“Lorcan Murphy is the popular author of the mystery series Dead Elf on a Shelf—” Oran’s introduction was interrupted by a burst of applause from Leigh Coakley and her ladies’ book group. They all had red roses pinned to their outfits.
“Will you be keeping them in stock?” Leigh asked loudly. “We’re big fans.”
“We will of course,” Padraig said before Oran could answer otherwise.
“Hopefully that applies to all of us,” Deirdre said.
“Of course it does,” Lorcan piped up with a grin. “And thank you to my fans.” He gave a seated bow.
“Fans?” Deirdre said. She patted Lorcan’s knee. “There’s a first time for everything.”
He tilted his head in her direction, and gave a shrug.
Nessa leaned forward. “Lorcan Murphy has more fans than you and I put together.”
“It’s not a competition,” Lorcan said, waving his hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “But look who’s talking. You made the Forty under Forty list. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” Nessa said, eyes scanning the crowd for possible fans lying in wait. “What a thrill. I didn’t expect it at all. It was such an honor.”
Deirdre coughed into her hand and it sounded as if she’d spit out a word: “Baloney.”
“A pleasure just to be noticed,” Lorcan added, with a quick frown in Deirdre’s direction.
Deirdre once again muttered something under her breath, but nobody seemed to catch it. Oran cleared his throat. “I’d like to direct my first question to Nessa Lamb.”
“Typical,” Deirdre said. Nessa Lamb threw her a searing look.
“You say you were not prepared for such an overwhelming reaction to Musings on a Hill?”
Nessa Lamb placed her hand on her heart like she was at a rugby game about to belt out the Irish national anthem. “It’s been the greatest honor of my life. And I wasn’t going to mention it, but Lorcan already let the cat out of the bag, so I might as well! Being called one of the hottest forty novelists under forty?” Her gaze flicked once again to Deirdre, who looked to be in her mid to late forties. “I never would have thought it.” She laughed. “I finally have followers on social media. More followers than I know what to do with! ”
A sound rang out, something between a snort and a laugh. All heads turned to Deirdre Walsh. Even she looked startled at her outburst. “Pardon,” she said.
“I set out to write Musings on a Hill for myself.” Nessa Lamb directed her comments back to the audience. “I am so humbled to receive all this attention. From fans and agents.” This time her gaze fell squarely on Darren Kilroy before flicking away with a smile.
Let the competition begin.
“Oh, come on. I bet you wrote this little humble-brag speech while musing on that hill,” Deirdre said. She looked to Lorcan and then Darren as if hoping to share a laugh, but both of them had suddenly spotted their favorite tome on the shelves and were staring at it with rapt fascination.
“I was never one for speeches,” Nessa said, shaking her head. “But I am so touched that my words tumbled all the way down that hill and into this wonderful village.” She turned to the crowd. “I can’t think of a better place to announce another piece of good news. On the way here I learned that I’ve won the Irish Scribe of the Year award.” The crowd erupted in applause. Siobhán watched Deirdre Walsh. Her face went scarlet in an instant. Had she applied for the same award? Nessa was still talking. “The cash prize will allow me to quit my job and live my dream of being a full-time writer.”
The applause thundered. Deirdre fumbled for her bottle of water, and gulped it down as Darren Kilroy patted her on the back. She pushed Darren away, splashing water on the both of them. “Congratulations,” Deirdre said through bared teeth. “I was up for that award myself as you well know.”
Nessa Lamb looked stricken. Her hand was back on her heart. “I swear to ye,” she said, addressing the crowd, “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it was open to anyone who claimed to write a book.” She said it so softly, Siobhán wasn’t sure she realized it was an insult.
“Claimed to write a book?” Deirdre rose out of her chair. Siobhán pictured ashes, and a phoenix rising. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Nessa Lamb said, her voice rising a little. “I just assumed there were certain criteria to be eligible for that award, and I must admit I’ve never even heard of you.”
“Believe me,” Deirdre Walsh said, “you’ve heard of me.”
“No,” Nessa said, shaking her head. “Not until today.”
