“It’s not a bother, I’m offering.”
“Yes, please.” Aretta turned her concentration to the task at hand. Siobhán set about fetching the tea, then added a tin of biscuits, and when she returned, Aretta was lost in the process of sifting. She nudged the tea close to her when Siobhán set it in front of her, but she made no move to open the tin of biscuits. Siobhán was dying to ask her if she ever ate, and how much, and what she liked to eat, but she hadn’t figured out a polite way to do it. “Did you go to the chipper with Detective Sergeant Flannery today?”
“We did,” Aretta said.
“Aren’t their curried chips heavenly?”
“I prepared my own lunch today,” Aretta said. “But I enjoyed the conversation.”
“Lovely,” Siobhán said. She wanted to ask what Aretta had prepared for lunch, but maybe if she had wanted Siobhán to know she would have elaborated. Siobhán was nearly out the door when Aretta called out.
“I nearly forgot. Leigh Coakley was in to see you.”
What now? “Oh?”
“She wanted to know if you made any progress on that lurker.”
Siobhán had forgotten all about the lurker. “I’ve been busy with mutant cannibals,” Siobhán said.
This made Aretta stop and look up. “What?”
“I’m only messin’,” Siobhán said. “Have you ever seen the film The Hills Have Eyes?”
Aretta shook her head. “Is it a documentary?”
“No. It’s a horror film.”
“I only watch documentaries.” Aretta stated it matter-of-fact and went back to her sorting.
Siobhán nodded, as she searched her mind for documentaries she’d watched and could pontificate on, but the only one she could remember was one where some man gained three stone eating nothing but burgers and fries for a year. Given Aretta’s tiny appetite she didn’t think it wise to mention it. “Refresh my memory about this lurker? He was a big man in need of a wash with red hair. She saw him going through rubbish?”
“That’s it.” Aretta smirked. “Not unlike me.”
Siobhán laughed. “I’d say a different goal entirely. Unless our lurker was trying to learn about folks in this village.”
“Doubtful.”
“Indeed.” A lurker hardly seemed like a top priority, but given they planned on speaking with Leigh anyway, and were hoping to do it without making her feel like a suspect, this might just be the perfect excuse to chat with her.
* * *
Leigh Coakley’s interview wasn’t scheduled until the next day. Siobhán headed home for lunch, mulling over the prospect of paying her an impromptu visit. She smiled as the bell to Naomi’s Bistro dinged, announcing her arrival. The front dining room was filled with patrons, but in the back dining room she found Ann and Ciarán huddled at a table near the garden, thumb wrestling. From Ann’s cries of pain, it seemed Ciarán was winning.
“Why aren’t the pair of ye in school?”
“It’s teacher’s day,” Ann said.
Siobhán had forgotten all about it. Teachers used this day to catch up on grading and planning. “Why don’t you come with me to the flower shop. We’ll get some plants and seeds and you can spend the afternoon doing some gardening.”
“Yes!” Ann was keen.
“Can I ride bikes with Paul?” Ciarán asked. Paul was a skinny lad always zipping about town on his bicycle.
“Do you have any homework?”
“Finished it this morning.”
“Good lad. Fine. Wear your helmet and be back in an hour.”
“Two?”
“No more than two.”
Ciarán bounced off. Ann watched him go. “He used to love the flower shop.”
It was true. He would help pick out bouquets and always insisted on carrying them home, then helping arrange them in vases. “He’s growing up,” Siobhán said. “Finding his own way.” She didn’t like seeing the changes either, but it was the way of things. “Ready?” she asked, grabbing a ham and cheese toastie to go.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Heya,” Eoin said as they were about to exit. Siobhán turned. He was slightly out of breath.
“We’re going to the flower shop,” Siobhán said. “Need something, pet?”
“I was just wondering when we might expect Garda Dabiri next?” He was trying to sound casual. Ann slapped his arm.
“You love her!”
Eoin swatted her hand away and turned to Siobhán. “Well?”
