Murder in an Irish Village
Carlene O’Connor
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Pronunciations and Glossary
Epigraph
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Copyright Page
Dedicated to Dermot O’Rourke. I wish you were around so I could thank you in person. I still have the book you gave me—365 Days of Celtic Myths and I used portions of it in this novel. I can still see your infectious smile and hear your boisterous laugh.
To all my Irish ancestors and the people of Ireland.
Acknowledgments
As usual, it takes a village to write a book, and I’m so lucky to have a wonderful pool of people to turn to when I need help. First I’d like to thank my editor John Scognamiglio for proposing the idea for this series in the first place, and my agent Evan Marshall who went above and beyond giving me great notes on early drafts—I so appreciate it. Thank you to the staff at Kensington who work hard on everything from the cover to copy editing, marketing—everything it takes to bring a book to market. Thank you to my friend Daithí Mac Lochlainn for helping me out with Irish phrases. Thank you to Siobhán Hahn for answering last-minute questions. Thank you to Suzanne Brazil for reading an early draft. Thank you to Bridget and Seamus Collins for answering questions and if you didn’t have the answers, pointing me to people who did. One such person wanted to remain anonymous but I’d like to thank that person as well. Thank you to James Sheedy and Annmarie Murphy for also being on hand to answer questions. A blanket thank you to the regulars of Maguire’s Pub in Woodside Queens, as well as the people of Kilmallock, County Limerick. The original culprits who introduced me to this incredible town—Kevin Collins, Eileen Collins, and by extension, Susan Collins. And a special thank you to my family for their continued support. My sincere apologies if I missed anyone who was generous enough to help me with the first book in this series. The next round is on me.
Pronunciations and Glossary
Pronunciations
Siobhán Shi-vawn
Seamus Shay-mus
Ciarán Keeran
Gráinne Grawn-ya
Eoin Owen
Aisling Ash-lin
Craic Crack (See meaning in glossary)
Glossary
What’s the craic?
The Irish word “craic” means fun, having a good time. It’s often mixed with alcohol and/or music: craic agus ceol (fun and music). When phrased as, ”What’s the craic?” it simply means, “What’s happening?” or “What’s up?”
Trad Session or Trad
Traditional Irish music
Doing my messages
Shopping! Usually food shopping
Deadly
American equivalent: Awesome
Taking the piss
American equivalent: Pulling my leg
Garda, gardai, guards
The local police force in Ireland. Technically known as: An Garda Síochána—Guardians of the Peace. Often referred to as “the guards”. Offically: The gardai. (Plural). One guard can be “guard” or garda.
Cheeky
Endearingly bold
Chipper
Irish fish and chips shop. However, “chips” for Americans means French fries. Crisps are potato chips.
Jammers
Packed busy
A right nutter
Crazy
Blotto
Drunk
Leaving Certificate
Completion/graduation of high school
Put on quite a few stone
Equivalent to pounds (weight)
Do not get into a row
Argument
Kept her gob shut mouth
Langered—Drunk
Fisticuffs—fistfight
Runners running shoes
Travelers/tinkers
Also called pavees, or gypsies. A traditionally itinerant ethnic group who maintain a set of traditions. (Wikipedia)
Shift boys
Kiss boys
Chin-wag
Talk/gossip
Black and white pudding
White pudding and black pudding are both sausages (pork meat). White pudding does not include blood, black pudding does.
Mobile
Cell phone
Yoke
A word for when you don’t have a word. Equivalent to—thing—or placeholder for a person. IE: Hand me that yoke. (Thing). OR ‘Some yoke’—some person
Pint of the black stuff
Pint of Guinness
Pioneer/Pioneer Pin: The Pioneer Total Abstinence Association of the Sacred Heart (PTAA): Irish organization for Roman Catholic teetotalers. Its members abstain from alcohol. Members can wear a lapel pin—a pioneer pin depicting the sacred heart of Jesus. (Wikipedia)
The truth from a liar is not to be believed.
—Irish proverb
Chapter 1
Siobhán O’Sullivan hurried through lush green fields, adjusting every so often for the bumps and dips of the terrain, imagining that from high above, Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland, must look like an ocean of green, rendering her a mere speck at sea. Before she knew it, she had passed the majestic remains of the ruined Dominican Priory, its Franciscan bell tower rising proudly above the town. Sheedy’s cycle shop wasn’t far now.
She hugged the medieval walls encircling the town, marveling at how something once constructed to keep violent marauders out could just as easily trap them in. She placed her hand on the ancient stone, relishing the way its rough peaks scraped against her fingertips. It was damp to the touch despite the midday sun. One of the few walled towns in existence, it had endured some of Ireland’s most turbulent times and survived. These days Siobhán took solace wherever she could get it.
