Chapter 8
In the morning, Tara discovered Danny had dropped keys off to her at the inn, solidifying her theory that he didn’t like to roll out of bed until the sun had been up a good while. Years of working for the corporate world in New York had made a morning person out of her. She opened the mill, then closed and locked the door behind her. She’d let Danny deal with potential customers; she wasn’t in a position to help any of them just yet. She headed straight for the tiny office. There was a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and stacked cardboard boxes. In the center drawer, she found a black notebook with notations about customers and sales. Perfect. Maybe there was a clue in here somewhere as to where her uncle was hiding.
But if he was innocent—why was he hiding? That was the one thought she couldn’t get out of her head. Maybe he’d witnessed the murder. Why not go to the guards? Maybe he was getting senile. Or maybe he too had been a victim. And the last option was the worst: He may not be hiding. He may be dead.
She didn’t want to work in the cramped office, so she took his appointment book and a notepad out to the patio. It was cool in the mornings and she wrapped her cardigan around her. A boat horn sounded in the distance, and the fresh air made it easier to think. What would her life have been like had she grown up here? Who would she have become? They could have at least spent their holidays in Ireland. Christmas and summer. She could have brought Thomas here. She did that too often, carved new memories of her son out of the blank spaces. What might have been. She had already imagined him here with her, and had even advanced his age. He would have been six. What did six-year-olds act like? He probably would have loved Hound, and the boats rocking on the bay, and the lively street performers. Pancakes with faces for breakfast. The park after, his hands sticky with syrup . . .
She couldn’t have changed it, could she? Her fate. It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault for taking their son to the park. The jungle gym was too high, his little hand was too sweaty—the drop too sudden—
If she’d been there, would she have thought to dry his hands off? Would she have been standing just below him, just in case, instead of five feet away chatting with Judy Bell? Stop it. Gabriel had tortured himself enough, she had tortured herself enough, and the vicious replays did nothing but threaten to swallow her whole.
She was grateful when Hound wandered over and got her mind off the past. He stood far enough away that she couldn’t touch him, but close enough for her to know he wanted her attention. “Hey,” she said. “Good morning.” He whined, then turned and trotted around the side of the mill. A few seconds later he poked his head out from the side of the building. Was he expecting her to follow?
She approached him, hoping to sneak in a pet. Instead, she smelled paint. She soon saw why. Across the building, in large sloppy black letters, was a painted message:
 
GO HOME YANKEE
 
She glanced at the hound. He was sitting up straight, tongue hanging out, happy to show her the writing on the wall. She was beginning to wonder if she should add him to the suspect list.
Tara called the guards from Johnny’s office. No one was available to speak with her, so she left a message. She found Hound wandering near an empty food bowl on the patio. A quick search turned up dog food in a closet near the patio. She fed him, and he even let her sneak a pet. She wondered if he missed Johnny. Or had he been a witness? If only Hound could speak.
She should take a picture of the side of the building. She retrieved her phone from her purse and took several shots. The smell of paint hung in the air. At least it isn’t blood.
She didn’t know what to do with herself and she was keyed up now, so she went inside Johnny’s office. For a second she just sat in his chair in front of his desk and wondered what the man was like. She finally opened his appointment book and flipped to the latest entry. It was dated a week before she arrived—which meant approximately a week before Johnny disappeared.
Wait. Everyone was just assuming Johnny disappeared at the exact same time that Emmet was murdered. But what if he’d been long gone? What if his disappearance was unrelated to Emmet’s murder? No, that couldn’t be. Danny said he came by recently to pick up his earnings. Unless he was lying . . . She focused on the entries:
 
Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre—
Carrig Murray
Cookery—Talk to A’s instructor
Tattoo Shop—Rose
Inis Mór—Talk to D
 
Several folks had already mentioned Carrig and his experimental theatre. He must be popular around here. She glanced at the second item. Didn’t Grace and Danny say that Alanna was going to cookery school? It stuck in Tara’s mind because of the phrasing. Americans would have said she was studying to be a chef or going to cooking classes. Cookery was the Irish way of phrasing it. Did the A stand for Alanna? Why on earth would Johnny Meehan want to speak with her instructor? Had he spoken with the instructor? Did Alanna know about it?
