Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  James smiled and looped his arm around Siobhán. “I’ll let you know when I actually get the words out of me gob.”

  One by one, starting with Ciarán, and going in birth order from youngest to oldest, the O’Sullivans approached the headstones of their parents: Naomi and Liam O’Sullivan. Had they lived, this would have been their thirty-seventh wedding anniversary. They all chatted with their parents, Ciarán telling them he was getting good marks in school, asking if they recognized his deeper voice, and telling them he was taking violin lessons, and he would come back soon to play them a song. Siobhán was secretly hoping “soon” meant after years of practice. Ann regaled them with all her Camogie wins, and told them about the new bookshop in town. Gráinne chattered away about her accomplishments as a personal stylist, beautifying the citizens of Kilbane one by one. When Eoin’s turn came he focused on the bistro and the new dishes he wanted to add to the menu. Siobhán’s ears perked up when he mentioned there was a new garda in town whose family was from Nigeria and that he was interested in learning if she had any dishes from Africa that she could teach him. He didn’t mention his graphic novels. Did he think they wouldn’t approve? Siobhán, not wanting to speak of murder, also told them about Garda Dabiri and the new bookshop in town, and how everyone had piled into Naomi’s Bistro for comfort during the storm. James, the oldest and last to step up, talked about Waterford, and his desire to renovate older Irish houses, steering clear, as Siobhán had, of future marriage plans.

  “I bet they’re saying happy birthday to you,” Ann said to Siobhán, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Siobhán squeezed back, resisting the urge to crush her sister in a never-ending hug.

  “You’re right,” Gráinne said. “And we never got to celebrate.” Siobhán was about to tell them it was alright, they’d do it another time, when Ciarán’s newly deep voice started to sing.

  “Happy birthday to you . . .” The rest of the O’Sullivans quickly joined in and, moments into their full-throated rendition, Siobhán had tears streaming down her face. When the song finished, she hugged and kissed every single one of them, noting how Ciarán rubbed her kiss off when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  They each laid their lily on the graves, and Siobhán included a small heart she had whittled. Kisses were blown and they began their walk out of the cemetery. They were nearly at the exit when Siobhán spotted a figure kneeling next to one of the headstones in the oldest section of the cemetery. It took her a moment to recognize Nessa Lamb.

  “You lads go ahead,” Siobhán said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  “We’re having cake and tea for Mam and Da,” Gráinne said, disapproval in her voice.

  Siobhán sighed. “Murder doesn’t wait for cake,” she said, thinking of her birthday cake.

  “We’ll see you later,” James said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll save you a piece.”

  “But not if I eat it first,” Ciarán said.

  * * *

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Siobhán had come up from behind, startling Nessa Lamb, who jumped at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh. Hello,” Nessa said when she recovered. She stood and gestured around her. “I love cemeteries.”

  “You do?”

  Nessa nodded, her gaze traveling around the headstones, angels, and Celtic crosses. “Older ones, like this one.”

  “Yes,” Siobhán said. “I do as well.”

  Nessa smiled. “I like reading the names, imagining what their lives were like.” Her eyes traveled to the headstones for Liam and Naomi O’Sullivan. “I hope you don’t think I’m being disrespectful.”

  “Not a bother.” She gestured to her parents’ headstones. “Give it a try.”

  Nessa shook her head. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be fair. I know they’re your parents. I know your mam has a bistro named after her, Naomi’s Bistro, and there are six of you, the O’Sullivan Six to be exact, and I know your parents were tragically killed in a motor vehicle accident by a drunk driver several years ago.”

  Interesting. Had Nessa Lamb been investigating Siobhán? Was she simply a curious writer, instinctively doing her job? Or the killer, trying to get a bead on the enemy? Nessa opened her arms, then dropped them. “I listen. People talk. It’s a hazard of the job.”

  “We have that in common,” Siobhán said.

  “Oh?” Nessa said with a slight smile. “What have you heard about me?”

  This could be the perfect time to mention the plagiarism, but Siobhán wasn’t quite ready to play that card. Not until she sat down for her official interview. For now, she could hover around the subject. “I heard you didn’t get along with Deirdre Walsh.” She had also witnessed it herself at the first author gathering, but she wanted Nessa to think she was on her side.

  Nessa shook her head. “I hardly knew her.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “I know plenty like her,” Nessa said, doing some skirting of her own. “Authors who wear the stink of desperation.”

  “Have you read her work?”

  “I’d never even heard of her. It’s a mystery to me how she was included in this group.”

  “Why don’t I walk you back to the inn and we can continue this chat.” Siobhán didn’t want to remain here discussing the case any longer. This was a place she came to chat with her mam and da about her siblings, and the lighter side of life. Once again it crossed her mind that they didn’t need an earful about murder.

  “What’s this?” Nessa pointed to the carving of the wee heart Siobhán had left on the headstone.

  “I whittle. It’s a skill I learned from my grandfather.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Siobhán shrugged. “It’s hardly a novel.”

