Chapter Seven
Open Bar
The next day the storm raged on, but a guard stopped by to inform them that the pub had sorted out their generator and was open. They would serve as a community center; if folks needed help, they could find it there. The grapevine worked just as well as mobile phones, for by the time Tara and the gang arrived at the pub, it was already jammers. Then again, it was a cozy one-room affair, so it didn’t take many to feel full. The ambiance was festive, like Saint Paddy’s Day in New York City. Tara was startled to see a full-sized cutout of Dave and Noel by the door. In the cutouts they were grinning, and each had one foot up mid-tap and their arms around each other. Noel’s gold cross was gleaming.
Sergeant Kehoe had sat with them at the cottage the night before to get their statements, and to his credit he’d taken detailed notes. Tara couldn’t help but wonder what kind of sick game Captain Mickey was playing. She had given him the benefit of the doubt earlier—but to lie to the guards about Noel being dead? She could find no excuse for that, other than he had planned on escaping the guards before the truth caught up with him. Where had he hidden the body, and why? He couldn’t possibly think his word was going to stand up against all of theirs, could he?
“Electricity,” Rachel said, literally hopping up and down. “I love electricity.”
“Thanks be to the heavens for generators,” Tom said as the lads immediately bellied up to the bar. Mark and Danny followed Tom, but Dave hung back with the women.
“Are you okay?” Tara asked, touching him on the shoulder. He was staring at the cutout, and he flinched when he felt her touch. She withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a ridiculous question.”
“You’re alright, luv,” Dave said. “I’m just not looking forward to telling them that our act is canceled because my brother is not only dead, he’s missing.” He shook his head. “Usually people go missing before they’re found dead, but Noel always did dance to his own tune.” He gave a wry laugh. “I know it’s not funny, I’m just . . .”
“Coping,” Tara said.
“Coping,” Dave agreed. “Trying to cope.”
Tara couldn’t help but scour the crowd for Captain Mickey. His boat was not far from here. She had an urge to sneak out and go down to the boat, but if she was caught, it would only make her look suspicious. Did Captain Mickey really think the guards were going to believe him over seven eyewitnesses? Although there was no captain in the crowd, Tara did catch sight of a priest. He was sitting at a back table with a pint. She tapped Dave on the arm. “Noel was a practicing Catholic, is that right?”
Dave nodded. “I teased him about it. But now I’m so glad he had his faith.”
Tara pointed out the priest. “Maybe you’d feel better if he said a little prayer for your brother?” Tara didn’t usually disturb priests, but Dave could use any comfort he could get.
“Do you think he would?”
“Let’s find out.” The two of them pushed through the crowd until they reached the priest. He was sitting in front of a cup of tea.
“Father?” Tara said.
He turned and nodded. He was younger than Tara expected, somewhere in his twenties. “Father Nolan,” he said. “How can I be of service?”
“My friend Dave here just lost his brother.”
“Poor lad,” Father Nolan said. “Shall we pray?”
“If you’d be willing,” Dave said. “But I must admit I don’t know any prayers by heart. Or Bible verses. But my brother did. He was a big fan.”
Father Nolan stared at Dave. “You’re one of the Carrigan brothers.”
“Pleased to meet you, Father.”
“You don’t mean—your twin brother—”
“Yes.” Dave swallowed through a lump in his throat. “He was killed yesterday, Father. We think it was foul play.”
Father Nolan put his hand on his heart. “My child,” he said, despite the fact that they were very close in age. “Let us go find somewhere quiet to talk.”
Tara watched them go, somewhat pleased that he’d understood what was needed. She hoped the guards had seen her crime scene photos by now. Maybe they were grilling Captain Mickey as they spoke. Maybe he would be arrested before the storm was over. That would be a reason to celebrate.
A trad session was gathering in a far corner, and chairs were being arranged in a circle as instruments were lifted from cases. Danny was waving frantically to Tara from the bar, and at first Tara’s hopes were raised that he somehow had learned something about the case. Instead, he was jabbing his finger at a table that had just cleared.
