Death on the Green

Book 2: Dublin Driver Mysteries

by Catie Murphy

Genres: Female Sleuths; General Fiction; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

As an American in Dublin, limo driver Megan Malone will need the luck of the Irish to avoid a head-on collision—with a killer . . .



Life has been non-stop excitement for American Army veteran Megan Malone ever since she moved to Ireland and became a driver for Dublin's Leprechaun Limousine Service. She's solved a murder and adopted two lovable Jack Russell puppies. Currently, she's driving world-class champion golfer Martin Walsh, and he's invited her to join him while he plays in a tournament at a prestigious Irish locale. Unfortunately, there's a surprise waiting for her on the course—a body floating in a water hazard.



Everyone loved golfer Lou MacDonald, yet he clearly teed off someone enough to be murdered. Martin seems to be the only one with a motive. However, he also has an alibi: Megan and hundreds of his fans were watching him play. Now, with a clubhouse at a historical lodge full of secrets and a dashing Irish detective by her side, Megan must hurry to uncover the links to the truth before the real killer takes a swing at someone else . . .

Release date: September 29, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Lou MacDonald lay face down in the hazard pond, his pink shirt billowing and puffing with air as the water dragged him under.

A baffled silence rolled over the little group who crested the small hill to find him there. They were mostly fans, men and women who had braved a soft, not-quite-raining September morning for the chance to watch aging PGA champion Martin Walsh play a casual game across the green. The soft-voiced, good-natured murmuring that had come with watching a world-class golfer—even one past his prime—couldn’t stand up to the shock of a death on the green. The entire gathering stood rigid, no one able to even imagine what they should do.

Goosebumps shivered over Megan Malone’s spine and arms. She didn’t even belong there, really: she was just Martin Walsh’s employee, hired to drive him around for the ten days he was in Dublin. She knew almost nothing about golf, but Martin had invited her to walk along the course after dropping off his wife, Heather, at her golf course, farther north on the little flat island in Dublin Bay. Megan, always preferring to go for a walk than sit idly in the car for hours at a time, had come along willingly. She felt her black-and-white chauffeur’s uniform marked her as the help, but as far as Walsh’s fans were concerned, being in his employ meant she belonged to some secret league they couldn’t hope to aspire to. They kept a respectful distance. His caddie, a man half again as large as Walsh himself, was pleasant, especially after Megan offered to help lug clubs. That got her into his good books, but he’d turned down the offer, and since his job was being at Walsh’s side, he didn’t have much else to say to her. So Megan had trailed along with the group, watching them from the outside rather than being a part of it. Not that she minded. Getting a glimpse of people’s lives from the outside was part of why she loved her job as a driver.

Usually, though, those glimpses didn’t end with a dead man floating in the middle of one of Ireland’s trickiest water hazards.

Lou MacDonald, a big, friendly man, had been less impressed than the fans, and more open than the caddies. He’d chatted Megan up at the clubhouse, fascinated to hear how an American had come to be driving limousines and town cars in Ireland. The short version, she’d told him, was that she had citizenship through her grandfather, so they couldn’t keep her out. He’d laughed and she’d offered to tell him the long version as they walked around the greens, but MacDonald waved her off with a promise that he might join the group on the last few holes, if the weather warmed up a little. Otherwise, he was more content to sit with a tumbler of whiskey than tromp across the damp greens on a misty Irish morning.

It seemed absolutely impossible that he could be drowned in a pond at the fifteenth, when they’d left him in the cozy clubhouse less than two hours earlier. And yet there he was, sinking lower into the pond while everyone stared in dismay.

Megan finally jolted toward the water, jumping the low, overhanging bank into the pond with her knees well bent, to keep from landing hard in unexpected shallows. Freezing water splashed up as she landed deeper than she expected, soaking her all the way to her bra. She straightened, gasping, and lurched forward, struggling through hip-deep reeds that were nearly invisible from the surface. She heard splashing behind her, as if her actions had shaken the others into motion. Someone was on a mobile, calling for help, but Megan reached Lou’s prone form and turned him over, fearing it was too late. His face was flaccid and his skin cold to the touch. She checked for a pulse anyway, found none, and still lowered her ear to his chest, just in case she might catch some last, promising thump of his heart.

Martin sloshed to her side, his face a grimace of distress. “He’s—he can’t be—” Like Megan, he felt for a pulse, checking Lou’s wrist, though unlike Megan, he dropped the dead man’s hand almost instantly, looking queasy. He wasn’t a large man, was Martin Walsh, but neither was he so small that he couldn’t hit a golf ball what looked like miles, to Megan’s untrained eyes. He was fit, dressed for casual warmth on the course, and trembling like a frightened animal. The whites of his eyes glared around their brown pupils, and his lips were already going blue. “It hasn’t been an hour since we left him! He can’t be this cold!”

