Murder in an Irish Bookshop

by Carlene O'Connor

  “If you could put the kettle on, pet, that would be grand.” She turned to Leigh. “Are you hungry?”

  “Heavens, I’ve had no appetite since Deirdre Walsh died.”

  “I have some fresh baked scones,” Eoin said, turning to return to the kitchen. Siobhán made herself a cappuccino and soon they were seated with their drinks and scones.

  “Do you read a lot of mysteries?” Siobhán asked after giving them a minute.

  Leigh nodded. “I’m writing a murder mystery if you must know.”

  “Oh? Doing any research?”

  “Of course. I’m a big believer in research.... Sneaky! I see what you’re doing. How did she die? Was it nuts or poison?”

  “How would you have done it?”

  “Me?”

  “As a writer. Agatha Christie was the Queen of Poisons, wasn’t she?”

  “Fine. You want the truth?”

  “I can’t handle the truth,” Siobhán deadpanned. She may not have been up on her books, but she could quote an impressive number of American movies. Leigh frowned. “I’m only messing. Yes, of course I want the truth.”

  “The truth is, I haven’t read a single Agatha Christie mystery. Yet. I intend to.”

  “You haven’t read one?”

  Leigh shook her head. “I thought they would motivate me.”

  “I’d like to see your murder mystery.”

  “Really? Are you a fan?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t gotten very far.” Leigh stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea.

  “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Are you going to make me? Is that legal?”

  “I’m only asking. But cooperation during a murder inquiry is appreciated.”

  Leigh ran the tip of her index finger along the table. “If you must know, I’m still in the research phase.”

  Siobhán didn’t think Leigh’s manuscript, if it existed, would shed any light on the case, so she let it drop. It was Deirdre Walsh’s manuscript that she wanted to get her paws on. The supposed tell-all.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask about the decorative paper you use to wrap your flowers,” Siobhán said.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Tis.”

  “I get it from Charlesville.” Charlesville was the next town over, a tad larger than Kilbane, with lovely shops.

  “What do you use when you run out?”

  Leigh didn’t hesitate. “I never run out.”

  “I wonder if wallpaper would work?”

  “Wallpaper?” Leigh frowned. “I never thought of it. But like I said, I never run out.”

  Siobhán believed her. Leigh was a world class organizer. Leigh’s teacup was empty and only crumbs remained of her scone. “Would you like another cup?”

  “Heavens, no. I have to get back to the shop.”

  “I’m sure you’re very busy,” Siobhán said as she pushed back from the table and stood.

  Leigh followed suit. “There is a matter of the flower arrangements for Deirdre’s memorial. It’s going to keep me busy the rest of the day.” Siobhán walked her to the door.

  “I can imagine,” she said.

  “At least I don’t have the unpleasant task of remodeling Margaret’s room at the inn.”

  “Margaret’s room?” Siobhán said. “Right, so.” She felt a tingle at the back of her neck. Guards, accompanied by the twins, had already checked out Margaret’s room. Nothing had seemed suspicious.

  “And don’t even get me started on how long it’s going to take them to get that hideous wallpaper taken down.” Leigh had just stepped onto the footpath. Siobhán followed.

  “Wallpaper?” she said, trying to keep her voice light despite every nerve in her body firing on overtime.

  Leigh nodded. “We were forced to have book club in her room that first night so Margaret could meet the authors.” Leigh shuddered. “It smelled dusty. And the wallpaper might have been lovely once but it was peeling off. The twins are going to have an awful time freshening up that room.”

  Why hadn’t any of them mentioned this detail at the book club meeting? She supposed they didn’t think it relevant. No one knew they were looking at Margaret’s death as foul play. Even now, Leigh wasn’t picking up on Siobhán’s alarm.

  “Remember you asked me the other day about my argument with Margaret, and then I told you she argued with Deirdre next?” Leigh asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I remembered something. I don’t know if it will be of any help.”

