Nessa found her one-star review taped to her door along with a note: The Hills Have Eyes. Deirdre presumably found a note taped to her door. I don’t believe in ghosts.
And in Deirdre’s room they found the third note: What are you doing here?
They had evidence that Margaret had written: I don’t believe in ghosts. Presumably she had penned it just after she was seen arguing with Leigh Coakley, Lorcan Murphy, and Deirdre Walsh. Just because they found the note in Deirdre’s room, did it mean it was originally meant for her? Or had the killer slipped the note into Deirdre’s room to throw them off? And did this mean Margaret wrote the other notes? They did not find evidence of that in Margaret’s room. That left: What are you doing here? And: The Hills Have Eyes.
What if What are you doing here? was the question and The Hills Have Eyes was the answer? Did that put Nessa Lamb in the crosshairs?
The notes were key. Not only who sent which note to whom, but in what order. She needed to speak with Michael O’Mara. She passed this on to Macdara. “I’ll call the doc again,” Macdara said. “Hopefully he’s in a better state, and I’ll tell him it’s an emergency.” He headed off to make the call.
Aretta met her over by a small table where pastries made by Bridie had been set. “It’s been confirmed,” she said. “Lorcan Murphy is divorcing his wife.”
“You spoke to the soon-to-be ex-wife?”
Aretta shook her head. “I spoke to her attorney. He said the divorce has been mostly agreeable. Lorcan made a good sum. If he killed Deirdre Walsh it wasn’t over grant money or getting an agent.”
“And they are indeed getting a divorce meaning he didn’t kill to protect that secret,” Siobhán said.
“He did not,” Aretta agreed.
“And Nessa’s work?”
“I read through it all. I did not find the passage Deirdre wrote in her notebook.”
Siobhán nodded. “That matches what Nessa and Lorcan just told me.”
“Are they eliminated as suspects?”
“No,” Siobhán said. “Not quite yet.” But she was getting close to the killer. She just needed to find the missing piece.
* * *
“That was lovely,” someone said once the memorial was over. Each participant had been given a copy of Deirdre’s book and many were holding it as if they didn’t know what to do with it.
“The books are on us,” Oran said. “We’ve officially purchased them all.”
“We think it’s what Deirdre would have wanted,” Padraig said. “Happy reading.”
“And when you’ve finished with it, please come back to discover another great Irish writer, right here in Turn the Page.” Applause rang out, Oran McCarthy beamed. They had indeed replaced the toilets with claw-foot bathtubs, filled to the brim with a variety of paperbacks, and people seemed to love pawing through them for their genre picks.
“Everyone is invited back to Naomi’s Bistro where your meal is on us,” Bridie announced. “We can continue our memories of Deirdre.”
Folks didn’t need to be told twice, they seemed eager for the feed, and nodded enthusiastically, although Siobhán knew that hardly any of them had memories of Deirdre Walsh to share. But the killer did. He or she had been alarmed by Deirdre’s tell-all. Could ghosts have referred to skeletons in the closet? I don’t believe in ghosts. Had Margaret learned what this tell-all was about and threatened to spill the beans?
Margaret had been strong minded. She’d give you her opinion as easily as the weather forecast, and usually it was just as glum. Tis a miserable day, isn’t it? Spitting out of the heavens. Me bones have been aching for days....
If something was bothering her, Margaret O’Shea would let anyone know. And this time, it had cost her her life.
Macdara returned to Siobhán’s side, breaking her out of her thoughts. “The doctor said we can visit him briefly,” he said. “But he can’t guarantee how forthcoming he will be.”
“Better than nothing,” Siobhán said.
“We’re set for first thing in the morning,” Macdara said. “It’s the soonest the doc will allow it.”
“That takes care of that,” Siobhán said. “On to the next. Oran and Padraig have something they want to show us.”
When everyone else had filed out of the bookshop, Oran removed the red book on the shelf and pushed open the secret door. Aretta gave a squeal of surprise. They entered one by one and Oran pointed to the safe in the corner of the office. Inside they could clearly see a handbag.
