Siobhán felt shivers up her spine. “Wrote what in your notebook?”
“That I was favoring Nessa Lamb.”
“Show me.”
He licked his lips. “That’s just the ting. I can’t show you. I dropped that particular notebook. Guess who picked it up?”
“Deirdre Walsh.”
He nodded. “I’m afraid she read it.” He hesitated.
“And?”
“First. It doesn’t look good. I was supposed to be impartial, give them this week, read their works, all of that good stuff before I made my decision.”
“What did Deirdre say to you?”
He looked at the ceiling, then finally made eye contact. “She said I couldn’t sign Nessa Lamb.”
“Couldn’t?”
Darren swallowed. Nodded. “She said she had proof that Nessa Lamb plagiarized Musings on a Hill. ”
Chapter 11
Siobhán didn’t know what she was expecting, but this was a surprise. If it were true, a bombshell. “What kind of proof?”
He threw open his arms, then let them flap by his side. “That’s what I was trying to find out.”
No reason justified trying to break into a dead woman’s room before the gardaí could get there, but at least this one held a ring of truth. “If Nessa Lamb didn’t write Musings on a Hill, did Deirdre say whose work she thought Nessa had plagiarized?”
“No.” He paused as if considering whether or not to say more. “We were interrupted by Lorcan Murphy.”
“Lorcan?” Siobhán asked. Was he the handsome man Aretta had seen flirting with Deirdre? No offense to Darren Kilroy, but he didn’t fit the description.
“Yes. He joined us, and the two of them started talking, and I slipped away. Shortly after, the lights went out.”
“Where were you standing?”
He didn’t hesitate. “By the register.” This matched Siobhán’s memory as well. At least the part about Oran standing by the register. She became lost in her thoughts as she visualized the bookshop. When she didn’t respond right away, Darren seemed to grow paranoid. “Ask Oran if you don’t believe me. He was standing behind the register. He’ll remember.”
The register was only a few feet away from where Deirdre’s body was found. Had Lorcan and Deirdre moved over to the bookshelf with the secret passage after Darren left? “Did you catch any of their conversation?”
Darren frowned. “No. But please don’t read into it. They certainly seemed friendly.”
“Don’t you worry,” Siobhán said. “It’s your job to read into things, not mine.” She smiled. He tried to smile back but his lips failed him.
“That’s why I wanted to get into her room. I can’t sign Nessa Lamb if she’s plagiarizing. It would ruin my reputation, my career.” He began to pace. “Not to mention the reputation of my other authors.”
“Such as Michael O’Mara.”
Darren stopped pacing. “Yes. He’s one of my most prolific authors. I have a duty to protect him.” He shook his head. “I’d rather face a slew of his fire-breathing dragons than face an angry Michael O’Mara any day.” He slumped onto the edge of the bed. Siobhán was tempted to ask him if the poor dragon was going to get his fire back in the next installment, because even though she hadn’t yet read the books, she really wanted to know, but she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. “What if Deirdre was making it all up?” Darren continued. “Trying to cast doubt on Nessa to slice the competition?”
“Have you spoken about this to anyone else?” If Nessa Lamb had learned that Deirdre was accusing her of plagiarizing. . . Siobhán could only imagine how it had made her feel. It was, quite frankly, a motive for murder.
Darren shook his head. “I haven’t mentioned it to a soul. That would be slander!”
“And where is this supposed notebook now?” She was inclined to believe him, but she didn’t want him to know that, so she was keeping her language skeptical.
“I assume you’re going to find it either on the floor near Deirdre or on her person. She was still in possession of it when the lights went out.” Siobhán was now eager to fetch this notebook and made a reminder note in her own. “You said you don’t know much about the book business?” Darren Kilroy said.
“Not much.”
“It’s cutthroat.”
“Many businesses are.”
“Yes. You run a family bistro, don’t ya?”
“Yes.” He’d done his homework too. The question in her mind was . . . why?
