CHAPTER 1
Lark
Five Body Bags, Adult Size
I blinked and fumbled the box cutter I'd been using.
What the hell?
I looked around, hoping to find an answer in the haphazard stacks of boxes that surrounded me. But no. Just me and the few belongings I'd deemed irreplaceable enough to make the transatlantic trip. It was amazing, really, how little made up a life-especially when you had to factor in shipping expenses from Texas to Ireland.
My attention returned to the innocuous box and the neat stack of black nylon fabric inside. I'd been using the box cutter as a microphone, swept away by Dolly Parton's shimmering voice and the promise of a new beginning as I unpacked, when the shock of the body bags rudely knocked me out of my groove.
I checked the shipping paperwork for the intended recipient: Willow Haven. The bed-and-breakfast next door.
What. The. Hell?
Galway's reputation for liveliness had drawn me to the city, and now I found a package of death supplies in my living room. Of course the morbid specter of guilt would follow me from Austin. Grief had been my stowaway across the pond.
I peeked through the blinds of my partially furnished rental apartment. No signs of life from the building across the way. The arched windows and stone facade made it a prime example of local architecture. Google Maps Street View had sold me on this quaint Celtic neighborhood only two weeks ago, thanks to its gorgeous views of the bay and vibrant art scene. I may be spontaneous enough to pick up and move my life for a job in another country on short notice, but I'm savvy enough to brush up on the local crime rate before inadvertently signing a lease in a seedy part of town.
While my new building itself was cute and historical, the apartment's furnishings were nothing to write home about: a threadbare love seat and water-ringed writing desk that now served as home to my trusty iPad Pro and stylus. My battered steamer trunk stood in for a coffee table. Just the basics for my nine-month stay.
My cousin Cielo's loopy handwriting on the side of a box caught my eye. I missed her already. Forty-five hundred miles now stretched between me and everyone in my old life. For the first time in twenty-nine years, I was alone. By choice . . . but still. Body bags delivered to my new apartment was definitely not on my Fresh Start in Ireland bingo card.
Maybe the person who ordered the bags needed them for some kind of project. People who plan to hide bodies usually avoid associated paper trails. Right? Galway was a haven for creatives, with its college and busker-filled alleys. Surely there was an explanation.
Swaths of ivy clung to the Georgian building next door. Graceful willows shaded the yard. It didn't look evil. Maybe the owner needed these bags right away, for a play or student film. This could be an opportunity to make my first friend here. A friend who definitely wasn't a serial killer. Outside of the management and HR staff at my new job, I didn't know a soul in Ireland. I'd even tried to chat up the delivery driver-in hindsight, that was probably what caused the package mix-up. I needed to meet the neighbor before my imagination spiraled. For heaven's sake, this place was voted the world's friendliest city more than once.
I slipped into my favorite Ariat cowboy boots and a sweater against the November chill. Curiosity tingled as I approached the bed-and-breakfast with the box tucked under my arm.
The reception desk was unattended. Traditional yet homey, the lobby held a somber energy. A minor operation run by a doily-crocheting matronly woman, one could only assume. Sadly, probably not my new BFF. A service bell sat on the desk, round and silver, as shiny as a drop of mercury. A satisfying ring filled the space when I tapped it.
Nada.
"Hello?" I felt like the horror movie character who wanders off alone, calling into the dark instead of running away.
Grateful I didn't meet a murderer, I set the package on the counter. But before I could make my escape, a deep voice answered from somewhere unseen.
CHAPTER 2
Callum
The dead woman's mouth hung open like an opera diva's in mid-note. Moving the needle through Ms. Murphy's septum, I pushed the curved stainless steel through her right nostril before piercing the roof of her mouth. The suture threaded around the jawbone before I returned to the starting point to close the loop. With a gentle tug on the filament, I drew her mouth closed and tied it off in a bow that got poked down into a nostril. There. Much better.
Poor thing. Thirty-four years old-my age. No spouse, no children. A distant relative handled her arrangements. After choking on an olive pit and missing a shift at work, Ms. Murphy had been fired without any inquiry into the reasons for her absence. Twelve days later, her neighbor complained about the smell. Other than my handful of employees, I'd have no one to notice my absence, either.
