Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  Emma and Eileen each sat in one of the armchairs, legs curled in, a wolfhound by their side. Leigh Coakley and Nessa Lamb seemed the most startled to see Siobhán.

  “Hang around after the discussion is finished,” Aretta leaned in and whispered to Siobhán. “But don’t let anyone see you.”

  “What?”

  “The discussion will finish in an hour. Pretend to leave before it’s finished.”

  Was she messing with her? Siobhán glanced around the sitting room. “Where would you have me go?”

  “There’s a covered trellis in the back garden. The ones who remain will be meeting underneath it. Perhaps you can find a tree to hide behind.”

  “Couldn’t I have just skipped to that part?” Siobhán said, feeling a bit like she’d lost control.

  “And miss the discussion?” Aretta said. “I assumed you were looking forward to it.”

  “Of course.” Inwardly, Siobhán groaned. She hadn’t brought the book either. She hoped she didn’t get called on.

  * * *

  It was too warm in the sitting room. Between a mug of tea, a fire, and bodies gathered to read and discuss a book Siobhán had barely read, she didn’t realize she had drifted off to sleep until she felt a poke in her side.

  “Loved that part,” she said reflexively, eyes popping open.

  Mouths dropped open. “You did?” Leigh Coakley asked.

  “Loved it,” she repeated. “I think it was my favorite.” There, she sounded convincing. Why was everyone looking at her like that?

  “I think what Garda O’Sullivan means is she loved the way Nessa Lamb spoke about the horrific abuse with such raw honesty.”

  Horrific abuse? She’d just said she loved the horrific abuse? Siobhán went to reach for a pastry to shove in her gob but they were all gone. Savages. Perhaps because they’d expected the woman from the bistro to bring more. At least then, maybe they’d have forgiven her for loving passages filled with horrific abuse. Apparently, the novel wasn’t about a hill at all. “Indeed,” Siobhán said. “Thank you, Garda Dabiri. It was the raw honesty that really got to me.” She wanted to manufacture some tears to make up for her faux pas, but her eyes remained dry.

  Never. Ever. Again. She would read books. Alone. Like a normal person. Like books were meant to be read. Otherwise they would be on telly.

  “It’s understandable if you fell asleep,” Nessa said. “You’ve expended quite a bit of energy lately trying to get me to confess to murder.”

  “Murder?” Leigh said. “Our little Lamb?”

  “Nessa is neither meek nor mild,” Siobhán said. “As that outburst just proved.”

  “I’m also innocent,” Nessa said. “And the more time you spend questioning me, the more danger we’re all in.” Tension filled the room. Even the wolfhounds were staring at Siobhán. Were they the ones who had snatched the last of the pastries? She wouldn’t put it past the hounds.

  “The sooner we eliminate suspects, the quicker we’ll solve the case,” Siobhán said.

  “We were all there that night,” Leigh Coakley said. Heads nodded en masse. “Are we all equally suspects?”

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “And since you’ve brought up the subject, I’d like to ask you about the argument you had with Margaret O’Shea the night before she died.”

  Leigh gasped and her teacup rattled. “I wasn’t arguing,” she said. “Margaret was.”

  “What was it about?”

  The twins leaned forward at the same time. “What does that poor old woman’s death have to do with anything?” Nessa asked.

  Leigh set her teacup down with a clink. “She was upset over something I said about The Dragon Files.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I just said he was in top form with his latest book. That was it. She went mental.” Leigh sighed. “I think it’s a clear indication she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Was she arguing with Deirdre as well?” Siobhán asked, scanning the group to see who would answer.

  Emma and Eileen nodded, then leaned back in their chairs. “She was behaving rather peculiar now that I think of it,” Emma said.

  Eileen held up her hand as if she was a schoolgirl. Siobhán gave her a nod. “She was under the impression that Michael O’Mara would be making a surprise visit. I think the agent had to inform her that he would not be making an appearance. After that, she argued with Deirdre, then Leigh, then poor Lorcan, who I really do believe accidentally opened her door.” A clock on the wall chimed, and several in the group, including Siobhán, jumped.