“There was quite the crowd in the bistro after Deirdre was discovered.” He shuddered. “Not just the people from the bookshop, but it appeared many in your village were drawn out by the event.”
He wasn’t wrong, but her skin prickled at the observation. “Your point?”
“It’s simply a fact. Tragedy can affect sales. Good or bad. In the case of the macabre—I didn’t make this up—Deirdre’s book sales will probably skyrocket. For a very limited time. I know that sounds horrible, but she for one would be thrilled. The real reason I wanted into her room was to see if she was telling the truth about Nessa Lamb. But it’s also true that she was eager for me to read her new work, and yes, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, and get ahead of the competition.” He gasped, then placed his hand over his heart. “I didn’t mean to say kill.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Given that he was literally sweating, they were both tripping over their words. “But if Deirdre’s not alive to choose who publishes it, what difference does getting a hold of her memoir make?” They would need to find out if Deirdre had a will and who the beneficiaries were.
“My first objective, to be quite honest, was to determine whether or not she had proof of Nessa plagiarizing her hit novel. Aside from that, I wanted to read Deirdre’s memoir first, and if I was in love with the manuscript I would have dealt with the executor of her estate, whoever inherits the rights to her work, plead my case. I was truly—partially—trying to honor the only thing she ever asked of me.”
And profit off her death. Cutthroat was right. “I’m going to ask that you remain in town for the duration you were already scheduled. The rest of the week.”
Apparently, he wasn’t expecting this. “What?” he cried. “Why? I’ve told you everything.”
“I’ll be asking all of our suspects to remain.” She emphasized the word suspects. “It’s what? Four more days?”
He counted off on his fingers, then nodded. “I don’t understand. You can take my business card. Reach me by phone. Dublin isn’t that far away—I could come back if you needed me.”
“If you were planning on being here anyway, why the rush to return to Dublin?”
“Michael O’Mara has been contacting me nonstop. He’s a bit on the needy side. This would be the perfect time to make the trek to Bere Island before returning to Dublin.”
“You can speak with him on the phone instead.”
Darren stood up. “I don’t believe that you can force me to stay.”
“Probably not. But if you leave against our wishes it will force me to move you to the top of my suspect list.”
“I see. Will you at least . . .” He hesitated.
“Let you know if we find proof of Nessa plagiarizing?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could do that.” She wasn’t sure she could, or would, but she was willing to let him think she would in order to get him to stay in town. “And I may not know the book business—but I’m a heat-seeking missile when it comes to the murder book.”
He swallowed again, and nodded. “I shall remain.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. She had a feeling she and Judge Judy would be besties. “We’ll be contacting you when we’ve scheduled formal interviews at the garda station.”
He showed her to the door. “May I ask one favor?” he said.
“Go on, so.”
“You won’t mention to anyone about my notebook, or Deirdre’s accusation? If there’s a killer on the loose . . .�
��
“Course I won’t. We collect evidence, we don’t give it out.” She opened the door and exited his room. She heard the locks engage and a thud, as if he’d thrown his body against the door. She’d rattled him. Was it the fear of an innocent man worried a killer could come after him? Or a killer, worried he was going to get caught?
Chapter 12
When Siobhán exited Darren’s room she found Macdara waiting by the office to the inn. “Any luck?” they asked each other in stereo.
“Let’s chat on the walk,” Macdara said.
Siobhán glanced in the direction of Margaret O’Shea’s room. Crime scene tape had been put across the door. It was a necessary but unsettling sight. “What about Margaret’s room?”
