Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Not yet,” the one on the right said. “But she gave us a signed copy of Melodies.”

  “She only gave us one copy,” the other bemoaned. “It happens a lot.”

  “We can share,” the other said.

  “We’re not joined at the hip. Why does everyone want us to share?”

  Siobhán took in their matching outfits, matching hair, matching mugs, matching bunny slippers, and tears, and kept her gob shut.

  “It hardly matters now,” the first said.

  “We are actually two separate people.”

  “I’m sorry,” Macdara said. “I have trouble keeping you two apart. Can Emma stand on the left and Eileen on the right? ”

  The pair stared at him, their faces perfect for poker. Finally, they grinned. “Done,” they said in unison.

  “If you ever find me dead,” Emma said, knocking her head, and turning to her twin.

  “She’s the one who did it,” they said in stereo while pointing a finger at each other.

  “She had it coming,” Emma said.

  Macdara laughed, then got down to business. “We’re going to need to access Deirdre’s room.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” Emma asked, innocently fluttering her eyelashes and taking a sip of her tea.

  “We have shiny gold badges,” Siobhán said, pointing to hers and then to Dara’s. “See? Twins.”

  Emma shook her head. “I was hoping for a court order. We have to be very careful of our celebrity clientele.”

  “Even the dead ones?” Macdara blurted out. He was getting frustrated with the twins.

  Their faces morphed back into blank canvases. Siobhán wondered if it came naturally, or had they practiced the look. “What the detective sergeant is trying to impress upon you is that we’re trying to catch a killer,” Siobhán said gently. “I’m sure Deirdre Walsh herself would approve.”

  “A judge would issue this warrant, no question,” Macdara said. “I just don’t see waking one up at this hour of the morning as the best move.”

  “And yet you woke the pair of us up without a bother, didn’t ye?” Eileen chirped.

  “Deirdre’s things might help us find her killer,” Siobhán repeated.

  “Not without a warrant,” Emma said. “We said the same to that agent.”

  “Agent?” Macdara stepped forward.

  “Darren Kilroy?” Siobhán asked.

  Emma’s eyes widened and she nodded. “Dat’s the one. He was mad to get in her room.”

  “Mad how?” Siobhán asked.

  “It wasn’t that he was rude per se,” Eileen said. “But he was insistent.”

  “Desperate, I’d say,” Emma added.

  “What made you think this?” Siobhán asked.

  “He was pacing up and down in front of her room, sweating,” Eileen answered.

  Macdara stepped forward. “When was this?”

  The twins regarded one another. “Half ten, was it?” Eileen asked Emma.

  “Twas.”

  “We had just finished Judge Judy and were nearly turning in.”

  Emma nodded. “We love Judge Judy.”

  “ ‘I love the truth. If you don’t tell me the truth you’re gonna be eating your shoes,’ ” Eileen exclaimed.

  “What?” Siobhán’s gaze once again fell to the bunny slippers as if they could provide clarity.

  “It’s a Judge Judy quote,” Eileen said. “Don’t you watch Judge Judy?”

  “I’ve been a bit busy lately,” Siobhán said.

  “ ‘I eat morons like you for breakfast,’” Emma said. “ ‘You’re gonna be crying before this is over.’ ”

  “Dat’s a good one,” Macdara said. “Now. Could you imagine waking Judge Judy up this hour because the pair of ye are too stubborn to let us in Deirdre’s room?”

  “Wake Judge Judy?” Eileen exclaimed. The twins shook their heads and crossed themselves.

  “I’d rather die,” Emma said.

  “Dat’s exactly how I feel about waking up a judge at this hour,” Macdara said.

  “He should have his own show on telly then,” Eileen said.

  “So he should,” Emma agreed.

  This was going pear shaped. Siobhán placed her hand on Macdara’s arm. “Could we get back to Darren Kilroy for a moment?”

  “Right, so,” Macdara said.

