No Strangers Here: a Riveting Dark Irish Mystery, page 14
Was it true? Was this why Donnecha hadn’t answered any of her texts? She’d been so angry with him for avoiding her. “What did Donnecha say?”
“Now you don’t mind sharing information?”
“This is my brother we’re talking about.”
Paul sighed, then nodded. “He said he wasn’t on the boat that evening. He said that O’Reilly told him a VIP guest was going to use it.”
“If he wasn’t on the boat . . . did he say where he was?”
“The Dingle Inn.”
Why had he not come to the clinic? Their father needed them. “What on earth was he doing at the Dingle Inn?” Paul looked away.
“Paul?”
“I don’t want to gossip.”
“It’s too late.”
“He’s been running around with some lad the past few months.”
Dimpna sighed. A bad influence, no doubt. Was he back on drugs? “He’s not answering my texts.” She pulled out her mobile and stared at it as if willing it to ring.
“Where is your father?”
“Hospital.”
Paul nodded. “I heard there was an incident with Sheila.”
Which meant he also knew her father had been taken to hospital. Why was he asking her questions he already knew the answers to? What was he digging at? “I don’t know why you’re interrogating me—you seem to know more than I do.”
Paul shook his head. “I’m trying to help.”
“I just can’t believe this is happening. I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that someone murdered Johnny O’Reilly.” She glanced at her bus. Paul’s Jeep was parked directly behind it, yet he had arrived before her. Had he moved his jeep once she arrived? Had he deliberately blocked her in?
“How long will you be staying in Dingle?” Paul asked.
“Until my parents are no longer suspects in a murder inquiry.” Was he trying to get rid of her? She let Pickles into the back of the bus, then stood by the driver’s side door. “Good night, Paul.”
“How is Ben?” Paul asked.
It was odd, hearing her son’s name coming from Paul. “He’s grand. He has a new girlfriend and they’re in Spain.”
“Doesn’t he want to be here to support his grandparents?”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t want him here. He’s had enough to deal with.” So did she, for that matter. At least the girl had been found alive.
“We should talk,” Paul said. “Soon.”
“I need you to move your Jeep.”
Paul nodded and stood by his vehicle. “Last Dance,” Paul said. “We need to talk about Last Dance.”
Dimpna quickly opened the door to the bus, climbed in, and shut the door, waving at him through the window with a pasted-on smile. He stared at her for a beat before getting into his Jeep and pulling away. She waited, counting the seconds after he left. There it was again, paranoia taking hold of her. Paul was a decent man. A little intense, but decent. But she’d been honest with him. They were different people now. It was a relief, knowing he no longer had the power to pluck her heart strings. Even if that meant she’d outgrown the romantic girl that once roamed the streets of Dingle. She was now a jaded middle-aged veterinarian. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. She started the engine, trying to ignore the pulsing guilt she felt whenever she thought about that beautiful dead horse. Paul had been a good detective. And if he wanted to talk about Last Dance, it could only mean one thing. The message in stone. It wasn’t a euphemism. It had something to do with the past. Which meant the killer was no stranger. The killer was one of them.
CHAPTER 15
BY THE TIME DIMPNA WAS BACK IN THE CLINIC, HER TIRED MIND WAS spinning through her worries. And although as a vet she was used to all-nighters, it wasn’t until a wave of dizziness hit, did she realize she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She headed to the back kitchen in search of something to quell her hunger. There she found only biscuits and tea. She grabbed the pack of biscuits and climbed the stairs to her father’s upstairs flat.
She flicked on the light at the top of the stairs, illuminating the large open space. To the left there was a bed, a small leather sofa with two chairs, and a coffee table. On the right wall sat an ancient entertainment center with a telly, and the center of the room was commandeered by her father’s large mahogany desk. Behind it loomed two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves bulging with large tomes. Books were stacked to the ceiling. Dimpna felt the familiar rumble of excitement that occurred whenever she feasted on her father’s books.
