Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Arsenic,” Siobhán said. “In wallpaper.”

  “Arsenic is quick,” Jeanie said. “Death within minutes. Sedating her first so she can’t scream while the poison is delivered through the mouth makes sense. The gloves, the injection mark, and the wallpaper, as well as reports that no one heard her scream, all paints a sinister picture.”

  “Tells a story,” Siobhán said, mostly to herself.

  “Indeed,” Jeanie said. “Indeed, it does.”

  “That means our killer needed to get his hands on a hypodermic needle, wallpaper, and arsenic,” Siobhán said.

  “I wish I could say that wasn’t easy to do. But one can get almost anything on the Internet these days and I’m not even talking about the Dark Web. The Guardian newspaper proved this once by purchasing antique flypaper infused with between two hundred and four hundred milligrams of arsenic from eBay.”

  “My word,” Siobhán said as a shiver ran through her. Mankind was, and probably always would be, made up of light and dark. When they reached the front of the garda station they came to a stop. Jeanie’s gaze stayed on the bookshop across the way. The sun was peeking out from beneath dark clouds. A brief respite from the rain. If it stayed out long enough, there would be rainbows. It was a good metaphor to cling to in dark times. After the dark, the sun will shine, and in between there will be rainbows.

  “Let’s talk about the items found near Deirdre’s body,” Jeanie said. “The umbrella, biro, and a red rose.”

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “We don’t know whether Deirdre dropped them, or the killer planted them.”

  “I didn’t always read true crime,” Jeanie said. “I started with mysteries.”

  Another big reader. Siobhán was feeling like the lone one out. She was really going to have to rectify that. “Okay.”

  “Here’s what comes to mind with the items.” Jeanie counted off on her fingers. “First, the rose. Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose.” She held up a second finger. “Poisoned pens are a popular trope in many murder mysteries, and of course, most intriguing of all is the umbrella.” She held up the third finger.

  “The umbrella?” Siobhán said. “I would have thought it was the least intriguing. There was after all a big storm that day.”

  When Jeanie Brady turned to her, her eyes conveyed her excitement. “Have you ever heard of the Bulgarian umbrella?”

  “No,” Siobhán said. “Is it better in the wind?”

  Jeanie laughed, then frowned, and wagged her finger. “Tis a good thing there’s a bookshop in town. You can brush up on your reading.”

  Had Jeanie Brady not just given her a lovely bar of chocolate, she would have been tempted to knock her about with a brellie if she had one on her. “I can run home and Google it, which I’ve been doing way too much lately, or you could save me a bit of time and enlighten me.”

  “Indeed, I will. Twas developed by the Bulgarian Secret Service and perhaps assisted by the KGB. During the time of the Cold War, mind ya. Was only used as an assassination tool twice, I believe.”

  “Assassination tool? Did they knock someone over the head?”

  Jeanie Brady sighed, her disapproval evident. “The pointy end had a hidden mechanism. Containing a tiny pellet of ricin.” Siobhán felt a shiver run through her. “All the killer had to do was walk by, poke the victim right quick, and rush away.” Jeanie acted it out for her, so immersed in her role as assassin that Siobhán was suddenly grateful the woman had been drawn to the good side of crime.

  If the umbrella was the murder weapon, Deirdre could have been stabbed in the dark when no one was watching. “You’ll want to test the tip of the umbrella for poison then, as well.”

  “I can have a look,” Jeanie said, waving it off. “However, my initial guess, given the sedative and poison wallpaper did the job, is that the objects are more of a message. A story the killer is painting. Showmanship.”

  “I’ve thought that all along,” Siobhán said. “Our killer is very creative.” This murder had been meticulously crafted. Siobhán doubted very much that the killer had accidentally killed the wrong victim. No. Deirdre Walsh was the intended target. Was Nessa Lamb the mastermind? Trying to throw Siobhán off the trail by suggesting the killer was after her?

  “Let’s go collect our evidence,” Jeanie said, nodding at Siobhán as she held the door to the garda station open. “And I hear you have a new garda. I’d very much like to meet her.”

