The Postman Always Dies Twice (Movie Club Mysteries, Book 2): An Irish Cozy Mystery

by Zara Keane

  He met my gaze. “Nothing you should know, but there’s something I’d like your opinion on.”

  “Shoot.”

  Reynolds’s lips twitched. “Poor word choice. A firearm was about the only weapon not used to kill the man.” He took a sip of his water and settled back in his chair, a line between his brows. “The pathologist is unsure about Ward’s facial injuries. He said they could have been caused by the fall, or inflicted before he fell. We’ve sent the photos you took with your phone to our tech team in Galway for analysis, but they don’t tell us much about how he received those injuries.” Reynolds put his pen and notepad to the side and picked up the folder on his lap. “Would you mind having a look at the photos and giving me your thoughts? I’ve asked Sergeant O’Shea, but…well…”

  He trailed off, but I got the hint. “But O’Shea’s a pompous fool and unlikely to offer you a useful opinion, even if he had one.” I opened the folder and flipped through the postmortem photos, scrutinizing each picture in turn. “I’m sorry. I have no idea if he got the injuries before or after the fall, but I can guess what’s bugging you.”

  “Go on,” he said. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “If Ward received injuries of this nature from his killer and not as the result of the fall, the killer wanted to disfigure his face. There are two main reasons for a killer to do that. One, he or she didn’t want the victim to be easily identified, or two, the killer had a serious grudge against the victim and did it as an act of rage.”

  “Given that Ward was wearing his uniform,” Reynolds said, “we’re assuming we can rule out the first reason. We’re waiting on dental records, but the body matches Ward’s recorded height, build, and blood type on his medical chart at the Whisper Island Medical Centre.”

  “Which leaves us with the second reason. Someone hated Eddie Ward enough to stab him after death and disfigure his dead body.”

  Reynolds looked me straight in the eye. “Your family is from the island. Do you know of anyone with a grudge against Eddie Ward? From what Lenny said when Ward delivered our post yesterday, I guess he’s not a fan.”

  A vision of Lenny’s worried face floated before me. If the postman had abandoned Lenny’s pregnant sister, he and his family had plenty of reason to hate the guy. But enough to commit murder? I didn’t buy it, and I certainly didn’t want Reynolds latching onto Lenny’s family as his prime suspects. “My dad is from Whisper Island, but I’ve only been here a few days longer than you. And I first met the postman last week when I moved into this cottage. I don’t know who he hangs out with. For what it’s worth, no one I’ve mentioned him to has a good word to say about Eddie Ward.”

  Reynolds sighed and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Thanks, Maggie. I appreciate you acting as a sounding board.” He stood. “I’ll let myself out. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  After he’d left, the pang of guilt gnawed at my stomach. I should have told him about Lenny’s sister. He’d find out eventually, and then he’d be annoyed that I hadn’t said anything. I bit my lip. Should I go after him? But what difference would it make if I kept silent for another day or so? Another twenty-four hours would give me time to dig for info about other potential suspects so that when I presented Reynolds with my findings, I’d have more names to offer him than the Logans’. If I’d believed for a second that they were responsible, I’d have told Reynolds right away. Nonetheless, the feeling I’d done wrong nagged me throughout a restless night, and hadn’t dissipated by the time my alarm clock sounded the next morning.

  8

  I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror and took in the full horror of my new uniform. In addition to the maid’s cap that only fit when I drew my unruly red curls into a tight bun, I wore a frilly black skirt that barely skimmed my thighs, and a tight white shirt with a cleavage-baring V-neck slash. My indignity was further outraged by the addition of fishnet stockings and an incongruously innocent-looking pair of patent leather flats.

  I turned to face Melanie. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  My erstwhile nemesis smirked. “No joke, Maggie. This is the Whisper Island Hotel’s official maid’s uniform. The guests love it.”

  I snorted. “The male guests, sure. I look like the maid in the movie Clue.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Melanie said with a shrug. “My father-in-law designed the uniform. Besides, we agreed that the easiest way for you to work undercover at the hotel was as a maid.”

