“I can stay here and stand watch,” Aretta said. “If you think that would be helpful.”
“I don’t know how long we’ll be,” Macdara said. “It might get a bit boring.”
Aretta grinned. “Not a bother.” She patted a lump in her pocket. “I found a good book in a toilet.”
* * *
“As I previously stated,” Darren said, “Michael O’Mara and Deirdre Walsh were not romantically involved.” They sat at a table in Interview Room #1 across from Darren Kilroy. The briefcase Darren had fetched was on the table in front of him.
“What is Michael O’Mara doing here then?” Macdara asked.
“He came to warn me.”
“Warn you?”
Darren nodded. “About a year ago Michael began receiving letters from an obsessed fan.” He tapped the briefcase. “May I?” Macdara nodded. Darren pulled a stack of papers out and set them on the table. “These are all the letters Michael received from the very first to the last. They begin mild enough. She calls herself a fan. An admirer. By the third letter she confesses she’s a writer too. By the fourth she’s criticizing his portrayal of female characters. By the fifth she’s suggesting a partnership. It escalates to stalking and threats.” He lifted the stack of letters. “It’s all here.” Macdara gestured for him to slide the letters over and he obliged. “I don’t know what you can do about it now, but I assure you Michael is no killer.”
“These letters are signed Your Biggest Fan,” Macdara said.
“That’s correct.”
“How do you know they’re from Deirdre Walsh?”
Darren reached into his briefcase again and brought out Melodies. ”He received this. If you read her note to him in the opening, and compare it to the handwriting in the letters, I think it’s quite clear she’s the writer of these letters.” He gestured to the book and then the letters. “You should have your handwriting expert compare the documents.”
“Did Deirdre Walsh ever approach you about Michael O’Mara?” Siobhán asked.
“She said she had a proposal for me that she wanted to discuss. I assumed it was about her own book project. We never got the opportunity to speak, but after reading these letters I am convinced she wanted to propose writing for Michael O’Mara.”
“Writing for him?” Siobhán asked.
Darren nodded. “Ghostwriting.”
I don’t believe in ghosts. Had Michael O’Mara written that note?
Darren was still talking. “When an author reaches the megastar level that Michael O’Mara has achieved, it can get tiring to keep up with the demand. Many authors hire a team of writers to keep their works going. With strict guidelines. The American author James Patterson is an example. He has loads of authors who write for him.”
“Was Michael O’Mara looking to do the same?”
“No,” Darren said. “He was not.” Darren shifted uncomfortably. “But it wasn’t a terrible idea. Given his drinking as of late.”
“Did you suggest it to him?” Siobhán asked. Had it enraged him? Had it motivated him to murder?
“I hadn’t worked up to it yet,” Darren said. “To be honest, I often walk on eggshells around him. I couldn’t afford to lose him.”
Siobhán knew the truth when she heard it. And what agent wouldn’t walk on eggshells around such an author? Michael O’Mara was Darren Kilroy’s golden goose. “Why are you just telling us about this now?”
“I found out Michael was living in the caravan this morning. I went to him first. Perhaps I should have called you straightaway.”
“You should have,” Macdara said.
“I found these letters in the caravan. That’s when I put it together—that Deirdre Walsh was his ‘biggest fan.’ ”
“What exactly is he doing in Kilbane?” Macdara asked.
Darren pulled on his bow tie. “Apparently, he saw the flyer for my appearance at Turn the Page. I found that in the caravan as well. On it was the name of the authors in attendance. Deirdre’s name, as well as the name of her book, was on the list, as you know. I can imagine his shock when he found out his stalker was attending an event with me. When he couldn’t reach me on the phone—I silenced it during the book events—he came to warn me. Perhaps he was worried I’d be swayed by Deirdre’s appeal and he wanted to stop me.”
“Stop you or stop her?”
Darren looked away. “He wasn’t even in the bookshop when Deirdre was murdered.” He made eye contact. “I don’t think he killed her.”
“I don’t understand how he connected Deirdre to the fan letters,” Siobhán said.
