A Turn for the Bad

P
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FOR
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ORK
T
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BESTSELLIN
G
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C
ORK
M
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“[A] captivating tale—sweet, nostalgic, and full of Irish charm, but also tightly plotted and full of twists, turns, and shocking reveals.”

—The Maine Suspect

“[A] truly fabulous read that brings you right to the small county of Cork. With descriptive writing, well-developed characters, and a wonderful story line,
An Early Wake
is a true hit that brings the magic of Ireland to any reader.”

—Open Book Society

“Infused with Irish color and history, as well as richly drawn characters, Connolly's latest offers a diverting armchair excursion to the Emerald Isle and a loving affirmation of Ireland's charm.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Ireland itself becomes a character as Connolly adds description of the countryside and bits of history throughout the book . . . County Cork is surely a place you'd love to visit, and Sullivan's [is] a great spot for a pint of Guinness and a bit of gossip.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“The Irish countryside continues to enchant . . . Maura is a strong lead character, near perfect.”

—MyShelf.com

“Full of charm and mystery . . . [A] great whodunit.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“[A] well-set and nicely paced cozy.”

—
Library Journal

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly

Orchard Mysteries

ONE BAD APPLE

ROTTEN TO THE CORE

RED DELICIOUS DEATH

A KILLER CROP

BITTER HARVEST

SOUR APPLES

GOLDEN MALICIOUS

PICKED TO DIE

Museum Mysteries

FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

LET'S PLAY DEAD

FIRE ENGINE DEAD

MONUMENT TO THE DEAD

RAZING THE DEAD

PRIVY TO THE DEAD

County Cork Mysteries

BURIED IN A BOG

SCANDAL IN SKIBBEREEN

AN EARLY WAKE

A TURN FOR THE BAD

Specials

DEAD LETTERS

AN OPEN BOOK

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

A TURN FOR THE BAD

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Sheila Connolly.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15062-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2016

Cover illustration by Daniel Craig.

Cover photos:
Celtic Knots
© Shutterstock;
Rain
© Zimniy/Shutterstock.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In my trips to West Cork over the past few years, I've been lucky to meet some wonderful people who have helped to shape the stories that I tell.

First among these is Skibbereen garda sergeant Tony McCarthy, who not only let me ask all sorts of questions about Irish police procedures (while sitting in the interview room at the Skibbereen garda station), but also told me tales of past crimes, one of which inspired
A Turn for the Bad.
As an occasional visitor I would have no reason to know about the smuggling that goes on in the isolated coves of Cork, but Sergeant Tony told me one story about a major drug bust that took place a few years ago (he wasn't giving away any secrets!) that was noteworthy for the ineptitude of some of the smugglers. It was almost as if they were begging to be caught, which they were. That was something I had to use.

The second piece of this book fell into place when I was staying at my favorite hotel in Dublin, and visited the pub downstairs one night. I asked the bartender what I should know about Irish whiskeys (research, of course), and he nodded at another man and said, “Talk to him.” That was Cathal Hickey, who proceeded to fill me in on the history, production, and characteristics of Irish whiskey, and not least, how to drink it properly (with just a small splash of water). We tasted quite a few (in moderation, of course) over the course of a few hours, and then he went on to provide the evening's musical entertainment for the pub—and dedicated the song “Whiskey in the Jar” to me. Cathal turned into one of the pivotal characters in this book.

Finally, the last time I stayed in Skibbereen, I paid a call on West Cork Distillers. It's one of the newest distilleries in Ireland, and in the short time it's been distributing its own whiskeys, it's done quite well. I was given the tour of the facilities—and tasted their products, of course. I borrowed the distillery and dropped it into this story, and, yes, two of the owners were in fact local fishermen, which is also important to the story. So thanks to John O'Connell, and to Gerard and Denis McCarthy (the former fishermen). I'm buying your whiskeys any time I see them in the States.

This is what I love about writing about Ireland: things just come together, and all I have to do is listen to people and write down what they tell me.

Of course, I owe huge thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, and my editor, Tom Colgan of Berkley (who has some Irish blood in him!), who have helped to make this series successful. Thanks to Sisters in Crime and the Guppies, who are the greatest cheerleaders any writer could want. And not least, thanks to all the people in West Cork who have shared their stories with me—I hope I've done right by them.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le huaigh.

There is hope with the sea but there is no hope with the grave.

—IRISH PROVERB

“John Tully's gone missing.”

Maura Donovan looked up from behind the bar at the man who had burst into Sullivan's, sending the door slamming into the wall. She didn't recognize him, but then, she was still sorting out who was who around Leap, even after seven months in the village. The few customers in the pub, local men and regulars, didn't seem to know what the latest arrival was talking about.

“What're yeh sayin'?” one of them asked.

“John Tully,” the newcomer said, still out of breath. “Went out this mornin' with his boy to take a walk on the shore, he told his wife. He hasn't come back. No one's seen him since. His brother went out to look fer him, found the boy wanderin' on the beach. His wife's beside herself with worry.”

“That's bad,” another man said. “After that other thing and all.”

