Chapter and Curse

by Nancy Warren

  Those faded but still sharp eyes were stern. “Who else would want to kill her?”

  “Have you told the police all this?”

  “Of course, I have. He has an alibi.” She sounded very disappointed, and I didn’t blame her.

  “What is it?”

  “Archie Mahoney. He was helping Brenda pack up the house, and she sent him off for a dinner break. Jack says Archie came to pick up a distributor cap for that old car of his. Jack works in Ballydehag Motors, you see. Then he went to his niece’s birthday party. A dozen people confirm he was there.”

  Bridget Sullivan might be disappointed not to be able to pin this on Jack, but she wasn’t the only one. If the most likely culprit hadn’t killed Brenda, then I was more and more worried that my long-departed and not at all missed ancestor could be to blame.

  Tuesday night, I pounded up the stairs to the upper room of my shop, feeling like I was going to explode. I could hear the conversation going. How could they sound so calm? How could anyone be calm when the world was so crazy?

  I burst in on the conversation. Vaguely I heard them talking about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Right, that was the book we were discussing this week.

  Lady Cork was saying, “Rache, revenge is always a reliable motive for murder, but would one really allow oneself to be so consumed with revenge as to wait decades to kill?”

  And then when she saw me, her words petered out. “Quinn, whatever ails you? You look quite wild.”

  Wild was exactly how I felt. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I didn’t know where to go. I need to talk something through, and I want some honest responses.”

  They all perked up then. I got the feeling that they may have discussed A Study in Scarlet before, possibly several times, and they were happy for a diversion. Before I could launch into my problems, Lochlan Balfour came toward me. He locked his gaze with mine, and somehow those cool, blue eyes calmed me down a little bit. Perhaps because his own heart beat so very slowly, mine began to regulate too. He watched me for probably a minute and then nodded slowly. “That’s better. Come and sit down. May I get you something?”

  I realized now how parched I was. “Water?”

  He didn’t exactly snap his fingers, but he made a gesture, and a young vampire immediately went running down the stairs. He returned with a cool glass of water, which I drank thirstily. I had all their attention now, and I didn’t know how to begin. The beginning, like every good book, that was the place to begin.

  “As you all know, Brenda O’Donnell was murdered.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “No, that’s not it. I have to go back. I got this book. A grimoire. It had belonged to Brenda, or Brenda’s father, I should say. It’s a book of spells. But it’s very old and in sounding out the words of one of them, I accidentally …” I couldn’t even go into how I’d been wrapped in branches and thorns in my own cottage. It was too much. I was trying to forget it. I continued, “It turns out that the book belonged to Biddy O’Donnell.”

  Now I really had their attention. “Biddy O’Donnell? The one who’s buried under the yew tree?” Lady Cork turned to Lochlan. “I wasn’t here then, but you were. Didn’t they bury her upside down?”

  “They did. And laid a very heavy stone over the top of her. And the tree was meant to keep her down. But some fool, namely Father O’Flanagan, decided the tree needed pruning.”

  Lady Cork shook her head. “Oh, that’s bad. I remember the stories.”

  I put the empty water glass down on my desk. “Well, it turns out that I’m related to Biddy O’Donnell.”

  Oscar Wilde looked fascinated. “So you really are an evil little witch,” he said, looking rather amused.

  “Well, I’m certainly related to one.” Though I knew I had some dark magic in me. I suspected every witch did. That didn’t mean I was dark, did it? Or that everything I touched, no matter my intention, went wrong? I felt like I wasn’t cursed with dark magic so much as I was cursed with bad luck.

  “Anyway, I feel like it’s my fault. Somehow, me getting hold of that grimoire and reading that spell aloud in combination with the pruning of that tree has freed Biddy O’Donnell.” I glanced around, and my calmness deserted me once again. “I’m afraid that it’s my fault Brenda’s dead. I didn’t kill her, but I might as well have picked up that heavy candlestick and bludgeoned her myself.”

