Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “You should eat those words,” she said.

  Macdara turned to her with a puzzled look. “Pardon?”

  “That’s the gist of what Leigh Coakley said to Deirdre at the reading.”

  “Leigh said that to a visiting author?”

  Siobhán nodded. “Deirdre riled her up by disparaging Nessa Lamb’s new book.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of Leigh Coakley for this, are you?” He glanced at the rose as if wondering if its gorgeous red petals were poisonous.

  Leigh Coakley had never committed any crimes. She arranged stunning bouquets for weddings, wakes, and birthdays. Led bake sales. Organized charity drives. Ran 5ks. And had started the book group. She was bubbly and giving. It was like accusing the Tooth Fairy of murder. “I’m not leaning toward her. But you know as well as I do that in a murder inquiry everyone needs to be treated guilty until proven innocent.”

  Macdara sighed, removed his hat, scratched his head, and put it back on. “I’m still putting her in the Least Likely to Commit Murder category,” he said.

  “As you must. But I have a larger point. If Leigh is not the killer—”

  “She’s not—”

  “Then the killer was in the room when she said it.” You should eat those words. It could not be a coincidence.

  “It’s hard to imagine Leigh Coakley murdering anything other than her annual Christmas trifle,” Macdara said, still stuck on the thought of one of their neighbors being a killer.

  “And yet, here Deirdre sits, eating someone’s words.”

  “Are you saying the killer is Leigh or someone might be trying to point a finger at Leigh Coakley?”

  “The latter is what I’m mulling over right now, but we’re too early in the investigation to proclaim absolutes. You know yourself.”

  Macdara frowned. “What kind of killer would go to the trouble to create such a complicated ruse? Sounds like a writer to me.”

  “Misdirection. Whoever this killer is—he or she is both calculated and impulsive.”

  “We’ve covered this,” Macdara said. “He’s a planned opportunist.”

  “Correct.” Or she. She didn’t need to point this out to Dara; this was no time to pick on pronouns. “Do you think Margaret’s death is connected to this?”

  Macdara rubbed his chin. “She was staying at the inn with the visiting authors.”

  “She wasn’t the most pleasant person in the best of times, but why on earth would anyone harm an old lady?”

  “Maybe she knew something. Saw something?”

  “Lorcan Murphy was seen trying to get into her room.”

  “He said he had the wrong room, and didn’t everyone say he didn’t even make it in the door?”

  “That is what they said.” But Margaret was always watching everyone. She had seen or heard something. And it had gotten her killed. Siobhán’s fists clenched at her sides. This was personal. Poor Margaret. Poor Deirdre. “We have to catch him,” she said. “Or her.” She forced herself to look at Deirdre again, the pages protruding from her mouth. “I want to know what book those pages are from,” Siobhán said. The hardest part of investigating a murder inquiry was the waiting. They couldn’t touch the body, or the pages, or any of the books that had rained down around Deirdre Walsh. They couldn’t push on the bookcase and investigate the secret office. They could only observe and surmise until Jeanie Brady arrived. Her eyes traveled once again to the European history books littering the floor. Macdara followed her gaze.

  “Do you think the killer planned the exact spot?” Siobhán mused out loud.

  Macdara folded his arms and stared at the body. “Like some kind of message?” he said. “The European history section. Maybe they have a history together?”

  “Wow,” Siobhán said. “That would be diabolical.”

  “Indeed.” He sighed. “But it’s more likely where Deirdre was positioned when the lights went off. And the killer knew it.”

  “The killer could have stood in this spot and called her over. After all, none of us noticed the body right away.” She chewed on her lip. “Aretta said she saw a man flirting with Deirdre. Then she saw that same man come out of the bathroom.” They both looked to the door to the men’s room just a few feet away.

  “I should have been paying more attention,” Macdara said.

  “You couldn’t have known,” Siobhán said. “But she said he was handsome and flirting. Can you think of anyone who fits that bill?”

  “Me?”