Maura was falling more and more behind in this conversation. If she'd got it right, not only had this Tully man disappeared, leaving a young child alone on the beach, but it had happened before? To Tully or to someone else? Nearby or somewhere else? She hadn't heard anything about that, but for all she knew the first disappearance had happened a century earlier. She had learned that memories were long in this part of Ireland. “Is he from around here?” she ventured.

The first man turned to her. “Over toward Dromadoon. Sorry, we've not met. I'm Richard McCarthy, and you'd be Maura Donovan? Used to be I'd stop by now and then when Old Mick ran the place, but not lately.”

“I am,” Maura said, “and welcome back to Sullivan's. So what's happened?”

“John Tully, a good man, told his wife, Nuala, he wanted some air before the evenin' milkin'. She told him to bring along the youngest child, Eoin, because she was takin' the older ones to something or other. He did so. Nuala came back a few hours later, and there was no sign of man. It was gettin' cold and she was worried about the little one, so she sent the brother Conor out to collect him. Conor comes back with the child, but not John. It isn't like John to go missin' like that. So she waited fer a bit, then went over to where John liked to walk. He had what he called a ‘thinking rock' by the water, and she knew where to look. No sign of him there. She had the other kids with her, and Conor as well, so they all searched and they found nothing. Then she called the gardaí, and they're searching now.” The man settled himself on a stool
at the bar, and a couple of the other men took adjoining seats. “I could do with a pint, if you please.”

“Sure. Rose?” Maura nodded toward Rose Sweeney, who worked in the pub part of the time, as did her father, Jimmy, who'd been listening to the tale.

“Right away,” Rose said. “Anyone else?” Rose glanced around the room.

One of the other men at the bar nodded, and Rose started two pints.

Maura turned back to the men at the bar. “You said this has happened before? I mean, someone just disappearing?”

Richard McCarthy nodded, his expression somber. “Terrible thing, that was. Before your time, I'm guessin', a year or two back. Older man, a farmer, married a young American who was visiting here, and they had a child, a little girl it was. Light of his life, he said. But the wife was talking about moving back to the States and takin' the child with her. So the man went out with the girl while the wife was visitin' a friend, and drowned the little one and then himself.”

“How awful!” Maura said. “Do you think John Tully . . .” Maura wasn't sure how to finish her question. She didn't know the man, but she couldn't believe he would have taken his young child along if he planned to drown himself.

“God willing, I hope not. Nor is there any reason to suspect it. John's a good man, and he and his wife get on well. He'd have no reason to do himself harm. And he loves the boy—the first son, after three girls.”

Rose slid the pints across the bar to the waiting men. “So who's looking fer him now?”

“The neighbors and the gardaí. The wife's waitin' back
home with the kids—she had the milkin' to do. The gardaí haven't called the coast guard yet, seein' as there's no reason to think he was out on the water. John has no boat and wasn't much of a man fer the boatin', him raisin' cows and all. But he liked the walk—said it was good for his thinkin'. Ta.” He raised his glass to Maura. She realized she probably was expected not to charge him for it since he was the bearer of news, even if the news was bad. Another thing she was getting used to: the odd rules about who paid and when at the pub.

“Will they be needin' help?” one of the other men asked.

“Might do. It'll be gettin' dark soon. No doubt the gardaí will get the word out if it's wanted. And some of you must be volunteers for the coast guard, eh?” McCarthy had finished his pint quickly, draining the last of it. “I'm off to tell the folk at Sheahan's across the street. Pray fer the man, will yeh?”

After McCarthy had left, the remaining men lapsed into glum silence. Maura checked the time: only a couple of hours until dusk, now that it was late October. Would that be enough time to search? She could understand how a man could walk out of his home and just keep going, but to take a small child along and then abandon him? That made no sense.

“Rose, I'm going to talk with Billy for a bit, okay?” Maura said.

“No worries. I think I can handle the crowd here,” Rose replied, dimpling. By Maura's count there were five customers in the room, including Old Billy, who lived in a couple of rooms at the far end of the building that Maura now owned and who spent most of his waking time holding court in the pub, seated by the fire. She guessed he was well past eighty, but she wasn't sure even he knew his age. He had known Maura's predecessor Old Mick well, and luckily Billy
Sheahan had stayed around to see Maura through the first few rocky months. And since he had lived in the area all of his eighty-plus years, he knew the history of most people and places in West Cork.

Maura walked over to the corner by the fire, where Billy occupied his favorite armchair—which no one else who knew the place dared to sit in—and sat down in the adjoining chair. “Are you ready for another pint, Billy?”

“Not yet, thanks fer askin'. McCarthy's news has put me right off my drink.”

“It doesn't sound good. Do you know the Tully family?” Maura asked.

“I knew John's grandfather, years ago. They've a nice little piece of land over west of here, and they keep cows. The make a fair living at it, from what I hear.”

Maura thought a moment. “So you're saying John Tully would have no reason to, well, do himself harm?”

“Not likely. And he and his wife are well suited, and they grew up together. And then there's the child. The man was over the moon about havin' a son at last, after the three girls.”