  The line didn’t have as dramatic an effect as it probably would have if I were in regular, human company. To a bunch of vampires who had been around a long time, I supposed a bit of bludgeoning wasn’t anything to get too excited about.

  “You know what our good friend Conan Doyle says,” Oscar Wilde drawled. “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” He tossed his head so his hair shifted on his shoulders. “Of course, in our case, we must reverse the aphorism. When we eliminate the plausible, what remains must be magic.”

  I hung onto his words like a dog waiting for a liver treat. Honestly, I was practically salivating at the idea that he might have some theory that would mean I wasn’t responsible for another woman’s death.

  He had the floor now, which he always preferred. He rose. Tonight he was wearing an evening cloak, black and silk-lined. There was a top hat on the chair beside him. Oscar liked to dress for book club. He picked up his silver-headed walking cane, not that he had any trouble walking, but it was another affectation. And it made a very good pointer. He waved it in the air. “Let us put aside for the moment the idea that a supernatural curse is responsible for this woman’s death. And let us look at other possibilities.”

  I wanted to cling to his theory. I was ready to throw myself on the ground and wrap my arms around his ankles and let him drag me around with him as he paced up and down. But I didn’t want to ruin his concentration. “Take that away, and who else might have wanted that woman dead?”

  Everyone looked at me. I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just getting to know the place myself.”

  “Aye. That’s probably excellent,” said Deirdre, in her Scottish accent. She’d abandoned her Chanel suit this week and was wearing a turquoise knit dress. “It means you have a fresh eye.”

  “It also means I don’t know who might have wanted her dead. She grew up here, I know that, and then went away for college and never came home.”

  “Then we must find out more about her. Do you have any idea who might have done it, Quinn?” This was Lochlan. I could always rely on him to be analytical and precise.

  “Yes. There’s a man called Jack.” And I told them how he and Brenda had been a crazy hot item when they were teenagers and how he’d got her into drugs and then got himself in huge trouble by killing, either accidentally or on purpose, a drug dealer.

  “Well, that sounds like an open and shut case to me,” Oscar said. “Drugs, eh? Our old friend Conan Doyle knew something about that.”

  “I wish it was that simple. But the person who told me about him also said he had an alibi for the night she was killed.” I told them about Archie going in for a distributor cap and then Jack heading for his niece’s birthday party.

  Bartholomew Branson, the thriller writer who hadn’t been a vampire for very long, jumped to his feet. “Okay,” he said. “We can help Quinn. Find out if the guy’s alibi holds.” He glanced around. “Who’s with me?”

  Oops. Bartholomew’s disappearance was still news. Not hot news anymore, since he’d disappeared from a cruise ship a couple of months ago now and no sign of him had been found. It was generally accepted that he’d fallen overboard and drowned. Still, he couldn’t go wandering around Ireland without someone recognizing him.

  “I’ve got contacts in the Guards,” Lochlan said in a cool, soothing tone. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  These vamps had contacts everywhere. Were there actually vampires working for the Irish police force? Or were they just friendly with Lochlan, not knowing who he really was? I probably didn’t need to know the answer. In fact,
it was probably best if I didn’t pry.

  “While you’re at it, can you get a copy of the post-mortem?”

  He nodded, slowly. “Any particular reason why?”

  “No. I’m grasping at straws. I want to make absolutely certain that it was that head wound that killed her.”

  “I’ll find out for you.”

  I felt better just feeling like the vampires were on my side. Yes, I had witches I could turn to, but the trouble with witches was that they were much less likely than the vampires to believe it was a human that had killed Brenda O’Donnell. They were all absolutely convinced it was a combination of me arriving in this place where I apparently had history, Father O’Flanagan getting that tree pruned, and Biddy O’Donnell taking advantage of those fates colliding to use her get-out-of-jail-free card.

  While the witches were working on putting Biddy back where she belonged, and perfectly happy to believe that it was Biddy who’d done the killing and my fault she’d been freed, I liked the idea that the vampires would help me search out more human motives and alibis.

  “What else do you know about Brenda O’Donnell?” Lady Cork asked.