  * * *

  Garda Dabiri and Jeanie Brady got on like a house on fire. They chattered away before the three of them sat in an interview room where they could spread out the contents of the interior-decorating folder organized by Padraig along with photos of the crime scene.

  “They have good taste,” Jeanie said as they separated the samples and photos of the bookshop.

  “Wait until you actually step inside the shop,” Siobhán said. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Jeanie leaned closer to the photographs. “I don’t see any wallpaper.”

  “No,” Siobhán said. “Just samples in the folder. The walls have all been painted.”

  “Did the space have wallpaper previously?”

  “That is a good question,” Siobhán said. “I don’t know.”

  Jeanie Brady pulled out the photo she’d e-mailed to the garda station of the wallpaper found in Deirdre’s mouth. It was cream colored with blue swirls. It looked old and did not match any of Padraig’s wallpaper samples.

  “That sample looks familiar,” Aretta said, tapping her forehead with her index finger. “But I can’t quite place where I’ve seen it.”

  “Think about something else,” Jeanie said. “It’s the only way it will come to you.”

  “We have an interview scheduled for later this afternoon with the bookshop’s landlord and the lads who built the secret door,” Aretta said. “I can make a note for the guards to ask the landlord if he knows if the walls were previously wallpapered.”

  “Secret door?” Jeanie said.

  Siobhán filled her in on the bookshelf that was actually a door to the back office. “Interesting,” Jeanie said. “And creative.”

  Jeanie stretched. “I know there is more to go over, but I’m knackered and I need to go back to my room for a kip.”

  “You should just make it a good night’s sleep,” Siobhán said. She was feeling tired herself. Jeanie would also be attending to Margaret O’Shea’s examination tomorrow. “Good work, everyone,” she said. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

  They began to clear the table. Jeanie stood, reached into her handbag, and pulled out a hardback book. “I’m only disappointed I won’t be able to get this signed.” Siobhán caught the name Michael O’Mara on the spine.

  “It’s his very first,” Jeanie said.

  “I thought you only read true crime,” Siobhán teased.

  “I thought Michael O’Mara might be here,” Jeanie said with a sigh. “My nephew is a fan.” They left the interview room and headed for the exit.

  “Are you staying at the Kilbane Inn?” Siobhán asked.

  “No, I’ve taken a room above the comic book shop.” Chris Gordon had rooms above his shop and often rented them out. Siobhán still hadn’t had a good chat with him. His interview was scheduled for tomorrow.

  “I’ll walk you,” she said.

  “I’m heading that way too,” Aretta said. “May I join?”

  “Of course,” Siobhán said. The rain was back, spitting on them as they made the short trek to the comic book shop.

  “I’ve never seen that edition of a Michael O’Mara book,” Aretta said, pointing to the one Jeanie held under her umbrella, trying to keep it dry.

  “It’s a first edition,” Jeanie said.

  “May I see it?” Aretta asked. Jeanie nudged close and handed it over. Aretta waited until they reached the overhang of the comic book shop, backed up against the wall, then gently opened the book. Moments later she gasped. Jeanie Brady leaned in.

  “What is it?” Siobhán asked.
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  “In his latest books, Michael O’Mara does not have an author photo. And I’ve been looking everywhere online. All I could find is a black and white photograph from when he was young. I was curious because someone mentioned he had a beard. And look.”

  Aretta turned the book around. The author photo was in color. He stood in front of a farmer’s field, a big grin on his face. He was a burly man with a long red beard.

  Chapter 22

  “I don’t understand what you two are so worked up about,” Jeanie said, growing frustrated at being left out.

  “We’ve had a lurker in town,” Siobhán said. “A burly man with a red beard spotted going through rubbish bins.”

  “It’s possible he was in town earlier,” Aretta said. “Just as the visiting authors got into town.”

  “Wait,” Jeanie said, taking her book back. “Are you saying Michael O’Mara—this Michael O’Mara came to Kilbane just to murder an unknown author?”

  “Perhaps he felt threatened that Darren was about to sign a new author and came to see his agent,” Siobhán said.

