Books by Carlene O’Connor
MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING
MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD
MURDER IN AN IRISH PUB
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Murder in an Irish Pub
CARLENE O’CONNOR
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Carlene O’Connor
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Mary Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2018912505
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1904-1
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1904-2
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1910-2 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1910-7 (e-book)
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Evan Marshall, my editor, John Scognamiglio, and all the staff at Kensington Publishing, who work tirelessly behind the scenes on every book. Thank you to my friends and family, especially my mother Pat Carter, whose endless well of ideas keeps me inspired and challenged. I hadn’t intended on writing a locked-room mystery until she believed I could do it. Thank you for that. Thank you to fellow writer and friend Tracy Clark for your support; thank you to Kevin Collins, Seamus Collins, and Bridget Quinn for all my random questions; and last, but never least, thank you, dear readers, for reading.
Chapter 1
Siobhán O’Sullivan dimmed the lights in Naomi’s Bistro, tucked falling strands of her auburn locks into her garda cap, and smoothed down the coat of her uniform as if she was going on a date instead of reporting for duty. What luck. Getting paid to attend the opening rounds of the International Poker Tournament. The good folks of Kilbane were stunned it was being held in their medieval village. Imagine, Eamon Foley, the best poker player in all of Ireland, just a few doors down in O’Rourke’s Pub. A tinker out of Dublin, he won so often that people surmised he had eight hands under the table, earning him the nickname: “the Octopus.”
Perhaps the moniker had nothing to do with his mad card skills, and his wandering eyes were to blame. Siobhán wasn’t a gambler, but she’d bet his pregnant wife wasn’t happy about that.
Siobhán stepped out into the fresh spring night, locked the door to the bistro, and flipped on the light above their sign. NAOMI’S BISTRO was carved on a wooden plank, written in black script and outlined in her favorite color, robin’s egg blue. Looking at it always gave her a rush of pride, that comforting feeling she was home. Like many families who ran businesses in Kilbane, Siobhán and her siblings lived in a flat above the bistro, melting the lines between work and home like a hearty ham-and-cheese toastie.
She stepped onto the footpath and took in the white tents being erected up and down Sarsfield Street. This weekend would deliver a double dose of excitement, coupling the poker tournament with the annual Arts and Music Festival. Starting tomorrow, the place would be alive with paintings, and carvings, and Irish dancing, and handmade wares, and musicians staked out on corners, making heads bob and feet tap.
There was something so delicious about closing a street to traffic, and ambling down it without fear of being mowed over by a lad with a twitchy foot. Twilight was descending, injecting purple and red streaks into the Irish skies. The sound of hooves caught her attention. Sixteen-year-old Amanda Moore was leading her prized racehorse, Midnight, down the street, holding the rope gently, her father striding proudly beside her. Only two years old, he’d already won the Cork Races and was favored to win many more. He was all shiny black and sinewy muscle. Gorgeous. Siobhán wished she had time to stop and nuzzle the horse, but the games were about to begin.
She felt a tad guilty as she passed the tent for Naomi’s Bistro, imagining her brother James hard at work, until she spotted him sparring with Ciarán, the runt of the O’Sullivan Six litter. They held their tent poles aloft, thrusting and slicing through the air, locked in a deadly duel. James gave her a nod and a wink, while she resisted the urge to warn them about losing an eye.
Just ahead, a line snaked out of O’Rourke’s Pub, and lads itching to part with their wages clustered around the betting shops. The air was thick with the smell of curried chips and easy money. Piles and piles of money. The winning purse was a quarter of a million euro. Not to mention all the side bets that were being made, deals done in the shops, and deals done on the footpath, and deals done in the dark. She shuddered to think of the men who would bet it all, feverish with hope, only to end up losing everything but the shirts on their back, and sometimes they lost that too. If only it was hyperbole. Betting could spike a fever in some men, and those stricken with the worst of it had lost tractors, and cars, and houses, and cattle, and eventually wives.
Across the way, Sheila Mahoney was puffing on a cigarette outside of her hair salon, platinum blond hair streaked with green, spy glasses perched over her ample bosom, as if she planned on peering in on the games from a distance. She spotted Siobhán, held up a strand of her hair, and mimicked hacking it off. It had been ages since Siobhán had paid her a visit. She absentmindedly touched her cap as she stared at Sheila’s new black-and-white sign: CURL UP AND DYE.
Siobhán turned her attention to the pub, and her heart sank when she saw the line. There were so many people they crowded out the front window sporting Declan’s collection of Laurel and Hardy memorabilia. O’Rourke’s was an institution in Kilbane, as it well should be. Declan had been serving pints, and holding court, and hearing confessions longer than Father Kearney. He was as respected as he was feared, which was why his pub was chosen to host the games. If lads got too riled up, one could count on Declan O’Rourke to settle them down. Menace and knacks would not be tolerated, not in his pub.