  She laughed. “You’re handsome of course. Are you telling me you were flirting with another woman on my birthday?”

  He shook his head as his face reddened. “I meant Me as in—why are you asking me? I don’t know who’s handsome and who’s not.”

  “Men,” Siobhán muttered. “Course you do. You’re just too afraid to say it.”

  He harrumphed. “I suppose Lorcan Murphy fits that bill.”

  “I was thinking the same,” Siobhán said.

  “You think he’s handsome, do you?”

  “I did when he was only killing fictional elves,” Siobhán said. “But nothing makes beauty fade quicker than an evil soul.”

  Macdara straightened up. “He seems like a good egg to me. Even if he was the one flirting with Deirdre Walsh, that doesn’t make him a killer.”

  “But it does put him at the exact spot of her murder shortly before it happened,” she said lightly. Maybe they were both too close to the people involved to investigate. They had already formed opinions of them. But killers could be likable. Charming even. It was one of the things that made this business so tough.

  “Do you have your smartphone on you?” Macdara asked.

  “Of course.” Macdara didn’t own a smartphone. He liked to quip that he would stick with his dumb one for the rest of his life. That didn’t stop him from asking Siobhán to use hers for a multitude of purposes, her least favorite looking up scores for eejit sports games.

  “See if you can get a picture of the pages,” Macdara said. That wasn’t a bad idea.

  She pulled her camera up, zoomed in, and snapped.

  “Can you zoom in on them?”

  “I think I know how to work me own phone,” she said lightly. He laughed. She fiddled with her phone some more until she had enlarged the photo. “Musings on a Hill. Nessa Lamb’s book.” Macdara gave a low whistle. “If the killer is going for misdirection, the pages in her mouth could be a ruse too,” Siobhán said. “But we’ll have no choice but to follow the trails, even if they lead us on a wild goose chase.”

  “I see what you did there,” Macdara said, chuckling.

  “What did I do?”

  “Goose? Lamb?”

  “Unintended.”

  “Even funnier.” Humor was the salve that got them through the dark world of investigating murders.

  “If Nessa Lamb is the killer, would she be bold enough to advertise it this way?”

  “You would think not. But maybe. If that’s exactly what she wanted us to think.” They were dealing with writers. Craftsmen of story. It was putting her on edge. Siobhán had never felt so unsure of her investigative skills.

  “Let’s get the crime scene photographer in here, then the forensics team,” Macdara said.

  They called in the photographer, a lovely young woman out of Cork City, and after engaging in a polite chat stepped back as she began her work. “What do you think of Oran and Padraig?” Macdara asked Siobhán.

  Siobhán hesitated. “My first instinct is to rule Oran out.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Who would go to all the trouble to open a bookshop only to murder one of their visiting authors one day after they arrive?”

  “Why indeed.” He paused. “You specifically said Oran. Not Padraig?”

  “I like both of them. But . . .” She thought of Padraig’s wet coat. What if he’d run out to the adjacent building, used the supposed door connecting them, opened the secret bookcase in the blackout, murdered Deirdre, then prete
nded to be coming back in? She floated the theory to Dara. “He seemed out of sorts when he returned.” Then again it was pitch black, and everyone turned to stare at him. He was also about to faint. That could set a person off his game.

  “He left shortly after the power went out,” Macdara said. “I’m not sure he had enough time to do all that. We’ll have to test it out.”

  Siobhán nodded. “I don’t want it to be him, but we do have to investigate all the suspects.”

  “We don’t want it to be any of them, it appears.” He gazed around the bookshop. “What about the fainting incident?”

  “It looked genuine. Oran said it’s happened before. And why else would they have smelling salts at the counter?”

  “Indeed,” Macdara said. Siobhán knew he could see what she did. Oran and Padraig had put a lot of love into the shop. Their passion rang clear. It was almost unthinkable that one of them would ruin it for the other. On the other hand, it was nearly the perfect murder if it was one of them. For who would believe such great lengths had been taken to throw suspicion off one of them? Siobhán wished none of this was happening, that she could simply go back to arguing with Oran over his elitist selection of books. “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Macdara said. “Who goes to the effort to open a new shop just to risk the business by murdering someone shortly after it opens?”

