Chapter 10
After drinking her mug of tea, gazing into the crackling fire and daydreaming about the ways she’d redecorate, Tara fell into a deep sleep on the sofa. It wasn’t until she felt the sun on her face, shining directly in through the windows, that she realized she’d spent the entire night. She bolted upright, thinking how foolish it was to spend the night where a man had just been murdered, given the murderer was on the loose.
Too late for that. It was morning, and she was alive. Her sundress was dry, and she quickly slipped it back on and made herself another cup of tea. She took her mug outside and gazed down at the bay. Light bounced over the surface like dancing diamonds. Tara had once seen a photography exhibit in which a woman photographed the same deli in New York City nearly every day for twenty years. The deli stayed the same as the people and seasons changed around it. Tara imagined doing the same with the Galway Bay. Every time she gazed at it, there was something new and exciting about it. It had been here long before her time on earth and would remain long after. She was the visitor on the planet, and for her the thought was a pleasant one. The morning air smelled crisp with just a pinch of salt.
She had an urge to get to the mill and start planning her day. As she was locking the door to the cottage, she looked down to see something odd resting on the ground. A rose stem lay on the ground, stripped of the rosebud. Just the thorns. Had this been here last night? It had been too dark to see.
Tara bent down and picked it up. It was deliberately left here, she was sure of it. Was it from Rose? Some kind of bizarre calling card or warning? Or was this place getting to her, sowing seeds of paranoia? Was she in danger of becoming like her uncle? She let the thorny stem lie where she found it and headed off for the mill.
There was a light breeze blowing across the bay. Tara stopped for coffee and scones, and besides folks offering their polite hellos, nobody bothered her. She wondered if Grace had noticed her absence last night. What did it matter? Tara was a grown woman. She’d slept much better at the cottage than she had at the Bay Inn. Could she move into the cottage? Should she? She had no idea how long she was going to be here and it would be nice to save the money.
As she was putting the key to the mill into the lock, she thought of the key from the inn, room 301, and how there had been a splotch of dark red at the base. She’d made a mental joke of it looking like dried blood—but what if it was? Who had stayed in that room last? Should she tell the police, or was she being completely ridiculous?
Grace Quinn would have a fit if Tara turned in one of her keys as evidence. That was a woman you did not want to cross. But Tara had to tell them—didn’t she? She certainly didn’t want to be accused of holding back evidence. Then again, who knows how long ago it happened?
“Hello?”
Tara whirled around to find an older woman in a tailored navy suit, clutching a white designer bag and blinking fake lashes. She had gray hair in a stylish bob—the kind some young girls now sported for fashion. It looked striking on this woman, who had light blue eyes like Tara, but that’s where the resemblance ended; everything else about her screamed money.
“Hello,” Tara said with a cautious smile. “Have you come to have a look around?” She wasn’t sure how common drop-ins were, but she wasn’t against letting in a potential buyer, even if it was a tad early.
The woman placed her hand over her heart as if the very thought was appalling. “I’ve come to have a look, alright. A look at where my husband wasted all his money. A look at the type of business a murderer owns.”
This was Emmet’s widow standing before her. Had the guards told her Johnny was the murderer, or was she making assumptions like everyone else? “Mrs. Walsh,” Tara said, keeping her voice measured, “I don’t think my uncle murdered your husband. But I hope to prove that, and regardless, I am very, very sorry for your loss.”
“Your uncle?” she said, her eyes blinking faster. “You sound American.”
“My mother moved to New York before I was born,” Tara recited. She felt as if her nationality was a handicap she constantly had to explain.
“I was hoping they had caught him by now.” Emmet’s wife looked around, as if Johnny might be hiding, waiting to ambush her.
“Would you like to come in?”
She shook her head. “No. I would not.”
Tara nodded. The woman turned and started to head off. “If you wish to sell back any of the items Emmet purchased, we’d be happy to take a look.” The minute it came out of her mouth Tara prayed the woman wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
Her eyes flicked over Tara as if trying to ascertain her worth. “Will you pay the purchase price?”
“If I can find the records, then yes, of course.” Was that bad business? She was glad Danny wasn’t around to chide her. She wouldn’t mind having a look around this castle that belonged now to the widow.
“I have no use for junk,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Anytime,” Tara said. Her instinct was to defend the salvage mill, insist that the items were valuable, not junk. But the woman was grieving and it wasn’t Tara’s place to start an argument. A thought occurred to her. “May I ask . . . did you find a typewriter in your husband’s home?”
Mrs. Walsh squinted. “Are you joking me? He loved technology. Owned every gadget there ever was. He didn’t have a typewriter. He used laptops, and iPads, and smartphones.”
“Maybe he kept one around for decoration.”
“I’ve been through every square inch. He collected a lot of odd things. Typewriters weren’t one of them. Why do you ask?”
