Nessa shook her head and crossed her arms. “Unless you’re being investigated for murder.”
“We’re not seriously suspects, are we?” Lorcan said, as if it had never occurred to him.
“Does this answer your question?” Nessa held her smartphone out for the others to see. It was a local newspaper out of Dublin, and the headline read:
LAMBS AND ELVES TO THE SLAUGHTER
Nessa Lamb, writer of Musings on a Hill,
is a person of interest in the murder of indie author
Deirdre Walsh, along with Lorcan Murphy, known
for his gruesome Dead Elf on a Shelf series.
“My word,” Darren Kilroy said. “That’s abominable.” All heads swiveled to Siobhán and Macdara.
“That didn’t come from our office,” Macdara said. “I promise you that.”
“This is a cruel business,” Lorcan said. “They didn’t even mention my westerns.” He shook his head. “Gruesome? They’re missing the point entirely!”
“I didn’t kill Deirdre Walsh no matter what anyone thinks,” Nessa said. She placed her phone down and shivered. “The sick thing is—my sales have skyrocketed since this article came out.”
“I’d better check mine,” Lorcan said, rubbing his hands together.
“Aretta, will you pass around the sheet?” Macdara said.
Aretta nodded and slid a sheet with the An Garda Síochána letterhead across the table. Darren was the first up.
“What’s this?” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“We just need you to write your name in capital letters,” Siobhán said. “Easy-peasy.”
“I see.” Darren’s biro hovered over the line. It was not one of his author’s biros. Perhaps he saved the swag for events. He signed his name in capital letters and passed it to Lorcan Murphy. Lorcan produced his own biro from his blazer, a simple black one.
“I thought you already had me autograph,” he said with a grin to Macdara.
“Print please,” Macdara said. “In capital letters.”
Lorcan scrawled it as fast as he could. Was he trying to hide his identity? He flung it over to Nessa. She stared at it.
“I know why you’re doing this,” she said. “You showed them the one-star review with the note.”
Macdara and Aretta’s heads swiveled to Siobhán. She stared back, hoping they wouldn’t say anything in front of the others. Let Nessa think it was her note they were following up on.
“We won’t be doing anything,” Siobhán replied. “But our handwriting expert will.” Once again she counted on Aretta and Macdara not contradicting her, and she was relieved when they did not disappoint.
“You have an expert handwriting . . . person?” Darren asked.
“Forensic document examiner,” Aretta said. “That’s her official title.” Siobhán suppressed a grin. She caught on fast.
“Given Nessa has already referred to this, I think everyone should see it.” Siobhán slid the one-star review to the middle of the table. Although Macdara and Aretta were not obvious about leaning in to read it, Siobhán could see they were doing their best to study it inconspicuously.
Lorcan frowned as he read it. “Tis terrible,” he said. “But we all get one-star reviews. It would be more unusual if you didn’t have any.”
Darren reached into his suit for a pair of eyeglasses, put them on, leaned in, and read silently, lips moving. “The Hills Have Eyes,” he said. “The horror film?”
“I think this was written by Deirdre,” Nessa said.
“Including the written note?” Siobhán asked.
Nessa tilted her head. “I don’t know. I had never heard of this movie—The Hills Have Eyes . . . ?”
“Mutant cannibals,” Siobhán said confidently. Macdara coughed, trying to squelch his shock. “Perhaps she was alluding to the competitive nature of writers?”
Darren took off his eyeglasses. “Could it be a threat?”
“It’s obviously a threat,” Nessa said.
Or someone accusing her of plagiarism.
“Why do you think it was Deirdre?” Siobhán asked. She really wanted Nessa to bring up the plagiarism accusation unprompted.
Darren let out a sound, something between a groan and a gasp. “I think I know what it means,” he said. “And it’s all my fault.”
Chapter 19
All heads swiveled to Darren Kilroy, whose hand shook as he pointed to the one-star review. “I know the site the review was posted on. I mentioned that site in a blog post. A writer had asked me if I look at reviews when considering a new author.”
