Irish Milkshake Murder

by Carlene O'Connor, Peggy Ehrhart, Liz Ireland

Genres: Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

An Irish holiday anthology of cozy mysteries featuring a trio of today’s top cozy mystery authors that will make other cozy anthologies green with envy.

IRISH MILKSHAKE MURDER by CARLENE O’CONNOR
In advance of their St. Patrick’s Day wedding, Tara Meehan and Danny O’Donnell are off to the Aran Islands with their bridesmaids and groomsmen for a joint hen and stag party. The weekend kicks off with the ferry trip to Inis Mór, as the passengers enjoy boozy milkshakes on board and entertainment from a pair of famous Irish-dancing twin brothers. But faster than Tara can say “Oh, Danny Boy,” a murder shamrocks the boat as someone’s spiked shake turns out to be their final round. Stuck in a rural island cottage, while a storm rages outside, Tara must find the Celtic killer before her luck runs out . . .

MURDER MOST IRISH by PEGGY EHRHART
St. Patrick’s Day is drawing near in Arborville, New Jersey and the folks at Hyler's Luncheonette are getting into the holiday spirit with a new, limited-time, Irish-themed menu item--a festive green milkshake appropriately named, “The Leprechaun.” It’s a hit, until a patron is felled by one of the frothy concoctions during a sheep parade through the town. Now, it’s up to Pamela Paterson and her Knit & Nibble knitting club pal, Bettina Fraser, to catch a murderer and put a stop to the shear madness . . .
 
MRS. CLAUS AND THE LUCKLESS LEPRECHAUN by LIZ IRELAND
Spring in Santaland means two things: the elves have more leisure time and iceball season is in full swing! To celebrate, April Claus’s friend, Claire, whips up some minty milkshakes for her bustling ice cream shop, Santaland Scoop. But when the St. Paddy’s promotion makes one elf the target of a decidedly unlucky strike, Mrs. Claus and her friends must figure out if the attack was a failed hit job, a crime of passion, or an extremely unfortunate accident . . .

Release date: December 26, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Tara Meehan didn’t want to disappoint her dear friend Breanna Cunningham, but if she had any doubts about going wild before her wedding, the plastic penis wand Breanna was waving in her face way too enthusiastically solidified her decision. No hen party for her. At least Breanna had waited until Tara’s last customer had finally left the store (empty-handed) before whipping out the party favors. The customer, an older woman, had picked up a set of antique brass doorknobs, held them up, and put them down again at least a dozen times. “I love these,” she said. “If only I had a door for them.” Tara knew better than to try and sell her a door to go with them, because then she would say she needed a house, and Tara was not a realtor. That was life in the architectural salvage business. Tara set about closing her shop as Breanna trailed after her, poking her with that ridiculous party favor. “I’m too old for a hen party,” Tara insisted. Way too old. Thirty-five. Ancient.

Breanna put the wand down on the counter, picked up the doorknobs, and held them to her chest. “Did ya see your one? She was holding knobs up to her knockers!” Breanna wiggled them and howled with laughter.

“You are such a child,” Tara said, but she couldn’t help but laugh. It was an accurate imitation.

“See?” Breanna said. “It’s fun to be silly.” She placed the doorknobs back in the old Guinness barrel. Located just off pedestrianized Shop Street, Tara’s beloved shop, Renewals, was five hundred square feet of eclectic treasures and had a back patio. Tara had painted the walls a lovely shade of mint green that popped against the bamboo floors. Display cabinets featured hand-picked items, and several old Guinness advertising signs hung on the walls. White orchids topped flat surfaces, sculptures stood in every corner, and fireplace accoutrements were set up near the small working fireplace, which was flanked by stone lions. On the mantel, she displayed brass and iron candleholders. Pottery from the 1800s was gathered in one section and vases, tiles, and antique fixtures in another. The rustic cabinet by the register was filled with estate jewelry. A small section of crystal glassware occupied shelves in the middle. More old doorknobs and decorative knockers were laid out on an old wooden barrel with Jameson carved on the side.

On the patio, larger architectural items, such as old wrought iron gates, were stacked up against the back of the building, along with garden sculptures and fountains. Tara had kept the shop afloat a few years now, and even the locals were starting to accept that the New York transplant was here to stay.