  “You never know.” Siobhán’s mind was still on the wallpaper. They had to get there straightaway.

  “I remember what Margaret said to Deirdre. ‘That’s trickery.’ ”

  “That’s trickery,” Siobhán repeated. “What was she on about?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Leigh said. “One minute they were talking about Michael O’Mara—at least Margaret was, and then I missed what Deirdre said because she was speaking in a normal voice, and then Margaret shouted: ‘That’s trickery.’ ”

  * * *

  The skies were blue and the air fresh. Siobhán could take her scooter to the inn. She loved her pink scooter nearly as much as her cappuccino machine, but she hadn’t ridden it in ages. It would feel good to have the wind in her face, and it might help her process what she’d just learned. One of the frustrating aspects of investigations was that they involved other humans and often these other humans were holding on to valuable scraps of information that they didn’t even realize were helpful to the case. She donned her matching pink helmet and called the station before hopping on. Macdara was not in the station, so at her request they transferred the call to Aretta. Siobhán asked her to bring the note about the ghost and the scrap of wallpaper from the evidence room and meet her at the Twins’ Inn. It was actually a copy of the wallpaper as Jeanie Brady had the piece found in Deirdre’s mouth, but it was an exact replica of the color and shape and would do the trick. She was missing a lot of pieces to the puzzle, but one thing was becoming clear. Her theory that Margaret had witnessed something was close but not exact. Margaret, it seemed, had instead stirred something up.

  That’s trickery.

  I don’t believe in ghosts.

  Margaret O’Shea had written that note. The wallpaper had come from her room. Siobhán bounced along on her Vespa, enjoying the feel of the engine beneath her, the wind rejuvenating her, the smell in the air fresh, as if days of rain had breathed new life into everything. She hadn’t planned on stopping at the park near the Travelers’ caravans until she spotted the lad out with his donkey. She’d passed him the same morning she’d gone for her run. Had he seen anything?

  The Travelers kept to themselves, and so did the villagers for that matter, but Siobhán had made it a point to nod or say hello and she received the same in kind. Siobhán parked her scooter far enough away that it wouldn’t startle the donkey, and she approached slowly with a smile. The lad gave her a wave and a nod, then seemed surprised when she stopped in front of him.

  “I was wondering if you saw a fella with a wheelbarrow around here?”

  “You need a wheelbarrow?” He spoke fast, as if that might limit the extent of their interaction.

  “No, sorry. I was asking after yer man. I saw him days ago, in the distance, pushing a wheelbarrow. That same morning I saw you as well.” She pointed in the direction she’d seen him that morning. The lad followed her gaze, then gave a nod. “You saw him too?”

  He nodded. “Do you know who it was?” He shook his head. She hadn’t gotten a close look at him either. At the time, she thought it was a farmer. But what if it was the killer? This spot was the middle point between the Twins’ Inn and the footpath in front of the bookshop. She shivered, realizing that what she had witnessed was the killer transporting Margaret O’Shea’s body. A man. Then again, from this distance the person could have dressed to look like a man. One always had to be careful about absolutes. “Have you seen him since?”r />
  The lad looked quickly to his left. Siobhán followed his gaze to a lone caravan set a good distance apart from the others. He then turned back to his donkey. His message was clear. Someone was in that caravan. And now that she’d thought about it, that particular caravan was located outside the formal caravan park where the Travelers lived. Somehow, he’d charmed the Travelers, or offered money they couldn’t refuse, to stay a few days. They’d probably agreed on the condition that the caravan be moved away from their homes.

  The lad murmured something else, indicating he didn’t want to get in trouble.

  “It’s grand,” Siobhán said to the lad, in case he was thinking of tipping off Michael O’Mara. “Not a bother.”

