Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  What nerve! Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Shame heated up her cheeks as she headed back to the bistro for a feed. If she wasn’t going to get into the shop, she might as well nibble away her stress. Either that or whittle away her stress. She could whittle a dagger and imagine stabbing him with it. She’d eat first and whittle second. From the way she was feeling, nothing less than an entire pan of apple tarts would do. With ice cream and fresh whipped cream, of course. The anger she felt coursing through her was primal. A feisty redhead . . . how she loathed being a cliché. What say you? How dare he? Who talked like that? What was she supposed to say? I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down? Had certain people been given a secret password to utter? And if so, why wasn’t she one of them?

  * * *

  One shop’s rejects were another’s fortune. Naomi’s Bistro was crammed with those given the boot from the bookshop. Gráinne had even stepped up to help Eoin and Bridie ferry plates between the kitchen and dining rooms. Bridie was still putting on the cheer, but Siobhán knew her well enough to know it was all an act. She assured her they would have a lovely memorial for poor Margaret and that she had died a natural death. Had they not been jammers due to the weather, Siobhán would have insisted on Bridie taking a few days off. The sky outside was darkening, as if the mood of the heavens had just taken a turn, and one could feel a sense of collective anticipation hovering in the air. Siobhán was just about to head back to the garda station when Macdara Flannery burst in with a petite woman by his side.

  Despite looking light enough to pick up, the woman radiated strength; perhaps it was her perfect posture, or the crispness of a brand new garda uniform. She had beautiful dark skin and watchful brown eyes underneath her regulation blue cap with shiny gold shield. This must be Garda Dabiri. As Siobhán headed toward them, her attention was arrested by the canvas bag in Macdara’s hands. It was green and navy blue, the gold logo splashing the title: TURN THE PAGE.

  Siobhán gasped. “They let you in?”

  Macdara cocked his head and gave her one of his looks. It was totally unfair that his sky-blue eyes and lopsided smile were his weapons of choice. “You sound shocked.”

  “What say you?” she mimicked, dying to hear the appropriate response.

  He grinned. “Shut your eyes and see. ”

  Whatever malarkey this was, she was going to give out to him later. Her eyes flicked to the woman beside him. “You must be Garda Dabiri.” She smiled, hoping the woman would know her frustration was all aimed at the handsome Detective Sergeant next to her.

  Garda Dabiri smiled and waggled a finger. “You can call me Aretta. Unless we’re on a case.” Aretta had a lovely Dublin accent. Siobhán hoped her experience growing up in Ireland had been a good one, but they had loads of time to share personal stories.

  On a case. She had ambition. Just like Siobhán had already heard. Aretta Dabiri was the buzz of Templemore Garda College. She had moved to Ireland with her parents and siblings when she was a wee girl. Originally from Nigeria, they had settled in Dublin. Aretta’s father came here to study at Trinity College, and had eventually become an Irish citizen. Siobhán was looking forward to working with Aretta and getting to know her.

  “Lovely to meet you, I’m Siobhán.” She leaned in. “Or Garda O’Sullivan if we’re on a case.”

  “I know all about you,” Aretta said, flashing a bright smile. “You’re the talk of Templemore.”

  “I was just thinking the same about you.”

  Macdara patted his stomach. “Can we continue this bonding process while we sit?” he said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a small horse.”

  “Shut your eyes and see,” Siobhán said. She held up a finger. “One moment . . . There’s brown bread in the oven.”

  “You’re not running away to Google it, are ya?” Macdara’s grin was way too big for his face. She whirled around and zoomed into the kitchen, where she indeed whipped out her smartphone and Googled Shut your eyes and see.

  James Joyce. Dubliners. Interesting. She had never finished a Joyce novel, something she’d never dare say out loud. Every time she’d given it a go she ended up falling asleep. No fault of the author of course; instead she was pretty sure she had some kind of undiagnosed reading-sleep syndrome.

  She returned to the dining room. Macdara and Aretta were in the two-seater by the window, Dara’s favorite spot. Even the locals knew to keep it open for him.

  “You quoted James Joyce?” she said, hands on hips. Not a chance.

