Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Besides myself and Ms. Lamb? No one.”

  “Not even Padraig or Oran?”

  “Especially not Padraig or Oran.”

  “Why didn’t you just wait the week as you had agreed to do?” Siobhán asked.

  “Nessa informed me that she had other offers. I didn’t want to lose her.” He opened his arms. “I was leaving myself open to the possibility that I might sign Lorcan or Deirdre as well. If they had something that impressed me. There’s no law saying I could only sign one of them.”

  “We’re not in the business of telling you whom to sign,” Macdara said. “We’re trying to figure out if learning of this news was a motive for murder.”

  “But they murdered Deirdre, not Nessa,” Darren said. “Do you think it was a mistake? Was Nessa Lamb onto something? Was she the intended target all along?”

  “That’s not the only way to look at it,” Siobhán said.

  Darren leaned back and crossed his arms. “Oh?”

  “Maybe Deirdre found out you signed her and threatened to expose what you had done,” Siobhán said lightly.

  It took Darren a moment. When he realized what Siobhán was saying he pointed to himself. “But what had I done? Nothing illegal, I assure you.” He waited. They continued to stare at him. “You think I’d kill an author for something so inconsequential?” A red hue flared along the side of his neck. Anger or fear?

  “Was Deirdre Walsh blackmailing you?” Macdara asked.

  “Over whom I chose to sign?” Darren sputtered. “We’ve already covered this. It’s not against the law. I have no indications whatsoever that Deirdre or anyone else found out that I had already signed Nessa Lamb. But since you seem to enjoy playing devil’s advocate, let’s go there. Let’s say Deirdre found out. What then? Would I be a little embarrassed that I didn’t play by the rules? Of course. I don’t know what books the pair of ye have been reading, but mild embarrassment has never been a motive for murder.”

  “We had to ask,” Macdara said.

  “Of course,” Darren replied. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. And I think it best to inform you that I’ll be leaving right after Deirdre’s memorial tomorrow.”

  Macdara nodded. “As long as we can get a hold of you if we need to speak again.”

  “Not a bother.” He stood to go.

  “One more thing,” Siobhán said. “Have you ever published any books on interior design?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Siobhán shrugged and looked around the walls. “I was thinking some wallpaper might liven the bistro up. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “I’m afraid I’m of no help to you there,” Darren said. He nodded and was out the door.

  They watched him go. “What are you thinking?” Macdara asked.

  “Once he leaves town the rest will follow,” Siobhán said. “We’ll be chasing a case with all of our suspects on the run.”

  Macdara nodded. “Unless we get some hard facts and soon, we can’t force anyone to stay.” He rubbed his face. “I’d say Michael O’Mara is looking like a good bet. It explains the note about not believing in ghosts. It explains Deirdre’s claim that she had an explosive tell-all. It explains the pack of cigarettes found in her room, and it explains the sightings of a lurker in the trash.”

  “And now we know the figure in black was just Padraig running to the ladies’ book club to sell popular fiction.”

  Macdara suddenly chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Nice segue with the wallpaper,” he said. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”

  Siobhán laughed too. “He did look perplexed.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Speaking of wallpaper, any progress on where the sample came from?” Siobhán asked.

  Macdara shook his head. “Aretta checked with the hardware shop and has been popping into businesses up and down Sarsfield Street. No one has wallpapered recently.”

  Ann entered the dining room at that moment carrying a large bouquet of flowers. “Leigh Coakley,” she said, lifting them. “I helped with the arrangements for Ms. Walsh’s memorial. She gave me these as a thank-you.”

  “Lovely,” Siobhán said. Ann moved to take them into the kitchen. “Wait.” Ann stopped at the table. Siobhán stared up at the flowers wrapped in decorative paper.

  “Why are you staring at them like that?” Ann said. “If there’s a bug on me just say so.”

  Siobhán tapped the paper. “Bring me this when you’re done, will ya?”

  Ann frowned. She whipped the paper off and handed it to her. “Just take it now.” She shook her head and continued into the kitchen.

  “What are you thinking?” Macdara said.

