Murder in Galway Read online

  TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

  Tara 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 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 . . .

  Books by Carlene O’Connor

  Irish Village Mysteries

  MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE

  MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING

  MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD

  MURDER IN AN IRISH PUB

  MURDER IN AN IRISH COTTAGE

  CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER

  (with Maddie Day and Alex Erickson)

  A Home to Ireland Mystery

  MURDER IN GALWAY

  MURDER IN CONNEMARA

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Murder in Galway

  Carlene O’Connor

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Carter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2447-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2447-X

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1985-0 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1985-9 (ebook)

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, my agent, Evan Marshall, the entire staff at Kensington Publishing, and all my family and friends who are always willing to chime in on early drafts.

  Chapter 1

  Emmet Walsh never thought he’d find himself in the middle of a fairy tale, but if Johnny Meehan didn’t answer his door and produce Emmet’s prized pig, he was going to huff, and puff, and most definitely blow something down. He prayed with each plodding step on the way to the stone cottage, fists clenched at his sides, that it wouldn’t come to actual blows. He just wanted what belonged to him. He’d paid Irish Revivals a fortune to source this collector’s item, and he refused to put up with any more of Johnny Meehan’s shenanigans. If Meehan was trying to hold out for more money, he was going to regret it. The agreed-upon sum was quite a dear one, it was done and dusted, and Johnny Meehan was going to hand it over. Today.

  This rare gem, a cast-iron pig for the garden, was once owned by a Japanese princess. Imagine that, now. Emmet smiled as the photograph from the catalogue rose before him like a mirage in the desert, making his trek slightly less intolerable. The mud was thick here, something between a bog and a bother. The earthy scent of the Galway Bay was strong, effortlessly carried by the breeze that also succeeded in blowing stray hairs of his white beard into his mouth as he trudged onward. This hadn’t been the plan when he woke up this morning. Johnny should have met him at the door to the salvage mill. How had it come to this, being forced to invade a man’s home? Johnny Meehan had left him no choice. He had Emmet’s money, didn’t he? Why was he torturing Emmet?

  He saw the pig in his mind’s eye. It was photographed sitting in the garden next to that beautiful Asian princess. The cast-iron pig was about a foot high. Sitting on its bottom, the mouth open in a laugh, the hands (would you call them hands, like?) resting on its full belly, legs splayed out, mouth (snout?) open in a laugh. The patina of green around the ears. Gorgeous. And instead of hooves this little piggy had tiny fingers and toes. Eyes so open and real he could almost see the twinkle in them. And that was only from a photo. Emmet couldn’t wait to feel the heft of the little piggy in his hands. Everything was made with plastic these days. Bollocks. Give him cast iron. Give him quality. Give him an item owned by royalty. He could not wait. Yet wait he had. He had waited, and waited, and waited. No more.

  The sun was coming up over Galway. There wasn’t a moment to waste. He picked up his pace, sweat breaking out on his brow.

  He was already so in love. He would set the pig in front of his prize-winning rose bushes in the garden. It had taken Johnny Meehan an entire year to track the pig to a banker in Manchester, England, and another six months to convince him to sell. Emmet had paid dearly, both in desire and euro. Johnny Meehan was not going to get away with this.

  The miscreant was hiding from him. Meet me at the mill bright and early and we’ll work it out. What did that mean—work it out? The salvage mill was shuttered and locked tight. What kind of dirty trick was this? Irritation had morphed into rage. Emmet was Johnny Meehan’s best client, his wealthiest client, and he would not tolerate this kind of disrespect. Maybe he would put Johnny Meehan out of business. Ben Kelly was mad to buy the mill, turn it into a boxing school. If Johnny’s customers lost trust in him, he’d be forced to sell. Maybe Emmet would buy Irish Revivals . At least he’d have a place to store his treasures. Could all this have something to do with the shady folks Johnny surrounded himself with? Snakes, they were. Maybe it was time Emmet told Johnny everything he knew. Up until now, he’d kept the secrets to himself. Leave well enough alone was his motto. He was just the messenger and messengers never fared well. Neither did sneaks, and truth be told he had snooped around the mill a bit. Who could blame him? He had every intention of keeping his nose clean. But now Johnny’s poor taste in people was affecting Emmet. Someone was messing with him. It would not stand. He was g
oing to get to the bottom of this right here and now. If he had to point fingers then so be it, he would start pointing.