“Then you have no idea what I’m capable of, or the quality of my writing,” Deirdre said.
“That is true,” Nessa agreed. “I suppose readers can be slow to catch on as well.”
Lorcan raised his hand. “Yes, Mr. Murphy,” Padraig said, practically glowing with adoration.
“We indie authors should really stick together,” he said, turning to Nessa and Deirdre. “This is getting a bit rude if you don’t mind.”
“One of you might not be an indie author after signing with Darren Kilroy,” Oran McCarthy said. From the panicked look on his face, it was obvious he was in damage-control mode. “I’m sure he’ll get you a big publishing deal, just like Michael O’Mara.”
Darren Kilroy, who had just taken a sip of his tea, began to choke. It took him a few moments to recover. “There’s only one Michael O’Mara,” he said. “But I’ll do me best.”
“Michael O’Mara is a dime a dozen,” Deirdre said. “If a woman wrote his books, none of us would probably have ever heard of her.”
A gasp rang out from Leigh Coakley, who shot out of her chair. “Take that back.”
“I will not,” Deirdre said. She held up her weighty tome. “I write about real people. Real struggle. It’s fire-breathing dragons and hollow nothings mused about on hills you’re all after? Is it? We’re all supposed to sell out to the man, is that it?”
“Whoa,” Nessa said. “My musings are not hollow. They’re very deep.”
“Those dragons represent the human struggle,” Leigh said. “Underneath all that fire, and flying, Gritana is just like us.”
“And they’re very entertaining,” another member of the book club said. “The way he tries to keep up with his pesky scales reminds me of my mani/pedi routine.” The women in the book club laughed.
Deirdre shook her head. She zoned in on Oran McCarthy. “Then why don’t you carry Michael O’Mara’s books?”
Oran’s face reddened. “That is under consideration,” he said. “We’ve only just opened.”
Deirdre chortled. “The old boys’ club is alive and well.”
“Several of my short stories have been published in renowned magazines,” Nessa said out of nowhere. “And not one reviewer has ever called me hollow.”
“Does anyone even read magazines anymore?” Deirdre asked. Her eyes scanned the crowd as if expecting an answer. “Except in the bathroom?”
At this point, Siobhán would take working with criminals over squabbling writers.
Lorcan shook his head. “Ladies, ladies, ladies. Where is your sense of decency and decorum?”
This time Nessa let out a snort. “Where was yours when you stumbled into some poor old lady’s room in the middle of the night?”
“Hey!” Lorcan Murphy’s face went scarlet. “That was an honest mistake.” He crossed his arms and bounced his left knee. Nessa Lamb had struck a nerve. “I didn’t sleep a wink after she screamed those names at me, and then to learn she passed away?” He shook his head. “That was a terrible thing to say. I would expect it from Deirdre, but you?”
“Me?” Deirdre said. “You would expect it from me? How dare you.”
“I apologize. That came out wrong,” Nessa said. “That poor woman.” She crossed herself. Soon the entire ladies’ book club was crossing themselves, and then the gesture spread to nearly everyone else in the room.
“It was dark,” Lorcan said, still stung. “Her room was right
next to mine.”
“I’m sure the bottle of wine you consumed in the back garden had nothing to do with it,” Deirdre said.
Nervous laughter rang from the crowd. Oran stiffened and he shot a look to Padraig, who didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was glued to the drama. Darren Kilroy rose. “I do not like this behavior. I understand you are all under a great deal of stress. All your books are worthy or you wouldn’t have been invited. But I beg you. Either conduct yourselves with some decorum and decency, if I may quote Lorcan Murphy, or I shall be signing none of you.”
“You may,” Lorcan said. “Quote me.”
Nessa and Deirdre took their seats. Deirdre slumped. “I’m more interested in readers than awards anyhow.” She turned to Lorcan. “As are you I assume?” She had plastered a smile on her pretty face, but the tension was still heavy in the air.
Lorcan shrugged, uncrossed his legs, and crossed them the other direction. “I don’t pay much attention to either, to be honest.”
