Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  Deirdre was a beautiful woman. Did she date at all? Had she ever been married? At this point in the investigation they’d only been able to locate a brother living in Australia. Aside from arranging for her body and belongings to be sent to a funeral home in Dublin when they were finished with their investigation, it didn’t appear as if there was going to be any family involvement. It was inexplicable to Siobhán that Deirdre’s brother wasn’t rushing home, not only to sort out her funeral, but to demand justice. It’s what she would have done. But she’d long ago realized that not everyone behaved in the manner she would like. Perhaps they had not had a close relationship, but blood was blood and she found it terribly sad.

  It was possible she had a lover somewhere wondering why she wasn’t answering her mobile. Or a best friend. Did she have a best friend? Siobhán had a feeling that even if they tried to get their hands on her phone records it would take forever for them to arrive. Even pinging the mobile phone to see if it was still emitting a signal would be a huge help. Time was not on their side. Not when a murderer was free.

  “Take us through the night of the murder,” Macdara said.

  Lorcan’s tongue darted to the side of his mouth. “There’s not much to tell. I arrived at six on the dot. I thought I was early, but the others were already there.”

  “Please name the others,” Siobhán said.

  “Certainly. Oran and Padraig McCarthy. Darren Kilroy. Nessa Lamb. And Deirdre Walsh.” He waited until Siobhán gave a nod. “Oran mentioned before we began the readings and signings that it was your birthday.” His eyes flicked to Siobhán again. “Happy birthday. I know it’s of little importance given the circumstances, but I did want to give you this.” He reached into a satchel at his feet and held up a wrapped present. It appeared to be a book. She hoped it was one of the elf ones.

  “Lovely,” Siobhán said, genuinely touched despite the fact that he could be a cold-blooded killer. “Thank you.”

  He beamed and set the gift on the table with a nod. “Let’s see. I was standing by the counter speaking with Oran when the public began to arrive. Darren Kilroy was at the counter as well, speaking with Padraig. Nessa and Deirdre were standing near the chairs.” He paused, then shook his head.

  Macdara leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to start rumors, or accuse anyone of anything.”

  “We just want the facts,” Siobhán said.

  “It was my impression that Nessa Lamb and Deirdre Walsh were having a heated argument.”

  “Go on,” Siobhán said when he hesitated.

  Lorcan bowed his head. “I feel as if I’m doing something wrong by telling you dat.”

  Little did Lorcan Murphy know, Siobhán and Macdara had a pretty good inkling of what that heated argument could have been about. Maybe Darren had been telling the truth. Had Nessa Lamb learned that Deirdre was accusing her of plagiarism? This didn’t bode well for Nessa Lamb.

  “Did you catch part of their conversation?” Macdara asked.

  “No. But Nessa was gesturing quite boldly and her face was red. I only noticed because she’s usually so quiet and reserved.”

  “Did you ask her about it?” Siobhán asked.

  “Not that evening.” Lorcan sighed, then rested his head in his hands. “I loathe this.”

  “We need to hear everything,” Macdara said.

  “After Deirdre’s body was discovered I joined Nessa at Naomi’s Bistro. I asked her about what I had seen.” He sat back and folded his arms. Then shook his head. “She lied to my face.”

  Siobhán stepped forward. “How do you know?”

  “She said they were talking about birthdays. Does she take me for a fool? Who turns red faced and waves their arms around for a discussion about birthdays?”

  “Some people are sensitive about getting old,” Macdara said. He didn’t dare look at Siobhán. She, on the other hand, glanced around his kitchen wondering where he kept the frying pans.

  “Let’s rewind to the night of the murder,” Siobhán said. “After you observed the supposed argument, then what?”

  Lorcan drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll be as precise as possible, but I can’t promise one hundred percent accuracy. I wasn’t expecting to have to recall every detail of the evening.”

  “Just do your best,” Macdara said.

  “Oran and I were interrupted by Padraig McCarthy. He wanted to talk to Oran. Something about going home to fetch something . . . a torch? Batteries? Something to do with the storm.”