“And what did you say?” Macdara prompted when Darren stopped talking.
“I said I give them some weight, especially if a book has numerous one-star ratings. But I never would have paid attention to such a vile comment. It says more about the person who wrote it than the author. I’m afraid I must disagree with Ms. Lamb.”
“Disagree?” Nessa said.
“I don’t think Deirdre Walsh wrote this. She was a smart woman. She would have known it wouldn’t move the needle in her favor.”
“She posted it anonymously,” Nessa said.
“How did it come to be in your possession?” Aretta asked.
“It was taped to my door at the inn,” Nessa said. “The morning of the murder.”
Given none of them knew that Margaret’s death was now being investigated as a murder, Siobhán knew Nessa was referring to Deirdre’s murder. Another note taped to a door at the inn. An order formed in Siobhán’s mind, whether right or wrong:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
THE HILLS HAVE EYES.
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.
“Mr. Kilroy’s right,” Lorcan said. “We have no proof this was Deirdre. She was the one who was murdered. Quite frankly it strengthens your motive.”
Nessa Lamb glared at Lorcan across the table. He held her gaze.
“Please,” Darren said. “Mr. Kilroy makes me think of me father. Call me Darren.”
“Do any of you write ghost stories?” Siobhán asked, her eyes ping-ponging between Nessa and Lorcan.
Nessa shook her head and looked at Lorcan.
“Ghost stories you’re after?” Lorcan asked. “I can’t say I have.”
“What about you?” Macdara asked Darren. “Do you have any authors writing ghost stories?”
“No,” Darren said with a chuckle. “I’ve got me hands full with dragons.”
Lorcan leaned across the table. “I tink elves would fit nicely into your portfolio then, don’t ya?”
“Michael O’Mara might see you as competition,” Nessa said. “Whereas mine couldn’t possibly be considered competition. He wouldn’t have to worry about blurring the lines. I hear O’Mara can have quite the temper.”
“I heard it’s a miracle he can hold a biro these days,” Lorcan said. “Is he still blacking out in public?”
This was going pear-shaped. “What is wrong with you two?” Nessa said. “Don’t you see what she’s getting at?” Nessa reached her hand across the table but stopped short of touching Siobhán. “I see what you’re saying. You’re right. Maybe Deirdre didn’t leave that review.”
“What leads you to believe that?” Siobhán asked. Given Siobhán didn’t even know what she was getting at, she was eager to see what Nessa would say.
“I was the one getting death threats. It was dark in the bookshop. Deirdre was a victim of mistaken identity. It was I the killer was after. All this time. It was I.”
* * *
Soon after they concluded the impromptu interview. Siobhán, Macdara, and Aretta stood out on the footpath. Siobhán apologized for leaving them in the dark about the one-star review and accompanying note.
“I know we don’t have an official forensic examiner,” Aretta said. “But do you mind if I study all three notes to see if I can identify similarities?”
“I don’t see the harm,” Macdara said. “Especially now that we have their handwriting samples.”
&n
bsp; They were about to part when someone cleared their throat behind them. They whirled around to find Darren Kilroy waiting.
“Yes?” Siobhán said.
“I can’t help wondering why you asked us about ghosts,” Darren said.
“I’m afraid I can’t share that information at this time,” Siobhán said.
“Perhaps you would be alright if I offered some then,” Darren said. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone.
“Go on, so,” Siobhán said.
“Given Deirdre was accusing Nessa Lamb of plagiarism, maybe she discovered something else instead.”
They waited as he eagerly searched their faces for a reaction. “Out with it,” Macdara said finally.
“What if Nessa Lamb’s book wasn’t plagiarized but it wasn’t exactly written by her?”
“I don’t understand,” Siobhán said.
“Ghostwriters,” Darren said. “I’ve represented several in the past. What if Musings on a Hill was written by a ghostwriter?”