  He held up the bag and dangled it. “Proof is in the pouch.”

  She slid her eyes over to Aretta. The corners of her mouth were struggling to suppress a grin. “I suspect you’re a big reader,” Siobhán said.

  Aretta gave a little shrug. “I wouldn’t want to be telling on my boss on my first day,” she said.

  They certainly had a fresh one. She’d get over that soon. “It’s good to have a reader on the force.”

  “Are you a big reader yourself?”

  “A big reader?” The question sounded innocent, so why did it make Siobhán want to curl up in the corner? She had always meant to be a big reader. Besides devouring Maeve Binchy, her mam hadn’t been a big reader, but her da certainly was, and had always encouraged it in his children. He loved history, biographies, and literature. Between her father’s love of reading and listening to her customers chat about their latest reads, she was proud of the great Irish writers past and present. James Joyce, Edna O’Brien, Roddy Doyle, Seamus Heaney, Oscar Wilde. Those were only pebbles in an ocean of them. Colum McCann, Tana French, Paul Murray. All authors she meant to read. A customer had once accidentally left a Marian Keyes novel behind and hadn’t Siobhán stayed up all night reading? Yes. She’d laughed and cried and was a wreck the next day. That had been about a year ago. Had she done enough to encourage her siblings to read? No. Aside from books at Christmas, of course she hadn’t. A reading holiday, that was what she needed.

  Gráinne wasn’t a big reader. But Eoin definitely was. And didn’t James love his history books, just like their da? Siobhán had maintained a regular library schedule with the young ones. But frankly, she had no idea how much Ann or Ciarán read for pleasure. Mostly school assignments, she guessed. Here she was, failing them again. Would she have been a big reader if she’d gone to Trinity College instead of Templemore? Maybe she would do nothing but eat apple tarts all day while pondering it.

  “She didn’t get into the bookshop if that answers your question,” Macdara said, after her long silence, practically purring he was so happy.

  “Just because I haven’t yet set aside time to get through Joyce doesn’t mean I’m not a big reader,” Siobhán said.

  “Wonderful,” Aretta said. “What are you reading now?”

  She could feel her cheeks heat up. “I’m between books right now, which is why I’m going to the bookshop as soon as me shift is finished.” Shut your eyes and see. Oran McCarthy was going to be the one given an eye opener if he didn’t let her into the shop this time.

  “They’re closing early today,” Macdara said.

  “What?” Siobhán hadn’t realized she was shouting until she saw Aretta flinch.

  Macdara nodded as he nudged the brown sauce closer to him and eyed the kitchen as if telepathically calling out for his sausages. “Seems they have big-time authors to greet.”

  “Big-time authors? In Kilbane?”

  “They’ve been in town for two days. Something I didn’t find out myself until we had to push back the opening of the bookshop.”

  Right. Those must be the visiting authors the twins had mentioned. Siobhán had forgotten all about it. They certainly weren’t getting off on the right foot with these owners. Was that why they were playing games about who got to enter their shop? “What a way to greet them,” Siobhán said, referring to the visiting authors and thinking of poor Margaret lying dead on the footpath. “Do these visiting authors know about Margaret O’Shea?”

  Macdara no
dded. “I heard Margaret was in one of her black moods, and they all witnessed it. It sounds as if the poor woman wasn’t feeling well all along.”

  Margaret had been a character, and her moods were often stark. “Rest in peace,” Siobhán said, crossing herself.

  Irish authors in Kilbane. She hadn’t had much time to think about it, but it was exciting. What a perfect way to encourage her brood to read more, herself included. Siobhán would go mental if she didn’t get a look inside that bookshop, especially since Dara had already been inside. “The line to the shop was awfully long,” she said. “Do you think I should pop by right now to make sure they’re not over capacity?” She held her breath. “Officially, like?” Desperate times and all that.

  Macdara waved his hand like she shouldn’t bother and brightened as Bridie approached with their breakfasts. Macdara had the full Irish breakfast, but Aretta only had a small bowl of porridge. Perhaps she was too nervous to eat on her first day. “I think they’re fine given most people were booted from the line,” Macdara said to his heaping plate. “As you well know.”