“On it,” Breanna said, and she practically sailed in the air as she made a dive for the table.
Rachel glanced at Tara. “They’re hardcore about their drinking,” she said. “I love it.”
“You catch on quick,” Tara said. “Danny doesn’t mess around when it comes to a pint.” And for once she was grateful. When life delivered you a warm pub in a storm, you drank. As they gathered around the table and the lads brought over drinks and several bags of crisps, Tara was distracted by a series of framed photographs on a nearby wall. She gravitated over. Most of them had been taken in the pub. Groups of smiling customers with their arms looped around each other, musicians taking the stage, tourists giving thumbs-up for the camera. Many photos depicted customers posed outside with the stunning backdrop of the island. They’d captured folks riding bikes, licking ice cream cones, trudging up hills, standing at the edges of cliffs. One was of a lone cow lying in the middle of a lush green field close to the edge of the cliff, the ocean raging below. Finally, she spotted a photo of Captain Mickey. He was standing in front of his ferry, his arm slung around a young lad who appeared to be an Irish dancer. Captain Mickey was grinning ear-to-ear and holding up a medal. A proud grandfather? Tara went to snap a photo when she remembered she didn’t have her mobile phone. Who was the young lad in the photo?
She looked around to see if anyone was watching her. She didn’t know why, but she felt she had to have it—the more she could learn about Captain Mickey, the better. He was the key to solving this mystery. She couldn’t ask anyone in her group because they had all checked their phones when Sergeant Kehoe was there, and none of them had any battery left. The photo was only a five-by-seven. She would return it. She slipped it off the wall, thinking it would be a smooth lift. Instead, it slipped from her hands, and as it did, it began to knock other photographs off the wall. Soon everyone in the pub was staring at her as photos rained to the floor. Tara yelped and was already apologizing as people began to approach, supposedly to help or maybe to admonish her. She was still holding the photo of Captain Mickey, and as others started to approach, she faced the wall, then shoved the photo down the front of her jeans. The frame was cold, and she was hoping its sharp corners wouldn’t gouge her thighs, but at least it was hidden. She pulled her shirt down over it, then closed tight her cardigan.
What was she doing? “Sorry, sorry,” she said as folks began picking up photos and placing them back on the wall. Would it be obvious one was missing?
Luckily, no one seemed to notice. It was possible the publican or another employee eventually would, but right now they were all too swamped to pay attention. Tara slid into the booth, the picture frame cutting into her stomach as she did. It was official: she’d lost her mind. It was too bad they hadn’t been playing Truth or Dare. She was rarely this brazen.
“Butterfingers,” Danny said to her with a wink. The frame cut into her again. She winced. Danny gave her a look, then eyed her pint. “Did you want something else?”
“I think I just need to stretch my legs.” She slid out of the booth. There was no way she was keeping this framed photo down her pants. Why hadn’t she chosen the simpler route to begin with? She squeezed up to the bar, removing the photograph as she went, and waited at the counter until the publican was free.
“What’ll it be?” He was in no mood for a friendly chat, and with this crowd she couldn’t blame him.
She placed the photograph on the counter. “This was on the floor.”
“Some eejit knocked the entire wall of photos down,” he said with a shake of his head. “Thanks.” He started to take it.
“That’s Captain Mickey, isn’t it?” Tara said.
“It is indeed.”
“Who is he with?”
“That’s his grandson. The lad is an Irish dancer.” He glanced at the cutout of the Carrigan brothers near the door. “He came close to having his likeness in cardboard instead.”
“Oh?”
“He was in the very competition that skyrocketed the Carrigan brothers to fame. Local fame, that is. Although I hear one of them is going to be on Dancing with the Stars.”
“One of them?” She glanced over at Dave. Had he lied to her? He said they were both invited to dance. “Which one?”
The publican shrugged. “No clue. Mickey’s grandson says they only won because they cheated.”