“My work is serious enough. I need to play,” Breanna said. She was a clerk at the Galway Garda Station, and to be fair it probably was a stressful job. Tara was grateful every day for the opportunity to do something she loved.

Tara laughed, picked up a glass bowl filled with chocolates, and offered one to Breanna. “Between the knockers and your little wand, I’d say you had a good run at playing today.”

“You’re never too old for a hen party.” Breanna said with conviction as she plucked out several pieces of chocolate. “You won’t have to do a thing. I know the perfect venue.”

“I’m getting married on Paddy’s Day,” Tara said. “That’s enough revelry for me.” She could not believe Danny had talked her into that. Then again, Danny O’Donnell could be quite persuasive. That Irish charm. Tara was starting to think it was more of a curse than a blessing—at least when it came to him getting his way. He’d insisted that Saint Patrick’s Day was the luckiest day of the year, and then he added that they would need all the luck they could get. Technically priests did not perform ceremonies on holidays, so this meant there would actually be two wedding ceremonies, and even that didn’t faze Danny. After years of shying away from commitment, he was now all-in. She was starting to suspect his date of choice was all because of the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Her husband-to-be loved a good parade. The wedding was three weeks away. Insane. Tara didn’t feel ready. Did anyone ever feel ready?

“You haven’t heard the best part of my evil plan,” Breanna said as she steepled her fingers and wriggled them, villain-style.

“Listen, I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me. But all we need is each other and boozy milkshakes.” Breanna loved boozy milkshakes. Hopefully that would chase all ideas of a wild bachelorette party out of her friend’s poor, misguided head.

Breanna was not undaunted. “Don’t you want to know the best part?”

“No.” Tara grabbed her handbag and gestured for Breanna to step out before she flipped the switch and plunged Renewals into darkness. Outside it was windy and cold; they were still on the lion’s side of March. As Tara locked up and headed for Shop Street, Breanna kept stride with her.

“It’s too late. Your hen party is already booked, and your friend Rachel is flying in today from New York.”

“Rachel?” Tara came to an abrupt stop. “What friend Rachel?”

Breanna cocked her head. “Rachel Madigan.”

“Rachel Madigan?” Rachel Madigan was another interior designer in New York City. Tara didn’t consider Rachel a close friend. How did Breanna know Rachel?

“And Danny and his groomsman are coming too,” Breanna nattered on. “We’re going to the Aran Islands, where I’ve rented a cottage. We leave in the morning.”

And that, Tara told herself on her stroll by the Galway Bay back to her flat, was why you never tried besting an Irishman. Or woman. Tara hadn’t even bothered to tell Breanna that she hadn’t seen or talked to Rachel in years. Why had Rachel even agreed to come? If Rachel Madigan was just in it for a weekend in Ireland, this was going to be the worst hen party ever.

It was Thursday evening in Doolin, and the last chartered boat of the day was headed out to Inishmore, the largest of the three Aran Islands. The boat, a small ferry, was white with the name CAPTAIN MICKEY emblazoned on it in red. Rachel had only met up with them a few hours ago in Galway, and given they were in a group setting, Tara had yet to ask her why exactly she was here. Was she under the impression that Tara had extended the invite via Breanna? Rachel seemed to be excited about being here and did indeed greet her as if they were long-lost friends. She’d given her a big hug, remarked how amazing she looked, and then proceeded to tell them how she’d followed Tara’s progress with her salvage shop online and how utterly thrilled she was that Tara was getting married. There was no mention of the fact that Rachel wasn’t invited to the actual wedding. Tara had decided to keep her invites local. She’d been cocooned in her work and family since moving here and didn’t want her friends Stateside to feel pressured into attending. And, truth be told, she hadn’t worked very hard to hang on to her old life. It almost felt as if it belonged to someone else.

As usual, Rachel was slim and stylish, even in jeans and a sweater. Or denims and a jumper, like they said here. Unlike Tara, who had black hair, Rachel was a platinum blonde and still perky. Breanna, who had wavy chestnut hair and a curvy body, had the girl-next-door thing going for her, not to mention that lovely Irish accent. The three of them had already made a few heads turn when they walked by.