Siobhán struggled not to smile. “Honestly, she doesn’t seem to eat much, so I don’t know.”
“Tell her I’ll make anything she likes. Maybe she has some suggestions for our menu.” Ann made kissing noises. Siobhán placed her hand atop of Ann’s blond head. “That’s a lovely idea, I’ll tell her.”
* * *
Blooms had its own bell that announced Siobhán and Ann’s arrival, a tinkling that sounded like wind chimes. Leigh’s daughter, Agnes, just a year ahead of Ann, was at the counter staring into a laptop. She looked up and grinned when she saw Ann.
“How ya?” Agnes was a spunky girl, and despite not participating in any organized sports had an athletic look about her, short black hair in stylish layers. The biggest difference since Siobhán had seen her last was the silver hoop in her left nostril.
“Hello, Agnes,” Siobhán said. “You’re looking well.”
“Tanks.” She pointed to her laptop and looked at Ann. “Have a look at dis.” Ann hurried over to the counter to share in whatever secrets were on the screen.
“Is your mam in?” Siobhán asked.
“Mam,” Agnes yelled at the top of her lungs. The back curtain fluttered and soon Leigh Coakley emerged, wiping her hands on her apron, bits of green leaf stuck to her.
“Ann,” Leigh said with a bright smile. “Lovely to see you.”
“You as well, Mrs. Coakley,” Ann said perfunctorily.
“Would you like to join me in the back?” she said to Siobhán. “I have to get an arrangement finished for the memorial.”
“Memorial?” Siobhán asked, following Leigh past the cooler stocked with colorful flowers and through the curtain and into the back room. “What memorial?”
Leigh stood in front of an easel where she was working on a circular wreath awash with white roses and lilies. “They’re having a gathering at the bookshop for both Margaret and Deirdre as soon as they’re able to reopen.”
They were expecting word from Jeanie Brady any minute now to be granted permission for the body to be moved to Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. And given Jeanie would also have to do an examination on Margaret’s body, it would be a while before either of them had official funerals. A memorial was a good idea, but Siobhán did not like the fact that she was the last to know.
“I see.” Siobhán felt the sting of rejection, even though she understood it came with the territory. Either way they were out of their minds if they thought she would stay away. “Garda Dabiri said you came to the station to see me,” Siobhán said.
“Yes,” Leigh said. “That reminds me. I have a welcome bouquet for her. Will you bring it back with ya?”
“Fair play to ya. Course I will.”
“Thank you.”
“She said you mentioned a lurker?”
Leigh nodded. “He was going through my rubbish bins the night before the murder. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, as the poor thing looks as if he’s living on the streets, but given what happened to poor Deirdre, I thought—well, what if it’s him and I say nothing?”
“What if it’s him?”
Leigh swallowed. “The killer,” she whispered.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He was a big man. Burly. Dirty and baggy clothes. I couldn’t see his hair because he was wearing a cap, but he had a red beard streaked with gray. In his sixties if I were to guess.”
“Could it have been a Traveler?”
“I wondered the same, but then I saw him again this morning p
assing by the caravan park on my power walk. The Travelers didn’t say a word to him, so no, he’s not with them.”
As Leigh placed roses on the wreath, Siobhán looked around the tiny work space. At the edge of a table near the window was a paperback book. She nudged over and picked it up. The Dragon Files: The Flamethrower, by Michael O’Mara.
“It’s his latest,” Leigh said without even turning to her. “His best yet.”
“I haven’t read him yet,” Siobhán said.
Leigh’s spine straightened. “I certainly hope Oran McCarthy comes to his senses and realizes what a mistake it is not to sell his books.” She snipped away at stems. “Imagine if I only sold one variety of flower in the shop!”
“I am in agreement with you there.”
“Michael O’Mara lives on Bere Island. I always thought of taking a little trip, but it hasn’t happened yet. Not that I would approach him or anything. I’ve heard he’s become a recluse.”
“Oh?”
