A slim woman with red hair was just coming out of Galway Properties when Tara hurried up to her, ducking her head so that the hood of her raincoat wouldn’t blow off in the harsh wind. “I’m Tara Meehan,” she said to the woman. “I work at Irish Revivals.”
“Heather Milton,” the woman said. “Let’s get inside.” Tara propped her bike against the building and followed Heather into her office, where she opened a drawer in her desk and set a plain file on top of it. “The owner didn’t want to wait any longer, and I can only imagine what you’re going through,” she said. “But I think you’re doing the right thing. It’s a fantastic spot and I wouldn’t want you to lose the deposit.”
“Right,” Tara said. She was getting way too adept at faking her way through conversations.
“We’ll need the first and last month.” She pushed the file toward Tara.
“I’m sorry,” Tara said. “But I have no idea what my uncle put a deposit down on exactly.”
“Oh,” Heather said. “Silly me. I just assumed his employee filled you in.”
Tara felt a bit of a jolt. His employee? Danny. Tara’s mind flashed to Danny telling her all about his idea for opening a retail shop. Had he actually taken steps to do that behind Johnny’s back? Heather was looking at her sideways. “I’m sure someone did,” Tara said, flashing a smile. “I must confess—sometimes it looks like I’m listening but I’m drifting off, worried about other things. I heard mention of it, I’m sure. But I’d love it if you’d refresh my memory.”
Heather tilted her head. “It’s a lease for a retail space on Quay Street.” She said it slowly, as if Tara were a troublesome child.
“And my uncle wanted to rent this space?”
“I already told you. He didn’t come to me personally—”
“I understand—”
“I said we needed Johnny’s signature. But yours will do, seeing as how you’re an owner.” She returned a smile. “Unless those are just rumors?”
Tara was not going to confirm nor deny. “Did you ever talk to Johnny about this?”
She shook her head. “This all happened the day before he went missing.”
“The day before?”
“I was first contacted a few weeks prior—I’m not saying there’s any correlation between the events. I’m only stating that we were waiting for very specific spots. This the first opening in a high-traffic area. Not far from here.”
Had Danny mentioned this to Johnny? Or maybe Johnny had found out and—
Danny kills Emmet? No. None of this made any sense.
“I’d like to see the space first,” Tara said.
“Of course.” She opened a drawer and removed a set of keys. “Are you ready to brave the rain again?”
“After you.”
* * *
As they neared the space for rent, Tara had to admit that Danny had picked the perfect location, sandwiched between a pub and a gift shop. It had a green door with a gorgeous lion’s-head knocker, and the façade was limestone. Tara could already see a sign hanging above: Irish Revivals. Five hundred square feet of open space lay before her, and every inch looked usable, a decorator’s dream. French doors along the back wall led to a small garden. A fireplace accented the back wall, its poker leaning next to the empty mouth like a fork snuggled up to its plate. Excitement zipped through her as she imagined selecting her favorite pieces from the warehouse and catering to tourists. She could imagine the garden filled with sculptures, fountains, and seating, customers mingling freely among them.
“It’s lovely,” Tara said. She had been going over the operating budget. They would probably have to take out a loan to make this second location work. There were still monies in reserve, but at the moment there were no new clients. Although . . . she could open this shop right away. It was summer, a busy time for tourists. At the least she could probably generate enough to keep up the rent until they found Johnny or . . . didn’t . . .
But that still didn’t explain why Danny had kept this from her.
“We have to get the lease signed today or we lose it,” Heather said.
“I’ll sign.”
“Good. I didn’t know how you were going to get that thing out of here.”
Tara had no idea what she was talking about until Heather Milton stepped to the side. Behind her, in the farthest corner of the store, was a giant stone slab with a face cut into it. Unlike the male face she’d seen in Carrig’s garden, this one had eyelashes. Her mouth dropped open.
“Who brought this here?” she asked. Please don’t let it be Danny.
It was Heather’s turn to look startled. “I assumed someone from Irish Revivals did.”
“Did you see the person who brought this here?”
“No. I only noticed it the other day.” Her eyes flicked around the space. “To be honest, you were going to get an earful about it if you hadn’t signed the lease. I can’t have clients breaking into properties.”
“This item has been missing from our inventory. I don’t think it was put here for us. I think someone was trying to hide it from my uncle.” Slowly torturing him? Making him think he was crazy? Ruining his reputation? Tara didn’t know that for sure. She just didn’t like this woman jumping to the worst conclusions. “Did you give an employee of Irish Revivals the key to this shop?”
“I did not.”
“Then you’re right. Someone must have broken in.”
Heather sighed. “It’s possible one of my employees was a bit careless with the key.”
“Careless how?”
“He gave it away when I was out of the office. Clients are always asking for early access to measure, take photos, plan. If we trust them, we often say yes. He said he didn’t realize the contract had yet to be finalized.” She gave a tense smile. “No harm done. As long as you’re taking the space.”
Tara continued to take in the space. The gorgeous stained-glass window high above the fireplace: intricate flowers and geometric shapes in vibrant colors. Lion’s-head door knocker. A fire poker. Stained-glass window. The granite slab . . .
