“The killer did not make the power go out,” Macdara repeated. “But the idea of murder could have been in the planning.”
“Won’t the electrical crews determine what caused the power outage?” Aretta asked.
“Quite right,” Macdara said. “But given the thunder and lightning, not to mention the fact that the entire village lost power, I’d say we know the cause, alright.”
“I need to know everything that happened before I arrived at the bookshop,” Siobhán said. “But let’s not do it here. I for one could use a cappuccino.”
“At this hour?” Aretta asked. It was nearing nine in the evening.
“You should go home and get some sleep,” Siobhán said to her. “I’m afraid we’ll be up all night.”
Aretta set her gaze on Macdara. “Can I join you?” she asked. “It’s good training.”
“If you wish,” he said. “But it wouldn’t count toward your hours as we’re not requiring it.”
“Very well,” Aretta said. “I wish to attend as a learning experience.”
“Let’s set up shop at the bistro, then,” Macdara said. “Aretta, make sure you have a notebook and a biro.”
She patted her jacket pocket. “Mission accomplished.” They donned their raincoats, grabbed brellies, and headed off to the bistro. As they passed Gordon’s Comics, Siobhán noticed a torch bouncing around inside. She paused in front of the shop.
“I never got to speak with Chris,” Siobhán said. “But it looks as if he’s there now.”
Macdara followed her gaze to the shop and gave a nod. “Perhaps we should make sure he’s alright.”
“Why?” Aretta asked as Macdara stepped up and knocked on the door. The torch inside immediately stopped bouncing.
“It’s just a courtesy thing,” Siobhán said. Aretta didn’t need to be bogged down in all the local drama, there would be plenty of time for that. Inside the comic shop, the torch went out. Macdara knocked again. There was no reply. Macdara turned to Siobhán.
“He’s acting squirrely.”
She sighed. “We’ll return in the morning. We can’t force our way in.”
Macdara slipped his business card underneath the door. “Let him stew on this.”
“Just a courtesy thing?” Aretta said lightly as they picked up their trek to the bistro. The rain was still lashing out of the sky, and they increased their pace, keeping a hand on their hats lest the wind blow the blue caps with the shiny gold shields away.
“Rumor has it he isn’t happy about the bookshop opening,” Siobhán shouted in the wind. “But believe me, Chris Gordon is harmless. We just want to follow up is all.”
“He’s an American,” Macdara said. “He’s threatening to sue Turn the Page.”
“On what grounds?” Aretta asked.
“It’s just a rumor we intend to follow up on,” Siobhán said, a little more forcefully this time. “And even if he said it, there are no grounds and I’m sure he knows it. Chris has a flair for the dramatic.”
By the time they reached Naomi’s, they were soaked. The bell dinged as they entered, and Siobhán could smell the peat as the fire crackled away in the main dining room. The bistro was now closed, but Siobhán could tell from the plates and saucers left on tables that many had come in from the bookshop. Her brood was all-in, trying to get a handle on the mess. And even though Siobhán tried to talk them out of it, Macdara and Aretta helped Siobhán clear the tables before they huddled around the fire. “This won’t do,” Siobhán said. “If I get to change into dry clothes, you two should as well. Macdara, James should have something you can wear, and Aretta . . .” Aretta was tiny. She would drown in Siobhán’s clothes. “My sister Ann will be able to help you out. I’ll collect towels and bags you can drop your wet uniforms into.”
The O’Sullivans pitched in once more, putting the kettle on, grabbing towels, and finding dry outfits for Aretta and Macdara. Soon they were settled by the fire with dry clothes and loads of food in front of them. Since they had no clue how long it would take to restore the power, everything had been taken out of the fridge and cooked, so there was a heap in front of them—Irish breakfast, including, of course, brown bread, and rashers, and eggs, and potatoes, and black and white pudding, and sausages. Aretta took it in with big eyes.
“You’re going to eat all that?”
“Macdara will,” Siobhán said. He let out a rumble of a laugh and warmth flashed within her. She took a moment to find his hand and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back and their hands parted.
