She removed the brown bread from the cooker and set it on the cooling racks. That should get the bistro through the breakfast rush if indeed the storm drove people in. When she got to the station, Macdara greeted her in his usual way. “Morning, boss,” he said with a wink.
“Morning,” she said slowly, waiting to see if he would add anything else. Like happy birthday!
“Pretty light day for you today.”
“Is it now?” she asked. He nodded. “Is it a light day for you as well?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be training Garda Dabiri up on basic protocols.”
“Do you want me to do that?”
“I’ve got it. In fact, you can have the day off.”
“The day off?” Was this the birthday surprise? A day off? “Are you joking me?” It would have been nice to know ahead of time. She could have had a lie-in.
“I would have let you know earlier, but a request for this evening just came in and I’d like to put you on it.”
He must have read her mind. He had an irritating habit of doing just that. Was it going to get worse after they got married? Would she ever need to open her gob again? “What request?”
“I’d like you to man the bookshop for a few hours this evening. Seven to ten p.m.”
“Man the bookshop?”
He nodded. “The authors will be signing copies of their books.”
Was it a ruse? She had already planned on attending, but as a citizen. She mulled it over. “Why do you feel a guard is necessary?”
He sighed. “We’ve had a few threats come in.”
Siobhán was on full alert. Macdara wouldn’t joke about threats. “What’s the story?”
“I think it’s probably young ones, acting the maggot. A few veiled threats were called in.”
Siobhán didn’t want to imagine. “Any clue as to who made the calls?”
“Not yet,” Macdara said.”I hear Chris Gordon isn’t thrilled about the bookshop opening.”
News did travel fast. “Chris Gordon might be insecure but he’s hardly one to issue threats.”
“Even so, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pay him a visit as well. You can count that toward your hours.”
The entire afternoon off did sound exactly like what the birthday girl wanted. “Anything else?” she asked.
“That’s it.” They were all excellent actors. But at least one of them should have said happy birthday—it would have been a lot less suspicious than this mass-amnesia act. “Not a bother,” she said, heading for the door.
“Are you stocked up on candles?” he called out.
She stopped, held his gaze to see if he would mention her birthday or crack a smile. He did not. “Candles?”
“The storm. Good chance of a power outage.”
“Right.” Candles, matches, torches, batteries. Loads of chocolates. Crisps. A bottle of Baileys wouldn’t hurt either. “I’ll pop into the hardware shop. Do you need extra supplies?”
“All good, tanks.”
“Right, so.” She grinned the minute she turned her back. Whatever they were up to, it had to be something big.
* * *
There was a CLOSED sign on Gordon’s Comics. Siobhán peered in the window to see if she could spot him, but it was too dark. She would have to ask Eoin to give him a bell. There was no way he was behind calling in threats to Oran and Padraig, was there?
Halfway home, the skies opened up and the rain poured out of the heavens. She jogged the rest of the way to the bistro. There was indeed a full crowd, driven in by the weather. She could hear chatter, plates clinking, and the sizzle of rashers on the grill. The talk, of course, was about the weather:
“Tis miserable, isn’t it?”
“Ah, sure, lookit, it’s pouring down on us.”
“Tis only going to get worse as the day goes on.”
“Do you think they’ll cancel the author signings?”
“I’m sure they’ll have candles, but I tell ye, if it keeps up like dis, lads, I won’t be going out in it.”
She headed upstairs to change out of her wet uniform. How long had it been since she had an afternoon to herself? Ages. Sadly, she had no idea what to do with it. She changed into jammies and her robe, then texted Eoin to bring her a cappuccino if he got a chance (it was her birthday after all, even if they wanted to pretend it wasn’t), and once that was sorted, she took Dubliners off the shelf, curled up in bed, and turned to the first page:
THE SISTERS
There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke.
