Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Of course.” She had never heard of her before today. “She has mad fans, does she?”

  Oran blinked repeatedly. “I would certainly hope so. In Galway and Dublin she would, so.”

  Was he trying to say they weren’t cultured enough in Kilbane? Then why had he bothered setting up shop here? “Even so, how rowdy do book fans get?”

  “Nessa Lamb fans should be calm enough, alright. But what about Darren Kilroy?” He waited for a response.

  “I see,” she said when she couldn’t come up with anything else.

  His eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You know who he is?”

  She’d had enough of his snobbery. She pointed to his sign. “Is this another test? To see if I’m literate? He’s a literary agent as we can both see there.” Her blood pressure was ticking up.

  Oran cleared his throat. “I meant no offense, Garda. None at all. He’s Michael O’Mara’s literary agent.”

  “Right, so.” Michael O’Mara she’d heard of. You’d have to live under a rock not to. He was the author of the popular fantasy series starring a dragon. What was the name of the series? She was too young to start forgetting things, wasn’t she? The Dragon Files. That was it. From what she knew, the dragon could no longer breathe fire and was on a quest to restore his power. There were at least twenty installments, maybe more, and the poor thing was still breathing vapors. “Michael O’Mara’s agent, that is impressive.”

  “Tis,” Oran said, sounding friendly for the first time. “And he has agreed to sign one of our emerging Irish authors by the end of the week. It will really put us on the map.”

  “Sign one of them?”

  Oran sighed. “Represent them. Become their agent.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a huge deal.”

  Siobhán nodded. “Do you have Michael O’Mara’s books in stock?” Maybe herself and her siblings could all start reading them together in the evenings.

  “The Dragon Files?” Oran scrunched his nose. “No. We only sell literary fiction and history.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  He thrust his chin up as if she’d just challenged him. “I certainly am not.”

  “No fantasy?” He didn’t blink. “Romance?” He pursed his lips in disapproval and shook his head. “Science fiction?” Another shake. “Thrillers? Graphic novels? Murder mysteries?” Her pitch and volume went up as he rejected each genre with a look of pure disdain.

  “Do you not understand what I mean when I say literary fiction?” He nearly spit out the words. He certainly had a big mouth for a Sheep Man.

  Another male voice piped up from somewhere behind Oran. “I disagree with him and am diligently working to change his mind if that makes you feel any better.” He pointed to the Staff Recommendations. “As Oran mentioned, I am still working on this list and I intend to keep it very inclusive.”

  Oran seemed to shudder. “They’ll just have to purchase some of those elsewhere.”

  The other man sighed and gave Siobhán a look. She took a moment to study him. He was planted behind the register, hiding behind a huge stack of books waiting to be shelved. He had similar glasses to Oran, but was a good ten years younger, dressed in denims and a T-shirt with a black blazer. Hip. And very handsome. If Oran was the Sheep Man, this must be his herder.

  “That’s my better-younger-half, Padraig,” Oran said. “His leniency in books notwithstanding.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Siobhán O’Sullivan. You need only call me Garda O’Sullivan if I’m on a case.” Padraig took in her uniform, saluted with a grin, then returned to his book. Friendlier than his husband but not chatty. Noted. “I also own Naomi’s Bistro with my siblings. We do hope to see you both there soon.” She waited for some kind of reaction or acknowledgment. Tanks for the basket of scones! No such luck. Were they low-carbers? Vegans? Should she mention they could cater to all dietary needs?

  “Here’s a flyer for the event tomorrow,” Oran said, handing it to her. “I need the guards to make sure no one enters with any kind of tree nuts on their person.”

  He pointed to a WARNING notice on the flyer, splashed in red: No nuts of any kind!

  “I’m afraid you don’t know this village,” Siobhán said. “There’ll be a room full of them.”

  Oran frowned, but Padraig burst into laughter.

  “This is very serious,” Oran said. “We’ve been warned that Deirdre Walsh is deathly allergic to tree nuts.”

  “I’m only messing with ya. I know it’s a very serious allergy. You should double-check everyone at the door. And make sure you don’t go over capacity.”