History, veterinarian medicine, biographies, classic literature, travel books, and his guilty pleasure—spy novels. His true heart shone through his books, each one a reflection of his cornucopia of interests. She was thrilled to see he had added a little kitchenette tucked into the corner, and she nearly cried with joy to discover the mini fridge stocked with ham, cheese, and brown sauce. On the counter a decanter of whiskey gleamed. She poured a small dose and made a generous sandwich, then situated herself at her father’s desk. The surface held another stack of books—biology, veterinarian manuals, industry newsletters. Next to it lay a magnifying glass and a highlighter. It was a familiar memory of him, leaning over a book, furiously highlighting sections late into the night. She used to love sitting and spinning in his desk chair, opening anatomy books, marveling over the body parts of cows, and dogs, and horses, and cats. It was a fascinating world to her, the world of blood and bones, and organs and muscle. She’d not only spent her childhood naming and coloring the various body parts and their functions, she’d memorized enough gory details to horrify teachers and delight classmates.
A jar of biros and a letter opener were the only other contents on top of the desk. Her sandwich and whiskey went down easy, but soon she was drowsier than ever. Mostly out of childhood habit, Dimpna placed her hand on the middle desk drawer that her father had always kept locked. She used to conjure up all the secret things she was convinced he kept in there. Mainly, given some of the history books on his shelf, she’d imagined her father was a spy, and the drawer held foreign money, and passports, and pens that doubled as poison darts. To her shock, the usually locked drawer slid open. A plain folder with a yellow sticky note on top stared out at her. Two words blared from the sticky note in red biro: LAST DANCE.
“Oh my God.” This time, when Dimpna talked out loud, there were no animals nearby to make her feel less crazy. She stared at the words, her eyes blurring, her heart tap-dancing. She opened the folder. The first item was an old newspaper article. The headline screamed out at her:
Colt Bolts!
Local veterinarian’s daughter releases million-pound thoroughbred from stall and it races to its death . . .
Her stomach seized, and she regretted the sandwich. She turned the article over. The next item in the folder was a photograph. It took her a moment to realize she was looking at the trailer that hit Last Dance, skewed sideways on the road. In front of it, the body of her beloved horse on the asphalt, blood pooling around him. A low moan came from Dimpna as she flipped the photo over. A sentence was scrawled on the back in black ink:
Forget everything you think you know . . .
What in the world? It wasn’t her father’s handwriting. What did it mean? Was someone making a cruel jab at her father’s dementia? How long had this been stuffed in her father’s drawer? Only someone who had been a witness to that evening could have taken this photo. Those weren’t the days when everyone ported around phones with fancy cameras. Someone just happened to be there with a camera? Who? A journalist? She’d tortured herself with every article that had come out after the tragedy, and she had never seen this grisly photo. It would have been newspaper gold. The coverage at the time reminded her very much of the media that swarmed them after Niall’s scandal and suicide. But there was a crucial difference. The first time she had blood on her hands. Last Dance’s blood. Horse killer.
She’d tortured herself all these years. Thousands of hours of therapy hadn’t helped. She could not forgive herself. Whoever took that photo had been there that night. The O’Reilly barn employed a good deal of characters. Breeders. Trainers. Farmhands. Veterinarians. Had Tommy Healy been there? She’d been so drunk, there was so much she couldn’t remember about that night.
Paul was right. They needed to meet sooner than later.
There was one more item in the folder, another newspaper article. This one was a feature on Tommy Healy. The photo showed him sitting proudly on top of a horse in jockey attire—wearing the same colors as any other O’Reilly jockey—navy blue, white, and green. Another attention-grabbing headline: ONE-ARMED JOCKEY SET TO RIDE LAST DANCE TO VICTORY... In the background his twin lurked, a scowl stamped on his face. Brendan. Sibling rivalry exemplified in one shot. What were the odds that the brother with only one arm was the one destined to shoot to fame? Dimpna had only met Brendan a handful of times. He’d taken off before the big race. Perhaps he had been consumed with jealousy. Or maybe he was better at reading the room. Maybe he knew the O’Reillys were nothing but trouble. Were most siblings doomed to jealous rivalry? Her brother, Donnecha, had wanted nothing to do with the veterinarian business. Brendan Healy did not want to become a jockey, yet maybe he resented the attention his brother was garnering. Why was this photo here? Forget everything you think you know . . .