These were all the missing items Rose had rattled off. She’d almost forgotten. The ones that Johnny had been raving about. Oh, Danny. What have you done?
Heather Milton’s high heels clicked as she walked to the French doors and threw them open. “As I thought.” Tara inched forward as Heather turned to her. “Last time I was here, the previous real estate agent had left the French doors unlocked. That is why the owner should have listed exclusively with me. I’d never be so careless.”
“Anyone could have snuck in,” Tara said. It wasn’t necessarily Danny. But the items were from the salvage mill.
Heather stared at the sculpture. “I just assumed this item belonged to Irish Revivals.” Her gaze fell on Tara. “If it doesn’t—I’ll make sure to have the owner remove it.”
“It’s ours.”
Heather looked at the slab as if it was a personal affront. “Hideous, isn’t it?”
“I have a client who’s eager for it,” Tara said, quite liking it. “In a garden perhaps.” If she could get the slab to George O’Malley maybe she could find out why Carrig Murray was after the theatre light. That had been bothering her. Why sell the light then be desperate to get it back? George said he’d barely had it. Dust hadn’t even settled on it yet. It wasn’t as if Carrig had his own theatre in which to display it. Desperate was the word he’d used with her. The question was why.
“Yes, yes, I can see it in a garden.” Heather nodded with the look of a person weary of trying to understand the strange tastes of other people. “Let’s zip back to the office and get her done.”
“Yes,” Tara said. “But first things first.” She stepped toward the French doors and turned the lock with a decisive click.
* * *
Tara was walking back to the warehouse with a copy of the signed lease in her purse when someone stepped up, blocking her path. Alanna stood in front of her, hair tucked into a baseball cap, decked out
in a tracksuit.
“There you are,” Alanna said. “I have to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way back to the warehouse,” Tara said. “Do you want to talk there?”
“Actually,” Alanna said, “I think we should go to the inn.”
“The inn? Whatever for?”
Alanna took Tara’s arm, whirled her in the other direction, and started walking. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“I got that already.”
“Remember when you first checked in and Grace was going to give you room 301?”
“Yes.” The key flashed before her, blood on the stem.
“There wasn’t a leak,” Alanna said just as the memory came back to Tara.
“Okay . . .”
“Carrig Murray had stayed in the room the night before, and I hadn’t had time to clean it.”
They entered the inn, and Alanna snatched the key to room 301. Why hadn’t it been there when Tara tried to get it? She could hardly ask, given the fact that she shouldn’t be trying to get her hands on hotel keys that didn’t belong to her. They headed up the stairs. Tara tried to glance at the key to see if there was still a red splotch on it, but it was tucked into Alanna’s palm.
“I know you were there when the fisherman pulled something strange out of the bay. What was it?” Alanna asked.
Tara wasn’t the only one trying to get answers. “The guards have asked me to keep that information private.”
“Rumor has it it was the head of the cast-iron pig. And that it’s the murder weapon.”
“Again. I can’t comment.”
“I’m just saying that the reason I haven’t come forward with this earlier is that I had no idea the wee pig was a murder weapon. It didn’t look sinister then—only a tad strange. But Carrig is a theatre director, he’s always been a tad strange.”
“Why did he stay here that night?” They were almost to the third floor.
“I wasn’t even on duty,” Alanna said. “I’d left one of my schoolbooks here, so I was at the desk early to fetch it.”
Is that why Grace insisted they were both at the desk that morning?
“Okay. And?”
“Carrig hurried in when Grace was in the kitchen. He was a mess.” Alanna stopped at the door to room 301.
“A mess—how?”
“He had streaks of dirt on him—and . . .” She swallowed. “What looked like blood on his shirt.”
That would explain the blood on the key. “Did you ask him what it was?”
“Oh, yes. He said it was fake blood. That made perfect sense—they’re doing Hamlet. I mean, there’s a lot of bloodshed in plays by the Bard.”
“There is indeed.” If Tara knew anything about theatre types, they were night owls, not morning people. “Why was he here so early?”
Alanna shrugged. “Theatre people have their own way about them. For all I knew, they pulled an all-nighter.” She opened the door. It was neat. Identical to room 305 except the windows overlooked the building next door. There was no one who could see in.
“Why did you make up this business about a leak?”
“What was I supposed to say? Grace would have been on my case about not cleaning it. I’m doing my best balancing cooking school, and work, and boxing.” Alanna went to the dresser and stood in front of it. She turned back to Tara. “I think we’re going to need to call the guards, but I need you to promise me something first.”
“I can’t make promises until I know what you’re on about.”
“I just don’t want them to know I’ve known about this for a while,” Alanna said. “I mean, they’ll figure out that it was left after Carrig stayed—but can’t we just pretend that I just discovered it?”
Tara took a step forward, although she was somewhat afraid of what was waiting in that drawer. “Discovered what?”
“If I get in trouble, me da is never going to let me box again.”
Tara pushed past her and opened the dresser drawer. There, sitting on its bottom with hands and legs splayed out, was a cast-iron piggy, missing its head, covered in blood.