* * *
Eoin was near the window chatting with customers at a table when Siobhán and Aretta entered the bistro. Aretta, still jotting down something in her notebook, didn’t notice Eoin’s gaze on her, nor the intensity of it, but Siobhán certainly did. Come on. He had plenty of young girls after him, did he have to set his sights on her new work mate?
“How ya?” Eoin called, his eyes lingering on Aretta.
“We are well,” Aretta answered with a bright smile, oblivious that this wasn’t his normal grin. “And you?”
“I’m better now that you walked in.”
Siobhán rolled her eyes and headed for her cappuccino maker. Her brother had always had more confidence than all of them rolled into one. “Would you like one?” Siobhán asked Aretta.
“No thank you.”
“Would you like tea? Water? A mineral?” Eoin asked.
Aretta shook her head as she edged closer to Siobhán. “Your employee is very friendly,” she said.
“He’s my brother,” Siobhán said. “Chef, artist, and all cheek.” Eoin, meanwhile, had gravitated toward them and was in earshot. “Eoin, meet Aretta. Aretta. This is Eoin.”
Aretta nodded and waved. Eoin grinned and waved back. “I’m the most talented and handsome of the O’Sullivan Six if you were wondering,” he said with a wink.
“I see,” Aretta said. “That is good to know.” When she turned back, Siobhán noticed Aretta was wrestling with a smile, trying and failing to put it down.
“I actually have a favor to ask,” Eoin said.
Aretta tilted her head. “Of me?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been on a mission to expand our menu. I’ve been practicing French dishes for a while and I was wondering if you have any Nigerian recipes you’d be willing to share with me?”
Aretta smiled brightly. “My father is the cook of the family. Perhaps on his next visit I can introduce you and I will leave it up to you to wrestle his culinary secrets from him.”
“Oh,” Eoin said. “Absolutely.” Siobhán nearly burst into laughter. Aretta had handled that beautifully. Although Siobhán knew Eoin was genuinely interested in the recipe, she also knew which Dabiri he wanted to learn it from. “In the meantime, I am going to practice,” Eoin said. “I am thinking of starting with pepper soup and fried bean cakes.”
“I will offer my sampling services when you are ready,” Aretta said, flashing him another grin. Eoin’s face reddened in seconds. He grinned back, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen, whistling away.
“What do you think of Nessa Lamb’s claim?” Aretta asked when the machine from heaven stopped its frothing noise and the Irish Romeo was out of sight. “Or that of Darren Kilroy?”
“Nessa certainly threw a plot twist into the investigation with her conviction that she was the intended target,” Siobhán said. She gestured to the back dining room and garden beyond. The sun was slicing through the dark clouds, a rare sight the past few days. “Shall we go out in the garden?”
“Yes,” Aretta said.
The scent of lavender and mint wafted over Siobhán as they stepped into the back garden and she mulled over the questions Aretta had just posed. Nessa could have been the intended victim. But it was Deirdre Walsh to whom Leigh Coakley had said, “You should eat those words.” And it was Deirdre with the nut allergy. Siobhán shared her thoughts. Aretta nodded. “Anything is possible. That’s the problem with possible.”
“Is there no way to find out for sure?” Aretta began to walk around the small garden, taking in the flowers and herbs. “This is well organized.”
“You can thank my brother Eoin for that,” Siobhán said.
“He is passionate about being a chef?”
“He is. He truly is.”
“Perhaps I could teach him to make pepper stew.”
Siobhán nodded, trying to keep her reaction neutral. Eoin would be over the moon. “He’s also an artist. You can find his graphic novels at Gordon’s Comics.”
“The same shop where you wanted to speak with the owner because he threatened to sue the bookshop?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “But I do not have any reason to believe that Chris Gordon is anything other than harmless.”
“Are you going to try and find out if Nessa Lamb was the intended victim?”
“If there are traces of nuts on the pages stuffed in Deirdre’s mouth, then it would not be probable that Nessa was the target. Everyone knew Deirdre was the one with the nut allergy.”
“And if there’s not?”