Deirdre laughed. “You’re both full of blarney.”
“Are you looking to sign award-winning authors?” Leigh Coakley asked Darren Kilroy.
“Sure, lookit,” he said, when he realized they were waiting for an answer. “Who doesn’t like to sign a winner? Doesn’t hurt sales either, to announce you’ve won a prestigious award.” He cleared his throat again. “But I do think we’ve gone off the rails a bit.”
Nessa nodded her head in agreement. Her hand went back to her heart. “Thanks a million.”
“Haven’t you won the Blazing Saddle Award?” Padraig asked Lorcan. It was as if he wanted to keep the drama going.
Lorcan nodded. “I did indeed. And was nominated for the Six Shooter, but so far it’s only grazed me.” He chuckled at his own pun.
“Were you prepared for the success of Dead Elf on a Shelf?” Leigh asked.
Lorcan shook his head. “I did it as a lark on Christmas when me kids asked why the fecking elf hadn’t moved off his shelf.” The crowd laughed and Lorcan brightened up. “They thought it was because they were naughty.” Heads began to nod in the crowd. “The next day I put a knife through the elf and poured some red sauce over him, and told the kids he was stabbed in his sleep because he was the naughty one.” The laughter ratcheted up and Lorcan was loving it. “They started asking me who killed him, and before you know it I was killing every Elf on a Shelf over and over again.” He began making a jabbing motion by way of demonstrating. One could imagine if he looked like that when Margaret O’Shea opened her door, it would have put the heart in her crossways.
The thought gave Siobhán pause. When he talked of killing, his eyes took on a glow. Was he telling the truth? Had he entered Margaret’s room by accident? Or was her death anything but natural?
Chapter 7
Lorcan Murphy had finally stopped his stabbing gestures, and no one but Siobhán must have found it alarming, for the focus was still on Dead Elf on a Shelf. “Is it a children’s book?” Oran said, turning to Padraig and wrinkling his nose.
“No, it’s for the parents,” someone in the crowd shouted out as Padraig nodded. Oran did not look impressed. Siobhán hadn’t read it but now she wanted to. Fictional elves. Those were the kind of murder probes she wished she was tasked with solving.
“It doesn’t seem very festive,” Oran said, still confused. “Killing elves at Christmas.”
“He doesn’t just kill them at Christmas,” Leigh volunteered. “Elves drop nearly every day of the year now.”
“I don’t understand this at all,” Oran said.
“You must not have children,” Lorcan said. “The parents get it.”
“I see,” Oran said. He cleared his throat. “Do you not feel any need to live up to our great Irish writers?” He gestured to a shelf. Above it on a banner featuring a rendering of Oscar Wilde was his message in capital letters: GREAT IRISH WRITERS.
“I’d say none of us can live up to the greats,” Nessa said. “I’m honored just to be good.”
“You two certainly are writers,” Deirdre said. “Because you’re spinning yarns right now.” She shook her head as if disgusted. “Humble bragging is not a good perfume. Outright bragging is downright deadly.”
Nessa glared at her. “It’s better than outright desperation.”
Lorcan laughed. Once again, Deirdre shot out of her chair as if it was spring loaded.
“Just you wait,” she said. “I have a new project—an explosive tell-all—that’s going to launch me into the spotlight. You’ll be moping on that hill then and eating my literary dust.” Her eyes bored into Nessa Lamb. “Convenient you mention your accolades but not your scathing one-star review.”
Watching Nessa Lamb’s face turn red was like watching a thermometer tick up. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you left me that one-star review,” Nessa shot back.
“If I had been reviewing it, I would have given you a falling star,” Deirdre said.
A gasp sounded from Leigh Coakley. “You should eat your words,” she said, shaking her finger at Deirdre. Behind her, the ladies’ book club nodded in horrified unison.
“Mark my words,” Deirdre said. “My new memoir is going to take readers by storm and blow people’s minds.”
“Memoir?” Darren Kilroy said, interrupting the shouting match. “Are you sure you want to write a memoir?” He sounded aghast.
“It’s already done,” Deirdre said. “Explosive!”
