Bury the Wren

Book 5: County Kerry Novel

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Amidst the stark, lonely beauty of southwest Ireland’s windswept coast, veterinarian Dimpna Wilde wrangles with dark traditions, village folklore, and a killer’s motives during the annual Wren Day celebration in this deeply atmospheric and suspenseful County Kerry novel for readers of Dervla McTiernan, Lin Anderson, and Louise Penny.

Dingle is a town steeped in folklore, where old traditions like Wren Day linger like mist on the Kerry mountains. On the day after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day, the wren boys—local lads from competing neighborhoods—paint their faces and dress in straw garb to march through town. In times past, the tiny body of a wren would be displayed during the parade. According to legend, the little bird deserved to die for betraying St. Stephen’s hiding place to his enemies.

These days, Wren Day is a kinder affair, with different groups vying to raise money for charity. But this year’s celebration gets off to an ominous start when Dimpna finds a dead wren on her doorstep. Things take a darker turn when one of the wren boys is found strangled, thick fisherman rope still around his neck. Then Dimpna goes to return her friend Paul Byrne’s dog to his house and discovers Paul dead—with a wren’s body beside him.

Is someone sending a message that Paul was a traitor, or this an effort to cast suspicion on the wren boys? And how are the deaths connected? While Detective Sergeant Cormac O’Brien, visiting from Dublin, begins to investigate, Dimpna immerses herself in tangled motives that harken back to past tragedies, and a case that has become deeply personal.  For it’s not only traditions that persist here, grudges and secrets do too . . .

Release date: October 27, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

August

Rory Bell was late. Rory Bell would be late to his own funeral. Druí-én planted himself at the top of the small hill so he could gaze out at Kilmurray Bay. Eventually it hooked up with the Atlantic Ocean and then the Irish Sea—an interconnected world of calm and turbulent waters. The sun was edging its way down the mountains, and soon everything in front of him would morph into a black void. Minard Castle loomed next to him, a tower so strong, it remained standing even after Cromwell’s Army tried to blow it up. They detonated charges at all four corners and the bitch kept standing. All. Four. Corners. It instantly killed everyone inside, and rendered the tower uninhabitable, but still … he admired that kind of defiance. Especially tonight. This was the perfect spot. Quiet. Remote. Peaceful. At least for now. He would take a page out of the Dingle Peninsula Tourism Alliance and Leave No Trace.

He flicked his lighter and brought it near his watch. Twelve minutes late. Entitled jocks were always late. Below him sat a unique stone beach: a mix of pebbles, rocks, and boulders, smoothed by eons of sea-tumbling, only to be spat onto the shore by violent storms. Mother Nature certainly liked to have her fun. He opened his mobile phone, navigated to the voicemail, and hit PLAY. The distorted voice rang out into the summer night.

“I know what you lads have done.” He shut it off and played it again. I know what you lads have done … He just could not work out that voice. They must have used an app to distort it. And yet somehow it was familiar. It had to be somebody they knew. Rory must have blabbed to someone about their Robin Hood shenanigans. Traitor.

It had seemed like a banger idea at the time. In and out in the dark of night, no violence, and a capped amount that wouldn’t come with severe punishment if worse came to worst. But now … now they could be looking at attempted murder. I know what you lads have done. But they didn’t do it. Well. He didn’t. Hell, he would never hurt an old man, even a nutter like Lorcan Sweeney.

But what about Rory? And whoever this person threatening them was—what the hell did they want? Even if they had done it, you couldn’t exactly make a man walk again. Not unless you were some kind of miracle healer and he might love all things Druid, but he didn’t believe in that shite. (Ironically, only steps away was Saint John’s Well, known to be holy and cure headaches, although that was a far cry from helping a paralyzed man.) I know what you lads have done … He could not take another second of being strung along, dread simmering in his gut as he waited for the hammer to come down. This had to end. Now. Tonight. And if Rory himself was the one behind it? There were going to be bloody consequences. By God, if he was in on it, he was going to learn his lesson tonight. The sound of cheerful whistling burst onto the scene. Never trust a man who whistles in the dark. He wouldn’t stay cheerful for long. Druí-én turned around. The man of the hour had arrived.

Christmas Day

“Sorry, Doc, I sure didn’t mean to ruin your Christmas.” Both man and basset hound stared at Dr. Dimpna Wilde with big, expectant eyes. Outside, the wind howled, competing with “The Little Drummer Boy” playing on the radio, rattling the clinic windows, and muting the soft groans of the poor dog.