  Oran and Padraig were renting a townhouse a short drive away. Under normal circumstances it would have been considered a short drive. But under such conditions? Would he really have driven home just for torch batteries?

  What if that story was a lie? What if the “storm” was Deirdre Walsh? Did Padraig have a reason to want her dead? He could have slipped into the secret room, waiting . . . but he was dripping wet when she saw him. There was no doubt he had been out in the storm. He could have gone out the front, snuck around to the back in order to spring out from the secret passage from the other direction. Then in the chaos and dark, reappeared in the front of the store, thus giving himself an alibi. But why? Did Padraig have a motive to kill Deirdre Walsh? Lorcan Murphy was still talking. Siobhán had drifted off imagining the scenario and forced herself to concentrate.

  “By this point Deirdre was standing alone by the women’s restroom. I headed over to say hello.”

  “Is that the reason?” Siobhán asked. “Or was it to find out what she and Nessa had been arguing about?”

  He opened his arms. “I suppose a little of both. She looked dejected.”

  “Go on,” Macdara said.

  “There isn’t much to it. I said, ‘How ya,’ she said she was fine.” He glanced at Siobhán. “She grumbled about having to postpone our readings because of a birthday party. Wondered why they couldn’t do it on their own time. I’m sorry.”

  “Not a bother,” Siobhán said. She supposed she couldn’t blame Deirdre for feeling that way. It was supposed to be their night. Then again, who didn’t like free cake?

  “Shortly after, the lights went out. At first I thought the young lad—the one with the loud voice who was all hyped up, running to check the front windows—”

  Ciarán.

  “—at first I assumed someone had turned the lights off because the birthday girl was spotted. But then you didn’t arrive. And people were asking each other if they’d turned out the lights, and someone announced the power was off. Then I heard noises from the front of the shop—the front door opening, because now you had arrived, and you know everything that happened after that.”

  “You didn’t hear any other noises?” Siobhán asked.

  “I heard too many noises. Mostly people chattering. Maybe a thud. I don’t know for sure. Could have been books falling, could have been Deirdre. But I can’t say for sure.”

  “Thank you,” Macdara said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “What about author swag?” Siobhán asked.

  “What about it?” Lorcan said. “I have a few bookmarks if you’d like one.” He pointed to his gift. “There’s one with your book.”

  “Was anyone passing out author swag at the event?”

  “The event never took place, so I couldn’t say.”

  “What about the previous event? Was any author swag passed out then?”

  “Oh,” Lorcan said as if suddenly remembering. “Yes. A biro. With Michael O’Mara’s name splashed on it. Darren Kilroy passed them out.”

  Macdara got out of his chair and headed for his bookshelf. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, I have all your westerns.”

  Lorcan glanced at the shelf and grinned.

  Macdara pulled out a book and waited. “If you have that biro on you now, I’d love an autograph.”

  “I don’t,” he said, patting his pockets anyway. His grin faded and his attention turned to Siobhán. “Does the biro have significance?”

  Macda
ra put the book down and returned to his seat. “I suppose I wanted to get my hands on one,” he said with a laugh. “I’m a big fan of the fire-breathers.”

  He was not. Macdara Flannery was back in the game.

  Lorcan Murphy tugged at his shirt collar. “I suppose it’s back in my room. I’ll have a look later if you like.” Macdara stared at him. Lorcan wiped his brow. “Or ask Darren Kilroy for another. He had loads of them.”

  Loads. If that was true, it wouldn’t help narrow down their suspects. “How many is loads?” Siobhán asked.

  Lorcan frowned. “Honestly, all these questions about a biro. He had a number of them clutched in his hand. That’s all I know.”

  “What color was your biro?” Siobhán asked.

  “I think it’s blue.”

  “You think?” Macdara asked.

  “I thought writers liked to observe the details,” Siobhán added.

  “It’s blue to me,” Lorcan blurted out. He sounded angry. For some reason they had touched a nerve. Was it his biro under Deirdre’s leg, or had he lost his biro underneath her window? “Tritanomaly,” Lorcan finally said. “Look it up.”

  “Why look it up when you can elaborate?” Macdara asked.