“I for one am not looking for memoirs, my dear,” Darren said. “I can assure you of that.” He shuddered.
“You’ll change your mind when you read mine.” Deirdre grinned. “And if you don’t, someone else will snap it up. Mark my words.”
“ ‘Take readers by storm,’ ” Nessa added on. “ ‘Blow people’s minds.’ ‘Mark my words.’ So cliché.”
“I personally like to keep my mind intact,” Lorcan quipped.
Aretta leaned into Siobhán. “If their books are as dramatic as they are, I might have to give them all a go.”
“That’s the spirit,” Siobhán said. “Around here, we take our excitement wherever we can get it.”
* * *
The morning of Siobhán O’Sullivan’s twenty-ninth birthday was lashing rain. Margaret’s burial would have to be postponed, which meant they’d postpone the funeral as well, and Siobhán couldn’t help but feel relieved. It was her birthday after all. Cats, and dogs, and Guinness poured out of the sky. She smiled at the thought. Her mam used to say it was raining cats and dogs, and her da would add: “As long as there’s a bit of Guinness mixed in, we’ll be alright, so.”
She wished they were here to watch her blow out the candles and tease her about her age. How could her twenties be nearly gone? At least she knew what she’d done with them. Raised her siblings, finished training at Templemore Garda College, became a garda at the Kilbane Garda Station, and got engaged to none other than Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery. Those were all reasons to celebrate.
But she was starting to wonder if there would even be any candles. The morning came with not so much as a happy birthday from anyone. She expected Dara to show up at the door, with his lopsided grin and messy hair, and make her brekkie. If not him, then certainly her brother Eoin would greet her with an Irish breakfast, and maybe a homemade card with one of his brilliant illustrations.
And Eoin did make breakfast, for all of them, and for once the O’Sullivan Six sat in the dining room to eat. What a heap sat in front of them, plates full with eggs, rashers, sausages, black and white pudding, beans, and toast. But if Siobhán was hoping for a meaningful family connection, she was sorely disappointed. James, just home from Waterford, alluded to an upcoming appointment he was being very mysterious about, Eoin was preoccupied with the menu for the day, Ciarán had his head buried in his mobile phone, Ann was out of sorts about her Camogie match being canceled due to the storm, and Gráinne was flipping through a fashion magazine, every now and then gasping and tearing out a sheet. And as nice as it was to sit down with
all her siblings, there had been no mention of Siobhán’s birthday. “Is no one else excited about the bookshop?” she asked. She was greeted with half shrugs, a nod, and outright ignorance.
“Bookshop?” Gráinne said.
“Have you been living under a rock?” Siobhán asked. Maybe working at Sheila’s Hair Salon was detrimental to her health. All those chemicals erasing her brain cells.
“Dat’s not nice,” Gráinne said. “I’m only messing. Course we’re all happy about the bookshop.”
“Today might be a good day for all of us to go to the bookshop,” Siobhán said. “Don’t you think?” Today. My birthday. The last one of my twenties.
More shrugs. Not a word about her birthday.
That was their first mistake. The O’Sullivans were a celebrating type of brood, and Ciarán would remember any day that involved cake. They were up to something. But here they were, clearing the breakfast plates, and not one of them had uttered a word about it. It would have been impressive were it not so annoying.
“See ya,” Ann said as she and Ciarán headed out the door.
“Have a good day,” Siobhán called, briefly touching Ann’s blond bob and squeezing Ciarán’s shoulder on the way out. She followed them outside and watched them head down the footpath. Ominous black clouds swirled above. Ironic—if the power went out there would be candles after all, just not the kind she imagined. Maybe it was for the best. Did she really need to celebrate a birthday ever again?
She wasn’t due to the garda station until later this morning so she whipped up six batches of brown bread, slid them in the oven, took her shower, and put on her garda uniform. She loved the navy blue with the gold shield. Guardians of the Peace. It was a nice job title to have, and even though she’d often played out what her life might have been like had her parents lived, she was proud to be a member of An Garda Síochána.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 5