“Deirdre’s handbag,” Siobhán said out loud. Finally. The one they’d found in Deirdre’s room had been missing crucial items. Perhaps they were in this one. They would have to examine it.
Padraig put up his hands. “I swear to you, I only opened it this morning. I don’t know how it got in there.”
“Someone knew about this room, they knew you didn’t have keys to the back door, and they were able to figure out the combination to your safe,” Siobhán said. “Besides the pair of ye, any clue who had access to that kind of information?”
“We’ve been thinking about this,” Oran said. “There’s only one man.”
“The landlord,” Padraig said. “It was his old safe, and we hadn’t had a chance to get the combination changed—it’s an old safe and the lock is built into it. And we used his recommendations to hire the lads to build the bookshelf, and it was he who said he didn’t have keys to that back door.”
Siobhán now wished she’d gone with Macdara when he interviewed the landlord. She had a feeling he’d been a chatterbox and had opened his mouth to the wrong person. One with deadly intentions. And she could only think of one person influential enough to weasel that kind of information out of an old Irishman. And even without speaking to him, Siobhán had a feeling she knew what type of book he liked to read. Michael O’Mara was not randomly in town. He had been here on a mission.
Macdara placed a call to the forensic investigation team to come and gather the evidence from the safe. Evidence that would take time to sift through. Another delay. And no doubt, if anything was incriminating it had probably already been scrubbed.
Unless it was someone other than the killer who had hidden the handbag in the safe. Siobhán had gotten word that none of the participants were leaving town until Michael O’Mara was released from hospital. That would buy her some precious time. She could only hope that it would be enough.
* * *
When Siobhán arrived home, weary and ready to drop into bed, she found her brood wide awake, reading a book. Together.
“It’s poetry,” Ciarán said excitedly.
“Grand,” Siobhán said, plopping down next to him. Eoin brought her a cup of tea and James shoved the tin of biscuits toward her.
“Thank you.” She wouldn’t want to imagine life without a single one of them. Human beings got so little time on this planet to begin with. Nobody deserved it cut short at the hands of someone else. She wanted to be oblivious in this moment, to just enjoy her siblings, and a night of poetry reading—now that was inspiring. She tried to focus, tried not to imagine all their suspects taking off at first morning’s light.
“I can’t imagine writing a whole book,” Ann said. “From start to finish, like.”
“We can start with reading one,” James said with a wink.
Gráinne was painting her nails. She didn’t even look up. “I would just hire someone else to write it for me,” she said, holding her nails out and blowing on them. “I’d give them the ideas, like, but let them do the work.”
“A ghostwriter,” Siobhán said, remembering Darren Kilroy’s comment.
Gráinne frowned, then shrugged. “Now there’s a fun job title.”
“I’d feel let down if I discovered my favorite author was a fraud,” Eoin said. “But maybe that’s just because I couldn’t imagine my own name not being on my graphic novels.”
“It’s like telling a lie,” Ciarán said. “Isn’t it?”
“I guess once you write so many it might
get tiring to keep going, but you also wouldn’t want to stop the product from going out.”
“Product?” Ann said. “Are books a product?”
“Anything can become a big product when money is involved,” James said.
“It’s a win-win,” Ciarán said. “Money and no work! How do I get that?”
But was it? A win-win? For everyone? Was it fun for a writer not to be recognized? What if what one had written went out to be a raving success? And this person was still not receiving their due. All the attention was going to the name on the book. And what if that name was a stumbling drunk, and yet he was still getting the credit? And what happened if a ghostwriter no longer wanted to be a ghost?
The Hills Have Eyes. Forget the horror movie, it meant someone was watching. Watching what? Was that a warning from the killer?
I don’t believe in ghosts. What if Margaret was saying: I don’t believe in ghostwriters?
Accusations of Nessa Lamb plagiarizing had never been proven. Nessa Lamb herself insisted Deirdre had never accused her of such a thing. It had been a lie. A distraction. Besides, Margaret O’Shea wouldn’t have cared if Nessa’s book had been ghostwritten. She wouldn’t have cared if Lorcan’s book had been ghostwritten. She wouldn’t have cared if Deirdre’s book had been ghostwritten.
