. The three were nearly out of the theatre when Carrig stopped.

  “Need the key to my office,” he said. Oh, no. Please let it be in your trouser pocket. But Carrig whirled around and headed for his seat just in time to see Hamlet’s hand stuffed inside the pocket of his blazer.

  “Hey!” Carrig shouted. He started to run toward her.

  She tossed him a set of keys. “I heard you,” she said. “Thought I’d help.”

  “Oh.” Carrig came to an abrupt stop. He stared at the keys in his hand, then at Hamlet. “Thank you.”

  She took a bow. It was all Tara could do not to applaud. Hamlet was awesome. Carrig returned to Danny and Tara, and they headed for the office. Hopefully while they were gone, Hamlet would find out who Carrig had been speaking with—or, to be more exact, who Carrig had been threatening to keep quiet—so that Tara could find out why.

  * * *

  Located at the mouth of the Galway Bay in the middle of the Wild Atlantic Way, and accessible only by boat, the Aran Islands were a treasure of three: the largest island, Inishmore (Inis Mór); the middle island, Inishmaan (Inis Meáin); and the smallest island, Inisheer (Inis Oírr). The twelve hundred residents primarily spoke Irish, and the rugged limestone rock islands boasted everything from ancient graveyards, medieval ruins, stone beaches, and a fort built in the Bronze and Iron Ages at Dun Aengus, on a cliff three hundred feet above the Atlantic Ocean. And, of course, shops, and pubs, and restaurants, and cows.

  Tara wanted to see all three islands, but today she and Danny were setting out for the Inishmore to find George O’Malley, the man Carrig had warned not to tell Tara anything.

  She’d heard the islands were a place stuck in time, a peek into what Irish culture might have been like long ago, a place where progress hadn’t usurped culture. W. B. Yeats purportedly once said to John Millington Synge, “Go to the Aran Islands, and find a life that has never been expressed in literature.”

  Farming, fishing, and tourism were the main economic stays, along with artists, craftspeople, and musicians. Spiritualists were drawn to the islands too, perhaps to hear murmurings from long-ago ages, fossils buried in limestone, whispering their secrets. Tara could not wait.

  * * *

  The wind from the ferry ride blew Tara’s black hair straight behind her and she stared out at the waves churned by the boat as the vibrations hummed through her body. Danny stood beside her. “Do you think Johnny could be hiding out in the Aran Islands?” she asked.

  “Yes. Or he could be in London, Paris, or Rome.”

  “Wouldn’t this be a bit closer and more in tune with his personality?”

  Danny nodded. “It would indeed. Although it’s still dangerous to hide this close to home.”

  In plain sight. “Only if he’s guilty,” Tara pointed out.

  “He has to be guilty of something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in hiding. What innocent person does that?”

  “One who’s terrified for his life?”

  “You think he witnessed the murder?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Why not go straight to the guards?”

  “You know him better than me. Can you think of any reason?”

  Danny frowned. “He’s a stubborn man but not a stupid one. If he is innocent, witnessed the murder, and didn’t go to the guards, then something has convinced him that he wouldn’t be believed.”

  Tara stared out at the churning waves. “Or someone.”

  “Or someone,” Danny echoed.

  The ocean, so vast and powerful. In comparison humans are so, so small. For a moment Tara let all her worries fall into the churning waves. They were just temporarily sharing this bountiful earth, fooling themselves that they were in charge, had control. It was liberating to let go, even if it was for just a moment. The true inhabitants were the rugged cliffs, the soft peat, the blossoming heather, the thrashing ocean. Here, it was easy to remember the old adage: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Here, Tara was reminded, she was the small stuff. Some might find that depressing; she found it enormously comforting.

  Fifty minutes passed in what felt like seconds. Soon, the ferry’s whistle sounded just as the edge of Innishmore appeared, green and rugged and welcoming. The ferry docked and the passengers filed out, following the hands that motioned the tourists to the road leading up to the official entrance to the island. There, tour guides waited with horse-drawn carts and minivans, and for those with stamina, a line of bicycles at the ready.

  Pubs, and shops, and cafés were scattered among the breathtaking green grass and stone and sea. Danny looked at his watch. “George O’Malley will be playing a trad session at three.” He nodded to the pub visible in the distance, a white cottage with cheerful yellow trim.

  “That gives us two hours,” Tara said. She glanced at the bicycles. No. Please, no. Riding my red bike around Galway city is one thing. But here it would be like trying to ride to the top of a mountain. Surely the bicycles are only here to terrify folks into taking the minivan tours.

  Danny scoffed. “Can you believe those lazy sods?” He stretched his arms wide. “It’s a grand, fresh day for a bike ride.” He gave her a long look. “Unless you’re not up for it?”

