Bridie stood behind her, and having lost her battle with her tears, she was now openly weeping. “What was she even doing here?” Bridie wailed. “It must have taken her ages to walk.”
“Maybe one of the twins dropped her off.” The Kilbane Inn, now named the Twins’ Inn, was run by identical twins Emma and Eileen Curley. Margaret still lived in her room on the premises, and as Bridie had stated earlier, she had not left the grounds in the past year. Had the excitement of the bookshop opening caused Margaret to venture out? Siobhán leaned closer to the walker. “There’s no mud,” she observed out loud. The journey from the inn would have required passing through sections where there was no footpath, only farmers’ fields. If she had walked here, there should have been muck on her walker. Perhaps she’d taken the roads, a choice that would have lengthened an already long walk for a woman in her condition.
“It doesn’t make any sense at all,” Bridie said. “It’s just wrong seeing her lying here.”
Siobhán agreed. It did feel wrong. Had Margaret O’Shea known this would happen, she would have been mortified. Even looking at her felt wrong. “Perhaps she’s here for the same reason you were,” Siobhán said, scouring the ground for a pie, or tin of biscuits. “Leaving a welcome gift for the McCarthys.”
“She was a big reader,” Bridie said. “But the ladies in the book club always brought her books.”
“What’s the story?” At the sound of the deep voice behind them, they turned in unison. Macdara Flannery was approaching with two additional guards. She should remember to call him Detective Sergeant Flannery in front of everyone else. Even though he would be chuffed to bits if she called him her fiancé.
“It’s Margaret O’Shea,” Siobhán said. “Bless her soul. Bridie found her.”
“How did you know she was here?” Macdara asked. “Poor dear.” He bowed his head in front of the body, and once he was done he pulled a notebook out of his pocket as he turned to Bridie.
“I was going to leave a welcome pie at the door to the bookshop,” Bridie said. “I nearly tripped over her in the dark.”
Macdara glanced down the side street visible from their spot on the corner. There, a giant hand-painted sign loomed over the building depicting a gentleman with a raised pint: BUTLER’S UNDERTAKER, LOUNGE, AND PUB. Sometimes a cheeky board sat out front that read: Patrons Wanted Dead or Alive. Today the footpaths would remain clear as everyone prepped for the storm.
Siobhán knew where Macdara’s thoughts were at this moment. He didn’t want to leave Margaret lying here. He wanted to call Butler’s and have her taken to the funeral home. If a death was unexpected and/or suspicious, the state pathologist would need to be called in. In those cases the body could not be moved from the scene. His eyes met Siobhán’s. “What are you thinking?”
“She was fine last night,” Bridie said. “More than fine. She was a spitfire at the book club. I brought her chicken soup.”
“She’s in her late seventies, luv,” Siobhán said. “Her health has been declining this past year.” She glanced at the handbag. “She wasn’t robbed. There are no signs at all of foul play.” And given the pristine state of her walker she had most likely been dropped off by someone at the inn. But why this early? The bookshop wasn’t even open. Perhaps she wanted to avoid the crowds. Was someone coming to pick her up?
“You don’t think it was the soup, do ye?” Bridie asked.
“I don’t see any evidence of that,” Siobhán said. “This wasn’t your fault.”
Bridie gasped and nodded. “I’ll call Father Kearney,” she said.
“I’ll call Butler’s,” Macdara said. “Let’s get her out of sight before businesses start to open.” He was right. No doubt Margaret was looking down telling them to hurry up and do their jobs. He looked down at Margaret. “I’m sorry, luv. Rest in peace.” His eyes fell to the bookshop. “I’m going to need you to call the McCarthys,” he said to Siobhán. “Ask them to postpone the bookshop opening for at least a day while we do our due diligence on this one.”
Fantastic. She had a feeling that even Bridie’s lemon meringue pie wouldn’t sweeten that news.
