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  MURDER IN CONNEMARA

  “Veronica O’Farrell was murdered. I think you should see for yourself.”

  That didn’t make sense. Tara wasn’t a guard. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re our quickest link to identifying her.”

  “Okay.” Was that the only reason? “She was here to make amends. I have her guest list.”

  “I’m going to want that as well, like,” Gable said.

  Tara picked up Veronica’s list. She hadn’t mentioned her design book to Gable. She didn’t want to give it up. Would the list be enough for him? What about Veronica’s additional notes? Why didn’t Tara mention them? Darn it. She couldn’t keep it from him. She had to turn over everything. But was there any harm in taking photos of every page so she could recreate it? As she snapped photos, thoughts jumped out at her:

  Stole the love of her life

  Some people aren’t meant to be parents

  A piece of work

  Hasn’t created

  Accused her of stealing

  Injured, might be faking it

  This was no longer just an amends list. And everyone seemed to have a motive. These people thought they were coming here to accept a grand apology, and now it was looking like they were all going to be suspects in a murder inquiry . . .

  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

  MURDER AT AN IRISH CHRISTMAS

  MURDER AT AN IRISH BOOKSHOP

  CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER

  (with Maddie Day and Alex Erickson)

  A Home to Ireland Mysteries

  MURDER IN GALWAY

  MURDER IN CONNEMARA

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Murder In Connemara

  CARLENE O’CONNOR

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MURDER IN CONNEMARA

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author’s Note

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Carlene O’Connor

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

  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.

  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.

  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.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3170-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3078-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3078-X (ebook)

  This book is dedicated to Kevin Collins. Every book

  he asks me: “So how do I die this time?” To the

  friendship that still makes me laugh. Cheers!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful hosts in Ireland once again: Eileen and Kevin Collins, Susan Collins, Bridget Quinn, Seamus Collins and the wonderful James and Vincent, and James and Annmarie Sheedy. Thank you, Ann O’Shea, for the use of your sofa whenever I get back to New York. The Clifden Station House was a wonderful hotel, despite the coffee I spilled on the bed (sorry). For those who think you can’t travel Ireland by bus, my father and I found it rather easy and fun.

  Thank you, Carl Carter, for all your support and the trip we’ll always remember.

  Thank you, Pat Carter, for your ongoing love and support. And thank you, readers and friends, those who take their time to write to me, or message me—your support means everything.

  And of course, a big thank-you to my agent, Evan Marshall, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, my publicist, Larissa Ackerman, communications manager Michelle Addo, production editor Carly Sommer-stein, the man himself, Steven Zacharias, and countless others at Kensington Publishing, who do what they do so we writers can do what we do. Slainté!

  Chapter 1

  The stunning drive through Connemara made up for the month Tara Meehan feared for her life (and those around her) during her driving lessons. Roundabouts, jerky stops and starts, and the instinct to drive on the other side of the road had proven formidable obstacles, but now, taking the curving roads on N59 in her shiny red Jeep, surrounded by a mountainous paradise, she was grateful for facing her fears. Just do it. A delicious bit of advice. The scenery literally made her mouth hang open. Massive round mountains stacked in the background, rolling green pastures dotted with fat rocks (and sheep, and cows, and horses, and donkeys), a glistening bay twinkling in the distance, and patches of vibrant wildflowers completed the postcard-perfect scenes. There was no other word for it, she was experiencing pure joy. Nature was the antidote to feeling sad in this world.

  She’d been wondering if moving to Ireland had been a mistake and feeling homesick for New York City: the hubbub of Central Park on a Saturday afternoon, toasted everything bagels with cream cheese and tomato, exchanges with the flirtatious Spanish men in her corner deli; but now it was all forgotten as she concentrated on the curving roads. According to her handy navigation app, the old stone house she had come to see was within a few miles. She needed to find a place to pull over. Her phone dinged that she had reached her destination, and just then she looked up to see it—the remains of an old stone house sitting at the apex of a hill. The sun shone directly behind it, almost setting it aglow. Dated to the 1800s, and supposedly up for sale, she was dying to have a look around it. She wasn’t sure if she had Danny O’Donnell to thank for leaving the tantalizing flyer at her soon-to-be-open shop, but someone had definitely steered her right.