  “Why would Michael O’Mara be threatened by an aspiring author?” Jeanie persisted.

  “I’ve heard rumors that his problems with alcohol have been escalating,” Siobhán said. “But if he is in town, I agree—as of yet—we don’t have a valid explanation.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jeanie said. “That’s why I prefer working with the deceased.”

  “We need to talk to Darren again.” Siobhán turned to Aretta. “Can you schedule him for a second interview tomorrow ? Let’s bring him into the interrogation room this time.”

  “Should I check with the Detective Sergeant?” Aretta asked.

  “No,” Siobhán said. “I’ll let him know.” Aretta looked as if this might not be the best plan, but she demurred. “Good work,” Siobhán added. Aretta Dabiri viewed Siobhán as overstepping. It was becoming clear. Hopefully trust would build between them eventually. Aretta parted with them when they reached Gordon’s Comics.

  “She’s lovely,” Jeanie said.

  “Yes,” Siobhán agreed. “We’re lucky to have her.”

  “Why would Michael O’Mara be digging through rubbish?” Jeanie asked before they entered the comic shop.

  “That’s an excellent question.”

  “Well, this is certainly an interesting twist,” Jeanie Brady said. “If he is in town, maybe I’ll finally get an autograph.”

  * * *

  Chris Gordon was shelving comics when they walked in. He smiled at Jeanie Brady. “How is your room?”

  “Excellent,” she said. “I’m looking forward to a deep sleep.”

  He glanced at a large clock on the wall. It depicted Superman hanging off the hands. It was only half six. “This early?”

  “It’s been a long day,” Jeanie said with a salute. “Good night.”

  “Night,” Siobhán and Chris Gordon replied. He tucked his head back into the box of comics, while Siobhán stood watching him. After a few seconds, he stood and turned to her.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m sure Eoin told you I was upset about the bookshop opening.”

  “He did.” She pretended to search her memory. “Something about you threatening to sue?”

  “Stop looking at me like that. Once I met Oran and Padraig I was totally fine with it.”

  “Oh? When was that?”

  “They came over at nine a.m. the morning they opened.”

  “You’re not awake at nine a.m.”

  “I was that morning. I wanted to see for myself if anyone was going into the shop.”

  That sounded genuine. “Got an eyeful, did ya?”

  He shrugged. “I was hoping some of the crowd would come in after.”

  “Did they?”

  “Just a few.”

  “A few is more than none.” He shrugged again. “What did Oran and Padraig say to make you suddenly like them?”

  “They said they’d be willing to keep postcards advertising my shop at their counter, if I kept theirs on mine.” He walked over to the counter and held up a business card. It depicted the front of the bookshop with the title: TURN THE PAGE.

  Siobhán wandered over to the counter and took one for herself. “Tanks.”

  “Are they going to close down now?”

  “I hope not,” Siobhán said. Unless one of them is a killer. She left that part out in case Chris was looking to start rumors.

  “Why am I being asked to come into the station?” Chris asked as she headed to the door.

  “Because you felt threatened by the bookshop.”

  “You think I murdered someone just to shut them down?”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not. Siobhán. You know me.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “That’s fine. Just tell me. Tell me you know I didn’t do this.”

  “Just tell the truth and you’ll be grand.”

  He sighed. “There’s more drama in this village than in these comics.”

  Siobhán laughed. “I certainly hope there’s less.” Once again, she was almost to the door when he called out to her.

  “Hey,” he said. “Who’s the new guy in town?”

  She felt a prickle up her spine. “New guy?” she asked innocently.

  Chris nodded. “The big one with the red beard.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Siobhán settled in the dining room in front of the fire, snuggled up with a mug of tea and her laptop. She’d assigned Chris Gordon the task of writing down every spotting he’d had of the mysterious man with the red beard. As much as she was dying to hear the details, she wanted them on the record, and she wanted Macdara to hear them firsthand. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little research of her own. She Googled Michael O’Mara. As Aretta had mentioned, the only author photo she could find of Michael O’Mara was in black and white, and in it, he was a young man. Jeanie Brady must indeed have a rare edition of his book. He lived on Bere Island and was known to be reclusive. Located off the Beara Peninsula, in County Cork, Bere Island had a population of around 220 people. In some ways that seemed perfect for a recluse, but it also meant that the small number of people probably knew everything about Michael O’Mara. It was no surprise that rumors swirled of his drunken escapades.

