“What’s in the secret room?” Siobhán asked. She didn’t want Padraig to faint on the footpath either, so she kept her voice light and veered away from the accusation that a stranger had accessed their secret door to commit murder. Although it was a troubling possibility.
“It’s our back office,” Oran said. “You’ll find a safe where we intended on keeping rare books. A desk. Inventory and boxes we haven’t unpacked. And a bookshelf shoved against the door to the alley.”
“Why?” Macdara asked. Siobhán remembered them mentioning this in previous conversations but it never hurt to get a suspect to tell a story again. Often little inconsistencies could be dead giveaways that a lie was being spun.
“When we rented this building, the owner didn’t have a key to that door,” Oran explained. “We intended on changing the locks, but until then we didn’t want to take the chance that someone had the key and might sneak in.”
“Did anyone ever try to break in while you were there?”
“No,” Padraig said. “But there’s always rubbish outside the door. Cigarette butts and whatnot.”
“I understand Darren Kilroy brought biros with Michael O’Mara’s name on them to pass out to everyone,” Siobhán said. Oran frowned, but Padraig nodded. “Were there any extras?”
This time they both frowned. “I believe they were all snatched up,” Padraig said. “If you really want one you can have mine.”
“What color is it?”
“Red.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Siobhán said. “Why don’t you two head to Naomi’s Bistro while you wait,” she added. “My brother Eoin is the chef. Tell him your lunch is on me.”
“We’ve been meaning to try Jade’s,” Oran said quickly.
Jade’s was the Chinese restaurant at the other end of the street. She couldn’t argue with that—their food was delicious. But what did they have against her bistro? One day, she would get to the bottom of it, but for now she put it out of her mind as she stepped into the bookshop.
It was strange to be back in a place that first brought her so much excitement, and just as quickly, a deadly shock. Macdara and Siobhán would go through the scene first and then the forensics team would collect any evidence and dust for fingerprints before turning it back to Oran and Padraig. Siobhán was horrified that her cake was still there, drawing annoying little fruit flies. It would be boxed up and sent to Jeanie Brady, probably not the sweet surprise she’d want it to be. The chances that it was poisoned and Deirdre had just happened to lick the icing were small. But still, it had to be done. They stood in front of the shelf, staring at the books scattered on the floor. Siobhán glanced up at the top shelf. She could reach the red book on her tiptoes.
“If one accessed the secret room from this side, they would have to be tall,” Macdara said.
“They’re all history books,” Siobhán said. “Long and heavy.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Someone could have fashioned a stepladder.”
“I hate it when you blow my theories out of the water,” Macdara said.
“I’m anxious to see if the door to the alley is still barricaded,” Siobhán said. “If not . . .”
“It opens up our suspect pool to the entire village.”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Go on, so,” Macdara said. “I know you want to do the honors.”
Siobhán stepped up to the bookshelf, stood on her tiptoes, and removed the red book. Then she found the notch, leaned into the right-hand side, and gave it a shove. The entire case swung open with a creak. Books jiggled on the shelf, but none of them fell. Impressive. Even though she was expecting it, Siobhán emitted a squeak of excitement and she heard Macdara chuckle behind her. She stared into a dark abyss.
“We forgot to ask them where the light switch was located,” she said. “Do you have your torch?”
“I can run and get one, but I didn’t think to bring it either,” Macdara said. “Paw around for it.”
It took her several attempts, but she finally located a switch and soon lights flickered, then stayed steady, revealing, as promised, a back office. Unlike the pinewood floors of the bookshop, this back room was made of stone walls and a concrete floor. It was colder in here, with a slight odor of mildew. Cobwebs gathered in the corners and the lights emitted a soft whine. The safe Oran and Padraig mentioned was in the corner next to a large desk piled with papers and books. There were numerous cardboard boxes piled against the right wall. A large bookshelf had been shoved against the back door, just as Oran and Padraig said. But instead of being shoved all the way against the door, it stood on a diagonal with a foot gap between it and the back door. There was enough room for a person to squeeze in from the alley. Siobhán and Macdara stared at the door. Specifically the lock. It was not engaged. Macdara cursed, something he rarely did on the job.