  Siobhán held up the decorative paper. “I want Jeanie Brady to see this,” Siobhán said. “Leigh brought flowers into the bookshop the day of the murder. What if it isn’t wallpaper that was found in Deirdre’s mouth?”

  Chapter 27

  Jeanie Brady and Siobhán sat at the picnic table in the courtyard of the Twins’ Inn. The wolfhounds sat eagerly in front of Jeanie, who had been tossing them treats nonstop. Jeanie took the paper that had come from Blooms.

  “I’ll do some tests,” she said. “But it’s not consistent with the wallpaper found in Deirdre’s mouth. However, you might still be onto something.”

  “I don’t understand,” Siobhán said.

  “What if one day the florist ran out of this kind of paper to wrap her flowers in? What if she grabbed something else?”

  “Like wallpaper,” Siobhán said.

  “Like wallpaper,” Jeanie echoed.

  “Does that make her the killer, or just the supplier?” Siobhán mused out loud.

  “Good boys,” Jeanie purred to the dogs. “Good, good boys.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a dog lover,” Siobhán said.

  “My husband’s allergic or I would have a house full of them,” Jeanie said. She looked up. “Ready for my next piece of news?”

  “Probably not, but go ahead.”

  “I found the same sample of wallpaper underneath Margaret O’Shea’s tongue.”

  Even though Siobhán was expecting that would be the case, the news still delivered a shock. She felt tears filling her eyes before she could stop them. Jeanie reached over and patted her hand.

  “I’m sorry, pet.”

  “We have to catch this killer,” Siobhán said. “He or she will not get away with this.” This killer thought he/she was so clever. Wallpaper. Arsenic. What did it mean? Why Margaret O’Shea? A squeal rang out, like someone in pain. Siobhán first looked to the dogs, but other than drool pouring out of their mouths, the noise hadn’t come from them. A second squeal followed, then escalated into screams. It was coming from the cottage. Siobhán shot off her chair and ran toward the house. But just as she reached the door, Emma came barreling out with a Michael O’Mara book in her hand, followed by Eileen.

  “What’s the story?” Siobhán asked.

  Emma held the book out. “This is brand new,” she said. “I acquired it the other night.”

  Padraig’s contraband. “Okay,” Siobhán said. “I still don’t understand.”

  Emma turned to the first page with trembling fingers. There, in large sprawling ink, was an autograph: Michael O’Mara.

  “That’s nice,” said Siobhán slowly.

  “You don’t understand,” Emma said. “This autograph was not here a few days ago.”

  “Have you had it in your possession the entire time?” Siobhán asked.

  Emma shook her head. “I left it in the trellis overnight.”

  * * *

  “He’s here,” Siobhán said, pacing the hallway of the garda station. “And he’s managed to keep out of sight for the most part.”

  “You need to speak with Padraig,” Macdara said. “To confirm the book he sold Eileen was not already signed.”

  “Emma,” Siobhán corrected. “Why would she lie about it?”

&n
bsp; “Not lie per se,” Macdara said. “But perhaps she didn’t notice.”

  Or perhaps Michael O’Mara has been watching the inn. Listening in on the book club. Sneaking in to sign his books. Perhaps he wasn’t so out of it after all. “I’m on it,” Siobhán said.

  * * *

  A lorry was parked in front of the bookshop. AL’S PLUMBING was painted across it in blue. Curious, she entered the shop to find several nonfunctioning toilets sitting in the middle of the bookstore. Oran stood a few feet away tossing books into them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Expanding our inventory as promised,“ Oran said. “This toilet is for romance. That one for mysteries and thriller—”

  “You’re putting books in toilets?”

  “They’re dry as bone,” he said, continuing to toss them in.

  Padraig popped up from behind the counter. “Please listen to her. We can’t do this. Think of the optics.”

  “I’m trying to think outside the box.”

  Inside the commode was outside the box, alright. “What about some nice claw-foot bathtubs instead?” Siobhán said. “People aren’t going to want to stick their hands in there.”

  “It might make them give Joyce a second go,” Oran said.