After ten straight days of lashing rain, the sun was laughing down on them, creating good cheer even in the be-grudgers. Shopkeepers swept their footpaths, green thumbs tended gardens, and other folk simply turned their faces to the generous swath of blue sky. Children squealed, and kicked balls, and raced their bicycles through swollen puddles. Shoppers bustled along Sarsfield Street, calling in to the market, and the gift shop, and the chipper, and the hardware store. And, of course, to Naomi’s Bistro. They would call out to one another—hello, hi ya, and how ya—and everyone would answer they were grand.
Siobhán had less than an hour before the lunch service at the bistro would begin. Given that children were tasting their first week of summer freedom, and i
t was a Friday to boot, they were going to be jammers. She picked up her pace, as the shop was just over the hill. If her siblings found out she was sneaking out several times a week to visit a pink scooter, they would declare her a right nutter.
Cows lifted their heads and chewed lazily as she panted by, sheep bleated, and swallows streaked through the sky. Patches of gorse set the neighboring fields aflame with their bright yellow heads, emitting the slightest scent of coconut. By the time she arrived at the shop, Siobhán was out of breath. She’d better stop eating so much brown bread at the bistro or she would have to buy a colored track suit and join the race-walking ladies in the morning. Surely their wagging tongues burned more calories than their aerobics. Siobhán laughed to herself and pushed the door to the shop open, hoping the jangle of the bell would disguise her labored breathing.
She looked at the counter, expecting to see Séamus Sheedy break out in his customary grin. Instead, there stood Niall Murphy. His dark hair, normally cut short, hung almost to his chin, giving him an unruly appearance. He seemed taller, too, or at least more filled out. Even before the bad business with Billy, Siobhán had always felt on edge around Niall. Maybe it was his eyes—technically brown, but so intense, his pupils so enormous that she always thought of them as black. She wasn’t prepared for the shock. What was he doing here?
It was impossible to look at Niall without a thousand dark memories swarming in. Just when she thought she was on the mend, there he was again, the sniper of grief aiming a killing blow at her heart. Instantly, no time had passed at all. No time since that cruel morning almost one year ago when Niall’s brother, Billy, got into his sporty red car, absolutely blotto, and slammed head-on into her parents. They died on impact. Billy was charged with drunk driving and sent to prison, and Niall took off for Dublin. Where, for some reason, Siobhán had just assumed he would stay.
She wanted to back out of the shop, but he’d already trained his dark eyes on her. Just then, Bridie Sheedy’s head popped out from the other side of Niall. Séamus’s wife was so petite Siobhán hadn’t seen her at first.
“Hallo,” Bridie called out. “How ya?” Despite an obvious attempt to sound cheerful, Bridie’s voice wobbled, and Siobhán got the distinct feeling that she had just interrupted something. What on earth was Bridie doing standing so close to Niall? The two of them couldn’t be sneaking around, could they? Surely not. Bridie was mad about Séamus, despite their age difference; everyone knew that.
“Grand,” Siobhán said, doing her best to avoid Niall’s stare. “How are you?”
“Not a bother.” A smile broke out on Bridie’s face, and this time it seemed genuine. With her head of brown curls and sparkling green eyes, Bridie’s presence eased the tightness in Siobhán’s chest a wee bit. Her smile didn’t waver, but her tiny hand fluttered to her head, where she adjusted a knitted blue flower stuck in her hair, one she’d no doubt made herself. Bride was always a walking advertisement for her homemade wears.
It was odd to see her in here, surrounded by grease, and wheels, and dirty rags. She was normally at Courtney Kirby’s gift shop, where she sold everything from jewelry to handmade scarves. And when she wasn’t at Courtney’s she was perched on top of a stationary bike at spinning class. Siobhán would much rather ride a scooter; it never made sense to her why anyone would want to pedal like mad atop something that was never going to go anywhere.
Bridie picked up her bedazzled handbag, whisked out from behind the counter, and grabbed Siobhán by the arm. She had a surprisingly strong grip for such a little woman. “Would ye mind keeping my secret?”
Siobhán extricated Bridie’s clawing fingers from her arm. She was the porcelain variety of pale and bruised easily. “What secret?”
“Don’t tell Séamus I was here. I’m begging ye.”
“Oh.” Jaysus, she didn’t want to be part of that kind of secret. Was Bridie cheating on Séamus? With Niall? Right here in the shop?
Bridie must have noticed Siobhán’s face go scarlet, for she gasped and then laughed. “No, no, pet. Nothing I’ll be needing to confess to Father Kearney.” She continued to laugh, and Siobhán couldn’t help but laugh with her. “Niall was helping me order a gear for Séamus.” Séamus was an avid road racer, always darting about town on his bicycle. He used to compete in actual road races and had loads of trophies to show for it. Better than spinning, but Siobhán still preferred the scooters. “A surprise,” Bridie continued. “For his birthday.”