  “We would never wake Judge Judy up,” Emma said. “Do we have stupid written across our foreheads?”

  “And Judge Judy lives in America,” Eileen added. “I think we’re safe.”

  “Darren Kilroy?” Siobhán said, a little louder. “You were saying?”

  Eileen nodded. “Right before we went to bed, we encountered him out here.”

  “How did he take it when you wouldn’t let him in?”

  “He said he understood,” Emma said. “But he insisted that she had something that belonged to him.”

  “And he was sweating something awful.” Eileen shuddered.

  “And what is that something he wanted from her room?” Macdara asked.

  Emma turned to Eileen. “Was it a book?”

  “A manuscript on her laptop, isn’t that what he said?” Eileen replied.

  “I think you’re right. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was still thinking of that eejit who interrupted Judy. Now. She shut their gob, didn’t she?”

  “Ah, she did, so. She certainly did,” Eileen said.

  Macdara removed his mobile phone from his pocket and stared at it as if the weight of the world was on him. “Only one thing worse than waking a judge up in the middle of the night. . . .”

  He wandered away without finishing his sentence.

  “What’s the one thing worse?” Emma called after him.

  Eileen tilted her head. “Not waking a judge up?”

  “No,” Siobhán said, not envying Macdara. “Waking the missus up first.”

  The twins blinked in stereo, then stared down at their bunnies.

  “What room is Darren Kilroy in?” Siobhán asked. The twins once again stared at her without replying. Siobhán wondered if they were capable of reading each other’s minds. She’d about had it with them as well. “You want a court order for Deirdre’s room—fine. But if you don’t tell me—”

  “Room four,” Emma spit out.

  “But if you’re going to go waking him, let us get back into the house first,” Eileen said. The house was actually a small cottage situated next door to the inn.

  “Go on, so,” Siobhán said. “We’ll be seeing you again with the court order.” The twins hustled their backsides home.

  Room #4 was at the apex of the U, and Siobhán headed for the door. The lights were off. Darren Kilroy was probably asleep. Macdara was correct. Waking people up was not always smart. Sometimes it worked to a garda’s advantage: hit the suspect while he or she was sleepy and hope the truth stumbled out before they were awake enough to remember to lie. That was the best outcome. The worst: some people weren’t the nicest when awoken from a deep sleep. Siobhán imagined that went double for cornered killers and she wasn’t eager to find out which camp Darren Kilroy was in. She paused in front of his door before banging on it with her stick. If she was going to disturb his peace, she wasn’t going to be wishy-washy about it.

  Seconds ticked by before she heard him stir, followed by a crash, followed by cursing. By the time Darren came to the door, glasses askew, what hair he had left sticking up, robe pulled tight across a swollen belly, Siobhán’s tension eased slightly. He seemed to be in the confused-bumbling category, so if she acted quick maybe he’d blurt out the truth before he could think better of it. Or before she threatened to make him eat his shoes.

  “Sorry to wake you,” she said. “May I come in for a quick chat?”

  “Here? Now?” he said. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Time is of the essence,” Siobhán said, pulling her notebook and biro out of her jacket. She spied a kettle on the table next to the telly. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she
added. She didn’t want a cup at all, but it would give Darren something to focus on and, if he was the nefarious sort, hopefully it would keep him from trying to spin lies to her questions.

  Darren sighed and moved to the side to allow her to step in. “Of course.” He ambled over to the kettle, flicked it on, and fiddled with the cups for a minute. “I suppose I know what this is all about.” He stared at the kettle as if he was talking to it and not her.

  A watched pot never boils.... Siobhán couldn’t help the random thoughts that flittered through her mind. “Oh? What’s this all about then?”

  “I was trying to gain entrance into Deirdre’s room. I didn’t think it warranted being roused out of a deep sleep by the gardaí.”