“Great,” Danny said under his breath. “I’ll be beating men off ye with a stick, so.”

Rachel laughed. “Keep that stick away from my men,” she said. “I’m still a single gal.”

“You can use it to beat mine into submission,” Breanna said. “Then shove them into the boot of a car, and I’ll take it from there.” She threw her head back and laughed, making her curls bounce.

“I love her,” Rachel exclaimed, looping her arm with Breanna’s.

Breanna grinned. “What’s not to love?”

“There they are,” Danny said, pointing further down the dock where his mates Mark and Tom stood, sporting big grins. Mark was lanky and nerdy, Tom was tall, beefy, and, from the mad look on his face, ready to party. He wore a green rugby jersey with the number thirteen on it. Tara found herself wondering if he was just asking for bad luck. Then again, maybe the lucky Irish thing balanced it out.

“Was she surprised?” Mark called out.

“You got me,” Tara said. And you’re all going to get it.

“Wait,” Rachel said. “We’re going to have a bachelorette party with your husband-to-be and his groomsman?”

“Not necessarily,” Danny said. “It’s not a big island, but we can still hide.” He winked at Tara.

Tom leaned in and wagged his finger at Rachel. He was a bear of a man with a goatee, and his voice was always the loudest in any room. “It’s going to be great craic,” he said. “You’ll be begging to join us.”

“Crack?” Rachel asked, her expression horrified.

“The Irish word, craic,” Tara explained. “It just means they’re going to have fun.”

“Oh.” Rachel seemed to think about this. “I want craic!” she said. “Blondes just want to have craic!”

“In that case, maybe you should join us,” Tom said. He threw his arms open. “You’re tall enough to ride this ride.”

Tara groaned and rolled her eyes at Tom. It just made him grin and wink. She expected a sarcastic response from Rachel, a no-nonsense New Yorker; instead she was shocked when a schoolgirl giggle erupted from her. Tara had forgotten—to outsiders, the Irish accent was a panty-dropper.

“We should join forces, then,” Rachel sang. “This way, Tara can keep an eye on Danny.”

Mark, the lanky one who usually had his nose in a book, even at the pub, pushed his glasses up and cleared his throat. He gaze fell to a pair of lads standing a few meters away. They were drop-dead gorgeous identical twins, tall with dark hair, probably somewhere in their twenties. They were even dressed identical in denim, black T-shirts, black tap shoes, and green blazers. As Tara’s group looked on, the pair began to tap dance in unison, Irish dancing–style. Mark scooted in. “Do you know who that is?” He jerked his head to the lads.

“I’d certainly like to,” Rachel said. “Look how sharp they look.”

“I cannot believe me eyes,” Breanna said. “It’s them!”

“They look like babies,” Tara said.

“Hot babies,” Rachel and Breanna said in unison.

Tara couldn’t help but feel a little left out. The pair of them were already bonding.

“Hotter than us?” Tom said, patting his belly and looping his arm around a grimacing Mark.

“This is our lucky day,” Breanna said. “Do you know who they are?”

“Competition?” Danny said. He grabbed Tara’s hand. “Let’s elope right now.”

Tara laughed and retracted her hand. “Who are they?” she asked Breanna.

“The Irish Dancing Twins,” Breanna said. “Oh my word, are they going to be on our boat?”

“No,” Danny said. “This is a private charter.” He grinned at Tara. “Surprise!”

“How many more surprises can I expect?” Tara said. None was the only answer she wanted to hear.

“And you didn’t want a party!” Breanna said, clapping her on the back. “You’re welcome.”

As if on cue, a boat horn sounded from Captain Mickey’s. An older man with a long white beard stepped onto the dock. “All aboard!” he said. “That is if you’re here for Danny O’Donnell and Tara Meehan’s pre-wedding shenanigans!”

Tara groaned as Rachel and Breanna cheered.

“Excuse me?” This came from one of the dancing twins. Everyone turned as the twins approached.

“I’m Dave, and this is my brother, Noel.” Dave was standing to the left, Noel to the right. Noel was wearing a gold cross, but Dave was not. That would help keep them straight. Tara bet they hated when people mixed them up.