  “It’s one of the four types of color blindness,” Lorcan explained. “I have trouble differentiating blue from green and yellow from red.”

  Interesting. That meant either the one at the crime scene or under Deirdre’s window could be his biro, but given his condition, he could claim it wasn’t. They were going to need proof that he was telling the truth, although it would take quite a bit of premeditation to have that excuse on-the-ready.

  “Did you use the jax at all that evening?” Siobhán asked. The men’s restroom was located next to the shelves where Deirdre was found. Aretta saw a handsome man flirting with Deirdre. Siobhán had a suspicion it was Lorcan Murphy. Which put him right next to her near the time of her murder.

  “Is there a witness who says I did?” he asked.

  “I know these questions can feel intrusive,” Macdara said. “But please try and answer them in a fulsome manner.”

  Macdara was bringing out his fancy words for the author. Adorable. She for one wasn’t sure what to make of Lorcan Murphy. She wanted to like him. But just that fact put her on high alert.

  “I did use the restroom.” He swallowed. “Fine,” he said. “I did something terrible and I’d like to make a full confession.”

  Chapter 15

  “Should we take this to the garda station?” Siobhán said before Lorcan Murphy could begin his confession.

  “It sounds as if we should,” Macdara said, pushing back from the table and standing. Lorcan stood as well and put his hands up. “It’s not what you think. She was already dead.”

  The hair on the back of Siobhán’s neck tingled. “Tell us everything.” She didn’t want to wait for the station now. She didn’t want to give him time to rewrite this story, whatever it was.

  Lorcan was eager to talk. “I went to the restroom right after speaking with Deirdre. Before the lights went out. I was in there when the lights went out. I tell you, it was quite disconcerting.”

  “I can imagine,” Macdara said. “Go on.”

  “I don’t like the dark, okay? It’s somewhat of a phobia. There I was, instantly shrouded in black. I panicked. I was at the sink, and had to feel along the wall just to find the door. Then I came out, feeling along the walls again, and I knocked books down. I don’t know how many. And then . . .” He swallowed again, sweat appearing on his forehead. “I bumped into something. Kicked something with my foot. Something soft.” He gulped. “I think it was Deirdre.”

  Macdara sat up straighter. Siobhán moved in. “Why do you think she was already dead?” she asked softly. It was time to switch to good cop.

  Lorcan ran his hands through his hair. “Because I wasn’t expecting a person to be there, and my boot struck her. When I realized it was a person, of course I was aghast. That must have hurt. Or so I thought. I apologized. She didn’t reply. I’ll be honest—it frightened me. I convinced myself it was just someone being rude. Can you imagine?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was the one who knocked over the books, and if they find a bruise on Deirdre’s leg that’s probably from my boot. I don’t know if they are able to discern whether bruises are postmortem, but I swear to ye, I accidentally kicked her and she didn’t make a sound.”

  “Why did you leave this out of your story?” Macdara asked. He glanced at the tape recorder in the middle of the table. Despite his fondness for Lorcan Murphy at least he had the sense to bring it.

  “Because it’s too horrible to think about. Kicking a woman when she’s down is one thing. Kicking her when she’s dead is just a whole new level of horror.”

  * * *

  Macdara stood near his front door, clutching his signed book to his chest. Lorcan Murphy had just left. “What do you make of all that?” he asked, a tinge of hope in his voice that she would declare him innocent.

  “I did not expect the part about him kicking her,” Siobhán said.

  “Neither did I.” He shuddered.

  “But I don’t trust writers,” she said. “They’re too good at making things up.”

  Macdara sighed and placed the book back on his shelf. “I don’t see why he would lie about knocking books down and kicking her.”

  “If he’s telling the truth, then someone killed her within seconds of the lights going out. As if the killer was waiting to strike and had it worked out perfectly.” Siobhán headed for the door. “I need some air,” she said.

  Macdara looked at the clock above his sink. “We could get some lunch. Curried chips?”

  “No wonder I’m marrying you,” Siobhán said with a wink. “We should ask Aretta if she wants to join.”

  Macdara held the door open. “I would love to have lunch with Aretta, but I was hoping that you and I could be alone. Maybe talk about the wedding?”