  He was enjoying this way too much. “If Irish authors are coming to the bookshop I’d better check the capacity.”

  “You’d better, boss,” Macdara said with a nod and a wink.

  Aretta lifted an eyebrow. “Boss?”

  “Of my heart.” Macdara placed his hand over his chest. Siobhán rolled her eyes. He was really laying it on thick this morning. Whereas they used to hide their relationship, now that they were getting married, Macdara had turned into a pile of mush. He’d better sort himself out. He’d been pressuring her to set a date for the wedding. Just the thought of it made her feel tied up in knots, and not the wedding kind. She had given it a lot of thought and had decided that a wedding at thirty sounded about right. She hoped he wasn’t going to be disappointed with the wait.

  “I’ll leave you to your food and check back at the station after I’ve popped into the shop.” Shut your eyes and see, she repeated to herself.

  “You can’t use the same quote,” Macdara said as she was halfway to the door.

  “What?” She hated when he seemed to read her mind.

  “He won’t let in repeats. All the easily Google-able ones are out.”

  What on earth was the matter with that man? She had half a mind to give him a good shake and the other half to slap him. “Not a bother,” she sang.

  Chapter 5

  Her father’s bookshelf was in the corner of Siobhán’s bedroom, and Dubliners was on the first shelf. She would just bring the book, and if Oran McCarthy wasn’t happy with the quote she picked out, she’d knock him on the head with it. Besides, she was going on official garda business.

  On the way, hustling ahead of her on the footpath, Siobhán spotted Leigh Coakley, or rather she spotted Leigh’s unmistakable golden curls bouncing as she hustled toward the bookshop. Coakley, the owner of Blooms, a local flower shop, was also an aspiring writer. She must have felt a presence behind her, for she whirled around, her hazel eyes alert. She relaxed when she saw it was Siobhán.

  “You put the heart in me crossways,” Leigh said, holding a book and a bouquet of roses in every color imaginable across her chest. She looked around, then leaned in and whispered, “Ever since poor Margaret O’Shea I’ve been a bit on edge. You know yourself.”

  “I know. Tis awful.”

  “Isn’t it though?” Leigh shook her head. “She was in some mood the night of our book club.”

  “I heard.” Siobhán eyed the roses in Leigh’s hand. “Going to the bookshop?” Are those roses a bribe?

  Leigh nodded, her expression radiating excitement. “I hear not everyone gets in.”

  Siobhán was thrilled to be able to impart some wisdom onto the locals. “You have to quote James Joyce.”

  “Or Seamus Heaney,” Leigh said, mentioning the famous Irish poet/playwright and nodding. “History says/don’t hope on this side of the grave. ”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s a Seamus Heaney quote.”

  “Of course,” Siobhán said brightly. “I brought Dubliners.” Siobhán lifted the book.

  “It can’t be ubiquitous.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Speaking of my ladies’ book club . . . would you like to join?” She held up the book in her hand. Musings on a Hill, by Nessa Lamb. “I’ve just started it but I’m already hooked.”

  Siobhán had never heard of the author or the book. She knew the answer should be yes, that she’d love to join a book club. And it did sound lovely. But also, time consuming. “I wish I could. We’re training a new garda, so my calendar is chocker-block.”

  “Aretta Dabiri?”

  News did travel fast. “Yes,” Siobhán said. “Garda Dabiri.”

  “I heard she’s a voracious reader, so I intend on inviting her to the book club as well.”

  “Wonderful.” Siobhán hesitated on the next question. It could be considered poor taste, and did it even matter? But curiosity had gotten the best of her. “Do you know what Margaret was so upset about that evening?”

  “I heard one of the authors ruffled her feathers. Lorcan Murphy I believe it was.”

  “What happened?”

  “Apparently, he had a bit too much to drink and stumbled into her room instead of his.”

  That sounded alarming. A strange man bursting into one’s room would give anyone a fright. “Wasn’t her door locked?”

  “She had just gone in herself and was turning to lock the door when it opened.”

  “And?”