  She wondered if by his phrasing, gardaí, plural, instead of garda, singular, he knew that Macdara was waiting just outside. If so, his entire shtick about being woken up was a lie. Had he been peeking through his curtains and knew full well they were outside? “Do you want to tell me why you were trying to get into the room of a murder victim?” She didn’t mean to disrespect Deirdre Walsh by reducing her to a murder victim, but she wanted to keep Darren Kilroy on edge. He was trying so hard to appear calm and collected.

  He met her eyes for a brief moment. “She has a manuscript on her laptop. I told her I’d take a look at it.” They both jumped when the kettle shrieked. “Tea?” he said when they’d recovered from the fright.

  Siobhán nodded. She had no interest in a cup of tea but it was good to keep him occupied while they chatted. “With a drop of milk and a cube of sugar.”

  “I don’t think they have actual cubes.”

  “Just a pinch then.”

  He shook a packet. “Half?”

  “Perfect.”

  He set about making the tea, then handed her the cup. She loathed drinking tea out of paper cups. She set it down. “You seem like an intelligent man.”

  He sunk into a desk chair and crossed his arms. “I sense a but coming.”

  “A woman is just murdered and hours later you’re trying to get into her motel room.”

  He blinked. “That sounds horrid.”

  “Indeed.”

  He swallowed. “I know it might sound selfish of me. She said it could be her big hit.”

  “You said you weren’t interested in memoirs.”

  He stopped moving. “You have a good memory.”

  “Comes with the job.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Emphatically.”

  He nodded, and Siobhán had the feeling he was trying to buy time. “I’ll admit. She appealed to my sense of curiosity. I spoke with her after that panel. She gave me a little more insight as to the contents of this explosive memoir.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Must I? It involves other writers. I was horrified, actually, when I found out what she was writing.”

  “And yet, there you were, trying to get into her room to get your hands on it.”

  “I know how it looks. But I am, at the end of the day, a businessman. And . . .”

  “Popularity can go up when a writer dies,” Siobhán said, keeping her voice light.

  He let out a breath, as if she’d just said the magic words. “I truly wasn’t thinking of it like that—more so I wanted to honor the last request she ever made of me.” He lowered his head. “I could have been kinder to her when she was alive.”

  “You weren’t kind to her?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He stopped, then gasped. “That was the wrong choice of words. Given what was done to Deirdre. It was ghastly. Don’t you see?”

  “I agree. It was ghastly.”

  “I can’t sign either Nessa Lamb nor Lorcan Murphy if they had anything to do with this.”

  “I think that’s wise.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be an agent.” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe any of this is happening.”

  “What is it like to be an agent?” He was the type who spoke more freely if he felt one was on his side.

  “Bombarded. That’s the word. Constantly bombarded by desperate writers. They always want a piece of your soul.”

  That sounded very dramatic to Siobhán but perhaps it came with the territory. “And yet you voluntarily came and even agreed to sign one of them.”

  He nodded, then rubbed his chin. “I did.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I wanted to meet Nessa Lamb. Whereas most writers are desperate for agents, Nessa is being courted by us. I really think I could take her career to the next level. It’s the Holy Grail of being an agent. Lifting a writer from the abyss into the light.” He rubbed his chin. “But what if . . . what if she did this?”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect Nessa Lamb?”

  “No!” He jumped up. “I swear. No reason at all.”

  Interesting. He didn’t just pull her name out of a hat. And his overreaction proved that he was hiding something. She’d pull back a little, then go in once more, see if he flared up again. “It’s true I don’t know much about the publishing world. But Nessa Lamb as I understand, and as you’ve confirmed, is being courted by publishers whereas Lorcan and Deirdre are not. Is that correct?”

  Darren nodded. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “I would hardly call being courted by agents and publishers lifting one from the abyss, would you?”

  He blinked. “I suppose not. I guess you’re trying to get me to admit that I’m simply looking out for my own interests.”

  “Are you?”