  Up ahead, gravel delineated a tiny parking lot at the side of the road, (or at least that’s how she was going to interpret it), so she pulled over, hoping if she was wrong she could still get away with parking here for a spell. The beauty of being in the middle of nowhere was the conviction th
at no tow trucks would be sweeping by here anytime soon.

  The Jeep shut off with only a slight shudder, as if it knew they were in for another day of punishing heat. Unusual for Ireland, August had been tortured by the sun and nobody here knew how to handle it. She’d tried to make it here before noon, but she’d been too afraid to speed on these winding roads, so it was already half past. She grabbed her camera, took one more swig from her travel mug of coffee before pulling a bottle of water out of the glove compartment and dropping it into her backpack. She looped the strap of her camera around her neck, and nearly squealed with joy as she set off for the old stone house. The sign was only visible when she was halfway up the hill. It appeared homemade, a scribble on poster board: FOR SALE with a mobile number, taped to a piece of wood stuck in the ground. Must be the owner. She snapped her first photo of the beautiful, abandoned house.

  How much would it cost to rebuild this stone masterpiece on this achingly beautiful hill? More than she could afford, that was for sure. But it was never too early to dream. She snapped more photos, already imagining one blown up and hanging on the wall of her loft in Galway.

  She was nearly to the remains of the doorway, and admiring the variety of gray and blue shades in the stones, when a yelp rang out. She stopped short. An animal—but what, and where? It was a tone that in any language was a cry for help. The yelp sounded again. A dog. Obviously injured. “Hello?” Her voice carried into the air, sweat trickled down her face. Was the poor thing just suffering from the heat? She was ready to share her water. “Hey there.” She scanned right and left for a dog. The yelp turned into little barks. Help, help, help, help. “I’m coming. I’m here.” Where are you? The barking morphed into a heart-tugging whine. She reached the entrance to the remains of the old house and there, just inside on the dirt and grass floor, a terrified pug quivered.

  “Hi, baby.” She sank to her knees and reached for the bottle of water. He was the color of sand, and his tiny body was vibrating. Tara held out her hand. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay.” The pug lifted its big brown eyes to her sky-blue ones. Had some horrible human being abandoned it here? Danny O’Donnell wasn’t trying to give her a dog, was he? It wasn’t his style. Had someone else left the sale brochure and map underneath the lion’s-head door knocker to her shop?

  “It’s okay,” she cooed as she inched closer, taking it slow so the poor thing wouldn’t dash away. Instead, it lifted its right paw as if reaching for her. She nearly melted on the spot. It had been a long time since something little and vulnerable had needed her, and she eagerly scooped the dog up and held it to her chest. Its heart beat rapidly against her as she stroked it. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you. What happened?” It was wearing a bright pink collar. She continued to stroke it as she held the water bottle up to its mouth. She glanced and discovered the it was a she. “Poor girl.” She drank greedily.

  Tara was used to such heat back home, especially in August, but her Irish friends and family had taken to spending much of their day indoors, occasionally lifting the blinds with a bewildered curse, then retreating into the shadows like vampires awaiting nightfall. Tara gently checked the pug for injuries but found none, and the yelping had stopped. The poor thing was simply frightened out of its mind. She examined the pink collar. In the center, crystal letters spelled out a name: SAVAGE.

  “Savage?” The pup swiveled its head and locked eyes. Tara laughed again. “Are you? Savage?”

  An owner who buys a glitzy pink collar and gives a dog an awesome name like Savage hardly seemed the type to abandon it in the middle of nowhere on a blazing day. Savage happily tucked in her arm, Tara stood and traversed what used to be the inside of the old house, now missing a floor and a roof, and stared out at a magnificent view of the bay. She wasn’t sure what bay this was, so many of them in this area, all leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. Imagine waking up with this view every day. It was a small house, but what did she need with a big one? She was already rebuilding it in her head: dark wood floors, a fireplace crackling with a basket of peat, fresh wildflowers in an old pitcher brightening the room up, and an old farmhouse sink underneath the massive window overlooking the water and the mountains.

  She plodded to the other side of the space, bypassing what must have been the bedroom to the right, for she wanted to move closer to the water, where there was a bit of shade from a large tree. If there was anyone around to see her except the pug and farm animals, she knew she looked quite the sight. Boots and shorts, and a tank top. A bandana around her forehead. Sunglasses. An overeager explorer. Today was a good day to get dirty. She exited the house on the opposite side, eager to see the view. Instead, she got the shock of her life.