  “You decided to make me a maid,” I corrected. “And when I agreed, I had no idea I’d be displaying my boobs to the world.”

  “It’s not my fault you could do with losing a few pounds,” Melanie said with a sniff.

  “I’m busty, not fat,” I snapped, irritated with myself for allowing her to goad me. “And the skirt’s too short because I’m tall.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not happy with your uniform, but you must agree that going undercover as a floater maid gives you an excellent excuse to be in various areas of the hotel.”

  I pulled up the V of my shirt in a vain attempt to retain some semblance of dignity, and muttered a noncommittal response. In truth, I agreed with her. As a maid, I could easily move from floor to floor without arousing suspicion. According to the cleaning schedule I’d flipped through in Paul’s office after my arrival this morning, the cleaning staff was divided into teams that rotated between areas of the hotel on a monthly basis, presumably to reduce the monotony of the job. I’d been hired as one of the hotel’s two floaters, meaning I didn’t belong to any cleaning team, but was sent to help whichever area needed extra work done. Floaters were also expected to give assistance in areas beyond cleaning, such as helping the beauty center staff prepare a massage room for the next client, or chopping vegetables if a kitchen assistant was sick. This would give me the opportunity to be in the beauty center one day, and the executive suites the next.

  Melanie swiped a finger over her tablet computer. “We’ll start you in the kitchen this morning. They’re short-staffed, especially with the demands of the Sunday brunch buffet, and they need someone to help with some basic food prep.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Cooking isn’t my area of expertise. I can just about manage to warm up the food my aunt prepares at the Movie Theater Café, but that’s the extent of my culinary talents.”

  Melanie rolled her eyes. “I said basic food prep. In a hotel kitchen, that means tasks like washing and chopping vegetables. Even you should be able to manage that.”

  “All while looking like a lady of the night,” I muttered, tugging at the hem of my very short skirt.

  The other woman laughed. “The kitchen staff will be too busy to care what you’re wearing. Carl runs a tight ship.”

  “Carl Logan?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

  “That’s right.” A sneer marred the natural beauty of Melanie’s face. “You’re friends with his waste-of-space younger brother, aren’t you?”

  I bristled at this attack on my friend. “Lenny is highly intelligent and hardworking.”

  “At what?” I longed to wipe the smirk off her face at her words. “As far as I can tell, he helps out at his parents’ shop and plays with computers on the side.”

  “What’s wrong with that? It’s an honest living.” Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure about the honest part. I had a sneaking suspicion Lenny wasn’t quick to declare his sideline in computer repairs on his tax forms, but I wasn’t about to share that tidbit with Melanie.

  She tossed her glossy dark hair over her shoulder and pivoted on her elegant heels. “I’ll show you to the kitchen and let Carl take over from there.”

  I shuffled through the hotel lobby in her wake, horribly self-conscious about my short skirt and low-cut top. When we passed a couple of elderly gentlemen dressed in golfing tweeds, they gawked at me. I tilted my chin and held my head high, as if looking like a stripper at six-thirty in the morning was no big deal.

  The kitchen was located in the hotel basemen
t. Even if Melanie hadn’t been leading the way, the enticing aromas and clanging of pots would have tipped me off.

  I followed her into a large open-plan kitchen. Like the spa area, it was ultra modern, and contrasted with the old-world sophistication of the rest of the hotel. Staff buzzed around, rushing with trays piled with breakfast food. At the center of the organized chaos stood a tall, dark-haired man with designer stubble and stylishly tousled hair. When he turned around, I recognized an older version of the Carl Logan I remembered from teenage summers spent on the island.

  Carl was a taller, more handsome version of Lenny, but his air of confidence was tinged with an arrogance that his brother thankfully lacked. He gave me an obvious once-over and ended the examination with a wide smile. “Hello, there. Have you come to help us out?”

  “This is Maggie Doyle,” Melanie said before I’d had the chance to respond. “She’s the new floater. I’ve asked her to help you prep the breakfasts.”

  Carl eyed me more closely. “Maggie Doyle…not Lenny’s American friend?”