It was probably just sour grapes, but Tara wanted the scoop anyway. She leaned in. “Cheated how?”
“Let’s just say those lads have a way with the ladies, and they weren’t shy about buttering up the female judges.”
“I see.” Motive. Captain Mickey had a motive. Would the publican be willing to report that story to the guards?
“I wonder if yer one ever regretted not going to law school.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Heard that was a lifelong dream, but his brother begged him to keep dancing.”
Tara couldn’t imagine the pressure, the conflicted loyalties. “Which one wanted to go to law school?”
The publican picked up a pint glass and shook his head. “Would you stop asking me which one this and which one that? You try telling them apart.” He started to walk away. “Wait.” He looked around. “I paid for two of them. Where is the other one?” Tara ignored that question for now. Someone was coming up behind her, nudging her out of the way.
The publican stood suddenly, smiled, and stuck his hand out. “Speak of the devil,” he said to Dave. “We were just admiring your cutout. Are you Dave or Noel?”
“Dave,” he said, shaking his hand. “I’m afraid . . .” He gulped. “My brother won’t be joining me.”
The publican gave Tara the side-eye as if to say told ya. She shook her head, hoping he’d pick up on her warning.
“But we paid for the two of ye,” the publican said, outraged. “Is he the one who doesn’t want to dance anymore?”
Dave frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” The publican straightened up. “I’m just trying to figure out why you’re not dancing. Did ye have a falling out?”
“No. We did not have a falling out. I’m terribly sorry. It’s just me.”
Tara was slightly taken aback. Was Dave really still going to perform? “It can’t be helped,” she said. “I can vouch for that.”
“I see,” the publican said, still sounding aggrieved.
“I’m afraid Noel kept our schedule. I don’t know where we were staying. Basically anything you discussed with
Noel, I need to know.” Dave’s voice took on a new intensity. Was he that afraid to stay with them? Granted, it was a little crowded. And one of them could be a killer . . .
“I’m afraid there’s bad news on that front,” the publican said. “Although now that there’s only one of ye, maybe it’s for the best.”
“What now?” Dave said, his tone changing.
“We had to take over the room where you were going to stay because of the storm.” He gestured to a booth. “But I can give you a blanket and pillow and you can sleep in the pub tonight.”
Tara leaned into Dave. “You shouldn’t be dancing. And you’re staying with us. We need to have each other’s backs.”
“You mean stab each other in the back,” Dave said. “Funny that none of you are dancers, because they’re good at that sort of thing.”
“What I’m saying is that I don’t think you should be alone. And I don’t think you should dance.”
“I have to dance. Noel would have wanted it that way.” His voice broke, tears once again came to his eyes. “I will honor all the dances that Noel booked. And then I will put me dancing shoes away forever.” He bit his lip. “It will be nothing without me brother.”
“Story horse?” The publican wanted the gossip.
“He’s dead,” Dave said. “Noel died yesterday.”
The publican gasped. “Lad, I’m so sorry.” He lowered his voice. “What happened?”
Tara shook her head. “Please keep this to yourself,” she said. “The guards are looking into it.”
“The guards?” The publican scooted closer, ignoring cries down the bar for his attention. “Why the guards?” Suddenly he wanted to chat. Typical.
“Someone poisoned me brother with a milkshake,” Dave cried. “On the ferry!”
“What?” the publican was truly shocked. His gaze slid to Tara.
“We really don’t know yet how he died,” Tara said. “It’s a police matter.”
“This one’s getting married and insisted on boozy milkshakes,” Dave added.
“I honestly didn’t want any kind of hen party at all,” Tara said. She should have stuck to her guns. The publican eyed the booth where Danny and the gang sat. “Do you know where Captain Mickey stays when he’s not on the boat?” Tara asked, hoping to divert the conversation.
The publican ignored her and looked at Dave. “You don’t have to dance, lad,” he said. “Everyone will understand.”