“You should have a little to eat,” Macdara said to Aretta. “We’re going to need all the fuel we can get.”
Aretta stared at the food, then shook her head. Siobhán hoped she didn’t have an eating disorder, but if she did, now was not the time to discuss it.
“Take me through the evening,” Siobhán said. “From the minute you entered the bookshop.”
“By the time I arrived everyone else was there,” Macdara said. “A nice crowd for the authors and for your birthday.” His tone belied the disappointment at how the evening had ended.
“Right,” she said. She was not going to indulge in a pity party at this moment, even if it was the last of her twenties. “And how long was the power on?”
“I’d say about twenty minutes. Your brood was setting the table with the cake, I was back and forth between the front windows, the lookout I suppose I was, and—”
“You were wanting to dig into my birthday cake,” Siobhán interrupted.
“It looked like a good one, alright,” he said with a sigh. “Bridie made it herself.” Bridie was one of the best bakers in town. Siobhán could practically taste the fresh cream.
“Was anyone arguing, or did either of you notice anything odd?” Siobhán asked, pushing the thought of her birthday cake away.
Macdara shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
She looked to Aretta, who pondered the question. “Each author seemed to have a cluster of fans around them. Darren Kilroy was chatting with Padraig and Oran by the register. And yes, despite the unorthodox decorating, the cake looked scrumptious.”
For a second Siobhán was puzzled by the comment, until an image of the cake flashed in front of her again: BIRTHDAYS ARE MURDER. Under normal circumstances it would have been humorous, but now it made her shudder. “Good observation skills,” Siobhán said to Aretta. “What about Deirdre—she had people gathered in front of her as well?”
“Not as many as the others,” Aretta said. “But there was one man speaking with her—he seemed to be flirting. I was not specifically paying attention, and I’m afraid I have no familiarity with the locals.”
“What did he look like?”
“Nothing stands out other than it was a handsome man. I barely glanced at them.”
Siobhán nodded, jotted that down, and turned to Macdara. “Where were you when the power went out?” Aretta let out a small laugh. Siobhán raised her eyebrow.
“Sorry,” she said. “ ‘Where were you when the power went out?’ You sound like an old-fashioned detective.”
“You do,” Macdara said, chuckling. She stopped him with a look. He cleared his throat and got back to business. “I was halfway back from the window,” Macdara said. “You were taking your sweet time getting there.”
Siobhán felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She was indeed. Even though she wasn’t sure there was a birthday surprise in store, she was suspicious. And who didn’t want to spend a little extra time looking good for one’s own surprise party? And if she practiced her surprised look a few times in the mirror, well, that was to be expected as well. “I was trying to prepare our bistro in case the power went out,” she lied. She turned to Aretta. “Where were you?”
“I was seated,” Aretta said. “In the back row by myself. By this time, Darren Kilroy was seated a few rows ahead of me, and I had just caught sight of a man coming out of the bathroom before it all went dark.” She hesitated, tapping her biro against her lip. “Wait. It was t
he same man I saw flirting with Deirdre.” She sighed. “I wish I knew everyone’s names.”
“No worries,” Siobhán said. “Did anyone scream?”
“I heard exclamations,” Macdara said. “But everyone knew there was a chance the power would go out, so there wasn’t panic.”
“A few thought the lights had been killed because it meant you were about to enter.” Aretta stopped, then put her hand over her mouth. “The pun was not intended.”
“No worries at all,” Siobhán said. “You’ve been a great help.” She tapped her biro on her notepad as she pondered it. “I wonder why no one heard a struggle. Or at the least, wouldn’t Deirdre have screamed?” She thought of the thud she’d heard just after she saw the cake. Given the intricate staging of the body, that hadn’t been Deirdre falling, otherwise there wouldn’t have been time to prop her up with those hideous pages in her mouth, but had it been the killer trying to make an escape? Or had someone simply knocked into a bookshelf?
“Maybe she was sedated first,” Macdara said after a beat.