  Aretta leaned in. “It’s time. Perhaps this is your cue to exit.”

  Siobhán stood. “I apologize. For falling asleep. Not for doing my job.” She stood. “I have an early day tomorrow and must bid you all a good night.”

  “Do you need us to see you out?” Emma said, looking as if she did not want to move from her chair.

  “Not at all,” Siobhán said. She felt everyone’s eyes on her as she exited out the front door. No one expressed any dismay that she was leaving. No one wanted her back. She knew she shouldn’t let it bother her, but they’d warmed more to Aretta in a few days than they had to Siobhán in a lifetime. Up until now, she’d told herself it was because she was a garda. Enough. She was here to solve a case, not to make friends. And if they didn’t want her as a friend, then they weren’t the ones for her. She could have put more effort into it. Read the book. Brought pastries. Stayed awake. Perhaps next time she’d tell them about her reading-sleep gene.

  The cool air and drops of rain helped revive her. She clomped down the steps, hoping they could hear her from inside. Then ducked down and scooted around to the fence leading to the back garden. She was thankful the hounds were inside. Not that she was afraid of the beautiful dogs, but she didn’t need them drawing attention to her or sniffing her out. She headed for the trellis, hoping she could find a good place to hide, and hoping that whatever this was Aretta wanted her to see would be worth her time.

  Her mobile buzzed with a text. It was from Aretta.

  DON’T REACT. JUST WATCH.

  She certainly had her interest piqued. She found a tree behind the trellis fat enough to hide behind and waited. Soon, several members of the book club filtered out, including Leigh Coakley and Aretta. They gathered in the trellis. Several looked at their watches. Minutes later, a figure, dressed in all black, streaked across the garden coming straight toward them. He or she was carrying a large sack. Siobhán nearly bolted from her hiding place, and had to silently repeat Aretta’s text. Don’t react. Just watch. What on earth was going on? This looked like the figure on Chris Gordon’s CCTV. The women didn’t seem afraid of the figure; in fact, their excitement grew as he or she approached. It wasn’t until the person was standing in the trellis underneath the twinkling lights that he whipped off his hood.

  It was none other than Padraig McCarthy. He reached into his sack. “Be quick, ladies, there isn’t much time. I’ve got Stephen King here.”

  “Me,” a female voice said as a hand reached out and snatched the book.

  “Three Michael O’Maras.” More hands reached out to grab their requests.

  “Three Jackie Collinses, and one Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “I told you to whisper it,” an older lady said as she grabbed her books and stuffed them in what looked like a pillowcase. “And I asked for the trilogy.”

  “Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed should be here by next week,” Padraig said.

  “Whisper!” the woman said, gripping her pillowcase and squeezing it.

  “We’re among friends here,” he said. “No one is judging.”

  Siobhán, who was totally judging, leaned against the tree as he continued to hand out the goodies. Padraig McCarthy was peddling books like they were illicit drugs. Behind his husband’s back. All marriages had their secrets, and the mystery of the figure in black with the large sack was solved. Was that the only secret he was hiding? Luckily, the meet and greet didn’t take lon
g, and soon everyone but Aretta scurried away. Siobhán emerged from behind the tree and they began their trek back home.

  “Does that help?” Aretta asked as they strolled.

  “It answers one question at least, so, yes, that helps.”

  “That he is lying to his husband?” Aretta guessed.

  “It appears.”

  “Only appears?”

  “There’s always the possibility that the entire ‘I only sell literary fiction’ business was all about stoking demand, and that they are both in on it.”

  “This sounds like reverse psychology.”

  “Exactly.” Then again, if Oran McCarthy was faking his aversion for genre fiction, he deserved an award.

  “Where do you go from here?” Aretta asked.