“You’re not the first client of the day, so you haven’t ruined a thing.” He was actually the third. The three unwise men. The first unwise man had a terrier named Bougie who stepped on a piece of glass after her owner dropped a mixing bowl. The second unwise man came with a wolfhound named Georgie who snatched a deluxe box of chocolates intended for his human and inhaled every last bit of it, wrappers and all. Both patients had been tended to and were resting comfortably in the boarding facility across the field from her clinic.

Mr. Stout was staring at her from head to toe. “You’re wearing a dress.”

“Well, it is Christmas.” Cormac had given her a lovely blue dress with yellow flowers and matching yellow wellies. Colorful dresses and boots were her preferred uniform when she finally took off her scrubs. She’d been summoned from the dinner table and there had been no time to change.

“Lovely,” he said.

She reached for her white lab coat and slipped it on. “Better?”

“You do look a bit more professional.”

Pah rum pum pum pum … She stifled a laugh. “Now. About our patient … What’s the story?”

“I’d say he’s got a bit of gas. I thought maybe Patches could sleep it off, pass a bit of it in the night, and be right as rain. But then he started this groaning business and the missus insisted I bring him in.”

“You were right to bring him in. Now, has Patches been fed anything off the Christmas table?” Mr. Stout squinted and looked away. Unlike his surname might suggest, he was a thin man with a full head of white hair, a stark contrast to his black-framed glasses. He wore a bright blue jumper that she suspected was a Christmas present, given Patches wore a matching jumper, and the exam room smelt of wool. “Mr. Stout?”

“Come on, Doc. Call me Gerry.” He was stalling.

“Gerry. Did Patches eat anything from the dinner table?” She had removed his little jumper in order to feel around his bloated belly. If he hadn’t brought him in, Patches’s stomach could have twisted, which was often fatal.

“Just a wee bit. He was a good boy this year. You have to give them something for Christmas, now don’t you?”

“I need to have a general idea of what he consumed.” Gerry scanned the room as if searching for the exit. “There’s no judgment here; we’re just trying to help our patient.” Both she and the hound stared at him as they waited for the confession.

“A bit of turkey.” He paused. “With gravy of course. Roasted potatoes. Carrots. Parsnips. Ham. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. Sprouts. Cheese. Sausages. Trifle—”

“Good enough. Poor luv.” She put her hand on Patches’s head and gave it a little massage. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you, pet?” But Gerry could have. Despite their best efforts to educate people, every year someone’s beloved pet paid the price for their owner’s mushy heart. But it’s Christmas …

“He wolfed it down, so he did. Couldn’t stop him if I tried.”

There was no way Patches could have reached the seat of a dining chair, let alone the table with those stubby little legs, but she would save the lecture until their patient was sorted. “You’d best leave him with me. He’s going to need injections, tablets, hydrating fluids …”

“But he’s going to be alright?” Gerry’s voice wobbled. This wasn’t the Christmas he’d imagined either.

“I suspect he’ll make a full recovery, but it isn’t going to be pleasant.” For either of us.

“I was going to take him with me to the parade tomorrow. Patches loves a good parade.”

“I’m afraid he won’t be at the parade tomorrow. We’ll need to keep him at least twenty-four hours.” A lot of her job was spent repeating the same information over and over until it finally sunk in.

“I had a little straw costume for him and everything. Do you get it? He was going to be a little Wren Boy.”

“I get it.” Dimpna forced a smile. “Maybe next year.” The parade happened every year on St. Stephen’s Day. The other vet in her clinic, Dr. Patrick Kelly, would be on call tomorrow, and Dimpna intended on joining the festivities with Cormac, her son Ben, and his new girlfriend, Willow. She could not wait.

After a day of shuttered pubs and being cooped up with family, Dingle went all out on St. Stephen’s Day, the highlight being the Wren Boy Parade. The pubs would be hopping, costumes would abound, and the town would celebrate late into the night.

From the radio, a weather report broke in. “We may not have had a white Christmas,” the commentator said, “but it sure looks like we’re going to have a white St. Stephen’s Day. Best-case scenario we get a few inches, enough for a snowball or two. But if the dire models are correct, we’re looking at a potential blizzard, folks. I would say stay in, drink up the eggnog, or have a snog with your sweetie. We’re only messing. We know you wouldn’t miss a good ole Wren Day. So if you’re going to the parade, don’t forget to bundle up, and if you’re lucky, you can build a snowman or three. And in that vein, sit back, relax, and listen to a little Bing.” Bing Crosby’s voice rang out. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas …”

“Blizzard?” Gerry stared at the radio as the song continued to play. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had ourselves a blizzard.”