“Anyone could be the killer,” Siobhán said as he turned the knob on the door and it yawned open. “Absolutely anyone.”
“Technically,” Macdara said. “But a random person did not go to this kind of trouble to murder Deirdre Walsh.”
“Someone needed not only the motivation, but access and knowledge of the bookshop,” Siobhán said. “Would Oran or Padraig be so obvious?”
“Maybe they would. Hoping we would think it was preposterous they would do something so obvious.”
Siobhán exhaled. “If one or both of them is guilty, this was planned far in advance, starting with this secret door.”
“Let’s check out the boxes and the desk, and then the alley,” Macdara said with a nod.
The boxes, all twelve of them, held books. They were stacked up against the back wall, and given some of them looked old and rare, unless he was the one who opened it, she was pretty sure Oran was going to be outraged that the back door was open. The desk was crammed with the usual office detritus, and folders. A particularly thick one was labeled: DESIGN. It held wallpaper swatches and sketches, and sheets ripped out of magazines. Siobhán felt a twinge of pity for the pair. This had been their dream shop. It was obvious that months, maybe even years had gone into imagining it. And the final product had been spectacular. She hoped they were innocent and could keep the shop going, put this behind them. But right now, justice mattered the most. “Do we need any of this?” Siobhán asked.
“Anything financial in nature we’ll have to take,” Macdara said. “It could go to motive.” Siobhán nodded and placed evidence stickers on the folders that contained financial information. She held up a business card. CONSTRUCTIVE BUILDS.
“I bet this is the contractor who built the secret door,” Siobhán said.
“Good work,” he said. “We’ll contact them.”
Once they were finished with the interior, they exited the building and came around to the back alley. The lock had not been damaged, it was simply unlocked, which meant either Oran and Padraig hadn’t engaged it in the first place or noticed it was unlocked, or someone out there had a key. Or someone had picked the lock. Or they were lying. “What if Padraig and Oran do have the key?” she said.
“We can check with the landlord,” Macdara said. “But walk me through it.”
“Padraig left the bookshop that evening and returned soaking wet just as the lights went back on,” Siobhán said. “What if instead of returning home, he ran around the back of the shop, entered, waited for the blackout, then snuck onto the floor and killed Deirdre?”
“But he forgot to put the bookshelf back in front of the door? And he left the door to the alley open?”
“There wasn’t time to shut it. Once we discovered the body, we ushered everyone out the front and secured the building.” She stared at the partially opened back door. “The guards secured this alley. They wanted to leave the door as they found it.”
“I wish they’d brought it to our attention earlier,” Macdara said. “It’s possible someone could have snuck past them and entered our crime scene.” He rubbed his face. “Whoever our kill
er is, I do believe this is the point of entry.”
Siobhán scoured the alley. Cigarette butts, packets of crisps, and mineral cans dotted the landscape. They had bigger things to worry about than polluters, but Siobhán loathed anyone who would toss their rubbish anywhere but a bin. She pointed at the cigarette butts. “We should see if we can determine the brand. See if it matches the cigarettes found in Deirdre’s room.”
“Good thinking,” Macdara said. He put an evidence marker near the cigarette butts. “I’m going to have the team collect the safe as well. Oran and Padraig claim it’s empty. We’ll need to verify that.”
Siobhán nodded. “Hopefully they’ll give us the combination.”
“It won’t look good if they don’t. I have a department meeting,” Macdara said, glancing at his watch. “Will you shake down Oran and Padraig for the digits to the safe?”
Siobhán grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
“I swear it was closed and locked and the bookshelf was in front of it,” Padraig insisted.
“Not a doubt,” Oran repeated. “We never unlocked that door.” He licked his lips.