Clumsily worded, but hardly the point. What did she think she knew? Was someone pointing the finger at Tommy? Tommy had been inconsolable after Last Dance died. So inconsolable, he never rode a horse again. Did he blame Dimpna for that? And Brendan Healy couldn’t have anything to do with this, could he? He’d left for America and had never returned. Surely he’d put Dingle far behind him. She tucked the folder back into her father’s middle drawer, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Forget everything you think you know . . . Would her father remember receiving the items in the folder? Did he know what they meant? Was there any truth to them? As she closed her eyes, a terrifying thought emerged. What if someone had been deliberately planting stories in her father’s head, winding him up to commit murder?
* * *
The next morning Dimpna took the dogs for a walk in one massive heap. Spike, never a cat to be left out, followed at a safe distance. She took them across the road and around the auto body shop. She was curious if she could find any trace of the man who had been watching her. The dogs sniffed around, but Dimpna did not see anything helpful. She’d already picked up the bag of poo she’d thrown at the man, and although there was plenty of litter on the ground, she would have no way of knowing if any bit of discarded rubbish belonged to the creeper. After walking through the fields and streets for nearly an hour, she and the dogs, and Spike, returned to the clinic where she once again made sure everyone was safely ensconced in a kennel or happy out in the fenced yard, showered with water, treats, and kisses.
She settled into the reception desk and called her father’s former front-of-the-house manager, Niamh. When she reached her voice mail, Dimpna introduced herself and left a message asking if she’d be willing to stop by the clinic for a chat. Dimpna intended on closing the clinic. But first she needed to re-home all these creatures. In the interim, she would need help feeding and walking them. And, she had to admit, she was curious to get Niamh’s take on everything that had been going on here lately, especially when it came to her father. She was impressed with Niamh’s record-keeping—not that her father would have it any other way—and just as she was admiring the manager’s work, the front door opened, jangling the bell, and a young woman appeared. A yellow flower winked from thick brown hair, and a wide grin took over her face. “How ya,” she called. “I got your message and came straightaway.”
“You must be Niamh,” Dimpna said, rising. She was already infected by her grin. Niamh could have been considered full-figured, but Dimpna tried not to label anyone’s bodies, especially fellow women. Dimpna had her share of people commenting on her size. And even though they often thought it was cute—“You’re so little, aren’t ya? I could stick ya in my pocket! ”—it was all so cringe-worthy. How nice would it be if humans just stopped focusing on such trivial matters? Animals came in all shapes and sizes and so did people. Every coin had a flip side. Being little was cute until someone was locked out of the house and Dimpna was the only one who could fit through the doggie flap in the door.
“Dr. Wilde,” Niamh said, approaching and clasping Dimpna’s hands in hers as she pumped them up and down. “It is such an honor to meet you.”
“You, as well,” Dimpna said, liking her immediately.
Niamh dropped her hands and peered at her shyly. “I have always wondered what you were like, you know, based on the other Dr. Wilde.” She punctuated the thought with a nervous laugh.
“We’re very different.”
“He’s definitely taller, so.” Another laugh erupted, a throaty sound that warmed the room. “I feel like I know you, and Ben.”
Dimpna felt everything come to a halt. “Ben?”
“That’s your son, right?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “But he isn’t close with his grandparents.”
Niamh made a face. “That’s hard to believe. Dr. Wilde is over the moon about him.”
“He is?”
“Absolutely. Talks about the pair of ye all the time.” Dimpna didn’t know what to say. It had to be the dementia. Her father hadn’t seen Ben in years. Their visits over his lifetime had been sporadic at best. She didn’t want to say that to this lovely young woman. Just the mention of him made her long for her son. She’d received another text from him this morning. They were having a wonderful time in Roses, and next planned on going to France. He asked after his grandfather’s health, but otherwise did not mention canceling his trip. At least that crisis was averted for now. “I wanted to compliment you on your record-keeping,” Dimpna said.