The front hall service bell dinged, and a woman's delicate voice called out.
"Hello?"
Walk-ins weren't common, but they happened. The clock read 7:00 p.m. During normal hours, Deirdre welcomed our guests, walking them through the process while assessing the possibility of an upgrade to a mahogany or bronze package. Customer service was not my forte.
Pushing against the door, I shouted toward the entry, "I'll b-b- Just a moment, please."
Social anxiety and stuttering were my personal stumbling blocks. Growing up, I became terrified about having to say present at school roll call. Teachers singled me out to read aloud or answer rapid-fire questions at every opportunity ("tough love," they dubbed this cruelty), or ignored me. My classmates were worse. Between living in a funeral home and rarely speaking, I was a secondary school pariah. Even though speech therapy eventually improved my fluency, it didn't stop the bullying.
Grumbling, I stripped off my gloves and the splatter guard that shielded my face and spectacles. Once the embalming process started, it was important to follow through without wasting time, so I was glad I hadn't yet begun. Preservation chemicals set fast, locking limbs and expression in place. It would take only a minute to schedule this visitor a consultation with Deirdre tomorrow. Then I could get back to the task at hand.
Steeling my nerves and adjusting my tie, I made the approach.
Silhouetted by the ruby glow of the stained glass, a petite woman of about thirty with a heart-shaped face held out a large shipping box. Blond hair spilled over her shoulders, and she wore a casual jumper and jeans. Attractive. Not that it mattered.
"Hi. I just moved in next door and was sorting through a mountain of boxes. I think this package is yours?" Her drawling accent wasn't local. Pale pink cowboy boots tapped on the parquet. "The post office delivered this to my place by mistake."
I hadn't noticed the previous tenants move out. Blame it on spending most of my time in the mortuary. As owner of Willow Haven, I delegated work-related calls to colleagues. Avoidance and routine were my comforts.
"Fáilte," I managed, and cleared my throat. "Welcome."
"Thanks. Everyone is so nice here. I can see how the city gets its friendly reputation. I mean, I'm used to Southern hospitality. In America, of course."
"Thank you." I took the proffered, unsealed box. She'd tucked the tabs to keep it closed.
"I was unpacking and didn't notice this one wasn't mine until I opened it. Whoops. It's all there, though. Promise. I didn't snoop on purpose." Words flew as her hands gesticulated. "I'm Lark. As in 'happy as a . . . ' And before you ask about the name, yes, my mom does smell like patchouli and read auras. I don't. Read auras, that is. Or wear patchouli."
Auras? Patchouli? Silence stretched between us as I grappled for a response to the verbal barrage.
"Callum Flannelly." Yes, that was the best I could come up with.
Despite my terse reply, genuine warmth infused her smile as she shook my hand. Then she wrinkled her nose. Formaldehyde and eau de decomposition weren't the most pleasant of scents, no matter how many flower arrangements flanked the front desk. After working in the prep room, I always showered, but I hadn't expected an interruption. I wilted as she withdrew her hand.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said.
She traced a finger along the wainscoting. Cozy chairs clustered around a fireplace where a peat brick provided heat. Tissue boxes rested on each end table. Pertinent catalogs and brochures stayed filed away between appointments to communicate an emphasis on connection, not consumerism-my granda Tadhg always believed it crass to keep them on display during a wake. All in all, the effect created a comforting, homelike environment.
"How long have you worked here?"
Self-conscious, I rubbed at the red groove on my forehead left by the face shield and adjusted my glasses before they could slip down my nose. "Hard to say. I grew up in this house and have helped since I could walk."
"All sorts of interesting people must come through, huh?"
My great-grandfather had purchased and converted the inn to a funeral home almost a century ago. Since then, we'd buried Galwegians of all stripes. A tattooist who requested to have a section of their skin removed and preserved for display in their shop. A film buff laid to rest clutching a screen-accurate replica lightsaber, to the sound of a John Williams score. A painter whose family transformed our chapel into a retrospective art exhibition.
The relentlessly outgoing new neighbor plopped down at the upright piano, tapping out "Chopsticks" on the worn keys, without bothering to ask permission. She thumbed through the hymns in the songbook. Sheet music fluttered under her fingers. "Can you play any of these?" She scooted to one side of the padded bench and patted the seat next to her.