  She glanced at the schedule for Irish Authors Week. The authors would be doing a signing on her birthday. Now that was special. She could buy each of their books and have them signed to her. Or maybe to the O’Sullivan Six. This might encourage her brood to read. And as far as her birthday . . . she’d planned on warning everyone, including or maybe especially Macdara, not to make a big fuss over it, but no one had mentioned it. Just as well. Unless they were planning something. They’d better not be. “What about children’s books? Do you have children’s books?”

  “Children can read literature,” Oran said. “Or an adult can read it to them.”

  “Are you joking me?”

  “Let me stop you right there. I will never be joking you.”

  Cheeky.

  “It’s true,” Padraig said. “He’s entirely humorless.” Oran threw Padraig a look, Padraig shrugged. “Unless it’s Bloomsday and then he’s cheerful all day and into the evening. You’ll see yourself on the sixteenth of June.” Bloomsday was an official celebration of James Joyce, named after the protagonist Leopold Bloom, in Ulysses. The Kilbane Theatre often had readings to celebrate Bloomsday; they’d be thrilled to have support this year. Oran and Padraig smiled at each other. At least Oran seemed affectionate toward his husband. But what kind of business owner starts off his grand opening by kicking people out of his shop and poking fun at them?

  “Do you have any books by Marian Keyes?” she squeaked.

  “We definitely need to get in Marian Keyes,” Padraig said. He put his hand on his heart. “I loved Rachel’s Holiday. And do you follow her on Twitter? She’s hysterical.” From the way Oran’s face was contorting, he did not agree.

  “No,” Oran said. “We do not carry any books by Marian Keyes.”

  “One day,” Padraig said. “One day soon.”

  “Maeve Binchy?” If Oran said no to this the day might seriously end in fisty-cuffs.

  “Of course we have Maeve Binchy,” Oran said. “Do you take us for savages?” Padraig rolled his eyes behind Oran’s back and gave her another shrug. “I’d better get back to the line,” Oran said. “Feel free to browse while you’re here.”

  “Tanks.”

  Padraig’s gaze remained on her as Oran headed for the door. “I promise I’ll work on him.”

  Siobhán smiled and nodded, and then thought there was way too much smiling and nodding for the sour mood that had enveloped her. Padraig was going to have his work cut out for him. Now what was she going to do? She’d rather have her brood here, and she was still disappointed there were no romances, or adventure books, or children’s books. Was she a simple person? Didn’t everyone have a right to like what they liked?

  “Finally,” Leigh Coakley said as she burst into the shop, petals falling from the roses in her hand. “Where’s Padraig?”

  Siobhán and Padraig turned. Leigh’s coat was now off, revealing a yellow suit with a red rose pinned on the lapel. She was bright and jarring. She handed the colorful bouquet of roses to a confused Padraig.

  “I’m Leigh Coakley,” she said. “I run the flower shop in town. Blooms.”

  “Blooms!” he said with a laugh. “We were just speaking of Bloomsday.”

  “No relation, but we do make arrangements for every occasion.” She gestured to the roses cradled awkwardly in his hand. “Please accept those as a welcoming gift.” He blinked as if he
r suit was blinding him, inhaled the scent of the flowers, and smiled. He set them on the counter.

  “Thank you.” His nose began to twitch and he gave the flowers the side-eye. Was he allergic?

  “You’re welcome.” She stared at the flowers. “Do you not have a vase?”

  “We haven’t unpacked everything yet,” Padraig said.

  “I should have brought you one. I just assumed you had one of your own.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll fetch something soon.”

  Leigh bit her lip, looking as if she’d just handed him a goldfish and it was flopping around on the counter gasping for a bowl of water. “I simply must have copies of all the visiting authors’ books.” She pointed to the sign. “Deirdre Walsh, Nessa Lamb, and Lorcan Murphy.”

  “Wonderful,” Padraig said. He pointed to a table in the middle of the store. “You’ll find them all right there.”

  “Including Michael O’Mara?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Padraig lowered his voice as if he was afraid Oran would overhear.

  “But his agent will be here,” Leigh Coakley said, sounding outraged. “Some people are speculating he might make a surprise visit himself!”