Before she knew it, Siobhán was lost in another world, a young man, a dead friend, and nasty old man Cotter. The writing pulled her in—no wonder everyone made such a fuss over Joyce—and although she was soon enthralled, she also felt stymied. Her work often consisted of death, and that brought up the image of poor Margaret lying on the footpath, and today, she was feeling every bit of twenty-nine. Perhaps she should save Joyce for another occasion. She sighed, put the book on her bedside table, and contemplated life. She needed a romance. Maybe an adventure tale. Something set on a sandy beach with the sun warming her bones. If only Oran McCarthy wasn’t so rigid. How nice would it be to pop into the shop early and find something fun to escape into? Hopefully Padraig would be able to talk some sense into him. She closed her eyes, and before she drifted to sleep, realized now that she was getting old, she was going to need a lot more naps.
* * *
Although the bookshop was just down the street past King John’s Castle, Siobhán had to fight the pelting rain and wind on her way there. She broke into a slow jog, mindful not to slip and do a face-plant on her birthday. Thunder rumbled, and lightning streaked across the Irish sky. She had her trusty torch tucked into her pocket. And how fortuitous. She arrived to find Turn the Page in the dark. Wasn’t the author event slated to begin? She turned her head to the other side of the street, to find a blanket of darkness washed across her village. The power was indeed out, and the wind howled its outrage. She tried not to think about all the food stored in their multiple refrigerators back at the bistro. Hopefully, if nothing else, the lads would dig into it, and give food away to the locals. You can’t win against Mother Nature, what would be would be. Such a turbulent way to spend her birthday. Unless the power wasn’t really out and the entire village was in on her surprise party.
Eejit. Just face it. Everyone forgot about your birthday. Even though she wouldn’t put it past them, her brood wasn’t capable of arranging power outages. She hoped it didn’t last long; folks had a tendency to panic in the dark. Siobhán was feeling a bit uneasy herself. She took her torch out of her pocket, and slid the switch to ON. It emitted a high-pitch whine but did not shine. She shook it. Nothing. It was too dark to see if the batteries were in correctly; she was going to have to do without it. “Naughty torch,” she said out loud. If Oran and Padraig were inside perhaps they were fetching their candles and torches. They seemed like the type of lads who would be prepared. After all, you can’t read books in the dark. Unless they were e-books, but only as long as the charge lasted. Then again, everyone had been aflutter about the visiting authors, and distraction was the enemy of preparation.
The thunder rumbled as she reached for the doorknob. It was a dark and stormy night.... Nothing else came to her. Definitely, not a storyteller. She’d have to leave the scribbling to the masters. The door to the bookshop squeaked open as rain pummeled the windows.
“Hello?” Siobhán called into the darkness. “It’s Garda O’Sullivan.” She took a step. The floorboards creaked. “Is anyone here?”
A loud bang could be heard, then someone cursed. Gráinne. Soon little flames appeared in the distance, one by one.
“Surprise,” a chorus of voices yelled out.
“Jaysus,” Siobhán said, placing her hand on her heart. “Did you make the power go out too?”
A laugh rolled from the corner of the room. Macdara. “Of course not,” he said. “Took us by surprise as well.” She heard a click and a torch sh
one from where she’d already pinpointed he was standing. He put it under his chin. The shadows were ghastly.
“Don’t do that,” Siobhán said. He laughed again but moved the torch away. There were more clicks and suddenly enough torches were lit for Siobhán to see people clumped together in front of a birthday cake in the center of the bookshop. She approached. “You shouldn’t have.”
“We were all set to turn off the lights when Mother Nature did it for us,” Ciarán said. He sounded giddy with excitement. The authors were in attendance as well. Probably waiting to get this over with so they could sign copies of their books.
“Padraig is looking for more candles,” Oran said. He stood to her left near Nessa Lamb.
“Not that there aren’t enough on your cake,” Ann teased. “Blow them out.”
“Come look,” Gráinne said. In stereo, the torches moved to the cake, giving it a spotlight.
BIRTHDAYS ARE MURDER
SOS
29
“SOS?” Siobhán said.
“You try spelling out Siobhán O’Sullivan in icing,” Eoin said.
“No bother,” Siobhán said with a laugh. “I love it.”