  I tried to think. “I was at her father’s wake.” I paused, trying to pull the event back into my mind. Who had I seen? What had I witnessed?

  The trouble was, I’d had that awful experience of my own, the scary witch face in the mirror and the go-away message. I did not wish to share that with the vampires because it was pretty compelling evidence that Biddy O’Donnell might be Brenda’s killer. I didn’t want to cloud their judgment or their belief that a human had committed the murder. Unfortunately, it meant I hadn’t been as observant as I might have been at the wake.

  I told them about the argument I’d witnessed between Brenda and Jack. The old schoolteacher that had so impressed me marching out there and telling him to go away when he had every intention of coming inside.

  “There was something odd, though,” I said. It wasn’t someone who had been there, but someone who hadn’t that puzzled me. “Dylan McAuliffe, the man Brenda was engaged to, didn’t come to her father’s wake.” I thought about it. Even though we hadn’t been married anymore, I’d gone to my ex-husband’s mother’s funeral. I’d gone to support Greg, as had his wife, Emily, and their two daughters. It was what you did. You supported the people you cared about when they lost loved ones. So why hadn’t the man she was planning to spend the rest of her life with bothered to turn up for her father’s wake and funeral?

  “Good. A second suspect.”

  “Who inherits?” asked Lady Cork.

  “I don’t know. I suppose, when her father died, she, being the only child, must have inherited everything he had. That house is a bit rundown, but it’s beautiful. That’s got to be worth something. That would have come to Brenda, and then I suppose she would have had some assets, being a successful solicitor in Dublin.”

  “Follow the money,” Bartholomew said, still eager to be involved. “Plenty of people have killed over inheritances. In my third novel, Day of Revenge, the Colombian drug kingpin Alphonse—”

  “Excellent point, Bartholomew,” Deirdre said, before Oscar could attack poor Bartholomew with his acid tongue. “We can find out the next of kin. Has her will turned up?”

  Not that I’d heard. No one else had either.

  I agreed that I would find out what I could and so would the vampires. I felt better just having this book club that was clearly on my side.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re very welcome. Now, get your book and let’s get back to our book discussion. This is a book club, remember, not therapy,” Deirdre reminded me.

  I had to smile. “You’re right.” I turned to Lady Cork. “I think you were talking about revenge?”

  Chapter 11

  Revenge had been the subject at the vampire book club, and I was still thinking about it and whether the witch Biddy O’Donnell was exacting it on the living. I was alone in the Blarney Tome with no other company than my dark thoughts when Jack Buckley walked in. Never had I been sorrier to have no other customers. The last time I’d seen Jack, he’d been trying to get into Billy O’Donnell’s wake and upsetting both Brenda O’Donnell and the old teacher.

  He might have an alibi for Brenda’s murder, but in my eyes, he was still the most likely culprit. I didn’t know what he wanted with me, but I didn’t relish being alone with him.

  All I knew about him was that he was a drug addict, a convicted killer, and he’d spent eight years in jail and then blamed the woman whose life he’d all but ruined for his own problems. Nothing about that made me wish to know him better. So I put on my coldest professional voice. “May I help you?”

  There is a way of saying “May I help you?” that’s the equivalent to “Come in, take your time, browse through all my books,” and there’s a way of saying “May I help you?” that’s pretty much “Get the hell out of my store.” Naturally, I gave him the latter version.

  He walked in a few steps and then stood there looking around as though he’d never been inside a bookstore before. From what I knew of him, that might well be true.

  I never took my eyes off him. I had my phone nearby, and I knew that if I yelled or screamed, someone would likely hear me. I could also stop him with magic. Though I preferred not to do that. I was trying to live like a regular person in Ballydehag and not be known as that crazy woman who could make strange things happen.

  He put his hands in his pockets and took them out. Shuffled from one foot to the other. And then, when I got out of my own head, I realized he looked intensely uncomfortable. Nervous, even. I didn’t thaw exactly, but I opened myself to the possibility that he wasn’t here to do me harm. I said, in a marginally softer tone, “Can I help you with something?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded as conflicted at being here as I felt having him here. “I heard that you were there. With Brenda. At the end.”