  A woman was splayed out on her back in the grass, and Tara had nearly tripped over her. As Tara cried out, Savage peddled frantically in her arms, scratching to get down. She leapt to the ground and began racing around the woman as Tara knelt next to her. “Hello?” Was she passed out? Tara fumbled for her backpack, talking to her as she dug through it for her cell phone. She’d forgotten to charge it and only a little power remained. As she dialed 999, she noticed the woman’s lips. They were blue. Oh no. Tara’s hand shook as she tried to find a pulse on the woman’s neck. The skin was stiff and cold to the touch. She leaned down to see if she could sense any breath coming from her. No. Tara found the woman’s wrist, knowing she was gone, but wanting to make sure. There was no life left in her. The woman was gone, and from the stiff, cold feel of her, she had been for a while.

  She appeared to be in her late sixties or early seventies, with short dark hair streaked with white. Her purple and white tracksuit looked too heavy for the heat. Had it been cooler when she ventured out here? How many days had this heat been raging? Savage continued to scramble around the woman, barking right next to her ear. “She’s your owner,” Tara said, the pieces clicking into place. Savage whined, pawing at the woman’s face. Tara’s heart tugged as she gently tried to keep the pup back.

  Tara scanned right and left, desperate to see another human being, then realized she hadn’t connected to 999. She dialed again. An operator promptly answered and asked her location and what services she needed. As Tara stared into the eyes of a large cow, she explained she needed an ambulance, then clumsily announced the woman had already passed, and stuttered as she fumbled for the flyer so she could give them the address. The operator assured her help would be there shortly. Several feet away, sheep and a donkey moved closer, as if drawn to the drama.

  Tara checked the woman’s pockets, but found nothing. Not a scrap of paper, or a coin, or even a stick of gum. She had no jewelry, no rings, or earrings, or watch. What had happened to her? Had she come with her dog to look at the old stone house and died of a heart attack? Was she robbed? There were no injuries, no blood, no blunt instruments tossed in the grass. Tara gazed out at the bay in the distance, but apart from a small rowboat bobbing near the shore, there wasn’t another soul in sight. “I’m sorry,” Tara said. Had someone left her the flyer in hopes she would find the body? Tara shook her head as if to toss out the thought. There was also a map. Leading her right here. It was just an odd coincidence. The flyer came with a map because who would find this house in the middle of nowhere otherwise? She thought again of the very unprofessional for sale sign stuck in the ground. Was it all a ruse? Had someone lured her here? Outlandish. No one could have known for sure that she would decide to make the trip. The heat was warping her thoughts. The guards are on their way. Do not panic. Tara stood, staring out at the mountains, wishing the hills really did have eyes, so they could spill all of their secrets. What was going on out here? This section of Connemara was a gorgeous but lonely place to die.

  Chapter 2

  Tara waited at her Jeep, fearing the guards would never spot her if she remained up on the hill. In less than fifteen minutes (which felt like fifteen hours), three blue-and-white guard cars flanked her red Jeep. Soon a yellow ambulance pulled in behind, as a tall guard emerged from one of the cars. S
omething about shock was making Tara categorize everything by their color. Perhaps it was the interior designer in her, reverting to what made her feel confident and safe.

  The tall guard approached. “Are you the woman who called for help?”

  Brief introductions were made and then Tara pointed up the hill to the old stone house. “There’s a woman lying in the grass on the other side of the house by the bay. She’s . . . no longer with us.”

  His gaze traveled up to the old stone house. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. Her lips are blue. She’s cold. There’s no pulse or breath.”

  “Did you administer any type of aid?”

  Tara suddenly felt guilty despite knowing that aid would not bring a woman back from the dead. “I was going to give CPR, or water—but it was apparent that she’s been gone for a while.” The way the dog quivered and drank, Tara guessed it had been alone for at least a day. “I’m sorry there was nothing to be done.”

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “No.” Tara lifted the pug. “I think this might be her dog. I found her huddling in the doorway of the old stone house. Before I found the poor woman.”

  The other guards and paramedics emerged from the car, and the guard who spoke first held his hand up as if to stop them as he put on gloves. He called out a number to them, which must have been a code for a deceased, for the paramedics stopped unloading their stretcher. Tara had learned, through earlier unfortunate circumstances, that bodies in Ireland were not moved until the state pathologist arrived or gave instructions for the body to be sent to the hospital morgue, where they could do a postmortem. “What brings you out here?”