Books by Carlene O’Connor
MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Murder at an Irish Wedding
Carlene
O’Connor
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 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.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016955140
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3848-7
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-849-4
eISBN-10: 1-61773-849-2
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2017
This is for James and Annmarie—may your Irish wedding be free of murder (but let’s leave room for a little mayhem). Here’s to you, love you both, loads!
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Evan Marshall, my editor, John Scognamiglio, and all the hardworking staff at Kensington from copy editors to publicists, to cover artists. Many thanks to friends, family, and readers.
Chapter 1
As the sun rose over Kilbane Castle, it struck the stained-glass window in the highest turret, casting the grounds below in an unearthly glow. A breeze whispered through the grass, rippling the wedding tents, making them shiver down to their stakes. Neighboring hills shook off the morning mist, and wooly apparitions began to dot their peaks, grazing and bleating into the damp fall air. From a room high up in the castle, Kevin Gallagher lay in bed, battling the terrors. Pre-wedding celebrations were in full swing and a bit of drink the night before had loosened his tongue. Upon his stumbling return to the castle, he may have upset a few heads in the Cahill/Donnelly wedding party. He blinked at the ceiling and tried for the life of him to remember the carnage.
He’d told Paul Donnelly, the groom-to-be, that only an eejit would marry a beautiful woman. And Alice Cahill wasn’t just beautiful, she was downright gorgeous. A proper fashion model to boot. She was way out of Paul Donnelly’s league, and if his best man couldn’t tell him, then who could?
“You always have to watch your back with a beautiful woman,” Kevin slurred on the way home from the pubs. They tripped along on the cobblestone streets of Kilbane as the morning birds began to trill, with the rhythm of the fella playing the spoons in O’Rourke’s still thrumming in his chest. “An ugly woman, that’s the way to go. Never have to be afraid of losing her. And that father-in-law! Who in his right mind would want to be related to Colm Cahill? If I were you, I’d do a runner and save m’self a life of misery, lad!”
“Shut your gob,” Paul said. “You’re bollixed.”
“Would Alice still marry you if she knew all your secrets?” Kevin clapped Paul hard on the back, causing him to stumble.
When he recovered, Paul’s eyes burned with rage. “What secrets are you on about?”
“I could tell Alice a thing or t’ree about her groom-to-be, now couldn’t I?” Kevin joked. He and Paul had known each other since they were grasshoppers.
“I can’t believe I chose you as my best man.” Paul was practically roaring down the streets, his handsome face creased with rage. Kevin had never seen him so furious. He was only messing. Was Paul really worried about his secrets? Why, Paul Donnelly’s secrets couldn’t shock a virgin on her first day at the nunnery. If you couldn’t take a bit of ribbing before snapping on the old ball and chain, then when could ye?
Kevin had had a falling out with Colm Cahill too. The father of the bride was having a cigar around the back of the castle, and the trail of sweet smoke drew Kevin directly to him. Colm was planted between a maze of shrubs, with his cigar in one hand and a glass of Jameson in the other. Ice cubes clinked and crickets chirped. The fat yellow moon hung low, and stars dotted the sky like diamonds. Reminded Kevin of the rock on Alice’s hand. She’d better be careful flashing that yoke around.
Colm Cahill made his fortune on a start-up technology company called Swipe-It. An app that allowed you to pay for things with the swipe of a finger. Made himself a pile of money. Can ye imagine that? Making money off taking people’s money? The world was upside-down, it was. Kevin had tried to talk a little business with Mr. Moneybags—had a great idea for a new app called Alibi. If the wife was out of town and a man wanted to do a bit of sneaking around, he could send the missus a phony selfie showing himself doing the washing. Of course, she’d expect the washing to be done when she returned, but every new idea had a few bits and bobs to work out.
It wasn’t until Kevin was nearly on him that he saw Mr. Moneybags was talking on his mobile. “Just do it. Send the confirmation to the castle.”
“How nice to be bossing people around at this hour of the mornin’. Business never sleeps, does it?” Kevin called out.
The old tyrant whirled around. “What is the matter with you? Sneaking up on a person like that.”
“I’m having a stroll. Just like you.”
“Listening in on me conversation, were you?”
“Your conversation intruded on me, not the other way around.”
Colm’s face was scrunched with rage. He shook his fist. “Pack your bags and go home.”
Kevin shook his head and glanced at the moon. A full one sure did bring out the strange in folk. Especially this crew. “I have another business proposition for ye,” Kevin started in.
“Who do you think you are?” Colm approached Kevin, his large frame towering over him.
Did he really not know who he was? Why, the old man was completely off his head. He was starting to think the sooner this wedding was done and dusted, the better. Kevin pointed to himself. “I’m the best man.”