  She walked a few feet into the park, closer to the caravan. She didn’t want to strain relations any further, and the guards were not in the habit of entering the caravan park unless they were aiding a Traveler at their request. Which had not happened since she’d been with the gardaí. It could stir up trouble otherwise. But if Michael O’Mara was in that caravan, she couldn’t give the lad the chance to warn him. Aretta was on her way to the inn, and Macdara hadn’t been at the station. Aretta would surely spot Siobhán’s pink scooter on her way to the inn, but she didn’t know it belonged to Siobhán. She could call or text, but she didn’t want the lad to overhear.

  “I need to talk to him,” Siobhán said finally. “Will you escort me?”

  The lad hadn’t been expecting this either. He had been leading his donkey away in the opposite direction and it took him a moment before he stopped and turned. He nodded to the caravan. “Go on.”

  It was permission. She’d have to settle for it. And although it would have been better to have backup when approaching the caravan, she would not step inside until backup arrived. But she would stand near it in case anyone came out. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll try not to be long.”

  But he was already gone. Most likely he would tell the group that she was here, and if she stayed too long, it wasn’t going to be appreciated. She called Macdara directly this time and headed for the caravan.

  Chapter 29

  Macdara responded that he was on his way with another guard and requested that she wait. Siobhán was standing a few feet away from the caravan when the door flew open and a man barreled out, head down, tearing forward. The suit gave him away. Darren Kilroy. He let out a yelp when he saw Siobhán and slapped his hand over his heart. She stood motionless, swallowing the urge to apologize for scaring him. How long had he known that Michael O’Mara was in Kilbane? When she didn’t speak, Darren Kilroy nibbled on his lip and threw a glance back to the caravan.

  “I was going to tell you,” he said. She folded her arms and waited. He held up his mobile phone. “He only called me this morning. I’ve been taking care of him all day.”

  “Does he need medical attention?”

  Darren shook his head. “He definitely needs rehab, and yes, he needs to go to hospital. He’s been refusing, but I think it’s time we called an ambulance.” He held out his phone, but she didn’t make a move to take it. The nearby river gurgled, birds chirped, and the tall green grass swayed. “At least I won’t be leaving town now until he’s sorted, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Did you ever meet Margaret O’Shea?”

  He frowned. “The elderly woman who lived at the inn? And passed away near the bookshop?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “We weren’t officially introduced mind you, but yes, we met.”

  “Did you ever go into her room?”

  He swallowed and nodded. “They held the first book club meeting in her room. When she found out I represented Michael O’Mara she was quite pleasant. I gave her a signed copy of his latest book.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded. That must have been the copy the twins discovered in the trellis. Unless she was being played. “Did he sign it while he was in Kilbane?”

  He bowed his head. “It’s a shame she’ll never get to read it.” He crossed himself, then looked up. “Why do you ask?”

  “You need to stop lying. How long have you known he was in Kilbane?”

  “Just today. I swear it on me life.”

  “How long has he actually been here?”

  He bowed his head again. “He’s in no state to tell me. But from the looks of the food containers, I’d say he’s been here for days.”

  “Perhaps even before you arrived in town.”

  “Perhaps.” He took off his glasses, and squeezed the bridge of his nose before placing them back on. “It’s not what you think. He was not romantically involved with Deirdre Walsh and he is not a killer.”

  “Did you ever see Margaret O’Shea arguing with Deirdre Walsh?”

  He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Arguing? Do you mean during the book discussion?”

  “At any time.”

  He licked his lips. “No. However . . .” He sighed. “I do have more to add to this story. But I only want to say it once. Perhaps we should conduct this in a more formal setting.” His attention was distracted by something in the distance. Siobhán knew without turning around that Macdara had arrived. He and two other guards approached.

  “Wait here,” Siobhán said to Darren as they headed for the caravan.

  “He’s having delirium tremens,” Darren said. “And he’s a big man. Be cautious.”

  * * *

  The door to the caravan gave a loud squeak of protest when they pushed it open. Macdara took the lead. Siobhán, standing on the ground, saw Macdara duck as a lamp whizzed over his head and smashed into the wall behind him. Then Michael O’Mara began screaming and cursing.