“We know who you are,” Breanna said, pushing her way through the group to get in front. “We love you!”

The twins flashed easygoing grins. “You’re too kind,” one said.

“They’re going to be competing with each other on Dancing with the Stars,” Breanna said. “Isn’t that fabulous?” She squealed. “You’re going to be international stars!”

“One of us will,” grinned Noel. “My money’s on me.”

“I take it you follow our Insta,” Dave said. From his expression, he wasn’t too happy about it.

“I follow you everywhere,” Breanna said, clasping her hands. “I’m addicted to ye!” She laughed, and then when she noticed they were simply staring at her, she stopped and cleared her throat. “You know. In a cool, noncreepy sort of way.”

“We missed our boat,” Noel said. “Because this one needs every hair in place before he leaves the house.”

“That’s not why we missed the boat,” Dave said. “We missed the boat because you can’t tell time.”

“You’re the one who can’t turn down an autograph,” Noel said. “We would have been on time if you hadn’t stopped to scribble your name on some woman’s cleavage.”

Tom shook his head and looked at his feet as if he’d just lost his best friend. “I’m in the wrong profession.”

“Wow,” Rachel said, craning her gaze to the sky. “Is that normal?” Dark clouds threatened overhead.

“I told ya, Danny,” Mark said. “A storm is coming in. A big one.”

“A storm?” Rachel said.

Tara studied the clouds. “Maybe we should postpone.”

“Not a chance,” Breanna said. “You know weathermen. It’s never as bad as they predict.”

“Don’t worry,” Tom said, looping his arm around Rachel. “I’ll protect you.”

Tara couldn’t help it—she scoffed. Heads turned her way. “Rachel’s a tough New Yorker. She can handle herself.”

“When it comes to the Irish weather, I’d say she might need a big man to hide under,” Tom said amiably.

“Everyone was right,” Rachel said, grinning. “Irish people are so friendly.”

Tom grinned. “I’ll be as friendly as you like.”

“What would your wife say to that?” Mark asked.

Tom shot him a dirty look. “Ex-wife,” he said. “At least she will be.” His expression turned dark.

“You’re not trying to win her back, then?” Mark persisted. “It’s over, like?”

“It is, so,” Tom said. “But if she thinks she’s cleaning me out in the divorce, she has another think coming.”

“Anyhoo,” Dave said. “Long story short, do you mind if we hitch a ride?”

The wind picked up. Should they trust this Captain Mickey?

“We have to dance tomorrow at the pub on Inishmore,” Noel added. “One of our last dances together before this one wins Dancing with the Stars and leaves me in the dust.”

“We’ll dance for our passage,” Dave said. He broke into a little dance, and Noel joined in. They were fabulous. Maybe it would be fun to have them aboard.

“Absolutely,” Rachel said at the same time Mark and Tom said no.

“Inishmore!” Breanna exclaimed. “That’s where we’re headed. Of course you can ride us.” Tara nudged her. “Ride with us,” Breanna corrected.

A horn wailed. Captain Mickey stood on the deck, waving them up. “All aboard! We’d better get a move on if we’re going to beat this storm.”

Tara threw another glance at the sky. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she said.

Danny looped his arm around her shoulder. “All me best memories start with really bad ideas.”

Tara had to hand it to the Irish dancing twins. Even with the choppy waters as the boat bounced over the wild Atlantic Ocean, they were able to maintain their dancing rhythm. Tap tap tap, tap tap tap. “Talented and gorgeous,” Rachel said. “Can we hire them to follow us around all weekend?”

“Where’s the bride-to-be?” Noel said. Tara, shocked, looked up. He crooked his finger in a come-hither motion. He had bedroom eyes, dark hair, an athletic body, and dimples. Tara had an inkling they wielded their looks like a superpower.

“How did you know I’m a bride-to-be?” Tara asked.

Breanna whipped out a tiara, stuck it on Tara’s head, and shoved a penis wand in her hand. “Hen party!” Breanna shouted. She and Rachel each took an arm, and they dragged Tara to the front-row seats in front of the dancers.