  They walked in silence at first, and Siobhán watched Nessa take in her village. Planters filled with spring flowers were starting to appear around the town square. On Saturday mornings townsfolk often gathered to plant more, the local garden committee summoning volunteers with their favorite motto: Many hands make light work. In addition, King John’s Castle with its passageway through the first floor of the four-story structure drew one’s attention to the town square. In the background the steeple of Saint Mary’s Church rose proudly, in front of them shop fronts awash in an array of pastel colors emitted a welcoming and friendly vibe. And in the other direction their ruined Dominican priory, affectionately shortened to the abbey by most in town, sat in the field with the river gurgling nearby, all of it encased within Kilbane’s medieval stone walls. This was home, and always would be. “Have you wandered everywhere about town?” Siobhán asked, as she pointed in the direction of the abbey.

  “At least twice,” Nessa said. “You’re quite lucky to have such architecture and history in one little village.”

  “We are indeed.” This was the most she’d heard Nessa speak and she wanted to keep her talking. “Where do you get your ideas?”

  “Everywhere. Ideas are all around us, all the time. I pick a little here, a little there, and start to put it together, like a wee bird building a nest.”

  Interesting. It was a little bit like investigating a case. “Did Deirdre say anything to you about her new project?”

  “The one dat was going to blow people’s minds? Her memoir?” Nessa used air quotes with the word memoir.

  “That’s the one.”

  “No. Why? . . . Oh. You’re looking for a motive. Yet another similarity.”

  “How so?”

  “Characters need motives too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course. Their desires drive the story.”

  “And if you were writing Deirdre Walsh as a character, what would her desire be?”

  “That’s easy,” Nessa said. “Success at any cost.”

  “That sounds like a specific gripe,” Siobhán said.

  “You’re astute,” Nessa replied. She sighed. “I suppose you’re going to hear this from someone so it might as well be me.” She reached into
her handbag and handed Siobhán a folded-up piece of paper. When Siobhán went to open it, Nessa put her hand on top of hers. “Would you mind waiting?”

  “What is it?”

  “I think it will be clear when you read it. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m called into the station for my interview.”

  “Why don’t you want me to look at it now?”

  “Because I’ll get too worked up. I’ll meditate on it before I see you again, and hopefully I’ll be able to keep my anger in check.”

  “That’s why I whittle,” Siobhán admitted, feeling a kinship with Nessa.

  “It’s that kind of detail that makes for a great character,” Nessa said.

  Siobhán nodded, not sure she fully understood. She supposed everyone lived life through the lens of his or her career. And some were more cheerful than others. But rage was one thing for an everyday citizen, and quite another for a murder suspect. Before she knew it, they had reached the Twins’ Inn. Nessa waved goodbye and headed for her room. Siobhán turned and began the walk back home. The minute she was out of sight from the inn, she opened the sheet of paper. It was a one-star review of Musings on a Hill. The review was typed and short. It seemed to have been printed from a Web site:

  Save yourself loads of time. This trash belongs in the rubbish bin.

  Below, in black biro, someone had scrawled an additional sentence:

  The Hills Have Eyes

  Chapter 16

  The Hills Have Eyes. Was it a comment on Musings on a Hill? Another reference to plagiarism? At the first gathering in the bookshop, Deirdre Walsh had brought up Nessa’s one-star review and Nessa accused her of writing it. Did she? Did she also slip this printed copy to Nessa to rub it in? Siobhán waited until Nessa disappeared into her room at the inn, and she was still standing in the courtyard. She heard footsteps approaching from behind and whirled around to find Emma standing before her hoisting up a huge black bag. “Here’s the rubbish from the rooms, only we’ve made a terrible mistake.” Emma shoved the bag at Siobhán, giving her no choice but to take it. “Actually. Two terrible mistakes.” Siobhán wished she had gloves. The bag was so full it was nearly bursting. It would be her luck to have it rip open on her way home. “I’m so sorry,” Emma added. “Eileen is sorry as well. Two apologies, twice, for two mistakes. Is that making sense to ya?”

  “No,” Siobhán said. “What mistakes are you on about?”

  “First mistake. We emptied all the trash into one bag. We forgot to say whose trash came from whose room. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Siobhán sighed. “Our directions were very clear.”

  “I know. They were very clear. We were so nervous that someone would figure out what we were doing that we collected it as fast as we could, and we . . . we . . . just forgot!” Emma threw her arms up, her voice squeaking.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Siobhán said. She didn’t need people poking their heads out to see what was going on. “And the second mistake?”

  “We can’t send you the security tape from the night before Margaret died, or the morning Margaret was found—may she rest in peace—or the day of Deirdre’s murder, or the day after the murder, or anything from this week at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Something went wrong. The entire week is showing a black screen.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  “I’m not. It’s all gone. Poof!”

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call the security company?”

  Emma nodded. “They said there’s nothing we can do. The storm probably interfered.”

  “Probably?”

  “They’re pretty certain it was due to the storm.”

  “And let’s say it wasn’t due to the storm. Are they able to tell us if someone deliberately went into the system and deleted it?”