  I nodded. “Guilty as charged.”

  The smile he gave me now was genuine. He stretched out a hand and subjected mine to a vigorous pumping. “Nice to meet you again, Maggie. Lenny’s delighted to have you back on the island. There’s few enough young folk left these days, and most are married with kids.”

  “Not a problem Maggie has,” Melanie said archly. “She’s getting divorced.”

  Cow. I bit my tongue before I delivered an acid retort and got fired before I’d had a chance to solve the mystery and pocket the rest of the promised five and a half thousand euros.

  Carl cast me a sympathetic look. “Why don’t I give Maggie the grand tour before I put her to work? No need for you to stay, Melanie.”

  “I’m Mrs. Greer to you.” Melanie glared at the chef and then at me before stalking out of the kitchen.

  Carl grinned at me. “A lot has changed on Whisper Island since you and Lenny were kids, but Melanie hasn’t.”

  I laughed. “I’ve noticed. So where do you want me to start?”

  “The whole grand tour yarn was to get rid of Melanie. It’ll take about thirty seconds to show you what you’ll need to use to chop fruit for the breakfast buffet’s fruit salad.”

  Within a few minutes, I’d been supplied with an apron that covered most of my scanty uniform—not difficult—and a sharp chopping knife. A mountain of washed fruit awaited my attention. For the next couple of hours, I sliced and diced, peeled and chopped. At ten o’clock, the breakfast buffet and à la carte service stopped, and I had a chance to take a short coffee break. Bernadette, the chef responsible for the vegetarian and vegan menu options, handed me an extra-large mug of cappuccino. We’d gotten talking earlier that morning, and I had the impression that she liked to gossip. Perfect for my purposes.

  I took a sip of my drink and licked cocoa flavored froth from my lips. “Delicious,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. I thought working at my aunt’s café could be frantic at times, but you guys are put through your paces.”

  Bernadette pulled a face. “Tell me about it. If the Greers don’t find permanent staff to replace the people who’ve left, I don’t know how we’ll survive the summer season. Mind you, if this ghost nonsense keeps up, we might all be out of a job before then.”

  “I heard there’d been strange goings-on at the hotel.”

  “Of course you have. There are no secrets on Whisper Island. No wonder the hotel can’t get new staff.” She fixed her gaze on me and eyed me curiously. “Apart from you.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Neither do I, but whatever’s going on is scaring guests and staff alike.”

  I smiled brightly. “I don’t scare easily.”

  “You mustn’t,” Bernadette agreed. “Not if you chase down murderers and thieves.” At my look of surprise, she laughed. “Like I said, everyone knows everyone else’s business on this island. Now tell me, Maggie Doyle, how does an American cop end up chopping fruit in an Irish hotel kitchen?”

  “It’s a long story, but the short version is that I came here after my marriage broke up. My dad’s from Whisper Island, and I had fond childhood memories of the island.”

  “Fair enough.” Bernadette nodded, as if she found my explanation satisfactory. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  “Until the end of May. Maybe longer. I want to keep my options open, you know? That’s why picking up some casual part-time work suits me.”

  “Well, good luck. I hope you last longer than the last floater Melanie hired. The poor girl encountered our pet poltergeist and fled without giving notice.”

  “This poltergeist business…” I began carefully. “Who do you think’s behind it?”

  “Hard to say.” The woman screwed up her nose and gave the matter some thought. “Melanie Greer’s a pain in the behind, but it’s her husband who has a talent for upsetting people, especially those he feels are beneath him and not worth sucking up to.”

  “Can you be more specific? Has Paul annoyed anyone in particular recently?”

  Bernadette frowned, and then shook her head. “Not that I can think of. He had a run-in with that old eejit of a policeman a while back. They had a shouting match in the hotel restaurant.”

  “Sergeant O’Shea?” I prompted.

  Bernadette’s lip curled. “Yeah. That’s the one. An awful old fart, but he’s been a regular at the restaurant for years. Or at least he was until that fight.”

  “Any idea what the argument was about?”