  “They would be wrong,” Padraig said. “But Darren Kilroy will be here. And by the end of the week, one of our lucky visiting authors will have him as his or her agent.”

  “But you must have copies of The Dragon Files somewhere in the store?” Leigh threw a glance to Siobhán. “Rumor has it Gritana might get his fire back in the new release.”

  “God willing,” Siobhán said, then crossed herself.

  “I am afraid we are not carrying O’Mara’s books at the moment,” Padraig said carefully.

  Leigh Coakley gasped. “My ladies are not going to be happy to hear dat.” She flicked her eyes over to Siobhán, then back to Padraig. “I have a very active ladies’ book group.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “They were expecting The Dragon Files.”

  “I hope you and they will attend regardless.”

  “Irregardless.”

  “Regardless.”

  “I don’t tink so.”

  “You don’t think you’ll attend?”

  “I think it’s irregardless.”

  “Whatever you tink is best.”

  Irregardless, or regardless, Siobhán O’Sullivan needed her headache tablets. She picked out North, by Seamus Heaney, Light a Penny Candle and Tara Road, by Maeve Binchy, and a book by each of the visiting authors. She paid for them, and as she dropped them into her new Turn the Page bag, a trill of excitement ran through her. A simple canvas bag held entire worlds within it. Characters and images that would materialize with the opening of a page. Emotions that would well in her from another human being at another time and place taking pen to paper. She couldn’t remember when a purchase had pleased her more, not counting chocolates. What a good omen for her birthday.

  An image of Margaret O’Shea lying dead on the footpath rose to mind, squashing her happiness. What was she doing there on the footpath, hours before the bookshop was slated to open? How did she get there? Why had she ventured out that morning when she’d done nothing of the sort the past year? It had to be to visit the bookshop. And given she was a big reader and had hosted the book club the night before, maybe there was a connection. If Margaret O’Shea had been that excited to visit the bookshop, she should be standing here right now with her own worlds tucked into a canvas bag. Terribly, terribly sad. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to poke around, ask a few questions. She could speak with the authors soon at the bookshop. That settled that. Three visiting authors and a big-time literary agent. And only one of them would get signed. How exciting. For one of them. Unfortunately, two of them were going to be in for a world of hurt.

  Chapter 6

  The next evening, Siobhán and Aretta arrived at Turn the Page, to once again find a full crowd standing on the footpath. It looked as if everyone who had attended the morning mass for Margaret O’Shea was here, only the somber black outfits were replaced by cheerful spring colors. Soon, a sleek limo pulled up in front of the bookshop. “You don’t see that often around here,” Siobhán observed. Except for funerals. She left that bit out. For a second she wondered if the limo was for her. A surprise. For her birthday. Tomorrow, she reminded herself. Then again, wouldn’t the perfect way to surprise her be to plan something for today when she was least suspecting it?

  They were definitely up to something. Not one of her siblings, or her fiancé, had even mentioned it. No dinner invites, no leading questions about what she might like to do for her special day, no sneaky hints of a surprise to come, no teasing that she was growing old. They were either up to something, or they were horrible, horrible people. Her focus returned to the limo.

  The driver, a short but energetic man in a dark suit, jumped out of the vehicle and held the door open as if royalty was about to emerge. The authors were here. Excitement shone in Aretta’s eyes as a glamorous woman stepped out. Dressed in a shimmering skirt, suede coat, and sunglasses that swallowed her pretty face, Deirdre Walsh was still recognizable to Siobhán. She had looked each of them up last night. The black-haired beauty was the one with the tree nut allergy. She’d self-published a dense literary novel, and someone (Siobhán had a feeling it was Deirdre herself) had dubbed her the Female James Joyce. Holding a book against her soft suede coat, she scanned the crowd, as if trying to figure out if they were friends or foes.

  Oran stepped out of the crowd. “Deirdre Walsh,” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome, welcome.”

  Three welcomes. My, my, my. Aretta was trying to peer around Deirdre and into the black mouth of the limo.

  “Who are you waiting for?” Siobhán asked her.

  “Nessa Lamb. I hope I can get an autograph.” Aretta reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn paperback. Musings on a Hill. “It is filled with great insight.”