  She had a hard time breaking away from his twinkling eyes and teasing smile. “Are you kidding me?” I am so not up for it. She wanted to take one of the shuttle van tours. “You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming into a car. I’m team-bike all the way.” Enough. Too much. Please, please, drag me kicking and screaming into the van. Be a man—pretend it’s your idea.

  Danny edged up to her and pointed at the hill rising in the distance. Whoever invented his cologne had nailed it. Like really nailed it. “W
hat awaits is winding roads, and steep hills. Endless stretches of rocky roads. Not for the faint of heart.”

  Tara grinned. “I’m game if you are.” Please, please say you would rather ride in a vehicle.

  He winked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t.” But I’m already thinking it. She’d had enough of him torturing her. Best get it over with. She paid for a bicycle and hopped on, determined to get a head start. Tourists in the idling vans looked out the window at her, staring as if she was part of the tour. She could imagine the guide speaking: Look at that eejit. Thought she was going for a little bike ride. We’ll be picking her body off the hills the next time around . . .

  Tara pedaled harder. If a little engine could do it, so could she. It took Danny no time at all to catch up.

  The roads wound around undulating green pastures and ragged cliffs, climbing up, up, up. The air was fresh and spiked with the taste of the ocean. Her heart and lungs hadn’t exerted themselves this much in a long time. The tour vans rattled by, heads plastered in the windows with sympathetic looks and friendly waves. The remains of an old stone church came into view around the next bend. Danny, ahead of her now, pointed and nodded to it, indicating they could stop if she wished to visit the remains. “Yes,” she shouted in the wind. They parked their bicycles so they could walk among the ruins. Tara loved being up close to such history. Around the next bend a lone cow lay in the middle of a patch of green with the ragged rocks, dropping cliff, and churning ocean as her background. Several times they had to stop to allow sheep to cross the road, their white and black wool colored with splotches of dye, the colors correlating with the farmer who owned them. She envied these animals. She wouldn’t mind lying around here all day.

  The first hour flew by and Danny suggested they head back. Tara was relieved there wasn’t time to take the hike up the three-hundred-foot cliff to the archeological site of Dun Aengus. She was already feeling anxious this high up. Would she ever stop associating heights with her son’s tragic accident? She had never been afraid before.

  On the ride back, made easier since it was downhill, Danny told her how back in the day there was only one guard and one priest for all three islands. They would fly from one to another in a little plane, and when the guard was on one island, folks on the other two would be misbehaving.

  The islands had also borne witness to devastating storms over the years. There was something so miraculous about such a rugged, isolated place still surviving, and thriving. As gorgeous as it was, Tara could hardly imagine spending her whole life here, as more than a few of the locals must have done. She could imagine the stark, bleak winters when the fog rolled in and the tourists sailed out.

  After two hours of biking around the island, a pint of ale hit the spot. The musicians pulled chairs out from the corner, sat amidst the patrons at the round tables, and started in with a jaunty tune that lifted Tara’s spirits. “That’s him,” Danny said with a nod to an older man in a wheelchair playing the guitar. An oxygen tank sat by his side. “That’s George.”

  “How do you know?”

  “After we got the number from the phone I asked around. There aren’t many older musicians in wheelchairs on this island.”

  “That must be so tough here,” Tara said. The terrain alone would be difficult to navigate.

  “Everyone who lives on these islands are hearty souls, so they are,” Danny said. “And I can only imagine it’s even tougher if you’ve got a mobility problem.”

  Tara nodded, noting that Danny was an empathetic person and she liked that about him. They fell into a comfortable silence as they sat back and let the music take them away. An hour later, Tara had almost forgotten why they were there. Danny ordered them lunch, fat French fries that the Irish called chips, with vinegar and salt, and even mayonnaise to dip. Next came lump crab-cake sandwiches that were so good Tara felt obscene eating them in public. The musicians played all her favorites: “Dirty Old Town,” and “The Irish Rover,” and “Galway Girl.” But she was even more delighted when they played “Fairytale of New York” and she found herself heartily singing along and wishing it were Christmas. Danny smiled beside her, and for a moment, they were just two people enjoying each other and the music, and, as they said here—the craic—or the fun. And she was having fun. She didn’t want it to end. Several couples were dancing, and outside even the ocean seemed to churn in rhythm. When it was over—too soon for Tara’s liking—Danny waved George O’Malley over, a fresh pint waiting for him at their table.

  Before getting down to the real reason they were here, they let him know how much they enjoyed his playing and rich singing voice. He had a wide, doughy face and thick white hair, complete with trim beard and a joyful grin.

  When he heard Tara’s surname, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You wouldn’t be related to Johnny Meehan, would you now?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Danny said.