“That's what I was thinking—he wouldn't have just gone off and left the kid. So if John didn't have any problems, where is he?”

“That I cannot say,” Billy replied somberly.

“What's the coast guard like around here? I haven't heard much about them. Well, except when a fishing boat goes missing or starts to sink.”

Billy smiled. “I'll give yeh the short course, shall I? The Irish Coast Guard is a national organization that rescues people from danger at sea or on land, and that includes the cliffs and the beaches. There are three rescue centers, and the
closest is on Valentia Island, over to Kerry. The Volunteer Coastal Units can do search and rescue—the nearest ones are at Glandore, and no doubt you've been past that one, and Toe Head. They'd be the ones would be called in fer this. They're volunteers, local men and women alike, who have to live within ten minutes of the station—which clearly we here in Leap do—and they're always on call.”

“I never knew any of that, Billy,” Maura said. “How come you know so much about it?”

“One of me nephews has been a volunteer fer years. But he's seldom called in. Still, there are always those daft tourists who think climbing a cliff is a fine idea, until they get into trouble and they have to be rescued.”

“Richard McCarthy didn't think they'd been called yet.”

“I knew the beach Tully likes, years ago, and I doubt it's changed much. If the man isn't found there, the rescue teams will be called in soon enough.”

“Was the coast guard part of that other story?”

“Where the little girl was drowned? They were, as were the gardaí and the local firemen. But neither father nor daughter was found until the next day. The man left a note behind, although it took them a bit to find it.”

“And no one saw them go into the water?” Maura asked.

Billy looked at her. “You've not spent much time along the beaches here, have you, now? There's few people near enough to see anything, if they're not lookin' fer it.”

“I haven't had the time, I guess, and I don't much like just going for walks. Down along the harbor here now and then, but that's about it.”

“Did you not grow up near the sea?”

“Well, yes and no. Boston's got a harbor, and there's plenty
of coastline nearby, but I never had the time to go off and look at the water and play in the sand. I was usually working at one job or another, when I wasn't in school.” There had always been a job, because she and her gran had never had enough money.

“Do yeh know how to swim?” Billy asked.

“Enough to stay afloat, Billy. My high school got some kind of special grant to give the kids swimming lessons. That's about it. Doesn't mean I like it.”

“There's many a fisherman hereabouts who can't swim, so yer ahead of the game there.” The front door opened, and Billy nodded toward the newcomers. “You've business to tend to. Maybe there's someone who's had some good news.”

“Let's hope so, Billy.” Maura went back to her usual place behind the bar and started helping Rose pull pints for the newcomers. It didn't surprise her that the crowd grew throughout the evening, everyone hoping to hear that John Tully had been found. Most of the people who came in knew him, or had bought cows or milk from him, or were related to his mother's cousin over near Clonakilty, and so on. Maura had given up trying to sort out all the invisible connections that existed in this part of Ireland, or maybe throughout the entire country—she hadn't had time to check out more than this small corner.

Mick Nolan, the final member of Maura's staff, had arrived around five and kept busy since. Maura hadn't had time to ask if he had come out of concern for John Tully or because he had heard the news and guessed that it would be a busy night at the pub. As the night wore on, Maura noticed a current of anxiety running through the crowd. No one was drinking much, and Maura hadn't the heart to insist that
they keep buying pints. Mostly the people there wanted to be together, either to wait for whatever news came or to share the outcome, good or bad.

It was past ten when garda Sean Murphy walked in. Conversation in the pub came to a halt, and all eyes turned toward Sean. He came straight to the point.

“No sign of the man. They've called off the search until first light.”

The mood in the room ratcheted down a notch, and people started draining their glasses and heading for the door: there would be no more news this night. Sean made his way to the bar.

“A pint or coffee?” Maura asked.

Sean rubbed his face. He looked tired, despite the fact that he was younger than Maura's twenty-five years. “I'd love a pint, but it'll be an early day tomorrow. Coffee, if you will.”

“Coming up,” Maura said.

“I'll do it,” Rose volunteered. Maura hadn't even noticed she was still there, they'd been so busy. Rose usually left early in the evening, except weekends, but most likely she had been as anxious as the rest of the people to hear what was going on.

Maura leaned on the counter to ask Sean, “What can you tell me?”

Sean shook his head. “Too little. Everyone's been out hunting half the day, since we heard. The mother's been hovering at the scene, with some of her family around her. The children are staying with the rest of 'em.”

“Where'd you find the boy? You must have gone over that beach with a fine-tooth comb. Did you find anything useful?” Maura asked, although she wasn't sure what that might be.

Sean glanced around, but no one was near enough to
overhear their quiet conversation. “We found some footprints where Conor told us to look—large and small, together. But they were soon trampled by well-meaning people lookin' fer the man.”

“I heard it was John's brother who found the boy and took him home,” Maura said. “Is he old enough to tell you anything?”

Sean shrugged. “Hard to say. He's only just turned three, and his mother's barely let him get a word out since he's come home. What he'll remember in the morning is anyone's guess. The best we got was that he kept talkin' about a boat. No surprise, seein' as how he was on the beach.”