Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “The plot thickens,” Macdara said.

  “What’s good for writers is bad for guards,” Siobhán added with a sigh.

  “That’s all we can do here for now,” Macdara said. “We’ll have tech process the additional evidence and send the laptop to our experts. In the meantime, why don’t we have Aretta meet us for lunch at O’Rourke’s and see if she’s had any luck processing the rubbish.”

  * * *

  “Riddle me this, Batman,” Declan said, leaning over Macdara. He and Siobhán were seated at O’Rourke’s poring over the lunch menu as if they didn’t already know what they were going to order. “We’ve got actual writers in town, and none of them have shown up at my fine establishment to drink.” O’Rourke’s was a mighty fine pub, and Declan the best of publicans. A large man with a gap-toothed grin, Declan O’Rourke was a walking encyclopedia when it came to trivia, ranging from the opera to old westerns. And if you were smart enough to compliment his Laurel and Hardy memorabilia in the window, you might even get a free pint. He heard more confessions than Father Kearney and could settle a dispute with a single glare from down the bar. The writers should be here; O’Rourke’s was the best craic in town, but the village had numerous pubs, and for some reason the writers had gravitated to Butler’s. The most likely reason being it was close to the bookshop. Anyone who got to know Declan, his boisterous voice, his big laugh, his quick wit and banter, would have been happy to become a regular.

  “Rumor has it they’re hanging at Butler’s,” Macdara said.

  Declan crossed his arms and looked out the window. “Why?”

  Macdara shrugged. “They’re writers. They like death stakes.”

  “Do the bookshop owners drink? Haven’t seen them in here either.”

  “Neither have I seen them at the bistro,” Siobhán said. “You know how it is when you open a new business.” Siobhán soaked in the dark wood, the smell of ale, already looking forward to a good feed. She glanced at the bar, where most times she’d find her best friend Maria working away, but she’d gone on a proper holiday with her new boyfriend. Maria promised they’d properly celebrate Siobhán’s birthday when she returned. She was going to have to get in line.

  The door opened and they all turned to see a smiling Aretta enter. She approached with a folder in her hand.

  “Garda Dabiri, meet Declan O’Rourke,” Siobhán said.

  “One passion fruit mocktail coming up,” Declan said.

  Aretta’s smile widened and she nodded.

  “Apparently they’ve met,” Macdara said.

  “A mocktail,” Aretta replied, “is a cocktail without the alcohol.”

  Given she looked as if she had just imparted wisdom on to them, Siobhán and Macdara played along and nodded.

  “I prefer my tails without any mock,” Macdara said. “But I’m on duty.” He lifted his mineral as Aretta sat down next to Siobhán. Macdara and Siobhán ordered bacon and cabbage, but Aretta remarked that she’d already eaten. Siobhán didn’t believe her, and was starting to become increasingly curious, nearing obsessed about Aretta’s eating habits.

  “My brother Eoin might have a little crush on you,” Siobhán said. The minute it was out of her mouth, she felt guilty. And when she saw a look of shock on Aretta’s face, and noticed Macdara bending his head so low she thought he was going to duck underneath the table, she felt even worse. “I think he just wants to show off his culinary skills,” Siobhán said. “And if you have any recipes to share, he’s always looking to expand.”

  “I will take that into consideration,” Aretta said solemnly.

  “Grand.” Siobhán wished she had a sock so she could stuff it in her own gob. Luckily their drinks arrived on, and then their food, and each fell into silence as they took a few minutes to enjoy it, especially since the next portion of their discussion would be rubbish. Literally.

  “First, I found a number of receipts,” Aretta said, laying copies of three receipts out on the table once their plates had been cleared away. Macdara looked forlorn, and Siobhán knew he was thinking about dessert. “One for batteries, another from Annmarie’s gift shop, a twenty-euro item, and the last is from Mike’s fruit and veg market. I did not find any for nails or a hammer, and I called Liam’s hardware shop as you requested, Detective Sergeant Flannery, and he did not recall any of the visiting authors buying a hammer or nails.”

  “Do the other receipts list the specific purchases?” Siobhán said, picking up a tinge of excitement in Aretta’s voice.

  “Mike’s Fruit and Veg listed the purchase,” Aretta said. “Nuts. A large variety pack.”

  Macdara whistled. “If Deirdre’s nut allergy caused her death, this could be huge.”

  “I also stopped into Annmarie’s gift shop,” Aretta said. “She informed me that Lorcan Murphy had purchased a teddy.”

  “He has a daughter,” Macdara said.

  “This is good work,” Siobhán added.

  Aretta simply nodded her head at the compliment. “I also recovered the packaging from the batteries, but no packaging from the nuts. Most everything else fell into normal rubbish that I could tell, although everything is documented in my report.”

  “Most everything else?” Siobhán asked.

  “There are a few more interesting bits,” Aretta said. “First, there is this.” From her satchel she removed a torn piece of paper, with writing scrawled in all capital letters in thick black ink:

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

  Chapter 18

  “It’s a photocopy,” Aretta pointed out. “But it is an exact replica down to the tear. The original is in the Evidence Room.”