But what about Michael O’Mara’s The Dragon Files? What if he wasn’t the mastermind behind them? Everyone had commented that as of late he’d been a fall-down drunk. And yet . . . his latest installment to the series was better than ever. Hadn’t Leigh Coakley said that? What if those had been ghostwritten? Then, Margaret O’Shea would have cared. And she would have made that clear.
Deirdre Walsh had an explosive secret. A tell-all.
Deirdre Walsh’s passages in her notebook were proof that she could write in other styles. She’d tried to make it on her own with Melodies. Only no one was interested. She had been overlooked. Passed over for grants, and awards, and accolades. And she’d been tired of it. Tired of keeping an explosive secret. Michael O’Mara was no longer writing his books. She was.
Siobhán’s teacup rattled in her hand. She set it down, and moved to the back dining room where she could pace. She recalled that first event at the bookshop where Deirdre had announced her explosive new tell-all. But she wasn’t the first to threaten to spill that secret. Margaret O’Shea was.
Who had the most to lose by that information coming out? One could argue it was Michael O’Mara. And yet, he was still behaving like a drunk. Rummaging through rubbish bins. Perhaps he did break into the back office during the murder, leaving the door open, creating the possibility that an outsider had snuck into the bookshop and murdered Deirdre by accessing the secret door. Maybe he broke into Deirdre’s room and returned the notebooks and laptop after her tell-all had been deleted. And maybe he returned the handbag to the safe. But he wasn’t the main character—the killer. He was an accessory. Someone else was the mastermind—someone sharp enough to pull it off, crafty enough to throw every misdirection that he could at the murder scene. And smart enough to throw suspicion onto all the others.
Darren Kilroy. He didn’t just represent Michael O’Mara. He also represented O’Mara’s ghostwriter. Deirdre Walsh. What a perfect arrangement. O’Mara was still selling out his popular series, thanks to Deirdre Walsh. Until she decided she no longer wanted to be a ghost. And in the bookshop that first evening, she dared to threaten it by mentioning her tell-all. Darren Kilroy could always get another ghostwriter, but he could not allow O’Mara’s cover to be blown—his golden goose to go down. Not if he wanted those royalties to keep coming. Margaret O’Shea was proof that readers might revolt to the news. Margaret, what did you do? Did Deirdre Walsh let you in on her secret first? And did Darren Kilroy see you posting that note on her door?
I don’t believe in ghosts.
Did Darren then demand that Michael O’Mara come to town and help him out?
Siobhán sensed eyes on her back. She turned to find her brood staring at her.
“What’s the story?” Eoin asked.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” James said.
“No,” Siobhán said. “I’ve seen a ghostwriter.”
* * *
Morning didn’t come soon enough. But the night had given Siobhán time to come up with a plan. At sunrise, she hopped on her Vespa and headed for the Twins’ Inn. Macdara was on his way to hospital to get Michael O’Mara to verify what Siobhán already knew. That he was here to help out his agent. Deirdre’s killer. That he had created a ruse by wandering through the village, going through rubbish. That he had befriended the landlord and picked the lock of the back door to the bookshop the night of the murder. A guard was bringing the landlord into the station to confirm that he had indeed spilled too much info to Michael O’Mara. Perhaps in exchange for a signed book. Siobhán’s plan would only work if the minor characters involved in this sordid tale told the truth. Meanwhile, she was on her way to the Twins’ Inn to make sure none of them had checked out. It wouldn’t be smart to confront Darren Kilroy on her own. But she loathed the thought of him getting away with it. She had to play it cool. He was probably confident that everything he’d thrown at the crime scene had done the trick of confusing them.
An umbrella, a rose, a biro. Red herrings, not to mention literary tropes. His accusation that Deirdre had accused Nessa of plagiarizing. He had scribbled The Hills Have Eyes on Nessa’s one-star review. He had printed it out, scribbled the note, and dropped it off to Nessa, knowing she’d either tell the gardaí about it or it would be discovered. He’d planted Lorcan’s umbrella. Easy enough to grab in the dark. And while everyone was running around in panic, he knew Michael O’Mara was breaking into the back door to leave it open. Simple. Make it appear as if someone had come in from the back and used the secret passage.