“Thanks a million. If you’re going to do something, do it right, me granny always said.”
“Wise words. If you have the time, I have a million questions. I can pay you.” There wasn’t much money left, but Dimpna was desperate for her help.
“We’ll sort all that out,” Niamh said. “I’m yours for the day. Shall I put the kettle on first?”
“Lovely.” Dimpna nearly cried with relief that finally someone was willing to help her. Niamh set about making tea, and soon returned to the reception area with two cups and a tin of biscuits. They sat behind the receptionist’s counter, in front of the computer monitor, taking a few minutes to sip tea and chat. Once the pleasantries were behind them Dimpna began with her most pressing question.
“Would you mind telling me when you first noticed that Dr. Wilde wasn’t quite himself?”
“I can go through my personal records if you like.” Niamh gestured to the computer monitor on the left.
“Your personal records?”
“I kept a diary of sorts. Everything that happened at work.”
“Wow. Yes. Brilliant.” Dimpna gestured for Niamh to pull up and take the reins. She watched her efficiently click through the screens on the computer.
“I had to give some of my records to the guards.”
“Oh?” Dimpna felt her heartbeat tick up. “When was this?”
“When Miss Maguire reported the bottle of Release missing, the next day we were swarmed with guards.”
Miss Maguire. Dimpna nearly laughed. She still thought of Sheila as a rebellious teenager. “Did they have paperwork from the courts?”
“Paperwork?”
“A warrant,” Dimpna said. “For our records.”
Niamh swallowed. “I didn’t even think to ask. It was before the murder, so I didn’t think there was any reason not to turn over my records.”
Dimpna felt her pulse pick up. “Of course, luv.” Dimpna’s parents needed the advice of a solicitor.
“I asked did they want my records,” Niamh continued. “They said yes, and that was it. But I made a photocopy of them first.”
“Fantastic.” It wasn’t fantastic that she offered—but it was fantastic she made a copy, and Dimpna couldn’t afford to alienate everyone. “I think from now on we’ll get the advice of a solicitor.”
“Do you want the name of Dr. Wilde’s solicitor?”
It was a relief, someone who knew what needed to be done. “Yes, please.”
“He handles any problems at the clinic. He may not be the right person if Dr. Wilde needs . . . other legal help . . . but it’s a start.” Niamh rifled through a contact list on the computer, then jotted something down on a sticky note and handed Dimpna the name and number of the solicitor.
“You’re fantastic.” Dimpna took a deep breath. “I’m also wondering if you can pull the records for all calls my father had in the past two months?”
“Two months?” Niamh chewed on her lips as she clicked through the screen.
“If my father was having lapses in memory, I have to make sure that all his patients received the right care.”
“That makes sense.” Niamh tapped her lips with her index finger. “It’s going to take a few days, but I can put it into a readable report.”
“I’ll pay for your time.” How? How was she going to pay for her time? Or anything else? Her parents were going to need their savings for their legal fees. Just the thought of their retirement being suctioned out to defend themselves against murder charges was enough to make Dimpna want to make it a whiskey morning. “Otherwise, if it’s beyond two months but there are any highly alarming or unusual cases . . .”
“I’ll make sure to flag anything I think you should see.” Niamh was smart. She understood the direction Dimpna was traveling and hopped in for the ride. Adrenaline surged through her. She was going to do everything in her power to clear her parents’ names. She’d been so helpless throughout the entire Niall ordeal, stumbling in the dark as one revelation after another rained down. She’d been even more helpless when Ben disappeared. That was the most gut-wrenching time of all. Battered by worry, tormented by his silence. Was he alive? Dead? Gone forever? Thankfully he’d returned, although it had been a torturous eight months. But this was different. This time she didn’t just have to be a victim; she could take the wheel and right the ship. “Do you have any idea who may have taken that vial of Release?”