  She pushed the CONTACT tab out of curiosity. There was a public relations firm in charge of handling his messages. Siobhán’s mind filtered back to Deirdre’s claim that her new book was explosive. A tell-all. Was it a stretch to wonder if she had something on Michael O’Mara? That certainly would have brought him to town. But why was he seen rummaging through rubbish bins? It was probably someone else. She was eager to hear what Darren Kilroy had to say. She would also let Nessa Lamb know that she had never been the target of murder. Would it calm her down? Or did she already know that because she was the killer? And then of course they had Leigh Coakley and Lorcan Murphy to consider. But unless they uncovered a motive, at this point it was anybody’s guess as to which one of them was a calculated killer.

  * * *

  Darren Kilroy looked more relaxed than he had at their previous meetings, despite the fact that he was seated in Interrogation Room #1 in front of Macdara and Siobhán. He was dressed casually, in trousers and a work shirt, but no bow tie or blazer, or bright colors. “Does Michael O’Mara have a red beard?” Siobhán asked.

  He cocked his head, as if amused at the question. “He does.”

  “Is he a big burly man?” Macdara asked.

  “He is.”

  “Could you think of any reason he might be in town?” Macdara continued.

  “In town?” Darren frowned. “You mean . . . here?”

  “Yes,” Siobhán and Macdara said in unison.

  “If he’s in town, I’d be the last to know,” Darren said. “Michael O’Mara hasn’t left Bere Island in years.”

  “Do you visit him there?” Siobhán asked.

  “Not even once,” Darren said.
“Movies and telly love to show agents and authors having face-to-face meetings. When he’s in Dublin we meet for dinner alright, but that hasn’t happened in years. All of our correspondence is through e-mail or on the phone.”

  “We hear he’s been on a decline the past few years, as far as drinking is concerned,” Macdara said.

  Darren sat back and crossed his arms. “What’s the story here, lads? Why are you asking me about Michael O’Mara?”

  “We believe he’s in Kilbane,” Siobhán said. “He may have even been here when Deirdre was killed.”

  He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table as if he was about to push off. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We are,” Macdara said. “We never joke about murder.”

  “Why on earth would Michael O’Mara . . .” He stopped midsentence. “No,” he said. “It can’t be him.”

  “What were you thinking just now?” Siobhán asked.

  “Let me call Michael,” Darren said. “I’m assuming he’ll tell me he hasn’t budged from the island, and you can bet some of the locals will be able to back him up, and we can stop going down this rabbit hole.”

  “I’d still like to know what crossed your mind just then,” Siobhán said.

  “Me too,” Macdara said. “Indulge us.”

  “It’s crossed my mind lately that Deirdre had a lover. Someone she was trying to keep on the down-low. But it can’t possibly be Michael. Can it?”

  “First, what made you think she had a lover?”

  “It was at the inn, the day we arrived,” Darren said. “She was outside talking to someone on the phone. I passed her as I was going to the ice maker.” He looked to the right as if trying to recall the memory. “I don’t think it was what she said, but the way she was saying it. A flirtatious tone. She said, ‘I miss you.’ That’s it.”

  “She has a brother,” Siobhán said.

  “Believe me, this wasn’t a tone you’d take with a brother.”

  Siobhán glanced down at her notes. Aretta had scoured Deirdre’s social media. There was no mention of a boyfriend, her status was set to single, and none of her photos showed off any romances. But she had been a beautiful woman. And successful enough, even if she wanted more. It seemed within the realm of possibility. What if she did have an affair with the mysterious author and had planned to spill secrets about him in her explosive new tell-all? And what if he found out? “If Michael O’Mara hasn’t left Bere Island in years, how would the two of them have met?”