Happy as a Lark. Based on her amicable audacity in strolling into my home and blithely requesting a performance, it fit her.
"Oh, I couldn't-"
"Please? It doesn't have to be Mozart. As a nonmusical person, anything more complex than 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' will impress me." She smiled at me. Despite every fiber of my being screaming to hide in the clinical prep room, I crossed to the piano.
I sat and wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers. I didn't owe her anything. She wasn't even a customer. But something about her rambling, energetic presence made me want to oblige.
"Are all of them sad, traditional love songs?"
I supposed they were all love songs, in a way. Grief, rebellion, and faith all stemmed from love. There were a few of the romantic sort. But they weren't all sad.
My fingers moved over the keys as I played the bridge and chorus of "Galway Bay" by memory. Familiar as the mist. Just as imbued with mysterious magic.
The unabashed appreciation on my new neighbor's face flushed me with pride. Lark's eyes drifted shut as warm, rich notes cascaded from the antique instrument. In my peripheral vision, I could see her eyes remain closed for a moment after my hands stilled. I felt paralyzed, all my attention on this brazen stranger.
"I like it." Lark excavated a notebook from under the sheaf of sheet music. "What's this? Some kind of handwritten lyrics-"
Clearing my throat, I pried it away, my hands protectively curled around the worn pages. "That's private."
"Oh. Sorry. Do you sing, too?"
"No." My reply was too firm, too quick.
She frowned as I clutched the notebook, then recovered her easygoing smile. Lark swung her feet under the piano bench. Set up for my considerable height, it kept her boots suspended off the hardwood floor. It reminded me of learning dirges when all I wanted to do was watch the sailboats in the bay as a boy.
"Sooo, I have to ask, even though it's none of my business: What are they for?"
"The sheet music?"
"No, silly!"
Silly? In all the taunts and cruelties thrown at me in my life, no one had ever accused me of being silly. Slow, often. Scary, occasionally. Silly suggested a level of whimsy I'd been too serious to achieve.
"You know . . . the body bags. What are they for?"
"Bodies," I answered, not understanding the question.
Her mouth jerked into an uncomfortable, plastic smile. Not like before. "I understand what they're made for. But why do you need them?"
Lark's query wasn't outright accusatory, but cautious. Apprehensive. I wet my lip with my tongue. "Occasionally, we have a disinterment. It can get messy."
It was her turn to blink. "What?"
"Thanks for popping over. Sorry about the mix-up with the package," I said, remembering Ms. Murphy still laid out on the table, waiting to be embalmed.
"I'm being nosy." She exhaled a nervous titter. "I was a little freaked out when I noticed what they were. It gave me this wild idea you were about to slaughter all your guests or something. Ridiculous, right?"
"No need to worry. They're all already d-dead."
She paled. "I should go. I'll be going now. Um, good night."
Lark hopped off the bench and retreated toward the door without taking her eyes off me. I stood and took a deliberate step back so she wouldn't feel crowded. What had I said?
"I have to go, too. The guests don't embalm themselves."
She stilled. Her focus darted around the foyer as if seeing it for the first time. Then she turned the same unnerving scrutiny on me.
"Hold up. This is a funeral parlor?"
Afraid I'd frighten her again, I nodded. Shock flashed across her face, and she seemed to shrink in on herself, as if body fluids tainted the upholstery and jack-in-the-box corpses sprung from caskets.
"Oh. Oh, damn! So you're-you were embalming somebody before you answered the bell?"
"What did you think?"
"A Norman Bates situation. I don't know, I suffer from an overactive imagination. Like I said-ridiculous."
The vaguely familiar name ricocheted through my brain. I tilted my head.
"You know." Lark pantomimed stabbing me with an invisible knife while making a screeching sound. "Hitchcock."
Oh. Psycho. But why would she . . .
"You assumed I was a homicidal innkeeper?"
From her reaction, my actual vocation wasn't a far step up from murderer.
"Yes!" Vindication blazed in her gray eyes. "You can't blame me for imagining you in your mother's dress."
Squeezing myself into a flowery frock would make a ghastly sight, indeed.
Copyright © 2024 by Ivy Fairbanks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