“Not anymore. You’re not needed anymore.” Colm threw a look over Kevin’s shoulder, and Kevin whirled around to see Paul lurking behind him. Ear-wagging. Colm pointed at Paul. “Did ye hear that? Was I good and clear?” Colm stormed off. Paul stood staring after his future father-in-law, mouth agape. When he recovered, he turned on Kevin.
“What did you do?”
Kevin threw open his arms. “I am an innocent lad. Didn’t even get a chance to pitch me idea.”
“You’re making things worse,”
Paul said. “For the love of God, just stay out of it.” Then he whirled around and stormed off. Kevin didn’t know what to make of it, but it made him feel a bit dirty.
Speaking of dirty, he might have made a pass at the mother of the bride. Susan Cahill was descending the steps to the guest rooms just as Kevin was sloshing up. He must have startled her for she cried out when she saw him. She had the look of a woman caught sneaking out. Kevin gave her a pinch on the arse and may have even planted a kiss on her middle-aged lips. Ah but sure, a woman Susan Cahill’s age should be thanking him for the attention, she should. And he could see where Alice Cahill got her looks. Susan was a bit ripe, but you could still see the vestiges of beauty about her. Tall, the Cahill women, mighty tall.
There was at least one other person he had had a run-in with last night—who was it? Ah, Jaysus, for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Alice, gorgeous Alice? He hadn’t upset her, had he? No, she hadn’t even joined the fun. Said she needed her beauty sleep, which was out and out ridiculous.
Brian? That whiny little wedding planner? Could be. Anyone who went around wearing little colored squares in their jacket deserved a bit of hassling. Ah, wait. The wedding photographer. Mr. Fancy Artist with a show coming up in Dublin. Eejit. The lad was in everyone’s face with his fancy camera snapping and flashing away. It’s a wonder he hadn’t blinded anyone. Kevin had knocked the yoke flat out of his hands. The lens smashed to pieces on the cobblestone street. Lad should have had better reflexes. He went a bit mental from what Kevin could recall. Wailed like a woman. Said Kevin owed him five thousand euros. What a wanker!
Who else? He was forgetting someone.
Kevin sunk his sore head back into his pillow and stared at the elaborate crown molding rimming the ceiling. Such fine craftsmanship. Not like the shoddy estates going up today.
Kevin drank in the crystal chandelier, rose wallpaper, and arched limestone windows. His head throbbed, and he was damp right down to the bones in his toes.
The pints. The shots. A few pills. Oh, Jaysus. His head began to pound like a drum. Where were they exactly? Kilbane, was it? The walled town. Luckily the castle was outside the proper walls. Kevin couldn’t imagine being so closed in, like.
A wave of panic hit him. Was the wedding today? It couldn’t be today. He’d be puking down the aisle. No, no. T’anks be to God. The wedding was on Saturday, and today, why it was only Thursday. Lucky for him, weddings in Ireland were often three-day affairs.
Speaking of affairs—did he hear last night that someone was having one? A shocker, it was. Who was it? It was all a bit of a blur.
Something stirred next to him, and he nearly jumped out of his birthday suit. Slowly, he turned his head, and what a fright. Beside him, long blond hair fanned out over the pillow like a den of snakes. Medusa was in bed with him. Her face and body were hidden, burrowed under blankets. There was a colleen in his bed. Or was he in her bed? Perhaps every guest room looked alike.
“If I’m going to ravage anyone tonight, it’ll be the maid of dishonor,” Kevin suddenly remembered saying. She’d batted her eyelids and wiggled her full hips at him all night. He glanced over at the snoring beauty. What was her name? Ah, right. Brenna. Too bad she was nowhere nearly as gorgeous as Alice. Then again, who was?
How cliché. The maid of honor and the best man knocking boots. His eyes landed on the nightstand. His wallet. Keys. A folded-up piece of paper. He snatched it up. The message was typed and centered:
More when the deed is done. Meet me at sunrise. Top of the hill.
Deed? What deed? More what when the deed was done? Once more he glanced at the nightstand, where his eyes landed on the answer, and it came as quite a delight. A thick stack of euros tied up with a little red string. He swiped it up and fanned through it. Why, there were at least a thousand euros here. He read the note again. The hill. The one behind the castle?
Kevin ran his fingers through his hair and plucked his packet of fags off the nightstand. He started to light up, then thought better of it. He might wake the bird. The last thing he needed was Brenna clucking around his business. It was almost sunrise. The note sounded a bit desperate. Parting desperate folks from their money was well within Kevin Gallagher’s skill set.
He sat up, fighting the throbbing in his skull, and reached for the blue tracksuit hanging on the chair. Every member of the wedding party had been given the silly tracksuits. Alice had insisted on a group photo in front of the castle before breakfast. He’d have to hurry to the hill if he wanted to be back in time for the photo. Only thing worse than marrying a beautiful woman was riling one up. Especially one about to get married. He dressed, donned his trusty watch and gold chain, then shoved the money and note into his tracksuit pocket and crept out of the room.