“Someone left a typewritten note on the door a while back. I wondered if it might be him.”
“Not a chance.”
“Thank you. That’s helpful.”
Mrs. Walsh frowned as if helpful were the last thing she wanted to be. “When they find your uncle, he’d better be dead. Or I’ll make him wish he were.” She strode away, heels tottering on the rough terrain, backside swaying, handbag thumping against her hip.
* * *
After her encounter with Emmet’s wife, Tara didn’t feel like conducting any more business. If she believed Mrs. Walsh, as she was inclined to, then Emmet didn’t write that note. Who did? And where did it go? With everything else going on, she forgot to ask Sergeant Gable if the younger guard found it and bagged it as possible evidence. She bought her second scone of the day and found herself strolling into town, and when she realized she was near the Bay Inn she decided it couldn’t hurt to pop in and maybe, somehow, get another look at the key to room 301 and check on the red smudge. The check-in desk was unstaffed. Tara hurried up to her room and threw her belongings into her bag. She was grateful she’d packed light. She locked the door, then hurried down to the check-in desk. She was startled to see Grace at the bottom of the steps as if she was waiting for her.
“You didn’t come home last night.” It sounded like an accusation, as if Tara were a child, and Grace the stern headmaster.
Tara wanted to tell her she was a grown woman and she didn’t have to answer to her, but Grace was an elderly Irish woman and it just wasn’t in Tara’s nature to do that. “I had to help the guards.”
“Oh?” Grace’s face blossomed. “What’s the story?”
“I can’t say.” She didn’t know whether she could or not, but she wasn’t going to take the chance.
Grace’s gaze fell to Tara’s suitcase. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes. I’m going to stay at the cottage.”
“What cottage?”
“Johnny’s.”
Grace gasped. “It’s a crime scene.”
“The guards are finished with it and a professional cleanup crew has already come through. Danny will eventually replace the floors and I’m thinking of redecorating it. It will be as good as new.” Except—you know—there’s possibly traumatic energy hovering around and maybe Emmet Walsh’s ghost . . .
Grace shook her head and took out her rosary. Her lips started to move in a silent prayer.
“I’ll need the key back,” Grace said, going behind the check-in desk.
“Right.” Tara set her room key on the desk. “Speaking of keys . . .”
“Yes?”
“Can I see the room key for 301?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”
“There’s blood on the key.”
“There most certainly is not.”
“I noticed it when I first checked in. Remember you almost gave me room 301?”
Grace frowned, then turned to the cubbyholes. She removed the key to 301 and just stared at it. Tara could tell from her expression that the red stain was still there.
Tara leaned in. “I think we should look up who stayed in room 301 recently. What if they had something to do with the murder?”
Grace’s head snapped up. “You’re my first guest in ages. This is nonsense.”
Tara sighed. “Then why not tell the guards, let them figure out if it’s blood and whose blood, and then we’ll know for sure.”
“Know what for sure?”
“If the blood on that key has anything to do with the murder.”
“For all I know—you could be the killer.”
Was that what she really thought? Why was she this defensive over the key? “Then you’ll be relieved to know the guards have cleared me of the murder.”
Grace didn’t look convinced. “Why do you think that?”
“I wasn’t anywhere near the cottage when Emmet was murdered. I hadn’t even arrived yet.”
Grace pursed her lips. “What time would that be?”
“You’ll have to ask Detective Sergeant Gable.” She wasn’t going to leak information about the murder like the rest of the folks here. “Was anyone working the desk that morning?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “Myself and Alanna.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You said before me you hadn’t had a guest in ages. So why would the two of you be behind the desk bright and early?” Is Grace lying? Giving both herself and Alanna an alibi? After all, Alanna had told her she’d been at cookery school. Tara stepped forward. “Are you sure Alanna was here?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“That’s very strange.”
Grace paled. “What?”
“Alanna said she was in cookery school that morning.”
Grace morphed into a child who had been caught red-handed. She began to stroke her left hand with her right. “Morning. Yes. You’re right. I must have forgotten. She came to me after school. In the afternoon.”
“Yes. I know. I was here. But you just said—very specifically—that you and Alanna were here bright and early, standing at this desk.”
“And I corrected my mistake. I’m old. It’s not easy.” Like an award-winning actress she managed to paint a pitiful picture. Her shoulders drooped, as if each word she uttered was causing her to shrink.
“I just thought—maybe you were telling the truth, and Alanna was lying.” Or maybe you’re both lying. But why?
“Why are you asking questions?” Grace said. “Why don’t you go do touristy things? Take a ferry to the Aran Islands. Ride the Ferris wheel at Salthill.”
“I can’t,” Tara said. “I’m afraid of heights.” Thomas must have felt as if he were up so high.
“Off with you then,” Grace said. She used her hand to shoo her away.