“In the morning I’m going to have guards accompanying the twins into the room for a first look. See if anything is out of order. We’ll take it from there.” Siobhán nodded. They would know the state of her room better than anyone else, and as long as access was restricted, evidence, if any, should be safe for now. They began the walk back to the bistro. Although the clouds in the sky were still heavy, the surrounding greenery comforted Siobhán. The air smelled fresh. Broken tree limbs were scattered on the ground and flowers bent their heads. Beauty and destruction, hand in hand. In the distance, cows had come out to graze. Up ahead she could hear the squeal of children stomping in puddles. A collie with dirty paws shot past them, followed by a young lad bouncing a stick on the ground. She took a moment to absorb the world around her before filling Macdara in on her encounter with Darren.
“Plagiarizing,” Macdara said. “That’s quite the accusation.”
“I know. And if true, quite the motive for murder.”
“You think?”
“Imagine if Nessa Lamb did plagiarize Musings on a Hill. The publicity would be vicious. Let alone the cash prize she just won—maybe even criminal. It wouldn’t just be the ruin of her career, but her reputation, her freedom. I can see someone murdering to protect such ramifications from befalling her.”
“When you put it that way, so can I,” Macdara said. The collie with the dirty paws returned and dropped an equally muddy ball at Macdara’s feet. He bent over and chucked it into the neighboring field, laughing as the dog tore after it, dirt flying in his wake.
“Either Deirdre was lying in order to get an agent or . . .” Siobhán left the rest unsaid.
“Or she was about to ruin Nessa Lamb’s career and reputation.”
Siobhán nodded. “There’s a third possibility.”
“Darren Kilroy could be lying.”
“Indeed.” A horse with a cart, driven by a Traveler, passed by. The dog, dirty ball in its mouth, followed the cart.
“I suppose we’ll have our answer to that when we gain access to Deirdre’s room,” Macdara said.
“That’s the perfect segue. Did you reach the judge?”
Macdara nodded. “I got an earful. But he’s faxing the warrant. I say we get a few hours of sleep and we’ll be back to the room.”
Sleep. The minute he said the word, Siobhán could feel the exhaustion in her body. “Darren was reluctant to stay in town,” she said. “We’ll have to make sure to appeal to the rest of them.”
“Letting them know they’ll be under a hotter light if they try to leave is a good start,” Dara said. “We’ll get on that tomorrow, and set up interviews.”
* * *
Siobhán slept until half nine, which she hadn’t done in years. For once she skipped her run; with the adrenaline and lack of sleep it was not a good idea. Instead she made brown bread and a full Irish breakfast for Macdara and herself. She could only eat half of hers but Macdara was happy to finish it. Shortly after, his phone rang. The search warrant had come through and they were free to enter Deirdre’s room.
The twins were waiting for them by Room #10. “We didn’t see any signs of a struggle or theft in Margaret’s room,” one of the twins said.
Macdara nodded. “I heard. We’ll be keeping it a crime scene until the state pathologist can determine the cause of death.”
The twins pursed their lips, but didn’t argue. They turned their attention back to Deirdre’s room. It was the last room, no neighbor to the left. Emma and Eileen argued over who would open the door until Macdara snatched the key. They stood waiting. “We can take it from here,” Macdara said. He and Siobhán had their booties, gloves, and aprons in a plastic bag and wanted to wait until the pair left to put them on. They intended to do an initial look-through before bringing in the forensics team. They would not remove any of Deirdre’s belongings, but they would be able to see if there were any clues that would help shape the investigation. Especially any evidence that Nessa Lamb had plagiarized her acclaimed book.
The twins sighed, then turned in unison and headed off. “Drop the key back to the office,” one called over her shoulder.
Macdara opened the door. A slightly stale smell wafted out, but they entered to find it neat. The makeover brought about to the exterior of the inn by the twins had extended to the interior as well. A cheerful light yellow paint was on the wall, and paintings of the Irish landscape hung over the bed. A small white sofa had colorful throw pillows, and new carpeting completed the transformation. A stark cross (the only decoration supplied by Margaret O’Shea) still hung by the door, but surrounded by the rest of the cheer, it felt welcoming. The bed was made, most likely by Deirdre as it looked slightly rumpled, her luggage was open on a nearby dresser, and all the clothes inside were neatly folded. The bedside table held reading glasses, a bottle of paracetamol, and a glass of water. The bathroom held a makeup bag, toothpaste, mouthwash, and toothbrush.