  Siobhán considered it. “Padraig seems to have less influence over the shop. Perhaps he isn’t on board with this move.” Either way, they were going to have to dig into Oran’s and Padraig’s personal lives. Many people wondered how Siobhán could deal with the grisly business of murder. What they didn’t realize was that it was poking into the lives of the living that troubled Siobhán the most.

  “Are you saying Padraig might have killed to get out of owning the bookshop and living in Kilbane?”

  “It sounds extreme, but if he had an additional motive to kill Deirdre, I don’t think the bookshop would be a barrier.” Would her death drive up her book sales? Siobhán shared the thought.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Aretta wondered if Deirdre could have killed herself. What if this was a twisted way to sell her books?”

  “That sounds like someone with a severe mental illness.”

  “She was a writer,” Siobhán said. “I’m not trying to be smart, but she wouldn’t be the first writer in poor mental health.”

  “Everything is possible. But unless we discover she has a history of suicide attempts, I don’t think it’s probable,” Macdara said. “And if it’s Padraig, how would Margaret fit the picture?”

  Siobhán shook her head. “We don’t know yet if Margaret’s death is connected. It could just be an unfortunate coincidence.”

  Macdara flipped through the pages of his notebook, then closed it. “Jeanie Brady can’t arrive soon enough.”

  “I agree. Deirdre mentioned she was releasing a memoir. Would she kill herself before it’s published?”

  “Did she have a copy of the memoir with her?”

  “Not that I’m aware.” They scanned the room, but until they could start touching things, it would be impossible to find out if Deirdre had brought this manuscript with her. “Either way, we’re going to need to get our hands on it. She said it was explosive. Could someone have killed her to stop a secret from coming out?”

  “We certainly need to find out. Hopefully it’s either here or in her room.”

  “That’s true.” Her room. They couldn’t do much at the crime scene, but they could start interviewing suspects and go through Deirdre’s room at the Twins’ Inn. “We’re also going to have to notify next of kin. I don’t think the others in attendance know her well. I hope we’ll find contacts in her phone.”

  “If not we’ll check her social media sites.”

  “Speaking of her phone . . .” Siobhán looked around the crime scene. “No handbag. No phone.”

  “Unless the phone is in her pocket,” Macdara said. He held up a finger. “I’ll make a call.” He strode outside. Under some circumstances, they could get permission to pat down the body and remove possible objects from the pockets such as a phone. Hopefully they would be granted that permission. Notifying the family was a difficult but imperative task. Then again, it was likely that Deirdre was on social media, and hopefully one way or another her loved ones could be quickly tracked down. Dara returned.

  “We can pat her down,” he said.

  “She’s not wearing a raincoat,” Siobhán said. “Maybe the umbrella belongs to her.”

  “That will have to wait until we can process the entire crime scene,” Macdara said. “I’m assuming there’s a coat room, or designated area where they all hung them.”

  Macdara approached the body, careful to step over the books on the floor, and quickly patted her down. “There is something just underneath her left thigh,” he said. He pointed.

  Siobhán leaned in. “They look like reading glasses.”

  “Good catch,” Macdara said.

  “There’s also a biro,” she said, pointing out the lime-green pen.

  “I was hoping it would be her mobile phone.” Macdara didn’t make a move to remove the eyeglasses or the pen. That would have to wait until the body had been removed and they came back with evidence bags. Macdara took a step back. “That’s all we can do for now.”

  “No handbag, no phone, no room keys,” Siobhán said. “Pages stuffed in her mouth. It’s a murder.”

  “Technically someone could have robbed those items off her after she was already dead, but I’d say those chances are slim.”

