Murder in Galway

by Carlene O'Connor

  “I saw your number flash on his screen.” Actually, Hamlet found his number in Carrig’s phone, but George didn’t need to be bogged down in the minutia.

  “How did you know it was my number?”

  “It’s a smartphone,” Danny said gently. “Your name was programmed into the phone.”

  “Outrageous!” George said. “Big brother is watching! Too much drama. I live all the way out here to avoid drama.”

  “We meant no disrespect to your privacy. Tara is trying to find her uncle.”

  “Please,” Tara said. “What is Carrig hiding?”

  George wheeled away from the table to a nearby window. He parted the curtains. The view looked out on a hill, the path from the ferry, and the thrashing sea. “That wild batch of water is all the drama I need.”

  “I’ll keep looking for the slab of granite,” Tara said. “And you can keep your theatre light.”

  “Emmet Walsh has my slab of granite,” he said. He caught himself. “Had.” He rubbed his chin. “I reckon it’s in his fancy castle.”

  And just like that, a little piece clicked into place. Perhaps Carrig had murdered Emmet. Maybe they argued over the granite slab. Was it possible? Danny and Tara exchanged a look. “How do you know Emmet has it? Had it?”

  “Because he was heard bragging about it one minute, then claiming it was missing the next. Emmet Walsh was a snake of a man. He should have been run out of Ireland by Saint Patrick himself.”

  Tara was starting to see where this was going. “Emmet either couldn’t hand over the slab because it was missing, or he wouldn’t hand over the slab because Johnny hadn’t given him his pig,” she said. It all came back to the blasted pig.

  George nodded. “Can ye imagine? All this over a little piggy.” He shook his head. He looked at the sky. “A storm is coming in. The two of you best be on the next ferry.”

  Danny stood. Tara did too, but reluctantly. “I still don’t understand. What’s the big secret?”

  George folded his hands into a steeple and looked thoughtful. “Did ye know Carrig is doing an all-female version of Hamlet?”

  “Yes,” Tara said.

  “Imagine that.”

  Tara waited.

  “He brought in some fancy talent out of the Edinburgh Festival. And he’s hired a fancy set director.”

  Tara glanced at Danny. “I thought you painted his set.”

  George’s head jerked to Danny. The two men stared at each other for a long time.

  “What’s going on?” Tara said. The spell broke, the men backed away and averted their gazes. In that instant it was clear, the two of them were now keeping a secret. Tara stepped forward. “Danny?”

  “I did paint his sets,” Danny said. “He never mentioned another set designer.”

  “’Course he didn’t,” George said. “Except on paper.”

  Tara sighed. Why didn’t people just get to the point? Why was Danny lying to her now? Or was she misreading the room? “So Carrig is inflating his budget. What’s that have to do with Johnny?”

  George turned and challenged her. “Is that the question you should be asking?”

  Tara chewed on it. Inflating his budget. Collecting more money than he’s spending. “What’s he doing with the money?”

  “Yes, chicken,” George said. “What is he doing with the money?”

  Chapter 18

  Was Carrig Murray skimming from the theatre? How much? And yes—what was he planning on doing with the money? Did it even matter? George seemed to be hinting that it did, and Tara was convinced he knew more about it, but it was clear that was all they were going to get. The ferry ride back was choppy, and silent. Tara didn’t want to accuse Danny of withholding, but that’s exactly what he was doing. The two of them stood at the rails of the ferry, moving up and down with the boat, neither of them saying a word. Maybe she was wrong to be investigating this with him. After all, he was a suspect too. What if he was only going with her to keep her from getting at the truth? What if she was going around with a killer? Did he see her as the enemy and he was keeping her close?

  The silence continued during the bus ride back to Galway. A few minutes after the bus started moving, Tara nodded off. By the time she heard the screech of brakes, and the belch of the engine as it shut off, she was startled to find her head on Danny’s shoulder. Oh, God. Did she just drool on him?

  She jerked up and apologized. He laughed, a low, comforting sound.