Tattoo shop. Rose. Did this have something to do with the fortune-teller? Or was Johnny going to get a tattoo of a rose?
From her studies of Ireland, Tara knew Inis Mór was one of the Aran Islands. She’d planned on taking a sightseeing trip there before going home. Who was D? Did it stand for Danny?
Tara headed back outside and made her way around to the side of the building. Did Alanna paint this message? Or her father? Tara glanced at the second floor. All she could see of Alanna’s flat was a window, but the shade was pulled down tight. Alanna could have slipped down in the middle of the night, or the crack of dawn, to paint the message. This side of the building was up against a small wooded area and the bay. The only witnesses would be the gulls circling overhead, or the swans gliding on the bay.
And if it wasn’t Alanna, then Johnny was at least right about one thing. Someone was mucking about the mill at night. Alanna shouldn’t be living up there alone. Tara was going to have to make sure a security system was installed right away.
Tara entered the mill and took the stairs going up to the second floor, where there was nothing but a single door. She knocked. No sound came from within. Her hand hovered over the knob. She couldn’t just open it. She knocked again. “Alanna?” She was probably at school. Tara wished she had the key and a good excuse to enter.
Tara jogged back down the steps and stood, wondering what her next moves should be.
She was going to have to pay Gypsy Rose another visit. Ask the sorceress if she knew where they could find Johnny Meehan. See how good her psychic powers really were. She turned the corner to go back to Johnny’s office when there came a rap on the front door. She opened it to find Detective Sergeant Gable and a female guard waiting.
“That was fast,” Tara said. She wasn’t even sure if they were going to get her message.
Detective Sergeant Gable handed her a key. “We were just finishing with the cottage.”
Tara stared at the key. “What’s this?”
“The key to your uncle’s cottage. You’re going to need to hire someone.” He handed her a business card. It was for a crime-scene cleanup company. She shuddered. “Show me.”
She led the guards to the side of the building. There was a moment of silence as they all took it in. Gable folded his arms across his chest. “Making friends already.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” Tara joked. She was treated with puzzled looks. Didn’t they get it? She thought the Irish invented sarcasm. It went so well with Guinness.
“It’s not bad advice,” Gable said, flashing a smile.
“You told me not to leave town,” Tara replied.
“So I did.” He instructed the other guard to photograph the side of the building. “Have you found any cans of paint, brushes, the like?”
“No,” Tara said. “But I didn’t think to look.”
“I’ll give a quick search with your permission.”
“By all means.” She followed him as he began to walk around the building. “What about the cottage? Did you find the murder weapon? Fingerprints? Signs of a struggle?” She slammed into him. Darn it. She hadn’t realized he’d come to a stop. He was a solid man.
“Who are you?” he said. “Feckin’ Nancy Drew?”
“I just want to find my uncle. And whoever did this.”
“Are you saying that you think the murderer is threatening you now?”
“I’m just asking you to consider the possibility that my uncle might be innocent. What if he’s a victim too?”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She sighed and stopped following him. She waited by the front door until they were finished, so that she could lock up.
He told her he didn’t find any paint cans or brushes. “Do you want me to look inside?”
“I’ve been through the mill several times,” she said. “But I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
He suggested she get a security system. She nodded her agreement. “If your uncle tries to contact you in any way—you need to call us. Tell me you understand.”
“Of course,” Tara said. He eyed her. She kept silent. He told her she could pick up a copy of the report from the Garda office. She thanked them politely, knowing it was too late to sway them. If her uncle was innocent, he had no one to fight for him but her. If he was guilty, she would turn him in herself.
