Chapter Nine
“Val recently procured an item from a prominent customer,” Hannah said.
“And you suspect someone was trying to get the object back?” Tara guessed.
“What?” Hannah said, crinkling her nose, reminding Tara briefly of Bewitched. “No.”
“Why did you guess that?” Ella asked.
Tara hesitated. She didn’t know whom to trust in this group, but perhaps letting them bounce off each other like pinballs was a way to get to the truth. “Riley Enright came to see me. He wanted to apologize—and he told me that he believed Val Sharkey had recently been given something that the gifter had no right to give.” As Tara spoke, something else occurred to her. Did Riley Enright know that Val had left her his entire estate? Did they all know? Was that the reason for their sudden interest in her?
“Interesting,” Hannah said, twirling a strand of blond hair in her finger.
“We’ve nothing to do with any of that,” Ella said. “But one of the items is cursed and we need to return it to the Cave of the Cats by midnight on Halloween.”
That was an interesting development. Cursed. “What kind of item?” Tara asked.
“It’s a painting of the very first Samhain Festival,” Hannah said. “We believe it belongs in the souterrain.” She hesitated. “Furthermore, we believe any person who hangs on to it without the intention of returning it to the cave will be in grave danger.”
“Cursed,” Ella repeated.
Cursed. Grave danger. The image of a line of graves flashed in front of Tara. She wasn’t falling for this, but she wanted to see what else they would come up with. Ireland had numerous souterrains, a French word simply meaning underground. These early Christian passageways often led to one or more chambers. Ancient inhabitants used them to store corn or other such provisions, or as a place to retreat in times of danger. Some scholars dated them between 500 and 1200 AD. Some say monks brought the idea to Ireland from Europe. They were man-made and Tara was fascinated by the subject. But in all her readings and discussions, no one had ever mentioned anyone in modern days keeping items in them, and she was pretty sure Ella and Hannah had pegged her as naive. What was becoming apparent was that someone wanted this painting very badly. Maybe she should get it evaluated. Uncle Johnny knew all the experts. There had to be one they could trust.
“That’s why Val Sharkey is dead,” Ella said. “He wouldn’t heed our warnings.”
Perhaps it was these two he’d feared. “This is all very interesting,” Tara said. “But I don’t believe in curses.”
“We heard about the curse from an expert,” Ella said.
“An expert on curses?” Tara wished Rose were here to fight this battle.
“Professor Quinn,” Hannah said. “He’s an expert on Celtic mythology, and yes, the curses that stem from the ancient rituals of the Samhain Festival.”
“That’s all very interesting, but how do you think I can help you?” Tara said.
“I told you she wasn’t going to cooperate.” Hannah crossed her arms and stared down the length of the bar.
Ella leaned in. “Please don’t lie to us,” she said. “We know you have the slate painting.”
How could they know? They were fishing, plain and simple. Did they know what the bronze key was for? “If this is about the cupcake,” Tara said, “as I told Riley Enright—yes, I received a cupcake. If you’d like to go see it, it’s all crumbled, wrapped in cling film and in my freezer.”
“What?” Hannah said. “Why?”
“Because I thought it might be poisoned.”
“Why is it all crumbled?” Ella asked, as if horrified someone would do that to a cupcake.
This time Tara would tell the truth. “Because a man called me shortly after the cupcake magically appeared on my counter. He told me the answer is within.”
“And you thought he meant within the cupcake?” Ella asked.
“I thought it couldn’t hurt to check.”
“And?” Hannah said.
“Crumbs.” Tara made steady eye contact. “Nothing but crumbs.” She studied their faces. They weren’t sure whether to believe her. “Riley had a theory,” Tara said. “What if the killer has—well, whatever it is that all of you seem to think was in the cupcake.”
“The killer?” Ella said.
Tara’s story had hit the news this morning. She wouldn’t be telling them anything they couldn’t easily find out. “I passed a cloaked and masked person on the stairwell the morning Val Sharkey was killed. He or she was carrying a pastry box with a sticker that read Galway Bakes. When I found Mr. Sharkey’s body, a cupcake was crumbled all over him. It was as if someone had torn it apart, in a frenzied rage.”
“But if they were so enraged, that means they didn’t find anything inside the cupcake,” Ella pointed out.
“Not necessarily,” Tara said. “Perhaps this person was enraged at the lengths they had to go to get it.”
“I know you have the painting,” Hannah said. “And I’d bet me life on the fact that you have the winning cupcake.”
“What exactly would I have won?” Tara asked.
Hannah leaned in. “I’m guessing you did get the prize, you just don’t know what to do with it, is that it?”