Siobhán sighed. “Then I suppose it moves closer to probable.” But if Nessa was the intended target, and Deirdre obviously wasn’t the killer, then who would want Nessa dead? Lorcan Murphy? Arguably, he was the most successful of the authors in terms of income. He didn’t seem desperate to have Darren Kilroy as his agent. He could be faking it. But was jealousy of book deals and literary awards really a motive for murder? Jealousy in love, sure. But books? She supposed each profession had their mad actors. But weren’t writers supposed to channel their frustrations onto their characters instead of each other? Siobhán’s mobile rang, startling both of them. Macdara’s photo flashed on the screen as it rang.
“Good news,” he said. “Jeanie Brady is on her way, and should arrive in the morning, but our photos did the trick. She’s given permission for the body to be moved to Butler’s.”
That was good news. Finally, they could get their hands on the crime scene.
Chapter 20
Oran and Padraig McCarthy were waiting for Siobhán and Macdara by the entrance to Turn the Page. A black hearse, no doubt one from Butler’s carrying Deirdre’s body, pulled away just as Siobhán and Macdara showed up. Siobhán crossed herself and sent a little prayer to the heavens for Deirdre Walsh. Then she turned to Oran. She couldn’t help but feel a little smug that the roles of who was allowed into the bookshop were reversed. Maybe she should require Oran to quote from the An Garda Síochána handbook to gain entrance. Not that they would be allowed in today, but they would need to explain to them how to access the secret room.
“We’ll show you,” Oran said. “Do you have extra protective gear?” He stared at their booties, gloves, and gown.
“You’ll have to tell us instead,” Siobhán said. “From out here.”
Oran chewed on his bottom lip. Padraig patted Oran’s elbow, then turned to them with a smile. “Anything at all.”
“How do we open the bookshelf?” Siobhán said.
“The secret door,” Padraig corrected.
Oran’s mouth twitched.
“What?” Siobhán asked.
“It’s a secret door,” Padraig repeated.
“Promise me this will stay between us,” Oran said. “We went to a lot of trouble having it built, and if a secret door isn’t secret anymore, then there’s really no point at all in having one, is there?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “What was the point in the first place?”
&nbs
p; “Just a bit of fun,” Padraig said.
“How’s that working out for you?” Siobhán said.
Oran stared at Siobhán. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a difficult person?”
“Not in such polite terms,” Siobhán replied.
Macdara cleared his throat. “I’d like a better explanation for why you think you needed a secret door.”
Oran sighed. “It was a lark at first,” he said.
“A lark?” Macdara asked.
Padraig nodded. “Yes. As in, we had too many glasses of Cabernet one night and were daydreaming about the shop and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to have a secret bookcase that opened into our office.’ ”
“I never knew Padraig would actually follow through with it. But that’s the kind of man he is,” Oran said.
Oran stopped to smile at his husband, and Padraig smiled back before turning to Siobhán. “When you face the bookcase you’ll see a red leather book on the farthest upper-right-hand corner. You’ll see a little notch that marks the spot.”
“Red book, farthest upper-right-hand corner.” Siobhán jotted it down. “Title?”
“You can’t miss it,” Padraig said. “It’s not a real book, it’s a mechanism. Red leather.”
“Pull it out and push on the case,” Oran added. “It will swing inward.”
“What if someone randomly decided to pull the book out?” Siobhán asked.
“That wouldn’t do anything,” Padraig said. “The book would only pull slightly out, then seem as if it was stuck. There is no title on the spine, and it blends in on the bookshelf.”
“But you have to give the shelf a hard shove on the right-hand side precisely where you find the notch,” Oran said. “We thought the chances of someone discovering it on his or her own were slim.”
“Yet the lads who built it are aware, aren’t they?” Macdara said.
A look of worry came over their faces. “Do you think they told someone, and that person is our killer?” Padraig’s voice squeaked.
“Deep breaths,” Oran said. “Can’t have you fainting on the footpath.”
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 16