“And yet the door is unlocked,” Siobhán said. “Are you sure the bookshelf was flush against the door?” Siobhán had ambushed them at Jade’s and was now sitting across from them in a booth, eyeing their stir-fry and spring rolls.
“Positive,” Oran and Padraig said in stereo.
“I need to go through our boxes and make sure nothing has been stolen,” Oran said, stabbing into a spring roll with his chopsticks.
“I’m afraid that is going to have to wait. When was the last time you were in there?” She glanced at the spring rolls again. Perfectly crisped on the outside. Were they ever going to offer her one?
“Opening morning,” Oran said. “I haven’t been in since.”
“Neither have I,” Padraig said.
“We’re going to need the combination to the safe,” Siobhán said. What if she just took a spring roll? Casually, as if it was totally proper? Anyone else would have offered them straightaway.
“Our safe, our books, our files,” Oran said. “This is so invasive.”
“So is murder,” Siobhán said.
“Of course,” Padraig said, taking out a biro and jotting down the combination on a napkin. It was one of Michael O’Mara’s biros. Another green one. Siobhán had been hoping that only one of each color had been passed out.
“I thought you said yours was red,” Siobhán said, pointing to the biro.
“It’s mine,” Oran said. “What is with you and the biros? Is there a problem?” Oran eyed the biro. “Is it poison?”
Siobhán arched an eyebrow. “Why would you think that?”
“Sounds like something from an old detective novel, doesn’t it?” Oran said. “The poison pen.”
“Yes, it does.” Did he know a pen was found near Deirdre’s body? How? It had been dark in the bookshop for the most part, and after the body was discovered and the lights came on, she couldn’t imagine anyone breaking through his or her shock to notice a biro on the floor. It had mostly been hidden underneath Deirdre’s left leg. Was Oran the killer, or was he just taking a stab in the dark?
Chapter 21
The next afternoon, Jeanie Brady was waiting for Siobhán outside Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. She was a short and round woman in her fifties, with layered brown hair, full cheeks, and alert hazel eyes. A down to earth woman, she was astute, meticulous, and cared deeply about her profession. “Do you mind if we do a walk-about?” Jeanie said when Siobhán approached. “Me legs are stiff from the car ride, then getting straight to work.”
“Not a bother,” Siobhán said.
“There’s a few heads in the lounge,” she said. “From the way they’re drinking I’m guessing it’s the scribblers.”
“I can’t blame them,” Siobhán said. “It’s been a stressful few days.” Although the weather had calmed down, there were remnants of the storm everywhere you looked. Branches that had fallen from trees, rubbish blown about, and puddles that had yet to evaporate. As they walked, Jeanie Brady wasted no time in filling Siobhán in on her findings thus far.
“There were no traces of nuts on the pages,” Jeanie Brady said. “And although official tests will take a while, in my professional opinion this death was not caused by a nut allergy.” Did that mean the intended victim could have been Nessa Lamb? “But I did find an injection mark on the back of her neck, and I believe the killer held a gloved hand over her mouth and nose while the poison did its job.”
“Poison? From the injection?”
“No.” Jeanie stopped for a moment in front of the Kilbane Museum, a tiny stone building filled with Irish history and artifacts, and had a look in the window briefly before they continued on. “Tests will have to confirm it, but I believe the injection was to sedate her.”
“That was Macdara’s theory as well.”
Jeanie nodded. “Although, once again, tests will have to confirm it, I believe the poison was on the back of a sample I found in her mouth.”
“Sample?” Siobhán stopped. “Do you mean the book pages?”
“There was no poison on the book pages.”
“Okay . . .” Jeanie Brady was working up to something and Siobhán had learned to give her room to do it.
“This was a cold and calculated murder.”
“I agree, but take me through it.” This time when they began walking again, Jeanie Brady picked up the pace. It gave Siobhán the urge to go running, but in the moment she’d settle for the brisk walk.
“The syringe with a sedative, the glove, the sample. It took a lot of planning, especially to strike that quickly once the power went out.”