“I can’t say for sure,” Darren said. “You’ll have to ask him when he’s able to answer.”
“What if I told you we have evidence that he was in the bookshop the night Deirdre was murdered?” Macdara said.
Darren blinked. “I don’t know what to say. What evidence?”
Macdara shook his head. “I cannot share that at this time.”
“He’s not himself when he drinks. I don’t want to believe he’s capable of murder. He has no history of violence.” Darren removed his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “But if, as you say, he was at the bookshop . . . I’d better get him a good solicitor.”
“You’d better,” Macdara said, standing up. “We have work to do.” Darren’s chair screeched back. He snapped his briefcase shut and looked at the letters in Macdara’s hands. “We’ll be holding on to these.”
“Of course,” Darren said. “Will you be so kind as to give me directions to hospital? I’d like to be by my author’s side.”
* * *
Michael O’Mara wouldn’t be in shape to answer questions for days. Over the phone the doctor insisted that he was in delirium tremens and he needed intensive care before he’d be well enough to be questioned.
“Do you think he’s our killer?” Siobhán asked.
“He fits into several pieces of the puzzle,” Macdara said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she answered honestly. “If we can confirm that those letters are indeed from Deirdre Walsh.” Did he see Deirdre’s handwriting somewhere else and make the connection between his “biggest fan” and Deirdre Walsh? Darren Kilroy had hindered this investigation by holding on to evidence. It brought the rest of his story into question. What else was he withholding?
“In the meantime, back to the inn,” Macdara said. “Let’s hope Margaret left us some kind of clue.”
Chapter 30
This time the twins didn’t argue with Siobhán and Macdara when they said they wanted to get into Margaret’s room.
“Shall I call the judge?” Macdara asked.
“No need,” Emma said. “It’s technically our room.”
“You won’t last long in there,” Eileen said. “It’s sparse, and outdated.”
They weren’t there for a happy tour but Siobhán kept her gob shut on that matter. Eileen handed Siobhán a key to Margaret’s room and the twins headed back for the cottage. Siobhán and Macdara removed the crime scene tape, unlocked the door, and stepped into her room.
Apart from the peeling wallpaper, which was an exact match to the wallpaper found in their victims’ mouths, Margaret’s room was a throwback to when she owned the inn. The decorations were stark, a cross hanging above the bed, and no other thrills or splashes of color. She did have a bookshelf but nothing adorned the top of it, not even a scrap of lace. The wallpaper, swirls of blue and white that may have been pretty in its day, was yellow with brown at the edges and peeling in multiple locations. Aretta set about trying to locate the pattern of the torn piece of wallpaper in Deirdre’s mouth. They would run chemical tests on it to confirm it was the same wallpaper, but tests took time, and if they wanted to catch this killer time was running out.
“Here,” Aretta called out, excitement in her voice. Siobhán and Macdara edged in. Near the window by the front door, Aretta had been able to match a missing piece. It fit exactly. “Our killer was in this room,” Siobhán said. “Part of the book club meeting.”
“That’s most of them, as usual,” Macdara said.
“What’s this?” Aretta pointed to a notebook beside Margaret’s bed. Next to it was a roll of tape. Siobhán and Macdara edged in. It was similar to the notebook they’d found in Deirdre’s room where she had written passages from Lorcan, Nessa, and O’Mara. The ones where it seemed Deirdre had been practicing different writing styles. This matched Darren Kilroy’s claim that she was interested in ghostwriting. Had she been trying to prove her skills? In all their interviews with Lorcan and Nessa, they had forgotten to ask them about these passages. Were they written by Lorcan and Nessa or were they imitations created by Deirdre Walsh?
With gloved hands, Siobhán opened the notebook in front of her. On the first page, someone had jotted down multiple lines from Deirdre’s book, Melodies. The handwriting looked like Margaret’s. Siobhán had seen it several times over the years in Margaret’s annual Christmas cards. Next, in the notebook Margaret had jotted down multiple lines from a Michael O’Mara book. Similar words were underlined. Was this more evidence of Deirdre trying to plagiarize? There was no doubt Margaret was trying to make the connection. And Margaret had been a big Michael O’Mara fan. There was something else that drew Siobhán’s attention to the notebook. The sheet behind it was torn and Siobhán could see raised bumps where a message had been. “We need tracing paper and a pencil.”