“Talk me through it.”
“Someone may have come up from behind, either injected her with a sedative, or perhaps had administered it earlier, then shoved the pages in her mouth just as the sedative was taking effect, allowing the killer to easily, and silently, suffocate her.”
Aretta shuddered. Siobhán resisted the urge to give her a comforting pat; they were not yet close friends, and she did not want to seem patronizing. She knew that no matter how good your training, it was not easy to adjust to the grim realities of the job. She wondered if they were throwing Aretta in too soon.
“Maybe the pages contained traces of tree nuts,” Siobhán said. Oran had posted a sign warning everyone about Deirdre’s nut allergy. Had he inadvertently alerted the killer to the perfect weapon? “Darren Kilroy had a bag of peanuts on him the previous evening,” Siobhán said. “He was sent out with them after Padraig did a search.” She took note of it. They’d have to follow up.
“I don’t know if a nut allergy kills that quickly,” Macdara said. “I think we would have heard her go into distress, raspy breathing, something.”
“If she was capable, she would have spit the pages out of her mouth,” Siobhán said. “And wouldn’t she have had an EpiPen on her?”
“Jeanie Brady will shed light on this,” Macdara said. “But unless she says otherwise, I can’t see this being an allergic reaction.”
“Jeanie Brady?” Aretta asked.
“Our state pathologist,” Siobhán said. “She’s a gem.” Siobhán turned back to Macdara. “This murder seems to involve a combination of planning, and striking when an opportunity hits.”
“Premeditated, then adapted to the circumstances,” Macdara said.
“What opportunity?” Aretta asked. “The power outage?”
“The power outage, and perhaps Deirdre’s nut allergy,” Siobhán said.
Aretta jotted down a note, then frowned, and when she looked up she looked at Macdara. Siobhán couldn’t help but notice she had been doing this a lot. Was Aretta irritated by Siobhán? Or taken with Dara? Either way, this was not the time to worry about something so petty. “Did anyone hear Deirdre slump to the floor?” she asked instead.
Macdara lifted his head to the ceiling as he thought it through. “There was an electric whine just before the power went out, then a pop, like a crackle of electricity.”
“Good,” Siobhán encouraged. “Next?”
He took another beat. “The minute the lights were out, I heard several thumps. I don’t know if any of them were from Deirdre. My assumption was that people were bumping into bookshelves, and each other. I think I heard books fall.”
“I did too,” Aretta said. “I’m pretty sure.”
This was the problem with eyewitness accounts, or ear witness accounts, even if those witnesses were gardaí. No one had been expecting trouble. Their attention was on surprising Siobhán. Then they made certain assumptions when the power went out. Everyone but the killer was clueless as to what was really taking place in the dark. Was it part of the thrill? Carrying out this nefarious deed while surrounded by others? Planning an entirely different kind of surprise . . .
“What’s she doing?” Siobhán heard Aretta ask.
“She’s putting herself in the mind of the killer,” Macdara said.
That snapped Siobhán out of it. “I am?”
“Do you deny it?”
“No. I just never thought of it in those terms.”
“It’s what makes you so good.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “It’s also why I worry about you.”
Siobhán would soak up the compliment later. “The power goes out. It’s dark. Noisy. The perfect time to strike.”
“Indeed,” Macdara said.
“Do we know if the bookshop had cameras set up?”
Macdara shrugged. “I doubt Oran and Padraig even thought to install them, let alone had the time. We’ll ask them. But we know who was there.”
“Half the town,” Siobhán mused.
“I know I’m new,” Aretta said. “But I’m very interested in continuing with this murder probe.”
“We can’t let you into the crime scene,” Macdara said. “But we can include you in our daily briefings.”
“Perfect.”
“But it will have to be on your free time as you have a full training schedule as a new garda,” Macdara added.
“Understood.” Aretta glanced at Siobhán. “Does that mean it will be your free time too?”
Was it? Did Siobhán have free time? “We can meet here at the bistro in the mornings after my run. I can do double duty and make my cappuccinos and yell at my siblings at the same time.”