  “I’d be able to tell you that. No. I’m almost certain of it.”

  “Certain someone did or certain someone didn’t?”

  “Certain someone didn’t. Almost certain.”

  “I need you to be certain-certain.” It made sense that the camera would have been affected the day the power went out, but Margaret’s death was days before the storm wreaked that kind of havoc. She was hoping to see if Margaret left the inn on her own two feet.

  “I would say that I am close to being certain-certain that no one got into our system because the person would have needed our password to do that.”

  “And your password isn’t something obvious, is it?”

  Emma started to blink rapidly. “What do you mean?”

  “Like twins or twinsinn or thetwinsinn,” Siobhán said.

  Emma burst into tears. Siobhán could hardly comfort her while holding a bag of rubbish, so she put it on the ground with a sigh, then patted Emma’s arm. “Alright, calm down, pet. Take a breath.”

  “Are you going to arrest us?” Emma was still blubbering. “We’re absolutely gutted.”

  “Of course not,” Siobhán said. Emma nodded, then wiped her face, blew her nose, and sighed as if she was disappointed. Perhaps they thought they’d find themselves in front of Judge Judy. “Thank you,” Siobhán said. She didn’t realize she was still holding the one-star review in her other hand until Emma pointed to it.

  “The Hills Have Eyes,” she said. “Now that was a spooky film.”

  “What?” Siobhán folded the paper in so she couldn’t read the rest, but was crushing it in the process.

  “The American horror film?” Emma waited. “A remake of Wes Craven’s film?”

  “Right,” Siobhán said. Not a clue. “What’s it about?”

  “A family’s car breaks down in the desert and they’re set upon by a group of cannibalistic mutants!” Emma’s eyes flashed with excitement. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Eileen nearly wet herself with that one.”

  “I swear I will never mention it as long as I live,” Siobhán said.

  “Are you planning on watching it?”

  “I prefer movies that keep me knickers dry,” Siobhán said.

  Emma trilled out a laugh. “You should watch it with that handsome man of yours. Have you set a date for the wedding?”

  Siobhán picked up her bag of rubbish. “I’d better get back to the station.” She had a feeling the person who wrote The Hills Have Eyes was commenting on Nessa’s book and not mutant cannibals in the desert, but she supposed they would have to examine all angles. But her gut said that that gruesome angle didn’t fit this particular plot. Unless something in the film was a nod to the novel. These writers were going to make her mental! She suddenly had a lot more questions for Nessa Lamb. Did she know who wrote the cryptic note? Did she write it herself? Had she ever watched this horror film? Maybe the person was poking fun. Calling all writers cannibals? Some days she wished she’d never become a guard. She could have stayed with the bistro, feeding Irish people instead of investigating them. Mutant cannibals. Now that was a first.

  * * *

  Aretta sat in front of the rubbish bag, gloves on her hands, her eyes sparkling with the anticipation of discovery. Siobhán had forgotten what that felt like, when the job was shiny and new, when she was itching to use the skills she’d learned at Templemore. She hadn’t intended on foisting the rubbish job upon her, but when Aretta walked into the station and spotted the bag, she asked for it. Notebook and biro by her side, she was set up in an interview room because they had the largest tables. Aretta had already divided the table into sections with names taped to each: Darren Kilroy. Lorcan Murphy. Nessa Lamb. Deirdre Walsh. And the last one simply had a large question mark, for the pieces of rubbish she couldn’t attribute to any guest in particular. Siobhán had a feeling that most of the contents would fall into that category. She had helped Aretta cover the table in clear plastic, for no matter how excited Aretta was about the task, rubbish was still rubbish.

  “My father never throws anything away that can be of use,” Are
tta said. “But you can learn a lot about a person from what they choose to discard. What a person deems worthless.”

  It was a novel thought. What would a person learn about Siobhán? She ate too many crisps and chocolates. That was hardly a secret. Perhaps one would learn that she was a runner from the number of laces she’d used up. She might be considered an underachiever from her endless to-do lists where she’d be lucky to mark a third of them as done. Or could that be interpreted as an overachiever for having so many items on the list in the first place? Much could be debated about her endless receipts from the chipper. The reason for all the shoelaces would become clear then, wouldn’t it? Perhaps she wouldn’t need to run if she just cut back on the crisps, and chocolates, and curried chips. But, luckily, she always tossed the chipper receipts on site; really, when would she ever need to prove she ate yet another basket of heavenly curried chips? Perhaps Aretta was onto something and Siobhán was relieved her rubbish wasn’t under scrutiny. “Don’t forget they are all traveling,” Siobhán said. “I think we’ll learn less than we would if it was rubbish from their homes.”

  Aretta nodded. “We shall see.”

  Siobhán stood in the doorway for a moment, wishing she could feel the same sense of excitement. “Are you sure you don’t want another hand?”

  “I’m sure,” Aretta said. “I’m tired of doing paperwork.”

  “Fair play to ya,” Siobhán said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”