  “Bere Island,” Siobhán said. She filled Aretta in on the reasons for the trip.

  “But what if O’Mara is here in Kilbane?” she asked.

  “That’s a very good question,” Siobhán said. “Do you think he is?”

  “Me?” Aretta sounded startled.

  “You have good instincts,” Siobhán said. “I’d like to know what you think.”

  “I do not trust my instincts at work,” Aretta said.

  “You don’t have a choice, do you?”

  Aretta frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Instincts are like breathing. You can’t just not breathe.”

  “I am not sure I agree that instincts should be brought to work,” Aretta insisted.

  “You’re officially off the clock,” Siobhán said. “I’m simply asking you, Aretta, for your opinion.”

  “I think he is here,” she said. “If I were to listen to my gut, I would say he is here.”

  “I agree,” Siobhán said. Michael O’Mara was here in Kilbane. She could feel it. Which was why she had to tell Macdara they wouldn’t be going to Bere Island after all.

  Chapter 26

  Macdara was at the bistro bright and early. “I think we should change our plans,” Siobhán said.

  “What’s the story?” Macdara asked.

  “We think he’s here,” Siobhán said. “Aretta and I think Michael O’Mara is here.”

  Macdara gave a nod. “Then we stay.” She let out her breath. It wasn’t that he believed her as much as he believed in her. That was the kind of man every woman deserved. That was the kind of man you marry. “Does that mean he’s lying to Darren, or is Darren lying to us?” Macdara mused.

  “If the two of us go running off, we may be leaving everyone vulnerable to a killer.” She was talking past the sale, but now that she’d changed their weekend plans, she wanted to prove it was for good reason.

  “Where do we look?” Macdara said. “If he’s here, where is he sleeping?”

  “We might need to canvass town,” Siobhán said. “Take Michael O’Mara’s photo around.”

  “I could still go to Bere Island, and leave you in charge here,” Macdara said. “But I wanted to go with you.”

  “I still want to go to Bere Island someday,” Siobhán said. “But not to look for a murder suspect.”

  “How about we go when we solve the case?” Macdara said. “We’ll have a nice romantic getaway. In fact, wouldn’t it be a lovely place from which to set our wedding date?”

  “It would,” Siobhán said. She hoped it would still seem lovely when she told him it was going to be at least another year.

  “It’s a date then,” Macdara said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “See you at the station.”

  “Do you want brekkie?”

  “I do,” he said. “But more than that I want to solve this case. Throw me an apple.” Siobhán turned, picked up an apple from the basket on the counter, and threw it at Macdara. He caught it with a grin. “See you later.”

  “Not if I see you first.” She could hear his chuckle as the door to the bistro closed behind him. Siobhán slumped against the counter. Even though it was the right move, Siobhán felt sorry that they weren’t getting out of town.

  “Who poured sour milk in your porridge?”

  It came from Gráinne, who had snuck up behind Siobhán. When Siobhán didn’t answer right away, Gráinne tugged on a strand of Siobhán’s hair until she let out a yelp. Gráinne howled with laughter. “You should come into the salon, you’re due for a snip.”

  “Bere Island is canceled,” Siobhán said, giving her sister a gentle shove. “And I don’t have time for a snip, we have more work to do here.”

  James walked through the dining room. His mobile rang. He stopped, looked at the screen, then shoved it back into his pocket before continuing into the kitchen.

  “At least you’re not Elise,” Gráinne said, flopping into a chair and whipping out a nail file. “He’s totally ghosting her.”

  Ghosting her. The same usage of the word had been mentioned by Aretta. Had Michael O’Mara and Deirdre been lovers? As Jeanie Brady said, there was a sad connection between love and death. Fame aside, he wouldn’t be the first man to kill over a broken heart.