* * *
The next morning, it wasn’t until Siobhán showered and changed from her run, and planted herself in front of her cappuccino maker in the dining room, that she remembered. A new garda was starting today. Aretta Dabiri. She would be Ireland’s first female garda of African descent. Her father had immigrated to Ireland from Nigeria. It was cause for celebration. After the sad day they’d had yesterday, welcoming a new garda and resident was just the cheer the village needed. That and the upcoming opening of the bookstore—Take Two.
The McCarthys hadn’t even answered her phone call yesterday; they had to send the gardaí to the door to ask them to postpone the opening while they canvassed the area, and had the twins check on Margaret’s room back at the inn just to make sure there was nothing amiss. The only strange bit so far was that no one at the inn had admitted to giving Margaret a ride into town. Siobhán had been sure it was one of the twins. Of course, Margaret had friends in the village, so it was probably just a matter of time before they learned who picked her up and dropped her off. But until that point, it was going to gnaw on Siobhán. After one of the twins entered Margaret’s room, she assured the guards there was nothing amiss, apart from the smell of bleach. This, she claimed, was not out of character. Margaret was a tidy woman who fiercely believed that cleanliness was next to godliness. And Margaret insisted on doing her own cleaning because she highly valued her privacy.
Granted, Windex was her preferred cleaning solution, but there were no signs that anyone had broken into her room. The previous evening the entire ladies’ book club had met in Margaret’s room, along with visiting Irish authors who were in Kilbane to celebrate the bookshop’s grand opening. It made sense to the twins that after such a gathering, Margaret chose to use a stronger cleaning solution. She was a bit of a germaphobe. Despite being a tidy woman, she had still refused the twins’ offer to upgrade her room. It smelled musty, the twins relayed, no matter how much Windex or bleach she used. Most of them had partaken of Bridie’s chicken soup and none of the others had fallen ill. It appeared that Margaret O’Shea had died of natural causes.
Margaret had no close relatives, and no one saw any need to call in the state pathologist. It would have been better if she had died peacefully in her bed, but what’s done was done. Father Kearney scheduled an evening mass, and the twins were seeing to the funeral arrangements. Given Margaret had still been living on the property, they felt obliged. It was no surprise the events had momentarily shifted thoughts of the new garda to the side. But now, the day was here, and Siobhán’s excitement returned. She could not wait to meet Aretta Dabiri.
The smell of rashers, sausages, and black and white pudding drifted into the dining room. Her brother Eoin was up and starting brekkie. Brown bread was cooling on the racks; Siobhán had been up hours before her run preparing the pans and sliding them into the cooker. It probably meant she’d be crashing in the afternoon, but maybe all the new events of the day would keep her hopping.
“You’re up early,” she said when Eoin ambled out. He was looking sharp in a black apron, his hair combed neatly back. There were days she had a hard time processing the change, how the Yankees cap always turned backward had disappeared from his head, and his skin had cleared up. Eoin O’Sullivan was now handsome. She could see a lot of her da in him. And his culinary skills and artistic skills had progressed, making him a catch. It was no wonder the bistro had seen an uptick in young female customers. So far, her younger brother had been pretending not to notice, but the mystery of why the baseball cap was gone and he was always neatly turned out was solved. Siobhán wondered if there was one lass in particular he was trying to impress, or was he just basking in the attention of many? He was the face of Naomi’s Bistro and she couldn’t be prouder.
“James woke me up when he snuck out this morning,” Eoin said.
“Snuc
k out?” Siobhán asked. “Where was he off to?” Their oldest brother, James, had just returned home after months in Waterford with his fiancée, Elise. She did not return with him. He’d been in one of his moods lately, as dark as the weather. Siobhán wondered if he was having second thoughts about the wedding.
“I asked the back of his head,” Eoin said. “But it didn’t answer.”
Siobhán sighed. If it wasn’t one thing, it was always another. Just then a piercing tone rang out, something akin to the sound of an animal being tortured. Ciarán, the youngest of the O’Sullivan Six, had taken up the violin. And they were all suffering for it.
“I thought you told him only to play in the field near the abbey,” Eoin said, slapping his hands over his ears.
“He can’t do that with this weather,” Siobhán said, flinching as another screech rang out. This was all her fault. She had bought Ciarán the violin and set him up with lessons the minute he uttered that he wanted to play.