  They stepped outside. It was gray and drizzling. They began to walk toward their favorite chipper. Siobhán knew this conversation was coming, but she was still dreading it. “I have been giving our wedding date some thought,” Siobhán said. “As you know, I just turned twenty-nine.”

  “We are going to properly celebrate your birthday when this is all behind us,” Macdara said, placing his arm around her and pulling her in.

  “Not a bother.” She took a deep breath. “What if we—” Siobhán’s phone dinged. “Hold on.”

  “What if we?” Macdara said. “What if we what?”

  It was a text from James.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  It took her a second to figure out what he was on about. When she did, she was mortified. “My parents’ wedding anniversary,” she said, placing her hand on her forehead as if to check if she was feverish. “It completely slipped me mind. We planned a group visit to the cemetery.”

  “Understood. Do you want me to join?”

  “I always want you to join,” she said. “But I think we need to do this alone.” She kissed him. “Take Aretta to the chipper. She needs to know where to get the best curried chips in town.”

  “I completely understand.” He kissed her and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll save you a basket of chips.”

  “Don’t bother, they don’t last, you know yourself. I’ll have to get my own basket tomorrow.”

  Macdara nodded. “I’ll enjoy them for you then, how’s that?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” Siobhán said with a laugh. “Enjoy away.”

  “Say hello from me.” They kissed again, and Siobhán hurried off for home. When she reached the bistro, she found her brood waiting on the footpath. They were all dressed as if going to mass and each of them held a white lily. James had one for Siobhán. “They’re gorgeous,” she said.

  “They’re from Blooms,” Gráinne replied.

  Leigh Coakley’s shop. They would be continuing the interviews of their witnesses (suspects) soon and that included Leigh
Coakley. Siobhán hoped they could quickly eliminate her as a suspect. The world would be much darker if their cheerful local florist was a calculating killer.

  “I want to change,” she said. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  “Make it one,” James said as she flew into the house. She quickly took off her uniform and donned a lovely spring dress and flats, took her hair out of its tight bun and shook it loose. It was getting long again and, unless Gráinne cut it off whilst Siobhán was sleeping, this time she figured she would keep it that way. Once outside she took her lily from James and they began their procession to the cemetery. Ciarán and Ann walked ahead, Gráinne and Eoin were in the middle, and Siobhán and James held up the rear. She hadn’t had a proper chat with her older brother in months. He’d been spending most of his time in Waterford where Elise had a new job.

  “Have you set your wedding date?” she asked him.

  He glanced away, kicked a rock with a shoe, and shook his head. “Have you?”

  She mimicked his head shake. “We were just about to discuss it when you texted.”

  “Saved by the ding.” James started to laugh, a low rumble, then Siobhán began to laugh with him. Soon, they were howling, drawing looks from the other four. “Elise is right,” James said. “We’re hopeless.”

  “I was thinking of mine in a year’s time,” Siobhán said.

  “And what does Dara think about that?”

  “I’ll let you know when I actually get the words out of me gob.”

  James put his arm around her. “I want to wait until I have a better job.” He was working as a handyman in Waterford. “I think I want to fix and sell houses.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Not any houses. The older Irish farmhouses.”

  “That sounds promising.” James had always been handy and loved working outdoors. At least before his drinking took over. She would be happy to see him get back to it.

  “There’s not much money in it at first,” he said. “Maybe ever.”

  “What does that matter as long as you’re happy and can pay the bills?”

  “Elise has bigger dreams for us,” James said. “It’s what she’s used to.” The pursuit of money had never been a characteristic of the O’Sullivans. Of course they wanted enough to get by. But apart from Gráinne’s dreams of being a stylist to celebrities, most of them seemed content with well-enough. In her bones, Siobhán always felt that money corrupted people. In her opinion, greed was a deadly addiction. She thought of an old Irish proverb: Money is like muck—no good till spread. Or her mam’s saying: “Your health is your wealth.” But Elise Elliot was from a wealthy family, and Siobhán suspected this was at the heart of James’s angst. “What does Elise think of you fixing up houses?”