“It’s the water.” Irish lakes might be pretty nearly at their warmest in mid-September, but the pond still had a bone-chilling heaviness. It had already penetrated Megan’s thigh muscles and was draining the heat from her core. Standing waist-deep in numbing wetness, she felt the muck on the bottom of the pond seeping over her shoes and slowly offering a false sense of warmth. She gnawed her lower lip, staring at Lou’s body, then made the decision and seized his arm, wading back toward the shore.

“Megan, what are you doing? What are you doing?” Martin splashed after her, wake from his movement rolling ahead of them both. “He’s dead! Shouldn’t we leave the body where it is for the police?”

“He might not be dead. Cold-water shock can slow the metabolism way down. I want to try CPR, but it’s a lot easier on shore. Get something warm. Take everybody’s coats. There’s a—” She got to shallower water and had to turn, grab Lou by the armpits, and drag him the rest of the way to land.

Lou MacDonald hadn’t been a small man in life. Now, weighed down by pond water and the boneless relaxation of unconsciousness, Megan would have sworn he weighed about a quarter ton. Her foot slipped on the overhanging pond lip, sandy soil breaking off to splash into the water, and she nearly lost her grip on the body. Teeth bared and breath short with concentration, she tried again, taking a large, awkward step back and straining to haul Lou up. She staggered, back aching, heart pounding so hard it blurred her vision, and shook her head, although whether she was saying no, I can’t do it, or no, I won’t fail, even she didn’t know.

Martin, nearly green with horror, grabbed the dead man’s legs and heaved him upward as Megan scrambled backward with the bulk of his weight. A second heave got him all the way onto shore. Martin all but ran from the water as Megan fell onto her bum, then righted herself to hands and knees so she could turn Lou’s head to the side. She fished in his mouth with a finger, pulling his tongue straight so it wouldn’t choke him. Water dribbled from his mouth and Megan heard Martin throwing up on the grass a few feet away.

“Here.” One of the onlookers came forward with his coat. Other people came with him, offering help in increasingly loud, chaotic tones, until a matronly-sounding woman snapped, “Put them on top of each other on the ground and smooth them out. You and you, help this woman move the body onto the coats.” Even in the midst of a crisis, a tiny spark of humor blossomed in Megan’s chest when everyone fell in to helping, unable to deny the Irish Mammy Voice. A few seconds later, Lou had been moved to the pile of coats. Megan crawled on them too, putting weight on his sternum in hopes of forcing water from his lungs. The coats were enough warmer than the damp ground that she became aware, very abruptly, of just how cold she was.

Someone with a floral scent and long, polished fingernails touched Megan’s shoulder and spoke quietly. “Let me get this wet coat off you.”

Megan, still trying to force water from Lou’s lungs, nodded. Between one push and the next, the woman stripped away Megan’s chauffeur’s jacket, then dropped a warm, puffy winter coat over her shoulders. A violent shiver started in Megan’s gut and shuddered its way out. She shoved her arms through the coat’s sleeves, wishing she dared stop to strip her wet shirt from beneath the coat, but except for that first mouthful, no water had come out of Lou yet. Megan didn’t want to risk a hesitation that could cost the man his life.

It felt like forever, although it surely wasn’t really more than a minute or two before someone said, “There’s no water coming out.”

Megan snarled, “I know,” and only then, slowly, upon hearing someone else say it, began to realize what that actually meant.

Lou had only expelled a mouthful of water, and that when she’d turned his head. She hadn’t been able to force any more water out of him since, although she was both strong and trained to do that sort of thing correctly. Suddenly spent, she fell back from Lou’s body, only then seeing that blood had pooled beneath his head, staining the light blue lining of someone’s coat.

Megan clenched her teeth and reached into her inner chest pocket for her phone. For a heartbeat she panicked: the phone wasn’t there. But then, neither was the pocket, because she was wearing somebody else’s warm winter coat, not her black uniform jacket. She looked around at a couple of dozen, maybe more, worried, frightened people surrounding her and the body. One of them was the nail-polished woman who’d taken her jacket and still held it, clutched against her chest. Megan waved her hand and the woman startled, hugged it closer as she looked around as if wondering what Megan wanted, then visibly realized she was holding what Megan wanted. She handed the jacket back, and even in the grey morning light, even with the fabric black and hiding water well, Megan could see that, despite her splashing entrance to the pond, it wasn’t wet much past the ribs. Her phone was probably safe. She still breathed a sigh of relief when the phone turned on without complaint. Megan closed her eyes as she touched the name she needed and put the phone to her ear.