  “No, really. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve had worse bus rides,” he said with a wink. She laughed. She couldn’t be wrong about Danny. He was so nice. But weren’t murderers capable of being nice?

  After filing off the bus, and making their way back to the center of town, they eyed each other like teenagers on a first date.

  “I’m not going to snoop into Carrig’s financial records,” Danny said.

  “No,” Tara said. “Of course not.”

  “Don’t give me that. We just stole his phone records.”

  “I know. But you’re right. We don’t know what we’re doing. Either of us. I’m going to stop.” Danny didn’t look as if he believed her. “You and George exchanged a look when he talked about the fancy designer Carrig had on his books. Why?”

  “Because I’m the designer, I’m not fancy, and the pay wasn’t above standard.”

  “What do you think he’s up to?”

  Danny looked away. “I have no idea.” He looked into her eyes. “Please. Let’s leave this to the guards. Will you promise me that?”

  Tara resisted the urge to kiss his cheek. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “Let’s both get some rest.”

  * * *

  Tara and Breanna met in Eyre Square near the fountain. The rectangular public park was centrally located, adjacent to the train station, and littered with college students and tourists. John F. Kennedy had visited Galway shortly before his death and made a speech in the park, so it was also known as the John F. Kennedy Memorial Park. Tara had packed a picnic lunch and staked out a spot on the grass. She laid out a blanket she bought in town. It reminded her of the one she always took to Central Park. Breanna Cunningham was all smiles. When she sat down a few people moved away from them. It was the guard uniform; it made folks keep their distance.

  “Does it bother you that people see you coming and get out of your way?”

  “No,” Breanna said, with a smile and a wink. “I consider it one of the top perks of the job.”

  Tara laughed. She did like this woman, even if she also wanted some information. Tara brought out the mini ham-and-cheese sandwiches she’d made, along with her homemade potato salad. She’d had such fun spending a day at the shops, then making the picnic back at Johnny’s cottage. She was starting to fall into a rhythm here, walking with Hound, going through the salvage mill, relishing the historical objects, and finding stolen minutes to pretend she was just here on holiday. Today felt like one of those days. She waited until they had finished eating and exhausted getting-to-know-you talk, to gently swing the subject around to the investigation.

  “Do they think it’s silly that I brought in that cap I found?”

  “Oh, no,” Breanna said. She stopped after that but her eyes had lit up for a second.

  “Did it help in any way?”

  Breanna nodded. She looked around. Then leaned in. “Traces of blood were found on the cap. It’s Johnny’s cap alright.”

  “His blood?” Tara said. The alarm was evident in her voice. Breanna put her hand out.

  “Don’t worry. Just trace amounts. It’s not an indication of any major harm to him—but it does tell us that at some point he was wandering the grounds.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  Breanna shrugged. “When you’re investigating a murder, you’d best treat everything as if it’s unusual, like.” Perhaps he’d seen the murderer... “But we’ve combed the patch and there’s not a single other bit of evidence, so I’m afraid it doesn’t help much.”

  Ta
ra sighed. “I was hoping it would.”

  “We’re sending cadaver dogs to the area just in case.” Tara shivered. She prayed they wouldn’t find anything. “If he does turn up, I hope you’re not going to be too disappointed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Johnny Meehan was an odd one, and take it from me—this is a city so full of odd ones that you really have to stand out to earn that moniker.”

  “He’s still family. I don’t need him to warm up to me even—I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

  “What if he killed Emmet? Will you stand by him?”

  “I’m not even sure what that means.”

  “Visit him in jail, like.”

  “Oh.” Tara hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll probably be back in New York.”

  “Ah, tell me what it’s like,” Breanna said. “Paint me a dream of New York so I can imagine m’self there.”

  Tara laughed, was happy to turn the conversation away from her uncle, and for once talk about something other than murder. “Well. On a beautiful Saturday morning, my favorite thing is to buy a latte and go for a stroll in Central Park . . .”