“You said gloved hand. How did you determine it was a glove?”
“I found a tiny fiber around the victim’s mouth consistent with leather. Black gloves, it appears.”
They had arrived at the field in front of the abbey, and were approaching the small bridge across the river. In the distance the abbey was a comforting sight. Every time
Siobhán was near it, she couldn’t help but imagine the monks who used to live there, brewing beer at the river, cooking in the kitchen, praying in the chapel, and perhaps watching the light shine in through the abbey’s stunning five-light windows.
“Are any of your suspects interior decorators?” Jeanie Brady asked. There was a sparkle in her eye.
This had been the last thing Siobhán expected her to say. “Interior decorators?” She shook her head. “They’re all writer types.” She hesitated, remembering Padraig’s folder dedicated to the bookshop. “Wait. One of the bookshop owners designed and decorated the shop.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s an entire folder labeled Design in their back office.” The office they wanted to keep secret. As a lark? Or something more sinister?
“I need it. Immediately.”
“Of course.” Siobhán placed a call to Macdara and described the folder in the back office labeled DESIGN. She hung up, and turned to Jeanie. “They’re going to pick it up now and it will be logged into the evidence room at the garda station.”
“Let’s go.”
They turned and headed in the opposite direction. “Are you going to be examining Margaret O’Shea’s body next?”
“Yes. But if she too was murdered by arsenic we’ll be waiting on those test results.”
“Arsenic?”
Jeanie nodded. “That’s my best guess. It kills quickly and is readily available. And then there’s a matter of the sample.. . .” Jeanie Brady pulled out her mobile phone and brought up a photo. She handed it to Siobhán, who had to squint to make sense of what she was looking at, adjusting the distance of the phone to her eyes. “That’s right,” Jeanie said. “You’re getting older, I hear.” Jeanie reached into her pocket again and pulled out an enormous bar of chocolate. “Happy birthday, luv.”
Siobhán felt an unexpected thrill as s
he accepted the chocolate and tucked it into her own pocket for later. “Thanks a million. I can’t believe this is the last of my twenties.”
Jeanie Brady sighed. “Twenties,” she said. “I barely remember them. But your thirties? Now that’s living.”
Siobhán grinned, then turned back to the mobile phone. “What is this?” It was a small section of decorative paper. It looked old, or faded. Yellow edges with swirls of light blue in the middle.
“That,” Jeanie Brady said, “is what ultimately killed Deirdre Walsh.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wallpaper,” Jeanie Brady said. “Deirdre Walsh was killed by poison—best guess arsenic—on the back of a sample of wallpaper.”
* * *
Jeanie Brady wanted to stop in front of Turn the Page. They stood in front of the bookshop as Jeanie cupped her hands and looked in the window.
“I can just imagine that new book smell,” she said, inhaling as she stood back up.
“I can take you inside,” Siobhán said. “We can pick up booties and gloves at the station.”
“Another day,” Jeanie said. “Your photos of the scene were very clear, and if we went in I would just want to poke my nose into books.”
“Are you a big reader?”
“I like nonfiction. True crime is my favorite.” She laughed. “I know, I know. You’d think I’d want a break from my work. But I eat it up. Especially when the rich and famous are up to no good. I’m a little addict.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find any true crime books in there yet,” Siobhán said. “They only sell literary fiction and history.”
Jeanie scrunched her nose. “What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Oran McCarthy is very particular about his literature.”
“That can’t be good for business,” Jeanie said, as they turned to head to the garda station. “Not that I don’t appreciate good literature.”
“Please,” Siobhán said, as they passed King John’s Castle. “I need to know more about this wallpaper.”
“You and me both,” Jeanie Brady said. “The book pages in her mouth hid it from view, but this little sample of wallpaper was found in her mouth underneath the tongue. If she was too groggy to respond, this was a very efficient place for the poison to quickly circulate through the bloodstream.”
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 17