  The comment struck a chord of fear in Siobhán. This was why she hadn’t joined the book club. What if she read it and didn’t find any insights? What if they turned to ask her what she thought and all she could say was that she enjoyed reading it with a lovely bag of crisps and chocolate that melted on her tongue? Siobhán had mused plenty on hills, but never once thought of writing about it. Were some people just born scribes?

  Next, a middle-aged man with purple-rimmed glasses and a lavender suit emerged from the limo. Spring had certainly started to infuse people’s wardrobes. Had a memo been circulating that everyone should dress like colorful Easter eggs and Siobhán had missed it? This was Darren Kilroy, the agent. He stopped and held out his hand, helping a petite brunette out. Unlike the others, she was dressed in muted shades of gray. It made the dozen red roses she was carrying stand out.

  “That’s her,” Aretta said.

  Nessa Lamb looked as mild and sweet as her surname. She blinked at the crowd, then looked away as if it physically hurt to maintain eye contact. The last to emerge was a tall younger man, his curly black hair a sharp contrast to his pale face. He wore a brown blazer, plaid shirt, and denims. Apparently, he missed the Easter-egg-wardrobe memo as well. He smiled at the crowd and waved. Lorcan Murphy. The one who had mistakenly opened the door to Margaret O’Shea’s room. Siobhán hoped she’d get a chance to ask him about it, although she had to be careful not to send ripples of alarm through any of them. She wasn’t here to accuse anyone of anything untoward, she just hated loose ends.

  Siobhán had researched all of the authors last night and despite being an “indie author,” meaning he self-published all of his works, Lorcan Murphy had the most commercial success out of the three. He wrote both murder mysteries and westerns. Dara had several of his westerns and Siobhán could tell he was eager to meet him. Siobhán was wondering why Oran had included him, as his books didn’t fit Oran’s literary criteria. That’s when she noticed Padraig’s right hand. He clutched one of Lorcan’s books, Under a Rust-Colored Sun. On it, a cowboy sat atop a horse, head down, hat covering his face, looking
as if he couldn’t go another minute, the sun (indeed the color of rust) beating down on him. Siobhán knew you weren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, but just looking at the knackered cowboy made her want to take a nap. But Padraig McCarthy was certainly a fan. Good for Padraig. Maybe Oran would soon realize he needed to open the bookshop up to books from all genres.

  The authors were ushered into the bookshop first, followed by Siobhán and Aretta. Padraig stood at the door, asking each person if he or she were in possession of any tree nuts. Moments later she heard a shout. “Peanuts!” Padraig said, pointing to Darren Kilroy. “He has a bag of peanuts! ”

  Darren immediately put his arms up as if he was being arrested. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “The bag has never been opened. They’ve been in that pocket since I flew to London for a book fair. It completely slipped me mind.” He clapped Padraig on the back, a bit too hard from the way Padraig lurched forward. “Fair play to ye.”

  “Not a bother,” Padraig said, righting himself and straightening his tie. Although his face said it was indeed a bother. “The bag has not been opened. Tragedy averted.” He glanced at Oran as if he was seeking confirmation.

  “A bit of irony,” Oran said. “No harm done.” Siobhán didn’t see the irony, but she wasn’t prepared to get schooled by Oran McCarthy.

  “I’ll take them outside immediately and find a rubbish bin,” Darren Kilroy said, throwing an apologetic glance to Deirdre Walsh, who didn’t seem at all alarmed, and hurrying toward the exit.

  As soon as the literary agent returned and the authors were seated, the patrons were let in, and soon the bookshop was standing room only. Oran welcomed the audience and introduced their guests of honor. Nessa Lamb had published three books and she had won numerous awards for her latest book, Musings on a Hill. Siobhán caught Deirdre Walsh rolling her eyes halfway through Oran calling out Nessa’s long list of accolades, but Lorcan Murphy bobbed his head, his face reacting positively to each one.

  Deirdre Walsh had one title out, Melodies, a weighty tome she clutched in her hand. Oran cleared his throat and read from a sheet of paper. “Melodies is an in-depth study of madness brought on by a matriarch’s struggle for fairness and redemption.” Deirdre mouthed the words along with him and then grimaced when Oran had nothing to add.