  Siobhán felt a tingle that often accompanied a shocking discovery. If only the twins had separated the rubbish according to each room, like they had requested. Now there was no way of telling not only who sent this note, but perhaps more informative, who received it.

  “What are you doing here?” Macdara repeated, as if just uttering the words might help him figure it out.

  “This may not be a smoking gun,” Siobhán said. “But it’s definitely loaded.” Macdara gave her a look. She grinned. “I can read westerns too.”

  “Will you use a handwriting expert?” Aretta asked.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have sophisticated experts like they do on telly,” Macdara said. “We’ll send it up to Dublin of course, to see what they can do about it, but we won’t be given priority and it won’t be done quickly, I can promise you that.”

  “We can compare it to the handwriting in Deirdre’s notebook, although one is all capital letters, and the other is cursive.”

  “It’s hard to tell from this photo,” Aretta said. “But there was tape on the corners of the note.”

  “As if someone taped it to the door to their room?” Macdara asked.

  Aretta nodded. “Maybe there are traces of paint chips on the tape that we could match to the doors?”

  Siobhán understood Aretta’s desire for forensic evidence. It was taught at Templemore and glorified by shows on telly. But the truth was that small villages did not have the capabilities to get that fancy, nor, as Dara had pointed out, were they given priority. “I think we can safely assume it was taped to the door, or somewhere the recipient would see it,” Siobhán said. “I don’t think verifying that fact would be worth the time and effort.”

  “And money,” Macdara added.

  “What else?” Siobhán asked.

  “There is one more note. It does not appear to be the same handwriting.” Aretta put her hands up. “I do not claim to be an expert.” Her eyes danced with excitement. Siobhán was starting to think Aretta might make a good scribbler; she was definitely building up to something and enjoying the slow tease. She pulled the second note out of her satchel and slid it across the table. Siobhán and Macdara leaned in.

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS

  “What in the world?” Macdara said.

  “Is it a dialogue?” Siobhán wondered out loud. It was true that unlike
the first note, this was scribbled fast and loose, and the handwriting at a glance did not appear to come from the same person.

  Aretta raised an eyebrow. “A dialogue?”

  “What are you doing here?” Siobhán said. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger before remembering she was in public and stopped. “Or . . . I don’t believe in ghosts . . . What are you doing here?”

  Macdara and Aretta simply looked at her. Siobhán placed the two notes next to each other:

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.

  She stared at it for a moment, then switched the order:

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

  “If it’s a dialogue, the meaning is lost on me no matter what order they go in,” Macdara said.

  “Are any of them writing about ghosts?” Siobhán mused. “Lorcan perhaps?”

  “Why him?” Macdara’s back was up. He was still enamored with Lorcan Murphy. Heavens, if he was guilty he could still write his books from jail, could he not?

  “It’s not that far of a leap from elves to ghosts, is it?” Siobhán asked.

  “Perhaps it was a euphemism. Such as ghosting,” Aretta said.

  “Ghosting?” Macdara said.

  “It’s slang for when you stop texting or calling someone you once dated,” Aretta said.

  “Kids these days,” Macdara said with the shake of his head. He took Siobhán’s hand. “I promise I’ll never ghost ya.”

  “Tanks a million,” Siobhán said, withdrawing her hand. “I’ll reserve the option.” She gave him a playful kick to the shin so he would know she was joking and turned back to Aretta. “We need to find out if Deirdre was in a romantic relationship with one of our other suspects.”

  “Or perhaps a lover had followed her here and we haven’t met him or her yet,” Aretta said, jotting down a note. “Are you thinking about that lurker?”

  “Lurker?” Macdara asked.

  “Sorry,” Siobhán said. “So much has been going on. Leigh Coakley has spotted a stranger in town. She said he was going through her rubbish bins. Big burly man with a red beard.”

  “Could he be a Traveler?”

  “She said she saw him pass by the Travelers’ caravans and they did not seem to be interacting.”

  “When did you learn all this?” Macdara asked.

  “I popped into the flower shop today, before I came here,” Siobhán said. “I didn’t get any sense that Leigh had anything to hide. But I did learn they plan to have a memorial at the bookshop as soon as it’s no longer a crime scene.” She studied the notes again. “What if this lurker is Deirdre’s secret lover?”

  Macdara sighed. “So you’re saying Deirdre Walsh’s lover is a burly man who rummages through rubbish?” Aretta laughed. Siobhán gave him another kick underneath the table. “Anything else?” Macdara asked.

  Aretta shook her head. “Those are the main items. The rest, as I mentioned, I put in the category of mundane rubbish.”

  “The notes and the nuts,” Macdara said. “I’d say it was a good haul indeed.” A familiar figure walked past, and Siobhán caught a flash of a green suit pass by. Darren Kilroy. He was on his mobile phone, headed toward the patio.

  “I have an idea,” Siobhán said. “Why don’t we hold the interviews with our suspects here?” The back section of the pub was quiet and far enough away from the counter that the regulars wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop.

  “Because you want your friend Declan O’Rourke to have customers?” Aretta asked.

  “And we want to put them at ease,” Macdara said. “Let them feel helpful. They’re likely to let their guard down.”