  Tara nodded. “I’m his niece.”

  A scowl came over his face. “If he’s after me light again on behalf of Carrig Murray, he can’t have it. Not until I get what I asked for.”

  Danny and Tara exchanged a look. Carrig had mentioned something about a granite slab but that wasn’t the primary thing on her mind. George O’Malley was acting as if he hadn’t heard about the murder and the fact that Johnny was missing, presumed on the run. It was plausible in a sense, that these islands could be protected from gossip—but given his phone call with Carrig Murray, they were pretty sure George knew everything that had happened to Emmet Walsh, and that Johnny was in the wind.

  “Johnny Meehan hasn’t been seen in days,” Danny said. “He’s a missing person.” Suddenly he began speaking to George O’Malley in the Irish language. It was obvious from George’s cascade of horrified facial expressions that Danny was recounting the murder. George’s eyes flicked nervously to Tara.

  “I’m sorry to hear dat.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took a long draw of his pint, set it down, wiped his mouth. “Why are you here?”

  Tara recalled what Carrig had said to George. What do you think I told her? Nothing! Exactly what you’re going to tell her... She asked, “We know Johnny paid you a visit recently. Can you tell us about that?”

  George sighed. “I’ll show you. If you buy me another pint and then roll me home.”

  Chapter 17

  There wasn’t much rolling to be done. George lived in a flat behind a souvenir gift shop, just down the path from the pub. The back entrance to his dwelling had been outfitted with a ramp, and it was a cheerful space, albeit a tad cluttered. Despite the gorgeous scenery, Tara bet there were days on end with nothing to do, especially if you weren’t able to get physically active. She wondered why he stayed; there would be better services for people in wheelchairs in Galway, she guessed, but the answer was most likely simple: This was home.

  He put the kettle on for tea and retrieved a box of chocolate digestives, and soon they were all sipping, nibbling, and staring at one another.

  “He wanted that,” George said suddenly, jerking his wheelchair around and pointing up. There, above the door to the restroom was a light the size and shape of your typical globe, set in wrought iron. “It’s out of an old theatre in Dublin. Carrig Murray just sold it to me, then he turns around and wants it back. Insane! Haven’t even had it long enough for a speck of dust to cover it. I wouldn’t sell it back to him. Until he suggested a trade . . .” He wheeled his chair back around. “No trade, no light. No is no!”

  “You told him you’d trade it for a stone slab,” Tara said. “Granite with a female face carved into it.”

  “What?” From the tone of his voice, it was obvious Danny didn’t like being left out.

  George sighed. “There’s a stone slab I want alright. Carrig got me to agree to a trade. Johnny told him he had a lead on it. I said that’s a trade I would do and I meant it.” He opened his arms. “But if Johnny had a lead, it must not have panned out. No
slab.” He seemed to invite them to look around as proof. “No slab, no light. Last time Johnny was here on behalf of Carrig, I told him so m’self.”

  So many folks were either waiting for objects from Johnny or missing them. This was important, Tara could feel it. She just didn’t know how it fit in to a bigger picture and what, if anything, it had to do with Emmet’s murder and Johnny’s disappearance.

  “Did Johnny get upset with you?” Danny asked gently.

  “With me?” George wheeled back to the table. “Who would get upset at an old man in a wheelchair?”

  “When did he pay you this visit?” Tara asked.

  “It was a Friday. He showed up at the noon session. Wanted to see if there was any other way to get the light. As you know, he left empty-handed.”

  The day before the murder. How badly had Carrig wanted this light? Was he angry enough to kill for it? Why sell it and then turn around and want it back so desperately? It didn’t make sense. And even if he wanted it bad enough to kill—it wouldn’t have been Emmet he wanted to kill. He would have killed George for it. Every time Tara felt like she had just picked up a thread to this mystery another one unraveled. “Are you sure Johnny made the ferry back?”

  “I didn’t follow him out to the boat, mind you. But I didn’t see him again. If he’s hanging out here, luv, someone would have spotted him.” George’s hands began to tremble. He smacked his lips. He was nervous, but maybe he just didn’t like strangers in his flat.

  “When’s the last time you spoke with Carrig Murray?” Tara’s voice came out more singsong than she meant it to. Danny shot her a look. They hadn’t exactly agreed on their approach to this question.

  George rolled his eyes up and around as if turning the pages of a mental calendar. “I’m not sure. Why?” His eyes narrowed.

  Danny cleared his throat. “Tara overheard a recent conversation between Carrig and yourself. Carrig warned you not to say anything to her.”

  George’s eyes were now barely slits. Tara didn’t know the human eye could do that. Now she wasn’t sure they should do that. “How did you know he was talking to me?”