* * *
Hound followed her to the cottage. This time the door was closed. Footprints trampled the ground, and remnants of crime-scene tape hung from the door like tinsel left long after the Christmas tree has been dragged out. Would Johnny even want to live in this cottage when he returned? Such a small cottage, she couldn’t imagine staying inside after someone had been murdered. She could barely bring herself to enter. She opened the door but didn’t step inside right away. It couldn’t hurt to let fresh air in. Maybe she could redecorate it, breathe some peace and new life into it. She could start with a vision board. It would help her focus; she was jittery when she wasn’t designing. She made a mental note to look for an art shop in town so she could buy some canvases and materials, imagining a cottage makeover. Of course she wouldn’t make any major changes while her uncle was still missing, but the activity alone would be relaxing. She heard a whine and turned to see Hound standing a few feet away. He wouldn’t come any closer. She got the feeling he was on edge. “You were here,” she said. “Poor thing.”
She entered the cottage, stepping over the blood in the entry, then scanned the interior. What was she doing here? Gable was right, she needed to hire the crime-scene cleanup crew. She didn’t have it in her to do this. She stared at her name on the wall. Had Emmet Walsh done that? How was that possible? Somehow, someone knew she was coming. Tara couldn’t imagine who—or how—but the writing was literally on the wall. And why were all the letters at different heights? It was probably the designer in her—imagine picking on the writings of a dying man. Still . . . it was odd. Just like the typed note. She glanced at the sofa and coffee table, the small kitchen table. The cottage was tidy. Dishes were neatly stacked in the drying rack. It looked like a lot of dishes for a single man. Had he recently had a guest over? Perhaps Rose? If there had been any clues, the guards would already have them as evidence. She took a photo of her name on the wall, and hurried out. Hound was waiting for her down the path. He followed her back to the warehouse.
She found Danny on the side of the building, power-spraying the graffiti off the stone façade with a hose he must have rented for the occasion. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I checked with the station,” Danny yelled over the water. “They’ve documented it. No need for it to stay a second longer.”
“Thank you.”
“This isn’t the spirit of Galway. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t even realize it was about me at first.”
Danny laughed. “Did you not?”
“I don’t think of myself as a Yankee,” Tara said. He tilted his head in confusion. This was one cultural chasm she would have to leave yawning open for now. She had bigger things to worry about than the fact that one silly song hundreds of years ago forever cemented Americans as Yankee Doodle Dandies. “I just came from the cottage.”
“And?” He shut off the spray and stepped back. She handed him the business card for the cleaning crew. Her look must have conveyed it all, for Danny nodded and tucked the card in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“I was thinking of giving it a makeover,” Tara said. “When Johnny returns it will need everything, including new floors.”
“I happen to be handy,” Danny said. “If you pick out the materials I can lay the floor.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Consider me hired.”
“The detective also suggested we get a security system for the mill.”
Danny nodded. “I’ve been saying that to Johnny for ages.”
“Can you set it up?”
A look of worry crossed his face. “Johnny won’t be happy about it if he returns.” He caught himself. “When he returns.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Tara said. “Grace said the business also belonged to my mother.”
Danny took this in stride. “I’ll see to it.”
He was a good employee. But someone had been mucking about the mill. And someone had killed one of their wealthiest clients. Was there any connection? “Did my uncle ever mention my name to you?”
Danny frowned. “No. Why?”
She hesitated. Besides her, only the guards new about the message in the cottage. Although soon the cleanup crew would know. “I just wondered.” She thought of the appointment book. “When you’re finished, I’d like to take you to lunch, ask you about a few items in Johnny’s appointment book.”
“Well then,” Danny said, flashing a smile. “I’ll try not to be too flattered.”
* * *
They went to one of Danny’s favorite restaurants by the bay. The outside was made of stone and wood, the window trim and door painted a vibrant green. The interior resembled a sparse beach house: white walls with blue trim at the top, rustic wooden floors and matching tables, and aside from a few potted trees and seafaring photographs on the wall, the main attraction was out the large windows—a front-row seat to the bay.
Once they were served, they fell into a comfortable silence. Tara was too in love with her fish and chips to speak. He watched her with an amused smile.
“So,” she said when there wasn’t a crumb left on her plate, “I heard you’re a ladies’ man.” A surprised look flashed across his handsome face. It was fun to see.
“Now who would say a t’ing like that?” His tone was playful, but she could see a pinch of concern behind his attentive eyes.
“Oh, just everyone I’ve met who knows you.”