  * * *

  “I spoke with Michael O’Mara at length,” Darren Kilroy said. “He insisted he hadn’t left the island in a month.” They were sitting in the front dining room of Naomi’s Bistro. Macdara had arrived on with Darren in tow. Siobhán did not bother to tease Macdara for ordering a full Irish breakfast along with his guest. Darren Kilroy was the type of man who gave more answers when he felt respected. The station interview room was not the place for him. Fair or not, he sat at a table in the dining room with a mug of tea. They had finished eating and their breakfast plates had just been cleared. Darren Kilroy was their best chance of finding out if Michael O’Mara was in town, but first they had to try and ascertain whether or not Darren knew his client’s whereabouts. It was possible he’d been left in the dark. It was equally possible he was covering for him. He would probably never have another megastar author such as O’Mara.

  “Did Michael O’Mara mention Deirdre Walsh during any of your calls or e-mail exchanges?” Siobhán asked.

  “Why would he?” Darren said, lifting his eyebrow and stopping midair with his teacup raised.

  “Because you are here, where a woman has been murdered, and he’s a writer. Would it not come up at all?” Macdara chimed in.

  “I suppose,” Darren said. “Perhaps it is strange that he didn’t mention it.”

  “Especially if the two of them were lovers,” Macdara said.

  “In that case not mentioning her would be very suspicious,” Siobhán added.

  Darren’s teacup clinked onto his plate.

  Macdara glanced at the teacup, then stared at Darren. “Imagine if they were romantically involved and Deirdre tried to end things.” Macdara leaned in. “I don’t know about Deirdre, but if I ever tried to break it off with herself, you’d probably find me in the river wearing cement shoes.”

  Darren’s eyes widened but his gaze did not dare move in Siobhán’s direction. As for “herself,” she nearly choked on her tea, and Macdara Flannery would pay for that cheeky little comment later, but for now she focused on the task at hand and dropped the final revelation. “And we believe that’s what Deirdre meant when she said she had an explosive tell-all. She was going to tell all about Michael O’Mara.”

  Darren’s head swiveled between the pair who were purposefully trying to keep the information coming fast. Keep him on his toes. “You’re not serious?” Darren said. “You think Deirdre’s tell-all was about Michael O’Mara?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Siobhán said.

  “How? You know I tried to get my hands on that manuscript.”

  “By breaking into her room after she was dead,” Macdara said. “Not a good look.”

  “Did she seem to you like the kind of writer who was into anyone’s life or work but her own?” Darren said. “And I don’t know what she could have said about Michael that hasn’t already been said. Drunken bum who can still write. That’s the gist of his reviews lately. Forget reviews, that’s the gis
t of him lately. I don’t think he’d be able to read her tell-all let alone muster up enough gusto to care about it. And well-played the pair of ye, almost had me going, you did, but let me be clear. Michael O’Mara is not any more a killer than Stephen King. He’s a writer. It’s fictional. Now. If you have any fire-breathing dragons gone missing, then he’s your man. Otherwise you’re on the wrong track entirely!”

  “I guess it’s lucky then,” Siobhán said.

  “How’s that?” Darren’s voice wobbled slightly. Good. They were getting to him.

  “That you never intended on signing Deirdre Walsh in the first place.”

  He swallowed. Looked at Siobhán, then Macdara. “Who told you that?”

  “We can ask a judge for a warrant to search all your client records, or you can tell us what we need to know,” Macdara said.

  Siobhán wasn’t sure a judge would grant such wide permission but she was proud of Macdara for threatening it.

  He straightened his colorful tie. Today it was yellow with white polka dots. It went nicely with a white shirt and gray blazer. “As a matter of fact, I have signed Nessa Lamb.”

  “When did you sign her?”

  He concentrated on his empty teacup. No doubt trying to figure out what they had already been told. “I signed Nessa Lamb the morning I arrived in Kilbane,” he said. “I knew all along I wanted to represent her.”

  Siobhán and Macdara nodded, jotting things down in their notebooks, letting the space fill with silence. “Who else knew about this?” Siobhán asked when drops of sweat appeared on Darren’s forehead.