“Detective Bourke? This is Megan Malone. I’ve just found a dead body.”

The Royal Dublin Golf Club, at some eight kilometres—five miles—northeast of Pearse Street Garda Station, was not, strictly speaking, Detective Paul Bourke’s jurisdiction. On the other hand, it was Bourke whom Megan had met three months earlier when she’d become entangled in an investigation after one of her clients had been murdered, making him the only police officer she knew well. Or at all, really. And she didn’t know who was responsible for policing Bull Island, off Dublin’s coast, anyway, so Bourke was as good a choice as any.

He arrived at the golf club less than half an hour after Megan called. There were other gardaí on the scene by then, presumably called in by himself and, also presumably, from the precinct Megan should have called in the first place. Either way, he was the first plain-clothes officer to arrive, the sharply cut lines of his skinny suit somewhat spoiled by calf-high green wellies that kept the damp off his feet. He wore a trench coat over the suit and came striding across the green like a badly shod Doctor Who, with the wind rifling his sandy red hair. Upon his arrival, he said, “Ms. Malone,” with a note of incredulity.

Megan turned her hands up helplessly. “I know. I don’t know how this happened again.” For a few seconds they fell silent, their eyes meeting, as Megan remembered, vividly, how Elizabeth Darr had died at her feet under suspicious circumstances just a few months earlier. Bourke, clearly remembering the same thing, sighed heavily, and Megan spread her hands again. “I didn’t even know the victim this time. Does that count for anything?”

Bourke, sourly, said, “Not really. You said on the phone you thought it was a murder. Why?”

“There was no water in his lungs.” Megan looked toward where paramedics had taken MacDonald’s body into an ambulance, which had left thick, deep tracks across the golf course green. “I thought there was a chance he could still be alive and in cold-water shock, so I dragged him out and tried to expel the water from his lungs and stomach, but nothing came up. I know how to do CPR correctly,” she said with a glance back at Bourke, who nodded. He’d been there in the aftermath of her doing CPR on Elizabeth Darr. “If there’d been water in his chest to dislodge, I’d have managed it,” Megan went on with confidence. “There wasn’t. So he died before he went in the water. And there’s a wound on the back of his head, so either he smashed his skull against something before falling face-first into a pond he hadn’t been planning to go near, or somebody killed him.”

Bourke’s eyebrows, so blond they were nearly invisible, rose to wrinkle his forehead. “And how is it you know he’d no intention of going to the pond?”

“Mr. Walsh introduced me to him at the clubhouse before we came out onto the green. When we left he said he’d far rather stay in the warmth with his whiskey.”

“So you did know him.”

“I met him once, two hours ago,” Megan argued, then glanced at the sky as if the thick cloud cover might part, reveal the sun, and, with it, the time. “Three hours ago now, I guess. Anyway I didn’t know him.”

“What was he like?” Bourke had taken a notepad with a dark purple cover from his trench coat pocket. The one he’d used for Elizabeth Darr’s investigation had been dark green. Megan wondered if he had a new one for every investigation, and if it meant he had to carry several around at once. He wrote quickly as she spoke, loops and stops visible in the action of his hand.

“He seemed nice enough. Friendly in that I’ll-talk-to-anybody way the Irish have.” Megan pursed her lips, having forgotten momentarily that she was speaking to an Irish-born person, but Bourke only smiled briefly at the stereotype and gestured for her to continue. “He was the sort to have a tumbler of whiskey in hand before noon, but he didn’t come across as drunk, and he didn’t toss back a whole glass of booze while we talked, or anything. I’m not even sure he drank any at all. He wanted to know how I’d come to be driving in Ireland, and that was about it. We only talked for a few minutes. He said he might join us on the back nine if the weather cleared up.” She cast another dubious look at the sky. “I did have somebody say to me, ‘It is clear, the clouds are very high . . .’ right after I moved here, and I think she was half serious, but they were a lot higher and thinner than this. I wouldn’t have called this cleared up. Still, he obviously decided to go for a walk. Or someone did a Weekend at Bernie’s with him.”

Bourke took this flood of information stoically. “Any idea what his relationship to Martin Walsh is?”

Megan made an I-don’t-know face. “They obviously knew each other pretty well. They’re about the same age, I’d say? Midforties? Not much older than you and me anyway. Martin is still trying to win a last PGA Tour, so he can’t be that old.”

“Martin Walsh is forty-eight,” Bourke said in a tone that suggested he couldn’t believe Megan didn’t know that.

“Forgive me for not being up on Irish golf prodigies,” Megan replied, amused. “I knew who he was, isn’t that enough?”