Another piece of news had come down this morning. An interview with Deirdre Walsh’s brother. He informed them that Deirdre was not allergic to nuts. It had all been fabricated by Darren Walsh. Perhaps he hoped that they would just assume she had been killed by her allergy. Most likely he just liked adding more smoke to the fire. Cloud everything up and slip away so that when the air cleared he would be long gone. And now that Siobhán thought about it, she had never heard directly from Deirdre that she had a nut allergy. The warning notice did not mention who was allergic to nuts. Darren had managed to whisper that it was Deirdre without the rumor reaching her in time for her to straighten it out.
When the lights went out, Darren Kilroy was ready. Ready with his syringe to sedate Deirdre, and his arsenic. He’d already used it on Margaret O’Shea, no doubt pushing into her room, and deciding at the last minute to use the wallpaper for his next kill. He’d seen it peeling on the walls of her room, curled with age. He’d seen the wallpaper book on Oran and Padraig’s list of rare books. Shadows from the Walls of Death. How perfect. He was adaptable, she’d give him that. This murder had been mostly planned, while taking advantage of the power outage, and Margaret’s wallpaper. Siobhán had a gut feeling that Deirdre Walsh had been urging Darren to let her out herself as O’Mara’s ghostwriter for some time. He’d been putting her off. Until she threatened to out herself in a tell-all. She hadn’t written any fan letters to Michael O’Mara. Darren had written them himself. That was the real reason he hadn’t mentioned them early on—he was improvising as he went, changing the story, throwing in plot twists, anything he could to obscure the truth. He figured as long as there were enough threads leading to other suspects, he would get away with premeditated murder.
Michael O’Mara hadn’t been so careful. That was the problem when you asked a drunk to be your accomplice. The one person he could trust not to say anything. But O’Mara left his cigarettes on the back of the toilet in Deirdre’s room, most likely going through it to get rid of any reference to his books, or her part in writing them. He’d also left his cigarette butts underneath Deirdre’s window and in the back alley of the bookshop. They would have to wait for the t
ests to prove it, but they could still use it as leverage. Poor Margaret O’Shea. Darren had killed her, cleaned up, and wheeled her body to the footpath in front of the bookshop. What he didn’t realize was that Margaret O’Shea had not ventured from the inn in years. That was his first mistake.
The air was cool, and due to more storms in the forecast, the morning skies were dark. The scooter’s engine hummed beneath her. Siobhán pulled up to the inn and set her gaze upon the rooms. They were all lit up. Her suspects had not yet left town. Especially the one she really wanted. Darren Kilroy. Siobhán stopped to send a message to Macdara and Aretta. She could only hope that they would get through to Mr. O’Mara and that he would be able enough to participate in the ending Siobhán had planned. A twist that even Darren Kilroy would not see coming.
Chapter 32
“Michael?” Darren Kilroy hissed into the dark. “Where are you?”
“Confess,” a deep voice called out from the far corner. It was Michael O’Mara.
They had left one dim light in the bookshop on, and Siobhán could see Darren freeze in the middle of the bookshop. He threw a look over his shoulder as if trying to assess his chances of making an escape. “You’re not well,” Darren said. “You have no idea what you’re saying.” Darren scanned the room again. “You’re not alone, are you?”
“Deirdre Walsh is one of your authors,” Aretta said from another dark corner.
“I never said otherwise,” Darren said. “But I have a duty to protect the confidentiality of my authors.”
“Even if she was intent on cracking your golden egg?” Siobhán said, happy that she’d come up with a book pun.
“You killed her,” O’Mara said. “I didn’t ask you to kill her.”
Darren let out a moan. “I don’t know what he’s told you, but he’s not well. He’s hallucinating.” Siobhán only wished she could see the look on his face. Did he have his hands up in surrender, or was he looking around for the closest exit? Was he holding wallpaper coated with deadly arsenic?
Murder in an Irish Bookshop Page 25