  “I warned you,” Darren said in the background.

  Siobhán gave him a withering glare and he was smart enough to shut his gob.

  Macdara began speaking to O’Mara, letting him know they were calling an ambulance and he could go peacefully or they would bring in more guards to assist. Michael O’Mara stopped screaming. He began to whimper. He sat in a corner and scrunched himself in as he began rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, stroking his red beard. Sweat poured off him in buckets. Siobhán could smell the alcohol off him. There would be no talking to him in this state. Macdara nodded his head to a nearby counter. On it sat a hammer, next to it a box of nails, and next to that—crime scene tape. Michael O’Mara had been the one to nail Deirdre’s window shut. Return to her room. Replace the crime scene tape on the front door. Wheel Margaret’s body to the bookshop, and break into the back door of the bookshop the night Deirdre was murdered. One of their own must have been careless with the crime scene tape and left a roll behind at the inn. Macdara signaled to Siobhán and they slowly backed out of the caravan.

  “Got lucky there, boss,” Macdara said in a low tone once they were outside. “He’s definitely not well.”

  “I’ve never seen someone in that bad a state.”

  Macdara nodded. “From the rage he worked himself into, could be drugs involved as well.” He held up his finger, then placed a call to the ambulance services.

  “May I go back to my room?” Darren called. “I need to sleep.”

  “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait,” Siobhán said. “We’re taking you into the station.” She took a deep breath. “But not until we get Mr. O’Mara to hospital.”

  Darren nodded. “Before we go to the station you should assist me to my room first,” he said. “I have something you need to see.”

  * * *

  Michael O’Mara had been transported to hospital. He wouldn’t be in shape to answer questions for days, maybe even a week. Siobhán, Macdara, and Aretta were headed for the Twins’ Inn in a guard car. Siobhán had messaged her brood and James had agreed to walk over and ride her scooter home. Darren Kilroy was on foot; he would meet them there. Siobhán didn’t know what he wanted to pick up from his room, but she was going to give him some leeway. “If Michael O’Mara is our killer, we’re safe,” Aretta said from the
back seat. Macdara was driving—Siobhán needed to concentrate on her thoughts.

  “And if he’s not, we’re in even more danger,” Siobhán said. She brought up the crime scene tape. “How on earth did he get his hands on it?”

  Macdara sighed. “I’ll have to check with everyone who was assigned to the inn, see if any of them will admit they may have left it behind.”

  “It’s me,” Aretta piped up from the back seat. “But I didn’t leave it at the inn.” She placed her hand on her forehead as if she was taking her own temperature.

  “Where did you leave it?” Siobhán asked.

  “At Blooms,” Aretta said. “I had popped in there after returning from the inn. I must have set it on the counter while I was speaking with Leigh. I am so sorry. I’ve failed.”

  Siobhán shook her head. “You’ve done no such thing. We all make mistakes.”

  “Why don’t you give Leigh Coakley a bell. Don’t alarm her, just see if she knows what happened to it,” Macdara said.

  Aretta took out her mobile phone and placed the call. It only took a minute. “Leigh didn’t remember but she checked with her daughter, and given the counter was piled with nonsense, Leigh told her to straighten up, and she’s worried the daughter might have thrown it away.”

  “And Michael O’Mara has been going through rubbish bins,” Siobhán said. They were pulling into the inn. Macdara parked in front of Margaret’s room.

  “Should we search Margaret’s room now?” Aretta asked. “Or am I off the case?”

  “You’re still on the case,” Macdara said. “Growing pains are part of the job. You should have seen how often this one messed up.” He jerked his thumb at Siobhán.

  “I still do,” she said. Siobhán glanced at Margaret’s room, which was now cordoned off with crime scene tape. Searching it had been the plan, but she equally wanted to know what Darren Kilroy had to show them. Macdara must have been feeling the same.

  “Let’s take Darren Kilroy back to the station to hear him out. Then we’ll return to Margaret’s room.”