Tara hoped her expression didn’t give herself away. “I didn’t get anything in the cupcake,” she insisted. “But your question is interesting. There are only so many objects that can fit inside a cupcake. I’m assuming it’s a piece of jewelry or a coin, or a small note. Why wouldn’t I know what to do with it?”
Hannah and Ella exchanged a look. “The killer does have it then,” Ella said.
“You said Riley Enright approached you,” Hannah said.
“That’s correct.”
“And now us,” Ella said. “Anyone else?”
Tara knew what they were getting at. The killer would have no reason to approach Tara about whatever was in the cupcake if they had the item. However, given that Tara was lying, she wasn’t going to throw the other members of their group under the bus any more than she already had. “I haven’t had any other visits,” she said.
They finished their lunch and pints and headed for the exit where they had an awkward goodbye. “Watch your back,” Hannah said as she fumbled in her handbag for a set of keys.
“If the killer has whatever is in the cupcake, why would I need to do that?” Tara replied.
“Good point,” Hannah said. “I guess you’ll only need to watch your back if you’re lying.” With that warning, Ella and Hannah headed off, and as they did, something tumbled out of Hannah’s coat pocket. Tara jogged to reach it, and tried calling out for Hannah, but she and Ella had already disappeared into a crowd of shoppers, and Tara’s voice was drowned out by a nearby busker. She picked up some kind of doll—its body was soft—along with a calling card. The calling card was Ella’s, and it looked hand painted:
ELLA BOGGAN
PAINTER/PHOTOGRAPHER
Ella, it turns out, wasn’t just a photographer, she was an artist. Her style looked familiar, the colors and strokes just like those in the slate painting. Was Ella the artist of the slate painting? If so, there was nothing ancient about the painting, and Tara saw no reason not to give it back. But not until she knew the whole story. Was Ella’s painting the item Val Sharkey shouldn’t have been given? The doll, Tara realized with a shock, looked like Val Sharkey. Little pins were sticking out of him. It seemed Hannah Dailey, the spiritualist, had made Val into a voodoo doll.
* * *
“Val Sharkey really left you his entire estate?” Uncle Johnny was chuffed to bits over the news. “He said he was going to, but I thought he was only messing.” He, Rose, and Danny sat on the patio of the salvage mill enjoying a drink. They were just the three people whose help Tara wanted to enlist.
“Yes, and although I cannot remove anything at this time, I am permitted to enter and inventory items. I would like all of your help.” Tara held up the bronze key. “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to find out what this opens.”
* * *
It was even eerier standing in the little curiosity shop the third time around. The absence of Val felt like a living, breathing thing. The items already collecting dust, the remains of the police tape, the splotch of blood on the carpet behind the counter, the grizzly bear still facedown on the carpet.
“That’s the bear Val won in a poker game!” Uncle Johnny exclaimed. “That was pretty recent. He crowed about that, boyo.”
“There are no bears in Ireland,” Danny said.
“He won it from a big executive,” Uncle Johnny said. “And I mean big. This man headed up Cue Chemicals.”
“Cue Chemicals?” Tara said. “The solicitor mentioned that too.”
“Val Sharkey certainly crowed about it. But I heard this exec had a son who was none too happy about the amount his father had to fork over.”
“The solicitor mentioned that this executive passed away some months ago,” Tara said. Which meant he wasn’t the killer. But what about the son? She stared at the facedown bear. “Should we give him a lift up?”
“The executive?” Uncle Johnny said. “If so, we’re going to need Rose’s help. The man is six feet under.”
Tara laughed; she was used to Uncle Johnny’s humor by now. “It is the perfect time of year for a séance.”
“Let’s get the bear up,” Danny said. “I can’t stand to see a man down.”
Danny and Johnny took either side of the grizzly and, audibly groaning, heaved him up. “He’s heavier than I thought,” Danny said. “But then again, he’s American.” The grizzly seemed to be watching them from behind his glassy dark eyes.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Tara said.
“We should look for an old safe,” Danny said.
“That key isn’t to a safe,” Uncle Johnny said. “Val always tinkered with locks. He could have turned anything into a safe.”
“Let’s divide and conquer,” Tara said. “I’m going to take the counter and the area behind the counter.”
Rose was already enthralled with the left side of the store and said she’d cover that area.
“I’ll take the right side,” Uncle Johnny said.
“I guess that leaves me in the middle,” Danny said.
Tara headed for the counter. She’d nearly forgotten about the pumpkin-carving knives. Was there any rhyme or reason why the killer had taken them? She hoped he or she didn’t have nefarious plans for them.