“Rumors are he’s drunk most of the day. I tell you, you wouldn’t know by reading him.”
“Rumors aren’t facts,” Siobhán said. “Perhaps he simply likes to keep his own company and tis only cups of tea he’s tippin’.”
“You could be right.”
“Speaking of Michael O’Mara, were you able to pick up one of his biros?”
“The ones Darren Kilroy was passing around?”
“The very same.”
Leigh reached into her pocket and pulled out a yellow biro with the megastar’s name splashed across. “Please don’t tell me you’ll be taking it as evidence.”
“No, you can keep it.” Leigh visibly relaxed, then handed Siobhán a white rose.
“Tanks.” She twirled the rose in her hand. “Did you bring roses for all the authors the night of the murder?”
Leigh frowned. “No.”
“What about the day before?”
Leigh shook her head. “I brought a bouquet for Oran and Padraig. You saw it yourself.”
If Leigh was telling the truth, where had Deirdre’s red rose come from? Just then, a vision of Nessa Lamb emerging from the limo rose to mind. She was carrying a bouquet of red roses. Siobhán tapped a note to herself on her phone to ask her about them. She couldn’t recall seeing a discarded bouquet at the crime scene. Then again, the day she saw Nessa with the bouquet was also before the murder. Was it possible one of the roses from either Leigh’s or Nessa’s bouquet dropped and remained on the floor? She had a feeling that Oran or Padraig would have noticed it and picked it up. It seemed like a little thing, but Siobhán had learned that often the little things could lead to big revelations. “I’m going to need a list of all the orders you’ve received since the authors arrived in town.”
Leigh stopped snipping and gazed intently at Siobhán. “I don’t suppose I can ask why.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“When do you need it by?”
“Can you bring it to your scheduled interview tomorrow?”
“Not a bother. Now, when will I be doing your wedding flowers?”
* * *
Siobhán was on her way back to the station when Macdara called. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
She stopped, bracing herself. “Try me.”
“The techs processing Deirdre’s room called. They want to know why we didn’t list her laptop among the evidence to bag.”
“Because it wasn’t there.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re saying . . . it’s there now?”
“Meet me at the inn?”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter 17
Twenty minutes later Siobhán and Macdara stood in front of Deirdre’s room, suited up in booties and gloves. The laptop in the middle of Deirdre’s bed wasn’t the only new addition to the room since they’d last entered. On the bedside table were three of Lorcan Murphy’s westerns, two of Dead Elf on a Shelf, Nessa Lamb’s Musings on a Hill, and no less than five installments of The Dragon Files, by Michael O’Mara. On the other bedside table sat ten copies of Deirdre’s latest book, Melodies.
A long period of silence ticked by as Siobhán and Macdara stared at the books and the laptop.
Siobhán was the first to break the silence. “Do you think whoever stole these didn’t realize we had already been in the room and so they put them back?”
“The crime scene tape on the door hasn’t been disturbed,” Macdara said.
“Good point.” Unlike some motels, this one did not have any adjoining rooms. They checked the bathroom and confirmed that the window was still nailed shut.
“We never followed up on this,” Siobhán said. “We should check at the hardware shop to see if any of our visitors bought nails or a hammer.”
“I don’t think our killer would be that obvious,” Macdara said.
“But sometimes they are.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” Macdara said as they returned to the main room. “But that window was nailed shut the last time we visited. And the crime scene tape hasn’t been disturbed.” He folded his arms and scanned the room again. “How did the killer get in?”
“It’s a mystery.” Siobhán picked up one of Lorcan’s books. It was not signed. She quickly went through the rest. None of them were autographed. “Let’s assume these belong to Deirdre. Why did she bring all of these here?”
“Oppo research?” Macdara suggested. “Look what I found,” he said, gesturing to piles of notebooks near the laptop. “The killer is trying to bury us in red herrings. I do not like this one bit.”
Cunning. They still had to process this new information, treat it as evidence, and the killer knew that. Was he taunting them? Or simply a professional at throwing up smoke screens? “Is the laptop password protected?”