  As Emmet rounded the bend, the tiny cottage came into view stone by stone. He couldn’t imagine living in such a confining space. Emmet’s mansion (some might call it a castle) was over three thousand square feet. Johnny’s cottage was hardly bigger than one of Emmet’s luxury bathrooms. He stopped to catch his breath and kick clod off his shoe. The only good thing he had to say about nature was that mostly it stayed outside where it belonged. Emmet had paved every bit of grass around his castle. More room for precious sculptures and a lot less dirt on his shoes. He should have brought his walking stick. A twig cracked behind him, and then another. He whirled around to see Johnny’s dog—an Irish wolfhound—lurking behind him. The hound’s tall body was on high alert, creamy fur blowing every which way, eyes wide and tracking, tail up in the air. Big as a small horse, he was in need of a good brushing. Emmet turned away. He much preferred items to animals.

  His chest tightened, another reminder it was time to give up the smoking. It was hideous, getting old. What did he have to show for his time on earth? A wife and kids who wanted to be as far away from him as possible? Friends who took his money and left him empty-handed? Ungrateful. Everyone was so ungrateful. Except for his castle. And his items. Rare, architectural pieces that held real meaning. History. Stories. A pig owned by a Japanese princess!

  The sun was fully up now, striking the surface of the Galway Bay and setting it on fire. From here, it stretched out to eternity. God’s country. He’d like to see any man deny it. He turned back to the stone cottage and sized it up as if it were the enemy. The stones were rough and uneven, the blue door sported cracked paint, and the windows were smudged with grime. The last time he’d been up here, laughing with Johnny, having a whiskey to toast the regal iron gates Johnny had managed to source for his entry, the windows had been sparkling clean. His suspicions had just been confirmed. Something was seriously wrong with Johnny Meehan.

  Emmet took the stone walkway at full speed, reached the house, and pounded on the door. Paint chipped off and fluttered to the ground like blue snowflakes. He waited and received only silence for his effort. “Johnny?” Emmet turned the knob and pushed. The old door swung open with an elongated creak, and seconds later a sour smell enveloped Emmet. What on earth was that odor? He stared into the dark. It smelled like mold and three-day bread, and something even worse. Like raw meat sitting on a counter for days. Emmet threw his sleeve over his mouth before he gagged. He could make out the sink in the wee kitchen to the left, piled with dirty dishes. He thought he saw something scamper across the mound and shivered. Had the dirty dishes been there so long they were attracting vermin?

  “Hello?” Footsteps sounded on the path behind him, too human to be the hound. He turned. A figure lurked behind him, dressed in baggy dark clothing, face obscured by enormous dark sunglasses and an oversized hood. Some kind of costume. It looked like . . . the Grim Reaper. Fear rose in Emmet’s throat. “Who are you?” The figure raised its right arm. Instead of a scythe, he or she was holding a cast-iron object. Was it the pig? Emmet threw his hand over his eyes. It was so hard to see with that blasted sun shining directly into his eyes, blinding him. He threw his hand up so he could see. “Is that my pig?”

  His gut screamed that it did not matter. Death had come for him. The Reaper was real. His heart thumped, his voice quivered. He could not take his eye off whatever this thing was. And then the object was in the air. A blur flying directly at his head at warp speed. Try and catch it? Or duck? He tripped on the door frame and hit the ground, falling on his back, half in and half out of the house. He struggled to lift his head, muster a scream, but just as the thought struck, so did the object. It collided with his temple, sending a thundering pain through his poor head. The back of his skull slammed into Johnny’s floor. He stared at the tilted beams in the ceiling as footsteps drew closer, and everything started to spin. The hood hovered over him.

  He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t move. Why?

  The figure raised its arm and removed the hood. Emmet squinted. When his eyes adjusted, he could make out the eyes, nose, and mouth of his attacker, curled up in a cruel grin, eyes dancing with excitement. This was no Grim Reaper, this was all too human, and even more terrifying. For a second he forgot about the gash in his head as he pointed. “You,” was all he managed to say. He stilled his body, held his breath. He heard a whoosh of air and pounding feet as his attacker fled. Coward. If only he’d listened to his wife and carried his mobile phone on him. He’d never warmed to technology. Did Johnny Meehan have a phone in the cottage? He could either spend his energy looking for it, or he could help the guards catch a killer. His poor head. There wasn’t much life left in him and he knew it. He touched his fingertips to his wound, then used his dwindling energy to half crawl, half slide to the back wall. For once he saw the benefit of having a tiny home. He pushed onto his knees and began to write on the wall. He managed four letters before he fell back for the last time, and released his final breath with a moan. His last thought was of the princess and his pig.