Tara felt as if she’d been slapped. “You’ll call the guards about the key?”
“I most certainly will not.”
“I just want to find my uncle.”
“I can’t help you.” Grace turned away and avoided eye contact.
“Who’s the plumber you called to fix the leak?”
“Come again?” She focused on a spot on the counter as if hypnotized by it.
“Was there even a leak?”
“I believe you’re leaking right now.”
Grace didn’t know a thing about the leak. Either her memory was giving her problems or she was covering for Alanna.
“I’m just trying to find my uncle,” Tara said again, speaking softly, hoping to appeal to her sympathies.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Grace’s eyes remained hard. Tara nodded, and turned away.
* * *
After depositing her belongings in the cottage and having a spot of lunch, Tara made her way back to Rose’s caravan. The door was closed. Tara wanted to knock, but then thought better of it. If Rose was telling some poor soul his or her fortune, it wouldn’t help their mojo if she interrupted. Once she was back to the mill she decided to hop on the rusty red bicycle and go to Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre. Maybe Carrig Murray would be friendly and helpful. He could tell Tara what item he had asked Irish Revivals to find for the theatre, and whether or not he received it.
* * *
Nun’s Island did not look like an island. The Nun’s Island Experimental Theatre, a stone building with a fire-engine-red door, was set behind iron gates, also painted red. Between the gates and the front door, a patch of grass lay, flanked by a low stone wall. Hooded figures were fencing on the grass. In the middle of them reigned a tall, heavyset man dressed in a black suit with a red bow tie. He shouted encouragement as the women sparred.
“Hello?”
His head snapped up. The women kept fencing. “Oh. Hello,” he said in a booming voice. He followed it with a big smile, then immediately came to the stone wall to greet her. He extended his hand well before he reached her. “Carrig Murray, director.”
“Tara Meehan . . . tourist.” His grip was strong yet welcoming.
“Meehan?” he said. She saw the light dawn in his eyes.
“Johnny Meehan is my uncle.”
“Well, well.” He glanced at the actors. “Carry on. Or have a break. Practice your iambic pentameter. Whatever you’d like.” He hopped over the stone wall, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. “Why don’t we go inside the theatre. They’re allowing us use of it for this very special production.”
“Wonderful.”
They rounded to the front of the theatre and passed through the red iron gates. Soon they were in the simple yet functional theatre. The seats were the typical folding type on an incline, but instead of red they were blue. As a designer, Tara would have liked the seats to match the door and the gates, but she wasn’t here for work. She sat in an aisle seat and Carrig took the one on the aisle across from her.
He clasped his hands. “I’ve heard it’s been quite a trying visit for you. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He shook his head. “I’ve known Johnny Meehan a long time. I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Everyone else thinks it’s possible.”
“What do you think?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve never met him.”
Carrig nodded. “He wasn’t a perfect man. Who is?” He threw his hands up in the air. “As a man of the theatre, I know the complexities we all hide inside. No man is a total saint, nor a total sinner. But a murderer? There’s not a chance.” He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on top of his knees. He looked the part of a giant stuffed in a child’s seat.
“I’m so relieved you think he’s innocent,” Tara said.
“Well, I suppose there’s a chance. It’s always the one you least suspect, isn’t it? I would have never suspected him. It’s quite confounding. In my line of work, I have become an excellent judge of character. A connoisseur of human nature, if you will. Johnny Meehan—a murderer? I just don’t see it. Although it’s always good to go against typecasting. Now that I think of it—he could very well be our killer.” A light shone in his eyes and for a second it was as if he’d forgotten Tara was even there. “How can I help?”
“I found a note my uncle scribbled on one of his to-do lists. Your name is mentioned. Danny thought maybe my uncle was trying to find a particular item for your theatre?”
He nodded. Then stood. “Follow me.” He led her out of the theatre and to the grounds in the back. Here she could see the remnants of an old church.
“The order of the Poor Clare nuns,” he said. “Two are buried there.”
“I’ve heard a bit about them.”
They walked past the remains of the church. In a small clearing near it was a stone slab. The face of a man was carved into it. “Isn’t it remarkable?” Carrig said.
Tara didn’t know what to say. “It’s quirky.”
“It’s from the fifteenth century.”
“Wow.”
Carrig grinned. “And there’s a female slab just like this.”
“Ah.” She knew where he was going. “And you asked Johnny to find it for you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A friend of mine would love the female mate to this granite slab. In exchange, he was going to do a swap with me. I did ask Johnny to keep his eyes and ears open.” He nodded to the stone slab. “About a week ago he called me and said he had a lead. I was so excited. And then . . . well . . . you know yourself. I don’t suppose you know anything about it?”