Noel and Dave began to gyrate their hips in unison, and soon their hands reached for their white button-down shirts. Before Tara could inform them it really wasn’t necessary, they had ripped them open. Shirt buttons flew in the air and clinked as they hit the deck. A pair of six-pack-stomachs gyrated in front of her.

“What’s happening?” Danny said, staring at the twins’ muscular physique with the expression one might expect from an old dog when a new puppy arrives on the scene.

“Sorry!” Captain Mickey said, mistakenly assuming Danny’s angst was directed at him. “It’s going to be choppy for a spell.”

“How are those boozy milkshakes coming?” Breanna sang.

Captain Mickey thrust his finger in the air. “Coming right up.”

“Shouldn’t you be steering?” Tara asked. It was a big angry ocean and a very tiny ferry. He should definitely be behind the wheel—or whatever it was they used to maneuver this thing.

“Don’t worry, lassie. I know when me boat needs me and when she doesn’t.” He winked. The ferry lurched.

“Are you sure about that?” Tara muttered under her breath. It was best not to insult him while he was making the milkshakes.

“It’s one of them!” Tom roared suddenly from the corner of the boat. He was pointing at the twins. Danny and Mark tried holding him back, but Tom broke free and charged toward them. They didn’t miss a dancing step; in fact, they barely even glanced at him.

He got in their faces. “One of you slept with my wife!”

“You’re getting divorced,” Mark said unhelpfully from behind. “Remember?”

Tom turned and glared at his friend. “Because one of them slept with my wife!”

“Which one?” Noel asked casually as they continued to dance.

“I only had one wife,” Tom said.

The twins laughed. “He meant which one of us.” Dave said. They were unbuttoning their pants.

“Stop,” Tara said. “We want the PG show.”

“You’re no fun,” Rachel said. She was clutching a euro in each hand. “She’s a wet blanket. Come dance for me.”

A wet blanket. Once more Tara wondered what Rachel Madigan was even doing here. Taking over, it seemed. Making Tara feel like she was the boring, sensible one. Even if she was, it still stung. Hunting through estate sales and salvage shops or exploring the Aran Islands under better weather conditions (sans drinking games and party favors) would have been more her idea of a hen party. To each her own.

“Tell me,” Tom said. “Which one of you slept with my wife?”

“Soon-to-be ex-wife,” Mark said again. This time when Tom glared at his friend, Mark’s face turned the color of a beet. He mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key.

“How do you even know it was one of us?” Dave asked.

“Exactly,” Noel said. “It could have been both of us.” He grinned.

Tara stared at the cross on his neck and could only imagine what his sessions in the confessional were like.

“He’s joking,” Dave said. “For the most part.”

Tom held up his mobile phone. “I know it was one of you because I texted her a photo of the two of you—just to rub it in, like—and she said, ‘I slept with one of them.’ ”

“Why are you still texting her?” Mark nagged. “You said you were only going to speak with her if there was an emergency with the kids, remember?”

“We sleep with a lot of wives,” Dave said with a shrug. “Nature of the job.”

“Your job is ruining marriages?” Tom said. He pointed to the cross. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I don’t have to conform to anyone else’s rules to wear this,” Noel said. “I have no shame.”

“Morality isn’t so rigid anymore,” Dave said. “We’re not married. We don’t seduce married women. They come on to us—believe me.”

“From our experience,” Noel said, “the fastest way to kill a romance is with marriage.” He glanced at Tara and Danny. “No offense.”

Tara leaned into Danny. “It’s a good thing you aren’t very romantic to begin with.”

Danny laughed. “Careful. I might toss you overboard. You can commune with all the little fishies.”

Tara grinned. “I rest my case.”

“Someone needs to straighten the pair of ye out,” Tom said, clenching his fists as he stared at the twins.

“No one is straightening anyone out today,” Mark said, tugging Tom away from the twins. “You’re over her—you swore to me you were over her.”

“Did you hire these eejits?” Danny asked Breanna.

“Me?” Breanna said. “I would have if I’d thought of it.” Breanna grinned until she glanced at Tom and her smile evaporated. “No. I did not hire them.”

Despite Tara’s request, the twins’ trousers were starting to come down.

