thirty-four

Danny stooped for a closer look at a wooden stave, battered but smooth from years of use. At one end of the stave, a sharp metal blade resembling a garden spade formed a ninety-degree angle with a wing that jutted out like a spear, the purpose of which was to cut square corners. A camera flash lit up blood and rust almost indistinguishable from each other.

Danny silenced his ringing mobile and backed out of the lean-to to make room for the scenes of crime team, bumping into O’Neil as he did so. O’Neil peered over the photographer’s shoulder. “What the bloody hell is that?”

“A sleán. Antique turf cutter,” Danny said.

“I’ll check on Merrit.”

“You stay here,” Danny said.

Danny passed two huddled sheep and ran against the sideways rain into the cottage. Merrit sat on a bed in one of the bedrooms, contemplating a section of painted wall. The musky chemical scent of fresh paint brought a welcome change from soggy sheep. “Did you know you can cut a large onion in half and leave it in a fresh-
painted room overnight, and voilà, no paint smell when you throw the onion away the next day?” she said.

Danny sat down next to Merrit. “That’s a nice color you’ve chosen.”

She cocked her head at the dusky rose color. “It’s called Raspberry Parfait, and it’s too pink. It’s utter crap, in fact. I hate it.” She dunked the paintbrush she held into a bucket of clean water. “I’d just been thinking about how complicated life is, you know?”

He did, indeed.

“Then I find that thing out there.” She waved her hand. “I’m sure Alan will be thrilled when he finds out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t recognize it? I may be wrong, but I think it’s supposed to be hanging on his wall of old farm tools, along with the photos.”

She was right. He should have recognized it himself. “Good eye,” he said.

“What about the Easter festival?” Merrit said. “Liam’s looking forward to it. Can we still do it?”

“Yes, but fair warning that you’ll attract a larger crowd once the news about the murder weapon—if it is the murder weapon—spreads.”

“Yippee, but we both know it’s the murder weapon. Someone decided the lean-to would be a good place to hide it. Why here? It doesn’t make sense.”

But things always made sense to the perpetrator. The problem was figuring out the perpetrator’s perspective.

“You’ve had more people coming and going lately,” Danny said. “Visiting Liam.”

“Exactly,” Merrit said. “Why not throw the weapon in a bog?”

“Unless you want it to be found.”

“Lucky I’m the one who found it, then.”

“Why’s that?”

“Those are Nathan’s painting supplies. He’s the one painting the cottage.”

“Fancy that,” Danny muttered.

“He wouldn’t incriminate himself.”

Given Nathan’s shaky history, maybe that was precisely what he’d do. Or maybe he thought no one would find the turf cutter in the shed. He didn’t strike Danny as a criminal mastermind.

“Someone trying to throw the blame on Nathan?” Merrit said. “Or maybe on Annie?”

“Why Annie?”

“They’ve been meeting up here in the cottage.”

There was a new wrinkle. Danny returned to the kitchen without saying goodbye to Merrit. A muted buzzing caught his attention. He answered his mobile, still lost in thought.

“Jaysus and Mary wept,” Marcus said, “where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you.”

Danny snapped back to the present. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ellen. You need to come to the hospital. Now. Her heart stopped.”