“Perfect initials for a garda,” Aretta said.
“It won’t be Siobhán O’Sullivan for long,” Macdara said.
“Right, so,” Siobhán said, already weary of the attention. Not her initials for long? Why did Macdara say that? “Are you saying I’m dying?” she asked.
“What? No. No. Of course not. I’m saying you’ll be Siobhán Flannery as soon as we set the date.”
“Oh.” Oh. Oh. No, no, no. She didn’t like that one bit. She didn’t have to take his name. Did she? Was that still a thing? Why did he have to sound so pleased about it? Siobhán O’Sullivan had a much nicer ring to it. He could hear that, right? Wouldn’t he want to be Macdara O’Sullivan? That had a nice ring too. A thud sounded from the back of the shop.
“Padraig?” Oran said. “Is that you?”
“I’m here,” Padraig said. All heads turned to the front of the shop where a torchlight bounced. Padraig was in the front, dripping with rainwater. But the thud had come from the back.
“Happy birthday to you,” Gráinne started singing. Several others joined in. “Happy birthday to you—”
“Stop.” Siobhán had to yell. The singing ceased.
“What’s wrong?” Macdara asked. Shadowy faces, mouths still open from singing, stared at her, perplexed.
“Can I see someone’s torch?” Siobhán said. Oran was closest to her and handed it over. She maneuvered the light toward the back where the sound had originated, sweeping it left and right until she found the exact spot along the back wall. There, a woman was slumped to the floor against a bookcase. Eyes wide open, glassy, and unblinking. Books had rained down around her. Pages were stuffed in her mouth. No living creature could remain so still. Siobhán recognized the beautiful, mercurial author. Her ebony hair melted into the darkness, leaving a pale, pretty face staring straight ahead. A shiver ran through Siobhán as she recalled what she said about her memoir. Explosive . . . A scream rang out. Then several, as the others slowly caught on to the horrifying sight. Siobhán’s heart thundered in her chest. For everyone else life would go on, but for aspiring author Deirdre Walsh, hers had just come to an abrupt and startling end.
Chapter 8
“Deirdre?” Nessa Lamb’s words came out garbled. She gasped again, and then several others began to talk at once.
“Nobody move,” Siobhán said.
“And stay calm,” Macdara said. “Slowly make your way to the front of the shop.”
“Are we supposed to not move or slowly move and make our way to the front?” Oran asked, panic growing in his voice. Siobhán snapped off the torch in her hand, but the others continued to beam their lights at the figure slumped against the bookshelf.
“Don’t look,” Siobhán said to her brood, putting an arm around Ann and Ciarán, steering them to the door. “Detective Sergeant Flannery is correct. Move slowly to the front, go out the door.”
“It’ll be pouring down on us,” Leigh Coakley said.
“Nobody said you have to remain outside,” Siobhán said. “But you can’t stay here.” She turned to James. “Help everyone to the exit.”
“Of course,” her older brother said with a quick squeeze to her shoulder. “Sorry about your birthday.”
“We’ll worry about that another day.”
“Follow my voice,” James said. “I’m leading a procession to the bistro.”
“Orderly now, no need to run,” Siobhán added.
Some people were slow to move. Macdara began tapping folks on the shoulder one by one. “We’ll need everyone to vacate the premises.”
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Oran was stuck on autopilot, repeating the words over and over. Padraig brushed past Siobhán, on his way to the counter, his coat dripping wet.
She stopped him. “You were outside?”
“What?” Her question seemed to startle him. His eyes darted to the register. Was he worried about money?
“You’re soaked,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” he said. “I had to run to our flat to get more candles.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cluster of fat candles. It took a second for his eyes to land on the horror slumped against the bookshelf. “The European history section,” he whispered. “Did she find the secret room?”
“Secret room?” Siobhán asked.
There was a beat and then Padraig McCarthy fainted dead away. Siobhán rushed to his side. “Padraig? Padraig?” She scanned the people heading for the door. “Oran?” She had to yell his name several times.