Tara waved her arms. “Keep your clothes on,” she said. “That’s an order.” This time they shrugged and buttoned their pants back up.

“You’ll still tip us, right?” one of them said.

“I’ll certainly tip,” Rachel said, dangling her cash. They grinned and moved toward her. Tara turned to Tom. “No fighting on the boat.” Next, she headed for the captain, who was making a mess on the bar. Blenders, milk, a big bottle of Irish whiskey, mint ice cream, and whipped cream littered the counter. “Maybe you should concentrate on steering,” she said, as the boat lurched again. “Pretty please?”

“Right,” he said, scrunching his face. “But she did pay extra for boozy milkshakes.”

“I don’t think any of us will be drinking in this weather.”

“I’ll take over,” Breanna said. “We’re definitely drinking the boozy milkshakes.”

Tara turned to Danny, but he was busy trying to calm down his friend. Rachel was flirting with the twins. “Maybe we could continue the show in private,” Tara heard her not-really-a-friend say. “There has to be a little sitting area below deck.”

“Stay above deck!” Captain Mickey shouted. “No pawing around me private quarters.”

“Who wants a boozy milkshake?” Breanna called out.

Nearly everyone raised their hands. Breanna grinned and began blending. Tara sighed. She was outnumbered. “Someone’s going to get sick.”

“We’re all going to get sick,” Breanna said cheerfully. “What kind of a hen party would it be if we didn’t?” The milkshake making continued. Soon Breanna was forcing one into everyone’s hand. The boat lurched, and a microphone screeched as Captain Mickey began to speak.

“Good evening, ladies and germs. I’m Captain Mickey, your humble seafaring captain. This evening we’re headed to ‘the islands of saints and scholars.’ An authentic Irish-immersion experience awaits you on Inishmore, the largest of the three Aran Islands. The presence of Homo sapiens on the island dates back to three thousand BC. Stone age and megalithic monuments abound, strewn on grassy hills bordered by meandering limestone walls. The walls—and there are aplenty—were built with stones plucked directly from the fields. And don’t forget to visit the cliffs. If you ask me, they rival the Cliffs of Moher. They are approximately two hundred fourteen meters tall—that’s seven hundred feet to you Yanks. On a clear day, you can see across to Galway and Connemara.” He paused. “I very much doubt you’ll be seeing anything this weekend—not with the storm—so you might as well just imagine it. Everywhere you look, is ocean, the Wild Atlantic Way. And it’s okay if you don’t speak Irish, although many on the island do. The locals will still have a chat with ye, especially if you make sure to visit the fine shops and restaurants the island has to offer. I very much doubt they’ll be open in this storm either, but it’s still part of me speech. And even though this weekend you’re only visiting Inishmore, does anyone know what the other two islands are called?”

“Inishmaan and Inisheer,” everyone but Rachel responded.

Captain Mickey’s microphone screeched again. “Preaching to the choir,” he said. “On the islands you’ll find prehistoric forts, and did I mention the cliffs—”

“Let him keep talking,” Breanna said. “But we don’t really have to listen.” She held up a milkshake in each hand. “I’ve got milkshakes!”

“That’s kind of rude,” Rachel said. “He sounds very knowledgeable.”

Tara bristled. Who did she think she was, calling Breanna rude? If anyone was rude, it was Rachel.

“Oh, he is, like,” Breanna said. “But wouldn’t you rather drink?” In case Rachel was clueless, she wiggled her eyebrows. Tara got the impression that Captain Mickey was a blowhard.

“You make a good point,” Rachel said, accepting a milkshake.

The boat lurched, and Mark went flying. He slammed into one of the twins, and his milkshake spilled all over the dancer’s muscular chest and ripped white shirt. He cursed and the other laughed.

“That’s what you get, Noel,” Dave said, “for sleeping with your one’s wife.” Noel removed what was left of his shirt. He went to his backpack, which was lying on a nearby bench, and put on a black T-shirt. It said: IRISH DANCERS JUST A BUNCH OF TREBLE MAKERS. Pictured above in white were three pairs of dancing feet. He cleaned milkshake off the gold cross.

Tom pushed his way forward. “Is . . .