Macdara opened the screen. “Tis.” Siobhán gravitated to the notebooks; there were three of them. She opened the first. There, in neat handwriting, on the very first page, Deirdre had jotted down passages from other authors’ books:
LORCAN MURPHY
The dust had barely settled when Rob Brant crested the hill on his purebred stallion, spurs jingling in the hot sun.
NESSA LAMB
The breeze is cool and the long night stretches in front of me. I’ve seen clouds before, but there’s something about the muted swirls above my head that keep me transfixed. It’s as if they’re speaking directly to me, or maybe I’m going mad.
MICHAEL O’MARA
Gitana inhaled, hoping if he blew as hard as he could, his fire would return with a vengeance. Instead, he exhaled nothing but toxic vapors. Not even a little spark, nor did he feel heat in his belly. Just a cold lump where the heat once raged. He was a has-been, a loser, a waste of a dragon.
LORCAN MURPHY
I woke up to discover the Elf had indeed moved, because instead of being perched on the shelf with that irritating little smile, the wee thing was face down on me plate with red sauce all around him and a giant cleaver stuck in his back.
Siobhán jumped when she realized Macdara was behind her, reading over her shoulder. “What in the world?” he said.
“If this turns out to be Deirdre’s handwriting, it looks as if she’s copying passages of their work.”
“I can see that,” he said. “But why?”
“Do you think . . . was it actually Deirdre who was plagiarizing?”
Macdara frowned. “Given what little commercial success she’s had, if she was, I’d say she plagiarized the wrong author.”
“Maybe she planned on choosing one of these next,” Siobhán said.
Macdara considered it. “Perhaps she’s just writing down her favorite passages from each?”
“Perhaps. But she didn’t seem like a fan of anyone else’s work but her own.”
“It’s probably a fascinating character study, but how does it help us find her killer?”
“I don’t know,” Siobhán said, putting the notebook down with a sigh. “Any Michael O’Mara
biros?”
Macdara looked around. “I don’t see any here.”
“Then the one near her body may have been hers.”
Macdara entered the bathroom once more. After a moment, he called out to Siobhán. “Look at this.”
On the back of the toilet was an unopened pack of cigarettes. Benson and Hedges, a common brand. “Another red herring?” Siobhán asked. “They were not there before.”
“We have to treat it as evidence,” Macdara said. He marked the pack with evidence tape. The forensics team would have to return and bag all of the new objects. “Did you ever see Deirdre smoke?”
“No. But I only saw her at the bookshop and of course she wouldn’t have been smoking there.”
“She could be one of those who sneak one here and there. If so, she didn’t have a chance to open this pack.”
Siobhán returned to the main room, strode over to the closet, and put her nose to Deirdre’s dresses. Then she did the same with the clothes in her luggage bag. “I don’t smell a trace of smoke.” She was about to close the closet door when something on the upper shelf caught her eye. A black leather handbag. “Her handbag,” she said. She opened it. In its depths sat a small makeup bag. No wallet, phone, or keys. This may not have been her preferred handbag. “This wasn’t here before either.” Siobhán had never had a case where a murderer returned evidence. “Whatever the killer was worried about us finding has no doubt been removed.”
“Is there a motel key?” Macdara asked.
Siobhán carefully went through the handbag. “No.”
“The killer still has it. At least we know how he or she got into the room. The twins are going to need to change the locks.” Macdara scratched his chin. “Why did the killer want to return her things?”
“Either because he or she removed incriminating evidence—”
“Or wanted to plant it,” Macdara finished.
“Can we even trust that all these items belonged to Deirdre?”
“I suppose we can’t.” Macdara sighed. “Did we ever find out if any of our other writers smoke?”
“I hear the writers have been hanging out at Butler’s Pub,” Siobhán said. “We should check with John.”
John Butler, the owner of Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub, would have no problem squealing on his clients as long as there was something in it for him.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 14