  “We’re dealing with professionals,” Siobhán said. “They lie for a living. We need every advantage we can get.”

  “In fact,” Macdara said, “I’d like to try something. Let’s speak with them as a group before getting them one on one.”

  “What does that do?” Aretta asked.

  “If one of them is lying, they’ll have to adjust to information given by the others. Then one on one they may start tailoring those adjustments, or calling another out on a lie.”

  “Can you give our suspects a bell and ask them to come here?” Siobhán said. “Darren is on the patio. I’ll let him know.”

  Aretta rose and nodded. “I made the right choice coming to Kilbane. You might be a quirky pair, but so far I am learning a lot.” She headed off to make the calls.

  “Quirky pair?” Siobhán said, staring after her.

  “She was looking at you when she said it,” Macdara said with a grin.

  * * *

  If Darren Kilroy was worried about anyone overhearing his conversation on the phone, he should have told his mouth that. Siobhán could hear him way before she ever breached the exit to the outdoor area. She wondered if she would find him smoking, but the only thing in hand was the phone. Today he was wearing a light green suit with white bow tie dotted with green polka dots. She wondered if he had always dressed so stylish, or had it been since the money started rolling in from Michael O’Mara’s books?

  “I can’t tell you exactly how much longer; they’ve asked us to stay put for a few more days.” His back was to Siobhán, and although it hadn’t been her intention to listen in, she didn’t do anything else to alert him of her presence. Most people had a sense of when they were being watched, unless of course the other conversation was so intense that it overrode those instincts. This seemed to be the case here, and although there was nothing alarming in his words, it made her wonder whom he was speaking with. “No. No. No. That is not a good idea. Not now.”

  Interesting. His Spidey senses must have clicked in for he suddenly whirled around and spotted Siobhán. She waved. “I have to go.” He clicked off without waiting for the other person to respond. She wished she had the power to summon his phone records, but she didn’t have enough evidence to get that kind of request approved. Not yet anyway.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, hoping there was an easier way to get him to reveal what that was all about.

  “I hope this is over soon,” he said. “I have other clients and every single one of them thinks I only work for him or her. Writers are fragile, fragile flowers.”

  “Was that your most famous client?” She wondered what Michael O’Mara was like. Living every man’s fantasy, making a fortune writing about dragons. She made a mental note to Google him.

  “If it was, he has nothing to do with this case, and I’m sure you understand that I have a duty to protect the confidentiality of my authors.”

  “I see.” She waited a moment, treating him to a long stare. He concentrated on his phone, but she could tell he was making a conscious effort not to be intimidated. “Do you smoke?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Fair play.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m sure you understand I have a duty to protect my investigations.”

  “I do indeed.” He started to walk past her.

  “Don’t wander too far. We’re going to be conducting the interviews here.”

  “Here?” He sounded startled. Good. She wanted them on their toes.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I shall remain here.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief that matched his bow tie as he left the patio.

  Aretta entered the patio as Darren made a hasty exit. She turned and watched him disappear. “Was it something you said?” she quipped.

  Siobhán laughed. “You’re going to do just fine at our station.”

  Aretta grinned. “Lorcan Murphy and Nessa have arrived.”

  “Great.” Siobhán suddenly recalled that she had yet to tell Macdara about the third note, the piece of paper Nessa had given her with the one-star review and handwritten scrawl. THE HILLS HAVE EYES. How c
ould she have forgotten? And as memory served, despite being capital letters it did not look like the handwriting on either of the notes found in the rubbish. Were they looking at three notes written by three different people, or three notes written by one person, but carefully disguised to look like three? Or was it something obscure that Nessa herself had written? Siobhán was going to have to ask her about it before she submitted it to evidence. She touched the pocket of her uniform and confirmed it was still there.

  * * *

  Lorcan Murphy was thrilled they were holding the interviews at a pub. He sat in front of a pint and fish and chips. “Declan,” Siobhán said. “Could you remove these items until after the interview?”

  “Sorry, luv,” he said, taking the pint and plate away as Lorcan stared after it like a dog who’d just had a meaty bone snatched. Another figure hovered nearby. Nessa Lamb.

  “Please,” Siobhán said. “Have a seat.”

  “I thought this would be one on one,” Nessa said.

  “We decided to shake things up a bit,” Siobhán replied. “Sit.”

  Nessa perched at the edge of the booth, barely making eye contact with Lorcan Murphy. It took another five minutes for Darren to arrive. His face was flush. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I had to grab a bite to eat before my blood sugar crashed.”

  “Lucky one dat,” Lorcan said, throwing another glance in the direction his food and pint had gone.

  “Sit.”

  Darren looked around, then instead of sitting by Lorcan, he pulled up a chair from a neighboring table. Lorcan’s head was buried in his smartphone and suddenly he looked up and belted out a laugh.

  “What?” Nessa Lamb asked when no one else did.

  “The Irish Book Reviews said someone should check to make sure I have a pulse,” Lorcan said with a grin.

  “You know that’s not a compliment, don’t you?” Nessa asked.

  He shrugged. “Any time your name is mentioned as an author it’s a good ting.”