“We have some at the station,” Macdara said. He placed a call. They took a short break while they waited for the tracing paper and pencil to arrive, and headed outside to the twins’ flower garden. They hadn’t seen rain in hours but it was looming in the distance. The flowers blew in the soft wind. When another guard car arrived in short order, the three of them ran eagerly back to the notebook. Siobhán placed the tracing paper on top and began shading it with the pencil. She lifted it up to see the message. They all leaned in eagerly to read it:
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS
“At least we know for sure who wrote the note,” Macdara said. “But why would she care if Deirdre wanted to be a ghostwriter?”
It was a question Siobhán would ponder the rest of the day.
* * *
Siobhán stood in the dining room of the bistro, pacing back and forth. The memorial for Deirdre was at the bookshop this evening, and once it was over, all their suspects were going home. I don’t believe in ghosts. Margaret O’Shea wrote that note. To Deirdre Walsh? Or to someone else? Michael O’Mara? Both? The handwriting in the notebook comparing Deirdre’s work to Michael O’Mara’s was the same as the handwriting in the note. It would be easy enough to check past records to confirm it was Margaret’s signature.
What about the other notes?
The Hills Have Eyes
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here . . . ? That had to be either to Michael O’Mara or from Michael O’Mara to Deirdre. If Deirdre was simply a mad fan, a stalker, would Michael write that kind of a note to her? Didn’t it suggest more of an intimate, or at the very least, familiar, relationship?
Something else was nibbling at her. Perhaps it was nothing, but sometimes the smallest inconsistencies were key. They’d found the notebook Margaret had used to write the note and the tape she’d used to presumably tape it to Deirdre’s door, but they hadn’t found a single biro in Margaret’s room. She was a Michael O’Mara fan. Had Darren Kilroy given her a biro? And if so—was it the same one found at the murder scene? Siobhán needed to go back to the beginning. First, everyone had assumed that Margaret had died of natural causes. Once Siobhán suspected otherwise, she had assumed the killer had been practicing, testing out the poison, creating his or her rough draft before he or she hit the real target—Deirdre Walsh. Now she knew it was something else. Margaret O’Shea, may she rest in peace, was killed for the same reason Deirdre was killed. She was in possession of deadly information, and she planned on spilling the beans. Siobhán needed to speak with the remaining authors, not to mention Leigh Coakley and Oran and Padraig McCarthy, before someone stamped THE END on a story that was far from over.
* * *
The wood floors in Turn the Page were gleaming, and the smell of wood polish hung in the air. In the center of the shop a stunning wreath made of white and yellow roses was positioned in front of chairs arranged for the memorial. A large poster showed off Deirdre’s book, Melodies, accompanied by quotes from it propped up on large easels next to it. A photograph of Deirdre Walsh was framed by flowers, as if it were a book. Leigh Coakley had outdone herself. Oran and Padraig, dressed in dark suits, stood in a dimly lit corner of the bookshop, arguing. Siobhán pretended to have a keen interest in the shelves nearby.
“After the memorial,” Oran said. “Or we’ll have the guards trampling all up in here before the poor woman finally gets her event.”
“It’s hardly an event she’d have wished for,” Padraig said. “And we could get arrested for hiding evidence.”
“We’re not hiding it, we’re simply waiting.”
“Heya,” Siobhán said, sneaking up on them. Oran yelped and slapped a hand over his heart. Padraig dropped the book he was holding. “What is it you two were waiting to show me?” she said.
“I swear to you, we haven’t been hiding it,” Oran said. “We’ve only just uncovered it.” That was the same excuse Darren Kilroy had used about the letters.
Siobhán felt herself straightening her spine reflexively. “We didn’t have any reason to open it,” Padraig said. “It didn’t seem disturbed.”