“I do have to,” Dave said. “I want to. I want to do it for Noel.” The publican nodded, then pointed to the smallest stage Tara had ever seen shoved in the corner. “There’s your platform,” he said. “We have your music cued up.” Dave thanked him and headed for the stage.
“Dave,” Tara called after him. “You really don’t have to.”
“I really do,” he called back, without turning around. The publican turned away from Tara and headed down to the bar to his outraged customers. Tara followed.
“Do you know which ferries were supposed to come to the island yesterday but canceled because of the storm?” she asked.
Maybe one of those captains would know something about the Carrigan brothers. After all, they were supposed to be on another boat. Or was that a lie? She turned to glance at Dave, who was warming up in the corner. It was a marvel to watch him tap dance. He had mega talent, anyone could see that. But it had been mesmerizing to watch the pair of them dance. Identical twins, both with big talent. No wonder they were a sensation. What a sad, sad loss. Dave wouldn’t have peace unless they found his brother’s killer. Although it was possible a twenty-something lad in the best shape of his life could have had a cardiac arrest or some other medical emergency that ended his life, it wasn’t probable. Until a coroner or a state pathologist said otherwise, they had to assume this was foul play. And given the guards didn’t even believe there was a murder, Tara felt compelled to do a little bit of digging. Noel Carrigan deserved that. He shouldn’t have died on a short ferry ride. And perhaps he wouldn’t have died had they not be imbibing boozy milkshakes for her hen party. Someone had taken advantage of a celebration to commit murder. Was it Captain Mickey avenging his grandson over a dancing competition? Or was it the angry husband, estranged from a wife he was obviously still in love with? And then there was Matt, tossing something into the fire at the cottage when he thought no one was looking . . .
“I don’t give out personal information about anyone on this island,” the publican said. She believed him.
“Not a bother,” Tara said. “It’s just that the twins were supposed to be on another boat—”
“Impossible,” the publican said. “Captain Sara was off yesterday because of the storm. There weren’t supposed to be any ferries coming in. Captain Mickey wasn’t scheduled either—in fact, he has a suspended license. I suppose he was doing a bit of sneaky moonlighting.”
Captain Sara was off yesterday . . . all ferries had been canceled because of the storm. That means Dave and Noel had lied in order to get on their ferry. Why? “All the ferries were canceled and yet you didn’t cancel their act?” Tara asked.
“I tried to cancel their act,” the publican said. “Noel assured me they were coming, no matter what. Said they had an additional gig.”
An additional gig . . .
“Captain Mickey said we had to see some famous cow while we were here,” Tara threw out.
“Up the hill toward Dún Aonghana, then turn right after your first farm on the left,” the publican said. Dún Aonghana, or Dun Aengus, was a prehistoric hill fort situated at the edge of a 100-meter cliff and the main tourist attraction of the island. Tara had been there several times and never failed to be amazed. “But you won’t be sightseeing this weekend,” the publican said with a shake of his head.
He was right about that. Tara headed for the corner where Dave was still warming up. “I’m busy,” Dave said. “Please leave me alone.”
“Why did you lie?”
He stopped dancing. “What?”
“You and Noel told us you missed your boat. That’s why you wanted to come on ours.”
“And?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Why did you lie?”
“Because we were supposed to be a surprise,” Dave said. “For you,” he added when she didn’t respond.
“Oh.” Tara felt like a fool. Of course. She had been the additional gig. Dancing, stripping—the whole hen party thing. Someone had paid them to be there. It had to be Breanna. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Was she wracked with guilt?
“Right,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“That is how a surprise usually works.” He stopped tapping. “Wait,” he said. “Do you think”—he gulped—“do you think she hired us to kill us?”
“Breanna?” Tara said. “Not a chance.”
“Not her,” he said. “The other American girl. Rachel.”
Tara suddenly went cold. “Rachel?” she said. “What does Rachel have to do with this?”
Dave looked at her as if he pitied her. “What do you think?” he said. “She’s the one who hired us.”