He wasn’t wrong. Snow was rare in Dingle. This development had the potential of throwing the entire day into chaos. “Let’s see what happens. They’re hedging their bets.”

“Right, so.” Gerry patted the hound. “Snowstorm aside, I was sure they were going to cancel the parade this year.” He shook his head. “Speaking of bets, it’s a good thing I didn’t place one.”

From his sly tone, Dimpna could tell he wasn’t talking about the weather. “Like your one on the radio said,” Dimpna said, “it takes more than a little blizzard to cancel Wren Day.”

“I wasn’t talking about the weather.” Gerry raised and lowered his thick eyebrows.

“I see.” No doubt he was on about the thefts, allegedly committed by a Wren Boy, several months back. “I was wondering that myself, but as you’ve heard, it’s all systems go.”

“You haven’t been robbed of anything, have you?”

“Only my dignity.” Dimpna grinned. Gerry stared at her without blinking. Her humor was lost on him. “Thankfully, no. I probably have my dogs to thank for that.” Currently curled up at her mother’s house, E.T., Pickles, and Guinness made for good guard dogs. But the robberies last summer had kept the town on edge. First the butcher was hit, although the owner’s safe didn’t crack, and they only managed to lift a few slabs of premium steaks. The next week the Harbor Master’s Office was robbed (of all places), and the week after that it was a touristy gift shop. It was the final hit (so far) that shocked everyone.

“They caught a Wren Boy on CCTV camera, fleeing the scene,” Gerry said.

“I’m well aware.” All four establishments had been hit in the dead of night, one week apart. During the first three instances, no one caught a thing. But on the fourth, and most troubling attempt, a security camera captured grainy footage of a Wren Boy fleeing the scene.

“Did you see the photo?” Gerry shook his head. “There’s no telling if the thief was an actual Wren Boy or not, but I’d say it’s likely he was.”

“I think you were right in the first place,” Dimpna said. “Anyone could have gotten their hands on a costume.” Some might argue that an actual Wren Boy would have never been so stupid to wear his costume to commit a crime, but others pointed out that there were plenty of stupid criminals in the world. One thing was for sure; those straw costumes were impossible to miss: conical straw hood, straw dress, and green face paint. Dimpna always thought they looked like evil scarecrows. The perpetrator could be anyone. The thefts ended after four hits, but given that tomorrow was Wren Day, she wasn’t surprised the topic was on Gerry’s mind.

“The community center, of all places. What kind of person does that?”

The fourth and final hit. A center devoted to helping troubled youth. “I don’t know.”

“Some people wonder if it wasn’t one of those young ones leeching off the center themselves who did it. Biting the hand that feeds them.”

“I’d say that’s a pretty cynical outlook.” Paul Byrne, Dimpna’s first love, volunteered at the center. It did a lot of good, not only for the youth, but for the community as well. But she wasn’t going to get into a row with one of her clients, even if she was ready for Gerry to hit the door.

Gerry shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.” It was insidious, all this finger-pointing, but people just couldn’t help themselves. “I can’t imagine a community center would keep much cash on hand,” Gerry continued. Dimpna had assumed the same thing— but then she’d learned they were hit right after receiving a substantial number of donations for the new school year, many of them in cash. She kept this to herself; there were plenty of people churning the rumor mill, and she did not wish to be one of them. “What do you think?” Gerry continued. “Is the thief the same Wren Boy who attacked Lorcan Sweeney?”

That was the question on everybody’s mind. Around the same time as the thefts, Lorcan Sweeney, a lobsterman, either had an accident, or had been attacked on his own fishing boat. “I have no idea.”

“Nobody knows for sure.”

“Right, so.” Dimpna opened a drawer to search for a few supplies, hoping Gerry would take the hint.

“Nope. Nobody knows for sure.”

“You said it.” Twice. What was known for sure was that Lorcan Sweeney’s ankles had become entangled in his own lobster pot ropes, and he tumbled over the side where his body repeatedly smashed against the steel hull. He would be dead if not for a passing tour boat and the Good Samaritans who jumped in to save his life. But it was still a tragedy; he was paralyzed from the waist down. “To be honest, I’d rather stay in my wheelhouse and focus on Patches here.”