He began to whistle a little tune as he wondered who would be waiting atop the hill. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to strike a killer of a deal.
Chapter 2
Siobhán O’Sullivan clutched her platter of brown bread and met the steely gaze of the castle security guard head-on. A beefy lad, for sure, but a baby was all he was, no more than eighteen years of age, if she had to guess.
“I’m tellin’ ye, I’m a guest of Macdara Flannery. Garda Flannery.” Usually her auburn locks and bright smile were enough to disarm a young man, but this one seemed immune.
“And I’m tellin’ ye. You’re not on the list.” He stared at his clipboard as if it contained all the mysteries of Ireland. As security guards went, he was as intimidating as their new Jack Russell pup, Trigger.
“There’s been an emergency.” Siobhán hoisted the platter of bread. “Seems the chef here is French—which is all well and good for the tourists, but as you know, the bride and groom are Irish.”
“I know, yeah,” he said. “I’m a Limerick man myself.” Pride rang through his voice. Well then, why wasn’t he letting Siobhán pass? Imagine, seconds from now she was actually going to get to meet Alice Cahill. Tucked underneath the platter was the most recent fashion magazine that sported the gorgeous Alice on the cover. Siobhán had promised her sisters she’d try to get Alice to sign it. Gráinne and Ann, two blossoming beauties themselves, were most definitely starstruck.
The security guard glanced at her pink Vespa parked a few feet away. In addition to her prized cappuccino machine back at the bistro, the scooter was near and dear to her heart. She’d been riding it so often it was starting to feel like an extra appendage. It was the one thing she had that was just for her. When she was on it, the breeze in her face, the thrum of the machine through her body, it was like a little escape. A momentary break in her responsibilities when she could imagine there was nothing between her and the rest of her life but an open road and the Irish countryside. The security guard’s lip twitched. Apparently he’d never seen a guest ride up on a pink scooter.
“You’ll mind it, won’t ye?” she asked him. “It’s very dear.” He looked startled as if she’d just asked him to wash her delicates. Just when Siobhán thought she was either going to have to kiss him or kick him, a heavenly voice rang out.
“Siobhán O’Sullivan?” Alice Cahill was floating toward them in a plain blue tracksuit, yet despite the casual attire, she was just as glamorous as her magazine covers. Long, ebony hair that flowed out in perfect waves, sky-blue eyes with thick eyelashes, and at six feet tall, she was just a few inches taller than Siobhán. “She’s with me, Val,” Alice said, lightly touching his arm.
Val’s face flamed up, and he stepped back from the gate. “By all means.” He waved Siobhán through as if puzzled that she was still standing on the outside.
“Thanks, luv,” Alice winked. Val straightened himself up, and if Siobhán had had a handkerchief she’d have been wiping the drool off his double chin. There was a definite power that came with beauty and, unlike Siobhán, Alice seemed completely at ease with it. Siobhán could learn a thing or three from the fashion model.
Alice linked arms with Siobhán and began to escort her up
the winding drive to the castle. “Your hair is gorgeous. Like the sun lit it on fire. You probably get sick of hearing that.”
She was sick of hearing it, but not from the likes of Alice Cahill. “It’s an honor to meet you,” Siobhán stammered. In the distance, white tents dotted the sweeping, lush grounds.
“Any friend of Garda Macdara Flannery is a friend of mine. Paul just adores him. The two of them are thick as thieves. You’d never know they haven’t seen each other since university.”
At the mention of Macdara Flannery, Siobhán felt the top of her head lift off and soar toward the Ballyhoura Mountains. She wondered where he was, then forcefully put the top of her head back on and pushed all such thoughts away. He hadn’t invited her to the wedding nor offered a word of explanation as to why not.
On the bright side—which Siobhán always tried to look on—thanks to him she was here now. Nice ruse, hinting that Alice should try Siobhán’s brown bread. There were worse ways to spend a morning than at a castle with a gorgeous fashion model. Not to mention how nice it was to be near another tall woman. At five feet nine Siobhán usually towered over everyone. She loved standing next to Alice.
The castle and grounds were gorgeously framed by the Irish sky, the Ballyhoura Mountains, and a wooded hillside. The air smelled of lavender and heather, and the promise of an earthy rain.
Within the castle grounds, wealth and beauty flirted in equal measure. Interspersed amongst expanses of green lawn were manicured gardens delineated by polished black stones. The gardens were arranged into distinct sections: blossoming flowers of nearly every color in the rainbow, manicured hedges, and sculpted topiary. Wild heather grew in patches along the stone wall surrounding the grounds. Several fountains were strategically placed in the middle of the gardens, sculptures of angels spouting water. There was even a small moat, complete with a stone bridge crossing over a creek.
Murder at an Irish Wedding Page 1
