She disconnects. Greta and Leesa wait, eyebrows raised, and I fill them in.
Leesa bites her lip. “So we can assume Savannah’s murder is connected to your message?”
I start to protest and she holds up a hand. “I know, I know. But if the police are coming to talk to you tomorrow, they’re obviously considering it.”
“But what in my message would prompt murder?”
“Well, I imagine Warren Geary is furious, for a start.” She settles back on her chair. “I know you told us about it at the time, but give me a refresher—talk to me about the husband and the PR girl?”
The husband and the PR girl. It sounds like such a cliché, but for what it’s worth, this is what happened.
It was a Friday night in June and I was at the opening of a new pubcalled Bar Four. I was invited by a teacher friend who then texted to say she was running late, making me half wish I’d said no. But I’d hardly been out since Bella was born and it seemed like it might be good for my brain to go for an hour.
The bar was cool when I walked in out of the evening warmth—the aircon turned too high maybe—and I immediately regretted my short-sleeved wrap dress. I recognized half a dozen faces but nobody I knew well enough to chat to, and was just contemplating hiding in a corner with my phone when I spotted Warren Geary, Celeste’s husband, standing by the bar, Guinness in hand. I knew him from Oakpark—not well, we didn’t socialize, but I’d seen him out walking his dachshund. They always struck me as an incongruous pair—the tiny dog and the oversized man. Warren is about six foot four, an ex–rugby player who hasn’t yet gone to seed, though his thick hair is starting to thin ever so slightly and his thick neck doesn’t suit his fifty-five-year-old body quite as well as it did when he was a forward for Leinster. He saw me come in and waved me over, gesturing for the bartender to pour me a glass of Prosecco.
“Great to see you, thanks for coming.” He passed me the drink, and perhaps seeing confusion in my expression, he elaborated. “I’m a shareholder in the bar. Silent partner.”
“Ah, congratulations.” I clinked my Prosecco against his pint. “Lovely spot.” Actually, it looked the same as every other bar that’s opened in Dublin over the last ten years, but who was I to judge? I looked around. “Is Celeste here too?”
“No, she’s away on a work trip.”
“And how are the kids?”
“Nika’s great.” A proud smile broke across his face. “She’s a real all-rounder. But sure of course you know that. I worry sometimes that she’s pushing herself too hard between study and hockey, but look, she’s managing brilliantly. She’s got her sights set on doing law and I’d say she’ll get the points no bother.” He seemed to realize then that he’d broken one ofIreland’s cardinal rules: No Showing Off. “Of course, Cody’s a different story.” An eyeroll.
“Not as into the books?”
“Not into anything except shutting himself in his room with his Xbox. I wish we could find something to get him out of the house.”
“Maybe he’ll get a part-time job for the summer? I know he’s too young to work, but even a bit of gardening or babysitting?”
Warren’s mouth tightened and, too late, I remembered why Cody might not get work babysitting. Greta had told me what happened with Cody and the Fitzpatrick child he was minding, and I made a mental note to ask her to remind me of the details while working to camouflage the thoughts that were spinning across my face.
“Of course, they’re only young for such a short time,” I added hurriedly, “and maybe they need those summers in front of the Xbox.”
“True. And he has work experience coming up with a Big Four accountancy firm in August. I had to go throughmanyhoops to set that up for him, but it’ll be worth it for the contacts he’ll make.”
I smiled inwardly at the idea of a fifteen-year-old making contacts in an accounting firm as Warren turned and called to the bartender.
“Venetia? Pint, please, and for Susan”—he turned to me—“another Prosecco?”
I smiled at the bartender. “That would be lovely, thanks.”
Venetia, a tall woman with dark choppy waves and a full fringe sweeping low over her eyes, nodded somewhat tersely. With her retro hair, black T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, she looked like she’d walked straight out of a sound check with an eighties rock band. She didn’t return my smile. One of my fatal flaws is a need to be liked, and it bothered me slightly that she seemed immune to my admittedly moderate charms. I couldn’t help wishing Jon was with me. He’s good at social situations. He’s good company, full stop, and this is something we’ve been missing since Bella was born—getting out together, just the two of us.
A woman sidled over then, looking strikingly similar to Venetia but with a twenty-first-century blow-dry and a well-cut silver blazer. She kissed Warren on both cheeks and held out a hand to shake mine.
Warren introduced us. “Susan, this is Aimee from Jordan-Birch PR—she’s the one who’s going to get us into the papers, isn’t that right, Aimee?”
“Well, it’s a fabulous turnout,” Aimee said, “and we’re very grateful to you for joining us, Susan.”
I warmed to her immediately. As an underdressed, under-made-up, completely uninfluential randomer drinking free Prosecco, I was of zero use to their opening but Aimee made me feel like I was single-handedly launching the pub.
She touched my arm, perhaps noticing the goosebumps. “Are you cold? We could turn off the aircon?”
In true Irish fashion, I lied enthusiastically rather than put someone out. “God no, it’s a perfect temperature. But thanks.”
“Great. Now, I hope this guy is looking after you.” She nudged Warren playfully then turned and called the bartender. “Venetia, any chance of a sparkling water for your parched sis?”