“It has to be him, don’t you think?” He leaned in. “And you know who I’m talking about.”

She did. Rory Bell. “I really don’t know.”

“Rory was knocking boots with the lobsterman’s daughter. He was eighteen, she was only sixteen. Lorcan stormed into Claw Haven and threatened the Bells. Said he was going to report their son for rape.”

Despite feigning ignorance in the hope that he would drop the subject, of course she knew all the sordid details. Claw Haven was a beloved seafood restaurant owned by Rory’s parents. Dervla Sweeney (the lobsterman’s daughter) had loudly proclaimed she was fully on board with the relationship, but the law was the law. Somehow the Bells had managed to settle things with Sweeney without any charges being filed. One thing was for sure, Rory and Dervla were no longer allowed to have any contact. But then Sweeney went overboard, literally, and when he woke in the hospital, he swore one of the last things he saw was a Wren Boy advancing on him. “Those eyes,” everyone remembers Lorcan saying. “Your one had evil eyes.”

And even though several pieces of straw and green paint were subsequently found on deck, none of the Good Samaritans had seen anyone else on the boat. Gossip had it that Dervla must have planted the “evidence” so that people would stop calling her da a liar.

“I’m going to start treating Patches now. Let me see you to the door.” Dimpna took a few steps toward the exam room exit.

Gerry didn’t move. “You must hear a lot of people talking.”

“People are always talking.”

“How about yourself?” Gerry asked. “Are you and that fella of yours going to the parade?”

“Hopefully,” Dimpna said.

“You should dress as elves. That would be brilliant.”

And now he had moved onto the short jokes. She was used to it. “We’re going to watch from the sidelines, but good one.” Dimpna had never felt like her short stature was a curse, but she did have to suffer a lot of fools. With her white-blond hair (all natural, but nobody believed her) and green eyes, her da used to call her a miniature Viking. “Elf” was a first. But if she could handle open-mouthed farmers who immediately tried to chuck her off the property for committing the offense of being short and female, she could handle anyone.

“I need to administer fluids to Patches, and I’m afraid I must see you out.”

“I’ll leave him with you, then, will I?” Gerry leaned down and kissed Patches on the head, then Dimpna walked him out of the exam room and to the door, bracing herself for the onslaught of cold air. It smelled like snow. “Do you expect I’ll be fetching him in the morning?”

“No. He’ll be here twenty-four hours at least, Gerry.” If she sent them home too soon, they often came straight back like furry little boomerangs. “Niamh will call you in the morning to give you an update.”

“I’ll go to the parade then, will I?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Happy Christmas, Doc.”

“Happy Christmas, Gerry.”

As Gerry exited the clinic, she stepped back just as a gust of wind slammed the door shut behind him. A weight lifted off of her. She thought he’d never leave. She pulled the shades and engaged the locks before heading back to the exam room. It was too late to return to her mother’s; by the time she finished taking care of Patches, it would be bedtime. She’d have to call Cormac and tell him they would be spending the night in her flat upstairs. Now that he’d been relocated to Dublin, they’d barely seen each other in months, and they had both been looking forward to a romantic week together.

But Cormac understood this was the life of a veterinarian, just as she accepted the demands he faced as a detective inspector. But at least all of her clients were innocent. She couldn’t imagine working with people overtaken by their dark side. Between the thief and the blizzard, she wondered if it was a mistake to hold the parade tomorrow. Would the thief (and possibly attacker) be marching in the parade tomorrow, playing music and grinning for the crowd? Afterward, would folks be putting money into this thief’s collection bucket? It was a chilling thought. But until this person was caught, she knew that she, and everyone else in Dingle, would be waiting and watching—especially over their shoulders.