Garda or not, this crowd looked as if they’d toss you into the street for cutting ahead of the line. Siobhán was relieved when she saw Maria’s pretty face pop up in the window and gesture to the patio. By the time she reached it, Maria was waiting to usher her in through the back. Tonight it paid to have dear friends who worked in the pub. “Hurry. Round one will be starting, so.” They pushed their way through the sea of bodies until they could duck behind the counter. Siobhán loved the long polished oak bar with its scratches and dents, initials, and dates, secrets embedded like fos
sils in the water-marked swirls.
Maria plunked down a pair of wooden crates so they could stand on them and see over the heads to the poker tables. What Maria lacked in height, she made up for with her big personality. She was not one to miss out, and she’d have your head if you dared exclude her.
Siobhán scanned the room for Macdara Flannery, not sure if she was looking for her detective sergeant or her lover, feeling foolish when she spotted him in plain clothes. Their eyes locked and her heart gave a squeeze. That tall man, that messy hair, those blue eyes, and that lopsided grin he flashed like a weapon. She worried once again if any of them had seen her sneaking out of his flat in the early hours of the morning. He was her superior, and romance was forbidden. Yet they persisted.
She looked away first, heat crawling up her neck. She hated to admit it, but ever since their romance had become clandestine, it had added an undeniable excitement, a rush that fueled her days with an extra spark. It was hard enough to prove oneself as a female guard, and not a day went by when she didn’t berate herself for the risk they were taking. For the first time in her life, she could relate to drug addicts. The inability to stop. The insatiable craving for more.
Why didn’t he tell her the uniform wasn’t required? Her eyes flicked around the room, clocking the other guards. Not a single one had put on his or her uniform. She was like that lone eejit at a party who passed over a pretty cocktail dress for a rabbit costume. Three months as a guard and Siobhán was still making rookie mistakes. She took off her cap, letting her auburn hair cascade down, and unbuttoned the top few buttons on her starched white shirt.
“Thatta girl,” Maria said, letting out a wolf whistle. Siobhán laughed, and was trying to think of a retort, when her thoughts were interrupted by Rory Mack, who was hur-ricaning his way through the crowd.
“Hold the games.” Rory’s deep voice carried above the din. He was a former rugby player and still looked every bit of it. Well into his sixties, he’d maintained his bulk and swagger. His face sported the ruddy complexion of a man who drank as many pints as he served. Siobhán stole a glance at Declan O’Rourke, whose pale face showed no such tinge of red. He’d managed to serve his product instead of guzzling it, and for a second she felt a strange flush of pride. “I propose we move the poker games to Sharkey’s.” Rory was the owner of the rowdy pub just outside the town walls. A big fan of Sinatra’s version of “Mack the Knife” (and given his surname was Mack), he, in turn, named his pub Sharkey’s. (Others teased the name was meant to draw predators to his pub, with all the blood in the water from lads drinking and fighting.) It was that kind of pub, and given that it was housed in an old stone building that Siobhán adored, and they always had a good turf fire going, she wished it was more of a respectable establishment. It certainly used to be when Mikey Finnegan owned it. But three years ago Mikey retired to the hills of Donegal, and Rory Mack swooped up the old stone pub, changing its name and reputation forever.
“We’ve been through this,” Macdara said. “We’re not debating it again, Rory.”
Rory pivoted to Declan, extending a meaty hand. “Sharkey’s is far enough away from the festival that if the crowd gets unruly, we’re better equipped to handle it.” His hand flexed as if his fists were the equipment he had in mind.
Macdara didn’t flinch. “It’s not going to get unruly.”
“You’re a fool if you t’ink dat.”
“That’s ’Garda Fool’ to you,” someone called out.
Macdara had to shout to speak over the laughter. “Not another word, Rory. You’ll get plenty of lads in for a pint when the night rolls on.”
“You’re going to regret it.” Rory shook his head and threaded his way out of the pub, the door slamming behind him. From the small stage in the corner, a microphone screeched. There stood a middle-aged man, with a protruding belly and shock of white hair. He wore a navy blazer and white shirt. Siobhán recognized his referee uniform from watching poker tournaments on telly. If she judged him on his face alone, she’d be tempted to call him a silver fox, but his body had gone the way of a lazy dog. He stepped forward, and pointed to the three round tables with ten chairs each. “Let the games begin.” Whoops and hollers rained down as pint glasses were hoisted up. “Ranked third place, first out the gate is Shane Ross. Or as some like to call him, ’the Shane of Spades.’ Known for his ability to bluff. Keep your eye on dat one. A dark horse, but my money’s on him.”
Applause rang out as a slouched man in his twenties, with floppy brown hair, raised his hand, acknowledging the crowds as he ambled to his seat. His face was stripped of all emotion as if he’d drained them at the door. A bluffer. Siobhán felt excitement bubbling in her. What would it feel like to be a card shark? Would she be a bluffer? Who was she kidding, her face turned scarlet at every turn. Would that be an asset? Or a tell? She wanted to believe it would be an asset, but she knew it would be a tell.