Eoin’s gaze fell to the window and, beyond it, the dark skies. “How do we know he’s not causing the weather?” he clipped.
Siobhán gave him a playful push, then winced as Ciarán’s out of tune screeching continued.
“Shut it!” a voice yelled out from their rooms above the bistro. Gráinne. Her sister was not a morning person. Come to think of it, she wasn’t an afternoon person either, and the verdict was out on the evening.
“I have to practice,” Ciarán yelled back.
“You’re scaring Trigger!” Ann, the youngest O’Sullivan girl, screamed. Trigger was their Jack Russell terrier. To be fair, he was afraid of everything. He once huddled under Siobhán’s bed for an hour after a leaf had blown his way in the back garden.
“Give him ten more minutes,” Siobhán yelled at the ceiling. Not that they could hear her. Not that they would listen if they could. Ciarán, instead, stomped downstairs clutching his violin. “Good work, luv.”
Ciarán narrowed his eyes. He was a teenager now, on a growth spurt. His voice was starting to crack. He didn’t let Siobhán ruffle his head anymore. “I’m hungry,” he said. “It takes a lot of energy to practice.”
Siobhán and Eoin made an effort to keep their faces as still as possible. “Brekkie is on,” Eoin said. Ciarán placed his violin on a nearby table and disappeared into the kitchen. “And Chris Gordon is on his way,” Eoin added as he gestured to her cappuccino machine. She set her mug down and picked up one for him. It was a small thing, making his cappuccino, but she loved mothering her siblings in whatever way she could whenever she could. And just because she was fantasizing about smashing the violin into a million pieces, or shoving it into the fire, didn’t mean she was going to do it. Hiding it would be more humane.
The cappuccino machine hummed and purred and frothed. Now that was music. Hopefully, Ciarán would one day prove them wrong and learn to play the violin. Until that day, they were all going to need ear plugs. “Chris Gordon,” she said. “This early?”
“You have no idea,” Eoin said with a shake of his head.
Chris Gordon, the only American man living in Kilbane, owned a comic book shop in town. Or graphic novels, as she’d been taught to call them. He had movie star good looks, but you wouldn’t know it by his personality. Lately, he’d taken an aversion to wearing shoes. The past few times Siobhán had been in his shop, his large feet glowed from the neon socks he’d sprouted. If she passed him outdoors, he was always in sandals, still with the socks. “What’s the story?” Given this was a small village, they knew their locals. The neon socks and sandals were just the beginning of his quirks. Chris Gordon was not one of their early diners. Sometimes he didn’t even open his graphic novel shop until noon. Maybe reading about vampires was turning him into one.
“He’s out of his mind about the bookshop opening,” Eoin said, giving her a nod as she handed him his perfectly frothed cappuccino. “Freaking out,” he said, making air quotes and putting on an American accent.
Siobhán laughed. “Why?” This wasn’t entirely a shock—the Yank was prone to dramatics.
Eoin shrugged. “He views the new bookshop as competition.”
“I highly doubt they’re going to sell comic books. Sorry. Graphic novels.” Eoin had mad artistic skills and had begun writing graphic novels a year prior. They were a big seller at Gordon’s Comics. The heroine of his comics was loosely based on her. Or at least the long auburn hair he’d given the character made everyone think so. She did have a new appreciation for graphic novels, but she didn’t think Chris Gordon had any reason to see the bookshop as competition. Like she said: storms brought out the badness in many.
“He’s beside himself. Threatening to sue.”
“Sue?” Suing a bookshop for having the audacity to open? She took her mug and headed upstairs. “Wish him luck with dat,” she called out.
Ciarán, violin now abandoned, bounded past her on his way back up the stairs, sloshing cappuccino on her and the stairs. “Slow down,” she said as he careened past. “And get a towel to wipe up the stairs.”
“I’m looking for Trigger.” She still wasn’t used to how low his voice was now. It instilled her with an unreasonable panic. “I’m going to apologize by giving him this rasher.” He waved a rasher.