  “Every agent worth his salt would do the same. The Forty under Forty article has caused the industry to scurry after her. She probably has loads of offers.” He scratched his head. “At least she did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it gets out she’s a murder suspect, do you really think any of them are going to stand by her?” He sighed. “I have to know. I have to know for my own peace of mind that she did not murder Deirdre Walsh.”

  Siobhán intended on keeping Darren Kilroy under pressure. He was talking now, words spilling out of him like a faucet turned on full blast. She didn’t believe that his reason for breaking into Deirdre’s room was to get a manuscript he’d had no interest in prior to his death. And right now he seemed fixated on Nessa Lamb.

  “Do you think it’s fair that you’d already made up your mind who you wanted to sign before you even arrived?” She wondered if Lorcan or Deirdre had any inkling. Then again, that would only have been a motive if it was Nessa who had been killed. Unless . . .

  It was dark that evening. What if the killer had accidentally murdered the wrong author? Or was that too much of a stretch? It also meant, given there were only three of them, that Lorcan Murphy was the killer.

  “Was I leaning toward Nessa?” Darren said. “Absolutely.” He opened his arms. “But I was willing to change me mind if either Lorcan or Deirdre showed me something brilliant.”

  “I see,” Siobhán said. “Why not wait until we finish our investigation and then approach the estate about Deirdre’s memoir? Why the rush to get into her hotel room?”

  Darren pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his robe and dabbed his forehead. “Of course, of course that’s the sensible thing. But now it will be tied up for ages. I just happened to be passing by Deirdre’s room and I thought if the manuscript was in there, why not have a quick look, and yes, I’m afraid that’s how the twins found me, just giving the door a slight jostle to see whether or not it was locked.”

  Attempted breaking and entering? The twins hadn’t mentioned that. Were they too star struck? They should have called the guards. “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.”

  He threw open his arms. “How can I convince you?”

  “Tell me the real reason you wanted to get into her room.”

  “If you see a manuscript on her laptop—her WIP—”

  “Her whip?” What kind of case was this going to turn out to be? />
  Darren belted out a laugh, then slapped his hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Work-in-progress. WIP. Her memoir. That should prove that I’m telling the truth.”

  “We all heard her mention her memoir, so what would that prove?”

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “You’re asking me to turn over a manuscript from a crime scene?”

  He blinked, then picked up his tea, which was sitting cold on the nearby table, and stirred it slowly. “I suppose that’s out of the question.”

  “Course it is,” she said. “This is a murder probe.”

  “Right, so.” He set his tea down, went to the closet, and returned with his billfold. Was he thinking of offering her a bribe? She’d never been bribed on the job before. She certainly wasn’t going to take it, but she was curious to see how he would do it. He fumbled into it and produced a business card. “Can I give you this? Perhaps you could pass it on to the executor of her estate?”

  “No,” she said. “We’re not messengers.” Macdara had been tasked with contacting the next of kin and, given they hadn’t been allowed to enter her room, guards were currently poring through her social media to locate family members.

  “Apologies.” He dropped the billfold on the table. Glanced at it. Glanced at her. Sweat began to pour down his face. The dabbing increased. “If you understood the publishing industry . . . How vicious it can get.” He paused. She did not respond. Silence was a powerful motivator. It often made folks nervous, and they would then start rambling, often lies, but if they rambled enough, sometimes, they would accidentally let the truth spill out. The challenge then was to parse it from the lies. “She came up to me that evening. While we were waiting for you. Happy birthday, by the way. I don’t know whether to say that or not.”

  “Not a bother. Go on, so.”

  “As I stated, she said she had a memoir that was going to be explosive.” He swallowed again. “As you mentioned, I’m here to pick one of them to represent.” He was taking his sweet time.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “And as you already know, unless Lorcan or Deirdre showed me something to stop me in me tracks, I was going to pick Nessa Lamb.” He glanced at the notebook in her hand. “Like you, I’m a note taker.” He stood, and pointed to his bedside table. There, a notebook resided. “I made the mistake of writing it in my notebook.”