The next morning, Dimpna Wilde stepped outside, feeling excited about the parade despite the chill in the air. After an early morning walk with her and her pack, Cormac had gone ahead of her to stop at the bakery, and he would meet her on Strand Street, along with Ben and Willow. But just as she was about to take another step, something small and dark right outside the door caught her eye. Confused, she stared at it for a moment before kneeling down. It was a dead bird. And not just any bird; it was a wren. They were distinctive with their red-brown, rounded bodies and cocked tails. Had a cat or some other animal dropped it here? With her gloved hands she picked it up to examine it closely. Its body was hard to the touch, and not just from rigor mortis. Sure enough, it had one glass eye. The other had fallen off, leaving a blank socket. It was illegal to hunt the wren these days, but this one had been taxidermied ages ago. More likely stuffed by a hobbyist rather than a professional. A hobbyist with no regard for wildlife laws. A tiny gift tag was wrapped around its neck. The message was inked and the writing artistic:

The birds of the earth

The beasts of the field

By spite and fury

Are people revealed

Dimpna recognized it immediately; it was from an old traditional Irish folk song, “Hunting the Wren.” Someone was getting creative this year, but why was it delivered to her clinic, and what exactly was the message? The song’s meaning was interpreted by many as a sense of betrayal in a town, and the attempt to root it out. Maybe Gerry Stout wasn’t the only one with Lorcan Sweeney’s alleged attack and the Wren Boy thefts on his mind. A wren left on her doorstep on Wren Day. It did not feel like a coincidence.

“Heya,” a familiar voice called. “What’s that you have there?” Dimpna looked up to see Niamh entering the courtyard to start her shift. Niamh was the front-of-the-house receptionist and clinic manager. She was a godsend. She brought youth and a bubbly personality to the clinic. Dimpna would be lost without her.

Dimpna stood with the wren still cradled in her palm. “I just found this little wren on the doorstep. He’s been stuffed.”

“Ate too much yesterday like the rest of us?” Niamh threw her head back and laughed as she drew close.

“Unfortunately, this kind of stuffed is permanent. He’s also been tagged,” she said, flashing the small card.

Niamh leaned in to read it. Her laughter abruptly stopped and her mouth dropped open. “Is that a poem?”

“It’s a verse from an old song. ‘Hunting the Wren.’”

“The poor wee thing,” she said. “I suppose it’s someone’s way of celebrating Wren Day, but I don’t know what they’re thinking, dropping a poor dead bird off at a veterinarian clinic.”

“Yes. It’s unusual.” Niamh didn’t seem to catch the inference of the verse, that somebody could be accusing Dimpna or one of her employees of being a traitor, but there was no use stirring the pot. Niamh was already upset at the sight of the poor thing.

“Maybe the Wren Boys are letting everyone know they’re coming tonight,” Niamh said. After the parade they would go door to door singing and playing their tunes in exchange for donations and something to eat or drink.

“They’ve never announced themselves in this way before,” Dimpna said. “Was there a wren on your doorstep?”

Niamh shook her head, making her brunette curls bounce. “Could be just for the businesses. When was it left here?”

“Cormac and I were out for a walk with the dogs around six—it wasn’t here then.” It was now going on half-nine so someone had to have stopped by in the last three and a half hours.

Niamh took the wren out of Dimpna’s palm. “What should I do with it?”

“If you’d like you can set it on the counter in a bed of straw—our best attempt at respecting its memory and celebrating the day—or you can leave it in the drawer and later I will kindly dispose of it.”

“Was this done by a taxidermist?”

“It’s a bit rough. My guess is a hobbyist. But it looks as if it was done ages ago.”

“Do you think it’s going to bring us bad luck or good luck?” “Let’s make our own luck, shall we?”

Niamh nodded as she eyed the wee thing. “I’ll put it in the drawer.”

“Good choice.”

“Have a fantastic time at the parade.”

“Will do. Enjoy your last shift with Patrick.”

Dr. Patrick Kelly was leaving for better pastures. When Dimpna hired him, he was just out of veterinarian school. She warned him he’d be taking on more of a vet tech role than a veterinarian, given the needs of the clinic. He’d wanted the experience and happily agreed. Now, he’d been offered a chance to run his own clinic in Killarney. It was time for him to spread his wings and fly. Unlike the poor dead wren. Niamh stuck her bottom lip out. “Now all the women of Killarney will get to swoon over him.”

Dimpna laughed—Patrick was tall and good-looking. He would be missed. “He won’t be far away,” she said. “You never know.”

The parade was chaotic and lively, filling the streets with sound and color. Wren Boys from the Green and Gold faction led the procession. They marched and sang while beating drums and blowing tin whistles. The bitter wind whipped their straw costumes into a frenzy, but that didn’t stop them from singing with gusto: “The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, St. Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze. Although he was little, his honor was great, jump up me lads and give him a treat.”

Staggered between the four factions of Wren Boys (each representing a different neighborhood in Ding. . .