“Bachelors aren’t trusted in Ireland. If we don’t settle down, have a wife, two young ones, then we must be trouble. I would think a single, independent American woman like you would get me.”
“I’m not saying you have to be married with kids,” Tara said.
“As long as I’m looking for one, is that it?”
There was a bite lurking underneath his smile. She felt as if she’d lost control of this conversation. “I was just teasing.”
“You were passing on what you’ve heard. Don’t be so quick to believe everything you hear.”
“Noted.”
“What about you? Where are your husband and kids?” She should have thought this through. The pain of losing Thomas sliced through her, condensing three years into three minutes. Before she could stop them, tears were pooling in her eyes. She loathed crying in public. Danny registered it all quickly. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m only messin’. What did you find in Johnny’s office?”
She welcomed the change of subject and slid the appointment book over to him. She wiped her eyes while he buried his face in the appointment book and pretended not to notice. “Look at the last entry. What can you tell me?”
Danny took his time. He tapped the first item. “Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre.”
“Nun’s Island,” Tara said. “That’s a neighborhood?”
“Yes. Just like Salthill. All in this area.”
“Fun name. Why is it called that?”
“It’s just a bad habit.” It took her a moment to realize it was a joke. Then she laughed, and so did Danny. She liked the wrinkles around his eyes when he did. “Ah, back in the day there were nuns alright. The order of Poor Clare nuns. They took refuge here during troubling times.”
“Do you know why this theatre is on the list?”
“I think Carrig was looking for a prop for his current play. You’ll have to ask him whether he got it or not.”
Tara made a note. “And the next one?”
Danny frowned at the Cookery Instructor entry. “I have no idea.”
“Do you think he’s talking about Alanna?”
“Why in the world would he want to talk to her cookery instructor?”
“Do you know the name of her school?”
Danny stared at her. “The Galway Cookery School.”
Tara laughed. “Okay. I will look them up.”
“What do you care?” Danny asked. His tone had shifted, just like the Irish winds across the bay.
“Excuse me?”
“You never even visited the man. Not once.”
Tara set her jaw. That wasn’t her. That was her mother. But that was private family business. She wasn’t going to say anything negative about her mother to this man. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know a single thing about her. She stood and reached for her purse. “I need some air.” She started to fumble for her money when Danny’s hand shot out, stopping her.
“It’s on me.”
Tara shook her head. “I asked you to lunch. It’s on me.”
Danny looked horrified. “You’re the guest here. She sighed. “Go on. Get some air. I’ll be out in two shakes,” he said.
* * *
Tara was standing on the footpath soothing herself, watching boats bobbing on the water, when Danny came up behind her. “I’m sorry.”
She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m sorry too.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“You’re not wrong though.” She wished he was. She wished her mother and Johnny had remained close, she wished she knew the man who was her mother’s brother. She wished her son was alive, and human beings couldn’t kill each other. That was the problem with wishing: Once one started, it was impossible to stop. “I should probably just go home.”
“Sure, lookit. I didn’t mean to suggest you were responsible for your mother and Johnny’s falling out.”
Danny was staring at her again, an intense focus she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She didn’t know she would ever feel anything like this again. She didn’t know if she wanted to. Grace’s warning floated in front of her. A player. Watch yourself...
“Did he ever say why he and my mother fell out?” She made a point of not looking at him.
“I know Johnny was a man in a lot of pain. I don’t know for sure if it had anything to do with you and your mother.”
She knew the pain. She’d seen it on her mother’s face nearly every day of her life. Not constant. Her mother could put on a mask and keep it there longer than anyone she knew. But once in a while it would slip. And for a second not even her mother could hide the emotion carved into her face—grief.
Danny edged closer. “You’ve never mentioned your father. Is he an Irishman too?”
“I don’t know,” Tara said. “My mother said she wanted to write ‘virgin birth’ on my birth certificate. She would never tell me his name.” Tara always assumed the identity of her father was another reason her pregnant, unwed mother had fled prying Irish eyes.
“Ah, the Irish,” Danny said, as if reading her mind.
“They do like their secrets.”
Indeed. And some of them could kill.