“Why are you shouting at me?” he called out in what was undoubtedly a shout of his own. “I am following orders. I am moving slowly to the front.”
“It’s Padraig,” Siobhán said. “He’s fainted.”
“Padraig!” Oran said. He rushed forward, his light bouncing at his side. “Not again.”
“He’s done this before?”
“Only when he’s acutely stressed.” Oran threw a glance toward the bookshelf where Deirdre lay slumped, and shuddered.
“What can we do?”
“I have smelling salts near the register.” He took a step toward it.
“Halt,” Macdara said. “I’ll get them.” The entire store was a crime scene. They were contaminating it every second they remained. Oran gave directions to Macdara, who finally procured the smelling salts. Oran knelt beside his husband and administered them. Moments later, Padraig lifted his head. “What happened?”
“You’re alright,” Oran said. “Let’s get you outside.”
“Should we call an ambulance?” Siobhán asked.
“I just need water,” Padraig said.
“We’ll get you to the bistro,” Macdara said, giving Oran a hand in lifting Padraig to his feet. Siobhán followed them out.
“Oran,” she said. “What did Padraig mean? Secret room?”
Oran was in no position to argue. “The bookshelf she’s leaning against.” He licked his lips. “It’s a door. A secret passage.”
“Where does it lead?”
“Nothing special. A back office. We did it as a lark.”
The building had been vacant for a long time. It abutted an alley. “Does this secret office have a door to the alley?”
“It does. But we’ve never used it.”
That didn’t mean someone else hadn’t. “Do you have a key?”
“No. In fact we shoved a large bookcase in front of it. Padraig didn’t like the thought that someone might try to break in. And we hadn’t had time to change the locks.”
Siobhán wouldn’t be able to access the office and see what he was referring to until the state pathologist arrived to determine the cause of death and move the body. “We’ll discuss this again,” she said as Oran and Padraig headed with the others to the bistro.
“What can I do?” Aretta asked.
“Call J
eanie Brady, the state pathologist, then the forensics team, and the crime scene photographer. The station clerk will provide you the numbers.”
“On it,” Aretta said. She hurried off toward the station. The rain continued to rage. Siobhán huddled underneath the awning. If they could get the scene photographed, Jeanie Brady might give the guards permission to move the body to Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. It wouldn’t be possible to thoroughly document the scene with the power out, but electrical crews had also been notified as well as the volunteer fire department, and everyone was on the case. It was a good thing she couldn’t sleep through storms anyway, for she knew in her bones that this was going to be a very long night.
* * *
“Is it for sure a murder probe?” Aretta asked. She stood in the doorway of Siobhán’s tiny office at the garda station. They had a small amount of power from generators, but the lights were dim and Siobhán was having a hard time locating her extra notebooks and biros in the crowded mouths of her desk drawers.
Speaking of mouths . . . “She didn’t stuff pages in her own gob,” Siobhán said.
“It’s possible though, isn’t it?” Aretta asked. “She was a writer.”
Siobhán pondered this. She’d heard writers could get a little whacky, but she could not imagine a scenario where one would literally eat their own works. Then again, they didn’t yet know who wrote the pages residing in Deirdre’s mouth. “The state pathologist will determine the cause of death. But I think we need to investigate for the probable, which is that this will be a murder inquiry.”
“The killer couldn’t have known the lights would go out,” Aretta said. “Unless he or she caused the power outage.”
“I think the killer saw an opportunity and seized on it,” Macdara said. Siobhán let out a yelp as he materialized in the doorway.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” she said, placing her hand over her thundering heart.
“Sorry, boss.”
Aretta frowned. Even in the waning light, Siobhán could see it. For whatever reason, she did not like the detective sergeant calling Siobhán boss. Perhaps it was intimidating to a new garda. Perhaps this was why romantic relationships were discouraged at work. Especially in an uneven power dynamic. And Aretta Dabiri did not know the pair well enough to realize they were capable of separating their love lives from their work lives. “You were saying?” Siobhán asked him.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 6