  Padraig rolled his eyes. “We’ll switch to the tubs.”

  “What are we going to do with these?” Oran asked.

  “You’d better recycle them,” Siobhán said. “Or you’ll be paying very dear fines.”

  “What else can we do for you?” Oran asked. “I assume you’re not here to admire our toilets.”

  “Definitely not.” She shuddered. “Do you have any photos of this space before you started renovating?”

  “You already took my design folder,” Padraig said.

  “It will be returned soon. And it did not contain before photos of the space. Do you have any?”

  “Loads,” Padraig said. “Why?”

  “They were questioning the landlord about this very same issue,” Oran said.

  Siobhán cringed. Gossip was always detrimental to an investigation.

  “I can’t imagine what photos of the bookshop have to do with Deirdre Walsh’s death,” Padraig said. “Did she inhale toxic paint?” He clutched his throat and looked around. “Are we safe?”

  Siobhán put her hand up. “I assure you, you’re safe.” At least as far as the walls were concerned. But none of them were safe from the killer. “I’d like you to send the photos you have to this e-mail.” Siobhán handed him a business card with the e-mail. “Any photos of the space before you remodeled.”

  “You’re not going to tell us what this wallpaper business is about, are you?” Padraig asked.

  “I’m not,” Siobhán said. Should she call him on his secretive visits to the ladies’ book club? She discarded the idea. No use causing marital strife if it wasn’t pertinent to her investigation. “Please just send the photos.”

  “He’ll send them right away,” Oran said.

  “Of course,” Padraig said.

  Siobhán smiled. “Thanks a million.” She glanced at the exit, hoping to keep her hands off the books in the toilets.

  Padraig McCarthy wasn’t ready to give up, she could see it in his eyes. “This doesn’t have to do with my list, does it?”

  Siobhán stepped forward. “List?”

  Oran and Padraig exchanged a look.

  “My dream list of rare books,” Padraig said. “I gave it to all our visiting authors.”

  “They are in frequent contact with booksellers, and bookshops,” Oran pitched in. “It was a long shot, but we want to be in the loop if they hear of any of these books circulating.”

  “Why do you think your list has anything to do with this case?” Siobhán was genuinely curious.

  “Because of the wallpaper book,” Padraig said. “Isn’t that what you’ve been driving at?”

  “Are you telling me there’s a rare book about wallpaper?”

  “There is,” Padraig said. “Although we wouldn’t have a chance of getting our hands on it. I think there are only, what? Five copies remaining? And they’re all in the States.”

  “I wouldn’t want it even if that weren’t the case,” Oran said. “Because we’d have to take very special care with it.”

  “Very special,” Padraig repeated.

  Siobhán stepped forward. “And why is that?”

  “Because the wallpaper samples are from 1874,” Padraig said.

  “And they contain arsenic,” Oran added.

  Siobhán felt a chill go up her spine. “Do you have a copy of this list?”

  Padraig nodded, reached under the counter, and handed her a sheet. There it was, the fifth on the list. Shadows from the Walls of Death.

  “I need to know everyone who had a copy of this.”

  “That’s easy. Deirdre Walsh. Nessa Lamb. Lorcan Murphy.”

  “Leigh Coakley?”

  “The florist? No.”

  “Darren Kilroy?”

  “We tried to give him one, but he wouldn’t take it,” Padraig said. From his tone, she could tell he was still sulking over it.

  “Why not?”

  “He said he didn’t have time to be on the lookout. Instead, he gave us a few names of book dealers and shops that could help us.”

  “Did you call any of them?”

  “Not yet,” Padraig said.

  “We had our hands full, even before our wee shop became a crime scene,” Oran added.

  “Tell me more about the book.”

  “It contains a hundred wallpaper samples. Each saturated with various levels of arsenic.”

  “Why?”

  “Excellent question. It was conceived by Dr. Robert M. Kedzie.”

  “He was a Union surgeon during the American Civil War,” Oran added.

  “And a professor of chemistry,” Padraig said.

  Oran nodded. “He wanted to educate the public about the dangers of arsenic-pigmented wallpaper.”