  * * *

  Tara was in Johnny’s office straightening out his papers when the phone on the desk rang. She jumped and then laughed. Afraid of phones now, are we? She felt a tingle of excitement as she picked it up. Maybe it was a customer. She was dying to “source” something for someone. “Irish Revivals,” she said into the phone, feeling slightly guilty that she was answering it instead of Johnny. “How may I help you?”

  There was a pause. “Is Johnny in?” It was a male voice with an Irish accent, but beyond that she had no idea who he was.

  “No.” The question startled her so that she didn’t know what else to say at first. There wasn’t a soul in Galway and probably half the neighboring towns who didn’t know about the murder and Johnny’s disappearance. She was pretty sure the betting shops in Galway were taking odds on whether or not Johnny was the killer, whether or not Johnny was alive, and whether Ben Kelly was going to get the boxing ring. Tara was going to do her part to make sure that last one didn’t happen on her watch. “Who is calling?”

  “I sold an item to Johnny a while back. I just wanted to see if it met his needs.”

  “Oh?” She tried to keep her voice light. “What was the item?” Tara took a sip of her coffee.

  “A cast-iron pig.” Tara choked on the hot coffee, nearly spitting it out. “Are you alright?” the man asked.

  “You’re calling from Manchester?” Was this the banker?

  “Manchester?” He sounded alarmed.

  “Sorry. I mistook you for—”

  “The original?” the man filled in with a laugh.

  “Yes. My apologies.” The original?

  “Ah, no worries. I’m in Donegal, luv.”

  “Right. It’s all coming back to me now.”

  “Are you an employee at Irish Revivals?”

  She sensed there was something he wanted to say but he didn’t know if he could trust her. “I’m the owner’s niece. From New York. And the one running it at the moment.”

  “Are you aware of the situation?”

  What situation? Darn it. She had to play along. “Oh, yes. Believe me. I am aware.”

  “Perhaps I’m foolish to call. But after that much effort I just have to ask. Did the client believe it?”

  The client: Emmet Walsh. Believe it? Believe what? “I’m afraid the client passed away,” Tara said. “Before he could receive it.”

  “Ah, so we’ll never know.”

  “No. Sadly.” She stared at a mug of pens on the desk, trying to figure out how to get him to spill what they were talking about without revealing that she had no idea what they were talking about. “Do you think he would have believed it?”

  “I should say so. I know that doesn’t sound very modest of me.”

  “I totally agree,” Tara said. “He would have believed it.”

  “The irony. Him passing away when I went to so much trouble.”

  Yes. So sorry for your trouble. “Right,” Tara said. The longer she talked to this man without knowing what he was on about, the higher the chances she would slip and say something that alerted him to her charade. “It must have been difficult,” she said, still tripping in the dark.

  He laughed. “Now you see why I’m calling. It was a real work of art. I even got the patina around the ears right, wouldn’t you say, now?”

  An image of the pig’s head resting on the fisherman’s palm sprang to mind. Followed by Emmet on the floor, staring up with his glassy eyes. She pushed the image away. Johnny Meehan had hired this man to replicate the cast-iron pig that had belonged to a princess.

  “Did you happen to get a look at it?”

  Tara bit her lip. Was the pig she saw the replica or the original? Her best guess was the former. It was harder to imagine someone tossing the original away. The question still remained, why toss it in the first place? One good reason leapt to mind. It was the murder weapon and someone wanted to get rid of evidence. Either way, this man had no idea that his item could have been used to murder the client. She had to keep that in mind. He was greedy and taking pleasure out of cheating someone out of something—which was horrid—but he did not know the entire story. “Yes.” Tara could not wait to end this conversation.

  “I think in the end it looked exactly like the photo Johnny sent me.”

  “I’ll make sure Johnny knows you called.”

  “Anyway, I’d be happy to work with Irish Revivals again. Please keep me in mind.”

  She hesitated. “May I have your phone number?”

  “Doesn’t Johnny have it?”

  “I’m sure he does. But just in case.”

  He gave her his name and number. She was going to have to turn it over to the guards. At this point getting to the truth was more important than any shady business practices Johnny might have been involved in. If he had done this before—cheated a customer out of an authentic item—why then, any past customer could have wanted him dead. Why did Emmet Walsh wind up being the victim?