  What on earth could he possibly want? I had no reason to lie, so I said, “I was. Not right at the end, but I found her after she’d been attacked and left for dead.”

  He shut his eyes briefly as though in pain. However, he was still number one on my list, and I suspected the Guards’ list of probable suspects. Was he sorry? Maybe he’d been high at the time and was trying to figure out what he’d done?

  “I’m so sorry.” I had no idea who he was apologizing to.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry that she ended like that. Sorry I never got a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  He rocked back and forth on his heels. His hands were still in his pockets, and he started jingling his change.

  While I was still trying to formulate a response that would be both neutral and encourage him to leave the Blarney Tome immediately, he turned around and walked back toward the door. I’d barely got halfway through my sigh of relief when I watched him take the open sign and flip it around. Before I could even squawk or ask what he thought he was doing, he’d shut the door and locked it.

  He turned back toward me and came three steps closer.

  I pushed down the panic. He might be big and tough, but I had powers he knew nothing about. Instead of tossing him across the room or putting up a barrier he couldn’t cross, I looked at him. Really looked at him and opened myself up. And what I felt wasn’t threat or anger, it was pain. It was sadness.

  “I can’t talk properly if people are coming and going,” he said by way of explanation.

  “I’ll give you five minutes, because this is a business, and it’s supposed to be open.” I didn’t even own it. I was running the shop for someone else.

  He nodded as though he thought that was fair. And then there was silence. I could feel him trying to find the right words. Finally, he said, “Has anyone told you about me?”

  I would not play dumb. “You mean how you got Brenda O’Donnell, who was a straight-A student destined for college, into drugs? You mean how you killed another drug dealer
and went to prison?”

  He nodded, and I could see his eyes were full of pain. “I did do all those things. But I’ve changed.”

  And how often had every woman heard those words?

  I let him see I wasn’t buying it.

  “No. I really have. Yes, I was furious that Brenda didn’t save me like she said she would. She was meant to go to law school and then use her new profession to get me out of jail.”

  “And I’m guessing she was, what, seventeen or eighteen years old when she had that marvelous idea?”

  He nodded briefly. “About that. But I wasn’t much older. And believe me, prison isn’t where anybody wants to spend the better part of a decade. It was all I lived for, thinking she’d get me out.”

  If he thought I would be sympathetic, he was bleating to the wrong audience. I don’t know how long he would have gone on laying on this sob story, but I stopped him by saying, “Brenda O’Donnell is dead. Murdered. Tell me why I should stop believing that you killed her?”

  He took a step backward. Good. Probably he was ready to run before he ended up back in that prison he hated so much.

  “Because I didn’t kill her. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “I saw you arguing with her the day of her father’s wake.”

  “I wasn’t arguing with her. Well, I was, but not about her not getting me out of jail.” He rocked back on his heels again. He must think the change in his pocket would have babies if he kept jingling it. “I was trying to make amends.”

  Now I looked at him more keenly. I’d heard those words before. Who hadn’t? Everybody who’s had a loved one or former friend in AA or one of the many offshoots of that recovery program knew those words well. “I’m listening.”

  He shook his head. “I’m clean now. In a twelve-step program. It didn’t even happen in the nick, like you’d think it would. Oh, they tried. We were always getting do-gooders to come in and try to save us. No, it was after I got out. After I finished being furious at Brenda for not saving me. I got a job fixing cars, and I’m good at it, but the owner warned me that if he caught me doing drugs, I’d be out on me arse. I don’t know. Maybe the wasted years didn’t seem so wasted once I was out again. What was the point being angry all the time and looking backward? I saw a sign on the church door. That’s what started me. And I thought, what did I have to lose? So I went to one meeting. And there were blokes like me in there. Talking about what rubbish they’d made of their lives. But there was hope, too. I know how it sounds, but it’s true. And one of the steps we have to make is going back to the people you’ve hurt. Telling them you’re sorry. Trying to make amends.”