  “Do you think missing items increases the likelihood that our killer is a woman?” Siobhán asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I doubt anyone memorized what Deirdre’s handbag looked like,” Siobhán said. “But any female could have been holding one without scrutiny. However, I certainly would have noticed if a man was suddenly holding a handbag.”

  “True, but in the dark and confusion it could have been set in a corner or slipped under a chair.”

  “Then retrieved when we asked everyone to step outside?”

  Macdara looked around as if envisioning the scene. “Yes. Even hidden under a raincoat.”

  “Do you think Deirdre was in possession of something valuable?” That didn’t quite add up for Siobhán, but she knew they had a lot to learn. Her eyes landed on the lime-green biro once more. There was some kind of writing on it, but she couldn’t make it out, not even when she zoomed in with the camera on her phone. Her fingers itched to pick it up. Did Deirdre drop it, or the killer? She pointed it out to Macdara.

  “I can’t make it out either,” he said. They turned to the photographer.

  “All finished,” she said, lifting up her camera. Siobhán was itching to pick the biro up, test it for fingerprints, grab a hold of something that would point them in the direction of a killer. But procedures were there for a reason, no matter how mental it made her.

  “I’ll make sure to e-mail the photos straightaway,” the photographer said before she left. Digital cameras had sped up the investigative process, and Siobhán was grateful for that. At least it wouldn’t be long before they could examine the photographs and forensics could now collect fingerprints and put markers near objects that might turn out to be evidence.

  “Shall we head to the Twins’ Inn?” Siobhán said.

  “I’m afraid we might be waking them up, but yes. The sooner we get into Deirdre’s room, the better.”

  “Don’t forget Margaret’s room as well.”

  Macdara nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll give them a bell so they can at least change out of their jammies, and put those hounds in the back garden.”

  The wolfhounds were beautiful, but protective of the twins. If someone had murdered Margaret, it made sense that they would want to do it away from two enormous wolfhounds.

  “I never officially got to say happy birthday,” Macdara said as they headed for the exit. “I have a little somet
hing for you too.” They had just passed the table with her birthday cake. The word MURDER was starting to bleed.

  “Save it until we catch the killer,” Siobhán said.

  Macdara’s eyes lingered on the cake. “I must admit, I may never eat cake again.”

  “Who are you trying to fool? If that cake wasn’t part of a crime scene, you’d be digging into it right now.”

  Macdara sighed. “Maybe a wee bite,” he said, as he put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “But Bridie loaded it up with icing just for you.”

  Chapter 10

  The Twins’ Inn had received a welcome facelift since its days as the Kilbane Inn. The formation hadn’t changed of course. All the rooms were located on the same level and arranged in a horseshoe shape. Next door, a small house with a gorgeous garden served as the owner’s dwelling. The house had been given a fresh paint, the old white replaced with a bright yellow, and extended to the facade of the inn. The purple trim really made both the house and the inn pop. In front of the inn, what used to be a bare patch of dirt was now an extension of the garden, bursting with spring flowers. It was downright cheerful. The twins, attractive and lively women in their thirties, were identical. They leaned into it, even wearing their wavy brunette locks in the same shoulder-length cut, with feathered fringes. They often dressed alike too. Today, despite the warning phone call, they were in matching jammies with thick pink robes and bunny slippers. One of them was named Emma, the other Eileen. Neither had a husband or children, something, given their youth and good looks, the villagers often remarked on. Siobhán could never tell them apart. They were waiting outside the office clutching fat mugs of tea as Siobhán and Macdara approached. The bunny slippers were jarring given the tears brimming in their eyes. Once they drew closer, Siobhán was able to read the writing on their mugs: GOOD THINGS COME IN PAIRS.

  “We loved her,” the one on the left said. “We loved Deirdre Walsh.”

  “Loved her,” the other agreed. They each placed a hand over their heart and shook their heads.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” one said. “We just put the kettle on.”

  Siobhán and Macdara politely declined. “You’ve read Deirdre’s work?” Siobhán asked.