  “And that was it. He didn’t get a foot inside, mind you. After gathering inside Margaret’s room for the book discussion, we were finishing up in the back garden—those of us who wanted a drink. Margaret, as you know, was a teetotaler, and so out of respect we decided to imbibe in the garden. You could hear her hollering at the poor man all the way from the back garden. The names she called him. We didn’t even realize Margaret knew all those words.” Leigh shuddered at the memory. “Even the pair of wolfhounds turned tail.”

  Siobhán laughed. Then her thoughts returned to Margaret and she sobered up. “The poor dear.”

  Leigh waved it off. “Lorcan Murphy meant no harm. His room is next to hers. It was an understandable error.” She sighed. “Still. He gave her quite a fright.”

  “But you saw her after that? And she was alright?”

  Leigh cocked her head. “I didn’t see her during that or after. Lorcan Murphy came out to the back garden and told us what happened. Believe me, the poor man was mortified.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t think it has anything to do with her death, do you?”

  “No, no. I’m only curious,” Siobhán assured her.

  “If you change your mind, you’re welcome any time.”

  “Change my mind?”

  “About the book club.”

  “Thanks a million, I’ll keep it in mind.” What was she afraid of? Falling asleep every time she tried to read the chosen book? Yes, because that is exactly what would happen. Then she’d show up to the book group and end up looking like an eejit. Unable to comment on the theme or scope, or poetic descriptions. Drool on the pages. No thank you. She sighed as they reached the bookshop. Once again there was a long line. “I’m on official business, I’ll see you later,” Siobhán said as she headed to the front door.

  When she drew close, Oran McCarthy pointed like the Grim Reaper. “The line is back there.”

  “I’m afraid we need to discuss capacity.”

  He sighed. Then turned his sign to CLOSED. “I hope this isn’t a trick to get in.”

  “I have a copy of Dubliners right here.”

  He pursed his lips. “Word is spreading. I’ll have to change it up.”

  There was a groan from the line as he ushered her in and shut the door behind him. “I’ve only fifteen in at the moment, and our capacity is a hundred and twenty.”

  Siobhán eagerly stepped in, enveloped by the lovely scen
t of paper and pulp. The shop was gorgeous. Wide pine floors, antique cream paint on the walls, and matching pine bookshelves filled with colorful spines lined every wall. She couldn’t wait to start touching them. She was still thinking of perusing the romance section but didn’t see any signs above the shelves delineating the genres. She spotted a giant poster by the register, propped up on an art easel:

  IRISH AUTHOR NIGHT

  VISITING AUTHORS:

  NESSA LAMB

  DEIRDRE WALSH

  LORCAN MURPHY

  VISITING LITERARY AGENT

  DARREN KILROY

  She didn’t recognize any of the names. Of course, Nessa Lamb was the author of Musings on a Hill, but she only knew that from running into Leigh Coakley. Her fingers would be sore from Googling. “Tomorrow night,” Siobhán said as if she hadn’t already heard. “How wonderful.” Her eyes drifted to a shelf near the counter where another poster stood that read: STAFF RECOMMENDATIONS. They were not alphabetical or even ordered according to year, and the handwriting was small and seemed hectic, as if the writer was in a race to get down the overflowing list of names: James Joyce, Roddy Doyle, Bram Stoker, Maeve Binchy, Geraldine Quigley, Anne Griffin, Niamh Boyce, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Beckett, W.B. Yeats, C.S. Lewis, John Banville, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh, Colum McCann, Tana French, Paul Murray, Colm Toibin, Emma Donoghue. Andrea Carter. Adrian McKinty. She was getting dizzy.

  “Just a wee start,” Oran said. “Padraig is still working on the list.” Siobhán nodded. At this rate, if she wanted to read even half of the names on that list, she would need to quit her job.

  Oran shifted, then shoved his thick glasses up with his index finger. “I was hoping I could have a few guards on duty for the author readings.”

  “Why is that?”

  Oran pointed to the poster. “Why, it’s Nessa Lamb, of course.” He peered down at her from his glasses, waiting for a certain reaction to the name Nessa Lamb.