“No,” Tara said. “I’ll check the warehouse for you.” This makes three missing items. What was going on? Although this time Johnny didn’t say he had the item, he said he had a lead on the item. This was all so frustrating. Carrig glanced at the actors, huddled in the yard. “I know you’re busy,” Tara said. “Thank you for your time. I’ll keep an eye out for the slab.”
“I doubt I’ve been much help.” Carrig began to walk her back to the gate. On the wall next to it, a theatrical poster hung by the door. HAMLET screamed across the top in red. Below it was a hooded figure with just the eyes peering out. WITH A TWIST was written in red below. Carrig noticed her reading it.
“You should come. The twist will blow you away.”
“In addition to the all-female cast?”
Carrig’s face fell. “Well. I guess the twist will only blow some folks away.”
“Sorry. I noticed them rehearsing in the Ring of Kelly and now here. Your secret is safe with me.”
“A female Hamlet,” he said, as if she were still in the dark.
“Wonderful.” He stared at her as if he were still not pleased with her reaction. She mustered up some enthusiasm. “ ‘To be or not to be,’ ” she said.
“Exactly. Exactly.” He grinned. “To be or not to be a woman.”
“Ah,” Tara said. “Plenty of drama.”
“Correct! Estrogen will be the undercurrent that will run through the entire play, making it sing electric!”
Tara’s jaw was getting sore from smiling, not to mention her neck from nodding. “What was the item you wanted to swap for the stone slab?”
Carrig stared into the distance as if the object had just materialized over the River Corrib. “A rare theatre light. An enormous globe held up by ornate wrought iron. I acquired it ages ago but was forced to sell it when times were lean. I sold it to a friend of mine on the condition that I would buy it back some day—with interest, of course. He knew it was temporary. It seems he’s grown fond of it. Refuses to give it back. Or . . . he’s not really much of a friend.”
Tara took notes. “What’s his name?”
“I’m afraid I don’t give out private information about my friends. That would be a sure way to lose them.”
“I’m just wondering if Johnny paid him a visit.”
“Perhaps the guards will figure it out.”
Her uncle had written Inis Mór in his notebook. Is that where this friend lived? Did his name start with a D? “Did you ask your friend if Johnny came to see him?”
“No.” He gestured to the actors, who upon seeing him had resumed their fencing practice. Every once in a while a grunt rang out as they parried, and sparred, and thrusted, or whatever the fencing lingo was. “I’ve been very busy.”
“When did Johnny come to see you?”
“I’d have to check my calendar. But it was over a month ago.”
“Do you know what this D might stand for?” Tara held out her notes. Carrig squinted, then patted his pockets.
“I don’t have my glasses. I’m afraid without them I have blindness of bat.” He smiled at his turn of phrase.
“It says Inis Mór, but then he wrote the letter D.”
“Perhaps it’s a G.”
Does his friend’s name start with a G? “You think it’s a G?”
His eyes darted around. “I have no idea.”
Now that he knew his play was no longer the focus of her visit, he was starting to tire of her. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“How did my uncle seem?”
“Grand.” Carrig’s eyes darted away from her.
Was he avoiding her gaze? Maybe Johnny wasn’t grand, but for some reason Carrig didn’t want to admit it. “Was he acting—I don’t know—paranoid, or angry?”
Carrig tugged at his bow tie as if it was cutting off his oxygen. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow. “No.” A pained smile broke over his face. For a connoisseur of human behavior, he wasn’t a very good liar.
She waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t. “I’m just trying to find out what really happened.”
Carrig Murray smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d be happy to comp you a seat for our production. Unless you’re going home soon?”
The last bit sounded hopeful. She was never going to be wanted around here. Especially if she continued to go around interrogating everyone. But how else was she supposed to find her uncle? “I’ll have to see.”
“Well, if you’re here for opening night, do let me know what you think.” He gave her a little bow, and headed back through the iron gates. She was halfway down the path when she realized she’d left her purse inside the theatre, on the floor near her seat. She hurried back in. As she entered and headed for the seat, she could hear Carrig’s voice, somewhere backstage, raised in anger.
“What do you think I told her? Nothing, George. Absolutely nothing. Exactly what you’re going to tell her if she comes to see you.” Tara froze. He had to be talking about her.
Was George the mysterious friend? Perhaps it’s a G. Well, that was one mystery solved. And he was calling him literally the second she left. Why?
She was debating what to do when suddenly he bolted onstage, and then stopped when he spotted her. His face was scarlet. He looked at her, then his phone. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“No. No. I left my purse.” Tara pointed at it, like an idiot.
He held up his phone. “That wasn’t about you. It was a personal matter.”
Tara snatched her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I didn’t hear a thing.” She turned to go.
“You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people.”
“I told you. I was getting my purse.”
“This is a welcoming place,” he said. “Until it’s not.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m beginning to realize that.” She let door slam behind her.