“Next you’ll be telling me you’ve only the faintest notion who Katie Taylor or Conor McGregor are,” Bourke muttered beneath the sound of Megan’s laugh.

“No, I know them. Look, Detective, I know this probably isn’t your usual beat, so thanks for coming out when I called.”

“I can’t imagine explaining to the chief why I got a personal call about a murder and didn’t come to have a look, so no worries. I’d best get to it.” Despite his words, Bourke lingered a moment. “How are the puppies?”

A smile split Megan’s face. “They’re grand. Dip is bigger than Thong—”

Bourke looked pained, and Megan fought down a laugh. She had, in the midst of Elizabeth Darr’s murder investigation, acquired a Jack Russell terrier who had just given birth to two puppies. The boy’s brown face looked like it had been dipped in chocolate, so Megan called him Dip and, as she now had it on good authority because she had a weird sense of humor, she had dubbed his sister Thong, making them a diphthong. No one else thought it was funny, and Megan’s friend Fionnuala, who had promised to adopt Thong, also swore the little girl puppy would be renamed something more appropriate. Bourke clearly agreed with Fionn’s sentiments, although he his own self had dropped by to woo Mama Dog a few times, showing little interest in her offspring.

“—and they’re both pretty thoroughly weaned,” Megan finished, still smiling broadly. “Fionn’s supposed to bring Thong home this weekend, I think. I hope so. My boss gives me the stink eye every time she sees me. I’m not supposed to have dogs in the apartment.”

“Sure and that’ll teach you to rent a flat from your employer.” Bourke, with a nod, went to interview people.

Megan said, “As if that makes sense,” under her breath, and then, as if it needed a defense, added, “It was a good deal!” aloud before muttering, “It’s not like I knew I was going to end up with puppies when I rented the place,” to herself.

Detective Bourke was a long time talking with Martin Walsh. The ambulance drove away, and several terrified-looking young people driving golf carts arrived, keeping their distance from the witnesses to the aftermath of Lou MacDonald’s death. Megan, shivering with cold, sidled toward Bourke and Walsh under the guise of being responsible for taking the golfer home, but mostly she just wanted to listen in. Once she was close enough to hear, she stamped up and down a short path behind Bourke, trying to stay out of his sight and hoping to warm her muddy feet and half-frozen thighs. She did have a pair of survival blankets in the boot of her town car, but going to get them would mean abandoning Walsh and, more to the point, abandoning any hope of overhearing his conversation with Detective Bourke.

Martin, wrapped in a woman’s long wool coat to keep some of the cold off him, looked a wreck, and kept glancing toward the ambulance tracks. His pale hair collected mist until the beads pulled it down over his round face, making him look like a particularly dim-witted, shaggy-haired sheep. “Everybody liked Lou,” he said for the fourth time that Megan had heard. “He wasn’t the sort to make enemies. He didn’t have time for that rubbish. If you didn’t like him, that was on you. He’d never make a fuss about it. I’ve known him since I was twelve, and I only ever saw him get into a fight once.”

“What happened then?” This was apparently new even to Bourke, who began writing again. Megan stood in place and stomped her feet on the squishy grass, listening.

“Ah, we were out at a pub like, and some wee gobshite came after one of our mates, a Nigerian fella. The gobshite called him a word I wouldn’t want to repeat, and Lou stood up and asked him if he’d care to say that again. The wee gobshite threw a punch, and it was like in the movies so, where a wee little man hits a big one and the big one barely turns his head? That was Lou. I’d never seen him so surprised. He was six three like, and built like a barrel back then, though he’d taken some of the weight off these last few years. No one punches a man like that, especially not a wee gobshite. So Lou hit him back, just the once, but that’s all it took. The wee gobshite fell down, and we went back to drinking while his lads dragged him out of there. But that was most of thirty years ago, and you couldn’t even call it a fight like.”

“He golfed?” Bourke asked with a nod, as if it all tied together.

Martin, shivering in his borrowed wool coat, shrugged. “When we were lads, ah, with the shoulders on him, you’d have never seen the ball again, if only he could hit it. But his wife golfed, and he took it up to spend time with her. He was never so competitive as I, but he might have been a better golfer, once he got into the game with Kim. We were making a run at the Ryder Cup wild-card selection together this year.” Pain shattered across Martin’s face, and, compounded by the cold, nearly turned to tears. “I guess it’s only me now.”

Detective Bourke looked around at Megan, who apparently hadn’t gone unnoticed after all, at the gathered entourage who were still being spoken to by uniformed gardaí, and finally back to Martin Walsh. “You and Ms. Malone had best get to the clubhouse and warm up. I’ll need to talk to you more there, but there’s nothing that has to be discussed in the wind and mist and cold, especially with you wet . . .