  Was my uncle the intended target and Emmet just got in the way? Or did Emmet find out Johnny had the pig replicated and he stormed up to the cottage to confront him? It would have destroyed the reputation of Irish Revivals. Ben Kelly would get his boxing mill. The deception was a dark secret—a powerful weapon that could have easily been used against Johnny Meehan. And Tara had to face it—Johnny may have killed to keep the secret. Under normal circumstances maybe Johnny would have just confessed that the pig had been stolen and let the chips fall where they may. But Emmet Walsh was no ordinary customer. He was Johnny’s best customer. So Johnny went to extremes to satisfy him. Illegal and unethical extremes. Oh, the tangled web we weave . . .

  Her mother wouldn’t have done a shady deal like that, no matter what pressure was being brought to bear. Maybe it was the first time he’d done it. Maybe Emmet was putting too much pressure on him and he cracked. With the relentless campaign of Ben Kelly to get the mill, combined with his biggest client threatening never to buy from him again—

  Everyone seemed in agreement that Johnny had purchased the original pig from this banker in Manchester. When it disappeared he commissioned the artist in Donegal to replicate it. If the one tossed in the bay was the forgery, then where was the real pig? Did the murderer have it? The more she dug into this case, the more questions she unearthed.

  * * *

  The weather had taken a nasty turn, and it was predicted to last all week. “It’s going to be lashing rain,” the woman in the Galway Café told her. “We’re going to have to watch for floods.”

  Tara sat by the window watching the wind whip down the street. Soon the rain began to fall, splattering the pavement, fogging up the window. The bell dinged and an old man whisked in, shaking off droplets. It took Tara a minute to realize it was the fisherman who reeled up the head of the pig.

  “How ya, Richard,” the woman sang o
ut. “The usual?”

  “Ah sure lookit,” he said, and sat down. That must have meant yes, for the woman nodded and disappeared through the kitchen door. She returned shortly thereafter with tea and porridge.

  “You won’t be out on the boats today,” she said.

  “T’ank God,” he said. “I was supposed to take the coppers out today.”

  “Were you now? What for?”

  “It seems dat little piggy head I reeled up is what killed Emmet.”

  The woman gasped and so did Tara. “Is it now?”

  “Seems the indentations on his poor head are an exact match for the ear or something like dat. I’m not supposed to say a word.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing.” Suddenly the two heads snapped toward Tara, as if just realizing she was there.

  “Nasty weather,” Tara said.

  They nodded, then looked away, this time speaking in whispers. Tara’s mind was reeling. The pig was the murder weapon. Another piece in place, yet it still didn’t add up to a whole.

  Chapter 19

  “I’m afraid if you don’t sign the lease today, you are going to lose the deposit.” Tara listened three times to the voicemail left for Irish Revivals, then finally jotted down the address left by the female real estate agent. What lease? She was starting to grow weary of all the shoes dropping. If only they came in pairs and were her size. It was nearing the point in her day when she would normally take a walk. She would visit this real estate agent face-to-face, and get some fresh air at the same time. She’d tried to reach Carrig Murray, but he hadn’t returned her calls. Had George O’Malley told him of their visit to the Aran Islands? Maybe she would stop at the theatre before setting off for the real estate office. She would take the rusty red bike. She was starting to grow fond of it.

  * * *

  The theatre had a sign on it: IN REHEARSAL. DO NOT DISTURB. There weren’t any fencers in the tiny yard. She tried the gate, mainly out of curiosity, but it was locked. She imagined Danny finding out she was here after she’d sworn she was done investigating. The call from the artist in Donegal and from the real estate agent had stirred up her interest, making it nearly impossible to stop. She wasn’t hurting anyone, and she wouldn’t put herself in any danger. She wouldn’t steal anyone’s phone again, or push too many buttons. But she could hardly ignore it when people were reaching out to her. She pushed on, heading for the real estate office, following the Google directions.