“Ranked number two, hailing from London, England, Miss ’Queen of Hearts,’ the lovely Clementine Hart.” A stunning black woman, garbed in a bold red dress with a plunging neckline, lipstick to match, and knee-high black boots, strolled out, waving to the crowd. This was not a woman wishing to blend in with the men, and Siobhán started the applause. Clementine took her time pulling out her seat, then lowered herself into it as if she knew all eyes were on her, before crossing her legs and folding her hands delicately on top of her knee. Siobhán had an instant girl crush and couldn’t take her eyes off her.
“Imagine the life she has,” Maria said, her voice a mixture of awe and jealousy. Siobhán was doing just that. Fancy restaurants, piles of bags from Marks and Spencer, a lovely flat with a view of Big Ben, and a sporty little car dragging a string of admirers from her hubcaps.
“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for, the number-one-ranked player in all Ireland. The lad needs no introduction, outta Dublin, please welcome Eamon Foley.”
His nickname went unsaid, but Siobhán could feel it bouncing around the room as Eamon Foley strode out. The Octopus. Handsome was an understatement. He had that thing they called star power. Tall, with wavy dark hair, and a vicious smile, he strode to his table in a black leather jacket and mirrored sunglasses. The glasses were forbidden during the games, and Siobhán had a feeling that’s exactly why he was wearing them. The intimidation factor. She made a mental note to buy herself a pair. She could wear them when interrogating her siblings. Once he sat, he took off the glasses and tucked them in the pocket of his jacket. His eyes were a startling green, and for a hot second they locked with Siobhán’s. He saluted her.
“Oh, my God,” Maria crooned beside her. “You lucky duck.” She reached over and pinched Siobhán on the back of her arm. Siobhán swatted her with the back of her hand, and didn’t dare look in Macdara’s direction, although she could feel his eyes on her too. In fact, everyone was suddenly looking at her, the lone eejit in uniform spraying out pheromones.
The Octopus dropped his salute and grinned at Siobhán, and she wanted to grin back, but she’d lost all feelings in her lips. And then the moment was gone. His eyes left hers and traveled through the crowd, as if they were all his competition and he was sizing them up.
Dealers dressed in black materialized with stacks of chips and tidy decks of cards, holding them aloft by the tables, waiting for word to set them down.
Maria leaned in, her breath hot on Siobhán’s neck. “How do you play this game again?”
Declan, who had been standing at the end of the bar keeping an eagle eye on his establishment, was suddenly by their side. He delighted in educating people. He began explaining the game of poker and its endless variations. Texas Hold’em. Five-card draw. Five-Card Stud. Seven-Card Stud. Lowball, highball, wild card, kill game. “Sometimes,” he said, his eyes sparking, “a joker is added.”
Siobhán’s gaze traveled over the players. “Or several.”
There was a rhythm to the games as sure and steady as music. The swish and smack of the cards. The clink of th
e chips. A gasp or moan as each hand was revealed. Pint glasses piled up, along with anticipation, as players were eliminated, one by one. Some of the losers were good sports, bowing out with a friendly wave, while others had to be dragged from the tables raging and cursing. Before they knew it, round one had whittled down to the favored three: Shane Ross, Clementine Hart, and Eamon Foley.
The coordinator appeared at the microphone. “Those were some games. Boy ya, boy ya! Ladies and gentlemen, we’re down to the final three of round one. They’ll play each other in one last game this evening, to reestablish their rank for the start of the morning rounds.” He leaned in with a wide grin. “A fresh round of victims, that is.”
Laughter and cheers ensued as the top three gathered at the center table. A petite waitress with a waterfall of blond hair fawned over the Octopus, offering him a bottle of water. It was obvious she was taking her time, twirling the bottle as if it were a baton in a one-woman parade. Her skirt was short and her legs were long. Clementine stared daggers into the poor girl until she retreated. Siobhán glanced over to the stools by the windows, where a very pregnant Rose Foley was perched. If she was jealous of the waitress fawning all over her husband, she didn’t show it. Her focus was out the window as if she was counting the seconds until she could escape. She looked weeks past her due date, and Siobhán found herself thinking they’d better hurry up and finish this hand before the wee thing popped out.
Rose wore a yellow maternity dress and her soft brown hair was piled in a messy bun. It painted the picture of a sweet lass, which was why it was so jarring that her mouth was set in a thin line. When she turned her gaze back into the room, her eyes looked as hard as two black stones. Perhaps she was unconsciously imitating her husband’s poker face, but once again Siobhán got the feeling Rose Foley would rather be anywhere but here. Feet up, mug of tea, baby born already. Siobhán hoped that was the case, for the black cloud above her head couldn’t be good for the little soul.
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