  She shook her head. “Even with all the noise they were making, I never figured out that part. Something about golf and an unpaid bill, but I wasn’t sure if O’Shea hadn’t paid it or Greer.”

  Given his dubious history with the hotel accounts, my money was on Paul. According to Noreen, O’Shea had recently been appointed to the Whisper Island Golf Club’s board of directors. Had Paul skipped out on paying his share of the golf course’s maintenance? Or run up a tab at the golf club’s bar? I knew the hotel shared the golf course with the golf club, but I didn’t know the particulars of the arrangement. Even if Paul was in debt, why would he cause himself further financial grief by playing poltergeist? There had to be another solution.

  I adopted an awed expression. “I heard the ghost clanks chains and causes havoc. Whoever’s behind it must be pretty clever to fool so many people.”

  “I don’t believe in the supernatural, but the noise and the flying objects are creepy. For all that Sergeant O’Shea is a loathsome toad, I can’t imagine him pretending to be a poltergeist.”

  Neither could I. Which meant I was one morning into my time at the hotel and no closer to finding out who was terrorizing its inhabitants.

  Over the next couple of hours, I worked alongside Carl Logan. He proved to be an efficient chef and, despite his bursts of temper when staff members weren’t moving fast enough, Carl was surprisingly patient showing me the ropes.

  After the lunchtime rush, he fixed me a delicious dish of linguini with prawns and insisted I sit down to eat it. “I can’t have our new member of staff collapsing with hunger.”

  I laughed. “After all I’ve been eating since I arrived on Whisper Island, I think I have enough reserves to last me for a while.”

  “Noreen’s a good cook,” Carl said. “Not up to my standard, of course, but not bad for an amateur.”

  I stifled a grin at his nonchalant arrogance. “How long have you worked at the hotel?”

  The man puffed up with pride. “I recently had my tenth anniversary.”

  “Wow. Time flies. Have you ever considered looking for a job at another hotel?”

  Carl shrugged. “From time to time, especially on a day the Greers annoy me, but I like living on the island. I have my boat and I can go sailing in my spare time. Besides, Granddad needs me.”

  “That’s right,” I said, as though the memory had just struck me. “You live with Gerry.”

  “Next
door, actually.” His wolfish grin returned. “I like my privacy, and living under the same roof as my grandfather would cramp my style.”

  “Still, it’s nice for him to have you nearby.”

  “Yeah. Granddad’s getting on in years, but his brain’s all there. He just needs help with shopping, household repairs, and that sort of thing.” Carl’s face darkened. “Officially, my cousin, Jack, is supposed to chip in and help, but he’s rarely to be found when we need him.”

  I smothered a laugh. “I encountered him when I was buying my car.”

  Carl’s face transformed into a mask of horror. “Please tell me you didn’t buy one of his vehicles?”

  “It was cheap,” I said with a shrug.

  The chef grinned. “Want to take a bet on how long it keeps running?”

  “Two months is all I need.” Time to steer the conversation around to the ghost. “I keep hearing about the hotel being haunted, but that seems far-fetched. What’s your take on the clanking and wailing?”

  Carl’s easy smile faded. Was it my imagination, or did I see a ripple of annoyance flash over his face before he got his emotions under control? “My take, as you put it, is that someone is taking the mickey.”

  I stared at him blankly. “Taking the what?”

  “Taking the mickey means joking around. Not that this particular joke is making me laugh. The more guests who leave, the more likely it is we’ll all be out of a job before the summer season starts.”

  “But why would anyone want to do that?”

  Carl drained his coffee cup and stood. “Not everyone wants the hotel to thrive. The Greers aren’t exactly contenders to win the Whisper Island Popularity Contest, and the hotel and golf course are sitting on prime real estate. Just last year, a guy from England started an aggressive campaign to get the Greers to sell.”

  “What’s the arrangement with the golf club? Who owns the land?”

  “Officially, the golf course is on land belonging to the hotel. In return for sharing the cost of maintenance, the Whisper Island Golf Club is allowed to use the course.”