“Storms are coming, luv. He’s under one of the beds.” Their Jack Russell, Trigger, did not do storms. “And you’ve nothing to apologize for. Practice makes perfect.” She sighed. When did she become the type of person who said things like that?
“Morning,” Ann said, coming down the stairs. She caught Siobhán’s eye, then mimed playing the violin and slapped her hands over her face with a mock look of horror.
Siobhán laughed and patted her blond head. “Watch your step, I spilled cappuccino.”
“I have a game tomorrow, I can’t break me neck,” Ann said, practically sliding on the bannister to avoid the spill. Ann was the star player of her Camogie team.
“Your game is going to be canceled, pet. Storms are coming in.”
“Can I stay home from school then?”
“No. Don’t forget your brellie.”
“No fair. Gráinne gets to sleep in.”
If Gráinne had just gone to university like Siobhán had urged, she would be up in the mornings with the rest of them. Instead, her job as a personal stylist at Sheila’s Hair Salon started at ten. “Comparing yourself to other people is only going to bring you misery,” Siobhán called down the stairs.
Ann groaned. “My family are the ones bringing me misery this morning.” Siobhán laughed. What a relief to hear someone else say it.
Chapter 4
Once at the garda station, Siobhán spent the morning on paperwork. She’d heard Garda Dabiri was immersed in her own endless stack of forms to fill out, and Siobhán would officially meet her in the afternoon. Her plan unfolded brilliantly, and she was able to coincide her first break with the bookshop’s opening. A long line stretched from the door. She couldn’t believe it. The crowd was even larger than she had been anticipating. Who knew that Kilbane was this starved for books? In this technological age it was heartwarming, and she soaked up the electric charge in the air. But for all the positives, Siobhán felt a nibble of worry.
All of these people weren’t going to fit into the bookshop, and she was leery that Oran and Padraig McCarthy might try to cram them in past capacity. She wanted to be a customer first, not slap the new owners with a citation for overcrowding. But the concern was soon mitigated when the ten a.m. hour struck. The door flew open and there stood a man in spectacles, a black turtleneck, and a white wooly jumper, grinning ear to ear as he took in the line. Siobhán recognized Oran McCarthy from the photos on his Web site. He was likable in a scholarly way. She pegged him to be in his early forties. With his black pants and turtleneck, white wooly jumper, and black glasses beneath a mop of curly salt-and-pepper hair, he somewhat resembled a human sheep.
Siobhán was mentally trying to count how many people were in front of her when folks began turning
away from the door, sour looks stamped on their faces. That was curious. Oran McCarthy seemed to be conversing with each person who stepped up to him. Then the person would do an about-face and slink away. Was the opening postponed again? Why not just make one announcement? And then someone in line finally entered the bookshop. It continued on in this manner, some being turned away, others entering, and Siobhán was considering cutting the line to get the low-down, when finally, she was the one standing in front of Oran McCarthy. She waited for a friendly hello and was ready to introduce herself when he spoke first.
“What say you?” He stared her down, and if her shiny gold badge intimidated him, he didn’t let it show. Up close his thick glasses enlarged his intense brown eyes.
“Pardon?”
He looked over her shoulder. “Next.”
“Wait.” What on earth? “How ya?” she said.
“Goodbye.”
She frowned. “I say I want to go into the shop.”
His eyes fixated on her garda cap. “Is this official gardaí business?”
She really wanted to say yes. “No.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Then what say you?”
What say she? Had she mistakenly arrived at some reenactment of a royal ball? Siobhán squinted at him, wondering if he’d been tipping the bottle. He seemed perfectly sober. Wait. Was this Shakespeare? “To be or not to be,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not to be.”
“I say, I want to go into the bookshop and have a look around.”
“Next,” he called out in a loud voice, looking to the person in line behind her. Siobhán was soon nudged out of the way. Flummoxed, she stood off to the side, determined to watch what would unfold. Oran held up a finger to the next eager customer, then turned to her, his intense eyes boring into hers. “Goodbye,” he said firmly.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 2