  * * *

  Tara Meehan stood in the middle of the pedestrianized Shop Street, cradling the delicate tin box that held her mother’s ashes, as she took in the pulsing city her mother called home. Galway, Ireland. The City of Tribes. Snippets of the song “Galway Girl” began to play in her head. And I ask you friend, what’s a fella to do? ’Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue . . . Having black hair and blue eyes herself, Tara had always been partial to the song.

  “You’re a lucky lass,” her mother would say on those mornings when Tara was just a girl. Her mother was always gentle and patient while brushing Tara’s thick black hair into something a little more manageable. “Black hair and blue eyes is a knock-out combination.” Her mother always made her feel good. She was loved.

  And now here she was. Not exactly a girl anymore at thirty-three, but that girl was still inside her, so excited to be here she was bursting at the seams.

  Standing here, taking in the cobblestone streets, and pubs, and people, and music—there was live music playing from nearly every corner—her heart throbbed in her chest. It was love at first sight.

  Shops splashed in bright colors cozied up on both sides of the street, and passersby crisscrossed from one side to the other as she stood still. Buskers staked out corners, filling the salty air with their songs, guitar cases flung open, crumpled euros and coins scattered inside. An Asian man in an orange jumpsuit was on the sidewalk up ahead, bent over a large dog he was sculpting out of sand, his thin hands kneading as people gathered to watch him work. Next to him a tall African man in traditional garb stood in front of a table filled with beaded jewelry. Young men lingered in front of pubs, cigarettes dangling from their fingers, smoke curling into the air, as their bright eyes followed the pretty girls in short skirts laughing up the street. Galway was one of the youngest cities in Europe, and for a second Tara felt ancient. This was a college town, an art town, a music haven. She could smell pints of ale, reminding her that Galway was sometimes called “the graveyard of ambition”—the numerous pubs and entertainment so tempting that one could find him- or herself partying seven nights a week and no one would blink an eye—right, he’s drunk seven nights a week, it’s up to himself to mind his own liver . . .

  Up ahead Tara saw a throng of people circled around a street performer. The crowd hid him from view, but whoever it was, he was generating excitement. Curiosity pulled her forward. It was a young man riding a unicycle while juggling three large knives. The wheel of his cycle jutted back and forth as he pedaled, the large knives glittered as he twirled them high in the air. Something made him turn his head toward her, and stare. His eyes locked onto her tin box. He jerked his head upward. “Toss it up here,” he said with a toothy grin. The crowd parted, practically panting in anticipation.

  “No.” Before she could protest further, the box was snatche
d out of her hands by a man in front of her and tossed up to the performer, who caught it effortlessly and added it to his rotation with a wink and a grin. The crowd cheered and clapped. The latch on the tin box remained clasped, but Tara knew it was only a matter of time. Was this really happening? “No,” Tara said. “Please. Give it back.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s got it,” a woman yelled out.

  “It’s going to come open,” Tara yelled at the man. “Please.” Panic eked out of her. The unicycling juggler ignored her as the box containing her mam’s ashes tumbled helplessly in the air.

  “Please,” Tara begged. “Give it back.”

  “You heard the lady.” A man appeared beside her, staring up at the juggler. He was tall, and Irish, and handsome, with tints of green in his hazel eyes and hair the color of sand, but all Tara cared about was the box. “Ronan,” the handsome stranger said in a commanding voice. “Toss it here.” The juggler—Ronan—nodded at the man, and with a flick of his wrist, the box was sailing back to her. Tara lunged to reach it, and although her hands caught it, her feet kept moving, until she tripped, and the box flew out of her hands, morphing into a projectile. There was the stranger again, standing right in its path. The box hit him squarely on the chest. The lid flew open and her mother’s ashes exploded out, coating the stranger’s face and chest in specks of gray. Tara could only stare. Oh, no. Sorry, Mam. He slowly gazed down at his body, then locked eyes with Tara. He blinked at the tin, which was lying at his feet, its tiny mouth open, contents expelled. His eyes met hers and locked on. “Tell me that’s just a wee sandbox,” he said in a low and easy voice.