“Ah. Of course. Not a bother,” Siobhán said.
“Grand.” Bridie laughed and then kissed each of Siobhán’s cheeks. “When are ye going to whittle us a few dainty birds or roses for Courtney’s store?” She kept her big eyes on Siobhán without blinking. Siobhán had learned to whittle from her grandfather, who noticed Siobhán had a temper; although her mam was terrified at the thought of putting a knife into her wee hands, her grandfather insisted whittling would be a good outlet for the young hothead. It required patience and concentration, and to everyone but her grandfather’s surprise, she was right good at it. She could turn a piece of wood into a tiny singing bird, or a delicate flower, or her personal favorite, a Celtic cross. There was a box underneath her bed with her carving knife and bits of wood. A little here, and a little there, and before she knew it, another marvelous creature would come into existence. But she hadn’t felt like whittling since her parents had passed on. It didn’t feel right to be so carefree.
Siobhán forced a smile back. “We’ll see.”
Bridie sang her good-byes over her shoulder and bounced out of the shop. Siobhán had a strange urge to run after her.
Niall darted out from behind the counter and planted himself in front of Siobhán. “What’s the craic?”
Siobhán felt her ire rise. Oh, we’ve been having some fun, boyo, since your brother slammed head-on into our parents. “What are you doing here?” she said instead.
Niall glanced around the shop as if the bicycles had ears. “We need to talk.”
Siobhán forced a smile. “Here for a wee visit with your mammy?” Nasty woman, that Mary Murphy. Her mam wouldn’t want her speaking ill of a neighbor, but she couldn’t help it. Mary Murphy hadn’t once said she was sorry for what her son had done. Siobhán didn’t realize her right hand was curled into a fist until a fingernail dug into her palm.
Niall’s face darkened, and an unmistakable look of hate flashed across it as his mouth turned into a slight snarl. “Me mother hasn’t been able to work since the town turned against her. You know it yourself. Séamus was good enough to take me on here.”
Turned against her? Mary Murphy was the one who had been avoiding contact with everyone. She slipped in and out of Mass, hurried through the shops, and hadn’t once come into the bistro since the accident. And here was Niall, blaming the entire town. Did that mean he was back for good? She didn’t want to think about that now, and she especially didn’t want to think about how her older brother James was going to react when he found out.
This was the problem with positive thinking: the moment she set herself up to be happy, something in her world always came crashing down. He’d ruined her break, the sunny day, her hope. She should just walk out right now, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Without another word, she turned and made her way to the scooters that were lined up at the front window, all shiny and new.
Oh, how she loved the Italian scooters. She stood next to the black one, praying Niall Murphy wouldn’t notice when she glanced down the row at her actual favorite, the one in pink. All her life she’d been told redheads couldn’t wear pink. But her hair was a darker red, more auburn, and besides, that old notion had changed with the times, hadn’t it? Kilbane had mobile phones, and cable television, and iPads, and redheads could now wear pink. Or else she could tuck her hair into the helmet.
Yes, she definitely wanted the pink one. With a basket. That was only practical. She could see herself zipping around town, picking up bread and milk when the bistro ran low, fee
ling the vibrations of the road in her body, the breeze on her face. Of course, she’d have to be careful in the rain, and she would have to figure out how to keep her siblings off it—
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Dublin?” Niall said from behind her. “Starting university?” Siobhán stopped, and turned. Niall was less than a foot from her. Of course, she was supposed to be in Dublin. The whole village knew about her scholarship to Trinity College. After she completed her Leaving Certificate she’d spent two years working at the bistro and saving for University before the scholarship finally came through. Mam and Da even hung her acceptance letter up in the bistro for everyone to see. To add to her luck, her best friends Maria and Aisling had delayed college as well to travel. All three of them would be starting University at the same time, just like she’d always dreamed.
But just a few months before she was to embark on the adventure of her life, her parents were gone. James wasn’t stable enough to run the bistro and take care of the three youngest. So it fell to Siobhán. Her best friends, Maria and Aisling, were at Trinity without her. The more time went by, the less they talked. It was too painful to be constantly reminded of the life she thought she was going to be leading.
How one’s destiny could change in the blink of an eye. Niall Murphy knew why she wasn’t in Dublin better than anyone. Her da’s favorite Sean O’Casey quote rose up in her: It’s my rule never to lose me temper till it would be detrimental to keep it. “I could say the same thing about you,” she said. “Why aren’t you still in Dublin?”
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