“Where’s the laptop?” Siobhán said out loud as they scanned the room.
“Notebooks, pens, books—they have to be somewhere,” Macdara agreed.
“No sign of her handbag, keys, or phone either,” Siobhán said.
They began opening cupboards, drawers, even the hot press, mini refrigerator, microwave, and shower. There was no laptop, books, or notebooks. No handbag, or phone, or keys to the hotel room. Macdara made a phone call and she heard him ask the evidence room to call with a list of items retrieved from the bookshop. “She’s a writer and there’s not a single book or notebook or biro in her room?”
Siobhán shared his frustration. “We’ll have to ask the twins if they’ve been in, or the cleaning staff. . . .” She let it hang.
“From the way they behaved, they did not let anyone in, and this is not a bed that’s been officially made.”
“We need to find out the last time they or any staff member entered this room,” Siobhán said. “But assuming it was before she was killed—that only means one thing.”
“Somebody found a way to get in.”
“Yes. Because somebody has her handbag with the key.”
“That’s one possibility,” Macdara said. “And we’ll check the CCTV. But they still risk being seen.”
“What are you thinking?”
There was no adjoining room. Nothing amiss with the locks on the door. The lone window in the main room was shut and locked, nor did it appear disturbed. “The problem with inns,” Macdara said, “is that over the years there can be a number of keys floating around. We’ll have to find out if the twins changed the locks since they took over from Margaret O’Shea.”
“But that would open our suspects up to the locals,” Siobhán said. “What are the chances of the killer randomly coming across keys to the room?”
“Let’s check the bathroom window,” Macdara said.
The bathroom window, situated above the commode, was large enough for a person to climb through if he or she was determined. But try as they might, they could not budge it open.
“Let’s check this from the other side,” Siobhán said. They hurried out, and moved around to the back of the building. It abutted a stone wall and beyond it a farmer’s field. Cows were out grazing, but once they noticed Siobhán and Macdara, several ambled over to see what the fus
s was about. “Even the cows are nosey in this village,” Siobhán said.
“Cheeky bovines,” Macdara said.
Given all the rooms were on the ground floor, the window would be accessible via a leg up if the windows were easy to open. The window was just out of Siobhán’s reach. The grass did seem slightly disturbed underneath, compared to the other windows, but there were no apparent footprints. However, dropped on the ground was a lighter, and biro. The lighter was red, the biro had writing on it. Gloves firmly on, she picked it up and read the writing splashed across it in black: Michael O’Mara, THE DRAGON FILES. “This looks like the same font on the lime-green biro in the bookshop,” Siobhán said. “Author swag.”
Macdara gave her a look. “Author swag?”
“I’ve been Googling,” she said.
“Course you have,” Macdara replied. “They must be Darren’s biros. Or ‘author swag,’ ” he added. “We’ll have to ask if he passed them out to folks at the bookshop.” They turned their attention back to the window.
“Someone may have dragged a chair up to it,” he said. “We’ll need to do the same.” He glanced at the window. “I have a strong feeling this is how someone entered.”
“Someone? Or the killer?”
“We could have a thief and a killer,” Macdara said.
Siobhán sighed. That was the problem with investigations—possibilities were endless. “Was it just luck that he or she found it unlocked?”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“The alternative is that the thief, or killer, gained access to her room while Deirdre was alive, asked to use the restroom, and unlocked the window.”
“Wouldn’t that have seemed odd to her if one of the other participants asked to use her restroom? It’s not like it would have been a far walk for any of them to return to his or her own room.”
“Unless they were meeting for longer.”
“Or having a romantic tryst.”
This is often how they worked best, bouncing ideas off each other, working up a variety of scenarios.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 10