Chapter 20
“This afternoon?” Tara repeated when Alanna clicked off her mobile and gave her a look. They were standing outside the inn, as if to separate themselves from the grisly discovery in room 301. Alanna had just phoned the guards, and apparently they were in no hurry to rush over and investigate.
Alanna threw up her hands. “That’s what they said.”
Tara knew they had other cases, but she wanted them to hurry over straightaway. “You’re going to wait here for them?”
“Yes. I had to cancel class, but the guards want me here.”
When Alanna was putting the key to room 301 back into the cubby, Tara was finally able to ascertain that the splotch of red was still visible. If the guards could prove the blood belonged to Emmet, and Alanna could prove that Carrig had handled the key, and the rest of the murder weapon was found in room 301, this case was solved.
Except for the “why” . . .
Why on earth would Carrig Murray kill Emmet? Over the granite slab? Had Emmet learned that Carrig was inflating the budget? Was Carrig simply pocketing the extra money? But how would Carrig know that Emmet was at Johnny’s cottage? Perhaps Carrig found out Emmet was coming to collect his pig that morning. He could have sent Johnny off to fetch an item. Left the note on the door to the mill, only to lie in wait for him at the cottage. Far-fetched for a normal person perhaps. But Carrig Murray thrived on drama.
It was also Carrig who had mentioned the stone slab—and warned George O’Malley that Tara would be coming. Had Carrig hidden the stone slab in the retail shop? Why? She didn’t have all the answers. Why were the guards going to wait so long to come check it out? What if Carrig somehow got wind of this discovery and skipped town? The Irish grapevine was swift.
The stone slab. Tara had the perfect excuse to pop in and visit Carrig Murray. She would let him know she’d found the slab.
“Are you going to keep my secret?” Alanna said.
“If someone asks me I’m going to tell the truth,” Tara said. “But I don’t think the guards are going to go squealing to your father. You didn’t know Carrig was doing anything wrong. I can see how you would believe it was fake blood.” Tara reached out and patted Alanna’s shoulder.
“I’ve worked too hard to lose my progress,” Alanna said.
“You’re a grown woman,” Tara said. “Your father can’t stop you from boxing. He can’t make you finish cookery school. You made an honest mistake. Believe me. The best thing you can do is tell the whole truth.”
Alanna nodded, but she still looked ambivalent. “Do you think I’d be in any trouble? For not saying something?”
“Again. You didn’t know about the murder, the time of the murder, or the murder weapon until now—right?” Alanna nodded. “But as soon as you did—you said something. I don’t see why you’d be in any trouble.”
“Thank you.” Alanna took an awkward step, and then threw her arms around Tara.
As soon as the hug was over and Alanna was still looking at Tara with fondness, she cut in. “Did you paint ‘Go Home Yankee’ on the mill?”
Red blotches broke out on Alanna’s pale face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was such a jerk.”
“Where is it now?”
“Where is what?”
“The paint and the can?”
“In my room.”
“Don’t do it again.” Tara took off down the footpath.
“Where are you going?” Alanna called after her.
She was going straight to the theatre to confront Carrig Murray. She wasn’t about to tell Alanna that. “Back to the mill. Call me when the guards are finished.”
* * *
The red gate at the theatre was standing open. But when she reached the front door, a typed note awaited her:
REHEARSAL CANCELED DUE TO PERSONAL EMERGENCY
Tara stopped and stared at it. That was odd. Th
ere was no way Carrig could have known Alanna had called the guards, was there? She expected the door to the theatre to be locked, but when she pulled on it, it swung open. She headed for the stage. As soon as she crossed the lobby, she knew something was terribly wrong. The red velvet curtain at stage-right lay crumpled on the stage, forming a little hill. Tara hurried down the aisle. As she drew closer, she saw an arm and a leg sticking out of the curtain. “Hello?” She ran toward it, taking the stairs up to the stage two at time. Sticking out of the fallen curtain was the handle of a large knife. She threw her hand over her mouth. A large head protruded from underneath the curtain. Carrig Murray. Stabbed in the back from behind the curtain. Whoever the killer was, he or she was a coward, preferring not to look his or her victim in the eye.
The only time Tara had seen a knife this big was when she watched the juggler on the unicycle. Was that one of his knives? If it was, and if Tara were a detective, she would eliminate him immediately. No one in his right mind would leave such a recognizable knife in a person’s back unless they wanted to be arrested for the murder.
She didn’t notice the business card or the blood until she drew closer. The blood had blended in with the red velvet curtain, his final cloak of death. The shocks kept coming. Lying on top of Carrig’s head was a business card. Tara leaned in to read it:
IRISH REVIVALS JOHNNY MEEHAN—OWNER
Tara gasped and turned away. Her uncle hadn’t done this. Had he? If he had, he was insane. Taunting the police. Maybe it was him. Everyone said he hadn’t been right in the head, she just didn’t want to believe it. Her own mother hadn’t gotten along with him, and Margaret Meehan’s huge heart had welcomed almost everyone into her life.
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