  “Arsenic-pigmented wallpaper,” Siobhán repeated.

  “Arsenic can be mixed with copper and made into paints and pigments,” Oran said.

  “The Victorians,” Padraig sighed. “They knew arsenic could be poison when ingesting it, but they thought nothing of plastering their walls with it. Can ye imagine?” He shuddered.

  “That quote from the book,” Padraig said, placing his hand on his heart. He leaned in. “He spoke of women falling ill and retreating into their wallpapered bedrooms to convalesce.”

  “All the while taking in . . .” Oran said.

  “an air loaded with the breath of death, ” they finished in unison.

  The words echoed in her poor head. ‘An air loaded with the breath of death.’

  “But as I stated, we never actually expected to get our hands on the book,” Padraig said. “Only a hundred copies were ever printed, and they were all originally distributed in the United States, and out of those one hundred only four have survived.”

  “You said five earlier,” Oran corrected.

  Padraig frowned. “Four, five. What does it matter, we’ll never see it.” He turned to a stack of books and began sorting through them. “If it’s poison you want to know about, you should read Agatha Christie.”

  “And yes,” Oran said. “We carry a few.”

  “They’re all sold,” Padraig said. “To Leigh Coakley.” He gave Siobhán a look. “She’s writing her own mystery.”

  “Lovely,” Siobhán said. “What happened to the remaining copies of the wallpaper book?”

  “Most libraries destroyed them out of fear,” Oran said.”The remaining copies have been sealed and you need gloves to turn the pages.”

  “Lest you lick your fingers and die,” Padraig added in case it wasn’t clear. “There’s now a digital version online.” He sighed. “I hear the real version is exquisite.”

  “But deadly,” Oran said. “Exquisite but deadly.”

  Chapter 28

  Siobhán had just arrived at
the door to her bistro and was about to enter when a figure came up from behind, startling her. Leigh Coakley jiggled her handbag looking as if she hadn’t slept in days. “Leigh,” Siobhán said. “What’s the story?”

  “I know you have to be thinking I did it,” Leigh said.

  “Did what?”

  Leigh scoffed. “Why, killed Deirdre Walsh of course.”

  “Have I said or done anything to give you that impression?” Siobhán asked. “Aside from doing my job, which is to question everyone who was at the bookshop the evening Deirdre Walsh was murdered?”

  Leigh Coakley was still a neighbor and she didn’t need to get all wound up. Some grudges were hard for folks to get over. Being accused of murder was one of them.

  Leigh frowned. This wasn’t the answer she had been expecting. “Pages stuffed in Deirdre’s mouth, and here I’m the one who said she should eat her words.”

  Siobhán nodded. “Come in.” The bell tinkled as they entered the bistro. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  They set up in the dining room. “It’s an expression. It should clear me,” Leigh began. “Nessa Lamb’s prose is gorgeous. Uplifting. Did you hear the terrible things Deirdre Walsh was saying? I shouldn’t have let her get under my skin, but of course I did. The green-eyed monster rises from the murky depths of humanity’s underbelly.”

  “Can you stop speaking in prose?”

  Leigh brushed lint off her sleeve. “It comes naturally.”

  “Did you murder Deirdre Walsh?”

  Leigh collapsed at the closest table. “If I was planning on killing her I wouldn’t have given myself away like that.”

  “Padraig McCarthy mentioned you purchased all of their Agatha Christie mysteries.”

  Leigh blinked. “He told you that?”

  “Yes.” She kept her voice casual, as if to assure Leigh that the gossip was trivial.

  “I see,” Leigh said. “Does that make me a murderer?”

  “I think I’ve made my position quite clear. You’re a neighbor. You run bake sales, and put together gorgeous bouquets, cheering up this village. We’re questioning everyone, but no, neither Detective Sergeant Flannery nor I are doing anything but singing your praises.”

  Leigh finally smiled. “I’m so relieved.”

  Eoin ambled out of the kitchen. The lunch hour was over, and technically they were closed. “Can I get you anything?” he asked Leigh.