Aretta laughed. “I am an only child.”
Siobhán nodded. “I’m jealous,” they said in stereo. At the door, Aretta hesitated.
“The woman who passed away on the footpath,” she said.
“Margaret O’Shea,” Siobhán said. “I’ve been thinking about her too.”
“In light of this, are you going to reexamine that case?”
Siobhán looked to Macdara. He nodded. “I guess we’re in luck that the burial had to be postponed,” he said. “We should have Jeanie Brady do a postmortem just to be safe.”
Aretta nodded. “I think that is wise.”
Macdara removed keys from his pocket. “I’ll give you a lift home,” he said to Aretta. He turned to Siobhán. “See you soon.” He gave her a kiss. “Happy birthday,” he said again. Siobhán said her goodnights and goodbyes and stood by the fire. She wanted Aretta to feel welcome. But she couldn’t help but wonder if it was a mistake to allow her to tag along on a murder inquiry when she was still in training. There was something about this case that had Siobhán on high alert. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what that something was. A feeling in her bones. That whoever this killer was, Siobhán had a sinking feeling they were already several chapters ahead.
Chapter 9
At two in the morning, when the power was restored, Siobhán O’Sullivan was still wide awake, cuddling Trigger, who was shaking so hard he was vibrating. She finally got him to calm down by reading him Joyce. Apparently, he had the sleep-reading gene as well. She dozed off in the chair, and before she knew it, her mobile was ringing. She picked it up, shocked it was already morning. It was Macdara. The crime scene photographer and forensic team were on their way to the bookshop. Siobhán tossed on her uniform and made a cappuccino that she drank in record time. She fed Trigger, peeked in on her still-sleeping brood, and stepped outside. The skies were dark and a sharp wind was blowing through, but the rain had stopped for now. The footpath, normally pristine, was strewn with branches, and green leaves, and the odd bits of tumbling rubbish. The air still smelled heavy with rain, and she had no doubt it would return. She headed for the garda station for their protective gear, and once at the bookshop she greeted Macdara. They donned the booties and gloves before entering. A quick glance above the
doors proved there were no security cameras. “We’ll have to check CCTVs of shops nearby,” Macdara said. “The bookshop hasn’t been here long enough to have security cameras.” It was a shame, but of course they hadn’t been expecting trouble this soon. That was the problem with trouble, it snuck up on you.
Siobhán and Macdara headed for the back wall. Oversized books were strewn all around the body. An enormous green umbrella lay in the middle of the books, and a lime-green biro was partially tucked underneath Deirdre’s left leg. There was writing on the biro, but Siobhán wasn’t able to make it out. Her eyes traveled to Deirdre’s left foot, where a red rose was lying on the ground. Had Deirdre been holding these items, then dropped them? Or did the killer place the items at the scene? “Were Oran and Padraig collecting umbrellas by the door?” she asked Macdara. Oran, for one, did not seem like the type who would accept wet umbrellas in his new shop. Was the umbrella wet? She zoomed in on it. “The umbrella is dry,” she added.
“The rain hadn’t started when we arrived,” Macdara said. “So, there was no need to collect the umbrellas.”
“Right,” Siobhán said. “I forgot.” The rain had begun just before she reached the bookshop. “Do you think the rose is from Leigh Coakley?”
“It’s a good bet,” Macdara said. “We’ll have to ask her.”
Siobhán leaned in to see if she could read the titles on the books. “European history,” she said. “No wonder the books are large and thick.” She scanned the ground, spotting at least a dozen. Her eyes traveled to the shelves Deirdre was leaning against. Blank spaces stared out where the books should have been. Her gaze fell to poor Deirdre Walsh. She was wearing a long, flowered skirt, black boots, and a teal blouse. Her hair was shiny and straight, her makeup expertly applied. She had put an effort into looking good and it made Siobhán sad. Her gaze fell to the pages in Deirdre’s mouth, cherry-red lips clamping the white paper.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 7