Val’s counter was relatively messy. There were invoices, catalogues, a jar of coins, and the cash register. It was an antique one, quite beautiful. She had no idea how to open it and wondered if the guards checked it. She’d have a nose around and then ask Johnny if he knew how to work it.
A ledger sat on the counter. On top of it was a sticky note. In large letters someone had written: NOBODY LIKES A THIRD WHEEL!!!
What was that all about? Tara had spent time looking at Val’s counter, and this note had not been there. Had he written it while his murderer stood right in front of him? Had Val Sharkey been involved in some kind of love-triangle? Tara didn’t want to be ageist, but he hardly seemed like a Romeo. Was this some kind of awkward friendship he was referring to?
“I found the jar of eyeballs!” Danny said, holding up a jar filled with liquid and something resembling eyeballs. “Can I keep them?”
“Save something for your birthday,” Uncle Johnny said, as he swiped the jar out of his hands. “This baby is mine.”
* * *
Joe Cross looked surprised to see Tara standing at his door. Nevertheless, he invited her in. Tara followed him into the dining room where they’d held their meeting. The chairs were still arranged in a circle. “Are you here with questions about a recently acquired painting?” Joe asked.
“No. I’m here about the cupcakes.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “I take it as a compliment, however I didn’t make a batch today. I only make them for special occasions.”
“And recently Val Sharkey visited you while you were making a batch.”
Joe nodded. “That’s true. Our big celebration at the Cave of the Cats is coming up. I was making a batch for our meeting when he burst in. I didn’t know he had dropped something into the batter until it was too late—they were already in the oven.”
Tara believed him. She had been thinking about this a lot. She’d become convinced that Val had dropped the key into the cupcake batter in the heat of a moment. Once it was done, he needed an explanation. “What was his demeanor?”
Joe tilted his head. “Funny you should ask. He was out of breath and seemed a bit out of sorts.”
“Do you think someone could have been chasing him?”
“Chasing him?”
Tara had to trust one of them. And if she was right—the killer could not be Joe Cross, because it wasn’t possible for Joe to be baking cupcakes and chasing Val Sharkey through Galway at the same time. “I believe Val dropped that key into your cupcake batter as a last-minute attempt to hide it from someone who was chasing him.”
Joe’s mouth dropped open. “He was out of breath, and he did burst in here without warning.”
“And Val wasn’t usually the type to ‘go for a jog,’ was he?”
“Not at all.” Joe began to pace. “I wish he would have confided in me.”
Tara was pondering Joe’s words when her eyes landed on a green mask on a nearby shelf. She snatched it up. “Do you know who delivered the cupcakes?”
Joe’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose I can tell you since I’ve already told the guards. I delivered them. You passed me on the stairwell.”
“Did you deliver mine as well?”
He nodded. “And I called you to say, I have passed the torch. The answer is within.” He held up his hand. “And before you ask—no, I do not know whose cupcake had something—if anything—inside it.”
If Joe was telling the truth, which Tara was inclined to think he was, then the real killer must have entered the shop just as Joe left, but just before Tara passed by the shop again. “Why did you dress up to deliver the cupcakes?”
“It was Val’s idea. He thought it would be mysterious and festive.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I know I have to tell the guards that it was me you saw on the stairwell. But Val was very much alive when I left him.”
The man she’d seen pacing the footpath had been dressed identical to Joe. But it was an easy costume to get a hold of—a dark cloak and the mask that Uncle Tony’s pub had been handing out by the dozens. But this killer knew that Joe had been dressing like this to deliver the cupcakes. If the killer wasn’t Joe, then he or she was someone who knew how Joe dressed to deliver the cupcakes. Val Sharkey would have mistaken the killer for Joe Cross. Val would have had no reason not to bite into the cupcake.
But if Val was being chased, and he didn’t want to lose the bronze key—she saw how dropping it into the batter would get rid of it for the moment, but how did he control who received the “winning” cupcake? “Did Val give any kind of instructions about which cupcake to deliver to whom?”
Joe was already nodding. “He insisted on boxing and numbering them himself.” He frowned. “But the numbers weren’t chronological. They were just random if you ask me.”
“Was Val’s cupcake number thirteen?”
Joe looked startled. “How did you know?” He caught himself, then laughed. “Because I delivered it to you.”
Had the killer made it known he was visiting Val that morning? Perhaps he had even threatened him. Was that why Val had seemed in such a rush to send her the final cupcake?
Tara thought of something else. If she was given Val’s cupcake, number thirteen, then that meant the cupcake found crushed and smeared on Val had been the killer’s cupcake. Not that that would help solve the crime. She didn’t have to be a gambler to bet that most of the suspects had already ingested their alibis.