People were starting to file in for the memorial. Siobhán agreed with them on one thing at least. She did not want this memorial postponed. This might be her last chance to speak with the suspects. “Whatever this is you are going to show me as soon as this is over, are we clear?” They nodded their heads in stereo. “In addition—whatever it is—I don’t want you two going near it, is that clear?”
“Everything you say is very clear,” Padraig said.
“Almost too clear,” Oran added before they slipped away.
* * *
Leigh Coakley stood in front of the seated guests reading passages from Deirdre’s book. Sniffles could be heard during the reading, and Siobhán turned to find they were coming from Darren Kilroy, who upon noticing her noticing him, reddened slightly and blew his nose into his handkerchief.
Siobhán was no expert on writing, but as Leigh read from Deirdre’s book, she found her mind wandering again and again, or her brow furrowing in confusion. Were those passages that Deirdre wrote in her notebook from Nessa and Lorcan her way of trying to improve her own writing or was she trying to prove she was capable of being a ghostwriter? Siobhán had no proof that Deirdre had wanted to be a ghostwriter, apart from the supposed fan letters supplied by Darren, which would take time to analyze. Did everyone else think this was magnificent poetry and Siobhán was too thick to understand it? She’d snuck a look at a Michael O’Mara book the night before and had read three chapters before she fell asleep. She took a deep breath and forced herself to pay attention, alerted to a particular passage as Leigh read it out loud.
“The woman, stripped of her wifely duties, wandered aimlessly about the meadow, and as a farmer passed her without a single glance, she wondered if she was invisible, if somehow in the night she had left this earthly vessel and had become a ghost. ”
“Ghost.” Siobhán didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until heads whipped around to look at her. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said, now that she had everyone’s attention. Had Margaret simply been disparaging Deirdre’s work? Had Deirdre murdered Margaret? Over an insult?
Hadn’t people killed for less?
It still didn’t ring true. If authors couldn’t take critics, they shouldn’t be writing. With the Internet, Siobhán assumed authors had to get used to negative comments about them, and probably considered themselves lucky to be read widely enough for people to pick at them.
“I believe it’s a metaphor,” Leigh said, frowning and looking at the pass
age again. “The character isn’t actually a ghost.”
“You asked us if we were writing about ghosts,” Nessa said. “Does this have something to do with Deirdre’s murder?”
“It’s because of the note someone taped to Deirdre’s door,” Lorcan reminded her. Now that the guards knew about their affair they were seated close together.
“Note?” Leigh asked.
Nessa frowned. “Why didn’t you ask her about the note?” she said, pointing an accusing finger at Leigh. “Are Lorcan and I the only suspects?”
“I’m sorry if this is an inconvenient time but I need to show you something.” Siobhán had been waiting for this. She held up the two photocopies containing Deirdre’s passages resembling Lorcan’s and Nessa’s work. She handed them to the authors. They each moved the paper closer to their eyes, read, and then frowned.
“What is this?” Nessa asked. “She . . . was practicing our styles?”
“Just the style?” Siobhán asked.
“What do you mean?” Nessa sounded defensive.
“Is this your passage?”
“No,” Nessa said. “But it’s an obvious attempt to write like me.”
“And yours?” Siobhán nodded to Lorcan.
He glanced at his page again. “I didn’t write that. But I must admit, it’s a grand imitation.”
“Did Deirdre Walsh ever accuse either of you of plagiarism?”
Nessa’s eyebrow shot up, and Lorcan laughed. “Oh,” he said off her look. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“No,” Nessa said. “She never accused me of something so vile.”
Lorcan shrugged. “If she did, she didn’t do it to me face.”
Chapter 31
“Plot holes,” Siobhán said to Macdara. They stood in the back of the bookshop as the memorial proceeded. “Everything has to fit to find the true killer. Not just bits and pieces.”
Macdara murmured his agreement, letting her do her thing. It was swirling around her now, a ghostly narrative. But it all had to fit. Every single piece. Anyone who had ever spent hours or even weeks working on a puzzle knew the frustration of getting close to finished only to discover there was a missing piece. Maddening! It would never feel right.
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 24